Tabulous.

I Don't Have A Clever Title For This One.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 07 May 2012 12:00:00 +0000

My hands are constantly dirty.

I joked with Kyle about this as I prepared to go to Florida a couple of weeks ago -- I went to represent Charles & Hudson, so I had to look the grown up. My nail beds were stained from oil paint and dirt, my nails ragged, cuticles ashambles -- so I spent some time giving myself a hack-job manicure, painting them neon pink because I think I saw that was the thing to do on Pinterest recently. I chuckled with him as I noted that back in the day, a woman had painted nails to show that she didn't have to work hard for a living, or at all. A couple of generations later, here I sat, hiding the evidence that I work hard everyday with nail polish so I could feel presentable amongst adults.

I maintained them for about a week between, for the sake of Prom, leaving on the polish to protect them until the time came to change it to match my fancy outfit.

The time between, though, almost cost me my sanity.

You know that old saying about idle hands? While I don't think any satanic power is going to possess my phalanges, I have found a certain amount of serenity in the near constant movement of them -- in the simplicity of hand-sewing a repair on an item of clothing, of digging up dirt and planting things, in building and painting things of all scale for my home.

I've found my zen in physically creating things. And when I don't do that for a while, I bum out.

I've always been creative and done crafts and things, but this is one of the first times in my life that I've felt a real satisfaction with working with my hands and creating things of value, even if it's just to me.

I feel useful in those moments, that I have value and worth and in some small way can make the world a nicer, prettier place.

I haven't been able to find that in many other arenas as of late.

I haven't talked about a lot of things that have been going on with me and my family here because, as I've said before, this space hardly feels mine. It's actively trolled by a handful of people who have chosen me as the target of their instability and own insecurity, and to be honest, that shit is hard to deal with for an extended amount of time. Every time I go to open up, there is a new slew of insults to tear me down. I feel their eyes on my every word and I censor, censor, censor and eventually can't quite stomach the idea of publishing a candy-coated version of my life so I just don't at all, I delete and move on, go back to something involving my rapt attention and deft hands because there, there in those things that I work on and create there is no room for argument or defeat because look, look at the things I can do with just my mind and my hands.

I'm trying. I'm trying to find the things to write about that motivate me and help me feel whole. I'm navigating these waters as best I can, so very desperately missing that ability I once had to just let it all hang out and not feel shamed into thinking that my words, my story, my existence, is useless.

And to be a little honest, I find myself writing a lot in my head when I'm wrist deep in compost or coated in oil paint without a lick of mineral spirits in the house (that super sucked) and I feel the urge to get pen to paper but by the time I'm cleaned up enough to do so, the words fade with my resolve and I mentally shelve them, knowing that the chance of them resurfacing is slim.

And I go back to getting my hands dirty, living in the moment, solving the problems within my immediate realm and working my way through my small life in some of the only ways I know how.

I know the only way to get back to my words is to do it. To write the minutiae and the droll and sometimes even the candy-colored Instagrams and just keep writing until it's natural again, until I have faith and strength in my words again.

I'm just a little gun shy, and sometimes the quiet of planting my first vegetable garden or the repetitive movements of repainting a wall win me over because in those spaces, I don't have to be anyone but myself and I have visible, tangible proof of my abilities right there in front of me. The quiet and the concentration soothe my weary mind and I am calm despite the storm around me, and can find clarity and hope that I usually struggle so hard to find otherwise.

But I will try to be better, I will cut out in other place, lesser places, and make the effort to come here, to come home to my words and to use my hands to tell my story.

Because I believe it is a story worth telling. And that is enough for me, for now.

Hurry Up And Wait.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 13:00:00 +0000

He peers out of the window at me, his sister, and the neighbor kids outside, smiling. I say hi and he returns the greeting, tapping the screen with a single finger as he tightly shakes his head in time to the rhythm he's creating. I ask him if he'd like to come outside and play, and he repeats his version of outside as he disappears from view, only to reappear at the front door, peeking and smiling.

I open the screen door for him and offer a hand to help him down the step and he takes it, running to the porch stairs and jumping down them, one by one, saying jump, jump, jump as he goes. The children notice and come towards him, shouting greetings and asking him to play as his sister smiles her brightest smile before going back to the piece of chalk she's staunchly held on to amidst the kids who are older by several times over than her.

They get too close, or come too fast, or something happens and his face goes blank and he turns sharply on his heel, back up the stairs and to the bistro set we bought Labor Day weekend almost five years ago, the first furniture for our new home together, his father and I. He grabs a chair and tries to topple it, but the porch railing breaks the fall. He turns to the table, a round, mosaic-tiled solid piece and tries to knock it over, nearly succeeding for not my own speed and intervention.

He cries, screams, and kicks when I correct him, telling him he's not allowed to knock things over in anger. I ask him if he wants to go back inside and he bolts for the front door, for the safety of inside as the neighbor kids look on silently. Tova is unfazed, still playing with her chalk and waiting for her friends to return.

Kyle is at the door, and he lets him in, stopping the neighbor child who often tries to dart into our house with the clear intention of playing with my kids' toys and not actually with my kids, telling her that he needs a break, that she needs to go back to the front yard with her siblings/cousins/whoevers right now. We both know the kids don't really come over to play with the baby, but the toys we bring outside when we play, so we're not inclined to let them run loose upon our home. The girl retreats as the other kids stand awkwardly around, not really understanding why the little boy was so happy to come outside, and then was so not happy.

I reassure them it's not them (though I don't know that) and that he just needs some alone time right now, but that they can still play with Tova and the chalk for a little while. They return half-heartedly, though Tova is too young to notice the difference. I sit on the porch steps, equidistant from the door and the gaggle of kids, feeling the exhaustion I carry weigh me down a little more than usual.

Moments later he is back in the window, watching, tapping, shaking his head, and it takes everything I have left to only let a tear from each eye shed.

*****

As mothers, we all make a choice not long after our babies are born. We pretty much fall into two camps: there are the ones who will only ever espouse endless sunshine and rainbows when it comes to their children, and then there are the rest of us. Some of us only admit the truths of the trenches of motherhood behind closed doors or in close company; some of us do it anonymously through blogging or in therapy. Then there are the few of us who refuse to dumb it down or glaze it over. But brutal honesty is a hard thing to maintain, especially when you become aware of people who are chomping at the bit to use it against you.

It wears you down, the criticism, the trolling, the potshots and the name-calling. So you start to walk a delicate line -- you become less open to everyone and reserve your truth for those who seek it out and truly listen. With everyone else you choose your words carefully, cautiously -- you can't lie to them and say that everything is peaches and roses all the time; but you don't volunteer the down and dirty details either, because you know they won't understand. They're too caught up in their own masks of perfection and maternal glow and to have someone challenge their projected view will only make them attack you, so you let it go, save your energy for something else.

Slowly, unintentionally, you go numb.

You don't notice it much at first, but as the numbness creeps through your veins you find it easier and easier to not speak up, not be heard, because it isn't worth the effort or you have better things to do with your time and you're tired of the pity glances and the unsolicited advice and the contrite phrases that actually would upset you if you'd let it, but you won't, you'll just change the subject and wave it off in mild irritation masked as dry humor.

But not all truths are as easily held back.

Somewhere between being told that someday I'll regret wanting Kiedis to talk so bad because he'll never shut up one too many times because fuck you very much, I've been jumping through flaming hoops for two years now and we just now are getting phrases and maybe a sentence or two so no, no I don't think I will ever regret wanting my son to speak ever in the span of ever because this is the work I do, day in and day out, to be able to understand my child, which is something far too many people take for granted and the stark reality of having to physically imitate his tics -- the drumming and head snaps, the sideways running and flailing and the clenched fists he can't seem to open -- to his pediatrician and the nurse while explaining how he still parallel plays for the most part, how he doesn't seem to grasp why it's not okay to hit or pinch or bite or put Tova in a chokehold, and the epicness of his tantrums that blatantly render me afraid of him, the damn broke.

It is officially suspected that my son is on the Autism spectrum.

We have a referral to the Autism Clinic at the Childrens' Hospital for evaluation, new forms and programs to apply for, new considerations to make for nearly every aspect of our lives.

For now, we wait.

My Brother Gave Me A Gift Card To Sephora & It Kind Of Changed My Life.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 12:00:00 +0000

I know, sounds dramatic, right?

Of course, you all know that I'm no stranger to Sephora, so the title of this post may be just a wee bit confusing to you. When you're living on a strict budget and working hard on getting your finances in order, you give up things like buying skincare and makeup at the fancy store and you go back to Target and Meijer and just carefully ration out what you have left of the nice stuffs for special occasions and you dream of the day where you can more than window shop again. Because that's what responsible grown-ups do and there are more important things in life than the brand on a mascara tube, by far.

Oh, and then bless my brother.

He got me a stupid generous gift card to Sephora for my birthday back in February, and it took me nearly a month to spend it because, honestly, I was overwhelmed. The possibilities of purchasing were so vast that I was completely intimidated by stepping foot in store, afraid I'd blow it on crap I didn't need or a ton of trendy impulse purchases that were all wrong for me that I just stayed as far away as I could for quite some time.

But last weekend I went for gusto. I had some returns I had to do in the same mall as Sephora, so I threw that little mirrored compact card holder in my bag and went for it.

Now, here's a confession -- since having Tova a year and a half ago, my skin has not been awesome. Admittedly, it's never been awesome -- I was on Accutane for longer than is medically recommended and I STILL had to use topical stuffs and use very specific products to have only minimal breakouts -- but it had come to a place of tolerance for me and that was fine. I was breakout city with Kiedis' pregnancy, yet not long after I stopped trying to nurse him things cleared up, if you will.

Not so with Tova. I've just not been able to get my skin to agree that I'm 28 years old instead of 14 in the throes of puberty.

I was lamenting this fact a while back while in the presence of several women, one of whom was a makeup artist, and she very magnanimously gave me her secrets for her envy-worthy porcelain skin. I held on to her pearls of wisdom and decided that I was going to dry my damnedest to get what I needed for better skin at Sephora -- because let's face it, all the make up in the world won't do you a bit of justice if your face is a wreck of breakouts and splotches and whatnot. And I, for one, don't want to cake eighteen layers of goop on to only minimize the damage. I'd rather have, dare I say it, NICE skin and work with what I can find laying around makeup wise.

So. In I went with a mission.

And my life was changed. All because my little brother was super generous and considerate with giving me a birthday present that was truly for me, and not just something that I'd end up using on the kids or Kyle or the house, although I love being able to do those things as well.

I discovered the most amazing face wash ever on the face of my life. I seriously can wash my face only once a day with this stuff and already my skin is so much clearer, even, and less pore-tastic.Which is super awesome because honestly, I'm lucky to wash my face once a day. Hell, I'm lucky to shower every day.

It's fantastic and I could kiss that makeup artist full on the mouth, with maybe even a little tongue. That's how strongly I feel about this face wash. She's also a very pretty lady, so that helps that mental image.

When you spend a lifetime always trying to cover up your imperfections and flaws and hear endless advice from people about what you're doing wrong to your face even though you have a small army of doctors and pills and creams and elimination diets behind you all trying to work some sort of sorcery upon you all while you just feel unfit to be seen in public because you're so ashamed of something you have no control over, finding something like this, that works for me and my life and allows me to not want to shellac myself every time I leave the house, it's ... liberating. Soul mending.

Life changing.

So I'm sorry for the kind of light frilly posts recently -- but you know, once you start feeling comfortable in your own skin, you really want to celebrate that. I'm learning to love myself for probably the first time ever, and maybe it doesn't always have to be heavy and dark around here.

And, if you're curious, I did get some fun stuff too -- but we can talk makeup another day.

Prom Redux.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 12:27:00 +0000

So, we're going to prom in a month.

There was very little pomp or circumstance around it -- I looked at Kyle and flat out asked him to take me to prom this year. He laughed and asked me if I was serious and I deadpanned that I was, so he said okay.

Now, it's not going to be a very big deal actual dance-wise. Apparently the junior class at his school were just lazy and didn't raise much money, so it's in their gym at their new school (ooh, the klass, I can hardly take it) and I'm sure it'll be a bunch of music I don't recognize and a bunch of teenagers grinding on each other like there's no tomorrow and I'll just feel old as crap and I'll yell at them to get off my lawn.

My own senior prom was ten years ago, so feeling old is in the cards.

However. We're hoping to make a go of the night. This won't be like when we were in college and chaperoned for Kyle's student teaching school, when I got some $7 dress off of the clearance rack at Wet Seal (oh yes) and sat in the snack room all night because I was in a funk, no. We're getting fancy and hoping to go out for dinner and maybe even drinks after that won't have to be smuggled in Frappuchino and Coke bottles in the trunk of my car, drank in the rural driveway of a friend before heading to after prom, because we're so legal it's not funny.

Plus, I've always wanted to go out on the town in a sparkly dress, and since I've been chronically pregnant through every other opportunity presented to me to do so, we're going to rock this out.

Starting with this little gem:

Source: thestylecure.com via Tabatha on Pinterest

Which, you may or may not guess, is borderline crotchtacular on me and you know what? I'm 28 and a mom of two and this body has seen so much insanity in the last few years and is in a place I'm damn near happy with so if I want to be like HEY, I HAVE LEGS AND THEY ARE LONG then I'm going to do it because I'm a grown up and I can and if administration doesn't like it then we can just leave and be the badasses that were kicked out of prom.

Win-win, people.

Of course, these shoes aren't going to help:

Source: piperlime.gap.com via Tabatha on Pinterest

Of course, those are very basic black patent shoes because I don't want too much attention away from the dress, but they are still 5" concealed platforms. Mama will be six feet tall, kidlets.

What I'd really love, though, are these:

Source: aldoshoes.com via Tabatha on Pinterest

But I'm afraid that they'd be a bit of overkill. However, I think I need them in my closet.

Kyle has suggested that I wear tights to tone down the LEGGYLEG MCLEGS that happens when I wear that dress, and I think these here on the right would be killer:

Source: missmoss.co.za via Tabatha on Pinterest

But they come in one size -- suggested for ladies under 5'6" (I'm 5'8") and under a size 8 (currently, I'm a 10) so no dice. If I've learned anything over the years, it's that too-short or too-tight tights just make for a miserable experience.

I'm still trying to envision make-up, and I'm thinking something like this (if I could figure it out) could be awesome with a nude lip:

Source: omgosh-rachel.tumblr.com via Tabatha on Pinterest

But something more along these lines could be really pretty too, since I still plan on having my purple hair:

Source: hazellin2.tumblr.com via Tabatha on Pinterest

Looking at it, though, it kind of reminds me of my wedding day make-up and while I liked that, I'm sort of not sure that's the look I'm going for. A wee more upscale vamp, a lot less blushing-because-I'm-five-months-pregnant-in-this-backup-wedding-dress bride.

And, you know, my hair is pretty much just short and pixie-like (actually, right now I'm in the middle of a much misguided attempt to grow it out and after the heat wave last week, I know I need to just chop it right back off because, ick) so there isn't much to be done in the hair department other than make sure my purple isn't faded and that it looks in place.

I was thinking just some dangly sparkly earrings with no necklace to be subtle but put together ... because despite my choice of attire I am still a grown up and am trying to pull this off with some class. The last thing I want to look like is someone desperately trying to act ten (or twenty, or thirty) years younger than they are.

I'm excited about this, because we don't get to go out and do things much anymore, and I miss feeling pretty. And I think it's kind of cool in a nerdy way that it's Kyle and I's tenth reunion year (albeit separate schools), so what better way to celebrate than to not go to our reunions and instead go to prom and remember all the reasons why we're glad high school is ten years behind us?

Exactly.

Any tips/tricks/ideas you may have, especially in the makeup/hair/jewelry department will be greatly appreciated. Because as much as I play a girl on the internet, truth be told I'm not that up on these things as I once was.

Let Prom Season 2012 begin!

The Second Agent of Socialization.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 15:07:00 +0000

Last week I went with Kiedis on a field trip with his preschool class. It was to a community center not far from his school that I didn't even know existed inside the city limits. It's a super-nice, modern facility run in conjunction with The Salvation Army, so it doesn't take much to decipher the heavy religious current that runs under everything they do. Still, we were eligible for a free membership and they have a gym and a nice playground and summer camp programs for toddlers so we signed up because, well, why not.

This was my first time seeing Kiedis with his new teachers and classmates in action -- and apparently, it was the first time his teacher saw one of his full-out meltdowns. I don't know what triggered it, if it was the unfamiliar place or the confusion of me and his teacher being in the same space for an extended period of time or just his inability to be patient and follow directions, but the majority of the field trip was spent with him sobbing or screaming or both. He wasn't the only one -- there was another little boy (whose dad looked like he walked straight off of the Warped Tour circa 2000, so I felt simultaneously connected to him through subculture and wild sons) who also couldn't handle anything, and we moved around our kids with the stoicism that comes with special needs parenting in public. Eventually, Kiedis settled once food was involved, but it was an interesting experience for everyone involved, I think.

I noticed that some parents seemed to kind of seek me out, introduce themselves, talk about their kids and my kid and I suppose what might be normal preschool parent banter, but for sure there was curiosity about the new kid and the new mom who didn't so much fit in with the others. There's tremendous diversity in his class -- it's half inclusion, so there are other kids like him in there, but there's also a high Turkish immigrant population as well as African-American and Hispanic along with working class people, much like our neighborhood. But that kind of meant that people grouped themselves off nearly along segregation lines -- and there I stood with the dad with gauges in his ears and our wild kids, not really obviously belonging to any group that existed in front of me.

Sidebar -- Kiedis is learning not only the English words for things, but the Spanish and Turkish words in school as well, which I can't see as a bad thing other than I don't know Turkish for a lick. Kyle has some Turkish kids in his class, though, so if it comes down to it we can probably figure out the basics like colors and shapes and animals. I learned that the word for "frog" in Turkish sounds a lot like the sound a frog makes. I overheard it on the fieldtrip and I was intrigued. So I guess I could recognize one word in Turkish. It's a start.

But it filled me with an interesting calm about his schooling and our neighborhood right now. Kiedis is getting exposure to all different kinds of diversity and cultures that I never really got until I was a teenager in the suburbs. He has kind teachers who obviously care for him and try hard to both understand him and help him grow into a better child, even though the public schools have a bad reputation around here. And we have at our disposal some great resources and opportunities for our entire family that would surely be at a premium cost in the suburbs -- hell, we don't even pay for preschool as it's part of the public school system's curriculum offerings, never mind free membership to a rec center.

It wasn't all sunshine and roses, though.

Of course, though, watching Kiedis with other kids, both "normal" and "special" gave me some perspective on my own child. At home, he's pretty rough with Tova, something we've been told comes with being a very active little boy and the fact that his vocabulary is limited, so he acts out his feelings since he can't say them. I had hoped he was better at school, with more kids, bigger kids, around him -- but instead I was faced with a sort of sobering reality.

When you see him with other kids, you can tell he's different. There's something about the way he carries himself, the play he tries to initiate, his reactions to other kids being in the same space as him -- it's like he hovers between his own world and the world in front of him, and I'm not sure how much of that is within his control. He often seeks out an adult as a reference point, running around to only run up and hug legs roughly and run away again. He approaches other kids fervently but stops short and becomes instantly timid, running away again before any sort of cooperative play happens. He also is equally rough with other kids, shoving and hitting and screaming, like he does at home with Tova, but apparently indiscriminately, like he just wants to see what happens without much concern for the other kids.

All of this worries me, because it feels like the perfect storm for the makings of a bully.

And that weighs heavy on my heart. Not only that he can be picked out in a group of kids for indeterminate differences, but that those differences appear to be laying the groundwork for a bigger problem, another hurdle to try and head off before we have to jump it.

I'm told that Kiedis should be "normal" someday, that he will hopefully grow out of a great deal of his issues and I know how fortunate we are that this is the case. But it's hard to consistently get past one milestone to be greeted with another roadblock, another unanticipated complication that feels like a step sideways instead of forward.

Everything happens for a reason. We aren't given more than we can handle. If you're going through hell, keep going.

These appear to be the mantras of my parenthood.

Suffrage.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 10:30:00 +0000

I don't know if it's because I'm a feminist or because I'm married to a social studies teacher or if it's just that I have a very deep secret madpassionate love for this particular song/video in it's original incarnation and this rings so true, but I watched this:

AND CRIED. LIKE SOBBED ON THE COUCH and had to cover my agape mouth with my hands because otherwise I probably would have woke up the kids between the gasps and the chokes.

We'll say it's the shock of realizing that not even 100 years ago, women like me (and you) weren't even considered equal citizens of our country.

It's amazing. WATCH IT.

More info here (and the other one about the Declaration of Independence is pretty awesome as well, but not as much as this one).

Found at my perennial favorite blog, Sociological Images.

On Three.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 16:10:00 +0000

Last night I had a dream I was pregnant.

I was with people at a Target and for some reason I had to steal the pregnancy test and take it in a horrific bathroom covered in gross that had a creeper dude in it, leering at ladies while they did their business. And of course, it came back positive in that situation and I was hit with the sobering reality that for the first time ever, I had to tell Kyle because he was oblivious.

(With both of our kids he knew before I did. Kind of creepy, but also means we don't have super awesome stories about me telling him we're expecting. Much more of a joint oh shit moment and recovery.)

I was a wreck in my dream, because I knew that I had just doomed our family. We couldn't afford another child -- having three would mean a new car big enough to hold three car seats; I've been slowly selling and giving and donating away our baby paraphernalia and my maternity clothes meaning I wouldn't have enough to get through another pregnancy and not be saved by having hand-me-downs around. Our food budget is already tight and another mouth to feed might tip the scales, and we don't have an extra space to put another little person in this house. I was panicked in the deepest parts of my being mostly because I knew how very upset Kyle would be, and I feared he's accuse me of planning it, tricking him into another baby.

Because right after Tova was born, we were split on the procreation situation. I looked at that pumpkin-headed gingersnap's little face and I was sure that she was not my last baby. But he, on the other hand, was good -- we had two kids, like the families we grew up in, and with her entrance into the world we had both a son and a daughter -- to him, we were all set.

As time as gone on he hasn't really wavered in that position -- he jokes that he can't handle another round of sleepless nights and bottle feedings and itty bitty diapers because look, we're almost done with all of that now. But when we seriously discuss it, he truly doesn't want any more kids. He feels that it would be selfish and impractical to increase our household because of things like finances and location and the needs of the children who actually exist in front of us now.

Slowly, I've started to agree with him.

It's like there's a light at the end of this tunnel -- with Tova gaining mobility and Kiedis in real preschool, it's like the baby phase is behind us. Sooner rather than later we won't even have toddlers, but just kids. With every milestone there are new challenges, sure, but there are new rewards as well. Language acquisition means I can have conversations with my kids as people -- something I haven't had these past three years. Mobility means different kinds of transportation, such as being able to generally trust that Kiedis will stay near me and hold my hand in public places. And personalities mean learning more about these tiny people I helped to make, being able to talk about my kids to others with more pride and less of a checklist of accomplishments and delays.

I don't know that I could go back to all that tininess, that newness, again.

In my dream, I acted overjoyed to see Kyle (we were temporarily separated for some reason, like he'd been gone on a trip or something) and whispered to him quickly that we were pregnant. His first concern was how, with my IUD, and the subsequent viability of said pregnancy. He didn't want me to get my hopes up because he couldn't see how it would work out. And in the real world, it wouldn't.

I woke up about then, with Kyle telling me the time so I knew how long I had to get Kiedis ready for school before the bus came. I was befuddled, a little, not quite sure what had been real and what was my synapses just firing as I slept. Once I realized that I, in fact, had been dreaming, I reassured myself that this pattern of thought probably has to do more with the fact that a lot of my friends are just now having their first babies, two born in the last week alone, and that I probably in some small way am mourning the loss of my babies as they grow into children.

I told Kyle about my dream as I got dressed and he put his shoes on. I felt some of that nervousness still, the anxiety of telling him that even subconsciously my brain is thinking about having another baby.

He stopped what he was doing and walked over to me, taking me in one arm and kissing me strongly. He told me softly and without hesitation or defeat in his voice that if we were to become accidentally pregnant again, he would be happy to welcome another adorable baby into our home and our family, because she would be as beautiful as her mother, just like her siblings are.

I didn't even tell him that in my dream, I knew with every fiber of my being it was another girl.

People ask me quite often in passing if we're done having kids or if we'll try for a third. We often are warned by parents of three or more to stop where we are because beyond this you run out of hands to hold them with and become outnumbered even as a joint pair. I often feel like our life is crazy enough as it is, without more little people depending on me for their every need and want.

But there it sits. The conviction in his voice. The visceral reality of that dream. The feeling we both quietly admit to having when seeing photos of newborns.

There is no decision, no concrete plan, because if anything we've learned that whenever we make a plan, something without fail changes everything we think we know and makes us start from square one again. Just, for now, the odd comfort of uncertainty that we don't know what may be in the future and general content with what we have right now.

And for now, that is enough.

Yes, I Cried.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 14:47:00 +0000

I can't even really describe this, what this feels like, after so long of it being so different.

I bawled like a baby after we finished because I didn't realize how attached I was to his hair, how much it defined him for me. I feel like I'm looking at a completely different child, and then I'm kind of surprised when he pulls a classic Kiedis tantrum because, what?

He's not very fazed, though. He rubs his own head a little and runs around as if nothing happened, smiling and jumping and generally being so very much himself.

His new teacher called just a little bit ago to let me know he got off of his new bus at his new school just happy as could be, and was excited to play with the new toys and the new kids and eat the new snacks. He never ceases to amaze me in that regard -- my child, who started "school" with huge transition issues, now breezes through changes with little to no distress.

Meanwhile, I'm not as lucky.

He's three today, looking all so much the preschooler he how officially is.

And I'm ... still coping from all of the things his old teacher sent home in his bookbag yesterday -- photos they'd taken throughout the year of him, art work, birthday presents. The heartfelt note she wrote him in a book I plan to give him 15 years from now. The love I knew she had for him, and he for her, just passed along because of legalities and life.

I really hope he remembers her as he grows.

But today, today is for new things -- new appearances, new milestones, new adventures.

A new year for a new little boy I could not be more proud of.

Now excuse me while I hunt down more tissues because LORD MY EYES WILL NOT STOP WITH THE TEARING.

All On Her Own.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 18:16:00 +0000

So this weekend was a busy one. Between celebrating Duder's birthday a little bit, doing some serious work on the house, and just the usual stuffs of having a family on a weekend, we had this:

What I wasn't able to get on video was her standing up on her own, from a squat position -- something Kiedis never did.
In a way, this whole progression with her shows how naive we were with Kiedis, about his abilities and what was normal and what was not. Watching Tova learn to walk has been exciting and joyous and very new, because it was not this way before. Here, she shows us normalcy. She shows us development as it should be, albeit still "late" yet uncomplicated, just a late bloomer.
It's also a relief because she, too, has a sacral dimple like her brother -- less deep, less indicative of further potential issues, just a small mark on her little frame, nothing more. And for that, we couldn't be more grateful and appreciative of how lucky we really are, to have healthy children and the ability to care for them in whatever ways necessary, issues or no.
She's still not super sure of walking and defaults to crawling often, but she knows now she can do it, so I fully expect her to start running around this place like it's no big deal any day now.
Now, as for that battle cry of happiness at the end ... well, she's my daughter after all. :)

A Different Kind Of TAT.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 15:38:00 +0000

I'm going to let Totally Awkward Tuesday kind of chill for a while because I'm having a hard time remembering awkward stories I want to share. I'm sure I have them, but I'm getting to the point that I can't remember if I've written about them yet or not and I usually default to that I have, so I end up kind of creating my own writer's block and that, my friends, is the worst kind of writer's block I can conjure.

So. It's just going to be me and whatever I can come up with for a while.

Anyway, I mentioned yesterday getting a new tattoo for my birthday. But it wasn't just for my birthday, or really me at all.

It was for Rachel.

It's supposed to be her, sitting on top of the world -- the same thing she got on her wrist just a few months before we lost her. And now, now I will have her with me a little bit more, beyond photographs and memories and daffodils, bringing her with me beyond the years her physical presence was able to experience.

It's not big or flashy or anything like the other tattoos I have, but for me, for this moment and this purpose, it's just perfect.

Thanks to Monkey Bones and Spyder for fitting me in last minute since it was my birthday and all. :)

The End Of The Magical Year.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 13:27:00 +0000

There are two lines forming at the inner points of my eyebrows, ever so slightly creasing down into the bridge of my nose. I've known of their existence for some time now -- I first caught a glimpse of them four years ago, driving into the the sun while checking my rear view mirror. The light play illuminated a shadow I mistook for a smudge of pen only to discover that no, that was my face. At the time I tried not to be horrified at the ripe age of 24, fresh out of college and not yet married or pregnant.

In some ways, that feels like yesterday. In others, a lifetime ago.

Today marks the end of my magical year, my twenty-seventh on this planet in this skin. Somehow my brain never really processed much beyond this point, as if somehow being 27 was all I would ever be -- not in a morbid way, but just that beyond that was inconsequential because 27 would be the year to make all the other years jealous.

Except this year has felt really sort of run of the mill -- there have been ups and downs and sideways and longways and highways and byways and more goodbyes than there were hellos and still at the end of it, I just feel like I'm still treading water, keeping my head above perhaps ever so slightly more than barely.

I can no longer claim mid-to-late, just late, the next big hurdle of a decade increasing it's presence in my periphery with no more malice or impending doom than the thought that I will probably be driving a minivan sooner rather than later. I realize I am old enough now that I feel weird referring to myself as a girl, but not so old that those days feel long behind me. I am equally confused by outsiders disbelief at my status as a mother as I am the fact that my ten year reunion (which I am refusing to attend based mostly on being privy to the planning and I'm sorry, I'm not going to pay $40 to go to a hoedown, thanks) is impending.

I have always felt older than I am, been called an old soul by people twice, thrice my age and have known this to be a good thing, for the most part. But that doesn't change the creeping sadness I feel at the passing of time, the loss of youth I never quite had, the quiet stillness that comes from gaining wisdom and losing innocence because you're simply too old to pretend anymore.

Today will be much like the rest. It's Monday, so there will be errands and chores to accomplish, children to care for and work to be done. I will start to have to think about Kiedis' birthday next week, and I will bless the Leap Year for giving me an extra day to get my shit together. I will hear from my mom and maybe my dad and my brother, and my grandfather in California will call to sing me a happy birthday (as he always has) and I will make a concerted effort to have my phone on and up and within reach as not to miss it as I too often do.

And for my present from my husband, I will be getting my first tattoo in four years -- something small and sentimental and one I'd rather not have the reason I do for getting, but in the circumstances it's all I can do but to carry it with me so I never take for granted these banal things that comprise my life.

The lines in my forehead will inevitably teeter on the brink of absolute existence for a while more I think, most apparent when looking up from one of my several screens or from deep thought or from lack of sleep. As for the rest of this, my 28th year, I have no idea what it holds in store for me, nor do I feel the desire to guess lest I be disappointed or invite more challenges into the already harried fray I call my life.

But I will admit I had thought this past year would be more spectacular, just by its very existence, and I am sad to see it go with such little fanfair or celebration. More just reverence, I guess, for everything I never thought I'd have and everything I never thought I'd lose.

So today is my birthday.

Nothing big, nothing special, just a day I felt worth marking somehow.

The Power of A Smile.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 15:51:00 +0000

I see his eyeball peer around the door frame at me and my spot on the couch. It disappears and reappears in a rocking motion, as everything with him does because he's yet to learn how to be still. His blonde head bobs up and down, repeating the phrase we've come to understand as a request.

"Whatchuwah, whatchuwah!" he urges, his tiny voice filled with desperation.

"What do you want, Kiedis?" I reply as I finish the email I'm typing and turn to look at him. It's a step up from when he used to just yell WANT at us, this phrase that now means the same thing. It's an endless cycle of repetition, but at least he's less likely to melt down now.

He enters the room more fully, three-quarters of his face now visible as he stares me down, a look of disdain, disinterest, and disgust across his angelic cheeks. Eyes bore into the darkest parts of my soul, lips and jaw set but not tight, breath imperceptible without looking to see if the chest rises and falls in rhythm. It's as if you have no value, aren't even really there, just another form of suffering to endure.

I know that face all too well. It is the face I grew up seeing from my father.

*****

I couldn't have been older than five. It was my first dance recital, and I was beside myself with glee. I had begged my parents for what felt like forever for ballet classes, and finally they acquiesced. I had been practicing in my bedroom for weeks, making sure to get my part right. My parents and brother were there to watch me, and for the first time in memory I was going to be special all on my own, separate from anyone else in my family.

I was especially excited to have my dad see what I'd been working so hard on.

But I was young and hadn't been properly coached on stage etiquette. I went out into the studio half filled with chairs and immediately searched out my family. They were in the front, to my left. My mother smiled and waved as she recognized me, pointing me out to my brother who was already bored out of his mind.

But my father sat motionless, arms folded across his chest, staring me down to the bone in disdain.

I tried to ignore it. I looked away and began my routine with the other girls, including my partner, but I couldn't stop the tears from welling up in my eyes, the shaking from beginning.

He was mad. He was mad he had to be there and watch my recital and it was my fault and I was going to be in so much trouble when I got home and and and ...

The tears overwhelmed me and burst forth, startling everyone in the room, and I ran to the alcove where the teacher stood with the stereo system, covering my face in hysterics. My dance partner followed, confused, and another teacher led her back out and took my spot.

I ruined it. I ruined the dance, I ruined the event, I ruined the one thing I'd been looking forward to for weeks. And I never stopped crying, because every time I looked at my dad, I felt as if he hated me more, sure I was never going to not be in trouble with him.

*****

It never failed as I entered my teenage years and into this quasi-adulthood, someone I worked with or was in class with or just saw me on a semi-routine basis would carefully approach me nearly on tip-toe. They'd say my name with extra caution or overly-casually, and ask me why I was upset. Sometimes I would get jokes asking if someone had just killed my cat (never funny) or something equally bad to make me so angry.

More often than not, though, I would only faintly register a voice addressing me and I'd snap out of my reverie slightly surprised and generally disoriented, confusing all parties involved.

The repetition of the question. My bewildered reassurance that everything was peachy in Tabathaland. Often, the prodding are you sure or what were you thinking about so seriously from those who knew me slightly more intimately, the clumsy response trying to peg down one of the billions of absolutely banal ideas which had been cavorting about inside of myself at the time, like if I wanted spaghetti for dinner or not. The disbelief, the not so subtle dismissal of my insistence of my sound mental state.

Occasionally, someone would fight me, try to push something out of me that for once, wasn't there. And then I'd become genuinely irritated or angry, illustrating the difference in my facial expression.

It works to my advantage, sometimes -- it only takes the raise of an eyebrow or a purse of my lips to go from blank to bitch, please in nanoseconds. Add with it a change in pitch to my voice and I know I can stop a grown adult dead in their tracks as if they are a toddler caught with their hands in a cookie jar.

I have chronic bitch face.

But it's taken me until recently to realize the correlation between my upbringing and my relationship with my father and the relationship I have with my son, with his own burgeoning personality becoming more and more apparent with every new word he tries out, every time we finally understand him.

*****

We stare blankly at each other for a moment and a voice inside me gasps smile! because I realize that the more forefront thought in my mind is how much he looks like me, how his little face is practically a facsimile of my own as I simultaneously wondered why he looked upset and the light bulb went off.

I let a wide smile pull at my lips -- not something I have to force, but more a more inner emotion allowed to break through my exterior -- and grin at the child waiting for my attention.

As he registers the change in expression on my face, a joyful grin and giggle escape him, and he comes to me saying "Huggy, huggy" with the unadulterated zeal that only small children can embody. I hug him tightly and tell him how much I love him and thank him for the hug, and he's back to asking me for something, pulling me towards the kitchen.

I think of how much better he's doing recently, as he learns more words and we better understand him, but I can't help thinking that the more conscientious effort on my part to smile at him, to soften my lines and allow what's inside peek out instead of just looking at him blankly is changing our dynamic as well.

Because I remember being a child, looking at what I slowly came to understand to be just a blank face, and taking it personally, so very personally. And he is his mother's son in so many unanticipated ways, which means I need to tread lightly with him, because he will pick up on the details that other children won't, and he will always turn to himself for understanding before considering it doesn't concern him at all.

In some ways, I could kick myself for taking this long to get it, but in others, I'm just glad I figured it out this quickly. I can stop the cycle of chronic bitch face and save both of us from a lot of years of unnecessary strife and friction due to misunderstanding.

Now if I could only go back and reassure little Me of the same thing.

Mrs. M If You're Nasty.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 20:39:00 +0000

There are posts circulating today, From amazing bloggers that if you're not reading them, you should be.

Meet Alice, Liz, and Julie.

Go. I'll wait.

I want to write something really smart about this, because it's practically what I have a degree in. But I can't get the words out right in my head where they don't feel all jumbled and coerced.

But I can tell you what I remember.

I remember being told flat out by another woman, no less, during a job interview that I was probably hired but her boss was going to do a walk by to see if I passed his pretty test.

I remember being told to wear a low-cut shirt and a push-up bra to another interview because the manager was a known creep and it would guarantee me the job.

I remember being asked if I was wearing underwear under a mini-skirt by another manager at a different job. I was. I don't know why it mattered.

I remember the first time I went to a teen club, still gangly more in personality than body, and being shocked at how many times my ass was grabbed by strangers.

I remember endless comments throughout my girlhood into teenhood about the shape of my body both as a whole and divided by it's parts by people I am related to by blood.

I remember being ridiculed in a large group of people early in high school for wearing an unlined bra under a white Tshirt when the room became cold. Me and my A cup didn't understand, and to this day I do not own an unlined bra.

I can't count the number of times I've been cat called or hollered at or whatever it is they call it now, this degradation, when I have the gall to leave the house in a skirt and heels because my legs are long and don't you know what kind of message that sends and while I sheepishly say yes another part of me breaks because why is this always pinned on me, this is just my genetics, I didn't choose this.

And of course, I remember far more terrible things, but that should not mark me as a target for the rest of my life, no matter what the statistics say.

I used to try to find power in those lesser situations (though that does not make them less horrible), not so much taking them as compliments as more of a damn straight and you're not worthy kind of mentality, which I've never been sure if that was Feminist of me or just me bending to the system in the most convoluted of ways. They happen less and less now, because mostly I don't go out alone hardly ever (except to the studio and back, but that's a safe space) but that doesn't mean they don't crop up.

I remember being middle-pregnant with Kiedis, leaving my own bachelorette dinner before my wedding, IN A MATERNITY DRESS and heels, and hearing the words from male mouths and only being able to spit back "PREGNANT" in retort.

It shut them up, but why couldn't I walk 20 feet from a restaurant to my car in peace?

I feel this sort of thing has less to do with perception of beauty and more to do with misogyny and patriarchy and over sexualization of our culture and of women and (as my stomach wretches) girls and sexism than anything else. For every person out there who will treat a woman with dignity and respect, there are two creepers waiting to objectify and degrade her, whether they even realize it or not.

The first time I told Kiedis' bus driver that my mom would be getting him off of the bus instead of me, I described her as I generally do, pretty much looking exactly like me but 20 years older. He immediately asked if she was married and for some reason I answered yes, getting off of the bus slightly hastily. Two birds, with that one.

And then Tte UPS guy recently halted his tracks as he approached our house with a package, mouth slightly agape. Dude has seen me in all stages of pregnant/new mom disarray, and this day was no different.

Except it was. He asked me if I'd lost weight and I smiled because why yes, I have, and he said I looked great and I felt complimented.

But he kept going, saying I don't need to lose any more because it's good when girls(!) have something to hold on to, ya know, and I'm just about perfect as I am right now.

Oh.

Perhaps I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt, assuming they don't know they're being creepy.

But in the end, implicit or explicit, intentional or not, the sum of these kinds of situations lead to the pervasive idea in women that it's not okay to be a woman Out There In The World. We become afraid of everything, suspicious of the most mundane of places or acquaintances because what if and ick and blameshifting onto ourselves because obviously, it must have been something we said or did or wore or breathed because it just. keeps. happening.

A constant state of fight or flight. A lifetime spent on edge, on guard, over vigilant because we happen to have two X chromosomes. Forever questioning our self worth as people based on the visceral responses of the worst of others, letting ourselves be shamed for that which we cannot help and will not change.

And we still have our daughters to think of.

When people make fun of feminism or degrade women because they're in a position of power or degrade them because they're in a position of weakness or really degrade them for no reason at all, these are the reasons why things like feminism still matter. It's not all sensational bra-burning. It's standing up for yourself and saying you deserve to be treated with dignity and respect. It's not second-guessing your outfit or your hairstyle or your lifestyle because it might send the wrong message. It's about having the freedom to move about in the space you occupy without fear of consequences.

It's about being okay to be a woman. And nothing saddens me more that we still don't have that.

Nothing will change on it's own. Things will continue to stay the same because we don't fight back or question. You don't have to all the time, every time. Just once.

Just once stare someone down when they leer at you and ask them if they have a problem. Just once ask them if they'd want someone to talk to their wife/mother/sister/daughter like that. Just once tell someone the legal definition of assault and that they just committed it.

Just once, stand up for yourself, for all of us.

Yes, they will call us other words, other names, other ways to try to tear us down. But you know what? I'd rather be a bitch than a sweetie.

Wouldn't you?

The first rule of blogging applies here (to a point): don't feed the trolls.

But don't let them live in the shadows under the bridges, lurking, waiting for the right opportunity, either.

ps, my blog turned four on monday. thought i should mention that.

Too Short.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 18:45:00 +0000

I know, I know.

But by now you should expect this from me.

It's not personal, it never is -- I always feel guilty, letting you all down, but I'd rather wait for the words to come than force them, because you can always tell when someone's faking it.

I've been in a funk. An unbalanced, hypomanic funk from which I can't seem to get a reprieve. I have responsibilities and obligations and some really good things I desperately don't want to mess up. I have screen fatigue and am often overwhelmed by the TV and the laptop and the Droid and the iPad, all right within reach, all dinging and pinging and begging me for attention, one more click one more check one more scroll.

And then there are the kids. The kids who are obsessed with the screens, on interacting with them and reenacting them and having them on and loud and constantly draining energy out of the power sockets and batteries and my soul and I don't know how to make it stop without the other thing, the trigger for my postpartum rage that I can't quite shake, the thing that brings my boiling point to a head and makes me feel like a failure as not just a mom, but as a human being because I can't handle it, the shrieks that they emit when they don't get their way, the hits and the slaps and the throwing of things and the harm on each other, no, no, NO, I can't handle that at all.

But I have to. Because that's what moms do.

I wouldn't say I'm in a bad place, but I'm not in a good one either. I'm tired with no rest in sight. I'm being pulled in a million directions, many of my own doing, and I can't do what I used to, just pull back and quiet everything, lock myself in a room and revel in the dark still quiet of the night and sleep through the insanity of day and just wait until I feel right and am no longer wary of being seen in the clarity of light. No, I have to function with society now on an even keel because I've promised myself that my damage will not mark them even though I've already failed so epically when it was just him.

I have a lot of angst stemming from whitegirlhipstermombloggerfirstworldproblems, but I don't think the fact that they're hastaggable makes them less valid. Yes, I understand that I was born into certain privilege and social grace due to the tint of the melatonin in my skin and plumbing between my legs and both the geographic locations and the socioeconomic status into which I was born and again that I married -- I am grateful that fate was kind to me in those ways, but that doesn't diminish the struggles I do have within those realms -- if anything it adds more guilt to my already bogged down conscious because what are you bitching for but you know what, I just want to be actually happy and content with the life I lead instead of always feeling beat down for things out of my control.

I'm getting older even though I feel like dirt has nothing on me, yet I still preface the number of my years in this life with "only" because a little to my chagrin that number is much lower than people expect and I hope it's just the way I carry myself and not because the wear of these years has left it's mark upon me -- or maybe I'm just finally at that place where my age isn't discernible because I'm obviously not a child and I'm obviously not elderly so anyone's guess is fair game.

However, twice in a week I was told that life is too short. Too short to do things you don't love. Too short to worry about what you can't control. Too short to be sad and cry every night at 9:36 for no reason you can figure out, that just seems to be the breaking point of the day. And I know this, while I read of the deaths of mothers and children and think to myself you never really do know and I try not to let that trigger my anxiety which is running at a fever pitch since the chemicals in my brain can't pick if I'm happy or sad so just BEYOND CONTROL seems to be the middle ground, for Christ's sake, and I waiver when I think to myself that I'm almost 28 because really, is it that short?

No one knows when they're going to go, not even the ones who have been given a timeline. It's not certain, so you can go on one of two presumptions -- that your life will be relatively free from tragedy and you will live to see nearly a century through your eyes; or you have every potential to die tomorrow so live it up today because you never do know.

I don't know that I'm fully capable of carpe diem because that requires a lot of energy, something I only have in spades when I let go of my demons and relinquish the balance I've fought so hard for. But I think I can let it out in spurts, to try to make sure what I do with this potentially shortened time are things I won't regret, things that don't make me cringe or feel beat down. I can try to let go of the shoulds and supposed tos and the feeling like I'm not living up to expectations because really, my own are the only ones that should matter. I can live by my own standards and do better because I want to, not because I'm told to.

It's hard to admit when things aren't going well. I still live with fear in my heart of the ramifications of being so open, so honest, because I know not everyone who reads these words will do so with good intentions. But holding all of this in has only compounded my frustration, so something has to give. I don't want to hide anymore, to feel ashamed of myself and afraid of the what ifs and the could bes and the might happens.

I just want to write, to have quiet and still and to let the words come and sort themselves out and to live up to my own standards, my own dreams, my own desires.

I don't know if life is too short or too long, I just know that this one is mine and I want to do more with it than I've been allowed. I don't really know what that means, but I'm working on it.

Even Bloggers Need A Holiday.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 19:18:00 +0000

So, if you haven't noticed, I'm kind of taking a blogging break until the New Year. I'm finding difficulty in finding things to say or write about and that means I need to step back and regroup and experience life instead of always trying to capture and convey it.

I'm still around on Facebook and Twitter, so I mean, if you need a fix you know where to find me.

So I hope you all have a very happy holidays and I'll see you on the flipside. :)

Sunday Secrets.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 17:05:00 +0000

Totally Awkward Tuesday.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 19:02:00 +0000

So, as I mentioned, we had a Thanksmas dinner this past weekend. We invited our dearest friends over for dinner to celebrate the season with people we love like family but aren't genetically or legally tied to in any way. We would have loved to invite a whole crap ton of people, but (a) our house is small and (b) we were on a tight budget and wanted to make sure people actually had food to eat at our dinner party.

Anyway, I made lasagna from scratch and people brought food and wine (oh, the wine!) and it was a great time -- at least we really enjoyed it.

So in order to get this all done both Kyle and I woke up at the buttcrack to get everything done, since we were making everything save the lasagna noodles. It was a busy day juggling kids and cooking and trying to not get in each other's way and you know, getting dressed before people showed up.

Anyway, so my friend S was there early because she needed to construct her salad and because she was nearby anyway. And she's sitting on my couch while her daughter played with Kiedis, and I'm watching for our other friend M who was waiting in her car because both her husband and her child were asleep but was making her way up our front stairs when Kyle's phone rang on the mantle right next to where I was standing.

He hears it in the kitchen and yells for me to answer it, and looking down at the number I saw it was a local exchange, so I assumed it was someone who was running late or didn't know where we lived and I hadn't answered my phone so they called Kyle because this is how we roll, most of the time.

So I say hello, AS YOU DO, and the voice on the other line just says "Tabatha?" kind of slow and forced, like it's odd for someone's spouse to answer their cell phone. It isn't in my experience, but hey, I guess we're special because we believe in transparency in our relationship FOR OBVIOUS REASONS.

So with minor warning bells going off in my head, I replied simple "Yes?" and then, well, I had tunnel vision for a minute.

It was my EMIL.

As soon as it clicked (which was kind of instantaneously) I looked at my friend S on my couch blissfully oblivious of the chaos potentially erupting. I thought about people showing up to my house and this dinner party we'd been planning for months that we'd so been looking forward to and the kids playing happily on the floor and I listened to my gut, which was immediately in fight or flight.

And I realized that it wasn't worth the effort.

She no sooner finished her name than I hung up because NO CONTACT MEANS NO CONTACT.

I then walked in to the kitchen, phone in hand, and gave it to Kyle, telling him what had just happened. He was actually slightly angry because (a) she refuses to listen to him and (b) she damn near ruined our party just by being her stupid self.

Luckily, I was able to quickly shake it and move on, and a great night was had by all. But for a split second, I was frozen because OF ALL TIMES TO CALL WHEN YOU'RE NOT WELCOME TO EVER AND EVER AMEN. My only solace was that if I'd blown up or been reduced to tears, S and M know all about that business and if ever there was a time to be surrounded by the people who have supported us while we recover from all the insanity spearheaded by my EMIL, it was these people, but I didn't want the evening to be another time to deal with my drama, I wanted it to be a celebration of all they've done for us already and a show of appreciation for them being in our lives.

Basically, I picked love over gratification.

Of course, yesterday she emailed him all in a huff because I hung up on her and then went through the same exact me-me-me rigmarole that she always does, which completely and utterly ignores that Kyle has thoughts or feelings or ideas about anything involving her.

I asked him how he felt about her doing this yet again, and he replied that what pissed him off the most, other than it's the same message over and over no matter how many times he asks and tells her to not contact him again, was that she completely ignored me as a part of our family -- like the kids sprouted out of his head all on their own and other than the fact that I hung up on her, I'm not worth mentioning. He said he has no desire to feed into her still incredibly self-important mind games and manipulation while she consistently ignores his desires and continually dis-includes me as someone important to him. These grandchildren that are only important to her when it serves her purposes, THEY CAME OUT OF MY VAGINA. That's not just a throw-away fact; THEY WOULD NOT EXIST WERE IT NOT FOR ME AND MY BODY.

Kyle doubts he's going to respond because he said it's a waste of his time.

So yeah. Awkward, but I guess only for me.

Give and Get.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 22:18:00 +0000

So it ends up that only two people entered my giveaway -- so I'm working on something to make sure that no one's a loser in a two-person game. Once I hear back from all parties involved, then I'll let you know how that all worked out.

In other news, I learned some new Photoshop skills today:

But I'm not going to tell you what because that would ruin the magic of this year's effort. NEENER. But note that my head is the same size AS MY CHILDRENS' because I have an abnormally small head, and that is sadly not Photoshopped.

I don't know if we're going to be able to swing holiday cards this year, so this may be the best that many of you get from us. I'm sure you could print it out if you so desire an actual photo of us -- I even didn't watermark it for you, you're welcome DON'T STEAL IT. If we're lucky we might figure something out, but hey, this is the best I've got for you and it's better than nothing, yes?

(You can peep the 2009 and 2010 photos here.)

Anyway, today has been insane (hence the late post) and I have stories for you about our Thanksmas dinner this past weekend and honestly stories from Thanksgiving even but they will have to wait because I have ribbons to go hang from.

Happy Christmahanusolstickwanzaa and a Merry New Year!

One More Hat.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 18:27:00 +0000

I know, I disappeared for a couple of days.

I've been having computer issues so it's been hard to do things like my new job (I'll come back to that) and my other freelance work and blog while also trying to make it to classes and you know, parent two mini-people who aren't potty trained yet.

I have all these great ideas swirling around in my head, but I'm typically away from any of my various devices and by the time I get to one, it's gone.

Did you know that recently there was a study that found passing through a doorway causes people to forget what they're doing? Something about visual cues and psychological trajectory and such. And now I'm paranoid to leave a room because I'm going to forget the 18 things bouncing around in my head at any given time.

Anyway.

So yes, I have a job, ish. I'm the administrator for the dance studio I told you about. It means that it involves someone being in front of a computer doing things, I'm doing it. It's some hybrid between uber secretary and web admin with dashes of graphic design and blogging. I only say ish because I'm not so much getting paid as I'm trading services (but bartering is the new freelance thing to do, so I hear) so I get to go to classes as much as I want and don't have to pay anything. Which is awesome so far.

So yeah, if you wanted to check out the blog over there, it's Confessions of A Femme Fatale. And that's the site I'm managing, so I mean, yeah. It's a lot of work, some of it easy, most of it challenging, but I like it because it gives me purpose and helps us save money while still providing me an opportunity to do something I'm starting to love and still get to do it all from the very same place on the couch that I do everything else online.

Well, you know, if my internet would stop failing every 45 minutes on the dot. And when I'm not breaking the site at midnight trying to figure something out, heh.

Other than that, don't forget about my giveaway -- there are only two entrants so far!

It's almost the weekend -- and I, for one, am grateful.

Paying It Forward. {An Honest To Cheesus Giveaway}

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Ever since last year when we participated in the Bloggess' whirlwind commentpalooza of generosity, I've been wanting to pay it forward. The thought was forced to the front of my brain when Santa essentially did the same thing for us this year.

It's been hard, as we've been struggling more than usual, to figure out how to do that. Last night when reading PostSecret, the one from the parent unable to purchase presents for their children this Christmas causing them to question their faith, my gut just tore open and I wished so hard that the cards weren't anonymous, so I could do something.

Kiedis' first Christmukkah wouldn't have happened without our friends Lisa and Sarvani and their generosity, so I know all too well what that despair feels like, and what that gratitude feels like when someone saves you from that shame out of the goodness of their hearts.

So I'm doing the best I can with what I've got.

Back over the summer I won a Twitter contest from Target. They were debuting a new line of dolls that strikingly resemble the American Girl Dolls -- not the historic ones, but the modern day ones -- and they did something like the first five people to tweet their favorite doll name would win. I randomly tweeted the first name that popped into my head -- Lydia -- and I won.

I had completely forgotten about it until a large box showed up at my house around Halloween. I was kind of excited because unexpected box from Target? DON'T MIND IF I DO, THANK YOU PLEASE! And this pretty lady greeted me from inside:

Her name is Layla, and as you can see she's basically Claudia Kishi updated to this millennium. She's also for ages 4 and up, according to the box.

And I think one of you could give her a lovely home.

My kids are too little to appreciate a doll like this, and I'm not really keen on hanging on to a doll for YEARS before giving it to them (save for my own American Girl Doll, but that's sentimental), so I want to give her away to someone who could really make a child's holiday this year that much brighter.

I'm hosting an honest-to-Cheesus giveaway, people.

Here's what I'm thinking. You tell me who you know that could use this doll for their child this holiday season -- whether it be you, your neighbor, your niece, a family at the shelter you volunteer at, whatever. I just want it to go to someone who otherwise might not be able to buy it. This also means that if you win and you just want me to donate it to Toys for Tots or some other similar organization that can be done. Comment on this post by Friday at midnight and I'll use random.org to pick a winner.

The prize will be one (1) PlayWonder Layla doll from Target (a $35 value) and A SECRET BONUS. I'll foot the shipping, but that means I have to keep it to the contiguous 48 US States. Unless you are willing to pay the shipping yourself, then I don't care where you live.

Cool beans?

Please know that this is in no way sponsored by anyone, nor is it influenced by any corporate entity. I just want to help out another family create holiday memories like others have helped us out (and continue to).

So, here are the rules I'm making up just right now:
1) You have to comment on this post to be entered. Not on Facebook. Here.
2) Liking Tabulous on Facebook will get you an extra entry.
3) So will tweeting "Be a Doll & make this Christmukkah a little brighter for a child with @tabulous! http://www.sotabulous.com/2011/12/paying-it-forward-honest-to-cheesus.html"
4) YOU HAVE TO TELL ME YOU DID THOSE THINGS. I'm a busy lady. Leave another comment for each social media thing you do.
5) It ends FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9TH at MIDNIGHT. I'll use random.org to pick a winner and announce the winner Monday.
6) LEAVE CONTACT INFORMATION. Email is preferred, but if you prefer more anonymity then leave me your Twitter handle. If you don't leave me a way to get a hold of you I can't pick you to win because as I said, I'm a busy lady and I don't have time to hunt you down. Sorry.
7) Contest is open only to people in the lower 48 US states unless you tell me you're willing to pay the shipping for wherever and then, I mean, that's on you.

Make sense?

Help me help a child have a better Holiday season this year. Show a family what the spirit of the season is, and know that you're making a difference.

Totally Awkward Tuesday.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 05:15:00 +0000

Okay, so you know I've been going to a dance studio that focuses on pole fitness and burlesque for the most part, right?

And I kind of work for them now as their administrator -- of the website, of the emails, of the social media, of the scheduling, I'm like a hybrid between a secretary and a webmaster. Of course I'm doing it for trade, but you know, my health and fitness has a price one way or another. I'll either pay for a gym or classes or whatever now or be paying outstanding medical bills later as my body slowly fails on me.

So.

Anyway, I was perusing the Facebook seeing how they ran things prior when I stumbled across a photo folder that was from a time they apparently featured members as the student of the month or some such. There were a lot of pin-up style photos and boudoir photos because they sponsor those kinds of sessions from time to time, and I'd seen a lot of them at the studio in the albums they keep on hand for display.

But as I'm innocently clicking through photos of strangers done up in their best Bettie Page regalia I realize that they are not all strangers.

And I don't mean the girl I went to high school with who taught there and her sister, because I knew about them already.

No, I was face-to-screen with a nudey photo of a girl I'd gone to school with since elementary school, who somehow ended up being in my college circle of "friends" (read: social drinking partners), who always struck me as squeaky clean and down-home and not someone who'd be up for such a seductive thing like boudoir photography.

But don't get me wrong, that's not the awkward part, because LORD KNOWS I've plastered naked PREGNANT photos of myself all over the interwebz done all beautifully and gorgeously by my friend Jacque (who now always takes our photos when she's in town, but you knew that) because I'm all for women loving their bodies and being however sexy they want to be however they want to be it because that's every girl's prerogative, you know?

So I wasn't bothered by the photo -- it was pretty and tasteful and once I got over my millisecond of shock it was no big deal.

Until I read the description under the photo.

Apparently, she took these photos for her boyfriend's birthday -- a boyfriend I knew fairly well, who was engaged to someone before her that I was close with, and a boyfriend she is no longer with.

I blushed, to be honest, from all the awkward.

As I understood the situation from hearsay (which I know isn't reliable, but the source from which I got it has yet to be wrong about such things and I trust her in my innermost circle of friends, so there's that) this girl got with this guy right after his engagement had been called off. She had been pining for him for some time, and she was a ready and willing rebound. He ... was pretty messed up by the breakup (they'd gotten engaged shortly after we did and had been together for at least a couple of years before that) and I don't think was truly that interested, but again, I don't actually know.

Anyway, so they dated for a while even when his work took him far away and often, but from what I gathered it was a tumultuous relationship. He just wanted to hang out, she wanted to get married. I heard that she tried moving in with him multiple times, only to be shut down every time, and somehow she wasn't getting the hint that he was not really emotionally available, or at least he didn't want to be.

The breakup was not pretty, as I heard. I don't know because I was eyeball deep in my own drama at the time, but I did hear that she had things to say about my relationship and our situation that were distasteful, mean-spirited, and downright cruel while also being uninformed and ignorant. So you know, at least I'll admit I don't really know what I'm talking about, I just know what I've been told. I'm not making judgement calls, I'm just telling a story. She could not say the same.

Anyway.

So they broke up and he's begun to date someone else but we don't really talk that much anymore so I have no idea how any of that is. I do know that a friend of mine has serious reservations about the friendliness of this girl's relationship with said friend's husband and isn't sure what to do, which breaks my heart for my friend and makes me want to give this girl THE BUSINESS about keeping your damn claws to yourself and finding someone NOT ATTACHED to leech onto.

But I digress.

So I'm sitting there suddenly privy to something that could be considered private and intimate between two people who are no longer romantically linked, with all this back story flying around in my head and being somewhere between gasping because SCANDAL and giggling because BACKFIRE (even though I know that's mean) and just, well, being embarrassed for everyone involved, including myself because I know waaaaayyyyy too much about the situation to be able to think about it on a surface level.

I moved on in my Facebook probe, but since I've been maybe a little purposely avoiding the photo albums just so I don't have to think much more about it.

So ... yeah. Tell me your awkward story so I don't feel so ... you know ... awkward.

The Magic Of The Season.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 05:37:00 +0000

Dear Santa,

You know, I read once upon a time that when children first stop believing in you, that's the first time they learn to question religion. Lord knows I've been doing that all my life, but this weekend you gave me pause.

I know that Amazon lets you send things anonymously because last year we participated in The Bloggess' giant charity match-up, and I'm sure you can guess on which end of benevolence we were. I venture you're probably someone I know, or someone who reads this blog with some regularity because you know we are a multi-celebrational household and you honored that in your message to me. You knew my email or where to find it and found it befitting to lend a hand out to a family barely catching a break, perhaps patting yourself on the back for being a good person and deservedly so.

But what you don't know, Santa, is that your timing couldn't have been more astute.

I've stopped bemoaning our financial situation here because really, we could have it much much worse. We still have a great deal for which we are grateful but perhaps we don't appreciate as much as we should. We know how to work the numbers to squeak by, month after month, paycheck by paycheck, and who wants to listen to some late twenties hipster bitch about money and the world when we're just living with the hand we've been dealt, doing the best we can with what we have.

But Santa, there is so much that you don't know about me and my family right now, and it seems only respectful to be straight with you.

You have no way of knowing that after bills and unexpected doctors visits and things like our car tags needing renewed that we have $100 for groceries, diapers, and follow up appointments for the next two weeks, for the four of us. You have no way of knowing that while we make sure the kids always have whatever they want to eat, we adults are eating barely enough to get by, sometimes making a sandwich and some yogurt last all day, so that there will be something to cook for dinner tomorrow while watching 60 Minutes talk about the working hungry and identifying with them so painfully you try not to cry because that won't do anything but dehydrate you and make you sick again.

You have no way of knowing that we have nothing in reserves for the first time in months, nothing to fall back on just in case we can't quite make it all meet up in the end. That the gas in our cars is what we have and that we're both growing out our hair because we can't even afford a cheap haircut and that this treading water we've been doing is starting to overtake us despite our best dead man's float.

You also have no way of knowing that before this last couple of weeks we'd been scrimping so that our kids could have a holiday season this year despite our hardship, buying things here or there with whatever we had at our disposal, trying to sell household goods so that we may afford a small gift or two for each other. You couldn't know that for the first year we'll have to pick between Hanukkah and Christmas because both is just too much, and that we're relieved the kids are too small to really notice, at least we hope.

But you sent us your gift anyway, on good faith perhaps, not knowing how desperately we needed it.

So I'm going to be honest with you, Santa. Your generosity won't be buying my children presents this year. Your gift will be paying for a case of diapers that otherwise would have halved our remaining budget. And for covering that case of diapers, we will be able to put food on the table for all of us for another couple of days until hopefully something on Craigslist sells or a check for freelance work comes in or some miracle happens to pull us through.

But know from the barest, proudest part of my soul that I could not thank you enough for what you have done. You swooped in right when you were least expected and most needed, and you gave us hope that we didn't have moments prior. We don't deserve the continued kindness we receive from people like you, and I swear to you I will pay it forward before the holidays pass us by.

Dear Santa,

I believe.

Totally Awkward Tuesday.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 15:35:00 +0000

A short one for you today.

So last week when I was feeling a bit under the weather but hadn't hit full zombie status just yet, I went ahead and went to dance class. I felt a bit out of it, but not terrible.

Class was fun, learned a new routine, got a little sweaty, was happy to be heading home when it was over, no big.

But on the way home I realize that I'm not cooling down as quickly as I usually am. So I decide to treat myself to a dollar ice cream cone at McDonald's because I'm a grown up and can have ice cream whenever I damn well please.

I stop by the Golden Arches by my house and go through the drive through, again, no big, just regular life activities, right?

So when I get to the first window to pay I had over my debit card because we never have cash any more, and I notice the girl working the window does a double take at my card.

Curious.

She smiles really big at me as she hands it back and then closes the little windows. A little odd, but I try not to think about it because my head's starting to hurt and I just want to go home.

As I'm putting my debit card away, suddenly the window pops open again and the girl is leaning near halfway out of it as she stumbles over her words as teenagers are apt to do when they're nervous or excited or you know, being teenagers.

"So, umm, do you like, you know, um, know, what's his name again, shoo, a, uh, Kyle, Muntzinger?" she asked kind of giggling.

I turned just my head back to the window and kind of half-smiled as I nodded at her. Shit.

"Yeah, that's my husband ..."

"I KNEW IT! HE'S MY TEACHER! I though I recognized you from his photos with your hair and all that! Mr. Muntzinger is my teacher!"

"... yeah, heh, I'm Mrs. Muntzinger."

Not only did calling myself Mrs make me feel old and sad, but realizing that I'm in my gym clothes, post-dance class, sans-makeup, hair disheveled and in desperate need of maintenance and what am I doing other than getting myself some ice cream like a damn CHILD.

Of course the car in front of me ordered everything on the menu so I'm stuck waiting with the chipper little teenager who is just THRILLED to have met me in the wild while I just want to hang my head in shame and go to bed.

Soon enough the car in front of me moves forward and so the girl tells me to tell Kyle hi for her and I pull up for my ice cream cone and drive towards home, feeling just defeated by life for no other reason than I'm in my late twenties and married to a high school teacher.

Then of course I woke up the next day dying of the plague, so all things in perspective I guess that's what I get for pushing myself when I should have listened to my body and no amount of ice cream will ever make up for a little late-night public humiliation.

Fever Dreams.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Right about the time I was writhing around on the bathroom floor literally wailing in pain two nights ago I had one of those frightening moments of clarity that follows a complete moment of insanity.

I, for a solid minute, was sure I was becoming a zombie.

I had no other explanation for what I was enduring. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, had some mystery illness mutating within my own immune system into some monster of a thing burning me alive from the inside, consuming every molecule of energy I once contained and disposing of it recklessly, leaving me unable to do much of anything but sleep and dream.

And let me tell you about those dreams.

But I'll back up a minute.

We took Kiedis to the doctor, was told he had a double ear infection, given a prescription for an antibiotic and sent along our way. My brother had chronic ear infections as a young child, so I was not phased by this. I filled the prescription, administered the first dose upon arrival back home, and went about my day being mom to an ill, non-verbal toddler.

As the next day broke out in deceptive sunshine but blustery weather, my little boy was nearly back to his normal self, not at all resembling the whimpering child who clung to me and sobbed in his sleep, eyes crusted shut with mystery goop. Nope, he was asking for yogurt (a new quasi-word he's acquired) and to watch The Incredibles for the umpteenth time and there was much rejoicing in the Wharzinger household.

That is, as much as I could manage because OF COURSE I woke up feeling like crap. And not just your usual crap, but an extra-heavy load of crap with dizzy spells and reduced reaction time and general sinus fog creating a haze around every processing orifice on my compressed head.

And then the cough started. Followed by the nausea, the shakes, and the eye crud. Oh, the neon-green eye crud. And by that night I was running a 100+ degree fever, my entire body ached, and the only thing I wanted more than life was sleep.

Ear infection, HA.

So Kyle agreed to stay home from school so I could sleep and we went to bed.

And I dreamt of zombies. More of being one, of waking up and rolling over and finding Kyle sleeping peacefully next to me, back bare and exposed right up to the soft spot where the brain stem enters the skull and leaning in to that spot above the collarbone, where the flesh gives way so easily and ... and you can imagine the gory details.

A vivid imagination knows no bounds.

And I dreamt of my children sleeping upstairs angelically in their intentionally-darkened rooms, and how they smelled still of newborn on the tops of their heads, of watching a greyed and decaying finger caress the still-existent soft spot on Tova's crown and then being distracted by the sounds of warfare outside and seeing characters from The Walking Dead ride down my street on horseback and being torn between the feeling of going with the good guys and realizing that I was no longer qualify-able as a good guy and then trying to decide who would be the most delicious -- the people, not the horses, because that would be cruel.

Because, you know, zombies ponder things. They also cannot eat their own children. At least I can't.

Thank you brain for having your limits.

There was also some crazy burlesque thing in there, that one of the teachers at the studio didn't care that I was undead and was making me perform over and over as my body parts literally fell off of me, yelling at me to glue them back on, there was an audience watching and just feeling so very very tired and hungry but unwilling to risk my non-life to eat anyone around me at the time. Too many stilettos at the ready to gouge me.

Needless to say I woke up from that nightmare with a dangerous fever that ended me up in Urgent Care Friday, taking four people to cover the tasks that usually just I manage to do in a day. And actually, that was just the basics of logistics. The mountain of laundry waiting for me is still daunting.

But anyway. So I go to Urgent Care and get a prescription for a Z-pack since I'm allergic to sulfa drugs and penicillin derivatives, and I'm all "yay, no more zombie fever dreams" and am looking forward to feeling normal again.

Except when I take the first dose of the Z-pack, my body decides I just am not allowed to have antibiotics ever again.

I fight throwing up for two hours because I know if I do I'll lose the medicine and won't get better and with everything being closed for Thanksgiving this week that means another week gone to this horrific supposed strep infection posing as an ear/now/throat/eye thing, but the pain starts to resemble something like having my insides torn apart by an industrial combine and finally it beats me, sucking all air from my lungs in those guttural wails and defeating me, and I spend the next hour or so vomiting the very little I've managed to eat for the two days prior.

And yes, I did try to eat with the pills to have them settle. The most I'd eaten in the two days prior combined, probably. Did diddly squat.

While I writhed on the floor I heard myself saying to Kyle, who looked on helplessly, that I was dying, that it was killing me, and then BOOM, there it was in my head, clear as day.

This is how it starts. I'm the bringer of the zombie apocalypse.

Enter moment of clarity post insane thought moment.

My clarity did not focus around the non-existence of zombies, nor the improbability of me being the person to begin the infection of the masses that results in the world as we know it coming to a halt.

Nope, it was that no matter what, I did not want to be the end of my children. I did not want to become a zombie a room over from where they slept because I didn't want the temptation of their tiny little brains to bewitch me and make me do horrible things that not even my own twisted brain could dream up under the influence of the fires of Hades burning under my skin.

And it felt much like the opposite of how I felt two years ago, when I thought for sure that my existence in their(then just Kiedis') life was the worst thing that had ever happened to him and that everyone would be better without me around ruining everyone's lives.

My, how the years have changed me.

I immediately felt guilty about Kiedis being this sick, though I tried hard to be rational in my choices about when he needed professional care and when he didn't. I knew I needed to stay the eff away from Tova lest she catch this awful plauge and perpetuate the misery in our house. And I needed to rest and trust that Kyle and my mom and my brother and my dad would pick up the slack and get everyone through, because that's what families do.

Sometimes the Mom has to be sick. And that has to be okay.

So for the majority of the weekend I pretty much locked myself in my room and slept and sweat and wretched and coughed and took my medicine on schedule and fought against my own brain about zombie-centric dreams and reminded myself that my self-imposed quarantine was for the greater good of my family even though it was jacking up everything we had planned pretty much for the rest of the month, zombification or no.

And now here I am. I am physically far from healthy though I'm gaining strength (and the ability to eat) back slowly as time progresses, but mentally I'm here again for the most part, between naps and moments of complete pain-induced head fog. Gratefully Kyle has this whole week off of school anyway, so he'll be able to help in the inbetween, which is such a relief.

And no sign of the zombie apocalypse in sight. Just some really miserably sick people looking at a probably less-than-stellar Thanksgiving experience this year.

So I'm sorry I dropped off the face last week. I'll try to be better this week.

I've just been a wee busy saving humanity from it's impending doom.

Which if you've met my daughter when she's unhappy (ie, sick), you'd realize isn't actually hyperbole at all.

Meh.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha Muntzinger) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 18:52:00 +0000

So obviously I didn't post anything this weekend, and am barely squeaking it in today. There goes NaBloPoMo, but I had good reason.

Kiedis has some sort of stomach flu and has been puking 95% of what we try to put in him since Saturday night. Tova's teething again so we're trying to keep 95% of the things she tries to put in her mouth out of it. Both have fevers.

Needless to say, I'm exhausted, cranky, and smell like kid vomit.

And in the wake of events suchly you gain some perspective about the importance of blogging to maybe win a prize or to be able to say you actually completed a challenge or whatever and you learn a bit how to be more there where you're needed when you're needed and not strapped to the laptop or smartphone.

I've spent most of my weekend cuddling one child or another, rubbing backs and wiping noses and having moments of stillness and quiet with these two little people who want nothing more than for me to make it better for them.

Because as I often sort of forget, I'm the Mama. Not the Auntie or the nanny (though you don't know how many times I find myself wondering when their parents are going to get home only to remember, whoops, that's me) but the one who's supposed to have the magic kisses and the special remedies and secret lullabies to make it feel better.

So things like NaBloPoMo can wait for next year, because these moments, as overwhelming and heartbreaking that they are, won't be here for long, and they won't always come to me to make it all better.

So yeah, one less stressor on an already to-the-max schedule.

I'll be around, and I hope you will be too.

(Also, send good vibes to this house because OMFG WHINY TODDLERS EVERYWHERE.)