Pass the Pickles, Please

Well, there's nothing like a pregnancy to keep one from keeping up with blog writing. If I'm not sprawled in front of the toilet, I'm supine on the couch ... wondering how I got myself into this mess. At 38 years *young* I'm pregnant for the third and LAST time. I guess my husband and I are the types who crave chaos.

The thing is, this pregnancy wasn't even planned. In the past, I never could understand when someone said that they got pregnant "by accident." I mean, any adult knows how pregnancy occurs. What the heck is "by accident"?! Well, now I know. "By accident" means that you've been having too infrequent intimacy such that when the opportunity presents itself you just go for it, you drank too much, or simply decided to throw caution to the wind -- in our case, it meant all three! And therein lies the secret to "by accident."

Oh, we thought we might want to have another little one. In fact, we thought next year would be a fine time to start trying. Unfortunately, we forgot that my husband is an expert marksman -- a hole in one with our first pregnancy, requiring only a few tries for our second pregnancy, and now a hole in one for our third. Heck, he could give Tiger Woods a run for his money! His boys can swim!

Yet Life is a blessing and we know that we truly have been blessed. At least 3 times now.

Foggy Thoughts on a Rainy Day

Do you ever feel like a salmon trying to swim upstream, but falling behind? That's how I've been feeling lately. There's just so much going on and I feel like it all rests on my shoulders. First and foremost is my son's education, of course. Trying to get him set up with services and whatnot ... only to find out that the school hasn't been honoring his current IEP (individualized education plan -- an epithet cloaking the reality of schools doing as little as possible to achieve what is minimally acceptable) and is providing less speech therapy than they should be. That's a battle I have to fight today. The private-pay speech therapy clinic was too far, so now I have to find another. We're awaiting the start of his behavioral therapy. We're awaiting the assignment of a new caseworker be/c the old one was rude, uncaring, and didn't do her job. The house desperately needs painting in almost all the rooms, the yard needs a major amount of weeding, we have boxes of books laying around the downstairs that need to be stored somewhere permanently, and we still don't have a toilet paper holder in our master bathroom. I feel like I've been losing headway with our neighbors be/c I have so much to do, so many cares and worries, and so little time to deal with anything that I probably haven't been as friendly and outgoing as they'd hoped. And then, of course, is the mammoth amount of chores that go into keeping a household running. *sigh* I told my husband that if he ever wants to get a second wife, I'd be happy to share my duties with her!!! He, unfortunately, has declined the offer.

I sometimes look around and can't believe that this is my life -- the once so-optimistic and energetic young woman is flagging and weary. I have grey hair, which I'm working very hard to keep dyed blonde and aches in many joints. Is this maturity or overwork?

I feel like I've lost touch with so many people. Such is the specter of autism, I guess. It envelops the whole family in a cloud of lapsed phone calls and scattered energies. Am I struggling with depresson? Most certainly I am. Who wouldn't, given the same circumstances? This whole experience would be difficult enough if I were living in a familiar area, surrounded by family and long-time friends. Living in a new state, in a new house, with new people around, and no stabilizing comfort of those who truly understand makes my life even more challenging.

I miss driving around with friends, listening to Billy Joel, and eating French Fries.

I'm a Cape Cod curtain in a chorus of sheers

It is by the grace of God that we don't recognize life-defining moments as they are occurring. As we get older, we're better equipped to understand that when these moments happen, it is simply to reaffirm one's lot in life. I suppose there truly are people whose lives are defined by the times they were dubbed "Prom Queen," "Most Likely to Succeed," or even "Concert Master." Unfortunately, I was not so lucky. My life defining moment came at the ripe old age of 8 years old. I was a Brownie in the local league of Girl Scouts. For some reason I could not comprehend at the time, I never fit in with that organization. While other girls pursued and achieved their badges with a vengeance, I was content to do the minimum in order to acquire my "sewing" and "cooking" badges. Everyone else seemed to make friends immediately, whereas I struggled to overcome the awkwardness of approaching new people. Part of the reason for this may have been my early dive into puberty, which caused me to sky rocket upwards approximately 5 inches over my peers. No matter where I went (and continue to go), I always feel like the banana in a bowlful of apples -- standing out for all to see. It was this very trait that helped to shape the incident that thereafter would define my life.

Being a forgetful young girl, I'd forgotten to bring home the pattern for the Hula outfit that all we Brownies would be wearing at our Girl Scout pageant. We had learned a dance and I could recall the Scout leaders discussing how the outfit should flow like a grass skirt -- this was about as much information as I could give my mother, who was charged with the duty of creating such a costume out of a set of curtains (that was the other part I remembered ... the outfit should be made of curtains). I grew up in a house with tailored curtains: 2 tiered with pretty ruffles all around. Naturally, my mother made MY outfit out of those. I no longer remember the color, nor do I remember how she actually designed a Hula outfit from Cape Cod curtains, but somehow she did. The night of the Girl Scout pageant arrived and I proudly strolled backstage with the rest of my troop. Bottom jaws could be heard actually smashing to the floor when they saw the creation this tall, fish-belly-white girl had draped over her. While all the others wore glorious outfits made of sheer, flowing fabrics, my outfit had tapers and ruffles and tiebacks. Though I knew the dance better than anyone, they placed me in the back row. To no avail. Being taller than anyone else, by far, I stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. I can even remember waving to my parents (trying in vain to hide in the far back corner), thereby attracting even more attention. Were the chuckles I heard in the audience caused by my outlandish attire or by delight in the dance? I'll never know.

Such incidents occur even today, 30 years later. These days, however, I realize and accept the foibles of my life, cherishing them for providing me with the unique situations in which I often find myself. A pattern was developed a long time ago ... beginning when I crawled across the front of the classroom in 2nd grade because I didn't want to be included with those standing to be counted for buying their lunch (and heard the teacher whisper to her helper, "What on Earth is she doing?!"), continuing on through a few weeks ago when I proudly (and falsely) presented a "homemade" apple pie to my in-laws only to discover after cutting it in front of everyone that it was actually cherry. These are the incidents that keep us humble. I must be one of the most humble people on this planet.

We should all be teenagers.

I question the pomposity of anyone thinking that anyone would be interested in reading anything that anyone thinks about, whereas all teenagers think that everyone wants to read everything they think about. I believe that is the reason I'm having difficulty with this blog. Heck, I am so used to subjugating my own needs that I barely care what my own thoughts are! White Christian women are, perhaps, the most repressed people in our society. The juiciest, most lush piece of steer meat on the serving dish? Oh, automatically it goes to someone else. The last piece of Trident in the pack? The ones for whom we do laundry? The reason we get up everyday? In my case I assure you, it's not so I can look at my sunshiney face in the mirror and seek out what exotic new adventure life in suburbia has in store for me.

My hair is now lighter than it was when I was growing up (as opposed to the never ending fight to discontinue 'growing out' which happens beyond the age of 35 or so). The reason? I got tired of counting how many new grey hairs sprouted overnight. I questioned my dear husband last night whether or not he thinks other mothers are as I -- goofy, teasing, giggling or outright guffawing with my kids -- or are they more stoic and self-possessed. He assured me that other mothers are probably as silly as I. I'm not convinced that he's right. Driving past cars or people watching in stores, I see frowns and scowls, not smiles and laughter. If the world laughed more, I think there'd be less drug usage and fewer bad-parent accusations. It's a shame there are no dye-jobs to shield peoples' dour personas.

I thought I'd never dye my hair. I'd be the type to shrug off the effects of aging. And now? I'm glad it's my hair that's more worrisome than my outlook. Though the hair defies my youthful leanings, the personality remains intact. That would've made the teenage Crystal quite proud.

Oh, you STUD!

People with piercings intimidate me. From preteens with little gold hearts, to frat boys with one dangling cross, to ultra-chic chicks with drizzles of chains and hoops, to infant girls with diamond studs. It's as if they all successfully were initiated into a group where I was never welcome and had no place to seek entry to begin with. Sure, I got my ears pierced on one wild afternoon with my buddies at the mall, but it didn't last. Seems the young woman who punched throbbing holes into my tender lobes misfired her gun ... I had diagonal entries through my ears that ached and bled anytime I attempted to wear anything through them. I now find myself an outsider to the earring-wearin' crowd, gaping longfully at the jewelry counters sporting cute matched sets, dreaming of how my long neck and shoulder-length hair would be accented just right with something unique and sparkly.

It was not meant to be.

Recently, I had the luxury of checking out a nearby Day Spa. The dim lights, the New Age music featuring a waterfall and tinkling bells, the slightly heady aroma of patchouli ... allured me in a way nothing has since before my children were born. I asked for a flier of their prices, and over strolls a buxom lovely replete with low-cut blouse and numerous necklaces and bracelets ("the modern Madonna-wanna-be?" I ask myself). She handed me their flier, then asked me to pause while she busied herself writing something. I hesitated, bathing in the undisturbed peace of a carefree outing sans infant. Then the young lady handed me "her card" promising 10% off my first massage, provided by her own skilled hands. As I smiled and thanked her, she smiled back, eyes twinkling and mouth agape -- which is when I noticed the tongue stud. Visions of a tongue-studded seductress man-handling the bare landscape of my ne'er-before massaged skin, I almost tripped over myself heading out the door! I'll never return there again.

How do we women do it?

Was awake by 6am today, though my husband got up with the kids and I remained in bed. After dragging my sleepy carcass from the cocoon of warm sheets, I found three males, all in their pajamas, laying in various poses in the living room. The youngest jumped up to greet me. I managed to sip a few drops of coffee before making everyone's breakfast. I cleaned the table, then changed 2 diapers. My husband took a shower while I entertained the boys. My day had only just begun.

Cooking, cleaning, shopping, painting, laundry, and somehow trying to keep everyone happy, healthy, and laughing are all in my job description. My husband is laying on the couch, fatigued due to his long day, yet I keep going. How do we women do it?

The day begins with the usual aches that come from 38 yrs of living.

A stiff back, mildly painful knees, and a fatigue that simply won't disperse with a night's rest. *sigh* What will another 38 yrs bring?

My husband lies beside me, his breath deep and regular. I wonder what he dreams, this man who couldn't describe a single creative moment in his life at a recent job interview, yet who routinely surprises me with thoughtful acts and passionate opinions. I wonder about my sons: a 3 yr old with mild autism and a 1 yr old with an incredibly generous and jovial personality. I wonder about the girl I was ... the girl who thought she'd grow up to find herself living an incredibly dramatic lifestyle as a poet in France; the young lady who dreamed of travelling for most of her life; the woman who believed that good things happen to good people.

Sometimes you only find out who you are when you completely lose yourself in a pile of dirty laundry.

Well, no that's not exactly true, but I find myself with about 3 loads needing to be done, a child scampering about my chair, and the overwhelming desire to write a blog. I always considered myself a writer (or at least my friends from high school said I was one), but never submitted any works for publishing. Thanks to blogspot, I don't need a publisher, and I'm too old to care too much about what anyone else thinks about what I've written.

So here we are.