Reinventing Self

I think it's time to reinvent myself again, not unlike a phoenix rising from the ashes. Now that I am an anarchist, there are many possiblities. Having recently lost 28 pounds (thank you, dairy allergy leading to non-dairy lifestyle) and cut off about 10 inches of hair, I am on my way. Though I do wonder how no one has seemed to notice the loss of hair/body fat....

Over the last few days, I've had several epiphanies while under the influence of prescription narcotics, and have come up with a list of new character traits (as well as a new list of people I am allowed to "kiss" should the opportunity arise, but that's another post).

Among the things I need to change to become a kinder, gentler anarchist:

Stop interrupting. It's a bad habit.

Start standing up for myself when husband suggests I should get a real job and/or mop the floor after major abdominal surgery. Also when he implies I am hideously disfigured now that I am over 30.

Stop thinking people are interested in the minutae of my life and learning to just shut the hell up.

Realizing it's OK that I haven't bought "real" Halloween costumes for the kids and they will not be social outcasts just because they had to go to the NMC party in home-made ones (see pics above).

If anyone has any other suggestions, let me know. The internal purge must move forward!

Home from Hospital and Grooving on Percocet

The surgery was a success (meaning the glop in my pelvic region is gone and I have good drugs). The gifted Dr. Swierzewski removed an 8-cm growth of endometriosis from my muscle tissue. This fact just makes me seem more attractive, doesn't it?

I had purchased new, purple undergarments for the day, only to have to remove them. The last time I was on heavy painkillers with no undies on for the entire morning was much more fun, I must say. I kept getting paranoid that I would be the one the doctors and nurses would all joke about once I was unconscious, because there is much material about which to make mocking comments in my stomach area. Hoping they were professional!

My kids were so great today as I rested, and gave me copious hugs and hand-made cards. I take back, at least temporarily, all the times I called them heathen monsters. Even husband rallied, and did not ask me to take out the trash like he did the day I got home after my c-section with the twins. Maybe he still, like Voldemort, does have a shred of his soul left somewhere.

Now back to my regularly scheduled life...

Surgical Stress

OK, it's the eve before I go under the knife. My dearest friend Amy today suggested I ask to keep the contents of whatever is removed to use as object lessons for the kids. For example, I can have them do a biopsy of the stuff, toss it on pH paper to see if it's an acid or a base, or plant it in the yard to fertilize my garden. Any other ideas?

I am still very anxious about the whole needle in my arm thing, so if anyone happens to be up at 6:15 am tomorrow and has nothing better to do, they can meet me at Anna Jaques for moral support....

I am listed in the phone book, and will fully expect floral bouquets and treats upon my arrival home (ha, ha).

For now, I am about to consume my last meal before my insides are sliced and diced. Tomatoes, anyone????

I'll update tomorrow for those of you who care. Or not - remember, if I die, make sure they use a pic of Scarlett Johansson instead of me in the obit, and watch out for the kiddos.

The Intrepid Rosie

Everyone knows that homeschooling families must have a rodent in a cage, to teach the children responsiblity and kindness to animals. In our home, it's Rosie the much beloved guinea pig. We rescued her last year from the animal shelter, as some irresponsible gits bred over 150 of them and could no longer handle their care. My heartstrings were pulled as I read about the little babies, and how they would have to be put to sleep if they weren't adopted. So we piled into the minivan and hightailed it over to the MSPCA, where Rosie found us.

In her year with us, she has traveled across state lines, participated in the Guinea Pig Olympics, had a line of clothing designed and sewed for her by Anna and her friends, and is now the star of a play written by Anna in which she risks life and limb to save a bird stuck in a tree. She has also had the classics read to her, and received a very cool tunnel to play in for her birthday. It's quite like having another child (which I would LOVE, so I may need to keep accumulating small furry animals to squelch that), but without the diapers. Her incarnations include Spider Pig, Wonder Pig and, for reasons only understood by the children, Scaryface.

The other day, we were playing with Rosie in the yard and Anna decided to teach her to read by showing her the "go" sign we have and moving her, then restraining her by showing her the "stop" sign. It did flash through my mind that, if we taught the Pig to read, our money woes would be over. So we did a quick lesson on Pavlov, and gave Rosie treats to go and stop. Who knows if it really worked - look for us on Letterman!

No pet is more lovable with the kids and warm on your lap in winter. She's silky soft and never bites, even when forced to play in a block condo built by the kids. Our home is more fun with her! Now to figure out how to answer the questions about why we would need a boy Pig to make baby ones....that's for another day.

Children of the Corn Maze

Today, we went on a trek through the fabutastic Kimball Farm corn maze. It takes you through about 5 acres of cornfield, with shapes of five animals. Questions lead you in the right - or the wrong - direction. As I corralled the 4 children in my care (my 3 plus a spare to keep Anna from whining), I felt a certain affinity for the corn itself. In fact, it almost seemed like I had returned to my homeland of Indiana, where I grew up on a farm replete with cornstalks.

In the hour and a half we were lost in the maze, I could see where one could go crazy like Malachi and his pals in the Stephen King thriller. I truly couldn't tell one way from another, and thought about an insightful article sent to met recently from a new friend (thanks, Beth) about a woman who would hide from her kids in a cornfield. How lovely it would be if such a safe place as a cornfield existed for us all!

The smell of the corn and dirt, and the uninhibited joy and laughter only children can exhibit made me smile for the first time in awhile. We really had a lovely time - wish I could have shared it with others! The picture above is my own scary Children of the Corn Maze plus the resplendent and lovely Hanna, whose parents graciously loaned her to me for the afternoon to share in our discoveries. Can you tell which children are the anarchists and which one has been taught dignity and self-preservation by bullies in the public schools? I am trying to forget it will soon be winter lockdown, and a great weekend like we had keeps me in denial.

So, It's Saturday Night

What does a true anarchist do on a Saturday night when husband is gone and not requiring housework and hogging the remote? When you're me, you farm out the oldest kid and convince the little ones it's bedtime a half hour early. Today, we happen to have candy corn in the house, which will probably be consumed in mass quantities (it is fat free, after all) while I watch grown-up television and ignore the clutter, gleefully imagining the look of utter disdain I would receive if aforementioned husband was home.

Saturdays in our house are very exciting anyway, because I wash all the sheets and pillows on Saturday mornings in Tide with Downy (is there a better scent anywhere?) and freshen the beds. It's the high water mark of our week! I sometimes even wash husband's sheets, if he's been in town for a few days as though offering an olive branch if I am feeling magnanimous.....the kids love Clean Sheet Saturdays nearly as much as they love fingerpainting with foreign substances on the carpet. Win-win all around!

On this particular Saturday, I am a bit tired as it was an exceptionally glorious October day and we spent most of it at a great farm festival. The kids participated in a corn husking contest, made their own cider, stuffed a scarecrow, cried because I refused to spend $15 on pony rides, pet a horse and a cow, climbed on ancient tractors and ran helter-skelter through a hay maze. I also snuck in some contraband peanut butter sandwiches, which we ate in an open field listening to chickens and watching planes land at the tiny Plum Island airport. We saw many friends and no enemies, which made everything perfect, at least for a couple of hours.

I'll probably also spend a few minutes imagining a different life, of course - one with no stress and all that. Before I turn in (late, because I am going through an insomnia phase), I'll check the precious boys and take one last whiff of their cute preschoolerness before reading until my body gives out. I'll hope that maybe a friend will call, but at the same time be glad if no one does. Another great Saturday night in the life of the lawless.

Stop Screaming, Start Loving

Over the summer, I was referred to in casual conversation with an old friend as a “babe”. As I have not deserved the “babe” moniker for at least 15 years (Jessica Simpson I am not), I blushed and didn’t care if the man proffering the comment was lying or not. I just accepted it blindly and figured I had stumbled into some good lighting. Later that same day, I was told that an article I wrote made someone laugh, and the speaker of this compliment said she thought I was a gifted writer.

Those two events have kept me feeling good for awhile now. Two compliments, said with sincerity, though clearly undeserved, have made me smile and hold my head up a little bit.

So I was thinking, as I was in round 3 of a screaming battle of wills with one of my boys, that maybe if I said something kind it could shock them into having some self-esteem, and maybe put them in the mood to smile more as well. After all, it is my most important job as a mother to teach them that others are precious and important, and worthy of being treated with respect and kindness. If I don’t model that for them by treating them as such, where will they learn?

I folded this sobbing, frustrated child into my lap and said into his soft ear that I thought he was just fabulous, and how about if we go outside and ride cars and bikes in the driveway. All three kids looked at me like they expected me to start spewing pea soup for a split second, then they jumped up to find shoes and were lined up at the door in a flash. The one I had been battling moments before hugged me, and said, “I love you like a car.” Which I think is a supreme compliment, coming from a boy.

For the rest of the day, and for a few days after, I tried replacing screaming and nagging with redirection, compliments and hugs for minor infractions and irritations. The improvement in attitude was remarkable, and my daughter Anna even said she like the non-yelling mommy better, which makes me wonder how much of a shrew I had been, though I think I have a good idea.

Then I noticed that they were complimenting each other. Anna stopped screaming when the boys knocked down her block castles, and invited them to help her rebuild after laughing at the mess. “Good job, boys,” she said. “That made an interesting pile!” OK, I take what I can get.

Do I still scream too much? Yes. Do I sigh in exasperation when I find stuff like A1 sauce and blue glitter paint decorating the carpet? Sadly, I do. But I have found the beginnings of a solution.

Then it hit me. What if we all started saying nice things to people? Commenting on the small things they do that make a difference? Boosting their morale? Calling a 38-year-old mom of 3 a babe is a good start. How much better could we feel, and make our children feel? Maybe I am the only one with this problem, but when I get going I can really tear the poor little buggers down. Is it really so much harder to take a deep breath and scream “I love you” instead of “You horrible children, just stop it right now or you’ll find yourself at a hospital in Nebraska” and give a hug instead of storming off to slam a door, muttering terrible things under one’s breath?

As the days get shorter and darker, I have resolved to attempt to make my patience longer and my disposition sunnier. There is a long winter looming, and it’s the only way I can see to survive it.

Educational Anarchist Anthem (courtesy of the Sex Pistols and Charlotte McPherson)

Goodbye authority
The ones who think that they know it all
Just want you on your knees
Behind the classroom door
Where seasons waste away
They teach you how to right and wrong
But there's a price to pay
A price to pay

Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom

For more than just a day
They keep us from the game of life
And waste our lives awayAlways demanding
You fit into the script
Have you ever heard
Your neighbour, scream and scream..And scream

Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom

For more than just a day
Just take a look at the world they've made
It gives the game away
Boredom is normal
And power the order of the day
Stop your heart from beating
And waste your life away

Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom

Deny the game they play
Just take a look at the world they've made
It gives the game away
Boredom is normal
And power the order of the day
Stop your heart from beating
And throw your life away (away)

Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom

The Sex Pistols, a great group of actual anarchists...

Momnesia

For awhile, I thought I was becoming mentally deranged. I rarely remember where we’re going as I speed down the highway, looking frantically for the birthday gift that flew off my minivan two miles back. At least I have the wherewithal to tell the kids our final destination before we leave the house as I rummage around for my purse. What was happening to my once-famous photographic memory?

Recently, reading nonsense online while pretending to “work”, I came across a name for my affliction: momnesia. A little, gray cloud lifted from my rusty steel trap mind. I am not alone. I have an actual MEDICAL CONDITION. I had to sit down with my head between my knees to take in the news that I am fine.

Before kids, I could remember phone numbers, dentist appointments, and once got an A in a course where I was required to recall entire passages from Shakespeare and then explain the relevance to the overall play. Fat lot of good that skill does me now, when a Meg Cabot novel takes all the mental agility I have to complete.

Apparently, the strain of pregnancy, childbirth and sleep deprivation make our hormones and brain synapses misfire, sending moms into a downward spiral into near catatonia in the beginning, finally leaving us in a permanent fog through which we wander the rest of our days, relying on our day planners to get us where we need to be.

According to neuropsychiatrist Louann Brizendine, author of The Female Brain, some women's plummeting estrogen levels, which lurch from “incredibly high” in late pregnancy to “virtually non-existent” after delivery, can make it hard to focus. While estrogen plays a key role in fertility, it also acts as a neurotransmitter, sending signals in the brain.

Breast-feeding can prolong the mental haze, Brizendine says, by circulating hormones that help mothers relax and promote a “mellow, mildly unfocused” feeling.

Having breastfed children for a total of about 2 ½ years certainly explains my prolonged mental haze and continued feeling of being mildly unfocused. Mellow, I am not, but that’s another story.
There are times momnesia can come in handy. Sure, I rarely know the day or the month any more, but I can forget that just 5 minutes ago I was so annoyed with my kids I briefly considered seeing if ages 4, 4, and 7 still qualify for the safe haven program at the fire department.

I forgot the horrors of a colicky newborn long enough to get pregnant again – with twins! That Duggar woman on TLC is so addled, she has 17 children and professes a desire for “just one more.” Without momnesia, the whole species would die out.

I have long held the theory that moms lose an IQ point and a vocabulary word each day after giving birth. Now, there’s proof. Is it a bad thing? Does the fact that I’ve carried on conversations with strangers at a playground about the scope and sequence of toilet training make me any less of the former me, who could quote portions of Ulysses verbatim and in context to make an obscure joke?

Lately, I am excited to report, I have noticed a plateau in the draining of my intellect. Just the other day I used the word ethereal while describing my fantasy of being able to play violin like the Celtic Woman. My husband was eating kim chee and the first thing I thought of was the word rancid. Ethereal! Rancid! What a breakthrough to remember them!

Brazindine concedes that mothers don’t become dumber, we just redirect our smarts to a different area, in this case child-rearing. In her book, she likens mothers to medical school residents who suffer from sleep deprivation and are in a similar fog as new moms, but learn everything they need to know at a rapid pace to adapt to their environment.

I made a brief list of all the new things I have learned since becoming a mom: how to fulfill three simultaneous requests while talking on the phone; how to laugh at projectile vomit and stretch marks; how to love more deeply than I ever thought possible.

I have also learned that nature is rarely wrong. Whatever happens to our minds and bodies through giving birth is for a reason. Momnesia is just a season of life which places us on the same mental plane as our young children, thus helping us endure the hard early years – which would, let’s face it, bore us all to death if we were of our full mental faculties.

I may not ever fully recover. But would I exchange my wondrous, lovely, vibrant children for my old memory? Not on your life.

Rant on Ditto-Heads

OK, those of you who know me best know that I am a political junkie. This presidential election cycle, for me, is better than just about anything including a good Merlot. The snarky sound bites, the conjecture, the negative ads - heaven!

It is infuriating, however, to get e-mails over and over again with the same information which has not been checked by anyone, just mindlessly forwarded by people who like the information they have received.

Case in point. I have gotten an e-mail at least 8 times over the last few days saying that if Congress just approved giving the bailout money earmarked for failing mortgage companies to each adult in the US, we'd all get $425,000! This is surely a better deal for us all - except a closer look at the math shows that it's actually $425, which won't even cover the minimum payments on my credit cards.

The Globe printed today a scathing piece on Sarah Palin, lambasting her for a policy in Wasilla stating that rape victims must pay for their own rape kits. Crazed, narrow-minded pro-life idiot! She wants poor rape victims to be forced to sit at home with their babies! Only, there is not proof. Not one instance of a victim having to pay for their own kit. In fact, the sheriff of the town reports that, actually, should the perp of the rape be caught he would have to pay. In other instances, the town paid. There are also only private hospitals in Wasilla - out of the reach of even Sarah Palin's hateful claws. Actually, I really love this woman, which makes me even more of a freak in most people's eyes.

How does this relate? I am starting today to teach my kids to check things out before passing them along, to be free thinkers and take the time to verify. Especially if they are planning to villify someone or make accusations against them. With all the information available, it can be trying at times to determine what is correct and what is spin. I think you can't look at the extremes. If all your information is coming from Media Matters, the Huffington Post, Fox News, One News Daily or a random blog you should probably check twice.

Meanwhile, I am just going to sit back, relax, and enjoy the political show.