Earthy Mom Reality

I recently read this article and I wanted to write about it. I actually wanted to post it to Facebook too, to remind us all that indeed, everything will be ok, but my husband seems to think there is a special place in Hell reserved for people who post articles from European publications on Facebook ("It just shows you are too pretentious to post the same pretentious articles that everyone else posts from the Times," he said after a few glasses of wine one evening). You all, my gentle readers, are a much more forgiving audience. And it, of course, relates to my life and current experience, and since this is my party, here you go.

I have been pretty crunchy with Alice. I cloth diaper, I am still breastfeeding her at two, I co-sleep, we did Baby Led Weaning and buy wooden toys when we can and I bake my own preservative free bread and when my kid gets a fever, I put potatoes in her socks (for real-this works!). I have bought books and more books and yogurt makers and Rockin' Green detergent and essential oils and now Amazon thinks I am a dirty hippie, apparently, as they no longer recommend me mascara but instead Bac-Out and diaper sprayers. I have done it some to save money, some because I thought it best, and yes, I'll admit, some just to see if I could.

And I'll admit as well that there is a certain amount of self-righteousness that goes into it too. I come home from work and after the initial mild anxiety attack about starting my "second job," I get a lot of pleasure from stuffing the diapers, from snuggling the still sweet baby in bed. "Look how good I am," I think. "I could have just bought a box of Pampers, but here I sit, stuffing away, saving money." And yes, I suppose I am, but it is not like I am funneling all that money away into a college fund somewhere. I bought a bunch of eye shadow this week.

Holding hands with that self-righteousness, skipping along beside, however, comes its cousin, Parental Judgement. I try not to judge people for their parenting choices at all, but I still catch myself doing it. I bet we all do. "Oh, so you're giving your kid Mountain Dew....ohh....." "Your breasts are for your husband and not your baby? For real?" "Letting your kid cry it out? CONCERN-TROLL AWAY!" I never confront people about their parenting decisions--as parents we give ourselves enough guilt without some jerk giving us more, amirite?--but I can't stop my brain from thinking it.

Or maybe I can. My reality now is not that much fun, I'm not going to front. I am on my third cup of coffee of the morning right now, just on the mere hope of staying awake and performing slightly well at my job. I have not gotten a decent night's sleep in over two years. Because I co-sleep, Alice is constantly trying to "dream-feed." Although I have weened her from actually nursing during the night (mostly), she still pulls my hair almost constantly, which has always been her way of getting me awake. She does it in sleep, subconsciously, as well as saying, in sleep, "Mommy, I tire" over and over again. So every night when she starts, I go sleep on the couch and on the way there, I start thinking about something, and the next thing I know, it is 6:15 and I have totally reimagined how to organize my closet, but unfortunately, it is time to go to work, and I have not had any sleep. This is not fun. Even if she starts out the night in her crib, at some point, she wakes up enough to come to our bed and then it is all down hill. We are investigating lots of options from this point--moving her to a toddler bed, having Matt do all of the night-time bed stuff so she totally divorces the idea from me, weaning her totally--but nothing is happening fast enough. And we also struggle with the fact that we have a lot of changes coming down the pike during this year (we are planning on moving during the summer) and don't want to do too much at one time for her (we are also working on potty learning, which is something she seems totally ready for). I am trying to parent her the way I have from the beginning--by listening to her cues and doing things based on what she seems ready for--but again, it is not fast enough for me. And here I sit with my coffee, knowing that by the time 5:00 rolls around, I'll be walking in the door as a zombie, but one that is expected to make dinner (with Alice perched on the counter beside me), pick up the house, and listen interestedly as my 12 year old recounts what grievances she has against the American education system and how some other kid in her class is at best a fucktard and at worst a sociopath (my words of course).

So lately, I have caught myself thinking: "I wish I had just put her in a crib. All of this would be over by now." "I wish I didn't have to devote all that time to folding diapers on top of all this." "I wish my kids were just happy with some freaking chicken fingers and macaroni and cheese because if Sam asks for Indian food one more night this week, I'm going to kill a puppy." The judgment has started to fall away. Although there are still those times when I revel in my own crunchy awesomeness, I get it. I see all sides. I'm like this omniscient-Mommy-being with a scepter of truth and honesty and light and a perfect grilled cheese sandwich in one hand a Dora band-aid on the other.

We all make parenting decisions based on what we know at the time. We do our best. No one goes out of their way to just supremely screw up their child. We do what is best for our kid, personally. I did what I thought was best. Was it the right thing? Maybe. Could I have done it differently for a better outcome? Definitely.

It brings me great joy to know, though, that my kid will probably be ok. She'll be funny and bright and self-aware, just as she is now. She won't still be breastfeeding when she is, say 18, and I suddenly need all that money that I should have saved up by using cloth diapers. She'll be thinking about sleeping with someone else at that point, and I will dream of the days when I gazed over at her chubby-cheeked profile and brushed the rapidly growing curls away from her forehead.

And I will be ok too. I got through college, after all, on a slurry of Mountain Dew, espresso, and masochism. In the grand scheme of things, this ain't nothing.

That Other One

If you are my friend on Facebook, you have heard this story, albeit in truncated form. Pardon my overlapping stories--there are only so many things that go through my big old fat head every day that are not "CHOCOLATE!" or "SSSSSHHHHHOOOOOOOEEEEESSSSSS!" (In other news, my life is, indeed, a Cathy comic strip. Ack.)

Last night, my son realized that he needed to do a book report. It is actually due on Thursday, but he has to turn it on Wednesday, as he is going on a gifted and talented field trip on Thursday, and then well, Matt and I are going out tonight and he has to have Matt's help with the book report. Actually, strike that. He doesn't need Matt's help at all--he is fully capable of writing a report and doing a decent job of it--but Matt has to be there for his own self, because he wants to sit over Sam's shoulder and be all helicopter-dad and talk to him about dangling modifiers like he is a 19 year old college freshman and not an 8 year old kid. Being our kid is FUN.

So Matt asks him what he wants to do the report on. And Sam thinks a bit, reconsiders his parameters (Harry Potter and LOTR being off limits as they are over 50 pages long), and then says, "The Nose." Meaning the short story by Gogol. And while I adore that my child reads Gogol, and golly gee is he smart, of course, I am sitting there thinking, "OH MY GOD, MY CHILD WILL NEVER HAVE FRIENDS AND HE DOESN'T LIKE SOUP AND SOMEDAY HE MAY MOVE TO BOSTON!" Because I am a mom and I worry. It is just what I do. If I were a super hero, worrying would be my power. My action figure would have amazing self-wringing hands and a nervous stomach that gurgles during my children's spelling bees.

So all of this is going on, and the house is loud because I'm watching a rerun of Hoarders while I fold clothes (Hoarders related cleaning is amazing--therapeutic and amazingly efficient), and Matt is encouraging Sam to cut it down a little, because left to his own devices, Sam's book report might be 25 pages long. Alice suddenly appears. She wriggles out of her "I love cupcakes" t-shirt, given to her by her adoring big sister. Then she wriggles out of her yoga pants, flinging them to the side just so. Then she is standing there, in nothing but a pink Bum Genius diaper. Effortlessly, and I mean effortlessly, she pulls the snaps open, pulls off the diaper in one swift motion and twirls it above her head as if lassoing something particularly large.

"I'M NAKED!"

That's what she yells, and the house goes a little quiet for a bit. And then she erupts into giggles, turns around and runs into the bathroom, cackling like the little maniac that she is. I am left holding a newly clean t-shirt and wondering if strip clubs offer any kind of benefit packages that does not include all the drinks you can guzzle.

So, yes, I have the two children in the gifted and talented program, one who started a dinner time conversation about hexadecimals the other night and the other who is doing a second grade book report on a satirical short story published in 1835. And that is all well and good. But I also have that other one, and Lord only knows what she will be. Right now, she wants to be a ballerina when she grows up, but when she says that, it also sounds like she is saying that she wants a burrito. All I know is that she has an effervescent smile that lights up the room and that I am so happy that she is mine. Clothed or not.

Just remind me of that the day she calls me and asks me to bail her out of jail. Please.

Getting to Know My Daughter

Over the weekend, my husband and son attended roll-out parties for Dark Ascension, which is some new thing for the Magic game that they enjoy/obsess over. This meant they both stood in front of me over the past two weeks at varying intervals and talked and all I heard was "NERD NERD NERD NERD NERD." I could tell you more about it, I suppose, had I listened without my eyes glazing over. Since the boys were otherwise engaged, the girls and I spent Friday evening and Saturday going out to eat, going to the mall, and listening to really bad pop music in the car. It was GLORIOUS.

One thing about having three kids is that you get to know your kids in terms of the others. You see the way they interact with one another, the way they handle situations differently than their siblings, the differing ways they communicate. You start thinking in terms of "X is more sensitive than Y" or "Y has a shorter temper than X." And even though it sounds paradoxical, this kind of parenting helps you to tailor your parenting to fit the needs of each individual child--you know what methods work for one and are too much for another because you can see the way the whole thing works. I try to spend as much time as possible just being solo with one kid or another, but a lot of times those times feel "functional"--I am taking them somewhere or another, they are just left at home with me while the other does something else, that kind of thing.

Being around Gabby this last weekend showed me how much she has changed. Last school year, I have to say, was a bit of a struggle for us. Gabby was moody, surly, and very nearly overcome with drama at school. It was hard to talk to her at all, much less have any type of meaningful conversation. Any time we had together was a lot of me giving her stern talks about one thing or another. This year she has been phenomenally better--we have all noticed just how much easier daily life is. The best thing is, though, that she really seems to be getting a handle on "who" she is and what she wants her life to be like. This is perhaps one of my favorite things about being a parent so far--seeing this kind of knowledge bloom in a child and watching what she does with it.

Watching her this weekend though, I realized one thing: Gabby is kickass. She is someone that had I known at her age, I would have been completely in awe of. For one thing, when I was in seventh grade, I had no handle on what I was, what I wanted, or what I could be. I was an awkward kid with braces who did much, much better with books than with actual, living people. I had friends, but none that were into the same things as me. To remedy this, I mostly just tried to hide what I was really into, and to be honest, that is something I struggle with even now. Not Gabby. She likes what she likes, and doesn't really care what you think about that. She makes no bones about the fact that no one at her school understands her music, her jokes, the internet memes she is shameless in guffawing at. And she is ok with that. Why wouldn't she be?

Her fashion is also strictly her own. She has a closet full of t-shirts and skinny jeans, mostly all in bright colors. Where she goes crazily off the chain, though, is the accessories. For instance, today I sent her to school wearing a headband that had a Koosh ball attached to it and a pair of orange Dr. Seuss Chuck Taylors. She delights in getting up in the morning and putting together these things. While shopping on Saturday, I asked her if she knew anyone who dressed like her. She just gave me this look, this "God, MOM" look that I know very well because it is my look that I still give to my mom on the regular. And I'm glad she shot me that look too, because I was needed to be reminded that she was in fact mine, and not, say, the love child of Kathleen Hanna and Betsey Johnson.

I have racked my brain all weekend, wondering what I did to make her so awesome, so different from the buck-toothed girl hiding in her huge pants and ratty sweaters. And I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I could write it all here and give you all the secrets, or maybe write a book to be handed out in maternity wards: "How NOT To Have One of Those Kids From the Mall That You Hate." I think I just got really, exorbitantly lucky.

Or maybe it was the internet's doing. For once, THANKS AL GORE!

The hottest trend for Spring: NEON Colored Saliva

Reader AKM, who may be the most wonderful person who has ever lived, alerted me to the fact that you can purchase Cry Baby Tears on Amazon. Why I have not looked there is beyond me. No one ever said I was the sharpest knife in the drawer. The last time I found them was in a seaside candy store in Monterey, CA, and the whole thing was kind of charmed, like running into your kindergarten boyfriend and realizing that you share a love for baby hippos and pizza with pineapple on it and that he looks like Morrissey in his prime. I figured there had to be a little bit of special in the air for me to be reunited with my childhood favorite candy. Turns out there just needs to be a little bit o' Amazon.

So while I was sitting here, trying to debate if $23 for candy comes out of the "food" budget or the "fun" budget, and, more importantly, how many Weight Watchers points one box would come out to, I read the comments from other orderers on Amazon. One person noted that they made his/her teeth hurt and tongue bleed. And that is when I remembered the pure, masochistic joy of this candy. Yes, aside from the weird effect it had on my saliva, I distinctly remember eating so many that my tongue bled. And that the mixture of the salty, metallic blood and the tangy remnants of Cry Baby's was oddly good.

Oh, you're stopping reading now?

I grew up during the halcyon days of the late 80's and early 90's. My mom was a hippie parent compared to most around us--she wouldn't let me drink soda until the tumultuous day when my dad and step-mom gave it to me, and the only fruit roll ups I got were these weird ones that were sold in big baskets at the front of the Food Lion and had pictures of fruit on them (they were basically fruit leathers). [Note: I once got tragically and horribly ill on Gushers that I had snuck into the grocery cart, and my mom basically "I told you so'ed" at me while I was puking.] Still, there weren't a whole lot of rules about my food intake. I got to go to McDonald's when I wanted, and my favorite treat was getting to go to Applebee's and order about 15 lemonades and slurp them all down. For instance, every day when I got to my mom's office after school, I bought a Mello Yello and a honey bun. Think about how much sugar is in that. I did that EVERY DAY for years, saving my change and buying it on the sly while my mom did taxes and probably worried about taking me home to feed me a balanced dinner.

Now, there's the obesity epidemic and the president is telling us all how we should and should not eat. We get mad at Paula Deen because she pushes fatty food while knowing the consequences such a diet can bring. And we look at our children, and we all monitor everything they eat. We worry about developing their palates, about making sure they are getting a variety of colored vegetables. I have sat up at night and worried over my son Sam, because he doesn't like soup. SOUP. How will that affect his daily life? What if he gets a wonderful job but is fired for not eating his boss's chili? What if he becomes homeless because of it? What will he eat because HE CANNOT GO TO A SOUP KITCHEN??!?!

I'm not saying we should all go back to not caring what our kids eat. But it does help to think in terms of moderation. Sure, you should expose your kids to a healthy, wide range of tastes. But when I think about those moments of sitting in the back of our SUV on our way to somewhere or the other, munching on so much brightly colored candy that it caused my mouth to declare war on itself, I can't think of a better memory. I kinda hope that my kids have their own special things like that. And if it is a vegetable that they remember so fondly, I think I'd be a little sad.

I am wearing bright blue eye shadow as I write this, so taking my advice on fashion is purely at your own risk.

I think I forgot to mention in my slurry of Jamaica posts that our bags were lost on the way home. And not just "Oh, it's on the next flight up here, we'll bring it to you shortly" lost. Like "HOLY FUCK WE HAVE NO RECORD OF YOUR BAGS EXISTING LIKE EVER" lost. Once we came through customs in Boston, we brought our bags to be checked right back in so we didn't have to tote them to our hotel and then they entered some kind of nega-universe, time warp thing. And I'm not going to bore you here with the drama of us calling US Airways 15 times or checking the internet site 47 million times or Matt's pure anguish in realizing that his FAVORITE Einstein shirt was in that bag ("THOSE MAGNIFICENT BASTARDS BETTER NOT LOSE MY SHIRT!"). What is really important to know is that my make-up was in that bag, and on Monday I had to go to work with no make up.

HOLY.

SHIT BALLS.

In my family, going to work with no make-up is akin to walking to work in your underwear whilst carrying a nice juicy rib-eye for the neighborhood dogs. YOU JUST DON'T DO IT. Which explains why, with all the drama that was going on, I was sending Facebook messages to my Mary Kay consultant, imploring her for samples. And, because she is amazingly awesome, she came through. The next morning, her mom showed up to my office with a bag piled full of samples and one perfectly wonderful Lindor truffle. And the world continued spinning and I didn't have to call in a bomb threat to US Airways. Not that I thought of doing that at all.

(Yes, we finally got our bags back.)

So, I have used all those samples, constructing a different look everyday. Today, I was feeling spry, so I stuck my hand down in the still-full bag, closed my eyes, and pulled out shadow in Azure, which at first glance, I was like, "That is the same color as the water in Jamaica! It should be called Caribbean Blue." And while it should, that's a pretty douchey thing to think, don't you think? THERE ARE STARVING BABIES IN THE WORLD AND WOMEN WHO NEED MAMMOGRAMS. Now I know the self-loathing Mitt Romney must feel on a day to day basis, and it almost makes me feel something for the man. Ok. No, it doesn't.

ANYWAY, I have it on today, and yeah, it is bright, and when I put it on for the first time, I was like "WOAH NELLY." But now, I have to say, I kinda love it. And I kinda want it to be mine. I feel like if anyone notices or asks today, I can just say I am paying homage to Superbowl Halftime Performer, Madonna. TOPICAL. (I want to add here that I took a picture of my eye with my cell phone, but I didn't share it because it looked creepy, like a picture you might see on the killer's wall in a bad Criminal Minds episode. Just say no to eye photos.)

And I guess the bright eye shadow has me feeling an 80's vibe, because today since I am starting a new Friday tradition that will soon rule ALL our lives (Fashion and Beauty Friday--HOLLA AT YOUR GIRL), I am talking about NEON. And not Fleming-Neon, which is a high school marching band in Kentucky that is near where I grew up and who wore uniforms the same color as our marching band uniforms, and really, where do they get off doing that, and seriously, this is what I think of every time I say or think of the word "neon." Rather, neon clothing and accessories, which are having a bit of a moment this spring. While there is a huge "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" feel to say, a neon yellow bag, I have to say, I kinda like the trend. Maybe because I am just more prone to color when this time of year comes around. ANY COLOR. And because it is 60 degrees outside in February, and so I've just decided that it is time for spring, no matter what the calendar tells me.

But, there is a big disconnect between "liking" a trend on racks or on others, and actually wearing it. I find myself gravitating, more and more, to blacks and grays and some purples. So would I really wear a neon pair of pants? Hmmm. Even more problematic is a neon purse, like the one I saw at Target the other day. How weird would that look with the things that are already in my wardrobe? Let's see: PRETTY WEIRD. And even if it didn't, even if it looked cute with a black dress, how comfortable would I be with how the look influenced my own personal style? Is that worth whatever money I put down on it? Maybe not.

But then I saw this sweater, and I thought that perhaps this could be the marijuana to the rest of the trend's collective crack:

I adore the brightness of this sweater, the sunny feel. Yellow is a hard color to wear, granted, but how good would it feel to have this in your closet on a gray day? And, the good thing about it, is that it is not full-on acid yellow. Believe me--I have a 12 year old daughter who has been rocking the neon trend for a couple of years now. I KNOW ACID YELLOW. This is a gateway drug. You could wear this with black pants or denim trousers and fun jewelry or you could colorblock it with a bright pencil (or even more fun--a skirt in a fun print), and belt it with a turquoise or orange skinny belt. You could put your feelers out for more bright colors and see what else feels good. Who knows? Before long, you could be picking up that neon messenger bag at Target and knowing full-well what you are going to pair with it.

I don't know if I would wear it with the blue eye shadow.

So, before closing, I have to share a Great Neon Moment from the late 80's/early 90's. When I was a kid, my Granddaddy Jack would often give my cousin Amanda and me each a dollar and let us walk to the store about half a mile from his house. He would follow us a few minutes later in his awesome Oldsmobile and buy us a box of cookies and cream ice cream. The store was made of metal and smelled like Pall Malls and feed, which is the only thing that it really sold. Amanda and I would get there and look through the dusty candy and soda bottles and pick out something really awesome to buy. Usually for me, it was Cry Baby Tears, the sour hard candy, which did really, really weird things to your saliva. (Note: If anyone knows where I can buy this candy now, I'd love you forever.) One day, we went down there, and low and behold, they had this pair of neon green shoe laces. They were 99 cents. SCORE. I picked them up and told Amanda I was forgoing the candy and getting the shoe laces instead. Fashion to the core, you see. She informed me that I couldn't, and that I'd need extra money for tax. I hated the US government so much in that moment that it is a wonder that I haven't joined a militia group. I kept them in my hand, though, and followed Amanda around the store, basically begging here for the extra four cents. My grandfather showed up about that time and saw what I wanted, and said he'd buy them for me, "because with those things on your feet, I'd always see you comin.' "

Moral of the story: 1) I am an awful cousin, 2) My grandfather was great, and 3) Neon brings families together.

Things I've Learned About the World from Perusing Pinterest

This comes to mind....

You know, I freaking love the internet. It is awesome. I can sit at my desk at work, do my job, listen to Bowie at the Beeb on Pandora, get up to date news from Twitter and see what my friends are doing on Facebook. I spend my lunch everyday, reading the Blind Items on Gawker either on my desk computer or on my phone. It is my guilty pleasure--a very spicy sub from Subway ("So you like a little sub with your burning sensation?" said the sandwich guy the other day) and a bit of speculation over who may or may not be gay in Hollywood. NOT THAT THERE IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT. Even more indicative of my love and respect for Al Gore's creation is the fact that I am raising my children to love it too. Gabby is probably the most up-to-date internet kid that I know. She always knows about meme's before I do, seems to have an uncanny ability to get to a Wikipedia page before you've even asked her a question, and delights in being connected (don't worry-we do monitor her use, and cut off her Wi-Fi use at night).

BUT...nothing can make me madder than the internet. In fact, while I'm fixing dinner at night, my husband and I will very often find ourselves standing near the counter, drinking a glass of wine and detailing someone's Facebook activities during the day. There is a lot of eyerolling and a lot of "Where do they get off!" kinda stuff. This usually goes into a tired conversation we have about liking someone's offline persona a lot more than we like the person's online persona. And of course, we then start second guessing our own activities: "Did I come across as a douchebagess then?" or "Do you think my parents can tell what a foul-mouthed socialist I am?" (GUESS WHO WONDERS THAT?)

Pinterest adds a whole 'nother layer to that. I've detailed my thoughts on Pinterest before, and I have to say, I oscillate wildly on a day to day basis on whether I even like it or not. But I keep going back, just like I go back to McDonald's even though they keep fucking up my unsweetteawithlemonandfoursplenda. I go because part of me wonders what will happen next. It is just like getting on Facebook to read about the lives of people you grew up with just so you can feel a tiny bit more secure in your own particular brand of fuckery.

You can also learn things. Here's what I've learned.

1. People do some crazy ass shit to newborn babies. Having a baby is not fun. NEWSFLASH. Your body does stuff that it really ought not do, and then instead of getting to recover like it would, say, if an eight pound blob of flesh came popping out of your eyesocket, you have to go through a period of time where you're not getting much sleep and everyone wants to see you. After my kids were born, I spent every waking moment either trying to figure out how to get them back to sleep or how I was going to get to sleep again. Because newborns don't do anything. They are not fun yet. It is best just to let them sleep until they become real people. But you know what? The people on Pinterest didn't get that memo. You know what they're doing with their newborns? Putting them in fucking cowboy boots. For real, ya'll. I SAW THAT. A baby put in a boot. Like its body is in the boot, and the head is just there on top, like the cherry on top of redneck sundae. And not just once. A bunch of times, with assorted commentary like "Can't wait to do this with little Baighleigh!" or "SOOOOOOOOOOO CUTE!" No, folks, it is not cute. It is kind of bordering on abuse. All that baby wants is to sleep and have someone stick a nice full boob in its face every couple of hours. It doesn't want to be photographed, it doesn't want to have a huge fucking flower headband on its head, IT DOES NOT LIKE YOUR CHOICE OF FOOTWEAR. Leave it alone, and get some sleep so you don't push your crazy on the internet.

This is just one egregious example of newborn baby photography on Pinterest. I hate all of it. It is my not-so-secret hope that the newborns of the world will be given super smart serum and soon be able to overthrow their photographic overlords. The streets will be black with the broken hulls of Canon Rebels.

2. The only thing women love more than cupcakes is photographs of perfect six-pack abs. One day, I seriously did a count of number of baked goods to "thinspiration" photographs of Victoria's Secret models on the Pinterest "Everything" page. It is a strikingly similar number. It is especially rocking awesome when it comes from the same person in back-to-back posts: "Oh, here's a picture I love of a brownie drenched in caramel and then covered in ice cream and a sauce made purely of butter, cream cheese and heavy whipping cream. Making this next week!" and then "Someday I'll have abs like Gisele's! Fingers crossed!" My GOD, people. First off, the "thinspiration" stuff is sickening. Get healthy because you want to be healthy, because you want to live long enough to see Newt Gingrich die in a caustic explosion of evil, Old Spice and his own self-importance. It is not ok to starve yourself just so you can reach an ideal that is unattainable to 99.5% of the population, because SPOILER ALERT, it is not going to work. And even if you were to reach that ideal (or close to it) you wouldn't get there by posting pictures on a virtual pinboard. I suggest some running and maybe some sit-ups.

3. The more pictures you pin of living areas that are supposedly "just like mine," the more I will assume that you are a hoarder who stepped over three dead cats to make her morning joe.

4. People love looking at pictures of wedding dresses and nurseries. Even if they are neither getting married nor expecting a child. You know, I was going to complain about the emphasis on weddings on Pinterest, but you know what? I've expressed my ideas about weddings before, and really, I think using Pinterest to prepare for a wedding is a great idea. For instance, you can find pictures on the internet of things both wacky and conservative and cull them together to create your perfect day. Awesome. What gets weird is when you see people who are not engaged, or, even better, already married, picking out things as if they were getting ready to go through the whole process. Surely there is something more deserving of your time. Like...you could volunteer to read to the elderly...or get a part-time job so you can pay off your crippling debt....or, let's face it, just pin more pictures of Ryan Gosling eating nutella cheesecake to your board and remain pantsless.

5. There are some batshit crazy people on the internet, and they like Pinterest too. For every 20 or so normal Pinterest type postings on the "Everything" board (i.e., cakes, babies, rooms, boots), you get at least one thing that is just so fucking nuts, you really wonder why anyone would have even known it existed, much less thought they should post it to an online pinboard. Recipes for offal in which the cover photo doesn't even look like something of this planet? YES PLEASE. Facepainting tips for Insane Clown Posse juggalos? OH HELLZ YEAH. Private family photos in which someone is not wearing a shirt? YEPPERS, THAT'S A ROGER. So, really, Pinterest, like Facebook before it, is the great social equivalent, letting the crazy mingle with the disturbingly normal in a great virtual melting pot.

Wait...did someone say melting pot? Pictures of chocolate dripping? I MUST PIN THAT PICTURE TO SHOW YOU THAT I LIKE CHOCOLATE.

On Top of Things

Yesterday, when I left work, I had plans to make today a day where I was purely and amazingly on top of things. I had planned my outfit, featuring a pair of J.Crew Minnie's that I just sprung for for a late birthday present. I had printed off healthy Weight Watchers friendly recipes for breakfast and dinner that I could buy the ingredients for and put in the slow cooker. I made big plans to grocery shop, head home, and then spend my evening finishing with the unpacking and laundry, and at some point, finally use the box of hair dye that has been languishing below my sink to make myself a deeper brunette and then cut my bangs.

And while I would love to say that I succeeded, I probably wouldn't be writing about it if I had. No, it turns out that while I have two slow cookers (one to use overnight for steel-cut oats and the other to fill with bolognese sauce for dinner), one had been languishing on top of our cabinets for God knows how long (because really, who needs two slow cookers?) and was covered with a greasy, icky film that I had neither time nor desire to really attack. So the steel cut oats were put off until tomorrow. I did manage to get the bolognese prepared and put into the slow cooker insert for tonight's dinner, but the mincing of the vegetables took so long that I ended up leaving a few dishes on the counter, dishes that smelled of the vegetable curry from last night and greeted me with a start this morning (this all could have been avoided had I remembered that I have a shiny new food processor just for this kind of thing). During the whole time that I was mincing those veggies, Alice was milling about my legs saying "Mommy, I tire, Mommy, I tire," and I kept saying, "Hold on, Allie, Mommy's making dinner," which really just confused the absolute hell out of her since we had just had dinner. When I finally sat down to get her to sleep, she was well past the point of no return, so she ended up sitting on the couch and eating my Special K crackers and watching Sesame Street while I passed out in bed with my book splayed over the pile of grapes on my chest.

I got up this morning, still with high hopes. But as I slipped into my new pants, I realize that they are just enough too tight to make wearing them for an 8 hour workday a tortuous proposition. The bad thing about where I am right now, weight-wise, is that I am between two sizes. Pants in the next size up are swimming on me by the end of the day, but there is that uncomfortable pinch in the next size down. So as I pulled them back off, I reminded myself that this is what Weight Watchers is for, this is why I ponied up for the service, this is why I intend on making February my TRACK EVERYTHING month. Easy enough, no "I'm too fat to live!" moments. I put on the denim trousers that I love and that I sigh in thinking will be too big by the end of the month if I work the plan the way I should and a cheery tank and a cardigan. Again, yeah, it is a uniform, but it works. And then I cut my bangs quickly and happily, tried some new colors of make-up from the plethora of samples that my Mary Kay consultant gave me, and went on my somewhat-merry way.

I say all this, not to give you an insider's glance at what constitutes a morning in my house (because really, I haven't gotten into the messy tango that is getting my two oldest children ready for school), but really to remind myself, and maybe you too, that perfection isn't possible. You make plans and if they don't get shot all to hell, you find yourself in the tenuous situation of trying to do as much as you can while the quicksand beneath your feet does its best to make sure that doesn't happen. No matter what I plan and what I imagine myself being--a thin-ish girl in black cigarette pants and heels--there is the unknown other that doesn't want that, that would much rather have me eating a bowl full of pasta with butter and salt, watching a Hoarders marathon. And that is my struggle. Perhaps it is yours too.

One way I want to slay this unknown is to really commit myself to Weight Watchers, so starting today, February 1, I am going to try to track everything I eat. I am such a mindless eater--a few of the kid's chips here, a handful of popcorn there, a small candy bar to eat on the way home from the store without even tasting it--and those things never get tracked. So that is my commitment. I also need to drink more water. I also need to plan meals for myself and the family better than I have been doing. Both Monday and Tuesday, I found myself in the grocery section of Wal-Mart at 5:00, talking to my husband on the phone as I walked around pulling stuff off the shelves that we "needed." According to Matt, we needed chips and Ranch dip and that is a perfectly acceptable side dish. When I reminded him about the Weight Watchers, he goes, "And chips and dip are bad? Well, I guess they are...." YOU GUESS? Fried potatoes dipped into sour cream MIGHT be bad. This is when one realizes they are married to Paula Deen, minus the diabetes and with a faster metabolism.

It is so strange to think about creating real, lasting change in one's life. On one hand, you feel that it must be so easy to just finally get your shit together, to create a home worthy of Pinterest pictures, to fashion a healthy lifestyle. But there are reasons why people strive for this and never quite get there--namely, it is hard. All one can do is to keep trying, I suppose, and temper those moments of planned perfection with the slothful moments in a Snuggie. The one victory I see for myself is that I am no longer hit with crazy, wild-eyed depression and anxiety when I find myself unable to measure up to those thoughts of perfection. I roll with the punches more--I go to my denim trousers and my new make-up and fashion myself back into happiness. Perhaps this is the true perfection.