The Petigru Review

Yesterday I received my two free author copies of The Petigru Review. It felt good to hold a big chunk of a book in my hands, flip to the table on contents, and see my name listed three times. The $15 I made in "royalties" felt good, too. It brought the total profits from my writing to date up to $115. What a lucrative career choice I've made for myself...

Obviously I'm not in it for the money. It's more the satisfaction of knowing someone else read my writing and thought other people would like it, too. That feels good. And it also feels good to be published in a literary journal named for James L. Petigru, SC stateman, who famously said "South Carolina is too small to be a republic, and too large to be an insane asylum." I love my adopted state, but as a born and bred Tarheel, I do snicker (quietly) to myself whenever I hear that quote.

I had hoped that I could brag that it was now available on amazon.com, but it isn't yet. It is, however, available at a local bookstore, Fiction Addiction.

I'm only doing my due dilligence by pointing out that it would fill a stocking nicely and would most certainly impress all your book-loving friends with its sophisticated, artsy, literary-journalness. Plus, I have it on good authority that you might even persuade one of the contibutors to autograph your copy. :-)

Bash Mister's Head In (And Think About Heaven Later)...

I don't typically comment on the things that go on in celebrity lives, mostly because they have no bearing on me, my life, or my writing. But this Tiger Woods debacle on the other hand, feels very personal and has angered me in a way that few news stories have in recent memory.

You have a guy, who, at least on the surface, comes across as an intelligent, successful family man. He has a beautiful wife who loves him and appears to support him unconditionally, two adorable children, wealth beyond my wildest dreams, a gorgeous house, and basically, the kind of life someone like me only dreams about--jet setting around the world, hobnobbing with the rich and powerful, loved and admired by one and all, instantly recognizable, with a personal brand that makes everyone feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

And yet this seemingly intelligent and successful man was willing to throw it all away (or at the very least, put it all in serious jeopardy) over various affairs with 9 (9!!!) different women, some of whom he was banging while his wife was pregnant with his children, sometimes (purportedly) in their own house!!!

No one is claiming that an enraged Elin Nordegren went after Tiger with a golf club, but I'm sort of hoping she did. As the mom of two small children, I know all that I've sacrificed of myself to be a mother. I have the stretch marks and the c-section scar to prove it. And I'm still carrying excess baby weight that I just can't seem to lose. I've aged about 20 years as a result of sleep deprivation and deferred maintenence. I choose to buy the boys what they need over having fresh new highlights and the latest trendy haircut. Since I'm usually covered in snot and Chef Boyardee anyway, the sexy jeans and tight tops I used to wear have given way to sweatpants and old t-shirts. My idea of romance is watching the latest sap-fest on the Lifetime Movie Network... It's a sad state of affairs, but it's what comes of domesticity and child-rearing.

I understand that it's probably no picnic for a man to go from center of his sexy young wife's universe, to husband of a sleep-deprived, stretch-marked mommy of two. And by virtue of his not having carried and birthed the children, the husband is still the sexy Adonis of his bachelor days, with the same energy and sex drive. Suck it up guys. Because here's the deal: THOSE KIDS SCREAMING IN THE OTHER ROOM ARE YOUR FAULT. AND COUSIN IT IN SWEATPANTS IS YOUR FAULT TOO.

And just to clarify for literal people like my husband, I do not mean "fault" as in "Bad dog! No! No!" I mean "fault" as in the consequences of your actions.

We women were just minding our own business til your sperm came along and fertilized our eggs. So understand that this is what comes of wanting to reproduce and suck up the consequences. You can't have it both ways. Women have to evolve from sex objects to unsexy mothers for the continuence of the species, and it would behoove men to evolve right along with us.

When I look in the mirror nowadays, this is what I think to myself: "Well, shit, Brittany. You definetely look like you're in your thirties now. You're old, you're fat, and you look like someone's mother. Damn."

And then I think of Tom, who at 35, still has washboard abs, and I cringe at the thought of the disparity in our attractiveness. I tell myself I need to hit the gym, and the salon,and pull myself together for fear that he'll become totally grossed out by me and trade me in for a newer model. Not that I think he would, but I'm sure Elin Nordegren, who is more attactive then me by a factor of a million, never expected Tiger to go screw a Perkins waitress.

I'm a pragmatic person, and after this story broke, I told Tom how extraordinarily pissed I was about the whole thing, and how he'd need to fear for his life if he pulled that crap on me. I can understand why a man would want to cheat, especially if he's not getting what he needs at home, but for me anyway, I would rather my husband come to me and say "I need X, Y, and Z to be happy." At which point I could say, "I'm willing to do X, Y, and Z to make you happy" or "I'm not willing to do X, Y, and Z. Find it somewhere else." Then at least I would have a say in the matter, and a choice (albeit an unpleasant one).

It's an entirely different situation when you think everything's fine, your husband acts like everything is hunky dory, and then you find out it's all been a lie. That I could not tolerate. If I were Elin Nordegren, I'd divorce Tiger so fast his head would spin. And I would drown my sorrows in fat alimony checks.

I don't understand women who are humiliated to learn of their husband's affairs, and stay with them anyway (the Kathie Lee Giffords and Elizabeth Edwards' of the world). Sometimes, I fear, it is the lure of money. I have been disturbed to hear that Elin and Tiger immediately started renegotiating their pre-nup. There would be no amount of money that could entice me to stay with a cheater--especially after he'd had affairs with so many women--and most especially after we'd had children together. The minute I have a child for a man, I expect my status to elevate. Maybe he won't see me as a luscious sex goddess anymore, but he damn well better respect me enough to keep from embarrassing and tarnishing my life and the future life of our children.

If I was in Elin's situation right now, Tiger would be lucky to be alive, or still male. The title of this blog is taken from The Color Purple and refers to a mister who continually cheats on and abuses the goodwill of his young wife. I don't advocate domestic violence in any way, but there's a difference between escalating violence after an argument over toilet seat position and finding out your spouse has violated all bounds of morality, fiscal responsibility, and communicable health issues by screwing a passal of other people. In situations like this, I think common sense dictates that the person in question most certainly deserves a figurative and literal wallop upside the head.

And while I'm on my soapbox, another group of people who need a good smack are the women, clearly lacking in good sense and self-esteem, who choose to have affairs with married men (with children) just because the guy's famous. Maybe I'm alone in thinking this, because when I *was* a hot young thing, I had ample opportunity to sleep with older (sometimes married) men and reap the benefits from that sort of situation, but as my friend Michael pointed out about me our senior year of high school, if the ends don't justify the means, I don't waste my time. What would be the point of sleeping with a guy who's clearly unavailable for purely short-term gratification? So I can detail my exploits on national TV and sell all the gorey details to the tabloids? That's sure to make me daughter-in-law material...

As a future mother-in-law to some girl out there, I'm rooting for the woman who tells my son, "I don't come easy, and you need to thank your lucky stars you found me. Lest you forget it, here's a golf club/rolling pin/snow shovel/Lousiville Slugger to remind you..."

It's times like this that I look to someone like Jenny Sanford as a beacon of hope for women everywhere. We need more role models like her. From the get-go, she called a spade a spade (or in her case, a tool a tool), she has never stood by her philandering husband, and while she probably hasn't brandished golf clubs at him, she's made it abundantly clear that she's not going to suffer that fool gladly, support him financially or emotionally, and that she's worth far more to him than he ever realized. Too bad he didn't realize this sooner. Mark Sanford has had an education (much as Tiger has, I suspect), and it's been good for him.

There's nothing like putting a little fear in a man's heart to remind him which head to think with before it gets bashed in.

It's Not Over...

...til the fat lady sings. (Maybe I should break out into some show tunes.)

I thought maybe, just maybe, everyone was going to be healthy in time for Thanksgiving. And we were, but it was only a brief respite. While I was Black Friday shopping, John's stomach bug came back with a vengeance and then the night before last, once we were home from my grandmother's, from seemingly out of nowhere, Sam started writhing around and screaming in agony. He wouldn't sleep and nothing we did could soothe him. I took him back to the pediatrician's office (4th trip for me in less than 2 weeks) and now he has an ear infection with a perforated ear drum. How this happened, when he *just* finished a round of amoxicillan on the 27th, is totally beyond me. I am at my wit's end with this--I feel like my life has become a symphony of puke and poop, with a little melody of infection sprinkled here and there for texture. It wouldn't be so bad if this damn stomach bug thing wasn't becoming downright predictable. And so help me, if one more doctor shrugs and says "virus" I may strangle him or her with their own stethoscope. I have had enough of this crap. Literally. And I'm sick of writing blogs about it, and facebook-ing about the sad status of our health. Everyone else it seems is flitting about, preparing for the holidays, or engaged in real productive work, and here I am still mired in exactly the same situation I was a month ago. I'm not a fan of being mired. It's making me pissy.

And this is not how I want 2009 to go out. Granted, as years go, this has not been a truly stellar one. It's been one of stagnation, miring, if you will, and I'm not at all sorry to see it go. I feel like I've spent most of the year in a perpetual state of frustration and that's really not where I wanted to be emotionally. I keep trying to remind myself that sometimes you're the rock, and sometimes you're the river, but from a purely physical sense, I don't like being a rock. They're fat and they take up space. And yes, you can argue that they can change the flow and course of the river, and create all kinds of similes and metaphors for why rocks are important just the way they are, but I'd rather be a river and feel like I'm getting somewhere in the course of my day.

I'm still optimistic that someday the boys' immune systems will kick back in, but until then, you'll know where to find me.

Decking the Halls

We had a busy yesterday. After being cooped up for three weeks, Tom and I decided it was time to get the boys some fresh air. I had to be in Greensboro, NC yesterday afternoon, so we left early in the morning and went to the NC Zoo in Asheboro first. The boys were finally feeling well collectively, and we had a nice, low-key day outside.

On the way home, it occurred to me that the holidays are now rampaging toward us full bore, and if we didn't put the Christmas tree up soon, it wasn't going to get put up at all. Much to Tom's horror, I suggested we do it when we got home (after a six hour drive in the car). Poor guy.

He had real reservations. Christmas trees laden with expensive ornaments sound like a recipe for disaster with Maurauding Pirate #1 and Maurauding Pirate #2, but I argued that Sam has been doing much better of late and if he helped us put the tree up, he'd be less likely to try to tear it down.

So after dinner, we put John to bed and unloaded the hall closet of its Christmas boxes.



Sam had fun helping Tom "fluff" our artificial tree.



And when that was done, he got to put the star on top. (All metal. We learned our lesson after the Christmas we set our non-metal Santa's butt on fire with a too-hot Christmas light.)



When I was little, my mom always took me to Hallmark to pick out a couple of ornaments each year. When she moved away from home for the first time, she'd gotten very depressed at Christmas without any ornaments of her own, so she always wanted me to be sure to have my own. I'm continuing that tradition with the boys (except they have to pick one--we are in a recession, after all). And this is the ornament Sam picked for himself this year--big surprise--it's a train.



Here are the four stockings I've made over the years for each member of the family.



Sam can identify his name on sight now, and was very excited to point out his stocking to me.



When everything was finished, I had Sam pose for us and say "Ta-dah!"

The Further Adventures of Sir Hurl-A-Lot and His Sidekick Pukey Boy

Okay, I'm not actually going to regale you with a play-by-play of the last three weeks. I think the name says it all. We have been in stomach flu hell here at the Vandeputte residence. But I have learned some valuable lessons for survival in a household vomitorium and thought I would share them with you.

#1 - When sending your husband on an emergency Gatorade run, it is important to specify the gatorade flavor whose artificial coloring best matches your carpets. Fruit punch red + light beige carpet = lots of scrubbing in the middle of the night.

#2 - Medicines that the doctor promises will melt immediately on the tongue, not only do not melt on the tongue, but maintain their shape and general consistency when spit across the room onto the dog.

#3 - Even a deathly sick toddler, too bleary-eyed to see straight, will spot the crushed up medicine in the bottom of his sippy cup.

#4 - Your husband takes on Mr. Universe/Sexiest Man of the Year/Ghandi status after standing outside in hurricane remnants hosing down bedsheets at 3am.

#5 - But you take on Miss America/Sexiest Woman of the Year/Mother Theresa status after volunteering to collect the stool sample.

#6 - If all else fails, large doses of probiotics are a godsend.

Addendum

I do want to add, for the record, that despite the events of yesterday afternoon, my carpets are spotlessly clean. There isn't a trace of any of it left behind. No stains at all.

What is my secret?

A carpet solution made of 1 c Water, 1 T white vinegar, and 1 t Dreft. I am hardly Holly Homemaker, but I decided to try this in a fit of desperation a few months ago (a difficult stain in the middle of the living room and everything else was bleaching out the carpet scrap I had on hand). I found this recipe online, my test patch didn't fade, so I thought "Why not?"

It is the stuff of miracles. You just soak the carpet, scrub away any surface "dirt," then soak up the remaining liquid with a towel or paper towels, and if the stain is still visible repeat again. Name a noxious bodily fluid, and it's removed it from my carpet without so much as a hint it was there.

Another secret cleaning tip I recently came across is oxygen bleach. It's like OxyClean on steriods, without the bleaching factor. I won't use OxyClean. Hate it. But real oxygen bleach is another miracle product that no one knows about. It cleaned our ceramic tile grout when nothing else would. Even soaked in red gatorade that had turned the grout pink. I got it here http://askthebuilder.pinnaclecart.com/catalog/Stain_Solver-1-1.html. I met Tim Carter of Ask the Builder fame when we lived in Cincinnati, and tried it based on his recommendation. It does everything he claims it does.

So everything is clean and squared away, for now. Let's see how long it lasts.

Reoccuring Themes

Here's one of those things they don't tell you about at those parenting classes you sign up for when you're pregnant and think your unborn child is going to be this clean, pink, cooing thing.

The minute they come forth (and for some of us, the minutes before they comes forth) you will find yourself the unfortunate frequent resident of SHITTYSNOTTYPUKEYVILLE, and you will, on a regular basis, find yourself cleaning your child's noxious bodily fluids out of your brand new carpet, the stiching on your (also brand new) leather sofas, the covers of books, your hair, the wheels of favorite Thomas the Tank Engines, baseboards, door frames, sheets, and pillowcases.

And I seem to have had the misfortune of becoming a permanent resident of this horrible horrible place.

My friend Miranda observed once that bodily fluid stories are rapidly becoming a sad reoccuring theme in my life. Well, here's one more...

Sam and I had a miserable stomach bug over the weekend that forced me to scrap my long-anticipated Halloween cookout on Saturday and my girl's afternoon out viewing This is It on Sunday. Instead, I had my head in a bucket wishing for death and Tom spent the weekend alternating between Gatorade runs and hosing down Sam's bedding in the driveway. Fun was had by all.

Sam seemed better by Sunday afternoon, and I kept him home from school Monday where he was so well I thought he'd been possessed by a maurading pirate. Tuesday he went to school and successfully convinced his teacher he was near death, but once he got home, he was totally fine. A 10+ on the pirate pain-in-the-ass scale. (I have a $30-child-broke-a-library-DVD-bill to prove it.)But last night he picked at dinner, and didn't eat any breakfast. Or lunch--even though it was a Fuddruckers hotdog and he normally wolfs those down. He fell asleep in the car on the ride home and I put him straight to bed when we got home.

And then, two hours later, he woke up from his nap and there was literally a river of diarrhea in his diaper, that flooded his jeans legs, filled up his socks, and made a puddle on the (of course) brand new carpet in his bedroom. Which John tried to walk through. Wailing baby goes back in crib. Wailing toddler goes in shower. Wailing mommy goes and gets the cleaning supplies and spends a half an hour scrubbing nasty festering ick from between the carpet fibers. I get wailing baby out of crib. I get not-so-wailing toddler from the shower. I pajama him. And tell him he's sick and needs to go to bed. And fits are pitched and he says he wants to play, so I give him an anti-diarrheal and *I* go to bed (to watch Oprah and embroider).

My butt had literally just made contact with the mattress when I hear *cough cough* "Mommy!" *splat*

And now there is a gigantic orange chunky spot in the hallway on the *damn! damn!* brand new carpet! Followed by another orange spot and another and another and I just stand there debating my options. Could I kill myself with Calgon? Would it take me away enough from the vomit encrusted toddler standing in the hall, the bright puddles of I-don't-even-want-to-go-there on my once-new-looking carpet, and the baby re-enacting Singing in the Rain in the middle of it? Good God! There are puke splatters all over the walls. Can I just stand in the street and let someone hit me with their car? It would be infinitely preferable to what I'm about to have to do...

Seriously? Have I not paid my dues yet?

Remedial NANOWRIMO

I've never been so proud of doing so little.

When I signed up for NANOWRIMO this year (in my head--I did not sign up officially for obvious reasons) I only had a vague notion of how things were going to work. I was not going to kill myself in my writing frenzy and lose my mind. I was going to dabble. I was going to write as the inspiration hit and if that meant I wrote a paragraph a day, so be it. I have never been such a slack ass about anything in my life. But surprisingly, it feels delicious. Much like summer vacation once did, where getting out of bed and dressed sometime before lunchtime felt like a major accomplishment.

I've been working on descriptions lately, because I really suck at them. It's amazing what you can accomplish when you focus on a single task. Since I'm only writing descriptions, and don't have dialogue or plot progression issues to worry with, I've amazed myself at what is pouring forth from my head.

A couple of examples:

As his eyes adjusted to the little light let off by the fireplace, he could just make out the shape of Mrs. Whitaker lying in her bed, and the figure of a young woman bending over her. The young woman’s hair was loosely tied in a braid down her back, and several long strands obstructed her face.
John longed to coil one of those strands around his finger just to examine the color more closely. In the glow of the fire, it shone like a new wheat penny, but as she turned at the sound of his footsteps, in the sunlight streaming through the open door, the copper melted into honey.

The young woman brushed the hair out of her eyes and as they connected with his, John felt an odd jolt of energy between them. He had seen that color only once before, the morning he had hiked up Grandfather Mountain and seen the Blue Ridge for the first time. A quilt of green and blue patchworked into one another, stiched by sunlight, then covered by a blanket of mist.

As a writer, you always fear you're a one-trick pony--that you have one voice, and one style, and can't write your way through a different world. Even as I grew sick of it, I always thought my style was that sarcastic self-deprecating voice of the chic lit narrator, but I'm proving to myself that not only is it possible for me to write more serious literary fiction, it's coming across much better. And I'm actually having fun writing for a change.

Working At It

I should be in the garage sanding quarter round right now, but I thought I'd take a minute to update my blog before I get swept up in the tidal wave that is autumn around here.

I know most people get very busy this time of year with the holidays approaching and whatnot, but for me, autumn equals that plus an insane burst of creative mojo that doesn't peter out until February. I have a feeling my blogs will become sparser this month, since I have halfway commited myself to NANOWRIMO. This year, I have no immediate goals per se. I'm certainly not going to kill myself in an attempt to write 50,000 words in 30 days. What I am going to do is devote my blog-writing time to writing some descriptions of the setting in my mountain romance novel, and flex some of my writing muscles more regularly. I am becoming increasingly cranky as I withdraw from the writing world, so obviously abstaining from it completely is not a good idea.

Plus, I'm still committed to spending more time with the boys and less time on the computer and this time of year is full of fun holiday entertainment for them. Here are pictures we took of them in their costumes at the Enchanted Tracks at The Pavillion in Taylors. It's quickly becoming my favorite park in all of Greenville. This was a great little event for kids--night time train rides, trick-or-treating with story book characters in the woods, a petting zoo, bounce houses. They had a blast.





I'm still working on Christmas presents, too. My goal is to be finished by Thanksgiving. Yesterday while checking my spam email account, I stumbled across an offer from shutterfly.com for a free photo book, and while web surfing, I found another offer from kodakgallery.com for a free ($15 worth) photo gift. Thanks to my friend Amy, who let me borrow her computer (ours does not have working flashplayer), I cranked out two more Christmas gifts last night. Tom was pleasantly surprised when I told him what I'd done and how much it ended up costing me (I had to pay the shipping costs... big whoopee doo).

And speaking of which, those of you who have been following our home improvement saga for the last seven years will appreciate this:

Tom laid a bazillion square feet of ceramic tile in our house, and has recently begun installing quarter round to finish off the edges (hence my need to go sand it). However, he decided that due to our nightmarish experiences caulking our house in Ohio, he was not going to bother caulking the joints between the wood pieces and was just going to let them be. The naked joints really bothered me, probably in the same way that naked table legs bothered the Victorians. So yesterday, against Tom's wishes, I took matters into my own hands. A few weeks back, I'd bought a cool looking tool for caulking--a silicone seam smoother-thingy--which Tom immediately declared a colossal waste of money and refused to use. Yesterday, I opened it, grabbed a tube of kitchen and bathroom caulk that was shoved in the furthest reaches of the garage, and went to work plugging up the seams between the quarter round pieces. That tool was a revelation. I made some of the loveliest caulk lines you've ever seen.

So Tom comes home from lunch. I show him my handiwork. And being Tom, he said, "While you were at it, why didn't you caulk the seam between the quarter round and the baseboard, too?"

Typical. I'm guessing he thought it turned out well. :-)

Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

I've said it before, but I'll say it again. My life has suddenly become very Prufrockian. A couple of weeks ago I was measuring out my life in coffee spoons, now I want to disturb the universe.

We always have interesting conversations on Creative Construction (now called Studio Mothers), but lately the topics have hit very close to home for me and have inspired a lot of soul searching.

It started when Miranda asked me: "Brittany, I know that you’ve sort of sworn off a commitment to writing, just for while the boys are so little. But clearly, your work is not that far from your mind. How are you able to navigate this landscape? Do you tell yourself, well, I’m not going to try to schedule anything or set up any specific goals, BUT, if opportunity strikes, I’ll take it?"

My reply: How am I able to navigate this landscape?

Good question, Miranda, and something I haven’t thought about consciously (if at all).

What happened was I came to the conclusion that if I continued to persue writing in tandem with motherhood I was always going to feel like I was in a horse race with my children–constantly trying to get away from them, leave them in my dust, and create further and further distance from them so I could gain writing ground. And when I thought about it from their perspective, I knew that they were not going to have the happy childhoods I wanted for them if I was constantly trying to distance myself from them in favor of this abstract activity that meant absolutely nothing to them. (For a while there, I’m pretty sure they thought my laptop was actually an extension of my lap.)

And when I thought about the type of mother I wanted to be, I didn’t want to be inaccessible and angry–which unfortunately had become the norm as I tried to finish my novel. I reached a breaking point one day when I found myself screaming at Sam (who wanted me to stop writing and dance with him) “Just go away and leave me alone! I’m busy!” And a little voice in my head piped up and asked, “Is this really worth it? Do you care so little about your child that you’re willing to ruin your relationship with him and his childhood over some dumb words on a page?” And of course, the answer was “no.”

And I asked myself, “What did I have these kids for anyway?”

The answer was simple. I wanted to mother them. I wanted to play with them, and explore the world with them, and dance to the Wiggles with them, and take them to the park to feed fries to squirrels. And I wasn’t doing any of that. I was being selfish and self-absorbed, giving my best to my laptop and leaving none of it for them.

So I just said, “Enough,” and I put the writing away.

And yes, the writing still percolates, because I’m not dead and ideas have always percolated–it’s who I am. It’s what I choose to do with them that matters right now, and right now, I choose to let them sit.

But it's a choice that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. And as the conversations continued, I found myself growing angrier and angrier at a world that tells me I shouldn't have to sacrifice one thing for the other. That I can have it all, if only I become more disciplined and new age-y in my thinking. Here were my thoughts on the suggestion that I carve out a piece of my morning (when it's quiet) and treat my writing as a rock that everything else flows around.

Exactly what part of my morning should I carve out? The five am wake up call from the other room, the time spent nursing one while the other climbs on me demanding videos and bathroom trips and potty treats and breakfast. And should I just allow all the drool and the crumbs and the poopy diapers to flow around the house while I sit serenely at my computer so I can really be with myself?

More and more I feel real honest-to-God anger at other women who smugly assure me that it is possible to balance writing and motherhood. Who estatically exclaim, “I balance it all! I’m living the dream! You can do it, too!” I want to go feral and chew off their faces with rabid frothy-teeth-gnashing because I can’t. I’ve tried.

Then yesterday, Miranda posted an article written by a musician who considered giving up her musical life when her children were born. Her words really shook my core, even though there were the responses I expected--the enthusiastic bleating about writing, mothering, balancing, loving it--the responses that make me cross-eyed with frustration and blind rage--not at those other mothers, but at myself. Why have they found the holy grail that still proves illusive to me?

And so I wrote: What is expected of me as a mother is entirely incompatible right now with the creative life I want to pursue, and I’ve had to set aside my writerly aspirations just so I can dog paddle through my days , my head only just above water. Sadly, writing no longer feeds my soul. It consumes me, turning me into an angry, screaming harpy, because the more I write, the more I want to write, and the more conscious I am of what Diane said–that “As mothers, yes, we have a biological imperative to focus very deeply on our children, but there is little support for the mother who has a need to support her family financially through a career that requires elite preparation and singular focus,” and apparently I’m the only one who gives a shit about it.

I love my husband and children dearly, but in the priorities of the day, western civilization will end as we know it if I’m not available to heat up a can of Chef Boyardee, fill a sippy, and clean up after everybody afterwards. No one EVER says to me, “Damn Brittany, what a mess you’ve made of chapter 4. When you get a chance can you go straighten that out.” But God forbid nobody has clean socks or replenished groceries. I have to get on that immediately…

And I am bottling, bottling, bottling–surpressing all that simmering anger–knowing that even if I erupt and spew my anger forth for all to see, it still won’t make the slightest bit of difference to anyone else if I’m writing or not. It’s better to distance myself from it. Write stupid little blogs about toddler vomit and dog diarrhea, and expose my sad little maternal woes for all the Schadenfruedian world to see. Every time I read a post about another mother in a similar position who is happily struggling along, I grow just a tinier bit angrier and more resentful, and then distance myself a little more from writing so I can cope with a life without it.

After writing that, and then simmering for half the day in anger over my situation, I literally fled the house when Tom came home. And where did I flee? Barnes and Noble. Ironic, huh?

I bought *another* diet book, determined as I am to get some control over whatever I can. And while I grocery shopped at Walmart--which to a suburban mom is as close to a discipline as it gets--I pondered my situation.

The other Studio Mothers are signing up for NANOWRIMO right and left. I have a book idea. A re-write to do of my last book idea. I would *like* to be writing right now. I could possibly carve out the time if I was really disciplined and pushed myself like an olympic athlete. It might be good for me to try. I need to prove to myself that I can do something.

But I also need to clean the house and go to the gym and catch up on the sleep I miss at night and and and... somehow it all feels like excuses, but it's a lot of tedious minutae that turns into the giant barracade that jams up my life. If you could see inside this mother's head, it would look like the aftermath of the Johnstown Flood, ideas dammed up behind acres and acres of impenetrable debris.

Will my world collapse if I add something else to the pile? Will everything come crashing down around my head?

Do I dare disturb the universe?

Another Day in the Life...

Yesterday was one of those days that makes parents everywhere want to book the first flight to Bora Bora.

As most things develop around here, it started zanily. I wanted to go to the gym, but my desire to hit the eliptical machine coincided with the arrival of a large box of gifts to the boy from my mom, and they were much too interested in playing with their new toys and gorging themselves on the snacks she sent to humor me. Finally, I was able to convince them to go for a walk with me, so I piled them into the double stroller, tied on my awesome new walking shoes, and tried to head out. Tuendi tried to head out with us, but I shushed her back in the house. We had a nice stroll around the neighborhood, even though I spent much of that time cursing the hilly terrain and wishing our neighborhood was flatter. You don't realize how uphill you're going until you're pushing a bulky double stroller...

When we got home, my neighbor Amy was outside, and as I stood in the driveway catching up with her, the boys disappeared into the garage (and presumably the house). Moments later a blur of white went zipping by my feet, heading--of course--uphill. I yell for Amy to watch the boys and take off after Tuendi, who's surprisingly fleet on her feet for an almost-11-year-old. Thank God for the little stamina I've been building up because I was able to chase her up the street without passing out. But to add to the hilarity factor, it was 5:30pm, "rush hour" for the neighborhood, and Tuendi proceeded to cause a little traffic jam as she weaved from one side of the road to the other, totally oblivious to the line of cars stopped to watch her. Thankfully, I was put out of my misery by a neighbor (one I don't know), who opened up her car door, called to Tuendi, and then caught her for me.

I trudged back down the hill with Tuendi under my arm. Amy had the boys, the garage door *and* the door to the house were both standing wide open, and one of our strictly indoor cats was poking his nose around the garage. By some miracle, Sammy was in the backyard, and Dove, the other cat, was upstairs. But don't think the mental image of me having to herd all four wayward pets home didn't cross my mind...

I *thought* that was it for daily excitement, but that's what I get for thinking...

Things were going along swimmingly. Tom came home. I fixed dinner. We all sat down to eat it. John, who not five minutes before, had been Mr. Happiness, suddenly began screaming. Tom lifted him from the highchair just in time for John to barf what seemed like gallons all over his shoulder. Sammy, our pure white dog, came over to investigate and round two was a direct hit that landed right on top of his head. And so began an evening full of vomiting, bathing, and dog baths...

I hoped it was a quick in-and-out bug, but John started running a fever this morning--right in time for Sam's long-anticipated first field trip ever-to the pumpkin patch. With so many horrible stories about the flu going around, I think it's better to err on the side of caution. Plus, if I stayed home with John and sent Sam to the field trip in some other parent's car, with my luck, the likelihood that he'd suddenly start violently barfing all over someone else's upholstery seemed pretty ridiculously high, so I just kept him home too.

I can already tell, it's going to be a very long day...

In A Holiday Mood

I know it's early, but the cooler weather has my mind buzzing about the holidays. I've been looking forward to them for almost half a decade. The last four Christmases have been challenging, to say the least.

Christmas 2005--I was about 7 weeks pregnant and my helacious morning sickness ramped itself up on the 12 hour drive to visit Tom's parents in Syracuse. Not the holliest jolliest holiday spent puking in my in-laws utility sink. :-(

Christmas 2006--Spent in Maryland, NJ, and NY with an infant who refused to sleep at night, but napped through nearly all of the Christmas festivities, and wailed whenever he went on a road trip.

Christmas 2007--Pregnant again. With a toddler. Spent a very quiet Christmas alone at the house. I missed the hustle and bustle of family around.

Christmas 2008--First of all, I was sick as a dog from before Halloween, straight through Thanksgiving, and was only just starting to feel better when the family developed a lovely case of pre-holiday Norovirus. We flew (with an infant, a toddler, all our luggage, and a carseat) to NY on Christmas Day--and proceeded to give my father-in-law and brother-in-law a nasty Christmas gift that they enjoyed the rest of our visit.

And yet Christmas is still my favorite holiday... Here's hoping this one goes a little better.

This is the very first Christmas where one of our children has a clue about Santa Claus, so I can't wait for that. I got Sam a gift from Santa that I'm certain will knock his little socks off. The in-laws will be here, and all my holiday hostessing senses have gone into overdrive (If you're as addicted to Honey Baked Ham as I am, you can go to www.honeybaked.com/holiday and print yourself a $10/off coupon). I'm already planning a sumptious holiday menu to go along with the aforementioned ham. It will be a holiday bonanza to end all holiday bonanzas.

I've been flooded with gift-giving inspiration this year--which has much to do with spending the last holiday season walking around the mall in a whooping-cough/pnuemonia-addled daze(Now I have two year's worth of inspiration to go on). And thanks to my extremely cooperative, and artistic children, I'm giddy for the big day to arrive and their inspired (if I do say so myself) presents to be unwrapped.

Tomorrow, while Sam's class takes a make-up field trip to the apple orchard (we're going on Thursday), we're heading back to The Glazing Pot in Greer for part #3 of our holiday gift making. Tom's grandmother mentioned to me how much she loves and can't get enough of Cheerios the last time we saw her, and since she's notoriously difficult to buy for (everything you give her comes back to you the following year), I decided months ago that we needed to buy her a Sam's-sized box of Cheerios for Christmas. But then I got to thinking that the icing on the cake would be a bowl to eat them in, painted for her by her great-grandsons. Surely that's something she'd enjoy (and keep). So that's our project for tomorrow...