The Wisermom 2009 review in pictures.
January
February
March
April:
May:
June:
July:
August:
September:
October:
November:
December:
May all your New Years be happy.
Love,
wm
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That’s not to say there’s any kind of real problem here, just that my head is confused and this cold virus isn’t helping me at all.
Have you ever sat on a cusp, like a major teetering point in what could be construed as the very essence of the meaning of your existence?
That’s what I’m doing right about now.
There’s just so much to think about, and all I *really* want to do is crawl into bed with a trashy novel (I’m waiting, Ms. StY, for my copy of Twilight. I may just have Mr. Wisermom go out and buy it for me.) Since I don’t have a trashy novel, or rather THE trashy novel I want, I’ll just go off a bit.
See, I had this dream when I was young and then I killed it dead. And then years passed and I became a Mom and all was well excepting the fact that I had to keep working in a career I no longer felt committed to, but I could do that because my kids needed diapers and a roof over their heads.
And then I got asked to go back in time, and I did, and I didn’t have that dream again, not the same way, but, then, well, I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back to this present, just the way it is. I didn’t want to stop doing the thing that had always kept me who I was. Because without doing that thing, I was somehow a more hollow version of who I am. I thought maybe that was just age, and I don’t know – maybe it is. But I’m not having it, either way.
So now I’ve got all this other shit to figure out, like, what on earth does it mean? How can I keep a roof over our heads, be present with my kids when I’m not out trying to earn money, and then have anything left over to create something out of nothing, and what will I do with it then?
And on and so on, there are more paths for the future that are beginning to look viable, and I am utterly unsure which one to push forward on.
Fuck it.
I’m going to bed.
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Well, you think those dreams are dead, anyway, and then one day you discover that they are very much alive in you. And you can’t say that’s good, and you can’t say it’s bad. It just IS. Like the fact that you have green eyes or a hot temper or a certain weakness for guys doing yard work.
You thought it was over. Been there. Done that. You were Wrong. Very, very wrong.
Prosolar Mechanics, WE Fest Wilmington NC 2000
It’s not over at all. But you have no idea what that means.
And that’s okay.
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And then the next thing you know, WOOSH. They’re graduating from college and you’re out your retirement fund.
I should really be calling this post a placeholder. It’s holding the place for a lot of things I need to tell you about. Like, the fact that the boys turned 9 months old. And then, about 15 minutes after we ordered their 9 month old commemorative plates and matching cup set, they turned 10 months old. And then they had their first Thanksgiving and their first bath in the big bath tub together. And then I cried because they are too adorable and too sweet to believe and I’m still not home with them every day like I should be and I know, and you know, kindergarten is right around the corner and what then? What THEN?
I know there are women out there who are okay with being working mothers. I salute them. I’m just not one of them. Meaning, I am a working mother. In fact, I am the sole provider working mother right now. But I’m not okay with it, other than the fact that it is what is and I have to be okay, in the most general of terms.
I also have to tell you about the band. Oh lord, the band. That’d be my band, whose name shall not be mentioned here because I’m having interweb crossover identity issues. I went back into private practice a few months ago (I’m an LCSW therapist type for kids, yo) and I just do not want people I work with finding this blog. We’re playing in 26 days (crap pants here) and this is the first time we’ve played in 8 years, almost to the day.
Before I became a mom, and before I became a therapist, I was a musician. I was very serious about it. I never had the kind of financial or commercial success I’d hoped for, but I did make all kinds of music with all sorts of fantastic people and it made my life better. And now I’m doing it again and it feels so strange and familiar and like I’m traveling back in time but yet not. Like straddling two decades when your straddler is a little out of alignment.
And that’s just the good stuff, but that’s what I’m trying to fill my head with these days. And yours too.
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This blog. Ah.
My boys are 9 months and 3 weeks old today. They are in a magic phase where every mundane little thing sparkles, boo boos can be healed in seconds with a kiss and a hug, and little arms start to reach for me when I come into the room in that heart exploding “I want Mommy” way. I know every developmental phase has its perks, but this one I think is really special and will stay with me in a way that the newborn phase or the six month old phase probably won’t.
And all that is to tell you, I just don’t want to work. I want to be home with them so badly it just hurts. That’s what we planned on, it’s what I said I was going to do months ago and it’s what I always intended, but it is not what is.
I’ve been thinking a whole lot about my career in the past few months. I’ve been beating myself senseless over my lack of direction, focus and commitment. I’ve hit a professional ceiling, not because I’m at the limit of my skills or abilities. I’m stuck because I’m doing something I just don’t want to do right now. But I have to.
It’s a strange problem, you know? Pick a career path you think you’ll love. End up not loving it. Have babies in the middle of an economic melt down. s/s Be grateful you can go back to it so you can keep the family afloat. Resent it. 
| (D.S. al coda to the be grateful part through the resent it part. Repeat daily forever and ever.)
I don’t feel well. I have a cold. And I am upset right now about all of this.
I want to be home with my kids. My husband wants me to be home with my kids. But I just can’t be right now.
And that really sucks. EFF you, economy.
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I would say it isn’t pretty, but it is.
When babies attack from Myg on Vimeo.
Doot and Bing, 9 months, 2 weeks and 6 days old.
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Bringing the cute, right here, right now.
Liam, 9 month Philosopher from Myg on Vimeo.
And it’s moments like these that make me ache to be younger and not infertile so I could have two or seven or nine more.
Then, maybe mother nature knows what she’s doing.
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Let me just start by saying I’m not in a good mood today. That right there would make not writing this post a good thing, but who was I to ever heed my own good advice, abide by my own excellent council? I wasn’t.
Lately I’ve been doing two things compulsively that make no sense, occupying valuable real estate in my brain: obsessively playing frakkking Farmville on Facebook and looking at real estate in Hunterdon County. As to the first thing, please know I’m sufficiently humiliated and hoping that sharing this time wasting behavior publicly will shame me into stopping. But oh, the ribbons! The cute little veggies and flowers and fruits that you can watch grow! The horses! Hey look, if I didn’t have a gazillion and one unfinished projects and lofty goals for my life, that’d be just fine. The truth is I HAVE NO TIME for things like Farmville. I am a working mother of 9+ month old twins, and any time not spent A) working or B) mothering would be better spent on any of the below:
- bathing
- sleeping
- cleaning my ears, or maybe my toes
- re-organizing my underwear
- buying something
- arranging my books by page length
- researching bizarre medical procedures
- tending to any of the 5821 things in my Things program
- writing, anything!
- [insert anything here except hard drugs and sugar bingeing, and it will be better than spending time on Farmville]
Incumbent Governor Corzine is right now, as I type this, losing the Governor’s race in NJ. Asshole. No, I’m not happy about it. But he is an asshole. Only an asshole would lose to that dumbshit Chris Christie.
I’ve been looking at real estate in Hunterdon County because it’s beautiful and there’s some unstoppable part of me that wants to raise my boys in the country. Yes, New Jersey has countryside. It’s in Hunterdon County, where I lived as a little girl. The problem is that it’s nearly all white and Republican. They actually like and voted for that dumbshit Chris Christie there. Oh, the property taxes are high too, but they’re high where I am now. And it’s far from everything. And looking is a waste of time anyway because, to be honest, financially we are still digging our way out of the disability/gradschool/holy f*ck we have two twins $$$$$$$$uck hole. So why do I keep looking?
So I don’t have to think about shit I don’t want to think about. I have a bit much of that these days.
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Just to recap.
I haven’t been here, but then I keep telling you that and so you must know it by now, if you’ve been here and I’ve not been. The reason I haven’t been here is because at work, they now want me to work. Can you believe this shit? And at home, well, there are kids and a dog and a man and two cats, wait. Forget the cats, they suck.
The boys just started sleeping through the night a few weeks ago, but oh my god heavenly bliss! They sleep from around 8pm until anywhere between 6 and 7am, and compared to the living hell of getting up three to four times a night, we are getting sleep. We’re averaging about 6 or 7 hours a night – IN THE SAME BED – even. That’s huge.
But what else is that I’ve gotten to be sleep greedy, so right now it’s 10pm and I have to get up at 5:30am for work tomorrow (not a typical day, but sheesh, that’s early) and I should already be in bed, but I’m not, though I will be soon. As soon as I finish typing this. By the way, I was pumping for most of that paragraph. I got good, yo.
Blogging takes a backseat to sleeping. I know that’s effed up, I do know it. But that’s the way it is.
But on to the good part of this post: Doot and Bing, in heady discourse regarding the merits of breakfast and its ranking among the things we eat. Around the 1:15 mark Doot makes a startling discovery: he has a hand. It’s right there, on the end of his arm.
The Doot and Bing Show from Myg on Vimeo.
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Eight. Months. Eight. Months. Eight. Months.
Doot (on the right) said “Da da” tonight, while lovingly combing Alex’s face with his little eight month old fingers. Yes, there were tears aplenty.
Meanwhile, Bing was hurling himself backwards on hands and knees on the same futon where we all lay and tell stories and sing songs every night before bed. He’s about to launch. Real crawling, the kind that involves purposeful movement, is nigh.
And yes, finally, they are starting to sleep all night. Doot has slept from 8pm – 6:30 am three nights in a row. Bing is only waking up once a night, around 12:30am, for a small bottle, then sleeping the rest of the way. This is HUGE folks. But then, you know that.
My mom says they look like they’re ready to take on the world here. If I do my part, here’s hoping they will be.
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