That ain’t happening.  My sanity can’t take it & my Twitter stream cannot handle any more LOOK HOW LONG IT TOOK ME TO GET HOME! that they had this past winter.

So to cut back the time by roughly an hour each way, Harrison & I will be living out of suitcases on work nights & then trudging back to our home for the weekends.  Doug will be doing a 50/50 dance of checking on the house & staying with us.  I’m not looking forward to being without my husband so much, but we know it’s temporary.

This is the room I’ll be staying in – one of the guest rooms that has zero of the personality it used to have with college banners & football trophies from when my brother lived in here.  I’ll be moving in my desk & computer & I switched out one of the nightstands for a bookcase (I love having my books close).  The Momma is clearing out space in the closet as I type.  But I’m at a loss as to what to do…I’ll be here 5 nights out of the week without my husband for who knows how long & I am wondering if I should try to bring a little of “us” to this room.  Bring pictures of our little family, use a bedspread from home.

I’ll need to remember to bring over Harry’s favorite bedtime books & toys for the evenings.  I’ll need to leave a post-it note reminding Doug to water the garden every night.  It’s going to be crazy-weird living under my parent’s roof again, except now I’m an adult & it’s so temporary.  Hopefully our house will sell this spring so that we can put all this nasty commuting mess behind us for good.

But for now, I guess I’m moving back to the homestead.

Y’all.

“So I unload the top of the dishwasher, then peek out to check. Unload the bottom dishwasher & peek out to check. Wipe down the counters & brew a cup of coffee & head outside for another 30 minutes.” ~from my Babble.com post

The comments poured in, different opinions & questions & then first neglect, then abuse.  oh, the rage.  It was strong.  Not because someone disagreed with my parenting choices or felt they were wrong – I highly expect that for every decision I make regarding my child.  I formula fed & suffered postpartum depression & don’t spank my child so if you think I still have a thin skin regarding parenting choices, try again.

My rage came from blatantly flippant use of the words “abuse” & “neglect.”

Definition of child abuse (per dictionary):
mistreatment of child: severe mistreatment of a child by a parent, guardian, or other adult responsible for his or her welfare, e.g. physical violence, neglect, sexual assault, or emotional cruelty

Definition of child neglect (childhelp.org):
Failure to provide for a child’s physical needs. This includes lack of supervision, inappropriate housing or shelter, inadequate provision of food and water, inappropriate clothing for season or weather, abandonment, denial of medical care and inadequate hygiene.

My child playing 10 feet away where I can hear & see him easily is not severe mistreatment.  Him learning independent play in a secure environment where I am seconds away is not careless disregard.

It makes me wonder if those that throw those harsh words around so easily have ever seen true neglect & abuse first-hand.  If they’ve ever lived with a nine-year-old boy that only weighs 40 lbs because his mother bought drugs instead of food.  If they’ve ever had to carry a hyperventilating six-year-old out of a store because a piece of glitter landed on her hand & she had a flashback to years of child pornography.  If they’ve ever sat with social workers for hours as part of a home study & heard a little boy say he was given to the devil.  Because I have & those are memories that marked my heart forever to where the word “abuse” is as strong as a racial slur or the R-word.

Child abuse & neglect are powerful words, real words that are real in our society.  They are the children that are starved & beaten & locked in closets, torn apart at the hands of people they know, molested & left for days.  Every ten seconds, a report of child abuse is made.  More than five children die every day as a result of abuse.  Child abuse is serious & it is a serious allegation.

I beg you to be mindful of the words used to describe another parent’s actions.  Are they truly abusing their child, causing danger to the child’s overall well-being?  Or is it a simple heated discussion where you feel you are right, by golly? 

Let’s talk about parenting.  Let’s share ideas & concerns & hopes & fears.  Feel free to disagree with me respectfully & accept that I may defend my stance.  But let’s have this parenting discourse responsibly.

If you do see child abuse & neglect happening, please call the National Child Abuse Hotline at 1-800-422-4453.

Our boy.

He doesn’t talk the way other kids his age do.

I’ve known it for over a year, watching him & practicing & my heart hurting the way he seems to struggle.  The way he doesn’t quite form the words & I know that part of him being so quiet is the perfectionist trait he inherited from his momma, not wanting to try unless he knows he can succeed.  The way my heart burst one thousand times when he put two words together on his own in January, saying “Bye-bye, moon!” when we went inside & I nearly cried.  How many times I’ve cried, out of pure joy when he says a word clearly & in frustration when he is screaming & I’m begging him to please, please use a word or show Momma, but no screaming.  How once & twice a week for the past six months, I’ve sat on the floor in speech therapy, taking mental notes for ways to play with him, read to him, teach him to use language.

I don’t understand it because language has always come easily for me, from talking to reading & writing.  I may not always know what to say, but I always have something to say.  It is so different with my boy, who sits quietly while we race monster trucks & bake wooden cookies.

I know this is a “common” thing, especially for young boys.  I hear stories of kids that open their mouths for the first time with full sentences when they are four & stories of apraxia with years of therapy.  There are people that tell me to wait it out, that he’ll speak someday.  There are others that warn me against waiting too long, that push for a diagnosis.  We are doing what feels right for our son.  All other opinions are just unwelcome noise. 

He is my baby & I am his momma & I love the parts of him that are hard for me to grasp.

There was no dinner in the oven, the child was shoeless & filthy, toddler bedding was strewn across the living room floor, & my hair was in a top knot with a bandana holding back my bangs.  In short?  We were a hot, hot mess.  If Doug had asked me what I did all day (you know, if he wanted to have his balls for dinner), then I would have simply said that I kept his kid alive for one more day.

Oh, sure.  I had plenty of aspirations including homemade chicken pot pie for dinner & dessert in the oven for the basketball championship game.  When I woke up that morning, I imagined booking an extra hour while the boys did their nightly game of chase in the backyard.  Then reality took over – Harrison slept in a little bit, I took him out for breakfast before we went grocery shopping & he was perfectly behaved the entire morning.  Then he dumped tomato soup on his head & needed a mid-day bath, my laptop battery died, & I found two molars blistering through his gums all before naptime.  We spent the rest of the day “camping” in a Thomas the Train tent & coloring (only making it into the coloring book 50% of the time, RIP Melissa & Doug puzzle).

Nothing that mothers don’t deal with on a regular basis.  Nothing that I didn’t face in the office with other work.  Nothing to complain about or make a fuss over, but just the little things that take away from the moments in the day & I look up & oh my, how is it 5:30pm already?!  I haven’t worked or made dinner or cleaned the house or done anything that leaves a tangible response.

I called my mother the next morning & she reassured me that in her many years at home, she had days like that where the clock flew faster than the to-do list.  & that there were many times where “Honey! The children are still alive!” was worth celebrating.

There’s this wild, wonderful heart-song that has been beating through me ever since I boarded a plane for Nashville & I have not quite found a way to piece it all together.

When I went to Blissdom, I found myself at an awful crossroads in my career.  I lost a job & gained contract work, but nothing felt secure.  I spent nights lying awake, ticking away the 18 months of COBRA coverage & worrying how I would find another job.  How we would get insurance or a home loan.  The anxiety crept up to my throat & I sat on the couch in my doctor’s office & she asked me to define the problem.

“I don’t know!” I wailed.  The control freak in my clashed & battled war on my spirit & everything inside me wound tight for no reason.  Why couldn’t I let go when I finally had everything I ever hoped for?

I have a job I love. It pays well. I am home with my son. I am writing successfully. I have insurance coverage for 18 months. We won’t be homeless.

Four days of wild creativity, of hearing lectures where I was told to admit that I’m a writer, to think of goals & pathways & to be okay reaching for them.  To  sit with others & hear that sometimes, they feel split one thousand different ways & they worry about the uncertainty of free-lancing, but oh, isn’t the free part of free-lancing so wonderful?  Yes, it is.    Jon Acuff spoke of the “reverse Superman” of changing into business suits from conference clothes & my heart hurt at my own memories of soul-blackening work  & somewhere in Tsh Oxenreider’s session about growing with quality, a wave of awesome slapped me upside the face.

Really, there’s no other way to describe it.

I have a job I love. It pays well. I am home with my son. I am writing successfully. I have insurance coverage for 18 months. We won’t be homeless.

I’M GOING TO OWN THIS SHIT.

 Finding myself writing for a living didn’t happen the way I thought it would, but then again, I never dreamed of an @microsoft email address either.  Potentially growing our family on COBRA isn’t something I would have ever considered before but being home with my littles is something I have considered often.  Selling our house & getting a home loan on Doug’s salary wasn’t our idea, but we will learn to live simply & install floors on our own & that will be just one more adventure to take on together.

When my friends ask me what Blissdom is, I smile.  It’s fashion shows in the bathroom with a friend that lives an entire country apart & a photo shoot in downtown at night & the words “I am a writer” scrawled across my journal with other notes but mostly, Blissdom is where I come alive.

Hi. I'm wearing old jeans & an oversized sports shirt but my hair is clean & I'm wearing a bra.

This past week, Curvy Girls Guide posted a guest piece on “Why I’m Not a ‘Dirty Mom’.”  You know, the moms that roll up in sweatpants & three-day hair under a baseball cap on the regular because there’s nobody to impress in the carpool lane.  To sum it up, there was this gal that wrote a piece about how we females should dump the frump & put on some eyeliner to show ourselves & society some respect.

I read this piece in yoga pants stuffed into my beloved UGG boots with second-day hair & no make-up.

Oops.

Then there were the comments (because everyone knows the most entertaining part of blogging is the comments), ranging from “ROCK ON!” to “YOU SELF-IMPORTANT BITCH, I AM TRAINING MY CHILDREN TO BE FUTURE WORLD LEADERS SO STEP OFF MY NON-COVERGIRL NUTS.”   I know it’s the kiss of death in blogging to sit on the fence, but I admit that on this topic?  I’m straddling the fence & hoping I don’t get a camel toe from it.

...but sometimes I look like this.

I’m a total crap-shoot as a mom when it comes to fashion.  I either look cute or I look like a dog& there’s really not too much in-between.  I could blame my workload but I’m going to be honest – my physical appearance is usually a good indicator of my mental health.  If I look pretty, it means it’s a good day & I’m feeling self-confident & in control. My to-do list is being checked off, dinner is planned, & the kid’s face is scrubbed.  If I’m in yoga pants, it’s probably because they were the first thing on top of the laundry pile that I managed to recognize.  But sometimes, even when all I want are Doug’s tshirts & to never see a bottle of shampoo again, I put on jeans & a flannel & a little blush.  It’s not much, but it does make me feel human & doesn’t send me into a spiral of shame when I run into a neighbor at Target.

So I smell what K.C. Wells is steppin’ in.  Putting effort into myself tells me & society that “hey! I care about myself!  I’m more than a momma in a carpool lane!”  I think it’s important to put my best & freshest face forward on the regular & at the risk of feminist backlash, I think it’s nice for my husband to see me in more than a ponytail when he loves my hair down & curly.

On the other hand, she should have used a different word than “dirty.”  Getting primped isn’t something I necessarily enjoy.  I like getting my hair cut & I desire to be pretty, but I have never had the patience for a hairstyle that takes more than 5 minutes or a make-up routine that requires sponges & brushes.  But I’m not “dirty.”  I shower on the regular & I shave my legs & visit the dentist every six months.  I would simply rather be chasing Harrison outside than curling my hair & I’ll always choose reading a book over painting my nails.  That doesn’t make me a better mom, nor does it make me dirty.  It just makes me…me.

So sometimes I’m a walking commercial for Ann Taylor & sometimes I look like I’m headed to the gym when in truth, I haven’t had a gym membership since 2007.

But I promise if you hug me, I don’t smell.

We had a great second showing & they put is in their “top 3 list” & hope to make a decision this week.  We might have been creepers that passed them on the way out & swung around the neighborhood to go take a peek as they got out of the car & yes, they look like folks that could really love our house.  They’re one concern was a “boarded up house” behind us & I was like, “Um, our neighbor’s shed that he’s building?” so the realtors are setting that straight because dudes, it’s a shed.  & the guy is doing a great job on it.  So basically this means we are on TWO people’s “top 3 list” & both folks are making a decision this week.  I’d really like a bidding war, please.

My days as a SAHM are numbered, which is bittersweet but my WAHM days are rocking my face clean off because I get to hug my kid after a conference call, or head down & have lunch with him.  Microsoft has asked if I could book a few more hours & since we’ll need the cash for a down payment for our next house, I am thrilled.

(a few have asked what do I do for microsoft via the twitters & the emails.  right now i’m helping develop/run a faculty campaign for windows azure, which is a cloud system.  i’m also assisting with their student blogging program.  it’s fun stuff when you’re nerdy like me.)

Until then, flowers & Tagalongs & personal angst.

Harrison opens the bedroom door & cracks a smile, finding me in the dark because it’s been ten hours since I settled in when the daylight was enough.  I’ve been working eight hours, ten hours, & it’s looking like I will hit twelve before my presentation is complete with an 8pm deadline.

I wonder if Doug is disappointed that I have no Valentine for him.  I wonder if he knows that like every year, I had the best of intentions but they slipped right through my fingers.  That I adore the pink roses he brought me on Sunday & I regret that I have nothing to give him in return.   I wonder if he minds that I’ll wear yoga pants to dinner, where I’ll serve up a frozen lasagna with an apologetic smile.

At least there will be wine.

Because love doesn’t know dates & red heart candy, as delicious as it is.  Love knows & gives with the hard days & sweatpants & the pulled up half-smile that says, “I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do right now.”  Love relaxes into that unpredictable life rhythm & messy hair by candlelight becomes romance.

I love you, Douglas.  Thank you for loving me.

It’s called a toddler that decided sleep is for the birds.

That was at 4am.  He finally conked out at 4:30am.

He has two nightlights.
It’s not night terrors (those have an entirely different cry).
He has loveys.
He’s not hungry or thirsty.
He really doesn’t need to drop his nap because he’s not napping 50% of the time anyway.

Basically?  He wants to eff with us.  Which might be a strong sentiment except I’ve only had one cup of coffee & four hours of sleep.

(also, the difference between a newborn being awake all hours &  a toddler being awake all hours is the amount of noise. when a newborn is awake, at least one parent can sleep.  when a toddler is awake, even folks in china hear him.)

It started innocently right around the time I lost my job & we feel for the little guy because it’s obvious he feels the stress in the house.  There have been a lot of changes in his wee world over the past few months & my heart goes out to him.  First Daddy was home a bit, then we were both at work, then Momma came home & he’s overjoyed but missing his Auntie & why isn’t anything the same anymore?!  But Momma needs her REM cycle back & more importantly, the kiddo does too.  After nights of rocking & rocking & rocking in the small hours of the day & Doug camping out on a pallet in his room, & purchasing a star turtle & giving him warm milk, we realized yesterday that it was time to pull out the big guns.  All three of us were at each other’s throats constantly from pure exhaustion.  I snapped at Harrison, something I very rarely do.  So Doug & I shook hands & decided that last night was the night.

We dusted off our Ferber book & got the stopwatch on my iPhone working.

We turned Harrison’s lock around so that we could lock him in, thereby taking back control of his ability to leave his room.  (shall I pause here & clarify that we still go to him, but it means homeboy can’t sneak out at 3am?  good.)

We took out his workbench & garbage trucks.

I turned off his light at the fan so that he can’t party all night long under a ceiling light.  (oh buddy, did that piss him off!)

& we hit the sack by 9pm.

I got a pretty awesome workout going back & forth to his room last night, calmly telling him to “Get back in bed, it’s night-night time.”  Tuck him in, give him a pat on the back, & close the door behind me.  I’m hoping that tonight it won’t take 2 1/2 hours for it to sink in that Momma ain’t fooling around.  Also, this is what we woke up to this morning:

I think it’s fair to say he was pretty ticked that Harrison Rave 2012 was thwarted.

____________________________

& in good news, the reason that Momma can’t hang at 4am anymore is because I got an offer from Microsoft as a contract for their marketing department.

SAY WHAT?!

It’s a contract so I’m still on the hunt for a full-time job with bennies.  The great news is that the contract is on my terms as far as how many hours I work per week & when the contract ends & they fully understand that I am still looking for a job.  So Harry is with his Auntie a few hours per week so I can log in some hours at home & take conference calls & keep interviewing with other companies.  What’s that you say, Charlie?  WINNING.

Remember how you didn't want me as an admin? That's cool. Microsoft thinks I'm worth bringing in to their marketing department. So have a seat, please.

So when Harrison starts screaming at bedtime & I’ve told him firmly to get back in bed three separate times, he stares up at me with tears falling & says, “Up!!”  oh, my heart.

I find myself all sternly inner-dialoguing how I’m setting us up for failure when he’s three as I make my way to the rocking chair.  But then I remember how I’m knee-deep in my uterus & how soon, Harry will be going to sleepovers where he will be embarrassed to ever admit he was rocked to sleep & I can’t help myself.  I sit & I rock & tell him stories about the man on the moon until he’s calm.  His heartbeat slows & his breathing steadies & I know he’s asleep because that’s the kind of thing that mother’s just know.

He’s drooling on my shoulder.  It’s time to put the kiddo to bed, but in his earlier rage, all blankets & pillows ended in a pile on the floor.  Which means that I have to get up from the chair & put the bedding back together with 30 lbs of live ammunition on my shoulder.  Doug to the nursery, I think into the universe.  I wait a few minutes.  Hey, buddy.  To the nursery for pillow recon.

I contemplate the length of my legs, wondering if I can grab the pillow corner with my toes & toss it into the bed.  If I can do that, then I’ll have a legit excuse to run away with the circus.  I feel the drool seeping through my jammies.  The kid stirs & I freeze & send imaginary red flares into the sky. & I’m all WHY IS HE NOT READING MY ESP?!  DOUG TO THE NURSERY!  DOUG TO THE NURSERY!

What good is being married almost six years if he can’t read my mind?