The Sassy Uterus

Road Runner no more...

Today has been yet another day in the crazy Martin household.  Kids going in all directions now that summer vacation has started.  I was recently reading a subscription email I signed up for with an organizational/life mentor.  In a nutshell it spoke of going slowly and taking care of yourself along the way, or rather providing yourself TLC first.

This way of living is counter-intuitive to me.  My natural speed is fast.  The faster the better.  While pregnant with Skyler at 17 I wasn't so much scared of labor which I expected to feel like someone was continually tugging on my uterus with a burning vice grip, over and over.  No, I knew I was screwed in that department and there was nothing to do about that except breathe and use drugs....which was never allowed when I was pregnant.  No, you're a bad mommy if you use drugs whilst pregnant, but as soon as that baby starts packing his/her bags, the party is back on and the drugs are aplenty.  I wonder if I can throw a party like that when Skyler actually moves out of the house.  But I digress....

The thing that freaked me out was how long they said labor could take, anywhere from 3 to 48 hours, but usually along the lines of 12-15 hours.  I hadn't before done anything consecutively for 12-15 hours before, except sleeping.  I was pretty sure that by the time the kid showed his mushed-up face I was gonna be bored of the process already.  I was partially right.  I was sick of labor and delivery, and oh-so-glad to have the baby out, but I was anything but bored.  But I couldn't imagine what I was going to do for 12-15 hours while contracting.  I ended up watching a lot of TV, and later when the contractions came harder and faster my classic-rock-loving boyfriend (now my husband) put on Pink Floyd and Santana to calm me.  See, Phil gets it.  He knows how to chill.  He can easily go slow and steady like a tortoise while my hare ass is collapsed on the side of the road.  We complement each other or drives each other nuts....depends on the day.

But that is my thing, I go fast and I hate to be bored.  Hate it!  But here's the downfall: I have a human body.  It is really hard to take care of yourself while you're running life in the fast lane.  You may think you are doing it with the occasional nap or healthy snack, but really, self-nurturing needs to take place on a far more regular basis.

If this year of disability has taught me anything it has been that I have to slow down.  Not, "I should," but "I HAVE to."  And so I am learning this as a whole new way of living.  And I can't say that I completely appreciate the notion of going slower now but I am seeing the benefits.  Like, just recently, at the grocery store someone asked my kids ages and instead of having a brain fart and blanking out I was able to recall not only their ages, but names as well.  With five kids, that's an accomplishment.  Although Isaac still gets called, "Luke" and Lucas still gets called, "Isaac," and the teenage boys still get called.....well, no need to share that dirty laundry.  :o)

What tea and Justin Bieber have in common....

I recently realized just how powerful pop culture is, or the trends that push and pull throughout modern society, making their impression in each and every household.  The force of trends and fads are sometimes obvious, such as with the whole Justin Bieber hairstyle issue. Suddenly every preteen and teen boy wants their hair sorta long, straightened and their bangs swept to one side.  But they would be the last to admit that they are styling it after Justin Bieber.  In fact, my 14-year-old son would rather choke on his new (Vans) shoes than attribute any changes he makes to his person to some boy-of-pop-du-jour. 

But yet it is undeniable.  Whether they are genuine fans of little Mr. Bieber or they are just noticing that girls constitute the bulk of fans and therefore emulate him so as to attract the female species, we'll never really know.  Or care to know.  The thing that gets me is how these fads flow through society. Marketers putting their two cents in, as well as advertisers.  Each person playing their own part in pushing the present trend through to one more person.  Until the market is saturated and society stops loving whatever it was loving in the first place.  When everybody that is interested has that one thing, it ceases to be unique and thus clears the way for the next unique thing.  Few things have staying power that aren't necessities.

When we lived in Oregon, we made friends with a couple who were Oregon natives.  They were convinced that since they lived in Oregon they were the last to know anything, like Oregon did not have any media-airing devices.  As if no one owned a TV, computer, satellite radio, iPod, iPad, etc.  Which we know is just not true.  The fads may be different in Oregon, but not by much.  We are truly a united country when it comes to the influence of mass media.

Which is what I decided when I found myself wanting a cup of tea.  Tea has been popular for awhile.  I can say that it starting to gain more recognition in about 1997, as far as I know, because that was the first time I went to a bridal shower/tea party.  From then on, tea became a huge deal.  The grocery stores started carrying all sorts of pretty, zen-looking boxes of exotic teas.  And then there was chai.

The thing is, I actually don't like tea.  What I like is the *idea* of tea, the calming, comforting aura that seems to surround it.  But I actually hate the taste.  I've only had one cup of tea that I liked and it was at that above mentioned tea party.  It was mint and creamy.  It probably wasn't tea at all. 

Tea is what you drink when you care about your body.  It's what you drink after yoga or meditating.  It is not the drink of choice when your schedule is chockfull, it's 1 p.m. and you have five children clinging to you like little itty bitty, cutsie ANCHORS.  Tea won't power me through that.  Espresso on the other hand.... 

But I felt like such a little follower, a little sheep saying, "Baaa, I want tea."  This is not at all a slam to those who like tea.  Go forth with your tea and enjoy the variety that is now afforded you.  This is about people like me who find themselves craving something they don't even want. 

Maybe it's this new practice of mindfulness which is trendy too, but like tea, not to be diminished by the fact that it is enjoying popularity.  So maybe it's the mindfulness that is making me aware of this little quirks.  At any rate, I think it is past time that I cleared the tea out of the pantry.  I need the room for adrenal-draining caffeine-saturated drinks anyway.

Dumbed down by the Internet for the Internet

Um....I don't know how to say this so I'm just going to put it out there: I don't get the Internet.  Sure, I know how to navigate and surf.  I like Facebook and I occasionally Tweet.  I have online email.  And I have this blog. 

But if you asked me to explain how the Internet actually works I would look at you like your face was drawn upside down because, well, I just don't know.  It is like some crazy phenomenon.  I know the byproducts of its work very well: email, websites, social networking, video/audio, and so on and so forth. But I don't understand that special language that makes all, well, "go."

Because I have easy solutions aplenty, such as Typepad spoon-feeding me when it comes to decorating this blog, I have never felt the pinch. Now I am becoming all too aware of how little I know about this other world and its special little language.

My lack of knowledge has been brought home recently by my acquisition of Sassy Uterus' sister website, The Inspired Mommy

My father, being the tech guru that he is, not only had to step in to handle the phone call and all the technical details when I was ordering web hosting, but he also built the website.  And therein lies the problem. I can add entries to it no problem but I haven't a clue as to how to add custom css or buttons or whatever. 

I've been banging my head against the wall.  Apparently, this is a really easy thing for others.  They just know how to do it.  It's like their natural language and they would speak in code by default if we didn't already have that wee problem of trying to get everyone on the same page speaking English in the first place.  My father doesn't understand that it's all gibberish to me and stares at me like my face is drawn upside down when I whine, "But I just don't get it!" To which he says, "Don't get what?"  And I become exasperated and say, "IT.  I don't get IT."  And I don't.

There is a serious miscommunication occurring between those who can speak tech and those who can only speak mere English.  And I am growing more and more suspicious that those who can speak tech think that those of who can't are stupid.  They probably have a nickname for us, something not too creative because creativity is the domain of the artist.  They probably call us "stupid rightbrainers." Or something.  Geez, I'm so stressed out that paranoia is seeping in.

On top of this, I am writing, "Childbirth Was the Easy Part!" and received an encouraging letter from a literary agent.  This is good news.  So I haven't been very accessible to post here.  But seeing as how I only know how to tinker with this site, I might just be hanging around here a bit more often!

If anyone has any good ideas about reference sources, as in books or websites, to help someone as new as me to website building leave me a comment, email me, or Facebook me a message.

Well, the the hamsters are livin' good

It’s funny how close you are to someone when you’ve been together for 15 years.  It isn’t just some corny saying, I have been caught offguard at times by the sense of not knowing where I end and Phil begins.  It’s a beautiful thing.

Which is why it shocks me that we sometimes think so differently.  We went shopping today. Michael’s Craft Store and Petco are right next to each other so I went into Michael’s with Cassidy and he took Isaac into Petco.  He was shopping for 1) Dog food, 2) Hamster food 3)Guinea pig food and 4) Paper bedding for the cute rodents’ cages.  $40 maybe $60 tops right?  I, however, am shopping for creative tools for artistic expression which you can’t really put a price on.  Today it cost $30.

We meet up back at the van and I open the sliding door to an array of white plastic Petco bags. Oh shit. This is never a good sign. I noticed that some of the food bags were bagged separately so maybe that is why there is such a proliferation of them.

Upon further inspection I find a fogger for a reptile cage (long story) and a crap load of hamster cage tubing and another  “house-like” structure for him to connect to the original cage.  What the….  Is he trying to compete with Cassidy and her Zhu-Zhu pets?

So I had to ask, “So, um, how much did you spend?” He says, quiet calmly in fact, “$150.” Why so expensive?  Because he speaks quantity and weights whereas I speak checking account balance. It makes more sense to him to buy something in bulk. I hate buying stuff in bulk because you feel it in the pocketbook today and don’t really notice the money you saved later on.

Whatever, he doesn’t get to go dog food shopping anymore.

Sassy Mommy Can Fly....sorta

My house is messy.  I try and try, and yet it remains messy.  Really, terribly messy? No. Just mildly-why-can't-the-jackets-get-hung-up messy.  It is the slow, insidous mess, the kind that gnaws at you every day until you finally do something drastic.

Here were my options: First, I could throw everything out.  I mean EVERYTHING.  Or, second, I could try to find, yet again, another way to get organized.

There's been a lot of good feedback regarding Flylady and the method she adapted from the SHE's (Side-tracked Home Executives).  The feedback almost always came with a warning: Flylady's process can be a little intense in the beginning, especially if you sign up for her email reminders.

Well, not one to be intimidated by a challenge I marched right over to her site.  Lo and behold she isn't a boot camp drill sargeant, just a slightly round fairy!  It was organized love at first sight.

OK...so following her advice I have gotten the floors cleaned and the bathroom d.c.'d.  (That's "deep cleaned" for all you civilian types).  Yesterday I was feeling really good about the process.  I was ready to order her patch and sew it right onto my designer handbag. No, wait, I'll never sew a thing that work of art.

I am feeling good and about the time I am going to congratulate myself I find a puddle from a chiahuahua that is begging for a scuffle.  No, I let her be and yell at the kid instead that should have let her out when she needed to go pee-pee in the first place.

So the thing is, although Flylady motivates you to get it clean, organized and formed into a habit there is something I've realized on my own. 

Acceptance. 

I accept that all rooms in this house will not be clean at the same time.  Phyllis Diller is responsible for that quote about trying to clean house while raising children is a lot like shoveling snow while it's still snowing.  On that point, and that point only, I would agree with her. The best I or any other parent can do when it comes to the house is clean up yesterday and part of today.

There'll be more tomorrow.  And if you don't find a way to be okay with the continual rhythm of cleaning you'll go batty in no time.  I've been batty before, it's not what it's cracked up to be.

I accept that the floor that I just mopped is going to get pissed on, by animal or tot. And I give thanks for my mop that makes cleaning it up so easy. 

Listen, scoff if you must, but acceptance of the situation and those things I can't change is a lot cheaper than putting all the dogs in diapers and the kids in full-length aprons.  It's probably safer too.

Tattling and Bitchy Mom Syndrome

“Dylan threw a ball at me!” No, this isn’t coming from my five-year-old.  It is being shouted by my 14-year-old and for some reason he believes that his father and I might give a shit.  He didn’t even get hit by the ball.  Instead, Dylan just sent a ball in his general direction.

It’s not that the child doesn’t have a legitimate complaint.  I don’t like having balls of any sort being thrown at me.  It is the non-stop barrage of lame complaints that my husband and I hear on a constant basis.  “She looked at me,” “He flipped me off with his index finger!”  “He said that he hates me” and so on and so forth.  Really, do the children really, really believe these to be newsworthy?

I think it is pretty standard that despite what my husband and I do, are children still suffer from a good amount of sibling rivalry.  So it should come as no surprise that they do things to each other to get each other’s goat, so to speak.  And yet, each time something happens they must report it immediately like it is something new or odd.  It’s not.  Although I wish it would be.

I’ve given some thought to this because I have had to and I have decided that the children suffer from “tattle-itis.”  An inflammation of tattling.  They can’t help themselves. Since it is inflamed, their tattle area of their minds, it doesn’t take much to irritate it.  One little blink done at the wrong time will be enough to send the recipient overboard. 

Tattle-it is must hurt, otherwise my children wouldn’t feel the need to let me know about each abrasive occurrence each time it happens, or hell, even *might* happen (as in, “he said he wants to….” So no real action has taken place).

The thing is “tattle-itis” leads to “Bitchy Mommy Syndrome” to which the only cure is to tell the children to either:

a)   Deal with it.

OR

b)   Leave Mommy the hell alone.

If Bitchy Mommy Syndrome is in its advanced stages (as it is with me, sadly) both “a” and “b” will be used, usually without a break in between.

If anyone knows a cure…a real cure for “tattle-itis” I must know it.  I’m sure my Bitchy Mommy Syndrome will subside as the their tattling inflammation goes down.

The Pomodoro Technique - Organization, Productivity

Alright so I found the Pomodoro Technique which is roughly defined as a technique to get stuff done, working with the stuff itself instead of fighting a clock.  Lots of people have found this technique already, judging by the fact that their free e-book has had over 10,000 downloads already so this might not be news to you like it was for me. 

Anyway....I get into it.  I fill out the activity form, I buy my timer (sadly, not the tomato timer they show, but it'll do) and I get started on it last night.  I am accomplishing things, hear me roar!  This is a big freakin' deal for me who is constantly interrupted (they have a technique for that too....not the one I advocate which involves screaming, "Leave me alone for a damn second!"...only kidding....sort of).  So I go to bed last night quite pleased with myself.

Come this morning I have to pay for my previous slovenly ways.  Lucas (yeah Kiddo, I'm calling you out!) spilt the cup of root beer that was left on my computer desk all over my activity form.  I wrote in pen. I was supposed to write in pencil.  It's blurred.

It's like these kids thwart me at every turn. Erg.

I know you *want* to be me, but...

I just had my identity stolen.  I received an email from a company I knew nothing about.  It was a receipt for what I think is a computer game that I did not purchase.  Immediately calling the bank I get told I have to wait until the items “post” before we could file a claim against them. But then I realize which card it was on so I call back again.  This time I get a young man who must have been in his first week of training as he suggested that we just block the company that the charge was for.  What part of, “I didn’t order this. I don’t even know this company or what this product is,” does he not understand.  I demanded to have my card blocked and be issued a new one.

Since that time, I have found that the criminal got one more charge through and tried a couple more times after that but was unsuccessful due to my blocked card. 

Other than treating himself to a computer game, he attempted to open an iTunes account and then various other online purchases along the same lines that were blocked.  I don’t even own an iPod, but apparently my criminal does.  That’s right, he’s my criminal now.  I own his ass now.  Hey, I bought him for $49.99 right?  I mean he was basically trying to take food out of my kids’ mouths.  I think he should at least have to come clean the kitchen floors and take care of the bed-wetted linens that my children toss at the washer each a.m. (hopefully).

I have this weird way of dealing with stress.   At the beginning I freak out like everyone else does, but soon after the preliminary rush of adrenalin I start to find the humor in the situation.  I think it is a life saving measure, or at least a sanity saving measure.  Kurt Vonnegut said, “Humor is a way of holding off how awful life can be, to protect yourself.”  Well, I definitely felt in need of protection. 

I realized the craziness of the situation while I was on the phone with the bank and trying to field whiny, crying children that were buzzing about me at the same time.  I thought, “You really want me identity Mr. Criminal?  Okay, you watch these five kids for one day and you tell me if you still want it.”  Besides, I have poor credit?  If you are going to steal someone’s identity isn’t it supposed to be someone whose identity is worth stealing?!

When it comes to material items, he obviously has a better life than me.  Why he’d want my identity is beyond me.  Of course, it was probably by stealing others’ money that he has these nice things.  (By the way, I don’t know why I am sure it is a dude….other than the game her purchased seemed like a dude game).  I mean, you would think that crime would be on the rise in this economy due to job layoffs and such.  But then you would expect that the purchases would be of a more realistic, “need based” nature.  Like ordering diapers and cloths from Wal-Mart.  That kind of stuff.  But this dude is obviously not hurting.  I guess there is always job security in crime.

Now I am off to find safe ways to do business online and in person. By the by, my bank kicks ass and the whole thing is now being handled by their fraud department. 

Your Baby Can Read...Maybe

Every time I hear the commercial for “Your Baby Can Read” I get somewhat upset. My two-year-old, as of today says, maybe, ten words.  I know you aren’t supposed to compare children and my five have taught me just how different each child can be even within the same family, but I can’t help but think that my toddler is messing with us. You probably thought I was going to worry about him being behind, huh?

On the commercials they show babies reading their little hearts out and my toddler is grunting and giggling at them like he is a cave baby (afterall, he is the same baby that likes to do caveman-esque activities like pitching rocks at neighbors).  There is a part in the commercial that shows a parent holding a flashcard that reads, “bellybutton” to his infant daughter and she lifts her shirt just a bit and points to her bellybutton.  Isaac has now grown fond of doing the exact same thing during the commercial when the baby does it. Which means, hey, maybe my baby can read. 

And when he gets pissed off enough or frustrated because we aren’t paying attention to him, he seems to know just how to get our attention with a wailing, “MaaaawwwwMaaa,” or “Daaaadeeee!” He has been known to even call his sister, “Sissy,” which is our nickname for her from him.  He can do it.  He just doesn’t want to.  It is like a perpetual game of toddler charades with the boy and I’ve never really excelled at that game.

Simply put I can not understand why the child won’t say more than 10 words. His pediatrician tells me it is fine and that by 27-months-old all the children, both the early and the late talkers, end up at the same place developmentally. I’m glad he’s confident as I’m pretty sure that he’ll know the amount of words he’s supposed to, he just won’t be saying them then either.   

Apparently, according to a pediatrician he saw, the more children you have the slower the younger ones are to learn how to talk.  This is interesting news to me as I would have thought that with as many examples as the child has, he/she would end up talking even sooner.  But the reverse is true because instead the child ends up having more people speaking for him/her.  The doctor advised that I tell my children to let Isaac have a turn telling me what he wants.  I gave this a try and it works, somewhat. 

The more I think about, I should be happy he isn’t adding to the noise volume in this house by adding another chattering child voice.  It is a nice rest for my ears when it is just me and him at home. Yes, I should just chill out and enjoy him using alternate means of communicating than talking….I still wish I hadn’t taught the others how to talk now that they won’t shut up.

Beware of the Sofas

It never ceases to amaze me how much a child can rampage through a room and leave it in instant ruins. My toddler (almost 2-years-old) loves to throw stuff.  In fact, at 18-months-old we had our next-door neighbors at our front door because our little son, a baby still really, was pitching rocks so well that they were going over the 6 foot fence, into their backyard and hitting their guests.  Guess they were having a party.  He was just adding his own decorations.

This toddler doesn’t reserve his throwing skills for the outdoors.  He loves to wreak as much havoc, if not more (the outdoors do tend to calm him) on the inside, particularly the living room.  Recently he chose crayons as his missiles and I am still finding them in odd places such as the top of the carpeted cat tower and into the far corners of each room, already covered in dust from having brawled with dust bunnies upon landing.

Today it was markers.  This was his double-threat because not only was he throwing them, he was uncapping them first.  Brutal. One in particular, an orange one, landed on my computer chair and I didn’t figure this out until after I had sat on it for about 15 minutes.

Tonight I had to look for a piece of paper.  An important piece really since it listed the next doctor appointment for one of my children and without it I had no clue when it was scheduled.  I knew that the last time I had seen it was when I was on the couch.  Oh boy.

The innards and undersides of the couches are areas I try to avoid as much as possible.  They are scary places.  Anything can lurk.  Mostly though, the inhabitants of Scary Couchland are usually dirty socks, a multitude of crumbs, and some candy wrappers and maybe a couple of pencils or pens.

Well, tonight I was in for a treat. Isaac, that little impish toddler of mine had spilled soda on one of the cushions yesterday.  I thought I had soaked it all up but apparently the spill had traveled.  See, this is why I buy furniture second-hand.  I love fine things but I hate to see fine things, especially those that I have paid for, be ravaged.  Therefore we are second-hand chic around here. Well, not so much chic anymore.

So tonight as I searched under the couches (ewwwww….) and under the cushions, I came across a mush of graham cracker crumbs mixed with soda.  Really gross.  I feel badly that my guests have to sit on these cushions (you, however, have been warned). 

I did find that piece of paper on the very last cushion I had left to look under.  Oh how I wish it had been the first one I had tried.  This will learn me. 

I am now exhausted and ready for a nice hot shower to rinse the icky-ness from myself. One thing is for sure, when it comes to inheritances, the toddler gets the couches.