Less

Lately I've been about opening myself up to more.

More interests. More people. Just, more.

Unfortunately this has had the side effect of opening me up to more things. By that, I mean things that I think about and buy.

Which sort of goes against what I'm trying to shoot for with all this new-me, self-improvement whatnot.

See, opening myself up tends to let loose my creative juices, and those creative juices start to go: ideas! fashion! colors! STUFF!

Then I feel shitty. Because stuff only makes you feel good for a second, and then after awhile it overwhelms you. Well, okay, it overwhelms me.

Stop it.

While considering these issues facing me, I ran across this post over at Simple Lovely and it solidified what I was thinking. What are my priorities and what do I need to sacrifice to get them and stay balanced?

1. Eating healthy. For me that means organic produce & dairy, few processed foods, yadda yadda. I wish that wasn't so $$$$. Sometimes my grocery budget (which I suck at and need to make smaller) can't afford organic everything, and so I have to give a little. My husband insists on meat, so I try to have it only once a week or so, and make it free-range or grass fed. Can I just say that it really sucks to be a mindful eater? Sometimes I just want to let go and pretend it's 1960. I do give here and there, I have to.

2. Cultural and family experiences. This could be anything from bikes to museum memberships. I need to make this more of a priority instead of going, "crap, Violet can't ride a bike. She doesn't even have a bike. Why don't my kids have bikes?? Oh yeah, I wasn't thinking about that when I spend this month's extras budget..." Yeah. I am a crappy mom. I'm working on it.

3. A few pretty things to satisfy my needs...? Just a few. Like a weeetle nail polish here and there, a lipgloss there. NOW and THEN. With a lotta time in between.

Self-righteous narcissistic meandering--Out.

Clear

2011, so far, has been a year of cleaning up. I am, compartment by compartment, de-cluttering. Digging down to nitty gritty gunk. Stepping back and assessing, asking: Does this work for me? Do I need this? Is it messy? Is my conscience clear?

On my other blog, the sewing one, I shared my New Year's resolution. Which was to NOT BUY any clothes for one whole year. For any of my family. If we needed clothes, I would sew them. At the time I made this commitment, it was in the dead of Winter, and we were bleeding out jeans and sweaters. Violet was swathed in long sleeved dresses. Wright had multitudes of hand-me-downs to keep him clothed for 3 weeks at a time before I needed to do any laundry.

Now, however, it is Spring. I...have gained, like, 5 lbs. I am down to 1-2 jeans. I hate all my shorts. WTF did all my short-sleeved tops go? Damn my purging mentality--where's the depth of selection?? For various reasons, my super-sewing output at the beginning of the year has trickled to, um, a dam. I just can't get any sewing done. Too busy doing all the other crap I have to do. And my KIDS. Dear Lord, why can't they just exist without fighting/needing/shuffling? Fact is, they are my priority, above all else. I can't feel bad about that, even though I made resolution to clothe us with mine own two handses. (Leeches.)

I caved and bought: A hat. 1 top to wear to a concert.

Whatever.

When it comes down to it, I'm pretty frickin proud to have gone this long. My endless conflicted guilt over buying inexpensive, slave-made clothes

(But am I also providing jobs??? And if so and I'm okay with that, do I still want to look down and know that some sweaty person 50 rungs down the ladder from me blearily pushed these seams through an oily-smelling machine and then went home to his/her 300ft square living space, rice for dinner, and 5 kids?? How comfortable do I feel standing on the shoulders of people with so unimaginably less than I? Why is my life so pristine and my birth so fortunate that I was born in America and they in China/Thailand/Indonesia into poverty? Why do we need this many clothes? Where do the old ones go? I don't know. I'm not trying to make a stand or condemn, just do what I'm comfortable with. I have major, major problems with The System. These are the things that keep me up at night, and I'm not apologizing for that.),

is a non-issue when I a) sew my own clothes and b) accept second-hand clothes. I am 95% sticking to that, and it feels amazing.

Where was I?

So, that was the first part of my clear-out-the-clutter resolution. Stop buying clothes and end the Old Navy card addiction. Next I tackled my sewing paraphenilia consumption. K, working on that. Doing better at it. I'm no trying to be smug about this, just sort of systematically trying to BE A BETTER PERSON so I can stop loathing myself from a big picture morality standpoint, just a little bit.

We've started going to a new church. I want to write love letters in the sky regarding how I feel about this new church. Which isn't actually that new, since we used to go there back in our pre-parenthood days. I'm...alive there. Our old church, while eh, not bad, was basically where my faith went to die. My life-long faith. Dead. Like, so dead it was kind of, I'm not sure if I even believe this crap anymore kinda dead. I actually think that's a good thing in many ways--question stuff, always!--but it was time to remember why I believe anything anyway. Hence why the new church is like my new boyfriend I can't stop talking about. Real people and real sermons and truth? Intellectually satisfying faith? Huh. Whoda thunkit!

And. Through many "aha" moment sermons, and a lovely jaunt through Esther at an I-also-have-faith-in-my-gender-again weekly study with some truly beautiful (inside and out) ladies, I have come to all sorts of conclusions about my life. How I want to conduct it. What is, and what is not good for it.

I'm cleaning out my house, too. I sort of neglected it quite a bit the past 5-ish months, while we all hunkered down in the rain and deep cold that comes from living near the ocean in a cavernous house with no heat. It is...well. It is 1. not clean, 2. clutter filled, 3. sad. So I'm tackling it, corner by corner.

All this feels really good. I'm new. Happy. Free. In the words of my personal musical hero, John Mayer, I'm not together but I'm getting there.

Old stuff

You know, there is something comforting about old people. I don't know exactly what it is, but I adore them*. I kinda can't wait to be one. I can wear polyester elastic waist pants and say whatever I want because I won't give s___. I will hopefully live in a double wide that needs minimal maintenance. I will spend my time taking codeine syrup for my "cough" and reading romance novels. I mean, I'll be old. Who cares?

*Unless they smell, in which case it's a no go. For instance the other day on the way to church we pulled up next to a car full of three really, really old people. An ancient, heavy breathing man was taking up a lot of the driver's seat (okay, technically his pot belly was taking up the driver's seat, sheesh), while two shriveled up crones huddled in the back. They were all wearing copious amounts of polyester bought from previous decades. Had it been colder outside, I'm positive the windows would have been fogged up with their wheezing. To be honest, I was unsure if all three of them were still going to be alive by the time they reached their destination. I turned to Sam and said, "I don't think it smells very good in that car." And he said, "no." (God bless him.)

I have been thinking about all sorts of old stuff lately. We are currently in escrow on an older house. Did I mention that? Yes, some crazy bank has finally decided to accept one of our offers...but only after this house had fallen out of escrow TWO times, and we made THREE offers. And also our realTOR (apparently we've all been mispronouncing it these past years), like, prostrated himself and begged and slit his wrists and made risky deals with minor demons 'n' stuff. Okay, not technically, but something like that. Thank the LORD. However. Please everyone keep all your fingers and toes crossed because it is not ours yet, and until they hand over those keys any number of things could go sideways.

Now, this house is not crazy old. It is just kinda old. Like 80s old. Okay, wait--I know what you're thinking. When I think of an 80s house, I tend to think, "ahhhhhh, get thee away from me! Oakey-brass-yuck!" But luckily the previous owner(s) of this house managed to get rid of all the icky 80s-esque things like popcorn ceilings, black-rimmed windows, oakey cabinets, etc. It has a nice classic look now, AND it has all these great period attributes still intact. Yes, I just called the 80s "period". It has gorgeous cathedral ceilings. The banister is beautifully curved and perfect for displaying Christmas garland. Speaking of Christmas, I can't wait to put a glowy, sparkly tree in the bay window this December. Oh! And it has these beautiful book-matched wood doors that I love, love.

Why does everything have to be "new"? Why can't it be old? Old is good; it's very good. Old juxtaposed with modern is even better.

Okay, my dream, dream house would be a 2000 square foot Arts & Crafts house from 1912, perfectly restored and in a Traditionally Designed Neighborhood. That would be the epitome of old being the best. But, hello, that's truly just a fun dream to me, and not one that I intend to realize. In this real life I will take my old 80s house in an older, quaint neighborhood and plant my flag with pride.

Some other old stuff I've been pondering is old style. I am on a style blog kick to supplement my sewing blog obsession, and I find I'm really drawn to all these vintage style ones. A favorite one, Casey's Elegant Musings, recently posted on how to do your hair up in this really cool vintagey rolled back style. I took this and ran with it, and now I've been rocking these double french braid and twisted back updos. Scarily, this week both my mom AND my dad have told me, "hey Leah, I really like your hairdo." Ack! But. It's totally because they're old. And I did say I liked old stuff, so I'm just going to have to let that one go.

The thing about old style, old dresses, & old updos is that they're...romantic. Having cut my teeth on Anne of Green Gables & 80s Victoriana revival, anything romantic (or even broody romantic) feels comforting and nostaligic to me. I think that's what the appeal, be it old people, old house, or old style boils down to: romantic idealism. Romanticize the past and look to the future with hope...yeah...that's it.

Like an Ostrich

I have been avoiding this blog because who wants to hear about sad mopey crap?

Instead I am posting far more frequently on my sewing blog. Because that's my happy place. When the world looks black, I have a headache, and my kids drive me crazy...I sew. I bury my head in fabric and patterns. I go out to my machines and put creative thought into physical results.

(The only hiccup in this scenario is when my dad goes out on the porch and stinks it up, and/or the kids come out and bug the living y'know out of me. Wright likes to stand behind me on my swivel chair and choke me with love. Violet needs a snack or attention about every 27 seconds. Yesterday, my dad SAT IN MY FREAKING SEWING CHAIR for a good 30 minutes reading his dang gun magazine. But I don't want to go into yesterday; I might start crying again.)

Sometimes when I'm really upset, I open up my laptop and go to my favorite online fabric shops. Staring at little pictures of pretty fabric usually does the trick, and I breathe easier within a few minutes. Honestly, some days here, thinking about fabric is the only thing that gets me through the day. Addiction? Maybe. Lifesaver? Definitely.

('Kay, now I sound like Kate Gosselin in that interview where she asked herself--and answered!--hypothetical questions the entire time.)

A lot of times I only have the mental presence to read fluffy fashion/sewing/celebrity gossip blogs off my Google Reader. I can't seem to get into any fiction lately; something like that might require more emotion than I'm willing to expend.

So, a typical day goes something like this:

8:00 - Stumble in my living room with coffee while the kids watch Nick Jr.. Hole up with my laptop and zone out. I am ridiculously sleep deprived and pretty much only awake because of the coffee, and also because I got tired of the kids jumping on my head.

9:00 - Grudgingly brave the kitchen to get some breakfast for us. I avoid the kitchen in the morning because my dad is in there from like, I swear, 6am - 10am. Sadly, even when I'm sure I've waited long enough that I won't run into him, my strategy often fails. I think that man must go into the kitchen at least 50x per day. Which is a lot for a man who doesn't cook.

10:00 - Deny the kids' request for more shows and force them to play with something. Maybe go outside. Wish I was more awake. Wish Wright slept through the night. Wish I had my own house.

12:00 - Make the kids a lunch they won't eat.

1:00 - 5:00 - If we have the car, go to the park. Run errands. Do an art activity or puzzles with the kids. Break up about a billion fights, administer timeouts. Watch more preschool programs. Do laundry.

7:00 - Sam finally gets home, and we put the kids to bed. This is horrible and usually requires laying down with them, threatening, and combating stall techniques.

8:30 - Take my shower and almost fall asleep under the spray.

9:30 - Zombie walk into the living room to spend time with Sam and watch our DVR'd shows.

11:00-12:00ish - Finally go to bed.

12:30 - Unable to sleep because of a) Violet loudly sucking her thumb and b) Wright tossing & turning & moaning.

1:00 - Pull Wright into bed. Wait for him to go back to sleep. Possibly change his diaper because he has stuck his hand down his diaper and peed all over himself. Between his wiggling all over the place and Sam taking up over 1/2 the bed, alternate between sleep limbo and awake.

2:00 - Finally fall asleep.

7:00 - Wake up to kids jumping on my head and a crippling fear of my dad's feet.

Things I Know

Axiom #1: Trader Joe's Hawaiian Style Salted Potato Chips are like crunchy, salty, manna from heaven at 10:30 on a weeknight.

Axiom #2: I should really, truly, not eat Trader Joe's Hawaiian Style Salted Potato Chips at 10:30 on a weeknight. Or really any night.

But. OMG.

*crunchy salty crispness on my tongue*

Dangit, these things are amazing.

Ahem.

Lately I have contemplated the beauty of my children a lot. I see so many horrible, awful things happening to peoples' children in the news these days, and I think, "how would I feel if that were my kid? How much would my world end?" And I look at my beautiful, healthy, and safe kids. And I just...I treasure them. I am so blessed to have them. I bear the frightening responsibility of getting them to adulthood without serious injury, physical or emotional or otherwise. Once they get there, they should be grounded, sane adults capable of relationships and work.

That is totally overwhelming.

Whenever I complain about these early years, inevitably some well-meaning yet pithy-commenter will always say something to me, like, "oh, just you wait! This time is so short, and you will miss it when they're teenagers!"

*pause to gag*

My internal reaction tends to go something like this:

A) Hey, thanks! This is so much easier now! Hey, do you want to spend a night or two in my bed with my kids?? Like to wake up constantly to shuffle your child or pat a sobbing child? Enjoy a day of breaking up fights on a foggy, coffee-fueled brain?? (Day after day after day!) No? HMM.

Or even...

B) Fine. That's how it is for you. Probably your kids slept for you at a decent age. Or you were a "kid person" who likes playing with little kids, which I'm not. Perhaps you weren't an introvert who needs copious time to yourself in order to recharge and resents the lack of privacy, like me. Surely you didn't raise a couple of stubborn cranky mules, like I am doing? Hah! I plan to look back when my kids are older and say, "thank God!" BTW, suck it non-empathetic, pat answer person!!

Well.

Buuuuuuuuuuuut.

I think I might be sorta, half-way starting to get this whole idea. Like, my kids are er...kinda freakin' awesome at their respective ages.

Wright says hilarious things to me every day in his silly, leave-out-most-of-the-consonants way. He has the most endorphiny belly laugh. And he is so cuddly. I confess I love to squeeze up next to him at night, as long as he's sleepy. I know he is a boy, and I will forever lose that physical closeness with him someday. I will be sad when this stage is over, because even though he's a crazy two year-old that doesn't heel, he comes with all this GOOD to make up for it.

Then there's Violet. Once I get the thumbsucking and nose-picking out from between us (and we have made muchose progressos!), I can look in her bee-u-ti-ful face and marvel that this increasingly gangly, freckle-faced and blue-eyed child is mine. Like, really? And the ladies in the nursery that I scoffed at all those years ago were right...she truly has a sweet spirit. Lord knows where it comes from, but she is this friendly, kind little girl who loves to make new friends and paint pictures and bake cakes with Meemah. I am blessed. One day she will be a surly, moody tween who thinks I suck. I will surely miss this time then.

All those surfacey beetches were right. Grr.

Nose Burrowing

Violet has this really disgusting habit where instead of just sucking her thumb like a typical fidgety child, she goes the extra mile shoves any and all available fingers up her nose. Pinkies are preferable. She does this basically anytime that she is watching tv, riding in the car, or otherwise not actively using her hands for anything productive--hello 11 hours of sleep. So, like, 75% of the day she has 1 thumb in her mouth, 1-2 fingers on the outside of her nose, and 2 pinkies either just in or digging in her nostrils. HOLY CRAP. This bugs me probably far more than it should. It kind of hits me right where nails on a chalkboard would be.

I know, I know, I need to just help her quit. But so far I have had no luck. Usually I say, "hand!" and she stops. Then 30 seconds later, "hand!!" And so on and so forth. She is a 4 year-old who doesn't have the self-control to stop an activity like this. By the fifth time I start to get testy and become the mean mom who yells at her kids for pathetically tiny wrongs like thumb sucking/nose picking.

But, like, I am really, really OCD about germs and nasty things, so this is almost one of my worst nightmares about having children. That and warts. I hope my kids never have wart issues. *shudder*

I actually have big plans for a sticker chart and Disney Princess reward system and a Baby Lulu floofy dress ultimate reward and Thum, this bitter, minty stuff that you paint on your kids' fingers. I have purchased all these things, and they are sitting in my (parents') garage. I just...need...to...get...going on it. Sigh. Lazy fatalism is holding me back.

**Side Note: While typing this blog the past 10 minutes, Violet is watching Speical Agent Oso, and I have said, "hand!!!!!!!!" about 13x. Thirteen. Grr.**

***Extra Side Note: I just changed to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and this upset Wright so much that he walked up to the tv and hit Mickey's image on the screen. Brilliant.***

On a slightly happier note, I just came across this website last night, Overhead in New York, and I die. I stayed up way too late scrolling through the entries. It all quotes that various New Yorkers have overheard and then submit to the website. I like to imagine New York accents as I read some of them. Beware though, they are not for virgin ears (as is New York itself, no?). This one was one of my favorites:

(**Disclaimer: I did not write this entry and swear words, I am just click-quoting another site!!**)

I Hear He Does Quartets All the Time
14-year-old boy #1: You ever play any Chopin?

14-year-old boy #2: Yeah, I played one of his last year.

14-year-old boy #1: Can you play Fantasie-Impromptu? That one's mad hard.

14-year-old boy #2: No, I did an Etude. That's where you play scales and shit.

14-year-old boy #1: I read that he, like, bridged the gap between the classical and romantic eras.

14-year-old boy #2: No way, dude. You ever hear his Nocturnes? That shit is mad romantic. You're thinking of Beethoven.

14-year-old boy #1: Oh, right. Beethoven. He was a pimp.

--2 Train

Overheard by: Blerg
via Overheard in New York, Apr 6, 2010

Happy almost-weekend, people!

In the Bleak Midwinter

I know, I know. I live in Southern California, so this technically doesn't apply. Our Winter is nae near so bleak as, say, way up near a frozen Minnesota lake where no mountains hover and a few bare-bone trees stand aboot. Bear with me here.

It's, er, more figurative. I live in a house where I spend all day avoiding my parents, suppressing my children lest I offend said parents, and overall just living a half-life. Not to mention, it has been rather rainy and dreary these past months. Yes? Okay, then. So in light of that only mildly depressing outlook...

My muse has gone missing.

I think perhaps it got trampled underneath my dad's offensive, shuffling feet? Maybe it rode away with Sam as he took our CR-V to work so many times this Winter?

My best theory: I can't feel it because in order to exist here each day, I have emotionally numbed myself up but good.

Wah, wah, woe is me. My life is SO hard. Gag.

I realize no one is threatening my life or children, no one is on drugs, my kids aren't mortally sick, and so this is all psychiatrist-couch meandering, OKAY??! I'm not trying to be epic here, just digging and 'splaining.

Enerate (that's hillbilly speak from my dad), there it is. I can't feel my feelings, or I only feel the dark and icky ones, so I don't want to bring them out into the light and expose their slimy yuck. Reaching way down, I can't find anything even blackly funny that I can poke at, no sarcastic comment to amuse you. Not just now.

So, sorry. You know you feel yourself reaching back over to your Google Reader page...clicking on some blog with inspiring pictures that'll cheer you up (and possibly make you feel a bit jealous?? Just sayin'...). I know. I read those ones to, and God bless those people. We need them. I love looking at beautiful pictures and eloquent waxing about how "amazing!" and "awesome!" life is as much as anyone. I know I'll never be that girl, though. So I feel free to hang out over here with my black fingernails and my coffee and my complaint rock. To each her own.