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Unsettled

The anxiety: it roils.

I have a diagnosed anxiety disorder. I don't think it's important to know the specifics of which one. But it is there. Usually neatly tucked in. Most of its frayed edges and corners hidden.

Sometimes, though. Sometimes is starts to come loose. Threads hang limply at odd angles. There are wrinkles and bumps. 

Especially when it has to do with my children. And their health.

Right now I am an unmade, unkempt bed heaped with dirty sheets and old, pilly blankets.

Just barely usable. Just taut enough to be functional. For now.

To distract myself, I have my writing. I'm grateful for this. And I'm grateful for you. Without you, I don't know if I'd make the effort to type words into my computer at all. And I need to.

Here's installment Number Three of Greener Grass.

You can find Installment one here and Installment two here (at the end of the post).

*****

She inhaled raggedly, fighting the nausea that'd been plaguing her lately. It was all too much. Her responsibilities were making her sick. And, despite what she screamed at Craig and Dave, it wasn't just the day to day monotony that was propelling her to the brink, that was edging her dangerously close to a cliff where she would whirl like a winged maple tree seed, kick her legs like a rockette and see what happened.

It was the young lives she was protecting and guiding. And generally fucking up.

She loved them too much. She hated them for poking holes in her like one of their little sandbox toys, for making her so permeable.

And, yes, there was the laundry. That drove her batty, too.

Eli smushed his face against the screen door, licking it until it glistened with saliva. "Mommy?" he said.

"Mommy just needs to rest for a minute," Tamara said. As she spoke, a shiny, black BMW cruised quietly past. On the other side of the tinted windows, she knew, was Angel Telkowsky. Angel was an ad rep for a local magazine. Childless, with a boyfriend who drove a Range Rover and visited her house at the end of the cul-de-sac a few nights a week, her life was the antithesis of Tamara's.

Angel probably sent her laundry out, picked up dinner on the way home from work, sat around in silk pajamas on the weekends. Tamara often saw her running the neighborhood in black spandex and, when it was cold, fur earmuffs.

"Bitch," Tamara muttered.

"What mommy?" Eli called.

She jerked around. She didn't know Eli was still there.

"Mommy?" he said.

"Yes," Tamara muttered. "Yes, what honey?"

"I need to poop."

"So go poop!" She all but pounded her fists on the warm ground. The kid was four-and-a-half. Why couldn't he go on his own?

"I want you to come with me."

Slowly, she stood and brushed dried grass from her shorts. Eli was still licking the screen, making an elaborate maze of wet tracks over the metal mesh.

The house smelled of the meatloaf she'd made for dinner the night before. And that damned detergent.

As she headed for the bathroom, she lurched toward an unhealthy ficus and threw up in its pot.

She righted herself, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and saw Craig and Eli blinking at her. The other kids were still crashing around and giggling in the bedrooms.

"C'mon, buddy," Craig said to Eli. "I'll take you to the John."

The secret thoughts of moms

I just read a post over at Anne Nahm (a hilariously crass, astute and honest blog) where she confessed that one of the thoughts cycling through her head, in relation to her children's constant interruptions, was SHUTUPSHUTUPFORTHELOVEOFGODSHUTUP.

This exact line is stuck on replay in my gray matter too. And it got me thinking about other unmotherly mantras ricocheting around up there. Ricocheting around ALL of our brains.

We love our children, of course. We want them to be happy and healthy and to never find posts like this on the internet. But I'd love to hear what evil little nuggets you've come up with.

Here are a few of mine:

~ YESYESYES I SEE YOU DOING THAT THING AND I KNOW YOU THINK IT'S THE MOST AMAZING THING IN THE WORLD AND NO ONE HAS EVER COME UP WITH IT BEFORE, BUT IT'S DUMB. AND BORING. AND I DON'T WANT TO WATCH ANYMORE.

~ IF I HEAR SOMEONE SAY "MOMMY" IN A PLAINTIVE, DO-SOMETHING-FOR-ME VOICE ONE MORE TIME, I'LL WILL MYSELF TO COMBUST RIGHT HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE KITCHEN.

~ I REALLY DO NOT WANT TO LOOK AT WHAT JUST CAME OUT OF YOUR BODY. NO. I DON'T.

~ SHUTUPSHUTUPFORTHELOVEOFGODSHUTUP.

~ GET THE HELL OFF ME AND DON'T EVEN GRAZE MY SKIN WITH YOUR ICE COLD PINKY TOE.

But then, because I AM a mom, and apparently that means I'm strapped into a rollercoaster car that dips and shudders and peaks and plummets all day long, I'll, seconds later, think things like:

~ just stay here another two minutes so i can inhale your scent that is not quite baby and not quite big kid, feel your warm head pressed against my cheek, gaze upon your profile that is smushed against me and that i know, in another few years, i'll never get this close to again.

~ tell me all about school and what you learned and who you played with. i want to hear everything.

~ i know you're hurting and i sincerely want to make it better.

~ you're amazing you're amazing you're amazing. and i'm so proud.

Seattle snow blues

Let's see...where do I start?

How about with the SNOW. Way, way too much snow for Seattle to handle. Too much, that is, if one likes to go places and see people.

It's fun to give in for a while, with the cookies and the sledding and the family time. But when your birthday getaway with your husband has to be canceled because of harsh weather, you start hating it a little.

Despite our ill-fated overnight, my 40th was special. Fruit Bat, Kitty Cat and I trudged up a 90-degree snowy hill (stopping twice to drink hot chocolate from a thermos) and spent the day with our friends who live in high country (where they actually get TV and radio reception!). Later, J. and the kids made me the most earnest, yummy chocolate cake:

and I felt lucky, indeed.

There was a small window on Saturday when two of my favorite women (Tricia and Stacy) and I were able to trek downtown to get facials, do a little shopping, share a lovely meal.

Here's where we ate:

I highly recommend it if you're in the Seattle area.

And then there was a complicated odyssey of trying to get Stacy (on the left) back home to Portland.

Still, it was all terribly wonderful. The only thing missing was alone time. Creative time. Which is my air.

So today I've gotten my imagination on for a few hours. Here's Installment #2 of Greener Grass. It's a short one. I was stealing time. You can find the first part here.

*****

Craig stood and gave the kids their Pop Tarts. "Okay now, shoo!" he said, waving them away. Then he turned to Tamara, "For God's sake, what? Your lawn's not that bad, okay? Just a little thatchy. I can give you some of my fertilizer."

She shook her head and braced herself on the edge of the counter. "I don't give a crap about my lawn," she said. "That's Dave's thing."

She took a breath wiped tears from her cheeks. "It's the laundry. And the kids. The kids! And everything. It's such a fucking turnstile of drudgery."

"Tell me about it," Craig said, folding his arms and leaning against the counter next to her.

"No, it's different for you. You're a man. And you get paid. You have meetings. It's completely different."

Warm, morning air wafted through an open window.

One of the kids, Eli, she thought, called her. "Mommy! Mommy!"

She ignored him.

"Get a job then," Craig said.

"I can't get a job. Who would get the spots out of the dresses? The mildew out of the grout? The money out of the insurance companies!"

He said, "You'd hire someone. Or do it on weekends. You know, your lunch break. There are plenty of families with two working parents."

"I can't get a job!" she yelled and left the kitchen. She walked out the front door and into the yard. She sat on the ground, running her hands over the spiky, browning blades of grass. She thought she might curl up and sleep there. Lay through several nights and days. Swallow dew when she was thirsty, eat ladybugs if she got hungry.

40 today

And what better way to celebrate than with a little cat love.  

Still 39

You're still kind of young in your 30s, right? I mean, not midriff-baring young. Or binge-drinking young. But, relatively young.

I'm turning 40 in three days. I never thought I'd have a problem with 40. Or any age. In fact, when people complain about being old, it annoys me. I find it graceless. I throw all the platitudes at them: But you're wiser! And more distinguished! And you're so much more interesting than boring midriff-baring, binge-drinking youngsters.

Sigh. Now here I am. About to flip my first digit to a 4. And, yeah, I'm freaking out a little.

I started compiling a list of activities I could still get away with as a 39-year-old that maybe, when I'm 40, not so much. I reasoned that if I busted out three a day, I could fit them all in before Friday. 

They were all things like Go Clubbing. Get Hair Extensions. Toss the F-word around without caring who hears it.

Which, really, if I'm mourning skanky hair, pounding beer until I can't see straight and cursing, then forty's probably not going to be so bad.

I'm pretty in touch with my inner old soul as it is. I am prone to sitting around and listening to the quiet (or a brook! or Matlock! Not really!) and knitting. I cannot consume more than two glasses of wine on any given night. I like slippers.

So what am I freaking out about, really? 40! Who cares. I scoff at 40. 

I will kick 40's ass and make it wish it were 25.

Greener Grass

Last night I was in the mood to write dark fiction. Or, rather, fiction with dark undertones. Here's what I came up with. It's a first draft and is not autobiographical. Except that, yes, I am a little tired of laundry.

Also, it's only partially done.

*****

"Jesus Christ," Tamara said, glancing out her kitchen window at the lawn next door. "What'd you put on that grass? Nitro green dye?"

"It's just fertilizer," Craig said, shrugging. "Expensive, amazing fertilizer. I ordered it online."

"Of course you did." Tamara went back to folding laundry from a plastic basket heaped with clean clothes. She looked at the spots on Caitlyn's pink dress, the one she needed for Mother's Day Brunch that coming Sunday. Tamara would give her left fucking arm if she could wash a load and get every piece of laundry clean the first time.

"It kind of puts yours to shame," Craig said, sipping from his coffee and tapping his nails on the table. His nails were too long for a man's, in Tamara's opinion. But, whatever, he wasn't her husband.

He was just visiting, like he often did on weekday mornings, while the kids played in one of the bedrooms. He worked from home, blogging for several sports sites. He spent more time shopping online and sitting around her house than he did writing though.

Tamara said, "You know what your lawn is like? It's the equivalent of someone who over-whitens his teeth. Then looks ridiculous for trying too hard."

"It's impossible to over-whiten anymore," Craig said. "The whitest, or in this case, the greenest, wins."

A crash reverberated from Caitlyn's room. Tamara waited for the screech, the call, the toddler rushing out with mouth wide open and tears streaming down her face. But she heard only happy whoops.

Tamara exhaled and snapped out a pair of men's work pants. The smell of Cheer was cloying, sickening. She would buy scent-free detergent the next time she was at the store.

"Okay, Craig," she said. "You win." Then she asked, "When does Deb get back from Minnesota?" 

His wife traveled constantly. To the midwest, the East Coast, sometimes overseas. It didn't seem to bother Craig much.

"Friday night," he said. His eyes darted in Tamara's direction, then locked back onto his glowing lawn.

She caught his glance. She pursed her lips. What they had was over. It'd been over for months. And he knew it. Never again would Tamara tiptoe across their conjoined yards while their respective spouses were out of town. Never again would she allow those long nails to rake across her naked back.

Yeah. Craig had some good qualities Dave didn't. But he was just a man. Just a disgusting human with gas and zits and bad morning breath.

Tamara's face dropped to the shirt she was holding. That fake-perfumey scent again. Why did Procter & Gamble think the world needed to be ensconced in chemicals that smelled vaguely floral?

Probably because women like Tamara bitched about gas and bad breath.

She felt acid crawling up her esophagus and into her throat and realized that, in her haste to down three cups of strong coffee, she'd forgotten to eat breakfast.

Abandoning her laundry, she went to the cupboard and poured a bowl of bran flakes. It was then that her three kids and Craig's two, all under the age of six,  careened into the kitchen and began begging for Pop Tarts. They bounced, whined, negotiated. Pop tarts! Pop tarts! Pop tarts!

Tamara, one hand on her hip and one on her forehead, began to cry...

Where's my damn Village?

I was invited, kind of last minute, to a holiday party this weekend. It was for the staff of a parenting magazine here in Seattle. I'm not exactly "staff" but I have been blogging for this particular publication for almost a year now. And my first print story with them just came out in December.

So I didn't feel completely ridiculous accepting the invitation.

When I go to parties, I like to bring a little trinket or sweet treat to the host (and considering my limited popularity, that brings my budget for such gifts up to about 10 bucks a year. Even in this economy I think I can keep it up). On my way out the door Saturday, I grabbed a box of Trader Joes dark chocolate salted caramels, thinking that maybe, when I got there, they could be added to the spread.

So I arrived, all gussied up, and was ushered in the door by a woman carrying many boxes of fancy cupcakes.

Inside the house I found a bar (with a hired bartender)(and I did NOT waste that opportunity), platters of food, 3 PSYCHICS who would give you a reading if you signed up on their appointment sheet (and was not otherwise engaged in stuffing your face with a cupcake when your turn came), a dancer who looked as if she'd been hand picked from a Vegas showline and plunked down on Mercer Island to perform for us (er, for the men), feathered headdress and all. 

And, oh, my caramels that had looked so festive when I'd grabbed them, looked positively diminutive and silly sitting on the counter of the cavernous kitchen.

Ah, well. I tried. The people were all very nice to me and I was happy to have been invited.

*******

We got our Christmas tree this weekend. It was touch and go for a while on Saturday. I threw a giant tantrum and sat in my room knitting for two hours straight, forcing my family to abandon their plans for the great tree-getting. I actually sobbed into a Kleenex that I j-j-just w-w-wasn't up t-t-to getting the t-t-tree that day. Oh, the drama.

Sunday I woke up in a much better frame of mind, so we trucked off to our favorite, festive spot to get our Douglas Fir.

And therein lied (layed?) the root of my tantrum. I wanted to cut our own. In a field somewhere. I was envisioning Christmases from my Michigan childhood, where we'd clomp around in snow up to our knees, choose a tree, sing Christmas carols on the way home then drink hot chocolate while we decorated.

But Home Depot in the rain is nice too.

Actually, it was fine. The kids don't know any better, and it was convenient to be able to get it and come home in a matter of 45 minutes.

Now it's up and decked out and, ironically, is probably one of the nicest trees we've ever had.

*******

A few more random things:

1. I found a gingerbread house kit on Friday that is 100% safe for Fruit Bat! I had been studying YouTube videos showing techniques to make your own gingerbread walls and roofs and Googling Vegan Royal Icing, with no convincing results. I was devising plans for how I would construct these illustrious gingerbread houses with the kids around, without losing my freaking mind. I was fending off Fruit Bat's pleas for a gingerbread house by wearing my earmuffs whenever he wasn't in school. But then I found this KIT! And I'm delirious with joy! The brand is Orbit Cookies, in case anyone has the same food allergies as Fruit Bat (peanuts, tree nuts, dairy, egg) and is looking for a safe kit.

2. Manuscript submission tally: One reject, One request for the full manuscript. 50%. I can live with that.

3. 12.5 hours spent with a three-year-old is too, too much. As I was reminded of on Friday. It's fine for a while. Even enjoyable. She's just so darling and funny, even when she stomps her foot and claims that she will "Nevva Evva" get in the car. But then preschooler fatigue sets in around 2 pm. Or possibly more like 9 am, when I find can't take another minute of the incessant chattering and requesting my help and unreasonableness and where's my damn VILLAGE? Because I need one. 

Oh wait, they're back in Michigan.

Yeah. The end.

10 Things I never would've believed about parenting

Fifteen years ago, if you'd asked me what I believed about parenting, I would've answered with a lot of platitudes. Or a blank stare. Because I didn't know jack.

Now, though, I find myself in the thick of mothering two young children, doing things I could not, at age 25, have imagined.

It would've been unconscionable:

1. That my husband and I wouldn't make time for regular date nights

2. That our family would rarely eat dinner together

3. That I'd make a grown up's version AND a kid's version of dinner

4. That my husband and I would take on stereotypically traditional roles, with me as the "homemaker"

4. That I'd find disciplinary consistency so difficult to maintain

5. That I'd feel frazzled and frantic much of the time

6. That I'd have a baby tummy almost four years after the birth of my second and final child

7. That I'd often be okay with legos, books and random Happy Meal toys scattered across the floor

8. That I'd have a soft spot for my kids as mushy as a rotten satsuma

9. That I'd let my kids watch TV every day

10. That fingerpainting and baking with children would turn me into a chattering, twitching spaz unable to speak in an octave low enough to be heard by human ears