Why Did the Elephant S**t on My Week?

Weak, disoriented, and hardly able to stand, my pulse begins to race and sucking in air has become a chore rather than part of the natural rhythm of life. The room begins to spin and my stomach lurches, and it's everything I can do to keep my dinner where it belongs.

Just when you think things are going great, the forbidden French foible happens. Some may say it hits the fan, but for me it comes from an elephant's ass, leaving copious piles of poo in my path.

It was about this time two years ago that I found myself making my first official "blog" post, otherwise known as a "note" on facebook. It was entitled A Week Worth Writing about, and it was indeed a week worthy of expression through written word. I could never forget those seven days filled with stories I had told my friends, stories inevitably to be told to my children and grandchildren some day. It was a week of D's; a downward detour of disaster that involved a dishwasher in flames, a drainpipe that wouldn't drain, and a dog untrained, which respectively resulted in a dish stack in the sink, a newly refinished basement becoming a lake, and an forbidden bite out of a four tier wedding cake. It was one of those weeks where one might indulge in a stiff drink to drive away the angst at the end of it all. Alas, that was not the way I rolled back then, so my liquor was left untouched.

I find that while a lot of things have changed since then, so many things have also remained the same, and two years later I find myself with another "week worth writing about".

After Emie's birthday bonanza a couple of weeks ago, we were invited to attend an adult birthday bash of an old buddy of ours. My perception of taxing times was poor, and after what I thought was a somewhat strenuous week, I deemed a stiff drink (okay three) necessary to smooth over the serrated edges and celebrate another year of life, forgetting it had been a day of inadvertent dehydration. Only two screwdrivers and a Mike's Hard Lemonade later did the tough times actually present themselves, and the aforementioned elephant took its first of many dumps on my series of seven days.

At 32 years of age, I finally faced what so many experienced after many more than three drinks, and at an age half that of mine - the first hangover that had hung over my head for so long finally happened . . . . I imagined many would not suppose that was such a bad thing, as a hangover has happened to the best of most. However, while Emie's precious party was the day of my lightweight drunk fest, her actual birthday was the day of dreary drunken regret. Having had many more liquor lavishes in one evening in the past, I never dreamed that three of them would fling me full force into an abysmal after affect. I spent much of the morning praying to the porcelain gods and crying like a crazy woman for the horrible mommy I felt I was in that moment. Sitting in a chair unable to move while my daughter opened her remaining presents was not how I envisioned spending Emie's birthday. Putting on my best happy face, I began to be thankful for Emie only turning three . . . she was none the wiser to my state of suffering, and had she been a bit older she would have assuredly understood the circumstance at hand.

So as each birthday passes in a child's life, subsequently do annual well check-ups . . . Emie's pediatric appointment of 2010 is one I may never forget. Not only, as many of you may already know, am I handed a book called The Difficult Child, but I am informed, after assessing Emie's gait and reflexes, that she may have a condition called Tethered Spinal Cord Syndrome. The panic does not set in initially, as the doctor does not fully explain what this means for my adorable daughter if she continues to live with this condition, but after Googling it I feel like vomiting once more. TSCS is when the spinal cord is fused to at least one part of the spinal column, and is a condition that can eventually interfere with Emie's ability to walk and appropriately relief herself on the potty, a condition that can be cured, but only by surgery on the spine. I try not to think about it much, as no official diagnosis has been made yet. A diagnosis can only come by way of a very expensive and very invasive MRI. Since the condition deteriorates only with growth, we have a bit of a window to watch for possible improvement . . . three months of waiting before we know more.

I am blessed with two days of calm before the storm erupts again – one of my mom's best friend passes away, my Goddaughter is taken to the hospital, and I get a bad burn on the palm of my left hand, and all in the course of one afternoon. The barrage of bad news begins to be too much to manage, and I think about a glass of wine to wipe away the worries for awhile. But the nausea returns as I remember the recent morning of mourning over the misguided decision to drink my misconceived woes away, and just like two years ago, I choose not to roll like that and stay stunningly sober.

So what I am grateful for in this week of wretchedness that my room spinning, heart-racing, short of breath experience which I described above did not occur as it has so many times before. For all it is worth, not having one of my many migraines (which I usually get weekly) is the only redemptive thing about my story of seven days. And much like Emie had no punch line for "Why did the elephant poop on the ground," nor do I have one for "Why did the Elephant Shit on My Week," other than *it* happens sometimes, and so goes the ebb and flow of life and poo.

Critical Catharsis

Add some sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what good food is made of; a dash of care and some salt to spare to ensure my taste buds will love. But the soda's not right and the chocolate's not light, so the creation does not rise. Into the trash it goes unabashed, but at least it's not onto my thighs. I get a new spoon, a new bowl, a new goal, and this time it will be right. I mix and I stir without being deterred, the result is my tongue's delight . . . .

The needle plunges between two strands of thread, takes hold, and tugs back through the trail it has taken. A loop has been made, progress appears plausible. The strand wraps itself around the hook that offsets slipping and makes another passage through the filaments. A single stitch is complete, a stitch in the chasm I slip into slowly if the aperture is left in place. The longer the gorge is gaping, the further I fall, and the probability of crawling back to the surface seems staggering. So I press onward, allowing the process to repeat, ensuring the stitches seam the stretch of the slit. Progress seems solid. This pursuit is practically complete – that is until it happens, the inevitable . . . a mistake, an error, a sin if you must, and the stitches are unseamed, ending up further behind than where I have first begun. Relentlessly, the process repeats, and new stitches are made once again, suturing the split in my soul.

The fingers pound away; the letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, and pure genius appear before my eyes. I can't believe that something I've never done for pleasure before, and in fact once dreaded, is coming to me so easily. The words flow flawlessly to the page and I am pleased past pleasure. Who knew I've had this in me all these years. I put it to rest for the evening and upon my return I am revolted. How could I ever have deemed this prose passable, let alone pure genius? I'm embarrassed, no mortified. Whatever makes me think I have the talent for such tricks? Why am I wasting my time on the seven or so ideas I've started and have been unable to complete? I know I've gone mad; I'm beyond mental . . . . The fingers are relentless though; they return to their pounding undaunted.

No one is more critical of my adored avocations and the respective presentation of these leisurely pursuits than me. I am constantly unsure of my performance in the aforesaid arts, and nothing boosts my self-belief more than being praised on a product I've produced from these pastimes, because I have a penchant to be paramount in every task I choose to tackle and I blossom upon the prospect of being the best. I often opt for the path to perfection, which is viewed by some as a disparaging part of my personality. Nonetheless, when I have a perpetual passion for something, I am powerless to release it until I deem it mastered. I constantly question my conquest of such precision and wonder why I hold onto the assumed unattainability, but then I ponder what pleases me when the cake is crumbling, and it's hooking onto these hankerings that bestow the baptism my soul seeks. Clutching onto the craving to accomplish the ideal is the very thing that dissuades me from drifting downward. As much as my sanity requires religious routine, my soul forces me to fulfill my fervor. Baking is beneficial for averting aggravating anxiety, crocheting calms the concerns that constantly cloud my thoughts, and writing is way to release the woes that warp my wits. The process of each one of these is critical catharsis for my spirit and support for my soul. This blog empowers me to write away my worries and enjoy the essence of my existence. So in the end I must say thank you to all who frequent my frivolous features of feeling, and for allowing my funky therapy to invade your thoughts. I appreciate more than words can say.

Split Spirituality and Lenten Leaps

Mardi Gras has come and gone . . . we've finished our pancakes and pazckis and Lent is now upon us. For those of you who are not familiar with the term, Lent by definition is the 40 weekdays from Ash Wednesday to Easter [of which is] observed by the Roman Catholic, Eastern, and some Protestant churches as a period of penitence and fasting (http://www.merriam-webster.com/). Being regularly dropped off at the door of an ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church of America) Church throughout my childhood and attending a Lutheran university where religion happens to have been one of my concentrations, deprivation and atonement are things I have practiced many a time during this season of sacrifice. Nonetheless, it's been years since the last time I have fulfilled any promises I have made for Lent, on the rare occasion I have made promises that is.

I imagine the reason for my lack of Lenten partaking is due to the fact I have been in a spiritual sinkhole for the greater part of the last 10 years, which in some measure is the reason for the overwhelming anxiety that has been a recurring theme for the bulk of my blog posts to date. I believe the source of this divine dent has much to do with the decisive disconnect between the beliefs of my youth how I presently feel about my once held viewpoints. Four years in a liberal arts religion program, a crisis of conviction, two bouts of depression, and a lifetime of guilt, all combined with my propensity for logic and reason has tainted my faith forevermore, and I fear there is no going back. It would have been so much easier to have my previous persuasions all tied up in a tidy box with a bow on top, but every time I try to put my religious views in reverse, the box ends up looking like the opened presents of a young child on Christmas morning.

Crucify, by Tori Amos, exemplifies much of how I have been feeling about devotion to deity, generally speaking, over the last several years. Of course I cannot tell you this without providing the allusive lyrics and video clip (as cheesy as I think it is) for you. Whether you choose to read, listen, or do both is up to you, but I hope you will take a moment explore what she has to say.

Every finger in the room is pointing at me
I wanna spit in their faces
Then I get afraid what that could bring
I got a bowling ball in my stomach
I got a desert in my mouth
Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now.

Chorus

I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets
Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
I've been raising up my hands
Drive another nail in
Just what God needs
One more victim

Why do we crucify ourselves
Every day I crucify myself
Nothing I do is good enough for you
Crucify myself
Every day I crucify myself
And my heart is sick of being in chains

Got a kick for a dog beggin' for love
I gotta have my suffering
So that I can have my cross
I know a cat named Easter
He says will you ever learn
You're just an empty cage girl if you kill the bird

Repeat Chorus

Please be
Save me
I cry

Repeat Chorus

While Crucify does a good job of conveying how I have been feeling about my wavering views, it does not exactly explain what I believe today. I have pondered picking apart my postulations for you piece by piece, but have decided it is best not to bore you with the book I may inevitably ink out. Nevertheless, I feel it is important for me to simply surmise in the shortest style possible some of those said suppositions . . . .

I believe the energy that most of us refer to as God does exist. In the same respect, I believe we are all energy from God and since energy is neither created nor destroyed, we all continue to live on in some form after the shell that is our bodies ceases to exist. I consider myself to be a Universalist who has a strong appreciation for Christian Philosophy and deem myself Christian above all other faiths because a Christian is one who professes belief in the teachings of Jesus Christ (http://www.merriam-webster.com/), which I do. I believe we are souls having human experience and are here for an education, not to climb some ladder and prove ourselves worthy of happily ever after existence. As such, I do not think our faith has anything to do with where our energy ends up after our humanity 'hits the skids', but do believe that morality (not necessarily that defined by Christianity) probably plays a large part in our afterlife experience. It is Jesus' philosophies on grace and love that contain the elements which make this hell of an earthly visit a heavenly experience.

Despite the dichotomy of my divination, I remain an avid attendee of weekly worship at my current congregation, as it is meant to be a place that exemplifies the love and grace that is so important to living this human life. While I detest domineering dogma (which is rarely an issue at my house of worship), I do believe in the overall discipline of Lent and the spiritual reconnect it can provide for one's soul, regardless of religion, philosophy, and/or faith. Therefore, I have decided it is time to make use of the Lenten season once again, but instead of making the typical temporary sacrifice that one usually makes during this time of fasting and forfeit, I choose to add new things to my life in the hope to once again become the conductor of my cavalcade. I have contemplated sharing my Lenten leaps of permutation with you, but frankly I doubt you want to hear about me taking 20 deep breaths each morning, making sure I clean for two 30 min segments daily, and consistently sitting with my kids at the table for lunch. Thus I am going to end here, for I fear I have gone on long enough, and simply sum up by saying what I hope to gain from new religious routines is an ability to cope with my current neurotic nuances and the eventual suturing of the split in my spirituality.

The Webwork of a Wacky Woman

To the few of you who are fans of my foible formulations, I'm sure you have figured out the frivolous freakfest that is Amber. First and foremost, I am weird woman who often likes to speak in third person and is addicted to alliteration amongst other avocations.

I am easily obsessed with online games such as Tetris and Bejewled Blitz and have the potential to play them for hours on end (if not interrupted).

I enjoy reading fanfiction (fiction online based on popular original fiction novels and movies) about my favorite series of novels (still yet to be discussed, but I am going to get there eventually, promise) and have recently started writing some myself as an outlet for my anxiety (which if you haven't noticed, is a recurring rambling amongst my entries).

I have blogged about blogging, not once, but twice. I have also blogged about the fact I am fascinated with Rupert Grint despite the odd looks and huffs I get when admitting this and talking at length about him to friends.

It is because of my favorite fiction and fixation with Mr. Grint that I am also obsessed with British English (big clues in there folks) and love such expressions as bloody hell, sod of, snogging senseless, and barking mad.

I am neurotic (no really?), so much so that I need to channel my neuroticism into must follow daily habits, such as needing to spend exactly 30 min cleaning the first floor day by day and doing daily washing and drying OR folding of laundry, but not both, merely because the touch of OCD and ADD I deal with on a regular basis has interfered with my ability to focus on anything that I am not inherently ardent about; so sitting here and typing a blog is no problem (as long as I'm not interrupted), but the idea of going upstairs to declutter my closet causes my brain to go batty and my focusing facilities to fail me.

Obviously, as previously stated in my post before this one, I love long complicated sentences (yes folks, the paragraph above is indeed one sentence), and apparently by this post, painstakingly enjoy parenthetical prose.

If you think this is all nutters, I have something else that may take the cake: I need to flush my facebook notes because I don't feel they accurately characterize me any longer, and as I am going through said notes (mainly a bunch of filled out surveys) I have ironically discovered even more madcap things about Amber, that would be me, the wacky woman is about to share these offhand oddities with you.

I need to start with my foodisms, because I found enough of them to have their own category:

Texture is huge. I like tomato sauce and ketchup, but not tomatoes. I like grape jelly, but not grapes. I pass on foods with rubbery skin and mushy insides

I like peanut butter, but not peanuts.

I don't like strawberries or coffee.

I was asked a question about my favorite salad dressing; my answer was, "Light Italian, on a shredded carrot salad. I'm admitting my weirdness . . . I'm not a fan of lettuce folks, so give me a bed of shredded carrots and I'll put all the salad toppings on it. :)"

And just a few more incidental idiosyncrasies:

I love to watch (or used to anyway) The Biggest Loser while eating a big bowl of ice cream.

I listed Dancing Queen as the song that represents me the most.

I swore I would never do two things as a parent; lick my fingers to wipe my kid's face and let them watch Barney. I do both.

Despite the fact that I'm now 32, I love to watch the new 90210.

Apparently my "gangsta name" is Ambizzle

In July 2009 I was obviously bold enough to say the one of the three names I go by is "Sexy" (Amber and Mommy being the other two)

Finally, to emulate the quality of my quirkiness, I feel the need to color code this post so I can plainly point out peculiarities I have stolen from old facebook notes. I could clearly continue with a lengthier list describing my departure from dullness, but I bet by now you get the bottom line.

‘Words Like Violence Break the Silence’

Talking, as I have previously established, is something I like to do frequently and for long periods of time. Much of this issue with my 'diarrhea of the mouth' is just part of who I am, but as I've stated before, it's been worsened by the fact that the only two people I get to talk to all day are ages six and two, and as interesting as my conversations with Aidan and Emie may be, they are not exactly the stimulating adult dialogues I crave so dearly day after day. So when presented with the prospect to speak with other, as my kids would say, grown-ups, I ramble on raggedly, even when my 'words are meaningless and forgettable', and the above mentioned children are assailing my arms and pleading for departure. Nonetheless, there are indeed times where I find 'words are unnecessary', and I wish to not be spoken to, and do not want to use my vast aptitude for verbiage to speak in return, but when that time is deeply desired, 'words like violence break the silence, come crashing in, into my little world' and I am walloped with the very verbal violence I've subjected so many others to time and time again.

The time someone else's chatter creates chaos on my composure and when uncommunicativeness becomes utterly important is when 'all I've ever wanted and all I've ever needed is here in my arms' – meaning there is a book is nested comfortably between my two hands. One of my favorite things to do is to escape into the world of someone else's imagination and not come up for air until I deem myself ready to do so. However, upon reaching the pinnacle of any narrative, I certainly become the most imperative person in the world to family, friends, and sometimes strangers. Emie predictably needs help on the potty; Aidan's toy inevitably needs batteries; Hallo, our precious pup, without doubt wants left outside; a friend indubitably calls to converse (which rarely happens due to my aforementioned defect); and my husband definitively decides this is the moment to actually have quaint conversation with his wife. Sometimes I feel as if I am about to split open at the seams when such situations strike and certainly am stirred to spout out, "Leave me the hell alone, I just want to finish this chapter". While that does happen on occasion, especially if it's my husband who has instigated the interruption, I usually put on my polite grin and address whoever it is that needs my attention, attention which is only precious to others when I am doing something I enjoy so immensely, such as perusing the pages of my favorite plot.

Of course, since I am indeed inspired to share such seething with you at this moment, you can confidently come to the conclusion that this interruption into my escape in fact happened today, when I was thoroughly engrossed in the first book of my favorite series of novels. I took said book to the gym, and doing so must have meant I was wearing a sign that said, "I'm desperate, please talk to me." I promise you, I have went to the gym many a time with no reading material and no one ever wanted to share with me the cute things their little tots did that morning or what their favorite movie was, but if I have a book in hand, I suddenly achieve the popularity I once longed for in high school but would much rather do without in moments like these. By now you are probably begging the question of why I would take a book to the gym in the first place, as one would not reasonably go to the gym to read. Well no, I do not go to the gym with the sole intention to read, rather to take my 9:30 class. However, my son Aidan is a walking kindergartener, which translates to me having to drop him off at school at 9:00 and pick him up at 11:30 each day, in turn leaving me no time to return home before or after class, but just enough time to sink into in my favorite story. Today however, I was beaten with a barrage of bedlam on my brain, which has now left it bouncing like a raft on the rapids of a river rather than in the peaceful placidity and alternate universe of my beloved book.

So my friends, today I have been reminded of a lesson I learned long ago . . . karma is a bitch. I have complexity to conquer, one of becoming cognizant of when to cage the cackle. There is indeed a time to Enjoy the Silence, and I am not the only one who wishes to partake of such pleasures. Perhaps I may get the sweet silence I seek if I remember that what goes around comes around and that you only get what you give.

The title of this blog and all single quoted phrases are from the song Enjoy the Silence, written by Martin Gore and originally sung by Depeche Mode.

A Portrait of Pestilence and Perspective

I could have driven to NYC or made nearly five trips to my mom's house in this brief, yet seemingly everlasting moment of my life. At least two rooms in my house could have been, but ultimately never would have been completely cleaned and decluttered. I could have crocheted a hat and scarf set in this stolen space of my existence. There were thousands of possibilities stripped from me in that one split-second decision someone else made, yet I chose to ignore the array of options that were still available for the taking. At one point I did try to read a literary supplement and do some crosswords that were purposefully obtainable for my entertainment, but my fury of the situation at hand would not allow me to focus. Instead I used the greater portion of this sagging gap of my essence insolent at my husband for not listening to my intuition about taking another path, intuition of which he admits has been spot on time and time again. I spent what could have been precious time with my children preposterously infuriated at them for not demonstrating the patience that I could not seem to emulate myself. I made the ultimate decision to exhibit the gift of my blemished humanity despite my option to accept that things were as they should be, because I was livid damn it, and I was going to make sure everyone around me knew it.

Impatience is a pestilence, one of the most contagious diseases I know. One person suffering from such impetuosity can nearly guarantee a domino effect of grand proportions to ensue. It's amazing to me that how in one split-second a single person's thought, decision, and subsequent action can cause an epidemic affecting thousands of people. It is a huge burden to bear knowing that the smallest move you make can at very least temporarily alter the lives of so many around you. For me and my family, we simply lost time and serenity. The time that could have been spent having dinner with my mother and brother, time that could have been used on my comfy couch and in my warm bed was lost mainly because of one person's lack of judgment. Serenity that we could have been sharing as a family reunited after three days was spent being angry at said person's poor decision which put us in this place, ultimately allowing us to be intolerant of one another because none of us were where we wanted to be in that moment. I'm certain that the edginess this lone person must have felt started the chain reaction that subsequently opened up the possibility for an equal amount of the edginess, from which I was now suffering and causing my family to suffer, to worm its way into the lives of the thousands of others also involved in this state of affairs. Impatience is indeed contagious my friends, but I was refusing to see it that it was unquestionably preventable.

While it had been probably one person's fault that I was in this circumstance for the 9.5 hours it lasted for me and my family, it was not this person's fault that I deemed myself unable to cope with the unmitigated state of events. Many hours after my rump began to form a permanent hollow in my seat, sensibility and rational thought began to resume its often misdirected spot in my brain. The resentment I felt about my position and at my husband for not taking the suggested detour was abating. I began to think about those who were stuck in the subway system in NYC when the enormous power failure occurred all those years ago and how awful that experience must have been for them. Even worse, I began to think about the survivors who suffered for days trapped in the twin towers after the attack or more recently in Haiti after the earthquake and began to realize how I was in an indisputably better place than I could ever have imagined. I became conscious of the ungrateful wench I was being, and how my behavior and the energy it was exuding was only a bumpy road that directed me and my family to nothing but irritation and aggravation with one another. The over 50 cars and semi's that crashed on I-71 south yesterday that lead to my spiraling state of unwitting anxiety was certainly not the highlight of my life, but did eventually provide me with a great amount of perspective and something to share with you. It reminded me to be grateful for a full tank of gas and warmth, and for the fact that kids were safe with us. I became appreciative that we were not the ones to cause or be involved in the accident, and that the worst that came out of the whole situation was a few injuries to those involved and a misconstrued sense that time was lost for those who had to wait. I'm hopeful for the lesson the driver who began this course of events learned from this potential catastrophic occurrence and perhaps he or she will remember they are not invincible, that snow can indeed be a dangerous thing under the right (or perhaps wrong) conditions. I was happy that at 1am I was able to walk into my warm home put my kids into beds they could call their own and finally put my head to rest an hour later. As I drifted into a state of slumber I was thankful to be reminded of one of my favorite quotes by Virginia Satir, "Life is not the way it's supposed to be. It's the way it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference".

For more information about the February 15, 2010 crash on I-71, please click on the following links:

http://www.10tv.com/live/content/local/stories/2010/02/16/story-delaware-freeway-crash-cleanup.html?sid=102

http://www2.nbc4i.com/cmh/news/traffic/article/i-71_restricted_in_delaware_county_after_numerous_crashes/31889/

The Tireless Troubles of Thought

I have one of those brains that never shuts up! It nags and nags and nags until I do stuff like drink a glass of wine and type a blog at 1am. SERIOUSLY! At this particular moment the inner disruption is caused by another blog I tried to write earlier this evening, but just couldn't come up with enough cohesive ideas to finish it. Heaven forbid I put something away and just let it go, but for my brain it's rarely possible. I've tried several things to remedy the clutter inside my head, some of which include meditation, prayer, distraction, and routine . . . all of which may work if I actually stuck with them, but when you have a brain that never stops talking (which is inevitably the cause of my diarrhea of the mouth), sticking with such potential therapies is a very difficult task indeed. I often wonder what it's like to be one of those lucky people who can just tune everything out and shut off all internal commotion. I dream of a world where blackness overtakes my mind at times of stress and fatigue, but even the wine I consume while typing this doesn't cause such an effect. The past few days have been particularly bothersome as I've been unable to do the simplest of tasks, even my current favorite pastime of reading, which in fact is usually one of the few things that 'takes me away from it all'. Actually writing was the only thing I could seemingly do well this week, until tonight that is as I struggle to put this endless stream of thought into simple reading material and wonder how barbaric this sounds to those of you reading it. I yearn to be present, one with the moment, but on the rare instance the occasion arises, I freak out.

Today I had the unfortunate experience of catching my precious Aidan dealing with the same issue, something of which I know he has been struggling with for awhile now. What is a mother to do when her child cannot control the obsessive ramblings in his head especially when she can't control her own? Today for him it was all about blueberries and grapes, of which he asked for as a part of his lunch. Upon eating them he discovered that some of them were starting to wrinkle, aka they weren't perfect. I asked him to place the ones he didn't want on the table, but to please finish the remainder of the fruit for which he asked to eat. After I few minutes I began to hear him talk to himself. I don't know exactly what he was saying, but it was repetitive, some kind of routine to get him through the 'challenge' I presented him. I suddenly stopped what I was doing and confronted him on the matter. "Aidan," I said, "does the same thought about the wrinkled blueberries keep repeating itself in your head over and over?" He answered with a nod and a sullen look on his face. I sighed and let him know that mommy has the same problem too. I followed by giving him the best advice I could, "Honey, when that happens, do your best to take a breath, and then think about something else." Again he nodded and we made an agreement that he could finish the fruit with his dinner. If only I could take my own advice.

I think this, my third entry, is serving the true purpose of a blog, which is just typing random thoughts and uploading them to a website for everyone to read. It's not interesting, witty, or insightful, but it's real, or real for me anyway. It's a look inside the brain of a mom, wife, and woman who struggles daily with prospect of being a better person but not sure how to do that. I want to be smarter, braver, a better wife to my husband, and a better role model for my kids, but my brain obsesses on these ideologies so much that its constant jabs keep me from doing the actions it would require of me to make such improvements. But now in this moment, where I have therapeutically cleansed my brain of its crazed ruminations by putting them in writing, maybe my mind can take respite, if only for a little while, or maybe just long enough that I can fall asleep quickly when I lay my head to rest. Here's to six hours of sleep; I am counting on you for a new start tomorrow.