this week

I wanted to take a quick minute and let you all know that this week is Banned Books Week. I find it so frustrating that people criticize books they've never read, but to try and ban them is just ridiculous to me. Granted, I realize parents have the right to monitor what their children read (and they should monitor it), but eliminating books from schools or libraries just because you have a personal objection to them seems so medieval. (Okay, I know there's a better word for this, but my pregnant brain cannot come up with it. Ironic, no?) Anyway, I've been steadily working my way through the list of the 100 most frequently banned/challenged books (I feel it's my duty to give the government something to do. Did you know that according to the Patriot Act, they can obtain copies of your library records without your knowledge? Fabulous, isn't it?), and I figured I'd share my information, in case anyone else is annoyed by the Big Brother-like intrusion of our current administration. So, if you feel like celebrating your freedom (and have time), grab a book from that list (or preferably check it out from your local library- just in case they're watching you) and get reading. Might I suggest my favorite book series of all time? It just happens to be first on the list.

yay, lists!

I apologize for my recent slacking in the blogging department (not commenting on your posts, not replying to your comments on mine, not posting in general), but things have been a little crazy around here. How so? you wonder. Let me enlighten you.

1. Last week was school vacation, and I volunteered to take not only my own two kids, but also Jen's three to a teeny-tiny hotel room an hour and a half away from home, where Jen would meet us and we'd all spend a relaxing three days frolicking in the pool and visiting some quiet not-crowded local kid-friendly spots. (No, no, it's okay... I'll wait while you laugh. It's cool; I'd laugh too, if it hadn't happened to me. And please don't ask, I haven't been able to figure out what in God's name I was thinking.) Care to guess how it went? In my defense, I'd like to say that things probably would have gone better had Magic Baby not chosen that day to come down with a temperature of a million degrees. See, 'cause if he had not been all warm and clingy and miserable, one of us would actually have been able to get the kids out of the shoebox we were calling a room and take them swimming. As it was, I was too busy trying to keep him comfortable and figure out why the hell he was breathing so fast to be of much help to the other kids. So, um, yeah... great vacation. We're going to be doing that again real soon.

2. Magic Baby decided to bring the uber-high fever home with him, you know as a souvenir. He was mopey and medicated and not sleeping well from Wednesday until Tuesday at which point he recovered, realized he had missed almost a week of causing mayhem and promptly went to work making up for lost time. Which means that not only am I exhausted, but also that I'm expected to be back on "Toddler Patrol." You are all so jealous of me right now, aren't you!

3. In the 'good' department, my family and I went to see Jesus Christ Superstar last night. WITH the original Jesus!! (Okay, not the original Jesus, but the one from the movie and stuff.) For most people that might not be a huge deal, but for some reason JCS has reached cult status in my family. My brother, cousins and I all grew up listening to it and are now able to not only sing every single word from every single song, but also to do so loudly. And off-key. We've all (except for Kathryn, our JCS newbie) seen the show at least once before (not to mention watched the movie a million times), but we were all still super excited. Because it's Jesus Christ Superstar! And it was with the original Jesus! (Well, not the origi... oh, you know.) Seriously, I don't know if I can express how into this show we are. You know how some people are with The Rocky Horror Picture Show? That's us with JCS, only we start young. (As an aside, this has led to some very interesting religion-related stories. Like the time in church on Easter when the priest asked what happened at the Last Supper and my brother raised his hand. My parents looked on proudly as the priest called my five-year-old brother's name and asked him to tell the entire congregation. Heck, my parents probably even elbowed their neighbors, mouthing "That's my boy!" as my brother proclaimed "The Apostles got drunk!" Sorry, Mom and Dad, but you brought that on yourselves; after all, it's not like we would be listening to JCS at that young an age without someone introducing us to it. Then there was the time I showed the movie to my husband for the first time and he commented that it must have been very progressive and controversial of them to cast a black man as Judas, seeing as it was the '70s and all. I looked at him for a minute and said (in honest disbelief) "... Judas wasn't black?" Again, I blame my parents.) Anyway, we're a bit obsessed with the show so it was a really great night.

4. It was also a night about which I'd like to lodge a complaint. If I am north of my intended location, and I take a highway labeled "South" I should, theoretically at least, eventually reach my destination (or at least pretty close) right? Apparently not. Which is why I didn't get home until about 2 a.m. after the show. Good times.

5. Regardless of this incident, I've decided I'm really glad to live where I do. It's far enough away from a big city that I'm not really living in "a city" while still being close enough that I can go see plays and musicals pretty frequently. I love this, because I am a huge fan of live theater. There's nothing like it, except live dance, which can also be found less than 15 minutes from my house! So, yay for where I live!

What else has kept me away from my blogging friends? Knitting, of course, but as it's late and I'm tired (remember, a sick baby and then out 'til 2 getting lost last night?) you'll just have to wait for my next post to get your woollen curiosity sated. You naughty bloggers, you! (Sorry; did I mention I'm tired?)

all alone

Hubby took Magic Baby with him on his weekly visitation with Big Sister tonight, leaving me all alone. (Tragic, I know.) What do you think I did with my free time? Any guesses? I... (wait for it)... cleaned the house. That's right. No one was home but me and I cleaned the freakin' house. For three hours. (Do me a favor and ignore the fact that my house was dirty enough to necessitate a three hour cleaning. 'K? Thanks.) During this cleaning frenzy, I did a lot of thinking. (Because, really, what else is there to do when you're cleaning?) And I realized a few things.

1. Cleaning sucks. (Pun intended.) There's no other way to look at it. I don't care who you are, neat freak, obsessive-compulsive, whatever. No one actually enjoys cleaning. It's just not possible.
2. You know that lovely saying "A mother's work is never done." Get this, it's true. 'Cos no matter how many freakin' loads of laundry you do, how many times you wash the dishes, how many times you clean the toilet, they're just going to get dirty again. And soon. And that means... you get the joy of cleaning them all over again! I really can't stress how much I hate this aspect of housework. It all seems so futile, don't you think? Some days I really don't even want to bother. Honestly, how did those '50s housewives do it? And in heels and dresses. Hey, maybe that's the secret. Get all dressed up to wash dishes?

Yeah, not working for me either.

3. There is way more to cleaning a house than I thought before I actually owned one. Sure, growing up I did chores and helped out around the house and stuff, but there are things you have to do once the house is actually yours that no one bothers to tell you. These include (but are not limited to):

• a. Dusting. I always thought dusting was the easy job Mom gave whichever kid was better behaved that week, or the one you could give to the three-year-old so he felt like he was helping, too, but now that the responsibility of cleaning an entire house is mine, I see that if you don't dust at least once in a while, the place gets really dusty. Go figure.

• b. Changing the sheets. Okay, this one I don't even understand. I mean, 90% of the time all you're doing in bed is sleeping. (Okay, 98% of the time. And you can bet that if I told you you'd never have to change the sheets again if you slept the other 2% of the time, there would be even more women with "headaches" than there are already.) How the hell do the sheets get dirty? You're. Just. Sleeping. And yet, the sheets need to be changed regularly. (Personally, I think this is a conspiracy involving the laundry detergent companies, sheet manufactures and neighborhood Peeping Toms who get their kicks watching people struggle with the stupid fitted sheets, but I digress.)
  
• c. Cleaning the windows. I realize I'm saying this as the mother of an almost-two year old who has recently discovered that not only can he climb on the window seat we have, but also that doing so affords him a splendid view of the squirrels in the front yard. (Not to mention that it gives Mommy a heart attack. That's just an added bonus.) Seriously, though, the windows were so smudged we haven't had to close the curtains in weeks, which is probably a good thing since I sewed the curtains myself and they don't really like to be opened and shut a whole lot.

(Hey, did you like my Clever Use of An Outline there? Yep, 18 years of school; don't tell me I'm not putting it to good use.)

And really, this is stuff that has to be done in every house. It's not like I'm a neat freak or anything, just in case the whole 'my house needed to be cleaned for three hours thing' didn't tip you off. If you don't want to look like a slob, you're expected to do these thing. Often. But what can I do? It's either clean it or look like a terrible person. What kind of a choice is that? Although, to be completely honest I have a reputation for looking like a terrible person. A lot.



Anyway, I'm done cleaning now and I'm also done ranting. In the nick of time, too, because Hubby just walked in with the boy. That's okay, though. I have no qualms about knitting while Hubby puts Magic Baby to bed. After all, my housework's done! For now, anyway.

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I'm still looking for some people to agree to take part in the Pay It Forward! Come on people, I know don't have a ton of people who read this blog, but I would feel like a total loser if I couldn't even find three people willing to continue this exchange. (That's right, I'll guilt you if I have to!) So far I have


1. Kathryn

Yeah, that's it. One person. You don't have to knit, you just have to agree to give something handmade to the first three people who respond to your blog post. AND you get something from me. You know you want to...

the coolness of me, and generation why?

Pay It Forward- “I will send a handmade gift to the first 3 people who leave a comment on my blog requesting to join this PIF exchange. I don’t know what that gift will be yet and you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days, that is my promise! The only thing you have to do in return is pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog.”

I signed up to do this on Amy's blog. Now, if there are three people reading my blog who are willing to take part in this Pay It Forward, comment on this post and I'll send you something handmade! In turn, post the above info on your blog and we'll keep this thing going.

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Over the weekend, I ditched the husband and kids for a bit and hung out with some of my cousins. They're college students now, ten years younger than I am, and we took a trip to Thayer Street in Providence. For those not in the know, Thayer Street is the place for all the cool Brown and RISD students. It's lined with funky, independent stores, and usually packed with young, hip, artsy types. In good weather, there are all kinds of musicians on the sidewalks with their instruments, and there are always tons of dreadlocked hippies floating around. During high school and college, I loved shopping on Thayer Street; not as much for the stores (although there are some good ones) as for the atmosphere. There are all kinds of people there and I always liked how five minutes on that street could make me feel wicked cool and simultaneously not cool enough.

It's been awhile since my last visit, and I was a little disappointed to see many of my old favorite independent stores were gone (and replaced with quite a few big-name ones). No matter, though, surely the vibe was the same, and so the cousins and I trekked on. We visited store after store, mostly just browsing. The bead store, the Army/Navy Surplus store, the candy shop, the funky toy store, the second-hand clothes shops, the Birkenstock store. We hit them all. It was at the bead store that I began to sense a change in Thayer Street. For some reason, I wasn't getting as much enjoyment from window shopping there as I had in the past. A decade ago I could (and frequently did) spend hours on Thayer Street and maybe visit two or three stores. Now, ten minutes into the bead store and I was getting impatient. I wanted the kids to hurry up; I wanted to go to a different store. I wasn't buying anything at that particular shop and I saw no reason to stay. Sure, some of the girls were buying jewelry, but I really thought they should just hurry up and pick out the dern beads already. I mean, twenty minutes looking at beads? Come on. They're nice, but they're not yarn or anything. Finally we left, and I was glad. I felt sure, now that we were out of that silly store, that the familiar feeling of fitting in that I had always previously experienced there would take over and I would enjoy myself. This was, after all, Thayer Street. The place for cool people. And I am nothing if not cool.

So, we went into store after store after store, and in each one I grew impatient after a time. It slowly dawned on me that, yes, Thayer Street had changed. There were more chain stores and fewer independent ones. There were many stores with wireless internet and most people were sporting ipods. But something else had changed, too. I had. I was no longer a young, hip college student with lofty, peaceful ideals and while I'd still like to end global warming and "make a difference," I know I have too many commitments and responsibilities now to take off and join The Peace Corps. My "rebellion" is limited to cloth diapers and a pin that says "I read banned books" on my knitting bag. I've become "real" and I don't really fit in with the young 'uns anymore.

After a quick look in a few stores, I was ready to go home. This of course depressed me, but I stuck it out and tried to act like I was having a great time. On the way back to our car (something like 18 hours later), I saw an advertisement on a telephone pole for free guitar lessons. Immediately, I thought of a book I've been reading. The book was originally published in the late '60s and it talks about a free college that was running at that time in one hip city or another. The way it worked was, anyone who had a talent could offer to teach it, and anyone who wanted to learn anything that was being offered could just go. No money involved, no "establishment" to deal with. Just you teach me, I'll teach you. (A philosophy, I thought, that was quite appropriate on a street full of pink-haired mohawked college kids who at least looked like they were ready to "fight the man.") I brought this subject up with my cousins, explaining how the school worked and the philosophy behind it. Then, I asked why things like that don't happen anymore. I was wondering when society had changed so much, from the free-love and peaceful idealism of the '60s to, well, now. Someone brushed it off with a "That's because we're living in a crazy world." "NO!" I replied emphatically, "That's not a good enough reason!" I was all set to launch into a lengthy diatribe about how things should change, and they could change, but it was up to them, their generation, to set things right. Before I could get up much steam, though, one of the girls said "I wish I was a child of the '60s." Thoughts went racing through my head- "Yes! She gets it! She understands how the people then were at least trying to do something! Maybe I'm too old for Thayer Street and maybe my generation is quickly losing it's opportunity to change the world, but that's okay as long as someone from the next generation understands! There's still hope for a better tomorrow!" Then my cousin continued, "My hair's so straight. It would have looked so good then."




I wonder why the world is the way it is? I may just have my answer.

a wish your heart makes?

Why is it that when I finally, finally dream of Johnny Depp, he's a zombie clone out to kill my daughter? That is just not fair, although I did get to use some pretty great weapons against him: my aluminum #11s. Don't worry, I hadn't cast anything on yet.

you can't be serious

So without getting too into my love life, let's just say that when I met my now husband, I was dating his best friend. Yeah, I know that sounds uber-trashy, but it really wasn't, I swear. My ex dumped me way before Hubby and I ever got together, and besides he turned out to be kind of a loser. (My ex-boyfriend, not my husband.) Anyway, to compound that weirdness- my husband's father used to date my ex-boyfriend's mother. (God, we sound really freaky and, like, inbred when I think about it.) This means that both my ex and his mom came to my father-in-law's wake last year. (So, yeah, seeing them there was awkward.) And then today, Hubby gets an email from... my ex. Apparently he just wanted to say "Hi." Am I the only one who finds this odd? I mean, they stopped being friends before Hubby and I even started dating, so they haven't really spoken in seven or eight years, and now my ex emails to say "How's it going?" I don't know. I'm kind of weirded out by this. It's not like I should care if they talk or hang out or whatever; I put up with my husband's ex (Big Sister's mom) on a regular basis, so this should be no big deal. If anything, my husband should be freaked out about spending time with my ex, right? And yet, it doesn't seem to phase him. I suppose I should be grateful that they're both acting all mature and stuff. I mean, I know we're adults here, but honestly, I don't really want to see him. (Again, I'm talking about my ex, not Hubby.) Especially in a hanging out-type of situation. Obviously, if I wanted to hang out with him, I would have made more of an effort to keep dating him. Or I'd have tried to do the whole "staying friends" thing. Or at the very least, I'd have stalked him. And I know I should just tell Hubby that I don't want them being friends, but that seems so high school to me. "You can't be his friend because he dumped me and now I don't want to be his friend and I don't want you to be his friend either. And also, Sally says to tell you that she heard Tommy say that Laura thinks you're cute." Plus, I've always told him that I didn't want to stand in the way of their friendship. (At the time, I thought this was very mature of me; I never actually thought he'd take me up on it.) And Hubby's the kind of guy that if I told him all this, he'd never talk to my ex again. But then I know I'd feel guilty, like, forever. I'm big on holding onto guilt.
So, basically, I'm not sure what to do. It would have been so much easier if he'd never emailed. I guess I'll just wait and see what happens down the line. Let me tell you, though, if Hubby ever has a shindig and invites both my ex and his, there's no way I'm going. I'll just lock myself in my room in my frilly party dress, throw myself on the bed and scream "I'm not coming out and YOU CAN'T MAKE ME." How's that for mature?

that kind of day

This is what my house looks like.This is what my refrigerator looks like.

This is what I look like.

At least the knitting is coming along nicely.

(Ha! You'll have to wait until tomorrow for pictures of that!)

Unfortunately, while the other photos were found on the internet, the one of my house is actually a picture of my house. Nice one, Magic Baby.

uncertainties

Magic Baby will be 2 in February. This means I've started to get the "When's the next one?" questions. (Actually, I started getting those a little while ago, but at the time I was still nursing the baby. Looking for a way to get those annoying people to bugger off? Tell them your doctor said you should wait until you've stopped lactating. That'll have them changing the subject. After an awkward pause, of course.) Hubby and I have been discussing it (without getting into detail, we've even taken the necessary steps with the doctor) and theoretically it's possible I could get pregnant any day now. The thing is, I'm not sure. With Magic Baby I knew 100% that I wanted a baby right then, even though the timing wasn't perfect. (I had just gotten accepted into a one-year Master's program in Education of the Deaf at a school two hours away. I was actually living there over the summer, taking my first semester of classes when I found out I was pregnant.) I wanted to be a mom. I wanted the cute baby smell and the soft baby skin. I wanted the tiny baby clothes and I wanted to have a "nursery." That's not to say I was naive. I started babysitting when I was 10. I have a million younger cousins and I spent most of my free time in high school watching at least one of them. Plus, I had helped Hubby with Big Sister all along. So it's not like I didn't know about the other side of kids. I knew about the poop. And how they never seem to want to go to sleep, no matter how tired and cranky they are. I knew about temper tantrums and spit up. I had gone through it all, and I was ready.
So, back to when I found out I was pregnant. I was thrilled! I took a hiatus from college, finished student teaching for my first Master's and started the stay-at-home mom gig. Obviously, it hasn't always been easy. My son is very much a boy. A rambunctious boy who is ALWAYS INTO EVERYTHING, and he certainly keeps me busy, but I honestly enjoy him, and everything about being a mom. (Well, almost everything. The saggy boobs I could do without, but I believe I may have mentioned that before.) The thing is, now that I have Magic Baby and Big Sister, I'm not sure about having more. I have always pictured myself surrounded by, like twelve kids, and some days I think this would be perfect. Other times I'm not sure I want things to change from the way they are now. And here's the crazy thing: It's not for any of the usual, normal reasons. It's not because kids are a ton of work, or because I'm so tired sometimes at the end of the day I can't even think, never mind knit. Or blog. It's because I really like having one-on-one time with Magic Baby and I know that time would decrease once I had another child. I also know I wouldn't be able to have as much alone time with the actual baby, either. I realize this is what happens with second children and that it happens every day. Still, I know I'd miss the special time Magic Baby and I have now, and I'm sure I'd want it just as much with the new baby. Also, I feel like I've just gotten to a point where Magic Baby is, well, fun. He sort of gets some of my jokes. He can do some things on his own. He's interested in things other than food. He actually has a personality, and I'm not too sure I'm ready to start over with another one.
Then, of course, I remember the good parts about babies. The (good) smell and the softness and the cuddles and the way they're totally dependant on you. And then I want another one. Now. Plus, Magic Baby is getting bigger and while he's uber-affectionate now, I don't think that will last much longer. I can tell he's going to be too interested in exploring the world to want to cling to his Mommy, and that's fine. That's great even; I want him to be independent. I just also want someone to snuggle with and care for. So maybe a baby is the way to go. Or maybe I should just pay more attention to my husband.

happy thanksgiving

I am thankful for my wonderful husband, who is putting a tired baby boy to bed right now. And who will most likely fall asleep himself in the process.

I am thankful for an active, healthy, inquisitive son whose big brown eyes help me remember to see the wonder in the world. Even when I've already seen that particular wonder fifteen times that morning.

I am thankful for a strong, independent, spirited daughter whose antics bring a smile to my face. Most of the time.

I am thankful for loving, supportive parents who treat my children like royalty. Even when the royals are behaving badly.

I am thankful I got to spend time with all of them today.

asl

(A word to the wise- Don't get your significant other into blogging. If he's anything like mine, he'll hog the computer and seriously cut into your posting time.)

Anyway,
For the past three years or so, I've taken classes in American Sign Language, which I absolutely love. At the beginning of this semester, we had to pretend we owned a small store. Let me tell you, it took me, like twenty seconds to decide what kind of a store I would have. Any guesses? Here's a clue: it's a yarn shop. What I didn't know was that we were going to have to design the store (way too much fun, btw), then present it to the class and have them "shop" there. I felt pretty dorky when I realized this, as all of the other stores were either coffee shops, grocery stores, or pet stores. And there I was trying to explain the difference between cotton and wool- in sign language. As a result of all this, I've learned a few things. First, if you are not a knitter (which was, oh, everyone in my class), you cannot comprehend spending $16 on a skein of sock yarn. (We won't even get into the discussions on the cost of handspun alpaca.) Second, my teacher is not all that familiar with the signs for knitters' jargon, which means I had to fingerspell a lot of it. Then I had to spell it again, since the class was pretty convinced I didn't actually spell b-a-m-b-o-o y-a-r-n. Surely no such yarn exists. Lastly, I enjoyed owning my own yarn shop way more than I should. Even if the store was fake. And even if it was full of non-knitters. And even though I couldn't actually knit while I pretended to work there. (Leave it to me to study the one language that you simply cannot speak while knitting. Yeah, you kind of need full use of your hands for this one.) It really was fun to admire the (pretend) hanks of beautiful handspun yarn hanging from the rafters in my old-barn-converted-to-a-yarn-shop (I took that from The Wool Patch) or to (imagine) see(ing) the sock yarns snuggled together in bins by the (fake) register. Not to mention the pleasure of rescuing (imaginary) non-knitters from the (very real) dark side. This experience has made me realize not only that owning a yarn store would be amazingly cool, but also that it may be time to up my medications, since clearly the hallucinations have returned.
Oh well. At least they're pretty.

paging judy blume

I may be divulging way too much information, but here goes.

I noticed two things today. First, my 7 1/2 year old step-daughter is beginning to, um, develop certain things. Second, my certain things are beginning to, um, sag. I'm not sure which upsets me more. Actually, that's a total lie. The fact that I'm, let's say, less perky than before was way more depressing. I mean, the grey hairs I let slide. The ten-year high school reunion I enjoyed, but sagging? Come on, I'm not even 30! I realize this is a natural occurrence, one I can chalk up to having been pregnant, giving birth and nursing my son for 20 months (not to mention everyone's pal gravity), but that doesn't make this any easier. (By the way, if you happen to be a woman who nursed all eight of her kids until they were teenagers and still manages to naturally have the breasts of an 18 year-old, please don't comment on this post. Let me keep my illusions.) It's totally unavoidable now. The facts are staring me in the face (okay, they're actually staring more towards the floor but you get what I mean). I. am. getting. old. How did this happen? When did this happen? I mean, I remember when I, like my step-daughter, first got these things. Not that I was ever really friendly with them or anything (that's right, no bosom buddies here); I was never one to flaunt, but they are a part of me. It's like when I wasn't looking, they went on vacation. Someplace south. Let me tell you this is not cool. And what can I do about it? Absolutely nothing. Oh sure, I can smile and accept my changing body as it is, but I'll tell you right now that's not going to happen. And you know what's probably the most ironic thing about all this? I just got used to everything the way it was. I mean, about 20 years ago I started to go through the normal pubertal (yep, that word's real) changes and I absolutely hated it. (Although I think everyone does.) Now that I'm an adult and feel things are finally under control and where I want them to be, they move. Whose idea was all this, 'cause let me tell you, I'd like to register a complaint. And, AND, the icing on the cake of all this is, who is there to talk to? Yeah, I know I have friends and a husband an all that, but be honest, do they really want to know this about me? Hell, I don't even want to know this about me. What I really need is Judy Blume, that amazing author whose novels helped generations of girls accept everything about growing up. Why hasn't she written anything about growing old? You can't tell me Margaret doesn't have any questions for God on this one. Judy: the one I turned to for answers the last time my body turned on me. If you ever read this (because I'm sure you frequent this blog), please write something for us. Please tell us it's okay to get old. Please tell us this is normal. Please answer the myriad questions we don't even know we have. Please tell us what happened to all those great characters when they looked in the mirror and realized everything had changed. Again. We need you, just like we needed you twenty years ago. Without you, we'll have to resort to writing depressing blogs we hope no one actually reads.

ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

So I was checking out Amy's blog and as I read her post about writing down little things for which she is thankful I thought, "Damn, I could never do that. I am way too much of a curmudgeon." (Okay, so maybe I didn't think it in exactly those words, but that's the general idea.) Then I thought, "Do I really need to act so curmudgeonly?" (That's a real word; I spell-checked it.) I mean, I complain, like, constantly about basically everything I see/hear/do. Honestly, I am bad. I don't know how anyone puts up with me. I know I wouldn't. And really, I have no reason for it. I have a great life and a wonderful family. I know this, and yet I can't seem to let things go without a snide comment or a roll of the eyes. It's funny because I've reflected on this quite a bit recently; I've even tried a few times to stop being such a whiner, but I haven't been able to change my attitude. (This of course leads to me complaining about how I can't stop complaining and whammo, the bitch is back.) Anyway, motivated by Amy and in the spirit of the upcoming holiday season, I have decided to make yet another attempt at being more civil and benevolent towards my fellow human beings. I will start with an exercise in thankfulness in which I take things about which I normally would have complained and contemplate why these are the very things for which I should be giving thanks. (In no particular order:)

Complaint 1: My son is, um, rambunctious. Currently 20-months old, he climbs on the couch and window seat then throws himself off. He bites me. A lot. He completely ignores me when I say "no." He is not a fan of playing by himself; as a result it has become my duty to keep him constantly entertained. I am emotionally and physically drained at the end of the day.

Why I should be thankful for this: My son is a healthy 20-month-old. He has the ability to not only walk, but also to climb. Well. He bites because he is trying to give me kisses and is still learning how to do that. He bites me a lot because he loves me a lot. He still thinks "no" is a game because he's still a baby, really. (Disclaimer: This doesn't mean I let him get away with biting or misbehaving; only that I understand his reasons for doing so.) He doesn't really need to be entertained all the time. Part of my job as his mom is to help him learn to entertain himself, but really is it so bad that he wants to be with me so much? He's a pretty great kid; I should be glad he likes me. Yes, I'm tired at the end of the day, but that is because I have the privilege of staying home with him. He doesn't have to go to daycare. I don't have to leave him and go to work. This I know is wonderful. I spend a ton of quality time with my boy and I am extremely grateful. Plus, he's freakin' adorable. How can I not be thankful for that one?

Complaint 2: My husband is working crazy overtime. Monday through Thursday he works from 6-4:30, Friday through Sunday he works from 6-2:30. (Yep, he's on seven days a week at the mo'.)When he gets home, he's tired and I'm stressed. I want to get out of the house, he wants to stay in. At the same time, I haven't seen him all day and I'd like to, so doing different activities makes me feel guilty.

Why I should be thankful for this: Hubby working crazy hours means Hubby is healthy enough to work said hours. Also, the extra money means a bit more financial security, and that's nice to have when there's only one income. Not sure what there is to be thankful for in the "he's tired and I'm stressed" department, but I bet if I were to get off my arse and go to the gym or the movies (or knitting group) once or twice a week, my stress level would go way down and I would be able to enjoy the time we have together much more. Also, OT is almost finished and a light at the end of the tunnel is always something for which to be grateful.

And now I feel guilty that I've been blogging instead of hanging with the hubby. He's actually playing video games right now, so it's not like he's not having fun, but the guilt is there nonetheless. So, I'm going to see if he wants to play Yahtzee or something in which we actually interact with each other. I'll try to be more kind in "real life" and I'll post soon to let you know how it goes. I'll also try to post more thankful-type things. I'm sure you'll be waiting with bated breath. (Does it count as bitchy if I'm making fun of myself?)