Pieces of me

It had been one of those days.

I was sitting in my office, researching the magazine’s archives. And online chatting with my boss about the archive project and our ideas for it. And coordinating online garage sale stuff with several people via Facebook and text. And trying to remember the blog post that was coursing through my head faster than I had time to write it. And the phone was ringing. And my sweet, sweet daughter, off from school due to a professional development day, was bouncing at my elbow, enthusiastically soliciting my help in making paper snowflakes while simultaneously playing a loud and exuberant game of Pontius Pilate alliterations.

And the pile on my desk, and the millions of tabs and programs open, and the disastrous mess of half-made dinner and half-done sorting and end-of-the-week-too-busy-to-clean household mess were clamoring, wailing for my attention.

It was as though everyone and everything was screaming, screaming, screaming for a piece of me.

I wanted to scream myself. And hide.

State of my union

Tonight, I’m boycotting the television set.

Elections make me cringe. Debates make me shudder. But the one event that irks me the most is the annual State of the Union address–and the accompanying hype, anger, and hate-mongering that erupts among ALL political ideologies.

So yes, I’m boycotting the TV. But this year, I’m not altogether avoiding the SOTU. Rather, I’m tuning into the state of a different union, one which is the basic building block of this nation in the first place.

I’m talking about my own.

Theater family

I looked at my Facebook wall today and had to laugh. The past couple weeks of my life have been consumed with the Maiden’s show, so my timeline is swarming with photos and check-ins at the theater and tons of status updates for family and friends who couldn’t make it to the performances.

Then today, I realized it was time to post about about fundraising efforts for the Maiden’s spring performance with the local ballet company.

That’s when I realized: oh my gosh. We’re turning into a stage family.

And that’s a good thing for everyone.

Scent of jasmine

So how many times did you accidentally try to open Wikipedia today?

If you use the internet at all, you’ve probably heard a lot of grumbling about some new bills up before Congress and the Senate: SOPA and PIPA. If you need more clarification, check out the Electronic Frontier Foundation’s explanation here. If you’re short on time, here’s the 10-word version: Overreaching powers. No due process. Vague language. Stifling free speech.

So what does all this have to do with jasmine?

It’s time for a field trip.

Brown and white

I love American Girl. Really, I do. Yeah, they’re overpriced. Yeah, the store experiences can tend toward the snobbish. Yeah, I’m going crazy with admiration and/or horror as the Maiden squirrels away money in the hopes of purchasing her very first AG doll this spring. We said we weren’t going to get into this, so we made her save up for it herself (thinking she wouldn’t) . . . and now she’s almost there. That’s scary in more ways than one.

But what I like best about the AG world is the storylines behind the historical dolls. They’re borne out in novels, mysteries, and supplemental nonfiction books–but it’s more than just cute stories. They tackle issues. Like Molly, the Maiden’s fave, whose dad went overseas to fight in WWII and whose teacher’s fiance was killed in battle and whose mom had to start working to help pay the bills and whose family took in a British girl who’d lost her mother in the London bombings.

Like I said, issues.

The newest historical dolls are Marie-Grace and Cecile, BFFs who hail from 1850s New Orleans. I thought the books would be fun because, having spent most of her life in Louisiana, the Maiden might feel a kinship with the girls.

Turns out it was something else that fascinated her.

Stage mom

If you're not careful, they'll turn into sea monsters.

Have you seen what went down on the blogs today? It doesn’t matter what blog. It doesn’t matter what day. Whenever two moms  disagree on anything, it’s like the whole web blows up with a frenzy of anger, frustration, and a big mess of hurtful and judgmental opinion-hurling.

Choices, choices. There are so many possibilities. Strollers. Babywearing. Working. Staying at home. Cloth vs. disposable. Breast or bottle. And that’s just the baby years! What about education, playdates, playground mishaps, injuries, bedtime battles, picky eating, TV, extracurriculars, sheltering vs. free range, city vs. suburb vs. rural? Or whether it’s time for #2 (or 3 or 4)?

It boggles the mind.

Every day, we’re faced with a barrage of choices–and we consider each with such care. Yet rarely does that same sensitivity overflow when looking at the parenting choices of others. “Mean, judgmental mommies” are the new high school alphas, and the claws are out. 

How come we’re so cruel at a time when we all should have each other’s backs?

Resolutions 2012, week 1

Technically it’s been a week and a half since New Year’s Day and the Great List. But I’m worried that if I don’t take stock of my progress now, 2012 is going to be like all those other years– you know, the ones where I “didn’t make resolutions.”

So without further ado, the report card:

Treat me like a lady

Do your kids drive you mad?

Not just crazy mad, although that too. I mean mad mad, as in angry mad. I mean they frustrate and exasperate and irritate you. I mean that you’re so fed up it’s all you can do to hold it in until bedtime.

Seriously, why can’t they behave?

Maybe they’re wondering the same thing.

With my compliments

Parenting can be a rough ride. One day the kids are all mushy, kissy-huggy sweetie-pies. And you “make their heart yellow” with love and friendship, and your voice is angel music, and syrup honey sugar sweet love lalalalala. Also, can you buy them a treat?

Then the next day you’re a mean, horrible mommy and possibly a wicked witch too, and O.M.G. today is the WORST day of their ENTIRE LIFE. Because you forgot to ask for mustard on their burger.

Sometimes, I’m not sure which is worse.

I attempt resolutions . . .

Last year I did not make New Year’s resolutions. The Man was on his way home from Afghanistan, and I was occupied with cleaning the house and re-cleaning the house and re-re-cleaning the house every time he got delayed, which was constantly. Then after all that he did come home and dumped seven months’ worth of crap out of his bags. Onto my clean living room floor. And then we had Christmas in January, and mess exploded like fireworks until we all went back to work and school and no one cared anymore . . . which is why the place looks the way it does now.

This year I’m not cleaning anything, so I have to sit here and write resolutions. Given the success of my last set in 2010 (Part I, Part II, Part III, and–gulp!–Part IV detail the sorry saga), I’ve got serious performance anxiety.

But here goes.