Obsess, much?

My husband doesn't have a lot of free time. When he has some, he loves to hike and backpack and camp, with our family or with his buddies. He loves to travel, and to spend time at the lake water skiing when it's warm. There are plenty of things he enjoys. But when he only has a few minutes to spend at a time on diversions? He only has one hobby: Obsession.

He chooses a topic (usually, something he wants to buy), and then exhausts every resource he can get his hands on to educate himself about it, until he knows "enough" to make an informed purchase.

Examples? Sure. I've got plenty. Projector and 96" screen in the basement? That took three years. Jeep, and all the associated accessories? Two years. Vacuum cleaners? I'm still waiting for that one to resolve. His obsession with washing machines was accelerated by necessity, but no less intense than his serious interest in treadmills, lawn mowers, digital cameras, laptops, under-cabinet task lighting for our kitchen, garage floor sealants, minivans (also borne out of necessity), hardwood mulch, and reproductively-beneficial nutritional supplements (IVF, remember?).

He reads "Consumer Reports" more than his scriptures. (Kidding.) (Sort of.)

He does not have a monopoly on idiosyncratic behavior. I counted yesterday, after reading Steph's post, and I have 99 books (including library books) stacked up next to my bed. (I am completely willing to post that list on this blog if anyone is interested. Any takers? No? I didn't think so. But it is a REALLY interesting list.) They are not on a shelf (although, they are separated into fiction and non-fiction, then alphabetized), just stacked next to the wall. I gaze at them fondly with greater regularity than I would freely admit, because I. Love. Books. I cannot stop. My name is InkMom and I am a Biblioholic.

I also cannot sleep if my sheets are not tucked tightly at the bottom. (This caused problems early in our marriage. CPod -- all 6'5" of him -- adapted nicely.) In the shower, I always start with my hair and make my way down, and if I forget a step, it pains me if I don't have time to start over.

When I'm trying on clothes, the outfit never looks quite right until I've tilted my head to the right. (MommyJ shares this quirk. When we were growing up, the full-length mirror in our room cut off your head, and if you wanted to get an idea of the whole package, you had to tilt.)

My love for words is near-pathological. I collect them like trinkets and try them on for size often, until they become a permanent part of my repertoire. This has spawned a need to correct any and all improper usage I encounter in a way that is, I'm sure, terribly annoying to all who have experienced my supercilious oldest-child compulsion to make everything RIGHT.

Admittedly, I have let a lot of things go since having children: the towels don't have to be folded a certain way, though I'm happier if they are (after all, they must fit in the cabinet), and while my cleaning regimen might seem a little over-the-top to some (MommyJ), I'm much more flexible than I used to be, and it works for me.

I could go on. There is a certain member of my family who, for a period of time in his early childhood, would not wear pants that touched his legs. Thank goodness for the eighties God-sent trend of parachute pants. He also wouldn't wear socks with lumps, or shirts with tags, and the milk in his cereal bowl had to come to RIGHT HERE or he wouldn't eat it. We all have our little tics.

And that is why I am not surprised to already note idiosyncrasies in my children. ConMan's handwashing needs have become so intense that we have trained him add lotion to the regimen; otherwise, his little fair-and-delightsome hands become so dry it's painful -- but still not painful enough to curb his conviction that there are germs on his hands. (I think I blame this one on his germophobe preschool. Seriously.)

G-Dog, like his mama, can't sleep if his covers aren't tucked in tightly next to the wall. And, he, like his daddy, exhausts us with a machine-gunfire barrage of questions on topics ranging from the nature of God to what kind of sticks birds use to build nests to how kaleidoscopes work. (I know, Mom. I'm getting what I deserved, after famously asking questions like, "Do mosquitoes have blood?")

Last week, Miscellany visited our beloved pediatrician for her 4-month check-up. As Dr. H. examined Little Girl, MayDay kept scaling the exam table like a climbing wall. Once atop the table, he made his way across, behind the baby, towards the counter holding the baby scale, a sink, and a wall-mounted sharps container.

He was persistent, but so was I. Each time he climbed up, I put him back on the floor. Finally, as he climbed once again toward the scale, I took his little face in my hands and asked him, "MayDay, what are you trying to do?" He glanced significantly at the infant scale on the counter next to him. I followed his gaze and suddenly, clarifyingly, knew exactly what had fueled his compulsion.

I pushed the weights on the scale back over the zero-point, and my little, chip-off-the-old block control freak sighed, and said, "Oooohh, thank you, Mommy!"

Sadly, I completely understood. And I am now, more than ever, convinced that the reason more people haven't been officially diagnosed with one psychiatric disorder or another is, quite simply, because we haven't asked.

Delusions of Grandeur

Last night as CPod and I went to bed, I briefly stepped into the little boys' bathroom to tidy up. The toilet, of course, needed flushing, but other than that it really wasn't too bad. CPod cleans the toilets in our house. Thank goodness. Usually, five minutes after he finishes scrubbing, some little person takes it upon himself to turn it back into the truckstop toilet we all know it deserves to be. We spend a lot of time and effort remediating their aiming skills. And it seems to be working.

So I said to CPod, "Hey, your terlet in there is still pretty clean!" And then I started laughing because that was funny, right? (Intentionally mispronounced word, in case you were wondering.) CPod just glanced up from his Backpacker magazine and smirked at me through stylish wire-rimmed glasses. (Somehow, the smirk stings more when he just looks so good doing it, right?)

"You really crack yourself up, don't you?" he said. No laughing. Not funny.

Yes, apparently, I do. I spend waaaaay too much time laughing at my own jokes, fantasizing about being on Glee as I vocalize in the car, and wondering why they don't have more short, tree-trunk legged, curvy, busty supermodels. I suffer from a different kind of delusion: when I look in the mirror, what I see is much thinner than reality, with hair worthy of a Suave commercial, a sharp wit funny enough for Night at the Improv, and book ideas the big publishing houses would fight over could they just see into my brilliant mind.

And then I realized that I am just like those people on American Idol. You know the ones. Even the most tone deaf AI viewers can recognize a talent blackhole when they see it. Don't we all just shake our heads and wonder how on earth no one has told them that they can't sing?

I am always amazed at their confidence -- one girl's utter conviction that no matter how much Simon Cowell knows about the music business, he must be wrong about her. "Those judges don't know nothin'!" she screams at the camera as she angrily makes her way out of the venue. No, of course not. Their extensive experience and proven track record of choosing and grooming multi-platinum artists pale in comparison to your one semester of high school show choir and a lifetime of shower singing. How could belting it out in the opera house-like acoustics of your bathroom not prepare you to be the next American Idol? Honestly, I'm amazed you don't have a record deal already.

Is it a worse friend/sister/mother/significant other who fosters this delusion, or pops the bubble? I'm still not sure. But really. A little bit of, "Honey, why don't you try something else?" goes a long way.

When I was eight years old, I filled pages of my journal with a looooong list of my possible future careers. This list was, of course, based on some serious soul searching and a realistic inventory of my strengths and weaknesses. Well, not weaknesses, because, of course, I wasn't aware I had any at the ripe old age of 8. American Idol wasn't around then, but, rest assured, had such a phenomenon existed, there would have been an entry on my list of "What I Have to Offer the World" going something like this: "48. American Idol pop star, because I have a GREAT voice and I don't really get nervous in front of people, and because I have such an amazing sense of fashion and could totally set the trend for modesty." This from the girl who regularly wore red tights with turquoise shorts. Turquoise corduroy shorts. (There is photographic evidence. Wince.)

Part of me has to admire the . . . chutzpah of those American Idol contestants. It takes guts to believe in yourself way more than reality should permit. After all, if YOU don't believe in you, no one will. But, seriously. At some point, we all have to take the gauze off the camera lens and see things as they really are. Except not me. Because I AM the next American Idol . . . Mother Teresa . . . Albert Einstein . . . Jane Austen . . . Margaret Thatcher . . .

Why I Love My New Tweezers, Except When I Hate Them

A few weeks ago, right after we found out our little pooper is a girl, I went to Target -- ostensibly to pick up some things on my non-grocery list, but really and truly, so I could buy some little dresses. CPod called me and as I meandered through the small female section of the store, I rattled off my list to him and asked if he could think of anything else he needed. Shaving cream? Batteries? Root beer? No, he said, but don't buy tweezers. I can get you some really good ones. Apparently, in the medical field, they have fancy and expensive tools for ordinary jobs. And the job of plucking small hairs is reserved for $40 "cilia forceps" engraved with a name other than "Revlon" or "Sally Hansen", with manufacturing information printed in German on the handy carrying case.

So I didn't buy tweezers. And I REALLY needed by buy tweezers. I am, thankfully, not one of those unlucky ladies who have to pluck whiskers from places women should not have hair. Instead, I have to deforest the Amazonian jungle of my eyebrows periodically in order to not be mistaken for Cro-Magnon man, Groucho Marx, Anoop Desai, Victor Krum, or, I don't know, Frankenstein (who's bride even had well-groomed eyebrows). I lost my other good tweezers (which I bought at Target for $7), and I'm so lazy about walking from my bathroom to my kitchen to write the need down on my list, and so incapable of remembering to buy things that aren't on said list, that I haven't plucked my eyebrows since . . . um, my brother's wedding reception last August. (See my profile picture.)

For nearly two weeks, every day we had this conversation:

Me: CPod, did you order my tweezers?
CPod: You mean the cilia forceps? Yep, and they came in, I just forgot to bring them home.

EVERY DAY! I'm trying to recreate all of equatorial Africa in 3-D on my forehead, man! Just bring home the tweezers!

So he did. And they're fantastic. In fact, they're the best tweezers I've ever used. I have pruned the rain forest to an acceptable perimeter. But in the process of staring at myself in the mirror for an extended period of time, I discovered some gray hairs.

If you have ever seen me in person, you know that I have A LOT of hair. It's dark, it's thick, it's curly (not like corkscrew curly, but still . . . curly), it kind of looks a little cavewomanish because it's so unruly sometimes, but it's me and I love it. In fact, my lovely mother said to me just the other day, "Wow, InkMom, it wouldn't take you very long to have dreadlocks, would it?" Um, thanks, Mom.

I have a few gray hairs right in the front that I usually pluck because they don't deserve to live if they have the audacity to poke up front and center and stare at me every time I put on make-up. So I yanked them out and then looked a little closer.

I was absolutely appalled by the gray hair that I saw . . . and saw again, over and over and over. I was compelled to pull them out. There were really long ones that must have been growing since I was 6 years old and really short ones that are brand new. There were ones that were dark brown on the bottom and white at the root, and there were wiry, curly ones, and wispy, thin ones. And I just kept plucking, urged on by some perverse curiosity to see how many I could find. By the time I was finished, I had counted 51 hairs and my sink looked like some old woman had shaved her head into it. At this rate, I'll be plucking white hairs from my eyebrows before I'm 33!

It seems I have aged a lot in the past year. And for some reason that I cannot identify, this bothers me. I wouldn't consider myself vain. I'm not overly concerned about my appearance (as is evidenced by the awesome outfit and leftover hair I'm currently sporting) and I certainly don't think I'm supermodel material (although if this baby ends up with CPod's legs and my curves, she's got a pretty good shot no matter what her face looks like). So what's the big deal?

My mom has black hair -- or did, until she went mostly gray and quit dyeing it. Her silver hair, though premature, is beautiful. My curls come from her, too. She started to go gray in high school, and by the time she had children, she had a striking silver streak down her part that was very distinctive and, somehow, didn't age her. My brother, two years younger than me, has hair the most like my mom's, and accordingly, has some gray -- more than me, I'd thought, but I'm beginning to think you can just see it more in his short hair. MommyJ claims she has NONE. I'll be sneaking soon into her house (or her tent later this summer when we're all camping together) in the middle of the night with a flashlight and my fantastic tweezers to prove her wrong. And baby brother is so far from gray hair I don't think he would even admit that it's in his future. But I come by this naturally. I should not be surprised, but I am.

I think I am bothered by looking older than I feel, almost as though it's proof that no matter how well I take care of myself, regardless of how hard I work to stay healthy, there are some things that are just going to quit working. I don't really want that proof. I just want to keep feeling good and then kick the bucket one day from over-exertion when I'm about 95.

Oh, well. I guess there are some things you just can't fight. CPod and I have come to an agreement, though. You see, he's red-headed and fair and already has a few more wrinkles than he should. That harsh Australian sun really did him in on his mission. I always tell him he'll age like Robert Redford: the wrinkles will just keep on coming, but that fair hair will never go anywhere. Too bad he can't carry a lighting crew around with him every where he goes to capitalize on the "natural" light a la The Horse Whisperer.

Well, if he's going to get all of the wrinkles, I guess it's the least I can do to get all of the gray hair.

Despicable Drosophila, and Other Tales Of Spring

I stayed up too late last night. You see, I was waging an epic battle against an enemy both foul and insidious, that wins its wars by sheer number, fortified by an incredibly prolific reproductive ability: Drosophila melanogaster, the common fruit fly.

Ah, yes, spring time is here, and with it, the influx of fresh produce to my kitchen. We've been feasting on local asparagus from the farm down the road for weeks now, and finally, their strawberries have come in. They grow an old heirloom variety, and they are divine: succulent, sweet, beautifully red and delicious.


We're lucky here -- we have lots of local farmers who grow all kinds of wonderful things. Next will be peaches and cherries, and eventually, cucumbers, green beans, squash & zucchini, corn and okra, eggplant, peppers of many varieties, cantaloupes, watermelons, the long awaited tomatoes, and then apples and large squashes. And I can find local sources for all of these, plus all the milk, cheese and cream you can stand, eggs and poultry, beef and pork. But with the fresh produce, comes the fruit flies. Every year, I pick up where I left off as I fight a losing battle against little bugs a mere fraction of my size, as I slowly slide further down the slippery slope to insanity.

Last night, CPod, wonder-husband that he is, had set out the last of our Christmas-morning pain au chocolat from Williams Sonoma to rise so we could have a yummy breakfast today. (They come frozen, unrisen, unbaked. Just set out overnight, brush with an egg wash, bake, and voila! Paris, straight from your oven!) I went into the kitchen for my nightly cocktail of milk, prenatal vitamins and Zyrtec. I stopped by the stove to admire the croissants . . . and there were fruit flies on them."Oh, no you didn't!" I thought to myself. "Not my precious chocolate croissants!" I quickly covered the delectable delicacies with a dish towel and proceeded with the art of death.

I stood in the kitchen swatting, smacking, and muttering things to myself like, "You are MINE!" and "Gotcha!" As the fruit fly fatalities reached epic numbers, I left my kitchen counter littered with their bodies, hoping their compatriots might enter my kitchen, see the corpses of their fallen comrades, and smell death, vacating the place post haste. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the darkened kitchen window -- and it was scary: crazed look in my eyes, pants unbuttoned and falling down because, let's face it, I just can't wear regular clothes anymore, waving my arms around like a mad woman. If I'd been out on a street somewhere, I think they might have carted me away to the asylum.

I finally went to bed after I'd counted a full 30 seconds without seeing another fly. And even then, I was haunted by the possibility that the one I didn't get would assuredly be the one about to lay 400 eggs on some unassuming piece of fruit in my kitchen. 400 eggs which will, undoubtedly, in 12-15 hours, hatch in my kitchen and then, after another 4 days, grow into another battalion ready to assault my fruit, my sensibilities, and my sanity in one fell swoop. It almost makes me look forward to winter's frozen wasteland, with no real fruit that doesn't taste like cardboard . . . almost.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I have a love/hate relationship with spring time. I love the transitional parts of the year: the parts that aren't all the way hot or cold quite yet, but help bring about the changes to get us there. As you can see, I love the bounty of the harvest, but I hate the fruit flies. The same goes for the outdoors. I love the flowers, the green, the growing things that surround us in this lovely world, but I hate the mosquitoes. I hate the flies. I'm okay with butterflies, and other pollinators. And I recognize that they all have a place in the natural order of things. Except for mosquitoes. I firmly believe they are a blight and a pestilence on this world and they will not exist in the hereafter.

I spent yesterday digging around in the dirt, filling my small pots and hanging baskets with lovely, fragrant, twining, blossoming things. For me, there is nothing more satisfying than having a hand in fostering growth, be it in your children, those under your stewardship at church, the plants in your garden, or even yourself.While I was digging, I found these four-leaf clovers:


Twenty of them! And I wasn't even looking -- I have just always found them, wherever I happen to be standing. I found 6 more, but I felt guilty, so I didn't pick them. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's a minor genetic mutation, and if I pick them all now, how will the gene get passed on, so I can find some more later?

Spring time gives us the outdoors back as an extension of our home. Our kids play in the yard as though it were the living room, with mud. Spring brings us wonderful miracles, like the pair of little sparrows who decided to build their nest in the basket of fake hydrangeas that hangs on my front door:

As of this morning, there are two little mouths to feed, and three eggs shaking and shimmying their way around the nest, about to take their turn to crack into this world.

And these beautiful blooms:

(These lovelies are all in my mama's fabulously unruly yard. And photo credit goes to her!)

Herein lies the problem: beautiful flowers, yes. But these little flowers are reproductive beings who are so overcome by the displays of the others around them that they cannot contain themselves and cast their sexy dust to be blown about by the wind to God-knows where. And I am allergic to all of it. That's right, people. I just can't keep the flower sex out of my eyes.

I spend the months of April and May in a constant state of foggy, itchy, post-nasal drippiness. I know it's all miraculous, and beautiful, and wonderful, I just can't see it clearly through the scratchy eyes and snot-covered haze of an over-active immune system.

I live for rainstorms, that rinse the pollen from every surface and cleanse the air of irritants. I love the smell of ozone right before a big gullywasher, and I love the dirt-y, loamy fertile scent of a freshly washed earth. I love the sound of the neighbors playing baseball in their yard, and of my boys racing down the driveway on their trikes. I love the late disappearance of daylight and the sound of the crickets and cicadas singing their love songs in the darkness.

I love to send my brood out into the warm and balmy wilderness, like I did last weekend, and I love to hasten their return home. I love the irresponsibility of relaxed schedules and I love the smell of smoke and sticky marshmallows that cling to every exposed surface after a campfire family night. I love putting little tired boys to bed after a day of full-throttle play and contraband fireworks at the lake. This sensory feast will last into the summer, but springtime is what makes it all possible.

(My adorable boys, crammed into the back of Daddy's Jeep, on the way to the Father-Son Campout on Mother's Day weekend.
One of the only reasons I might have a little part of me hoping this next baby is a boy.)

The highs definitely outweigh the lows on the InkMom scale of love. CPod says that little nest on our front door just seems lucky, as though even the birds know our house is a happy place to have a family. And with all those four-leaf clovers, how could this spring be anything but a lucky one? If only I could get rid of those blasted fruit flies.

P.S. I'm entering this post in the Scribbit Write-Away writing contest for May . . . the topic is Spring. I get a kick out of her blog, and she has a new contest every month.Wish me luck!

Another nightmare, even worse than the last one

I have a recurring nightmare.

Have you ever really paid attention to the stock footage used in news stories? Take note next time you're watching some 20/20 expose on the rampant obesity present in our country right now, or on the prevalence on high cholesterol in ever-younger patients, or any number of other topics. Invariably, at some point in the montage, you will see a booty zoom.

Do you know what I'm talking about? I would hate to be the poor camera man whose job it is to go to a crowded place and zoom in on the butts (not the faces, mind you) of the fattest people around.

Some of this footage is dated by the booty-licious fashion statements. Some is more broad in its applicability. But all of it is horrifying.

I generally have a good attitude about my body image and how I look in general: I just don't care that much what other people think about me. I like to look cute, but mostly because I don't want to worry about turning to stone every time I look in the mirror.

For some reason, though, I live in mortal fear that one day, I will watch that expose on 20/20. I will see the booty zoom. And I will recognize the butt.

Can you imagine that moment of clarity? Wow, good thing I'm not as fat as those people . . . oh, that looks like someplace I've been before . . . and I have a shirt just like that . . . OMIGOSH! I AM those people! That's my butt on tv!

That's why my number one resolution for 2009 is to get running -- faster, longer, farther, better. Is a marathon in my future? I think not. Half-marathon may even be a stretch. But 10k? A definite possibility.

Now I'm accountable, and do not be mistaken -- I will report. I will work harder because I know someone (hopefully?) is watching.

I will start as soon as I finish my brownie sundae.

And after we get home from DisneyWorld, of course, because I just can't give up that french toast loaf.

(Did I mention we're at Disney this week? Robbers, don't steal anything! And believe me, there will be one mother of a post as soon as I've recovered. I have made some life-altering observations about The Happiest Place on Earth. Well, maybe not life-altering, but it sure sounded good.)

A Paean to the Minivan

For Christmas, we got a car title. (Wo-hoo! No more car payments for us.) And 600 miles before the warranty expired, a scary noise that only happened at slow speeds, whilst turning. So early this morning, CPod took our Honda Odyssey in to the dealership to have them check it out.

I was surprised to find that all three of our car seats actually will fit in the Date Car, also known as the Honda Accord That I Wish I Could Still Drive All the Time. When MayDay was born, the big boys were still in little seats that are in reality much bigger than the big boy seats they use now, and it was absolutely impossible to fit our entire family in one vehicle all together. Hence the minivan.

You may scoff. I know I did. I swore I would never be one of "those" moms. Had I known then what I know now, I would have hopped on the minivan bandwagon as soon as I saw the glimmer in CPod's eye. (It's completely beside the point that said glimmer happened in a test tube . . . but I digress. I'll cover all that in a future post.)

We decided, on the spur of the moment, to drive down to SC so that CPod could go to the gun club with his dad and brothers. We women-folk decided it might be fun to catch a movie with all the kiddies. And so we headed down the mountain to meet up with the rest of CPod's family.

Usually, these days, when I'm in the Date Car, I'm alone, on the way to a rehearsal, just me and Bono singing away. Or on an actual date with CPod. (Sometimes Bono comes along then, too.)

And so, today, in the car with three children who haven't had a normal bedtime in well over a week, and a two-year-old who is used to a three-hour nap every day but hasn't had a decent one in three days, I came to understand what most of you have known now for years: I LOVE MY MINIVAN.

For two reasons. First, my kids can't touch each other in the minivan. They also can't reach other with Slinkys. Or a play guitar. Or a cheeseburger.

Second, I can't hear them in the minivan. We have the seats arranged so MayDay sits right behind the driver and the big boys sit in opposite corners of the very back seat. The acoustics aren't so great in the minivan, especially on the highway.

I used to complain about this. In fact, it was one of the only things I disliked about our car. But no more.

I think I might write a letter to Honda telling them how glad I am that they are smarter than me. And how grateful I am that their years of experience in car manufacturing has created a vehicle so evolutionarily advanced that it perceived my need for quiet in the front long before I realized the horrible alternative.

Happily, the scary noise the Odyssey was making was a minor issue covered by the warranty. It was fixed by the time we came back up the mountain.

And now, I will count my blessings every time I get in the minivan and only vaguely hear some noise that may or may not be a distress signal emanating mysteriously from the back seat.

Moon!

Our bedtime routine with the kids is pretty set in stone: potty, bath (sometimes), jammies, teeth, stories, family prayer, family sandwich (big family hug and lovefest), tuck-in, dreams. They are easy to put to bed. In fact, Lil' Maa-Maa sticks his thumb in his mouth, grabs the blanket, and sighs as we lay him down, so happy to finally be by himself, no longer terrorized by big brothers.

Leave it to G-Dog to make the routine a little interesting. The other night, a no-bath night, we brought out the jammies and stripped the boys down to Scooby-Doo Underoos, and told the big boys to run and use the potty. ConMan went a running, and G-Dog followed -- or so I assumed. Suddenly, I heard, "Look, Mommy!" I turned my head to see the fullest moon I think I have ever seen in my whole life, punctuated by an impishly smiling face peeking out from in between little three year old knees.

Now, I have never told G-Dog that some people think it's funny to show their butt. I have never even mentioned that it's an option, or even has a name, but somehow, he came up with the gag all on his own.

What do you say? Do you laugh? I sure did. And now I've set myself up for countless future moonbeams from my delightful little devil.

In other news, ConMan stuck Yo-Gos up his nose on Sunday. Twice. "Mommy, Yo-Gos fit just right in noses."

Yes, ConMan, but is it really the best idea to put them there?

The best part? As I dexterously used the tweezers to pull a pink one, and then 10 minutes later, a purple one, from ConMan's little nostrils, he opened his mouth for me to just drop them in after extraction. I mean, really, can we waste treats as precious as Yo-Gos?