Back again... maybe

Huh.

Did you know that even after twenty-seven days of complete inactivity, Blogger will still let you sign into your account?

Bummer.

I was kind of hoping my blog would magically disappear into the abyss of the Internets, never to be seen or heard from again. Because then all that inactivity wouldn't be my fault. It would be the fault of, you know... not me. And it's always cool when something's not your fault. I suppose I could hit that all-powerful button labeled DELETE BLOG. But for some reason, I'm still clinging to the belief that the world would come to an abrupt end if I did that.

Hence my presence here today.

And I guess while I'm here, I may as well talk about how life is going.

THE GOOD: Snow, holiday season, and having all of my Christmas shopping already out of the way.

THE BAD: School. Nobody ever mentions that when your kid enters the wonderful world of kindergarten, your life will become so hectic that you actually start wondering if death will come soon, if only to escape signing any more permission slips. Or volunteering slips. Or reading hour slips. And you know what else? It may have been a while since I've been in elementary school, but I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to give five-year-olds so much homework that they burst into tears at the sight of their school folder. Fifteen minutes of homework a night, my ear. Don't get me wrong, Riley is absorbing knowledge faster than a ShamWow absorbs whatever it is that ShamWows are supposed to absorb, but is it normal for moms to nearly sob with relief at upcoming Thanksgiving breaks? I kind of don't think so.

THE UGLY: Me. I'm a nagging, grumpy, stressed-out bag of unpleasantness (and that's putting it nicely). But that should change by next Thursday, when I plan on eating at least half of a pecan pie. I'm thinking the transformation will go something like this:





Bring on the fat jeans.

So what's left?

Sometimes I think humans have been around for so long that we've invented all there is to invent. Cars, planes, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the Internets (thanks, Al)... The more I think about it, the more evidence I discover. Case in point: kissables. You know, those mini Hershey kisses with a colorful candy coating? Call me crazy, but these seem to me to be shockingly similar to M&Ms. How is it that no one caught that?

Or how about those Snuggies? Don't we have something like that lying around already? Oh, yeah. Blankets.

And don't even get me started on books. I can't tell you the number of times I've picked up a book, gotten a third of the way through, and realized I've already read it. Except it had a different title. And a different author. I've read at least three books this year in which the hero is a teenage boy with unruly black hair that won't lay flat despite his best efforts. Sound familiar? I'm telling you, original thought is a thing of the past. Heck, if you're Dan Brown, you don't even need to steal other people's ideas. Just reuse your own - in three successive books. (Don't get me wrong, they're fun to read. Just don't expect anything new.)

All joking aside, I think that some good has come of all this brainpower. Indoor plumbing, Google, microwave popcorn, medical breakthroughs - all good. But why hasn't someone done something really useful and whipped me up the perfect pair of jeans? Get with the program, people. Get with the program.

P.S. No offense intended to Kristina P., who will probably be buried in her Snuggie, or to Al Gore, who never actually claimed to have invented the Internet. Darn those Republicans.

P.P.S. Sorry about my blogging apathy as of late. I'm in the throes of an identity crisis. So cliche, I know, but true nonetheless.

Little surprises

I'm sure that there are many, many people in the world who like to crawl out of bed in the morning and crank up some tunes to get their day started. And of those people, there are probably some who choose to crank up John Mellencamp. And dance around like maniacs. And sing the wrong words off-key.

I just never thought my son would be one of them.

I am Introvert, hear me roar!

"It's good for the soul when there's not a soul in sight." ~Kenny Chesney~

Friends, I know this might come as a shock to you, but I'm an introvert. And not just sort of. An online Jung Typology test told me that on the introvert-extrovert scale, my introvertedness is about 70%. And we all know how reliable those online tests are. But really, I didn't need some expert to tell me that I'm "more reserved, less outgoing... [and] marked by a richer inner world" than 60-75% of the population. I already had a hunch.

The fact is, I like to be around people; I enjoy attending parties and being with friends and meeting new people. I just like hanging out with me more. And I'm not sure why that makes some people uneasy. Last week, I mentioned to a group of young women in our ward that I had spent a Saturday in Anchorage shopping, having lunch, and catching a movie. "By yourself?" one of the girls asked, horrified, staring at me as though she'd just seen a leper. Um, yeah, by myself. Myself rocks. And if myself wants to see a movie and gorge at the local Mongolian Barbecue, who am I to argue?

So what if I don't like crowds? They make me nervous. Who cares if socializing for long periods of time drains me of energy more effectively than a triathlon? (Not that I would know, having never run a triathlon. Or more than two miles in a row, come to think of it. Yeah, so I'm not a runner. Sue me. We're not talking about that right now anyway. Geez.) And when I want to host an event, is it really a big deal if I have to decide to do it less than 12 hours prior to the actual event or I'll find a way to cancel, because thinking about all those people coming over kicks my stress gene into high gear?

I used to think all of these things somehow pointed to flaws in my character, that maybe I wasn't as important as the numerous extroverts roaming the planet. So I guess I do understand why someone might think going to a movie solo is a little strange. But I don't think so. It's just me. And me is good.

P.S. Just out of curiosity, even if I didn't actually get on the stupid thing, assembling an elliptical counts as aerobic exercise, right? (And by I, I mean my husband, who worked so hard I had time to come in and blog. I love you, honey!)

The naughty list

Dear Santa Claus,

I realize it's only October, but it's gonna take me at least two months to atone for yesterday's sins, so I thought I'd get a jump start on things.

Listen, Big Guy, there's only so many times a mom can wipe bathwater off of the ceiling before something drastic needs to be done. I figured I could yell and scream and be angry for an hour, or I could come up with a consequence that might make an impact. I just failed to take into account how cold well water in Alaska could be. You and the rest of the state probably heard some blood-curdling screams last night around six thirty. Yeah, that was Riley. My bad.

And yes, St. Nick, it's true. I'm banning my daughter from her favorite blanket. I can't handle the tantrums anymore. The ones that come if someone else touches her blanket. Or looks at her blanket. Or breathes near her blanket. I've had enough. That ugly orange blanket is history, and I refuse to feel guilty about it.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I'll be trying harder in the future to be a patient, loving mom.

Until next time,

Becky

Letting go

Riley has been going to kindergarten for just over a month now. He adores his teacher, as do I. She is, in her own words, "fair but firm," which is a good combination. He has made new friends. As he strolls through the parking lot, it is common to hear him call out a casual greeting in a way that I, with my oh-crap-are-they-gonna-stop-and-make-small-talk-because-I-hate-small-talk mentality, cannot manage to pull off. And he is learning new things every day. I especially love to hear him rattle off words in Spanish.

Why, then, are there still days in which I have a fluttery feeling in my stomach as I drop him off in front of the school building? Sometimes I feel like chasing after him, scooping him up in my arms, and taking him back home with me just so I can be with him. Just so I can know what his day was like. Just because. But I don't (partially because it might look like a kidnapping, and schools are so safety-conscious these days, I'd be tied and tasered before I made it back to my vehicle). I feel like cornering his teacher in the hallway and demanding that she tell me every detail of every minute that I was apart from my son, and pleading with her to maybe be a little bit less of a great person so that I know he still loves me best. But I don't (again, because of safety issues - I'm sure the school board wouldn't be thrilled about me threatening an employee). I feel like sniffling on the ride home because things are going so fast; he's five already! Tomorrow he'll be getting a driver's license. He'll be able to vote by Thursday and I'll be a grandmother by next week. I want to shake Old Man Time until those stupid spectacles fall off of his over-large nose. But, obviously, I don't (shake Old Man Time, I mean; sometimes sniffling does occur).

Instead, I think I'll fit in all the hugs and kisses I can before he steps foot into the classroom. I'll grill him relentlessly about his day, until he finally sighs in exasperation and says, "I already told you that, Mom!" And I'll dance a little dance of joy when the district has a Professional Development day (whatever that is) because it means no school for the kids.

And I do.

Forward thinking

I'm curious about something. Am I really supposed to believe those messages that accompany sometimes touching, sometimes cheesy, but mostly downright obnoxious forwarded emails? You know the ones I mean - you can usually find them at the bottom of the text. (Though they're hard to miss in their huge, flashing, brightly-colored letters.) The ones that say I must, repeat, MUST forward the email to 5.8 other people in 10.3 seconds or horrible things will happen to me. And my family. And my next door neighbor's dog. And I'll also miss out on the chance to win a new car. Or an all-expense paid trip to Rome. Or a gazillion dollars. Personally, I'd prefer that the message get right down to the nitty gritty and simply tell me that unless I pass the email along, I'm a cold-hearted beast who will die bitter and alone.

Cuz I can live with that.