From Mommy to Mom in 60 seconds flat

I knew that eventually this day would come. I just didn't anticipate it happening so soon. Today, Brendan called me "Mom" instead of "Mommy." Ack!

I didn't expect him to do that until he was at least five, maybe even six. Unfortunately, his friend Lily, who is six months older, just started calling her mother (my friend Laura) "Mom." I should have known this was coming last week when Brendan announced, "I call you Mommy, not Mom!" He has obviously been giving it some consideration.

Still, when I called to him to hurry this morning so that we could get to preschool on time and he responded, "I'm coming, Mom!" my heart stopped. No! You can't grow up this fast. I want to be your mommy. To protect you. To cuddle you. And nurture you. And yes, baby you from time to time. You can be a boy. But I will always be your mommy.

Naturally, because I'm me, I responded, "My name is Mommy or Mama, not Mom." This, of course, cracked Brendan up. And because he has his daddy's sense of humor, he started in with a sing-song chorus of "Mom, mom, mom! You're Mom! You're my Mom!"

I had to smile in spite of myself. But inside, it's a different story.

A Sunny Day: Nature's Miracle Cure

Yesterday afternoon I spent a couple of hours outside planting the bulbs I bought to plant last fall. I never got around to it and on Sunday I noticed they had begun to sprout. So, why not plant them, I thought.

Before going outdoors, my mind roiled with fear and worry over everything from the state of my house to my weight to how much TV Brendan was watching. However, the moment Brendan and I walked out into the warm sunshine, all my cares simply melted away.

Brendan rode his trike in the driveway while I dug in the dirt, unearthing slithery worms and creating planting beds for a variety of tulips, daffodils, daylilies, and purple drumsticks. We had fun and the warm balm of sunshine, blue skies, birdsong, and friendly neighbors somehow worked out all the kinks in my mind. When I came inside two hours later, I felt like a new woman.

After a shower, I cooked a delicious dinner, tidied up a bit, and looked around my house. It's not nearly as messy as it seemed that morning. And I feel like I can manage my other concerns. All I need are a few sunny days to keep me sane.

Manifest Destiny

After a week or so of feeling great, I've had the wind knocked out of my sails. Just when Scott and I have agreed to stop trying not to get pregnant and feel like we're ready for another baby, we learn that the company he works for on a contract basis is being bought by another company.

Scott remains optimistic, thinking that his work speaks for itself and that if they re-evaluate contractors, he'll do okay. He's also much more optimistic about the idea of the possibilities that can arise if he is laid off.

I waver between optimism and abject fear. On the one hand, sometimes it takes getting laid off or some great change in life in order to propel us forward. Something really incredible could come out of this. But on the other hand, there's that fiery lump of fear in the pit of my stomach that burns through my core, constantly making me ask "What if...".

How I wish I could let go of all fear and fully embrace faith! I wish my "what ifs" were of the positive and hopeful variety: What if Scott gets laid off and then takes the time to finish his album and it becomes an overnight success and sells thousands of copies? What if he launches his own consulting firm and has more time to spend at home with Brendan and me? What if I'm propelled forward to take my freelance business to the next level? What if we move to a new city that we just adore and make tons of new friends there?

Rather, I find myself stifled by fear, though I try to put on a positive face and only say positive things aloud. Inside my mind boils and bubbles with bleak possibilities.

I think it's time to revisit my old pal Wayne Dyer. I practiced some of his techniques for powerful positive thinking and manifesting my desires in the past, but I really have a hard time maintaining focus. And, with a child, I have trouble finding the time I need to meditate, pray, and focus. I'm sure some folks manage just fine. But, right now, it's all I can manage just to keep my household afloat. Of course, maybe if I visualized things a little differently, all the things I want would just come to pass.

Any thoughts?

PMDD

Two weeks ago, I went to the doctor after being sick for five days with what I thought might be food poisoning. While there, I decided to ask the doctor about a problem I've been having for some time. For over a year, I've been experiencing extreme anxiety and severe mood swings the week prior to getting my period. The last couple of months, I've noticed it starting around the time I ovulate and continuing until I get my period. Additionally, I've also felt confused and unable to focus on anything. I wrote it off to PMS and tried to battle it the best I could. My mother-in-law witnessed one of my meltdowns last month and suggested I talk to my doctor. So I did. Turns out, I have an extreme form of PMS called PMMD. It affects between 2-9% of all women of reproductive age (no one knows for sure because they can't even agree on whether or not it's a "real" condition.).

Unfortunately, the treatments are birth control pills, progesterone therapy, or SSRIs -- Prozac or Zoloft. None of those are acceptable options to me. So, I've been researching the issue and have found that some women respond really well to calcium supplements, increased Omega-3, and B vitamins. I'm trying a combination of the three and trying to get more exercise to see if any of it helps. If not, I don't know what I'll do.

Sadly, the condition is referenced in the DSM-IV, the handbook of mental disorders put together by the American Psychiatric Association. Rather than treating it as a naturally occurring medical condition, natural (though extreme) hormone surges are being treated as a mental disorder. Another way to label women as crazy instead of legitimizing their experiences and giving them the support they need. Men experience similar hormonal surges and cycles, but no one labels them crazy.

All that said, I just want to feel better. I want to find a way to control the hormones without putting anything too harsh into my body. I definitely think diet and lifestyle are the way to go.

My Heart Melts

Brendan is napping right now, curled up in his dad's favorite chair. I can see him breathing and he looks so small and sweet. His cheeks are flushed and his lips rosy. His blond hair curls up at his temples and he looks every bit of a cherub. I want to hold him and kiss the sweet spot on top of his head. All the frustrations of the morning have melted away and I regret being so wrapped up in household chores that I didn't sit down and play with him more.

Of course, I always feel that way. It's a battle for me, finding the right balance between keeping the house in some semblance of cleanliness and order and finding time to be a fun mom. I wonder what the ideal amount of time playing with one's child is. Back when he napped it was easier. He'd nap and I'd clean. Once my chores were finished if he was still napping, I got to have some time to myself. Now that he rarely naps or takes only a brief afternoon nap, I find I have to do housework while he's awake if I want the house to remain above the level of pigsty.

Sadly, none of my friends have this problem. Or so it seems. I am the only one of my friends in our neighborhood who does not have a housekeeper or maid who comes in once or twice a month. It's crazy. Stay-at-home moms with housekeepers. I thought cleaning house was part of the job description. Not that I'd complain if I could afford to have a maid. But would I? My friends spend between $120 and $180 a month to have someone clean their homes. I can think of a lot of other ways I'd spend that kind of money. That said, would it be worth it if I had an extra 2-5 hours a week not engaged in cleaning, laundry, or other chores that I could devote to my son? I don't know. That's precisely the problem.

How much time do kids need with their parents? I don't remember my mom or grandmother ever spending time playing with me or reading to me unless I was sick. I could read at three, so I read to myself. And I played by myself constantly unless cousins were visiting.

How much time do you spend playing with your kids each day? I'd love to hear how others balance household duties with giving children the time and attention they need. Does it make a difference to you that cleaning and cooking are ways you are caring for your family? Let me know...

There's No Place Like Atlanta in the Springtime

I love Atlanta. At least I do on gorgeous days like today. The sky is a perfect, beautiful blue with just a few wispy white clouds blowing by. The Bradford Pear trees have burst into bloom and the gorgeous Redbuds and my favorite, Tulip Poplars, give my neighborhood the infusion of pink it so desperately needs. Gorgeous yellow daffodils dance in the March breeze and my heart sings. I love this time. I love this place.

If it ain't one thing, it's another...

My grandmother used to say that all the time when I was a child. It would seem things were always going wrong for us back then. I'm not sure I knew quite how bad off we were. How poor. How close we were from the "poor house," as my grandmother might have put it.

Trust me when I say I knew we were poor. The other kids at school certainly made me aware of that. And a few years ago, when we went back to my hometown for my mother's funeral, Scott made it painfully clear how poor I was. In fact, I think it was the first time I really knew exactly how poor I was. As we drove through the neighborhood where I lived from my birth until I left for college, Scott said, "Wow! You told me you were poor. You never said you lived in a slum."

I just managed to keep myself in a state of denial I think. I had to in order to maintain any shred of dignity as I walked the halls among the throngs of Izod and Polo clad yuppies-in-training. Somehow, despite burning up inside with humiliation because I felt less than human among what I thought of as rich kids, I managed to hold my own and not drown in my own anger and bitterness. I managed to pretend I was their equal and to be treated nicely by most of them. Because I was in the top 5% of my class academically (#15 out of 425), I managed to earn their respect and pleas for help with homework. I found a comfortable niche with a few other smart kids and lovable oddballs who didn't quite fit in. But in a happy way, not all dark and angsty. More John Hughes, less Columbine, than you might imagine.

Now, when I find myself repeating my grandmother's words, I'm saying it in reference to Brendan catching a cold on the heels of my own recovery from a virus. (And just when we almost have him sleeping through the night in his own bed.) Not because my mom wrecked the car and we can't afford to get it fixed. Or because our crazy white trash neighbors poisoned our dog.

I feel so lucky. How did I get from there to here? And why? Sometimes, I believe I'm the luckiest woman in the world. And I'm so thankful. I really, really am. My life, while it's not exactly what I imagined way back then, is so much nicer and more perfect than my mom's was, or my grandmother's, or anyone that I knew growing up. Well, except that really rich lady I babysat for.

And I love it. I love my life. But I wonder how I keep my son grounded. How do I keep him from turning into one of those kids I both envied and hated in high school?

We try not to spoil him, but by the standards I grew up with, it's already too late. He already has more toys than I had in my whole life and he has the fewest toys of all his friends. Seriously. He eats much better food than I did. And without a doubt lives in a nicer house than I ever imagined, and it's just an ordinary, 30-year old middle-class house in a middle-class subdivision.

I guess someday when he's old enough to understand, I'll sit him down and explain my origins and hope he understands. I'll continue to teach him about acts of charity and have him participate with me as we find ways to help others. Mostly, though, I want to instill in him a sense of respect for his fellow man, no matter how rich or how poor that other person is. In doing so, I hope, somewhere along the line, something my son does will make a difference in the life of someone who could use a hand.

Back from the dead, so to speak

I'm back. I have no excuse for my hiatus other than being consumed with life and being under the weather.

On Monday of last week, I spent close to four hours trying to find a sitter so that Scott and I could go see Daniel Lanois at The Earl. We found out about the show very last minute and since most of our sitters are high school kids, I knew none of them would be able to come out on a Tuesday night and stay until midnight or later. The effort was worth it and at the very last minute, I found an Agnes Scott student who was free and didn't charge an arm and a leg.

It was worth it. We ate at a hole in the wall Mexican place in East Atlanta and then strolled over to The Earl. The opening act was called Telegram and we saw their last two songs, the latter of which was brilliant. I need to look them up.

Lanois was great, though he played a lot of new stuff that hasn't been recorded yet. The best of those was one he played during the encore. It was called Nomad and it rocked a little more that some of the other stuff. I was hoping to hear more off Shine, but still it was a great show. If you're not familiar with his music, check him out. Of course, if you saw Slingblade, you've heard his music. Some of the music most associated with that movie is Lanois's.

We also had a sitter previously booked for Friday so we could do dinner and a movie. Unfortunately, it turned into dinner and food poisoning. We ate at a Cuban restaurant that we have enjoyed in the past, though both of us on separate occasions have gotten sick after eating there and just wrote it off to undercooked beans or eating too much, etc. This time, there was little room for doubt that the Tito's mama's empanadas were the culprit. After deciding that there were no movies we wanted to see, we drove around Atlanta looking at all our old haunts from our single days and comparing stories. I felt sicker by the minute, but didn't have the heart to tell Scott I needed to go home. So, we ended up going to Manuel's for a drink. Manuel's was one of the first bars I went to Atlanta and remains a favorite now that I'm thirtyish and fit in there better than anywhere else. Not that we go to bars. Ever. But, it seemed like somethng to do. I drank half a bourbon and Coke and boy, was that a mistake. I felt light-headed and woozy immediately. We drove about 10 minutes toward home when I had to ask Scott to pull over so I wouldn't hurl in the car. I feel really bad for whoever parks in Reserved Parking space #2 at Emory Law School. Although, fortunately, it rained later that night, so I'm sure it was all washed away by Monday.

By the time we got home, I had a 103 degree fever and chills. I'm still feeling pretty yucky and wondering how much longer this can last. Fortunately, neither Scott nor Brendan has succumed to this, leading me to feel pretty certain it really is food posioning and not a virus.

Happy days to you all! Hope you all feel far better than I do right now!

Five Things Making Me Happy Today

In no particular order...

1. Brendan singing "Pop Goes the Weasel" as he awoke this morning. If you can wake up singing, you haven't a care in the world!

2. Duke's win a couple of nights ago against UNC. Thank you, J.J. Redick.

3. The fact that it might actually snow here on Saturday! Yay! Snow!

4. Sore muscles from working out for the first time in a week. Before last week, I hadn't worked out in three months. Before that, I used to work out five times a week. I miss it.

5. Battlestar Galactica. The inner geek is revealed.

What makes your heart rejoice today?

Achin' To Be

I'm not sure how obviously my dark mood of gloom and doom has shone through my posts lately. Maybe not much. I'm used to being a sunny, happy person and that is the demeanor I try to project. But lately, motherhood has worn me down.

Sad that the job I thought I'd be the best at has proven the hardest and the one I seem to be the least good at. I used to be a pretty good wife, and a cute one, too. Seems I'm no longer very good at that one either.

Despite my best efforts, the woman I used to be has been subsumed, eaten away in my efforts to be a really great mom. I've given too much of myself away, coddled without being cuddled myself. I've given one too many Matchbox cars and stayed up until 3 a.m. one too many mornings without giving anything to myself.

I know I sound selfish. I admire those moms who can go for days without a shower, wearing nothing but crusty sweatpants, and those who don't crave meaningful conversations with other adults. And I admire the moms who parent on auto-pilot, making snap decisions without anguishing over whether or not they're permanently damaging the little one's psyche. I marvel at the mothers who are happy to listen to nothing but Elmo or Barney.

Despite my best efforts to avoid it, I still have Laurie Berkner, some Harry Belafonte favorites, and a few of my nostalgic favorite tunes from the Muppet Show sandwiched into my iPod between The Replacements and Van Morrison. Most days it's okay. But when I realize I've heard Day-Oh or The Dinosaur Song three times in a row without a break, that's when I start to forget who I am, much less who I once was.

I have to recover at least some portion of that woman I used to be. I've realized I don't laugh as much as I used to and I don't get to enjoy music the way I once did. To that end, I've decided there are going to be some changes around here.

I'm working on saying no a little more, on encouraging independence and "big-boyness." I'm also thinking about little things I can do for myself so that I can feel human again, and less like the mommy-robot. I bought myself some flowers at the market today for the first time in over a year, something I used to do weekly. I've decided the TV can stay off while we listen to music of my choosing. I accept that I'm not a monster if I say I can't lie down and "cuddle a minute" when I put the little guy to bed.

I'm even going to try and find a sitter for the weekend so I can have a date with my husband. I miss him. And I know he misses me.

I imagine there are some who might read this and think I'm a horrible selfish bitch. But, I want my son to grow up to respect all women as individuals with their own wants, and thoughts, and needs, and desires, and means of expressing themselves. Not as his caretakers. And I want my son to realize that his parents love for one another is as important than their love for him...if it weren't for that love, he wouldn't exist. And if that love should be neglected, his life would take an entirely different path.

It's time I stop feeling guilty for being a person and start being the person I want to be. The woman I was always meant to be.

Same As It Ever Was

As I grappled with my conflicting emotions and the varying perspectives of all my parenting resources yesterday afternoon, it dawned on me that my problem is not my inability to choose a course of action and stick with it. My problem is my inability to say no.

Just Call Me Hamlet

When I became pregnant, it was a foregone conclusion that Scott and I would practice intentional parenting, as opposed to accidental parenting. I read books and telegraphed the information to Scott the best I could. I carefully weighed every decision from what to feed him, where he should sleep, and what he should eat, to less obvious choices like what he should wear.

I felt much more capable of making the right choices when he was an infant. There's not that much to it. You feed them, keep them clean and dry, help them learn how to sleep, and love them. It's pretty hard to screw that up.

With each progressive stage of childhood, however, my decision-making ability has been eroded. Despite having pretty good instincts, I choose to second-guess every move I make and end up stymied by my inability to decide. I read books, parenting web sites, talk to friends, ask my mother-in-law, ask my sisters-in-law, discuss it all with Scott, and then find myself so overloaded with contrary opinions and advice that I just don't know what to do.

Why do I do it, then? It might seem obvious to anyone else that I should just shut up and take charge. Maybe it is obvious. But I am just so dag-blasted worried about screwing up my child that I worry about every little thing.

Take potty-training, for instance. Brendan is three. I am mortified that he isn't potty-trained yet, despite having friends all around me saying that three is the right age for training. I should have done it when he was two and not as stubborn. I wanted to, but I tried a little, he didn't respond, and after listening to everyone around me, I decided to back off. Now he's freakin' three-years old! And not trained and it's all my fault.

And I'm mad at myself. And I'm mad at him. He's so stubborn (just like me, as Scott pointed out last night). I can't even get him to sit on the potty, much less use it.

So, today, I had the genius idea of showing him the new Thomas train I got for him as a reward. He immediately jumped off the bed and ran to the potty, sat down, jumped up after only one second, shouting, "I pee-peed! I pee-peed!"

When I tried to calmly and rationally explain that he did not actually pee, he FREAKED! I finally got him calm by distracting him. Gave him a lot of liquids and hoped we'd have some success. He sat on the potty for about 10 min. and nothing happened. I gave him lots of praise and affection only to have him freak out again when I said he couldn't have the train until he actually successfully used the potty.

Ultimately, he had another accident which I tried to use as a teaching opportunity. Instead, he freaked out again when I tried to get him to practice walking to the potty. He ended up crying himself to sleep, begging for the dog-gone train.

Mind you, I was calm. I didn't even raise my voice in anger or frustration this time. And still, I have failed. I wish I had not tried to bribe him. What the hell was I thinking? I wish Brendan were less stubborn and I were more patient.

And I wish for once, I could make a parenting decision and KNOW that it was the right one and not wonder if what I have done has crushed my child's soul and marked him for life.

Another cake photo

Thomas Cake close up, originally uploaded by belleoftheblogATL.

Thomas the Tank Engine Cake

Thomas the Tank Engine Cake, originally uploaded by belleoftheblogATL.

I thought I'd share some photos from the party.

I love this cake. It really turned out so cute! Brendan loved it. Of course, it was a battle keeping all the little boys at the party from grabbing Thomas off the top of the cake.

Birthday Party, Part Deux

The party was a roaring success, thank you very much for asking!

Ten kids between the ages of two and eight cavorting with delight. Running through a giant caterpillar obstacle course that sucks you into its mouth and then, uh...excretes you. Sliding, bouncing, jumping. Great fun for all.

Until the two unruly, wild, hateful little brats from another party showed up and starting taunting, teasing, and bullying all the smaller kids. These two hooligans (and I use that term loosely as I have the utmost respect for English soccer fans) made both Brendan and his best friend, Matthew, cry by stealing the ball they were playing with and then luring them closer with it so they could yank it away again. They also jumped off of one of the inflatables onto Matthew, knocking him to the ground. Both Scott and Matthew's dad yelled at them on separate occasions. Of course, their mother was a gem. She yelled back at Matthew's dad, saying, "I thought jumping was the whole point of this place."

Otherwise, the party was great. Brendan got the Thomas theme he had been talking about for months. The cake was precious. So cute and it actually tasted great, too. All in all, it was one of the best kid parties I've ever attended and I'm so glad we decided not to have it at home.

The Birthday Party

In a couple of hours we'll be heading over to BounceNBob's for Brendan's third birthday party. For some reason, I am way too nervous about this.

As I mentioned in a previous post, birthdays are a really big deal to me. My family rarely celebrated my birthday because it was very close to Christmas. Birthday gifts, when I got them, were often necessities -- a bathrobe or tennis shoes or a scientific calculator. In other words, birthdays were not much fun. So, it has become my aim to ensure that the people I love have really great birthdays and get doted on during their special day.

Last year, Scott and I decided that we would do a party for Brendan every other year. Having had a huge first birthday party, last year was an off-year. I invited a few kids from the neighborhood over to play that day and baked cupcakes. That, in turn, means that 2006 was the year of the party.

After spending an inordinate amount of time debating with myself and Scott over whether we should have the party at home or somewhere else, we decided to do it somewhere else. Brendan, too, insisted that he did not want his party at his house. That's when the insanity really set in.

I must have researched every child-friendly birthday party venue in Atlanta. Seriously. My first choice was Hobbit Hall, an adorable children's bookstore in Roswell. Their parties included a storyteller reading the child's favorite book or books on his favorite subject. Then, the children dress in party hats and parade through the store and the outdoor garden area. Unfortunately, Hobbit Hall closed recently, breaking the hearts of children and mothers throughout Atlanta.

Freak that I am, I created a spreadsheet listing all the features (good and bad) of the five birthday party sites I wanted to compare and pored over it for a week. Ultimately, we settled on BounceNBob's. Brendan has a great affinity for anything that involves jumping, tackling, diving, and running around like a lunatic, so it seemed like the ideal place. Unlike the countless other indoor playgrounds that have sprung up throughout the ATL like mushrooms in a cow pasture, Bob's caters to toddlers and preschoolers with all of their inflatables on the smaller side.

Of course, on Thursday, Brendan tells us -- in tears, no less -- that he doesn't want his party at BounceNBob's. He wants his friends to come to his house. "Too late," we declared with quavering hearts, wondering what on earth we'll do if he freaks out at his party.

So, here we are, ready to go very soon, and it looks as if he's very excited about the whole thing! We'll see how it goes.

Happy Third Birthday, Little Guy!

Three years ago at this time, I paced the floors of DeKalb Medical Center's Labor and Delivery ward, trying to will my labor along with each step. We had been at the hospital for about three-and-a-half hours and despite the fact that my water had broken six hours before, I still was not dilated more than 1 cm. After months of one-on-one birthing classes with our doula/birth educator and countless hours of meditating, doing yoga, and practicing pain tolerance techniques, I suddenly felt very fearful about my body's ability to cooperate with my mind and my will to accomplish my goal of a drug-and-intervention-free birth.

Adding to my fears was the OB on call. My worst nightmare, Dr. Sourpuss, was the worst kind of doctor. The one who distrusts her patients and doesn't listen to them. Despite having a birthplan on hand and in the hands of the nursing staff, I feared that if she had the chance, I'd be under the knife faster than you could say lawsuit.

Thankfully, I had an incredible doula who advocated for me. Who guided both me and Scott when my contractions were coming every two minutes and lasting for two minutes but getting me no closer to holding a child in my arms. Devon, our doula, performed Reikii and massage, kept me company while I was in the tub trying to relax, and made the nurses listen when I said I needed to sleep, having only had three hours of sleep before going into labor.

Finally, one of the nurses offered me a sedative that she said was safe for my child. She promised no pain relief, but said it might let me rest for a while. I took it, though I felt it was in part a failure. I dozed off quickly. After what seemed hours, but was really only an hour-and-a-half, I woke. The first thing I was aware of was Gillian Welch singing "Time the Revelator" coming from Scott's computer. The next thing I sensed was the most incredible urge to push. Exactly as all the books described it.

Scott, Devon, and Scott's mom were all talking somewhere to my side. Before I opened my eyes, I said, "I'm ready to push." I think it took them a moment to realize what I said, so I repeated myself. Suddenly, all three of them descended upon me. Devon told me to relax and she'd get the nurse. When the nurse came in, I told her, "I'm ready to push." Her response was to give me a strange look and then to say, "Well, I can check you, but the last time I checked you were still only around 1.5 cm. I doubt you've progressed that far so quickly."

I felt elated when she checked me and came up with a look of total surprise on her face. She turned to the other nurse and said, "We need to find her doctor." Turning back to me, she said, "Hold on, Honey! You're at 8 cm. It's about time. We need to get your doctor in here."

After two hours of pushing, my perfect little angel came into the world. It didn't all work out quite as blissfully as I had envisioned it, but here he was. Finally!

Now, in the blink of an eye, three years have passed. Where did they go? He's so grown-up and funny and smart. I miss the sweet, tiny, infant who would smile sweetly up at his mama as I held him and nursed him or just stared at his pretty little face. But despite the most challenging moments with this headstrong, persistent, and oh-so-active boy, I feel so blessed.

Mothering this guy has been, and continues to be, the wildest ride I've ever been on. A roller-coaster of emotion that takes me to ever-greater heights and sinks my heart with despair. All on a daily basis.

So, to Brendan, on his third birthday, I say, "Thank you for choosing me and your dad to be the ones who guide your soul through this world." We are, I hope, better people for it. More so, I hope you will be better for it, as well.

Happy Birthday, Buddy!

Sorry for the Whining

I know my last two posts saw me wallowing in the self-pity pool. Sorry!

So, what am I looking forward to today to take my mind off my selfish needs and desires? Let me tell ya...

First, Brendan and I are going to bake cupcakes to take to his school tomorrow. Tomorrow is his birthday. He will be three and I am very excited about his birthday. More so, it seems, than he.

After we get the cupcakes in the oven, we're going to make train cut-outs to use as nametags on the goodie bags I am making for his party. In accordance with the Thomas the Tank Engine theme for his party, I'm using bandanas to hold the items I bought to fill the goodie bags. We'll tie them up with some ribbon and then I'll add the train-shaped name tags. I hope they're as cute in reality as they are in my mind. We'll see I guess.

Okay. I feel better already!

Another Opportunity, Perhaps?

Here's one of those quandaries I hate: the non-paying gig that might, possibly, somewhere down the line turn into the chance of a paying job.

I met last night with the founder of a local organization called Foundation for Community Arts. The organization has a very ambitious aim, which I can totally get behind. They need some help with their marketing efforts, a name change, help obtaining grants. All things I would love to work on and have experience with.

The problem? They can't afford to pay me now. It would be done on a volunteer basis. Of course, if I pursue grants for them, I can charge a percentage of whatever money I obtain for them and I'm okay with that. The question is, do I have time to do the volume of work required to win a grant with only the hope of getting paid? It's hard to make yourself commit to something like that when you're spread thin anyway.

I'll have to pray about this. Something I'm struggling with right now anyway. I'm really wondering where God wants me right now. I need to work, but it seems as if I keep having the carrot of the perfect job dangled in front of me only to have it snatched away just when it's within my grasp.

Maybe this is where I'm meant to be. Using my mad skills to help my community. Wouldn't that be nice?

Que Sera, Sera

Just a wee bit bummed. Last November I answered an ad for a writer to write about parenting issues for a new web site. I was, apparently, one of over 1,000 applicants for the job (it was a nationwide search). It was the perfect job: part-time, telecommuting, writing about a topic close to my heart.

I made it through three rounds of the application process. They cut it down to 70 applicants for 15 positions. The next stage of the interview process, the final stage, was to be a phone interview.

I really thought I had this job. I used visualization techniques to see myself getting the job, doing the job, etc. I found out today that I wasn't even going to get a phone interview. They've made their decisions, hired their 15.

I'm totally bummed. I was perfect for this job.

I just hope that the people hired to fill those positions need it more than I do.