It's not about the pants.

I had one really good epiphany while parenting about ten years ago. I was trying to get my oldest, who was three at the time, dressed and out the door for preschool and he was not cooperating. He was on his bed in his Blue's Clue's undies crying, whining, and shaking his head while I frantically held up pant options.

"How about these? These? Why not these? Yesterday you loved these pants; they have Thomas the Tank Engine on them!" About the time I was ready to give him back, it dawned on me: this was not about the pants. I asked him if he needed a hug and he said yes so I gave him one. Then he got dressed and we went to school.

Sometimes what we think is the problem, isn't really the problem.

The cut. What?

One of the ways I make the time go by until I end up in the pine box is reading emails sent to me by New York magazine re: fashion. It's branded "The Cut." Get it? You cut fabric to make fashion/you cut lines of cocaine which I'm sure helps keep models skinny/this is the news worthy to make it to my mailbox--so many meanings in that little name. But why do I read it? Why? (She asks, banging her head against her desk.)  I feel superior because I think to myself "Thank God I'm not part of that scene!" but that's a lie, because by reading the emails I am a fringe part of that scene, which makes me even more pathetic, just being a fringe and not, say, a hemline or zipper. Here's a particularly stimulating headline:

Olivia Munn Wore a Bright Blue Marchesa Dress

 Seriously? Who the fuck is Olivia Munn and who the fuck cares what color dress she wore?

Baby fever.

Above-the-waist old man pants.

 

 Everywhere I look women are having babies or being pregnant: Faux Fuschia, Rachel Zoe, all those Spice Girls.

I did not like puking AND STILL gaining weight for nine months. Once I had my boys and was home with them, most of the time I was so bored I thought I was crazy. Seriously. I talked with my doctor. Even still, I'm missing those days. I never thought it would happen to me.

Here are a few photos. This is how old I am; my children's baby pictures are on film, i.e. negatives and paper. I had to photograph a 35mm print with my digital camera then transfer it to ye old laptop. (Oh, soon after the photo on the right was taken, we got a digital camera, but ex has all the photos on his laptop.) Mario is still cute, is he not?

Those cheeks! That mouth!

Heh heh.

This was before the days of blogs and Facebook. Back then, all I had to reach out to other adults was my telephone and dial-up email. (These things could not be used at the same time.) I often wonder if I wouldn't have felt so lonely and isolated had I had an online community back then. And online suits me because apparently I only like other moms digitally, not in person. I did have a subscription to Brain, Child for a sanity check, and actually published a few pieces with them. Those editors understood the downs of parenting--long, unpaid hours, the doubts and struggles. (The ups, after all, are a given--cuteness, recreation and procreation of a better self, blah, blah, blah...) But that magazine arrived only monthly and I was finished with it in a few days. I also had brief respites with Anne Lamott and my What to Expect the First Year book, but no daily dose like what is available today.

Psst: The secret.

How had I never heard of The Secret? I must have been drunk or changing diapers during this fad.

Desperate for entertainment on Sunday eve, I watched a documentary about it. I'm a magical thinker but I'm also a half-measure kind of gal so even though I expected my LIFE as I knew it to change forever, I was also eating dinner in bed and flipping through Lucky magazine.

What's the secret? What the angels, my woo-woo mentors, mothers and Jesus have been saying for years: ask and you shall receive and reap what you sow.

It's all about manifesting and making vision boards and sending out positive vibrational energies. It did get me thinking that my son's teacher is right: I'm negative. If The Secret Keepers are right, I'm screwed.

It's official: I'm not an optimist.

I went on an all-day field trip yesterday with fifty 12- 13-, and 14-year olds. The odyssey went like this: hour-long car drive with five teenage boys to Tiburon, ferry trip to Angel Island, 6-mile hike with two snack breaks, ferry trip back to Tiburon, car drive home. One would think that agreeing to do this would make me, if not an optimist then, at least positive, but several times my son's teacher--a very cheerful and optimistic woman--mentioned, in the kindest, cheerful, optimistic and sarcastic way what  a sunny disposition I have. I don't remember what I said to elicit these responses. Well, I remember one thing. A kid was complaining about his sore neck. One mom said it might be his heavy backpack (we were instructed to bring BIG lunches.) Cheery teacher mentioned that he might have slept wrong. I said it was possibly meningitis.

I am not a chihuahua.

I am cynical, like Dylan. It's not an entirely bad thing, is it?

We were blessed with beautiful weather. Imagine what I would have been like had it rained as the weather service predicted? There was enough complaining already (and not from me).

I went to the doctor for a check up and I'm officially ten pounds heavier than I was three years ago. She suggested sorbet instead of ice cream (again). I said that when I have a part-time job with great benefits that pays $100K a year AND a book deal we'll talk about my diet.

Having major fantasies about two weeks in a remote cabin with electricity and no internet to do the final edits on my novel and whip out a synopsis.

I read this little article in Psych Central at 5:30 this morning. (My oldest had to be at school by 6:30 for a field trip.) It made me want to rewind my entire life and re-shoot it. I think I have mentioned how ex accused me of being incapable of intimacy our entire marriage. This is why.

A bit defensive are we?

People! There's no softer, easy way or any substitute for feeling your feelings. You must feel them. Apparently, it won't kill you.

A few tidbits. (If you're seeking mental health and a fulfilling relationship, you should read the whole thing.)

When you avoid feeling the emotions of vulnerability that are a natural aspect of being human, unwittingly, you become the cause of your own suffering.

When, in order to avoid these feelings, you blame others or events for the pain you feel inside, you act in ways that are contrary to the best interests of your relationship.

When your relationships are on the line, so is your health and your happiness.

The choice is clearer now thanks to recent advances in the study of the brain. Will you take the helm as the captain of your life, as the agent and creator of your experiences, or remain a passive onlooker reacting to and hoping to avoid crises, perhaps even thinking of your self as a victim of certain persons or circumstances?

 Yeah, now you tell me.

Brace yourself--encouraging words.

To help you carry onward in difficult times from my gal, Therese Borchard:

A Japanese proverb: "Fall seven times, stand up eight."

ABuddhist saying, "If we are facing in the right direction, all we have to do is keep on walking."

A quote from Mary Anne Radmacher: "Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, 'I will try again tomorrow.'"

 It's tomorrow. 

My new obsession.

According to this young scion of fashion, we can now wear slippers with our pajamas in public. Are you listening, N?!? Life gets better and better. I'm in my pajamas right now, but I don't have a pair of these:

Image from The Man Repeller

You know why? Because they cost $395?! Who buys slippers that cost $395? The Man Repeller. And she's only 22. And a college student. I'm thinking trust fund. My slippers...No, I'm not going to show them to you. They're too gross. An old, beat-up pair of clogs that I also use for gardening. (Not of the Crocs variety; I still have some dignity.)

I am sick and missing Pilates today. I am still unemployed, or underemployed if you count the freelance I'm currently doing for half my usual hourly rate. Let's just say it would take me a couple of weeks after taxes to buy myself a pair of Stubbs & Wooton slippers. What are they made of? Velvet woven from the nostril hairs of baby pandas?

Oh man.

When I was pregnant with my oldest, ex and I were fully expecting he was a girl. We just couldn't imagine ourselves raising a boy because we're both such "girl" people. I had a dream that I gave birth and it was a boy. I looked at him and said, "You get back in there. You're not finished yet. You're supposed to be a girl." According to a new book, my dream was very prescience.

Credit goes to my friend D for finding this interview Piper Weiss Shine had with Dan Abrams, the author of Man Down: Proof Beyond a Reasonable Doubt That Women Are Better Cops, Drivers, Gamblers, Spies, World Leaders, Beer Tasters, Hedge Fund Managers, and Just About Everything Else.

Abrams--a man!--looked at tons o' research that, in addition to the list above, proved that women live longer, tolerate pain better, are better doctors, and less corruptible and gullible.

Don't worry, dudes. There are some things you excel at:

Men are better at parking, they’re better dieters, they have better distance vision, they read maps better. One study suggests they even treat their friends better. 

His last thought:

Overall I found that men's biggest problem is that they’re too confident and women’s biggest problem is that they’re not confident enough. Truth is, I think the evidence is overwhelming in favor of women.

That's certainly my problem, little miss who-would-hire-this-piece-of-shit-that-the-world-revolves around so I'm happy to shine your shoes and no, you don't have to pay me minimum wage.

Oh baby.

This made me happy. I got to meet, hold, sniff, and rock my friend C's new baby, Aveline. She is so petite and sweet. I haven't held a newborn in quite a while. (And never one this tiny. At a month, she topped the scales at 8 lbs. My babies were 9 lbs. at birth.) She's a little hazelnut (which is what her name means) of love.

In a word, exquisite.

She's studying the quality and values of the sunlight; her dad is an artist.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. Hate me because I have great style.

After her lunch and diaper change, I got to walk/rock her to sleep. Those babies fight it and I just love the feeling when they finally give up the ghost, shudder and drift off to dream land. I hope I get invited back.

The Monday Thursday

When I worked full-time and had kids, I actually looked forward to Mondays after spending the weekend with them. Then, by Friday, I missed them terribly and looked forward to the weekend. That was a nice cycle. Now it's all cattywhompuss and today feels like Monday and I'm always missing and needing a break from my boys.

Liam and his friend Kaia and the famous Yule Log cake at Christmas.

I saw the divorce lawyer yesterday. He commended me on getting along with ex. He's been in the biz for 30 years and has seen some horrific stuff. He says most divorce lawyers have good marriages because they've seen the horror divorcing people inflict on each other. Be afraid. His stories! Humans are greedy and sometimes we get it in our heads that the only thing that will make us happy is to annihilate our exes. When divorcing, the way to do that is with money and custody of the children. Those are your weapons. He also said that this depression/recession is soo deep, the biz of divorce has gone the way of the housing market. People simply can't afford it and are staying in shitty marriages until the economy picks up. Good times.

This week I'm pondering how we decide we no longer love a person or if we're just irritable and need a nap. We had a marriage counselor once who told us that the opposite of love was indifference, not hate. The opposite of irritation isn't murder, is it? I'm thinking I need a vacation, but some would say that my whole life is a vacation 'cause, you know, I'm not working, just worrying about not working.

I'm off to take world-famous Cheese House sandwiches to my friend C who just had a precious baby girl. So sweet, so petite. Pictures tomorrow. Have a nice Monday/Thursday.