Facebook

I left Facebook abruptly and have received a bevy of sweet, sad emails from my friends wondering if everything is okay.

Everything is, indeed, okay. I went off of Facebook for no reason, really. I wish I had a scandal to report, but I don't. I just wanted to spend time on other things. And I am somewhat famous for my social disappearing acts. I hang for awhile. Then I withdraw. Then my family gets sort of embarrassed because it's all so dramatic and untoward, and they may or may not make a few excuses for me.

I love everyone, though, and I'm sorry for the weirdness. I may keep blogging, or I may go into a knitting trance until January. I never know. Happy Holidays, in case I don't make it back here.

When I Run

Jack: "Mom, do you hate it when you have to go running?"

Me: "Nope. I like it."

Jack: (brow furrowing) "You mean, you hate leaving me while you do it and you like it."

I mean...okay.

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Wig

A little girl named Jersey lives next to us. She's eight years old, and she rings our doorbell a lot. Like, a lot lot. Once, I answered the door and she was perched on the stoop, hands on her hips.

"What do you need, babe?" I asked.

"Got any cheese pizza?" She asked, jutting out her chin. As it happened, I was fresh out. (I don't know how I let us run out of such a staple...)

Another time, I had instructed my children to get in the van while I locked up the house. When I turned the keys in the ignition, I noticed a small, dark brown face peering at me through the rearview mirror. She had buckled herself in, and was ready to join us on our errand.

She calls me 'Mom.'

I have a trail mix of contrasting emotions about Jersey--sadness, sweetness, irritation, pity, affection, amusement. A little of everything in every bite.

Yesterday, I went to the salon to get my hair done. As per usual, I ended up doing something somewhat drastic, and have spent the last 24 hours defending my decision to myself. A few moments ago, Jersey rang our doorbell. She took one look at my new hair and her mouth stretched into a big "O."

"Mom. That wig looks good."





Thanks. I think.

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Fake

The other evening during dinner, Brendan, the kids, and I began discussing the topic of fake laughter. We all admitted to having done it at some time or another, and we decided to demonstrate our most convincing fake laughs to each other. One by one, we went around the table. To provide a little structure, a “moderator” provided a non-funny joke to help set the scene. First Madeline went, and then Clara, and so on.

Finally, it was my turn. I have to say—though it doesn’t speak well of me—I have a creepily sincere-sounding fake laugh. It’s a little off, and a close friend could probably tell the difference. My glassy 'doll's eyes' give me away. But my fake laughter is like an imposter fragrance from Walgreens. Really similar to the real thing, although a keen observer may notice that it does fade curiously fast…

Anyway, Brendan told a corny joke, and I cocked my head back and belly-laughed.

Brendan and the kids all bugged their eyes and coughed out dismayed giggles at my Oscar-worthy performance.

Suddenly, Madeline’s smile froze and she narrowed her eyes at me. “Wait a second…do you fake laugh at my jokes?”

I am so busted.

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Cheating

I've been cheating on this blog.

You sensed it, and there was weirdness between us.

I didn't want to tell you about my other blog, because you'd be all "Oh, let me see let me see" (just go with it) and I can't, on account of a secret pact I made with my sisters. And also on account of the thoroughly wrong photos I've posted of myself on there before fully thinking it through. It's called The Pink Room, and you can't get in, so don't even try. But it is so super dee duper funny that I started feeling about THIS blog like I felt about the outfit I had on while birthday shopping for new clothes the other day: Boring, boring, boring! Why did I ever like it? You know what I'm talking about.

Anyways. My kids are still funny. We still homeschool. I'm fixin' to turn 30.

I know a lot has gone down, and I have to rebuild trust. But if you'll have me back, I'm willing to work on our relationship...

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Money

I make my kids memorize scripture, poetry, and definitions every month. Because I am a Compliment Seeking Missile, I have them recite to Meme and Libby just about every time we are together so that I appear to be a dedicated and/or awesome teacher in front of the women I admire. You do it too, in your own way. Stop the hate.

Yesterday, Meme and Papa took us for an impromptu din-din at Sonic after gymnastics. I saw the opportunity to show-off, and I grabbed it. The kids recited flawlessly (even though Papa was flicking ice at Jack from his Route 44 Diet Cherry Limeade), and Meme burst into applause. When I looked up, I saw that she was rummaging through her purse for $1 bills for the kids as a token of support.

On the way home, I promised the kids that I would take them to Dollar General the next day so that they could get the most bang for their (literal) buck. However, while running errands today after school, I was tired and wanted to streamline my list of stores to hit.

“Hey, you guys,” I said, glancing at my brood through the rearview mirror. “Let’s just spend your dollars at Wal-Mart since I need to go grocery shopping.”

Madeline’s eyes looked dull. “Mom,” she said. “The cheapest toys at Wal-Mart are still, like, three dollars.” She paused. “It’s too late. You…taught me about money, remember?”

(Me and my big mouth).

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Juliette

I have a thing for newborns. My husband finds this terrifying endearing, as I have shown such willingness to continue his family name...

When I was eight years old, a family friend gave birth to a baby boy, and my parents took my sisters and me to visit them in the hospital. While we were there, the baby’s mother offered to let me hold him. I remember feeling waves of crazy-love as he lay in my arms. As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember praying that the mother would see how much I loved the baby, and that she would offer to give him to me. Like, to keep. So deep into my fantasy-prayer was I, that I managed to whip my sense of reason into frothy delusion. As the moments passed, I grew to believe that God was going to say “yes,” despite the niggling awareness that the whole situation was something of a raw deal for the baby boy.

Ah, me. Thank goodness I’ve never prayed in that selfish way since (cough).

Anyway, I’ve had the total pleasure of babysitting Sarah’s baby the past couple days. A little ball of peachy perfection, that kid. Three months old. In lieu of a crib at my house, I’ve been letting her nap in my laundry basket. See picture below for a wave of endorphins.




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