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When I grow up...

I am 40 years, 8 months, and 20 days old as of this post.  To everyone else, I am a grownup.  Adult.  Woman.  But somewhere inside of me I hold the belief that everyone knows better than I.  Everyone knows more.  Everyone knows How to Be.  This makes me feel very small, figuratively speaking.  When I was five, I wanted to be a veterinarian.  I loved animals, especially dogs and horses.  Somewhere in my growing up I stopped wanting to be a vet, but nothing else really replaced that aspiration. Except art. I loved art, all kinds, and would spend forever drawing my own comic books (where those are now I have no clue).  I remember my Crayola lazy-Susan style utopia of art supplies.  I sat at the yellow counter in my basement playroom and Made Stuff.  In high school, I took every art class St. Joseph's Academy had to offer.  I wouldn't say I was great, but I loved it. College came around and I went to Portfolio Days like all the other aspiring art students, hauling my projects
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Staring at a blank page with so much to say...

It's back.  That dark cloud that follows me around.  That shadow of mine that drags me to the ground.  The thoughts.  The heavy weight on my chest.  It's back. I'd like to pretend it wasn't there.  I do a very good job of this while out of the house.  So good, in fact, that one day at work my entire body was taken over by shaking, tears, and dread as I told my boss and coworkers what a good job I had done so far.  That wasn't my Greatest Day.  That also wasn't my Last Day even though I really thought it ought to be. Lately I can't seem to figure out what to do with it so I get into bed.  That's where I am right now, actually, with Pattergirl on the floor watching videos and the lights off.  It puts me in pajama pants right after school.  It tucks me in at night as soon as it can after dinner.  And it wakes me up with panic in the middle of the night so I can check the clock and see how long until I have to get up and be Caryn Patterson. Whoever tha
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Mumsaid judge not lest ye be judged...part two.

I am a terrible mother. Here's why: 1)  Sometimes my children are up past 8pm. 2)  When feverish or teething, my children take children's acetaminophen.  And it's red.  And they like it. 3)  They have had all of their shots. 4)  My daughter goes topless at home. 5)  I don't shut the blinds OR the front door. 6)  We don't wind up the cords from the blinds either.  They dangle freely like vines in a jungle. 7)  My children have both painted before age 2.  And used crayons.  And markers.  And glue.  It tastes good. 8)  My children eat Happy Meals.  Chicken nuggets have white meat in them, never mind the percentage that is actual meat. 9)  Apple Dippers?  WTF??  I stopped asking if they'd like Apple Dippers.  They wanted fries.  And now Apple Dippers come in Happy Meals anyway. 10)  Our vegetables and fruits are not organic. 11)  Our meat may or may not be grass fed.  I never asked. 12)  I am lucky if I can get Green Warrior to eat said pest
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Mumsaid judge not lest ye be judged...or something like that

"I am a terrible mother." So very many of us mom-people freak out all to often and actually believe this statement. Until the Supermommies strike and piss us off. And here's how it happened: Pattergirl had a snotty nose, the tail end of what was a couple of weeks of germy HELL in my house, and was going out in public, which included playing with Other People's Children.  I called Pattergirl over so I could give her some decongestant.  As my little blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pigtailed Pattergirl bounced over to me, this "Person-I-Once-Liked-turned-Supermommy" looked at me with horror...the scene changed to a dramatic slow-motion...while I squirted what I thought was a relatively "safe" OTC cold remedy into my little girl's mouth...end of slow motion...and Supermommy began her interrogation. SM:  "Did you ask your pediatrician before you gave her that?" Me:  "No.  The dosage on the bottle for ages four to six says 2 teaspo
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Mumsaid not to wade in the shallow gene pool

Dear Self-Righteous Wench at the Library, As I stated in our brief conversation, thank you for telling me what you needed.  I will say this one more time: While I respect your right to quiet, I do not appreciate you telling me how to raise my children.  You are lucky I didn't bitch-slap you.  I am rather proud of myself for not even yelling. Allow me to elaborate: I brought my children to the library to offer them a developmentally appropriate educational experience while spending (please forgive the cliche) "quality time" with a parent.  We haven't been to the library as regularly as we used to, and were very excited to be able to make the trip on this particular evening.  My ten year old mildly autistic son requires help finding books because the number of choices on the shelves is completely overwhelming.  He reads at least at a twelfth grade level, yet possesses social understanding that is far below that of his peers.  This makes finding books rather difficu
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Mumsaid he is as good as gold

Eeyah, GreenWarrior, The Boy...the Incredible Human I Get to Claim as My Son Note:  Ten years ago, in the chilly wee hours of a February morning, I gave birth to my firstborn, whom we refer to online (usually) as Green Warrior.  However, my second child, The Girl, affectionately named him "Eeyah" though I am fairly certain she is capable of correctly pronouncing his first name.  She is nearing two, he is ten.  I do not "get" the Green Warrior reference completely, so I, for ease of use, hereby declare the title of his persona in the World Wide Web...Eeyah.  I think I might type Eea for short. Just thought I'd clarify. Eea is amazing.  Incredible.  Unbelievable.  And sometimes just damn confusing.  His startling intelligence and loving disposition make up for the amount of frustration I feel when doing what I refer to as my "mom job."   I know most parents are supposedly biased and tout their own offspring as the smartest, cutest, sweetest, most t
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Mumsaid have fun

Tonight I went dancing.  Not the "fellas at the club" type of dancing, but the "promenade and swing and try not to run into anyone and onetwothree onetwothree will the room ever stop spinning" type of dancing. It was amazing.  It was uplifting.  It was refreshing.  It smelled a bit, but I loved it.  I had no idea that my calves could sweat. One apple and some peanut butter later (how many days now without an Extra Value Meal?), I lay here in my bed, head throbbing, listening to GreenWarrior snoring, and experience, for the second Saturday in a row, the exhaustion that comes from pure exhilaration.  Pure, absolute-my abs hurt from laughing and my legs hurt from dancing-exhilaration. Why on God's Green Earth didn't I do this before?  I seriously need to go contra dancing again.  No one ever told me that I could feel this completely and utterly tired and yet happy at the same time.  I could completely pass out yet I am still high from all of the Good Clean
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