Biker girls

It's a funny thing, those little moments that make you wonder.

Yesterday, K and I spent some time being motorcycle girls. And no, I'm not toting a two-year-old around on a Harley. We deck out in our biking gear and go for a ride, which almost certainly ends up at some neighborhood park where K plays and I stretch--and usually we end up playing and stretching together. Consequently, I hope to end up someday fitting into that too-tight pair of jeans. Or at least not accumulate any other pairs that are no longer wearable.

At our old house, we rode in the bike lane on a just-as-busy street, so that's what we do here. It took me a while to get used to the whiz of passing traffic, and I try not to let it distract me. But B had just commented to me the other day that this street is narrower than our old street, and more hilly, and more twisty. All things that percolated in my mind as we started out. Indeed, I hadn't noticed just how narrow it was, or how unpredictable the turns. But surely there wouldn't be a bike lane unless bikes were meant to ride in it.

We neared a corner and there it was: a little whisper. Nothing elaborate, extravagant, or otherwise noteworthy. Just the nudge that yes, B had been right, and yes, it might be safer up on the sidewalk. I hate to ride on the sidewalk, though, because of all the dog-walkers and runners and up/down ramps bumping poor K. This time, in the nanosecond that I had, I popped up and off the street.

Not a minute later, among a series of cars, one car drifted so close to me that I jerked my bike to the side in surprise. So close to me on the sidewalk. Maybe he (or she) was checking his teeth, or adjusting the radio, or making a call. Maybe he was distracted for just that moment, sliding from the narrow road to the bike lane beside it. Right next to me. Right where we would have been riding. Right where a little girl who likes to pretend we're a Thelma and Louise team would have taken the brunt.

I know I spend too much time talking, thinking, worrying. I know that God does not often get a word in edgewise. But I wonder how often He tries, how often I'd miss out on less physical hurts if I spent more time listening and less time doing everything else. I praised Him then that He raised His voice just enough to break through, thanked Him for the safety of K and I, and rode the rest of the way without incident.

I admit that the driver might have been more cautious if he'd seen a bike ahead, and I admit also that I'm not immune in any way. Nor will God be responsible for bad things that just, well, happen. But it was enough to make me realize that He's watching every minute, and maybe that was the whole point.

Hanging in the balance

We're pushing into my least favorite territory in the entire moving process: picture hanging. I hate picture hanging. I don't know where to put things, so they all end up in the center of a wall, or, if there are more than one thing, splitting the wall evenly. Herein lies the problem: I'm a perfectionist. I have to measure five times to make a mark on the wall. Then once I've made that mark, I have to check it three more times because I don't trust my own mark. Was I not there one minute ago measuring and making that very mark? Then I put it up and obsess about the fact that it's not exactly perfect. Nothing is ever exactly perfect. It's too high. It's too low. Did I really mark it there? Really?

In our last house, having let months lapse with pictures lined up along our hall waiting to be hung, the morning of my grad school graduation party arrived. I couldn't bear to leave them on the floor, so empowered by my new and totally non-related degree (plus a sense of urgency and some Hawaii-bound carelessness), I took and hammer and pounded in a dozen nails in random places, hung everything, and called it a day. I can remember my dad--from whom I inherited most of my perfectionist tendencies--standing at the end of the hall with his mouth agape. But the pictures were hung! Immediately! And they weren't all in the center of the wall, or splitting it, or anything. In fact, there was nothing organized about them at all. And yes, that did bother me for the rest of our time there. So while I got the job done without belaboring the details, it bothered me all the same.

In my bible study, we've been talking a lot about generational sin. These are things that get past down from generation to generation--ancient ruins, as in Isaiah 61:4, and sour grapes, as in Ezekial 18:2. Think big things, like depression and addiction, and small things, like perfectionism and people-pleasing. I'm sure one or two must come to mind. They're things I take as given--I got my obsessive attention to detail from my dad, for instance, and my people-pleasing from my mom. Good traits, except they become who I am, preventing God from honestly showing me. They are really traits that I have taken from them, things that I am now carrying on my own, and they weigh me down. God cannot do with me what He wants--at least not as effectively--when I'm carrying burdens that weren't really mine to begin with. And to be fair, they probably weren't my parents' either. The kicker? if I continue to carry them, M and K will pick them up too. That's how generation sin works (Exodus 20:5).

It seems like it would be such a relief to just lay them down, except that, as mentioned earlier this week, it's a lot less about letting go and much more about prying them from my grabby little fingers. The haphazard picture hanging didn't solve anything, because I really didn't let go of that obsessive quest for perfection. This is, again, a job for someone bigger than me, and one that I know that I have to take on, as much as possible, one finger at a time, or risk passing these burdens along yet again. It boosts my spirits that the Bible promises that we can stop this cycle: "But suppose this son has a son who sees all the sins his father commits, and though he sees them, he does not do such things... He will not die for his father's sin; he will surely live" (Ezek. 18:14, 17). If I can see these sins, if I can manage to "get a new heart and a new spirit" (Ezek. 18:31), I can pass along this heart to the next generation--to a thousand generations (Exodus 20:6). It's worth prying, hard as it might be.

Or in today's case, hammering without obsession but not without care, accepting and letting go, and perhaps using that need to hold on to grab the hand of God, who can hopefully lead me someone just a little more important. We'll see how that gets things hung.

Pry away

It's been a tough haul these past few weeks, what with packing and moving and sickness (oh my). Yesterday piled on the last couple straws, and I, in desperation and with many tears, broke down in an I-cannot-do-this-any-longer moment. After which I pulled myself together and promptly, well, did all those things I was sure only a second before I couldn't do. Isn't that the nature of the job? And not the writing job, sweet boy, but maybe the other stuff I do around here.

What I realize, when this happens, is that I haven't been relying on God enough, or, if I'm going to be really honest, at all. I recognize this. God has the ultimate strength, the endless energy, the focus and patience and determination to get this done, if I just willingly tap into it. He can carry me in a way that no one else can. Yep. Again, I recognize this. But in practice--in the trenches, so to speak--it's so much more difficult.

I think of the common platitude: Let go and let God. Okay, sure. But (bear with me for a minute) let go and let God... what? Mop the floors? Change the sheets? Figure out how to put handles on our cabinets without getting any crooked?

I know: pray. Listen. Trust. They are all huge, beautiful, awesome things. Easy things, really. But it's hard for me to focus on those when there seem to be a billion other things that want to be focused on instead. Or, in my usual fashion, focused on for about two seconds until I get distracted by focusing on something else for two seconds. My pastor had a great moment in his sermon on Sunday that we should be asking ourselves not what God would have us do in general but rather what He would have us do today. Just today. How could I minister to my world today? But this is my ministry, or one of them, to take care of our home and children. And right now, it's getting the better of me. I feel my fists tightening around that ministry, and maybe that's the whole point to the platitude. Prying my fingers off one at a time might be the first step to not choking the life out of it.

Of course, God, I might find it a little easier to focus, minister, trust, and serve if I could possibly sleep past 5am. But look--it's six and the sun is rising, with small children soon to follow. Another day, another opportunity.

Thanks, kid--I needed that

M: Hey look, my cup was empty before, and now it has water in it. It's magic!
Me: Hmm. Who do you think might have noticed that your cup was empty and filled it up so that you'd have water when you were thirsty?
M: Um... you?
Me: Maybe. You think that's in my job description to notice when your cup needs water and refill it?
M: (Laughs and shakes his head) No, Mommy. Your job is to write books.

Yes, well, among other things. But it's nice to know that even the little people have my back.

And we emerge!

It's sad when the most relaxing part of your week was getting your teeth cleaned.

I can't believe that it's been a week since the move began, but we are finally feeling settled in the new house. This means that both cars are parked in the garage, most of the boxes have been unpacked, and the clutter has settled down into a level that might just be confused for my household's general chaos. Sure, we have loads more sorting out to do, but I'm feeling ready to let B go back to work and our lives drift back to (new) normal.

I'm lying.

It hasn't been the quietest of weeks, move or not, what with ear infections in both kids, a giant castle cake for a friend, B's birthday coming up, and a men's party at church for which I provided desserts. I hate chaos. I hate not knowing where things are. I hate that the house still smells of the previous owner's dogs. I hate spending money on more things, even if they are necessary, and I hate that the cake didn't turn out perfect, as I always think it should. Above all, I'm so, so tired of keeping up a cheerful and encouraging front, feeling like I must carry the discombobulated weary on my back. If I lay down, would anyone carry me?

As with all things, it will get better. Over time. Over a long, long time. We praise God that he brought us here, because we love the house. And while we're loving it, we'll get it all sorted out, with a bit more prayer. We have a saying in our house: patience is a virtue; it's just not mine. But maybe now that God's got us in the right place, He's gonna work on that next.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

When you* are in the middle of a crazy move, and tolerating unexpected additional amounts of stress and torment, you might think that this would be a great time to get a haircut, because it will immediately boost your spirits. DO NOT. Have chocolate or take a long walk. Do anything else, because if you go and get your haircut in the week of "If it can go wrong, it will", well, just take a guess at what will happen.

If you do, against all good sense, get yourself into the sort of crying/miserable shock, try not to focus on the fact that the hair you have been so patiently growing out is now up to your ears. And especially ignore that it's only some of that hair, leaving you with a mullet-y sort of poof. Instead focus on the positives, like hair will grow, and the key to your new house is sitting on the table, and you can finally pack up all those last bits because, come Monday, you'll be starting new. Starting new is good.

*I mean, "me," of course. Because who else would get into this situation? But it feels better to make it into some sort of helpful lesson for others. Makes it slightly less like a personal dump, anyway.

Breaching the Wall

This past weekend was the 2010 SDSU Writer's Conference. It's basically a chance to spent a boatload of money to sit indoors, hear conflicting information about vital one-shot things like pitches and queries, and breathlessly throw out what you hope are key details about your project to any agent willing to listen.

Ahem.

I went into the weekend in a foul mood. The days leading up seemed to be a train wreck of kids not sleeping, colds, house inspections, etc. I found myself on Thursday afternoon making homemade pasta sauce (must. use. up. frozen. tomatoes), washing dishes and doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms and building a train out of Legos. Did I mention I was also recovering from pneumonia? Yeah, really, like heavy duty antibiotic pneumonia. After trying to eat--did I mention that the heavy duty antibiotic absolutely killed my appetite?--and getting the kids in bed, I started working on that manuscript that I promised myself would be complete by the conference. At 2am, I finally finished.

I also hit a wall. It's been a year since I published this essay, almost a year since I started writing a novel that would resurrect my life as a writer. And I did it. I squeezed every last drop of time I could with energy I didn't know I had, and I produced something of which I'm very proud. Not only that, but I felt connected with my writer self, fired up in a way that I honestly have never felt. And at 2am, it hit me: this is how it gets done. By staying up late, by squeezing hard, by somehow dividing my single self into two. They're full time jobs--parenting and writing--and I've done them fully. At the same time. And insanity ensued!

Okay, not insanity. But I hit that wall and thought: I am tired. I do not want to do this any more. Granted, the pneumonia didn't help. But I was tired of feeling like I had too much to do and not enough time. I was tired of not enjoying a moment's of rest. I was tired of cramming so much into that little hour I had so that I was cranky on either end. I was tired of doing all this for something that I didn't have to do. Why not just one job at a time?

But I'm on a roll. I've ignited something within myself that is difficult to ignore, and almost impossible to walk away from. Will it be there if I wait? Oh sure, probably. But do I want to wait, with two manuscripts now? I've made it so far--super-humanly far--that I'm torn between wanting to be realistic, and wanting not to give up on myself.

So I found a door. I guess that's what you do when you have a wall. I went to bed and I went to the conference and I groped along all those little chinks in the brick before me until I found a way to get through. It was tough--overwhelming, tear-inducing--trying to push myself forward in the midst of so much conflicting information. But I reached the other side with enough brain power left to assimilate most of what I learned and put it to good use.

That's where I am now. Not a good place, maybe, but it's less pneumonia-ish, and there's no wall. Just more rocky path, hard hills, long distance. Everyone has a journey. I've come to know this as mine.

Rocking out

B and I both own newish Hondas. My car--or the one that I most often use--is the minivan. Trusty and practical, it has enough room for all our strollers and sand toys and even the travel potty. Plus it's white, so as not to retain to much heat or show too much dirt. It's also a giant MOM beacon. B's car is a zippy Fit, fast and flexible and shiny jet black. Can you already tell where this is going?

I understand that the minivan is the most sensible car for me. I love that the doors slide open and that we can move throughout the cabin when need be. It's handy that we can take a potty break in the back or carry extra friends.

But I've noticed recently that both cars have a variable feature for stop lights. On the minivan, the windshield wipers, which come in a slew of intermittent settings, slow down. How very safe. On B's Fit, the radio automatically lowers the volume, so as the road noise decreases, you don't blow out your eardrums. This is especially helpful to me, because I drive the Fit when I'm without the kids, and when I do, I turn that radio up so loud that the windows shake and my ears just slightly hurt. And I'm now understanding one more thing: I'm the kind of person who needs to drive without kids, without practically, and with eardrum blowing music lowering very thoughtfully for me. At least sometimes. It'll be too fun when the kids get old enough for me to let them in on Mommy's little secret.

Happy 2010!

Here's to a fantastic new day, new year, and new decade! The past ten years have been huge for our family--happy moments and sad losses, three houses, four degrees, two children, two nephews, and more countries than I have fingers. Blessings big and small make me realize that there is no bad time, just times that are better than others, and things to be learned--always.

I looked back at my 2009 post, absolutely thrilled to find that I made good progress on all of them, especially the writing. My friend told me kindly, upon reading that post, that I was already a writer. Maybe so, but I managed to prove it to myself, my own worst critic. So this year, I'm going to finish that novel and write another one. I'm going to learn to control my temper, practice really believing in God, and teach M how to ride a bike without training wheels. I'm going to make boeuf bourguignon at least once (thanks, "Julie & Julia").

I'm also letting go of the last day on earth mentality, looking more to enjoy every day as it is in all its glory. Going back to the life abundant attitude, I suppose, where it's more about the sum of all the little things than the big moments you might never create/enjoy to satisfaction.

What about you? I'm not much of a resolution girl, as seen by the fact that I'd utterly forgotten what I'd posted last year, but I do think it's a great time to think about where you are and where you want to be. It's a long road, and there's no time like the present to take the first step.

What, you're out of virtual jeans too?

I spent a significant time before I started this post simply trying to find the last post I did about jean shopping. Because I know there was one--I remember it being especially witty, as I remember most things I write until I actually read them again. At any rate, I'm jean shopping again, much to my disgruntlement. One pair fits in the waist, but not the legs. One pair fits in the legs but has the wrong cut, one pair would fit in a smaller size (which they do not have in stock), etc. I hate jean shopping, but my beloved favorite jeans are about worn to pieces (not to mention nearly white-washed and baggy like, well, super old denim). So I'm on the hunt, again, only this time I have two children who love to come in the dressing room and give me their opinion. They're not particularly helpful ("Mom, those look perfect" "Um, I can't get them buttoned" "Oh. But you should get them anyway"), but they do make for cheerful distraction.

Speaking of distraction, I really do not need to be jean shopping right now, with holiday shopping to finish, a baby shower cake to make, gingerbread houses to construct, and a novel to rewrite*. Or maybe that's why I'm jean shopping instead.

By the by, if you do happen to find that missing jeans post, please let me know. My mind might be hiding right there with it.

*Did I mention rewrite? Oh yes, because it would be too easy to just line edit and move on. How about we chuck the whole first half and reorganize the second? Shall we change and/or eliminate characters, too? I think we shall! What fun it is to carve up something that seems to be melting away under my very keystrokes!

21 Days: Being on Time

So I know I brought up this notion of changing habits in twenty-one days and then abandoned it. Well, I first tackled the habit of putting things away, which has somewhat stuck. A bit. Okay, we're all works in progress, right? This time I'm working on being on time.

I'm chronically late. I think it's worse since I had kids, but I don't recall ever being someone absolutely on time. My friends are very kind and tell me that they don't notice, but I'm sure they do. I do, and it bugs me. The problem is, as I can so far identify, that I'm a multi-tasker. A multi-multi-tasker. I can't seem to do anything unless I'm also doing something else. This means I leave a lot of half-finished projects lying around, along with a lot of half-drunk cups of coffee. I did not say I was a good multi-tasker. Thus, when I'm getting ready to go someplace, I'm also folding laundry or blogging or reorganizing the dress-up bin. I look at the clock and think: I've got just enough time to do X before I go. The last thing I'd want is to arrive early someplace and waste an extra ten minutes waiting around that I could have spent doing something else (gasp! ten minutes of just hanging around! the horror!) It's never enough time, of course, and therefore I am always late. I know I am always late, that I shouldn't try to do anything except get myself out of the house on time, but that doesn't stop me.

But I'm ready to be on time. See, I don't think that I can change being a multi-tasker--somehow I think that's a hard-wired personality fault--but I can control my multi-tasking mayhem. So twenty-one days of making it a priority to be on time, and maybe I'll learn to temper my tasking in the process. We can all say that I started yesterday for ease of counting (I failed miserably yesterday, multiple times!), but today I made it on time to both swim class and preschool pick-up, surprisingly serene. Maybe if I wasn't in a bunch about getting everywhere I might not have an ulcer, eh? I'm making it a rule that I cannot do anything in the fifteen minutes before I have to be anywhere, and I'm trying to tell myself NO-STOP-FOCUS! as vehemently as possible. It's funny, though, that I'm always harping on the kids to find their listening ears, and I seem to have misplaced by own.

Beginnings and Ends

Today is the last day of November and the Monday after the Thanksgiving holiday. Seems to me it's fair game to start the Christmas season today, although for good measure you could wait until tomorrow so that it is, in fact, December. But what fun is that?

On another note, today is also the last day of NaBloPoMo, and I once again managed to blog my way through thirty days. And once again, it didn't seem that hard. You almost think that I could keep this up year round, but let's be honest: you don't really want to hear from me that much. Still, it's nice to know that my mind, body, and will can all manage to coordinate on something if I just ask nicely.

It's all white meat to me

Are you tired of turkey yet? I find it amusing that we cook turkeys just a few times a year--or in our house, once--and then run out of turkey-using ideas so quickly. I get a variety of internet and print cooking magazines, and they are all focused on how to use up those leftovers. Come on, you couldn't have spent the last twelve months thinking of good uses for poultry? Let me give you a hint: if you can make it with chicken, you can make it with turkey. Now excuse me while I go make myself another turkey sandwich. Yes, just a sandwich. Call me a turkey purist.

Christmas Crap Shoot

One of the things B and I have been doing during our time off is Christmas shopping. I war with myself on the subject of presents, because while I believe that we have too much, that the kids certainly don't need anything else, and that they are (in the end) just things, I also find myself walking through stores absolutely dying to buy things for them. I see items on the shelves that they would love, and I want to buy them. All of them. I don't even want to give them to other people as ideas. I want to give them myself. It's really ridiculous, and yet I can't seem to help picking up thing after thing, forgetting in minutes that I've already collected enough for three Christmases, because, gosh, there's a Lightbrite over there--wouldn't M think that was dandy?!?

Christmas seems like such a crap shoot to me, too, because there's no way of knowing for certain which gifts will be long term hits and which will fall by the wayside in mere days. I'm so often perplexed by things that keep coming out to play, and then puzzled by others that seemed like they would be keepers. So I find the gambler in me wanted to buy ten things knowing that only two of them will really pan out. Then I can just keep the two and give away the rest. See, if I try to guess the two, the odds are that I'll be wrong.

This is crazy, I know. I'm the first person to request few to no gifts from family, to complain about the house being too full, to push the family to see the intangible over the tangible. So what's wrong with me??? All I can think is that the holiday spirit has struck, and this year, she's greedy.

All that, and we get a shot too

Do you ever have those moments when you hear yourself being totally irrational, and yet you just can't manage to stop it? It's like a movie, where you see the killer closing in on the door and you want to tell the innocent coed to RUN while there's still time!

Today we had one of those moments.

I took the kids to get flu shots (I know: thimerisol/GBS/toxins/unreliable/etc. We get them anyway. The horror!). They told us it would be a 15 minute wait, which was fine. We had lots of time before we were supposed to meet friends at the park at 10am. We sat down in the waiting room very patiently. After forty-five minutes, countless songs and memorized stories and a few escalating protests, I politely asked how much longer it would be, pointing out that they had promised only 15 minutes. "Soon," they told me. So we sat back down. I tried to call my friend to give her an update, only to find my cell phone was dead. Surely we'd still be there close to on time. Then again, they were going with the Biblical meaning of 'soon.' After another twenty-five minutes (don't ask me how we got through that with no food and no books and clear dissatisfaction in the catalog of my memory of children's songs and stories), I went back up to the desk, two unhappy but rightfully so kids in tow. The girl at the front asked if we got our shots yet, and I told her that we had not, and as a result I was about to lose it.

Then I lost it.

I found myself crying, pounding the counter, and calling for someone in management to hear my complaints. In my heart, I knew there was very little that they could do, so when she came out, heard my statement, and apologized without actually being able to change anything, I just felt all the more ridiculous. How could I have let myself turn into the child? I'd just thrown a regular tantrum, and received the same response I give to my kids all the time: I'm very sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it.

To tell you the truth, that answer really sucks.

And it sucks to feel like after all these years, after thinking I was grown-up enough to be a mom, that there's a little toddler in there still. I'd like to hope it happens to the best of us, but maybe it's really that I'm just not one of the best. In any case, I feel very human today, and thinking thankfully that God loves me just as I love my kids, even when they're being irrational and ridiculous.

In the end, we got our flu shots, albeit with a small dose of shame. My friend had canceled our playdate--if only my phone had been charged, I would have had the message at a more useful time--and we went shopping instead. The kids got to pick something fun (police car and baby--of course) and I bought myself three kinds of candy for gingerbread house making. By the time we left the store, I was singing Christmas carols to the kids and talking about how much I love the holiday season. So there's some good to having a little toddler lurking inside: she was pretty easily distracted. God bless those short memories.

Week Tired Time Taffy

Is it really only Wednesday? Really? Does anyone else feel like the month is just crawling toward Thanksgiving? I know I shouldn't complain, because the holidays usually move so fast , but I can only get up before 5am so many days in a row before I start getting cranky.* You'd think, then, when things move so slowly, that I'd be getting so much more done, right? But no. It just feels like it takes me longer to do everything, like time has become a piece of pulled taffy. And I don't even like taffy. Although maybe if I had some taffy, we could at least do a fun project about it's miraculous stretching properties. You know, to kill some time. Did I mention that being tired also messes with my focus?

*In case it wasn't clear already, today was my tipping point. A few more days of this and my posts are going to become as random as this one's title.

Eye spy

Ever since I had my wallet stolen, I've been having a bit of a identity crisis. See, while giving my statement to the police officer, I had to go over all my vital stats--weight, eye color, etc.--which led to a conversation later that afternoon where I asked my mom what color she would call the kids' eyes. The conversation went something like this:

Me: What color do you think the kids' eyes are? I call them green. They look a lot like my eyes.
Mom: But your eyes aren't green.
Me: You don't think so? They've always looked dark green to me.
Mom: Your dad says that his eyes are green too, and they're not. Your eyes are more... brown in the middle and blue on the edge.
Me: Maybe they mix and make my eyes look green.
Mom: But they don't look green. They look... brown. Or maybe blue. But definitely not green. The kids' look more blue to me.
Me: That's weird. B's eyes are gray.
Mom: Gray! That's the color. Your eyes are gray.
Me: So now they're brown, blue, and gray?
Mom: Well, they're not green.

Feeling rather anxious, I came home and did a bit of research on eye colors. I've concluded, without much conviction, that we all have hazel eyes (well, except B, who really does have gray eyes, which I guess puts him in the blue field, technically speaking). Seems simple enough, right, except that now my driver's license is incorrect on three main fields: I'm not quite at the weight I once was, I'm not quite 5'6"--even on a good day, and my eyes are no longer green. But my hair is red. I think.

Roll with it

Today is supermom day. I have those occasionally, when I just feel very in touch and in tune with my job. Homemade applesauce, homemade pudding. Breakfast of homemade biscuits. A full day with the kids at Legoland where we actually managed to eat a healthy lunch and ride most of the rides without tantrum. Let my kids explore on their own, accompanied them when they needed it. Bonded with a friend, finished my prep for Bible Study tonight. Served the pudding as afternoon snack, as only a super-supermom might treat, and got in some writing. Dishes await me while I fix chicken parmesan for dinner (B's favorite).

There are so many days I feel like a failure (like yesterday, for instance, when I lost it multiple times over battles that I shouldn't have been fighting in the first place) that it's a rare treat to feel in control. I just wonder what's different--is it me, or the kids, or the activities planned? Is the weather or our sleep or just some strange confluence of intangible magic? Can I buy that magic? Or what's more tempting: do I make that magic myself? Is it as unexplainable as I perceive, or do I just start on a roll and manage to keep the ball rolling on my own positive accord? Maybe it's supermom's superpower, which then begs the question: what exactly is my kryptonite, and how quickly can I get rid of it?

Pleading nap time insanity

Every day at nap time, I read K and M their choice of story. Then I settle K down in her bed to sleep and usher M to the playroom to play. Every day, M tells me that he wants to sleep. I tried, when the kids began sharing a room, to let him sleep in his own bed. When no one slept at nap time, I realized this was a bad idea. So I told him that he could sleep in my bed if he was tired. So now, every nap time, I have to go into my room, close up all the doors and windows, unmake my bed, and generally prepare the room for rest. And every day, M spends the entire nap time in the playroom, playing.

I know it's a little thing to get frustrated about, but that's exactly what I am. I like having the windows open in our room and the bed nicely made. I don't want to leave them closed and undone all morning in preparation for this nap time charade, but at the same time, it's maddening to open/fix them twice on one day. I know: little thing. But when I feel like I have to make use of every second of my time, these are precious seconds utterly wasted.

If M really slept, I'd be fine with it. If M even tried to sleep, I'd be fine with it. He doesn't. But when I tell him such ("I don't think you're tired enough to sleep" or "Are you really going to sleep today, because you usually don't") I get loud and emphatic protests. Fearful that they will wake the actually sleeping child, I go along. On principle, too, I hate telling him that he can't or won't sleep just because I don't think he will. It is his body, after all.

I know there's probably no solution, except maybe to just not get so up in bunches about it. And most days I just do it automatically. But every day, the same thing, just starts getting to me after a while. This sneaking feeling creeps up that they are trying to break me one nap at a time, and even I doubt my resilience.

Irony, defined

In the event that you are unfamiliar with the definition of irony, here it is: "an event or result that is the opposite of what is expected" (Webster's New World Dictionary and Thesaurus). Need an example? How about this one:

I get these headaches when I haven't had enough sleep. They start in my neck and go all the way along the back of my head with very dull, persistent pain. There is nothing that can cure these headaches except, well, sleep. Thus I call them my tired headaches.

So this morning, at four, when I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, do you know it was that kept me awake? Yep. A tired headache. A throbbing, painful, cannot be ignored signal from my body that I need more sleep, asap. Huh huh. Joke's on you, body. You hurt me like that, I don't sleep. Or maybe the joke's on me. Actually, it's not really funny at all. But it is ironic.