Not Afraid to Use It

Coat of a Different Color

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 02:30:00 +0000

One of the hallmarks of becoming an adult is becoming privy to the stories of the elders in your family. Realizing they drank, skipped school, got fired from a job. When you can no longer cry you just don't understand! in a fit of teenage angst because you realize that they do.

I think one of the most gratifying moments as a young adult was my grandmother sharing stories of her and her sisters going out dancing. My grandmother had both an older and younger sister, all very close in age. As young married adults, the three of them would often meet up for a few hours of dancing. My grandmother's younger sister, according her her, was incredibly vain. She was a beautiful young woman. And she knew it. I think it was a bone of contention for my grandmother to have constantly heard growing up it's a shame you aren't as pretty as your sister Dolores.

On this particular night, the three sisters met up and walked to the dance hall. Smoking their cigarettes and having a good time. Dolores wore her new coat. Her beautiful, new and expensive coat. She twirled around, Don't you love my new coat. It was very expensive. Doesn't it suit me. My grandmother and her old sister rolled their eyes behind their younger sister's back. What a snooty bitch, they laughed to themselves.

Dolores also like to drink. A lot. After their evening out, as the sisters walked home, Dolores announced that she had to take a piss. She staggered off into the bushes, ungraciously copped a squat and relieved herself. Except that being stinking drunk meant that she had no coordination. And Dolores fell, straight back into the steaming puddle she had just created.

Fifty years later, my grandmother's throaty laugh crescendoed to a cackle. Oh the screaming! she laughed. She shrieked and screamed all the way home! She and her sister couldn't laugh then because Dolores would have killed them. But all these years later, laugh she did. The image still brought tears to her eyes. Her throaty laugh, pleased as punch that her sister had ruined her coat.

No one likes a braggart. It is one thing to celebrate a success or the completion of a goal. It is something else to brag about everything. Incessantly. My grandmother's glee reminded me that even decades later, there is nothing more gratifying than seeing someone get their comeuppance.

A huge thank you to Cristin for her brilliant post and therefore the inspiration to write mine.

Desperately Seeking A Remake

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 03:12:00 +0000

Sometimes we love a movie or a book and then the last five minutes or last five pages ruin the whole fucking thing. Even though it has been twenty years, I still feel this way about the movie Leviathan.

This movie had potential. It had amazing elements that made for a kickass story: off-the-record Soviet military operations, unwitting people in a dangerous underwater environment, secret scientific experiments involving human genetics. How in the world can you go wrong with that?

Let me tell you.

Instead of making a horror film that scared the shit out of the audience emotionally and intellectually, we get a giant monster jumping out from steamy corridors with lots of blood and body parts. Now the blood and body parts were fine. Justifiable even. However, instead of an Alien knockoff, couldn't we have used the genetic experimentation aspect to make an Aquaman meets Waterworld scenario? If the idea were to create a super soldier, how cool would it have been to follow that plot line down a scientifically intelligent path.

So, while I usually think remakes of films are a terrible idea, I am pleading with the Hollywood powers-that-be to hire a bunch of geneticists and rewrite and re-shoot this film. You have a whole generation of X-Files, X-Men, and Fringe aficionados who would flock to a film that pandered to both their intellect and their love of scientific horror.

I've Fallen In Love All Over Again

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 15:50:00 +0000

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For my Wordless Wednesday contributions, click here.

Is Sportsmanship Dead?

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:35:00 +0000

I had the opportunity to go to a Caps game last night (that's the Washington Capitals, for the NHL-deficient). We had a blast, and I was once again reminded how people watching at sporting events can be even more interesting than the game itself.

Throughout the evening, several people did a little seat-swapping to let their friends have a period in the better seats. One of the guys in our group was rooting for the other team. Very vocally rooting for the other team. He got to spend the second period in Caps season ticket seats, directly behind the goal. We could see him across the stadium. A jersey of blue in a sea of red. It was absolutely hysterical to see, even from afar, the syncopated hopping about and yelling.

After the second period, this brave young man came back and regaled us with his tales. The first thing out of his mouth was:

I have never felt so hated in my life. It was awesome!!!

Then he came to the meat of the matter. In the midst of all the hootin' and hollerin', the seven year old boy sitting behind him? Was throwing popcorn. At him.

Let me repeat: A seven year old boy was throwing popcorn at a 35 year old man. While his parents looked on in approval.

Blue Jersey man finally turned around and said: Look. Yell and verbally abuse me all you want to. That's fine. That's cool. Your kid throwing food at me is not. Psycho Caps family just blinked and tried to justify, then blinked when he continued, Your kid does that again, and I will have you ejected.

They shut the hell up. The food throwing stopped.

I am sure some would disagree, but I think this guy was spot on. Who the hell lets their children throw food at adults? Can he throw his lunch at his teacher when he doesn't agree with what she says? Can this child throw his crackers at his parents when they tell him to put his toys away? What the fuck? Like the guy said, yell, shout, dance, tease and nah-nah-nah with your fingers in your ears all you want. Throw food? Not in my book.

So what's the deal? Is sportsmanship dead?

The One Where I'm An Ugly American

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 04:01:00 +0000

I am fairly well-traveled. Enough so that while abroad I have spotted groups of Ugly Americans and exchanged looks with the locals standing beside me. Often times, if I never opened my mouth it was assumed I was a native.

Therefore, it is with great shame that I once found myself an unwitting participant in Acts Befitting An Ugly American.

We spent our honeymoon in the Dominic Republic, or, as the Swedes call it Dominikanska Republiken. I love how that rolls off the tongue. We were set for two weeks of sun, sleep, sex, and doing absolutely whatever the hell we felt.

One of the tours we booked was riding horses up in the mountains to look at waterfalls. It was awful. A bumpy, hot bus on a road with winding one point five lanes and no guard rail. Nauseous doesn't even begin to cover it. We arrived in one grateful, if not disheveled piece. We rode the horses, got rained on, snapped a few pics for posterity and were ready to head back to the comfort of our rooms.

I had several snacks in my knapsack, including an apple. I'd chewed on part of it in an unsuccessful attempt to calm my stomach. It only made it worse. I did not see a trash can around, and I did not want to chuck it on the ground. So, I asked our guide if I could give it to the horse. He told me that it was fine, and so I held the apple flat in the palm of my hand. The horse lipped it, nuzzled it, held it in his teeth for a second and then flung it to the ground. Now, I had a dirty apple with horse spittle dripping from it, and still no trash can. The guide explained to me that horses in the Dominican Republic are not often given apples. It was then that I noticed the boys standing around, staring at us. They worked cleaning and caring for the horses. They were looking at us with strange expressions on their faces, and the guide explained to them that in the States, giving an apple to a horse is not considered unusual.

One of the boys indicated that he wanted the apple.

I did not know what to do. There was still not a place to throw it away. The apple was slimy with horse saliva and splotched with mud. But how could I say no? The boy wanted it. So I gave it to him. He and his friends gave me a bit of a dirty look, letting me know how stupid they thought I was to try and waste an apple on a horse. And I felt stupid. And wasteful. And very conscious that I would be held as a shining example of a stupid tourist. An Ugly American.

I take from this that no matter how culturally savvy we think we are, we can still fuck it up. And if you go to the Dominican Republic, keep your apple in your knapsack.

Procrastination

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 19:28:00 +0000

In spite of the drama involved in getting my grandmother's ashes, I still have not dealt with task of actually putting them in the urn.

First, I needed a funnel. The idea of pouring my grandmother into the container has been too much for me to handle, and so I have not. My husband did not see the point in my insistence on buying a funnel. He named several kitchen tools we have on hand, then had to listen to my illogical explanation as to why I could not have remnants of my grandmother's body on my kitchen utensils.

The funnel was purchased.

The next step was to get a proper sealant in which to secure the lid. Forgive me that when I run into the hardware store to grab an extension cord or cabinetry hardware that stopping an employee to discuss the pros and cons of their in-stock bonding agents slips my mind.

And so the months have passed. And so she sits. Still in the plastic baggie. Still in my bookcase. Some mornings I do, indeed, bring her a cup of coffee. The day wears on and beds need to be made, messes cleaned up. Suddenly those days have become months, and there she sits. Presiding over our daily activities from her living room perch.

On the days we walk home from school, my children scour the yards for dandelions. They love to pick them, and I never tell them no. I like to think of it as my neighborhood public service. We have tiny little Tupperware containers that, when not used for snacks, have been adopted as miniature vases for my children's nature collection. This particular day, my daughter rambled on and on once we get home could she get the little container and fill it with water so the flower could have water and... Of course, my dear. Whatever you like.

Key in the door. Shoes tucked in closets. I wrestle with backpacks and lunch boxes and preschool art. I've hardly made a dent when my daughter comes rushing up to me. See Mamma! I've put water in it and everything! Isn't it beautiful?

She'd clambered up onto the entertainment center shelf, found the empty "vase" filled it with water and put her flowers in it because she thought it would look so beautiful.

And it did.

Mice On Ice

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 03:35:00 +0000

My husband earned another Pater Ex Animo stripe today. Through his work, he was able to secure tickets to Disney on Ice.

At any other time in my life I would have scoffed at the idea of sitting in a stadium watching over-sized and slightly freakish mascot-versions of our favorite childhood characters wobble and teeter on a makeshift ice arena. Instead I held back on the cynicism, reserving judgment because I knew my kids would probably enjoy it.

Let me say that I stand corrected. The show kicked ass. My kids sat wide-eyed and slack-jawed for nearly the entire performance. While I thought my daughter would be excited to see the princesses, I was in no way prepared for the sheer enthusiasm of my son. He practically shrieked Look! It's Aladdin! And Jasmin! And PINOCCHIO! AND IT'S MULAN!!!!

I must also sheepishly admit that their delight brought tears to my eyes. It took a good five minutes or so to get my shit together. For every shout of joy, for every point and jab of their chubby little fingers, a tear fell.

It has been four and a half years since my daughter was born, five if you count my pregnancy. Those five years have somehow not entirely erased those three years of limbo when I did not know whether or not I could have children. I used to get like this at birthday parties and playdates. Not enough so as to draw attention to myself, but a burning behind the eyes and a lump in my throat as I sat in. the. moment. As I took in my surroundings and watched my children and realized how god-damned lucky and fucking privileged I was to be there. To bask in the light my children shine on the world around them.

One would think I would have outgrown those moments. Somehow, I still seem to get blindsided. Now don't get me wrong. The show, while awesome, was not weep-worthy. It just felt so amazing, so huge to be a part of something so momentous to my children. Yes, it seemed like it was just a mouse on ice. But it was so much more than that.

She's A Keeper

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 03:08:00 +0000

Making and keeping friends gets harder and harder as our lives change because of jobs, kids and our own personal development. I've cultivated a few friendships since my move last year, and last week was a good indicator that I've been forging in the right direction.

Standing Wednesday playdate. Large house. Four children. Two moms. Happy chatting in all directions. Until my daughter comes down the stairs to the landing. Proudly splaying her hands I hear Look Mamma! And I do. At her green, freshly-painted fingernails.

Girlfriend and I jump up out of our kitchen chairs and book our asses up the stairs. Thinly disguised tension expressed in Where did you get that honey? Who is painting their nails? Where were you guys sitting?

I am having flashbacks of my mothers permanently lacquered carpet as we race into the master bedroom. There is her two year old son, with green toe nails. And green nail polish on their white carpet.

Thankfully, miraculously, there were only three spots. Three very light spots. My girlfriend? To say easy peasy doesn't even cover it. I apologized profusely for my daughter's behaviour, and she wouldn't hear of it. She said it was obviously her fault for leaving the bottle where the kids could find it and not to worry about it one bit. We broke out the nail polish remover and a stash of Q-tips and amiably worked on erasing our children's transgressions.

Our clean-up efforts ended when the two other children found us. Her four-year old daughter hauled open the bathroom cabinet, pulled out her mom's basket of colors, plopped down on the floor and looked at us expectantly. My girlfriend never batted an eye. We made our way from the carpeted bedroom to the tiled floor of the bathroom and gave colorful pedicures to our four-year old daughters and our three year-old sons.

There is so much that could have gone wrong with this scenario, but so much that went right. I feel damned lucky to have found a friend in her. She is definitely a keeper.

Telling It Like It Is

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 17:14:00 +0000

My dad has been visiting us the past four days. I'll be taking him to the airport this afternoon, so while the kids were in school we went for hot pastrami sandwiches at a local bar.

On our way out the door my father informed me that I'd better not get too close to anyone or that I needed to brush my teeth again because you have elephant breath.

Sometimes, I really really love my family.

The Toaster Challenge

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 05:39:00 +0000

Making breakfast this morning created the perfect opportunity to delve into the current state of my marriage.

We have a crappy toaster that we bought for less than ten dollars because all of our guests complained we didn't have one. Of course, now that we bought one, we rarely have guests. I mention this because the pieces of bread, once done, remain wedged down in the bowels of the toaster. Extraction require a light touch.

This morning while fixing breakfast Hubbie took a butter knife, a steel butter knife, and fished for the piece of bread. The toaster? Still plugged in.

I shrieked at him to stop, and his nonplussed answer was that it wasn't turned on. My answer? I'm not going to lose you over a god-damned toaster!!

And that about sums it up. The lesson learned here being that I was not concerned about his safety for his sake. I was concerned about it for mine. Life is so short and so fragile. I am not going to lose my husband over something so stupid as sticking a knife in a toaster. I need him. And I will save him from himself when his urge to perform stupid man tricks outweighs his common sense.

Would the toaster have zapped him? Maybe yes and maybe no. I don't want to find out.

Don't Come Knocking On My Door

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 14:45:00 +0000

Through the open windows I saw a flash of white and black. They sailed past my peripheral vision, and before I had a chance to turn, our screen door opened and the knocking began.

No one comes to our door. No one save the mailman and the occasion political polling person. With every window open, I could see two LDS lads standing on my stoop. And they could see me. Fuck.

I opened the door, and with heart-breaking enthusiasm, my son screamed Pappa's home! and ran to the door.

I smiled my wary Hello I know who you are and I'm not interested in buying smile as my daughter joined us. The house was a disaster behind me. My kids looked like street urchins, the television blared behind us and the two "Elders" smiled their We are here to rescue you from the dismal life you obviously lead.

Except, they never really got to their speech. My son blathered on and on about bears and cheetahs while my daughter explained in great detail the movie they'd been watching. There was no room for God-talk in this cacophony of preschooler conversation. Instead, these two peach-fuzzed boys got a first-hand look at their future. In stereo.

Once I'd distracted and semi-shooed the little ones out from under foot, I let the LDS lads know that we had our religious bases covered, but that I appreciated what they were trying to and thanked them for coming. They nodded, thanked me in return, and would it be wrong to describe their departure as a bat out of hell? They ran, actually ran, down my driveway to the next house. I am sure their quickened steps were due more to the fact that our house had put them behind schedule, but part of me hopes that we were ticked off of their list. Jesus Christ, don't stop at that house because they talk your ear off and won't let you leave. I like the idea of turn about.

I Take It All Back

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 17:23:00 +0000

I wrote last night's post in an attempt to articulate the frustration and trepidation I felt starting a new week.

I take it all back.

My son just looked at me while having lunch and said Mom? You know what? When my penis wiggles I catch it.

My kids are awesome!! With a start like that, how can the week go badly?

It's Not You, It's Me

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 02:29:00 +0000

It is one thing to feel irritable throughout the day, it is another to realize you are irritated at everyone. When every person you see or talk to is a moron or an asshole, when every program or news article leaves you shaking your head in disgust, it's time to come to the conclusion that the problem is you.

That is how I spent the better part of last week. Seething and fuming over every perceived indiscretion. It's an awful way to spend a day. It's exhausting. My kids suffered for it. My marriage suffered for it. I suffered for it.

Things don't look like they are going to be all that different this week. Work schedules continue to suck, the kids have one less day of school (thanks Cristóbal), and frankly I'm kind of scared. I don't want to be that angry mom. I don't want to have to apologize to my kids for losing my temper. They wouldn't understand if I said it's not you, sweetheart, it's me because when you are a kid it always feels like it's your fault.

Except sometimes maybe when you are an adult it still feels like it's all your fault. The food is too spicy. The bath water isn't hot enough. The dishes didn't get loaded. The laundry never made it to the dryer and has to be rerun. The cat puked four days ago in the middle of the hallway and even your three-year-old remembers to step over it as he stumbles his way to the kitchen for breakfast.

Fault and responsibility. It's a fine line.

No Apologies

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 18:55:00 +0000

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For my Wordless Wednesday contributions, click here.

Where I Am and Where I Need To Be

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 21:38:00 +0000

Where I Am:

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill
He sounds too blue to fly
The midnight train is whining low
I'm so lonesome I could cry

I've never seen a night so long
When time goes crawling by
The moon just went behind a cloud
To hide its face and cry

Did you ever see a robin weep
When leaves began to die?
That means he's lost the will to live
I'm so lonesome I could cry

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky
And as I wonder where you are
I'm so lonesome I could cry

Where I Need To Be:

There's no room in my heart for the blues
Love is satisfied to either win or lose
Darlin', if our pathways part, let there be no broken hearts
There's no room in my heart for the blues

There's no room in my life for a sigh
We'll be strong enough to face our last goodbye
Darlin', if our romance ends, let us part the best of friends
There's no room in my heart for the blues

There's no room in my memory for tears
We'll let bygones be forgotten souvenirs
If your hungry heart forgets, let there be no sad regrets
There's no room in my heart for the blues

There's no room in my life for a sigh
We'll be strong enough to face our last goodbye
Darlin' if our romance ends let us be the best of friends
There's no room in my heart for the blues

Volunteerism Doesn't Equal Common Sense

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 02:31:00 +0000

People are passionate about politics. They want to get out there and make a difference. I get it.

Here's what I don't get:

NATUI-clan is walking a local street festival this weekend. Smiling Volunteer Lady from a nearby booth approaches. Holding balloons, she smiles at my children How about a balloon!?

My kids lean forward in anticipation.

Oh! I say, the kids would love that!

Smiling Volunteer Lady hands my daughter a balloon. And walks away. With the other balloon in her hand.

My son, completely crestfallen, stared after her as I bore flaming hot daggers into her back.

I was hormonal enough to turn this into an international incident which is precisely why we made the decision to walk away. I did not trust myself to behave in a manner appropriate to the company of my children. We made the best of the situation and told the kids they would have to share. But seriously, who the fuck approaches a stroller with two children and only gives one of them a balloon?

A Republican volunteer, apparently.

Faster Than the Speeding Light She's Flying

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 04:21:00 +0000

The random shuffle on my mp3 player caused the world to stand still.

One moment I was in my house, the next I was on a wooden dance floor in a frenzied whirl of light and sound. Heaving, sweaty bodies weaving complex patterns that would take a millennia for scientists to equate how we could all exist in the same space, committing such random and violently graceful movements without a collision.

Swing dancing. Late 1990s.

I was a part of the movement in my town. I went out several nights a week and killed it on the dance floor. In an environment where women exceedingly outnumbered the men, you had to be good-looking and you had to be good.

I? Was both.

One week night, in a popular Buckhead bar, my favorite partner was there. Because he was single and good-looking, he was in high demand with the ladies. I was constantly at a distinct disadvantage because I wasn't looking to hook up for a romantic relationship, I just wanted to dance. This night was no different. He was turning heads and picking up left and right. I just wanted to dance until my feet bled.

On this particular night, the DJ switched it up from classic Swing to Madonna's Ray of Light. It's a song that I had always been drawn to, and when we grabbed hands and hit the floor it was insane.

To say we were in the zone doesn't even begin to cover it. He and I were an equal match: technically and physically. Feet stomped, heads ducked under and through arms. He raised my hands up over my head and spun me until I couldn't see. I was in orbit and he the gravitational force keeping me in check. It was frantic. Controlled chaos. On a crowded dance floor with strobe lights flashing and bodies writhing the music pumped, and we let it swallow us whole and spit us out on the other side.

After the world stood still in my living room the other night, I shot my old partner a message on Facebook. Just a quick note to say Hey! Ray of Light just came on my player, and I had a flashback. Those were the days! His response? He remembered.

I have danced on hundreds of nights to thousands of songs, but this one ranks up there as one of the best. Perhaps because it was such an unusual choice in song. Most classic songs used for swing are just a few minutes in length while Ray of Light is five minutes and three seconds of solid power. I suppose I thought that for the sheer volume of partners, dances, songs and clubs that night would have been a blur for him. But he remembered. That one moment, twelve years ago on a steamy night in Atlanta.

Does it mean anything? Not really. In the grand scheme of things it is probably insignificant. It is just a powerful notion to know that I can close my eyes and be there. That there is one moment in time so memorable, so powerful that all these years later two people can close their eyes and through a song transport themselves. A supernova of energy and movement, expanding and expending until the the song ends and the dancers collapse and there remains nothing but white hot energy and intense emotion.

Happiness on a Stick

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 05:17:00 +0000

I see the ice cream truck cruise by the park and feel a tingle at the back of my neck. It isn't the rush of joy I felt as a child, but the overwhelmingly creepy sensation that something is just not right.

The ice cream trucks of my childhood glistened in the desert summer sun, the colorful graffiti of choices plastered on the side as we crowded and jostled each other. Was there anything new? Would I get a push-up? Had anyone's mother given them enough money to buy the Holy Grail of the Popsicles: that beautiful red, white and blue rocket-shaped wonder?

We would oooh and aaah in appropriate levels of admiration. We were respectfully jealous of the kid who got both a popsicle and a pack of gum. We envied the stuck-up girl whose mother always gave her enough money to buy whatever she wanted. We were all secretly glad when the sun finished the popsicle first.

Somewhere in the shimmer between childhood and our current selves we watched too many movies. Courtesy of unsolved crime shows, the ice cream man crossed the threshold from summer hero to suspected pedophile. Was it always so? Did our moms watch from behind the curtains, keeping one eye on us and one the truck? The careless abandon we had as children has been left behind for the higher planes of cynicism and doubt.

The ice cream trucks I see today are run-down. Dirty. In desperate need of a paint job. The music isn't a cheerful tinkling, but some oddly distorted Doppler effect with a touch of injured cat. Perhaps it is a regional thing. The ice cream trucks of the West coast having their own distinct dialect from that of their more easterly cousins.

I see the children at the park chase the ice cream truck, Their faces beam as I know mine once did, and they stand in line participating in a childhood rite of passage I want to last forever. I hope in their eyes the truck is just as white, the colors just as bright, and the driver a friendly man selling happiness on a stick.

Wait For It

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 14:28:00 +0000

Wait for it...wait for it...Can you hear it? The sound of the other shoe dropping. I hear it. Like the low whistle of a train hanging in the night air, I can't tell if it is miles away or just around the corner.

Yesterday, I was greeted by several people in the neighborhood. Our conversations revolved around Halloween parties and dealing with tearful first week of school drops-offs. For the first time in a year and a half, I feel grounded. A part of a living, breathing community. My husband's job is still awful, and we still live in a house of questionable habitability. However, the kids love their school, and the idea of change has suddenly become very scary and unwelcome.

In the face of this sudden feeling of stability, I've been reminded in glaring, awful ways the past few days of how fleeting and precious life is. A barrage of images and storylines, both fictitious and real, have left me spinning my mental wheels over things I cannot control. My love for my family is so strong I am almost paralyzed by it. The air I breathe is redolent with the smell of cheerios and tear-free shampoo. I find myself stabilized by tiny shoulders when I feel out of balance. The idea of stretching my hand out into a void of silence terrifies me on a level I cannot fathom and pray I will never face.

I had no idea that becoming a parent would mean living in a perpetual state of overwhelming love and unshakable fear. How can these two states of being coexist side by side? When giggles from a light-hearted game of chase turn into screams of pain after a bloody collision with a coffee table. The burden of responsibility is huge. Now that I fear that I am not up to the challenge, it is far too late to do anything about it. Sloppy kisses and full body hugs remind me that my kids think I am the perfect mom for them. They tell me how much they love me, bringing me presents of stickers and popsicle sticks decorated with glitter that mirrors the sparkle in their eyes.

Is it possible to catch the shoe? Because I don't want to wait for it. Like a major league outfielder running like hell to get that third out, I want to snatch it out of the air. Because my life is always bases loaded, two down in the bottom of the ninth with a full count. Sometimes it is an easy pop-up, and sometimes we need to make that spectacular diving catch. Sliding across the grass with our focus on that one singular object that will bring spectacular success or the end of the game.

Can't I change the rules? I've never been very good at following them in the first place, and it seems that catching the shoe instead of letting it knock the breath out of me is a much better strategy.

WW: Comfort

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 04:19:00 +0000

For more Wordless Wednesday, click here.
For my Wordless Wednesday contributions, click here.

Playground GPS

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 17:15:00 +0000

I observed my children playing on the school playground the other day. It was their first day of school, and the first time that my son was part of the big kid crowd. My eyes scanned the the seemingly vast expanse of this preschool microcosm. If I could spot them, somehow I would feel grounded knowing that they were existing apart from me. That they were functioning, tiny little representations of adults cutting their own path with self-reliance. It took some time, but I finally spotted both my son and daughter. They had found each other. Somehow, within the seething mass of children, siblings laid eyes on each other and shouted cheerful greetings.

All might have been well, save for the fact that my son spotted me as well. I was keeping a low profile while cooping in another part of the school yard, yet that same internal GPS that helped him locate his sister brought him to me.

He tried to climb the fence, and when he realized I was not there to spend time with him sad, fat tears rolled down his ruddy cheeks. I held his hand and walked him back to his teacher, explaining that I was helping the tiny ones. He said he understood, but the tears continued to stream down his face. He didn't scream. He didn't make any noise. He just nodded his agreement, a saline river betraying his acquiescence.

By the time I made it back to my station, his teacher had him turned facing the other direction. In that critical moment, his sister found him. Somehow, her playground activities had brought her full circle to where he was standing. She stopped in front of him. Touched his face. Hugged him. Kissed his cheek.

Backdrops change as we get older. Playgrounds become hallways. Cocktail parties. Cubicles. We wrap ourselves up in our work and our errands. We forget that we are part of something greater than our own personal space. Sometimes it feels a miracle for anyone to seek us out, homing in on our location. To check on us. To pat our cheek and let us know that we are seen. That things really are going to be okay.

The Dawn of a New World Order

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 04:35:00 +0000

At the NATUI-household, it is the dawn of a new world order. Take a close look because things are very different, my friends.

As we move towards autumn and begin the school year, there are major changes afoot. Our house may look like the same disaster zone, but there are two fundamental shifts in our lives that have occurred.

One of these shifts has been in the bedtime routine. We have had years of fighting to keep the kids in bed. I have detailed our difficulties to some extent, but I may have finally found the solution. Preying on their fear of the dark.

It has been an awful but steep learning curve. One night after being harassed and hounded by my children until three o'clock in the morning, I hit probably one of my lowest points since I became a mother. I had completely reached the end of my rope. Thus began Operation Don't Fuck With Mom.

I told my kids there was a new bedtime rule. Stories, prayers and kisses. Then? We're done. No more water, toys, books, hugs. Nothing. Keep your head on your pillow. If you get out of bed, I turn off your nightlight and shut you in your room. Alone. In your dark, dark room.

They didn't believe me.

LittleMan got up out of bed. I unplugged the lamp, walked out of the room and shut the door.

He absolutely flipped his shit.

Now, I did not lock him in his room and let him scream on the floor until he passed out. I did hold the door shut a good fifteen seconds or so (I know, I'm such a hard ass) before I opened it, put him back in his bed and told him that if he kept his head down, the door would stay open.

After several tests, both kids realized that I meant business.

As soon as we got back to DC, the kids thought they could fuck around at bedtime again. Apparently, they didn't realize that Operation Don't Fuck With Mom crosses state lines. Friday night was a big test the waters night. My son kept getting out of bed, so I took his lamp and shut the door. Same routine.* It took one or two incidents of 15-20 second screaming bloody murder behind a closed door, but he now believes that I am serious.

The upshot of all this is that both of my kids have been asleep by 8.30pm the past two nights. No flipping around in bed or running amok as they are wont to do, but actually unconscious. Dreaming sweet dreams of finger paints and playgrounds. Anyone who knows me in real life finds this to be absolutely incredible as my daughter has been known to keep herself awake until midnight. I don't know how long this will work, but I am hoping if I can finally create good sleep habits I will never have to go through this again. I hate it. It makes me sad. It hurts me. But it will hurt them more in the long run if I do not get a handle on their behaviour now.

Now, to be consistent. I've finally won a battle, and I am damned and determined to win the sleep war.

*Except come to find out a neighbor stopped by at precisly that moment, heard the screaming and decided to come back later. At least I got the opportunity to explain to him what was going on. And thank god he didn't call DFACS.

Going To Bed Ugly Increases Your Sex Drive

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 04:18:00 +0000

Those of us in long-term relationships have more than likely noticed a downward curve in the frequency of sex. In the beginning, our hands and minds run rampant. After years and years together, not so much. I have discovered the culprit. It isn't Colonel Mustard in the Study with the Candlestick.

It is the Bedtime Routine.

Now that we are old (and by old I mean out of college) our bedtime routines have become increasingly more detailed. At one point we collapsed onto our beds, not giving one thought to contacts that should be taken out or make-up that should be removed. Just the blissful feel of the pillow under our heads.

Now? We are busy. Tweezing hairs, tucking hemorrhoids, performing makeshift surgical extractions of ingrown toenails. A cream for this, a pill for that. By the time we make it to the prone position on our mattress, the only tingle most of us feel is from anti-wrinkle cream.

Start a revolution, people. Go to bed ugly. Let that mascara smear. Forget the damned foot powder. Save the Bengay and Preparation-H for later. It's much more fun to snuggle with a partner who doesn't smell like a pharmacy.

Don't Ask If You Don't Like the Answer

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 21:18:00 +0000

My mom clued me into the fact that LittleBird has gotten very good at opposites. I suppose I knew that, but it isn't something we've actively worked on lately. Read: I assumed she already knew them and didn't think to make a big deal out of it. Bad mommy!

Yesterday, after Hubbie picked us up from the airport, my daughter pipes up from the back seat:

LB: What is the opposite of light?

NATUI: Dark!

LB: What is the opposite of dark?

NATUI: Light!

LB: What is the opposite of fast?

NATUI: Slow!

LB: What is the opposite of sign?

NATUI: Blink...Did you say "sign"?

LB: Yes! What is the opposite of sign?

NATUI: Cosine.

LB: Cosine?

NATUI: Yup! You got it!

Hubbie tries, somewhat successfully, to stay in his lane. Her teachers at the preschool are going to hate me.

Waking Up From the Summer Daze

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 16:32:00 +0000

I made it. Or rather, the cat did. We are leaving for the airport shortly, and the cat is alive and well.

Thank. Fucking. God.

I spent last night packing, talking with Hubbie on the phone about the meeting he attended at the childrens' school, and this morning it was official. Summer is over. I have had to do a quick shake-off of the summer daze when I finally saw what 7.45 am looked like. Gah. I am not a morning person.

So, I am off to spend hours and hours trying to keep the kids entertained (and some semblance of my sanity) at the airport.

Wish me luck!!