Eye be Funky

So apparently, I have a funky eye.

I don't mean a "funky eye" as in, an uncanny ability to combine weird patterns and strange fabrics into something fashionable (I have a hard enough time coordinating my stupid Walmart wardrobe) or to spot a '70s-throwback lamp at a thrift store and incorporate it successfully into my decor. When I say funky eye I mean that quite literally. Like, my left eye. Is funky. Like, goopy. And red. And swollen nearly shut. And this morning when I woke up, I couldn't even open it. I couldn't even pry my eyelids apart with my fingers, y'all.

I think it has something to do with my contact lens. I've worn the things for years, and sorely wish I didn't have to - but alas, my vision without them can be described as somewhere between "blurry" and "blind." I've hated them ever since I put in my first pair, as a wee tiny lass of eleven.*

*Wherein I sat so long at the eye doctor's office fumbling to put the damn things in my eyes that after a few hours they suggested I come back to try again the next day.

Anyway, I'm one of those people who waaaaay over-wears her contacts. Technically mine are supposed to be thrown away like every week or something - I don't even really know - but I wear them until they start to irritate me ... like three months or so. Oops. (Well, contacts are expensive, damn it!) Anyway, the other day my left one started getting this little white spot on it, like a protein deposit or something that I couldn't wash off. But I wore it anyway. I know, I'm a dumb-dumb. And now ... *cue dramatic voice* ... FUNKY EYE.

So I've got an appointment with the eye doctor today, where I will undoubtedly be given a sound scolding for abusing my precious peepers. I guess I deserve it. But trust me, it's punishment enough to be walking around in public looking like Quasimodo.

Only, you know, without the huge hunchback. Thank goodness.


I Think I'm Dyeing

In the year and a half since Coby was born, I've been going through a slow transformation.

First and most importantly, I've lost 100 pounds. Yes, I was seriously that much bigger. No, I did not have surgery or use any sort of diet pills, shakes, or otherwise - I did it the old-fashioned (a.k.a. poor woman's) way: portion control, cutting out refined sugars (uh, sometimes) and lots of exercise. And it sucked. But I did it, and I'm still doing it because I still have about twenty-ish pounds to go before I reach my goal weight. Someday, when I reach that weight - and I will! - I'll be brave enough to post a before and after picture. I promise!

Second, I got an entire twelve inches of hair chopped off a couple of months ago. That's like a whole extra head of hair, gone in a couple of whacks. Another big change.

Of course, I can't stop there. And because I can't afford a boob job and a tummy tuck (unless some Internet benefactor wants to make this possible, in which case, email me!), I'm going to do the next most reasonable thing: dye my hair.

And folks, I'm thinking blonde.

No, I don't mean some bleachy-looking white-blonde that will appear completely unnatural and overprocessed and take extensive maintenance (Donatella Versace, I'm looking at you):

   
I guess what I'm thinking of might be more along the lines of light brown. Sandy. Kinda like what I was sporting in this lovely fourth-grade photo:

Ignore, if you can, the '80s-awesome denim jacket and layered shirt look. Focus on the hair color.

For the record, this is my natural, completely un-dyed, current hair color:


I once read somewhere that if you're going to lighten your hair, you should lighten it to whatever color it was when you were a child. So theoretically, I could go as light as this:

The only time in my life I've been blonde and tan.

So if any of you have ever made the switch from brunette to blonde - or at least brunette to a much lighter brown - and you've got tips or advice, lay 'em on me. I'd hate to end up with purple hair like I accidentally did that one time in sixth grade.

Of course that would be a change ... 


Rainy-Day Ranting


Dude. It's really raining here in my part of the Midwest. And when I say "really raining," I don't mean little sidewalk-wetting sprinkles ... I mean a big, fat, road-flooding, holy-crap-can't-we-just-stay-in-the-house kind of downpour.

And because I am such a good mom , I forgot to send my son to school with either a hooded jacket or an umbrella. (In my defense, I was trying to usher three small children out the door on time, and the baby had knocked the trash can over at the precise moment that I was cleaning up a puddle of cat yarf.) So anyway, I decided to wait patiently in the drop-off lane, behind the other vehicles, until I could pull up to the front door so that Colin wouldn't get soaked on the way in.

I should have remembered that patience is definitely not my strong suit.

This is what pisses me off. It's called a drop-off lane. Where you, you know, DROP YOUR KID OFF. It's not a place for you to park for ten minutes while you run in to the school; there's an entire parking lot, complete with empty spaces right up front, for that. So picture this scenario: it's pouring rain, and I'm behind like six other vehicles, waiting for them to (say it with me, now) drop their kids off so that I can do the same with mine. And though the chick in front of me is sitting there with the brake lights on, like she's gonna pull forward at any second, she just sits and sits (andsitsandsitsandsits). And the car in front of her pulls away, leaving an opening which should rightfully belong to me, but is promptly taken over by some yahoo in a Suburban. Which brings me to the second thing that pisses me off: people who cut in front of me in the line where I am CLEARLY waiting. I've been here for five minutes waiting my turn, and you wanna just drive your self-important ass right up in front like you own the place? These are parents who undoubtedly would chastise their kids for cutting in line at school - something we're taught from Kindergarten not to do - but they're gonna go ahead and do the adult version of it and it's supposed to be okay. Bad-mannered adults of the world, consider this your virtual bitch-slap.

Despite the moronic drivers, I was finally able to drop Colin off pretty close to the door. As he stared at all the kids entering the school with their various colorful rain protection, he said wistfully, "I wish I had an umbrella." And I was all, "I know. Just put your backpack on your head and run."*

*Now that's good parenting.

I guess I can't say much about other parents leading their kids by example, though. Because as I was pulling out of the school parking lot, my three-year-old started belting out some Ke$ha lyrics at the top of his little lungs: "Everybody breakin' bottles, it's a dirty hot mess ..." 

... Oops.

Well, at least I didn't cut in line.


   



Post-a-Palooza

I just realized that yesterday's post was my 500th. I should have realized that yesterday, and had like party hats and those little blowy-things and confetti for a huge celebration marking 500 posts of my blathering, but I didn't. Oh well. I forgot my blog-o-versary this year, too. I guess that's what happens when you get to be ... over thirty. *cue dramatic music*

Anyway, as kind of a slightly-belated tribute to this little milestone, today's post consists of some recent funny pictures of the dudes who have made this blog possible.*

*Except for Colin, because since he's been in school I can't be in his face with the camera 12 hours a day.
 
First up, we have Cameron. My sweet, affectionate, three year old paper-eating goat-in-boy's-clothing.

He unrolled the whole roll of toilet paper ... so he could eat the cardboard tube. *sigh*

Apparently in Cameron's mind, toilet paper is not only a delicious snack, but also makes a wonderful tail:

 Or maybe that's just his way of carrying his snack without pockets.

That "tail" was like six feet long, y'all.

Next up is a photo of Coby, which is pretty self-explanatory.

Is it just me, or does anyone else hear Lady Gaga's "Born This Way" playing in the background?

And then there's the family patriarch: Curtis. The husband. The Dad. The man from whom our sons will learn to be men.

... I just hope they don't also get stuck underneath a bunk bed during a heated game of hide-and-seek:

 I had to help him get out. And that broken slat? Totally his fault.

Finally, since I don't have a recent amusing picture of Colin, I'll end with a recent amusing picture by Colin.

It has internal organs, a penis, and what I'm guessing is probably a butt (?), but no arms. Go figure. 

So there it is. A little taste of life with my dudes. (Mmm, tastes kinda like toilet paper.)

And if you don't like this post? There are FIVE HUNDRED more to choose from. :)

Baby, Maybe?


If there's one thing I hear above anything else, it's "I don't know how you do it." That's in reference, of course, to my ability to handle my three crazy spirited little heathens boys on a regular basis. And yeah, okay, they can be a handful: like pooping in weird placeslocking me out of the house, and bellowing about stinky balls in public. But I do handle* it, because, well ... what choice do I have? You work with what you're given. Plus, I love those messy little maniacs.

*And by "handle" I mean only occasionally* wishing I could lock myself into my closet and pretend I'm not home.

*And by "occasionally" I mean only, like, two or three times a day. Tops.

Sometimes (okay, lots of times) I do feel overwhelmed. But I remember feeling overwhelmed when all I had was Colin. I'm pretty sure that no matter how many kids you have - whether you're on your first or your uterus comes equipped with a revolving door - you're gonna feel like you're drowning in them from time to time.

The point of all this is to say that I've had a major case of baby fever lately. Part of me wants to have another child. The other part says, "Four kids? Have you gone mad?" I hate feeling so conflicted about it. I thought when I was done I'd feel done, you know? Like, I'd get a sense of enough-ness (and yes, that is totally a word). A feeling of completion. And yet ... that's missing.

It doesn't help that Curtis is all waffle-y (also a word) about it. See, there was supposed to be a vasectomy in the works when we were done. He himself suggested it, actually. Which I think is only fair since in all my pregnancies combined, I've spent 27 total months of my life lugging around approximately 25 pounds of fetus, gained and lost a grand total of nearly 300 pregnancy pounds (yes, seriously), endured almost 30 hours of labor, and have - three times - squeezed larger-than-average behemoths through my nether regions. Not to mention wrecked my once-smokin' bod. When you think of it that way, a lil' snip-snip at the doctor's office doesn't seem so torturous.

Anyway, from the looks of things, that vasectomy isn't even remotely on the horizon. I even provide reminders, such as running threateningly in the direction of his junk with a pair of scissors. (Kidding.) When I ask him if he wants to have any more kids, most of the time he says no. But when I ask if it's just fear preventing him from having the vasectomy, he says it's because he's not sure he wants to be done having kids. WTF!

I'll be 31 years old in a few months. Coby, my youngest, will be two. I think if I'm going to have another baby, it should be pretty soon, before I get out of the "baby caretaking loop" (and before my chart at the obstetrician's office says "advanced maternal age"). Because I'd hate to be, like, all done with diapers and have the kids be all self-sufficient and then bam - here comes another baby and I'd have to start it all over again.

If I do have another one, I'm worried that it'd be a girl. I don't know what to do with a girl, y'all. Plus - and this is probably my biggest fear - if it IS a girl, I don't want it to seem like we just kept having kids until we finally got a female up in the mix. You know? Like we messed up the first three times but kept trying until we got it right, and then we were done. And that's what people would think. Ugh. 

Anyhoo, here's where we get interactive - I need your input. Are you done having kids? Did you just know you were done - is there, like, a feeling I should be getting? Was your partner on the fence about it? What factors did you consider? Did you both agree, or did one say no and that was it? 

The Back Yard Bum

So I think I might've mentioned a few posts ago that my husband is addicted to 'shrooms. No, not the psychedelic kind (although the way he zones in on the kids' cartoons sometimes makes me wonder). I'm talking about the tasty wild morel mushrooms that pop up here in the Midwest for a very (very, very) limited time every spring. Unfortunately for us, and our fellow morel-loving Iowans, the weather has been too weird this season for many to grow. Still, Curtis faithfully combs the woods behind our house on a near-daily basis, hoping to find the mushroom motherlode.

When he went out a few mornings ago, I was surprised to recieve the following picture from his cell phone:


In the accompanying text, he explained that he'd come across a homeless dude sleeping on a towel in our woods. I texted back, "Is he, like, alive?"

He was snoring, Curtis replied, so yeah.

The whole situation started to make me very uncomfortable. On one hand, I was sad for the dude ... just like I'm sad for anyone who must resort to camping out on a towel in some woods. On the other hand, I was pretty substantially creeped out. I mean, there was some random guy posted up in what is virtually our back yard. Close to my house, and my kids. And Curtis was scheduled to work the night shift. Yeah, I realize that the majority of homeless people are not crazy substance-abusing halfway-house escapees, but it only takes one ... and I was hoping it wasn't the one chilling on his little pink towel just a hop, skip and a robbery-gone-bad away.

When Curtis came back inside we discussed it further. He didn't seem to be that concerned about it; I was the one with a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. I started to wonder if I was overreacting. And despite the fact that I was apprehensive about the dude's presence in our woods, I was also concerned for him.

"Will you take him some food?" I asked Curtis. He looked at me like I was crazy.

"He didn't look hungry," he said. "He was kind of fat."

"That doesn't mean he wasn't hungry!" I shot back. "I mean, if we were suddenly forced to sleep on a towel in the woods, this" - I grabbed my love handles for emphasis - "wouldn't go away overnight."

Curtis shrugged. "True," he said. "But I'm not taking him food."

Pouting, I went to take a shower. I pondered how wise it would be to take the guy some food myself - but I didn't have to ponder for long, because as soon as I got out of the shower, Curtis appeared at the bathroom door. In his hand was a plastic bag containing several cans of chicken noodle soup (with pull-tabs, natch) and a whole loaf of this Amish friendship bread I'd just baked. And this, dear friends, is one of the gazillion reasons why I love my husband. "I'm going to give him this," he said grudgingly.

So he set out into the woods again. I watched out the back door until he came back, optimistic because, hey, even a crazy homeless dude wouldn't attack someone bearing food ... right? Sure enough, after a couple of minutes I saw him heading back toward our house ... still holding the bag? And smiling? WTF?

"WTF?" I inquired when he was within earshot.

Apparently when Curtis found the guy again, he was awake this time, sitting up on his towel ... and texting. On a smartphone. They'd had a brief conversation, and come to find out, it wasn't a homeless dude at all - just a teenage hoodlum delinquent boy skipping school. Curtis had been right: the guy wasn't hungry.

But hey, at least we tried to help. And my paranoia about the woods becoming a homeless shelter subsided. (A little bit.)

I do feel sorry for Curtis, though. Because despite spending forever tromping through the wilderness, and having strange encounters with random sleeping guys, this is all he came up with for the "Great Mushroom Harvest of 2011":


Yep ... one single, solitary, lonely mushroom. You better believe he fried it up, though.

And I didn't even ask him to share.
 

Clothes-ed for the Day


Psst ... hey you. Yeah, you! I'm down here. Under this pile of laundry. See my fingers sticking out there, just enough to type this out on my laptop? Yep. That's me.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating. The laundry pile only comes up to my waist. All our clothes are clean, but seeing as I hate hate HATE folding them and putting them away, I've been procrastinating. So let's do some laundry-related math.

Two loads wrinkling in the basket + two loads I stuffed into the dryer on top of one another + one load in the washer ready to be dried = a (not-so) grand total of five freaking loads of laundry that I must sort, fold, and put away today.

Procrastination is so sweet, until you actually have to do what you've been putting off. Ugh. And I don't even understand where all these clothes are coming from, seeing as my kids are naked 80% of the time.

So anyway, seeing as our laundry is making me its be-otch today, I've found something fun from the archives for y'all to enjoy: the time Colin asked me to define "dick."

Until I get the clothes under control ...

 




Weenis is the New Boolin

Back in the '80s, my brother Steve had a tail.

Not that kind of tail, silly (although I have questioned his species of origin on a few occasions) ... I'm talking about this kind ... you know, the infamous "rat tail" ... the similarly hideous cousin of the mullet.

Photo courtesy of mulletjunky.com. (Yes, there really is a site devoted to all things mullet.) 

What's more, Steve used to wear his tail ... braided.

I'll pause, because it sometimes takes a while to wrap your mind around all that '80s-era goodness.

Anyway, he couldn't braid it himself, so he'd recruit my mom to do it. And one time, after she'd finished braiding, she found herself in need of an elastic band to secure it with. Being a household with three girls, we had an abundance of hair ties in a rainbow of colors, and Mom told my brother, "Hand me a blue one."

"A boolin?" he repeated.

Henceforth, in homage to Steve's ridiculous level of deafness to our mother's voice, hair ties were known as "boolins" around our house. In fact, I was in my mid-twenties before I started using the term "hair tie" with any regularity.

Fast-forward to present day. My parents live on a lake (well, like beside it technically - it's not like their house is up on stilts - but you know what I mean). So as soon as the weather starts to warm up, there's always somebody fishing. This past weekend I was at their house, poking around in the kitchen, when I came across a random fishing lure on the counter.

"What's that?" my mom asked, squinting.

"Oh, just a stray weenis," I replied.

"Oh," she said, and we went on about our business.

When I actually thought about that, it cracked me up: number one, that I would refer to fishing lures as "weenises" in the first place, and number two, that my mom would know exactly what I meant and it didn't even register as odd. See, Colin has been calling them weenises - for reasons still unknown to me - since he was barely three years old. Like "boolin," it has crept into my family's vernacular and stuck there.

What can I say? Weenis is the new boolin.


Does your family use any crazy made-up words?


PS - Did you see my photo yesterday over at Parenting By Dummies' Dude Mom Monday? Check it out - especially if you're a fellow mom to dudes!


Rita Book


My kids watch too much TV. They probably eat too many processed foods. I'm sure I don't play with them as often as I should (because I have a personal quota of how many hours per week I can pretend to be a praying mantis, a unicorn, or Widget from "Wow Wow Wubbzy"). But one thing I DO enjoy doing with my boys? Reading. We read all the time. I think it's because I'm something of a book nerd myself. The first thing I did when I found out I was pregnant with Colin - besides, like, nearly crapping my pants in disbelief - was rush out to buy a children's book, which I read religiously to my stomach. (I know. But it was my first baby - you know how it is.)

So last night I went to Hy-Vee to get a little break from the chaos some groceries, and you can imagine my overwhelming delight when I came upon a whole bin of children's books. Good books. Hardcover books. Even better? They were marked down 50%. And even better than that? There was a sign that screamed, "Take 50% off the already-reduced sticker price!"

Y'all? I think I almost fainted - I know I felt a little swoony. I love me some books, and I love me some bargains, and you put those things together and it's almost too much for me to handle. And then the man in the Hy-Vee uniform came over and was all, "Uh, ma'am? Please don't stand in the book bin any more. If you'd like to look, please just lean over the side."

I'm kidding, but seriously, if I could've stood in the book bin I totally would have. I rummaged through the books with trembling hands. It was like panning for gold and hitting the jackpot and not knowing which beautiful nugget to grab first. I got a hardcover book about bugs for Colin - retail value $17.99 - for $2.50. TWO FIFTY, Y'ALL. And that wasn't my only wonderful find. Colin just brought a book order form home from school (this type) the other day and I saw several of the same books in the bargain bin, hardcover, for cheaper than the softcover versions in the order form. Of course, I snatched those up.

I ended up spending $20 more than my original grocery budget, but it was on books, so I figure that evens out somehow (heh. Maybe that's why I'm always broke). And yes, I'm aware that this is a pretty lame topic to blog about - but you know when you get a deal you're excited about, you just wanna scream it from the rooftops? Yeah. This was that kind of deal.

PS - if you're a children's book freak lover like me, another great place to find good ones for cheap is yard sales.

I hope everyone has a great weekend! I know I will ... the boys and I have lots of new reading material. :)   

 

Bathroom Break(ing Point)


Before I say anything else, I just want to offer up a huge shoutout to everyone who commented on my last post (see "woe is me" in the dictionary, and I swear there'd be a link). Thank you seems so pitifully inadequate, but there are no better words. Y'all lifted my spirits more than you'll ever know, and reaffirmed why I started this blog in the first place: because there are people out there who are in my shoes. It helps so much to know that I'm not in this boat alone! I am so grateful to you all for each and every kind word of encouragement that you posted - and also thankful to the haters for keeping quiet; I didn't get a single "shut the hell up and stop whining" comment.

And now that I'm feeling close to normal again, we bring you your regularly scheduled talk of toilets and all things that are (supposed to be) contained within.

See, I've been in a constant battle lately with my three-year-old. Cameron spends a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom. He's the only person I know that poops approximately ten times a day. But it isn't because he has some crazy digestive issue, or that I spike his milk with laxatives or something. It's because most people, when they sit down on the john to do their bidness, do their bidness. You know, like, get it all out at once. But Cameron poops a little, proclaims that he's finished, and then goes back twenty minutes later to do it again.

Not only that, but he feels the need to remove every article of clothing before settling himself onto the throne. The bathroom floor is always strewn with cast-off clothing. I have to dress him multiple times a day.

It wouldn't be so bad if Cameron would just get in there and do what he needs to do and get out. But apparently it takes twenty minutes, minimum, to push out each little rabbit turd. And even that wouldn't be so bad - maybe even kinda nice - if he just sat there nice and still for twenty minutes. But no. He feels the need to play with things (which I'm sure has NOTHING to do with the fact that his father sits on the toilet playing Big Buck Hunter on his iPhone until his legs go numb). He fiddles with the seat behind him. He messes with the flusher-handle-thingy. He leans way over to peer behind the shower curtain. He has been known, on more than one occasion, to unravel a whole roll of toilet paper just to get to the cardboard tube at the center so he can play with it.

... Or, you know, eat it.

Yeah. Seriously. If you're new here, I feel compelled to explain that Cameron has pica and eats paper products. It used to only be soft stuff, like napkins and paper towels and whatnot, but has now expanded to include cardboard, photographs, junk mail, and the pages of books.

And that brings us to the umpteen-millionth reason why Cameron's bathroom habits have been reeeeeally annoying me lately: the eating of the toilet paper. He sees the toilet paper roll as his own personal snack buffet. And though he will eagerly gobble it dry, he prefers it ... are you ready for this? ... wet.

You can probably see where this is going.

Yeah, he dips it in the toilet. Dirty water or clean (and when I say "clean" I just mean un-peed-in), it doesn't matter to him. I can't even tell you how many times I've walked into the bathroom to find Cameron stuffing a dripping blob of T.P. into his mouth. And, consequently, drips all over my floor. And his hands, and his arms, and everywhere else.

So you can see that there's no allowing him to go to the bathroom unsupervised. Which is why I spend a substantial amount of time in there, rather impatiently urging him to hurry it on up. Which prompts protests of, "But I need privacy, Mommy," and answers of, "You have to earn privacy by not turning every bathroom visit into a total disaster, Son." Back and forth, back and forth.

Ugh.

The other day Cameron was talking to one of my besties, Lisa. She laughed and said, "You're a doll."

To which Cameron responded, "I'm not a doll, I'm a mess!"

Yep. Just about sums it up.       

It's Just Not Funny

It's been quiet around here. I wish I was talking about my house, but unfortunately I'm talking about the ol' blog. And I wish my silence was due to the fact that I'm soooo busy living this full, vibrant life that I don't possibly have time to write, but nothing could be further from the truth. To be honest, I've been in a pretty big slump lately.  I mean, how many times can I write about laundry? Or various messes? I've been blogging here for over two years now. And the phrase "same shit, different day" was obviously created to perfectly sum up my life. Go back to my archives - what was I blogging about? The same stuff. Housework. Children. Unwanted hair. A body that the gestation of three children has ravaged until it is sagged, stretched, and ripply in places I didn't even know could freaking ripple.

My life isn't about me. I'm not even sure who I am any more. I feel like someone else is driving, and that I'm just sitting in the back seat, staring out the window as the world quickly passes me by. I used to have ambition, but I can't seem to find it any more. Every dream I ever had - even the ones that I once felt were well within my reach - now make up this vague list of "things I would like to do that will most likely never happen." The ambitious girl I once was seems to have retreated into this gray area that I can no longer access. Obscurity and mediocrity. Existence versus living.

This morning, within an hour of getting up, I was in tears. I stayed in bed for a few extra minutes with the baby asleep beside me, even though Colin and Cameron were already up; what a mistake. I woke up to cereal (with milk) on the couch, cat puke on the floor, and pee in Cameron's bed (yet his nighttime Pull-Up was completely dry; go figure). By the time I cleaned everything up, my morning schedule was already lagging far behind. Then there was a lost shoe that we never did find. We were later than usual getting to school, which will throw Colin off - because he does best on a regular schedule. Which means that, undoubtedly, I will get yet another note from the teacher in his planner tonight. "Colin had a bad day ..."

I could go on and on about the same old stuff, you know? About how I feel like I work my ass off with absolutely nothing to show for it. I'm forever cleaning something, yet my house is never as spotless and sparkling as I want it to be. The laundry? I do it daily, often more than once. Yet there are always dirty clothes piling up somewhere. I'm perpetually frustrated. All this work. All this effort. Endless. And for what? Certainly not an effing paycheck.

I can't even put into words how disappointed I am with myself, with the grown-up that I became. If you had asked me at sixteen or seventeen what I'd be doing at thirty, I'd have outlined a clear plan that included a college degree, and at least one published book under my belt. I would never have said, "Well, gee, I'll be a housewife-slash-occasional writer who wipes butts and provides 24/7 maid and laundry service." I never thought I'd lose my passion for writing, but I barely even enjoy doing it any more, because the things I write to bring in money aren't the things I want to write. I feel like it's not even worth doing. My husband works very hard at his job, and he enjoys it. It fulfills him. He complains sometimes, but he's very good at what he does. He gets to go on business trips. He gets promotions. He gets emails from his boss about what a valuable asset to the team he is. He brings home the bacon. And I? Am just ... here.

I feel like I've traded in the life I'd planned for this. Like, I don't know how to be a person and a wife and mother: I can only do one or the other. But I'm so afraid to complain. I don't even know if I'm going to publish this, and if I do, I'm afraid to leave the comments enabled. Because, yeah, I'm aware that it could be worse. I'm aware that I could have lost my house - or worse, my family - in a tornado or an earthquake or a tsunami; I thank God that I didn't, and pray for those who have. And I'm not saying I don't love my husband and our kids, or that I wish I'd done something different. I just wish I knew how to be me, still.

I'm trying to look on the bright side. I know it doesn't sound like it here, but I'm trying. When you feel like you've left behind all that you ever thought you'd be, though, and that you're failing at life in general ... it's hard. I feel like a shadow of my former self. A lukewarm wife. A mediocre mother. Treading water. Going nowhere. Contributing nothing significant. Mothering is not enough, and even if it were, I don't do it all that well - believe me.

I'm scared to death that I'll get old, look back on my life and see so much wasted time. If I keep on this way, that's exactly what's going to happen. Yet I don't even know where to begin to change it ... what I can do to make it different. Because if I saw a solution, I would've done it already.

I'm sorry if you came here today to read something funny. I just don't have any funny in me right now. I feel like an abandoned house: empty, deteriorated ... waiting. 
                     

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