Out of Control

I am out of control.

My house is a disaster. My laundry is piled to the roof. I can't keep up with my kids' clothes and field trips. I have a paper due Friday that I have barely begun to write. I have a thesis proposal to revise. I have theses chapters to write. I need to get organized before Craig leaves so that I don't have to do it when he's gone. I have appts. to make...people to see, places to go, things to do.

And yet, I sat down tonight, watched Project Runway and ate an entire pint of Haagen Daas Butter Pecan Ice Cream. I can't even say that I enjoyed it. I was on autopilot. I am trying to find my chewy center in all of this without taking a bite and can't quite seem to do it. I think I need a fairy godmother. I just hopes she brings her own spoon.

I'm melting...

Okay, so as I write the weather has taken a turn for the weird with a gorgeous and not too windy cooler afternoon. The sun is bright. The sky is blue. The birds are chirping (and crapping on my front porch and stealing my strawberries) and where am I?

I am stuck in the house, reading a horrible novel for a class I don't particularly like and don't find necessarily useful. Then I am stuck at the keyboard pushing my brain past its boundaries trying to somehow articulate the complexities of race and gender when all I really want to do is eat chocolate chip ice cream and watch Project Runway...

I want a day or week or month where I don't have to think. When I don't have to look at the complexities of a situation, when I don't have to think about 6 weeks and counting, when I can just BE. I want to veg. I want to play scarecrow in my garden and finally taste the bright red fruit that the damn barnswallows keep depriving me of. I want to play frisbee with Maisey and really be able to listen when Bradley tells me the litany of Pokemon he has captured on his game. I want to be able to kiss my husband before he falls asleep and I want to sleep without dreaming of fantastical Spanish lit, racial configurations in Southern lit, the horror of showing up on defense day and forgetting everything, and bombs.

I am beginning to feel like the wicked witch, like someone is running after me with a bucket of water, threatening to "melt me" and the really warped part is I am beginning to feel an urge to stop and let them throw the damn bucket.

So I will just say that the day is fast approaching when I am drooling in the recliner, eyes glazed, chanting "I don't want to read anymore...I don't want to write any more...and you can't make me..." Don't wake me then...please just place me in the garden so I can water the flowers on a gorgeous day....bliss

Help me, I'm in liminal space

K has just left today and many sleepless nights filled with much needed academic and life changing discussions have left me worn out, exhausted, and oddly revived mentally for this ultimate task ahead...so the chattiness has payed off!!!!

I have been thinking a lot about the project at hand. Why in the world did I choose such a difficult concept for my thesis? Why didn't I go for something I felt more comfortable with, something I already felt I had some experience with? Why did I choose anti-racism and feminism? Well the obvious answer is that I'm crazy:) The next obvious answer is that these areas have concerned me since I gave a very pedantic speech combining Barry Manilow's "I made it through the rain" with MLK's "I have a dream" speech (it was horrible and no, I won't recite it here). But in a lot of ways, it goes deeper than that.

I have had to have really uncomfortable conversations with my husband the past few days. He's telling me those things he wants the kids to know if something should happen to him...the lofty "this is why I served" ideals that I never want to hear, certainly don't want to ever have to explain to my kids, but fundamentally important. He needs to know that I will explain the unexplainable to the kids should the unthinkable happen. And I have to nod quietly and not cry thinking "I don't want to do this...I don't want to do this" but encourage him to speak because the silence has been killing us.

I have to encourage my son to share his worries about his dad and our lives while he's gone. Ultimately he seems concerned that daddy won't be daddy anymore and that he will have to grow up too fast. I have to hold his hand and tell him that everything will be okay, we'll work it out, the world does not rest on his shoulders---all the while I'm thinking I'm scared too and I know that he will grow up too fast but I can't help that. I wish I could.

Then I think about my work. Not my students. I am comfortable as a teacher. I know that I do that well. I wonder how I'll do it with all of this pressure on me but I know with the confidence of having done this before that I will put on my big girl panties and deal. No...the work I am thinking about is my academic work. The work that I love to hate and hate to love....why couldn't I have been an accountant? Why do I feel compelled to push myself beyond my limits on a regular basis? (why don't I feel compelled to do the same with my body?) And then it struck me. I haven't had a name for it before, but most of my life and most of my meaningful moments occur in the very liminal space I am exploring in my thesis (everyone shout A-ha)

I have always been drawn to the in-between. When I first began going to UND I found that I loved the drive to school. I didn't quite understand why I would love this drive. Any other time I push down Highway 2 I'm bored but on days that I am going to "work" I find that the drive helps me get there. As I leave the row of flags behind and gaze longingly at the Dairy Queen I know I shouldn't have, I begin to feel relieft. Music is just a little too loud and I stare through the windshield at the fields. the mostly barren and stripped masses of landed, dotted with farmhouses and I think. My mind explores both lives that I lead. I am in mental transit. My life and its problems don't seem so big before the acres of tilled soil. The fight I have with the kids becomes trumped by the fight I am fighting with the wind threatening to push me into the ditch. I have always thought of this drive as the gateway between base Lisa and academic Lisa. The shift happens gradually just as the fields grown smaller. By the time I reach the first row of billboards I am mulling over issues for my class, I interject theories of Marxism and Sedgewick. I contemplate the ramifications of Foucault and the theories of Cornel West. And now it occurs to me that I literally drive in that liminal space---the space of no binaries, the place of just me, all of me, no pretending, no show...just me.

So while at times my acedemic endeavors seem pointless and frustrating I really believe that they help us find out more about ourselves. What would K be without Foucault now? See how fundamentally that academic work has shaped your life...liminal space has shaped mine. My only question now is how to live without the binaries in my life and live more in the liminal...and how to translate all of this into my work.

The sky is falling

It has finally happened...I knew that it would. I've been waiting for it but somehow I had hoped that it wouldn't. I was hoping that I wouldn't hear the news, that something might change, that we might be wrong, but it was inevitable. Kind of like having unprotected sex but feeling a bit shocked when you find out you're pregnant. Life changing and you knew it would probably happen but you still put your head in the sand and wonder why you're so thirsty.

Craig's been unofficially tasked. Leaves Aug or Sept and not back til sometime inApril. We knew it was coming. Had hoped and thought it would be a bit later...but there you go. The brave new world.

So I've been thinking that I've really got to get this thesis done cuz every semester I've been in the program something weird has happened. 1st, Sept 11th...not good for anyone---2nd, cataracts, makes reading a little hard not to mention surgery to correct and healing time---3rd, move to England two weeks after semester ends, no stress there---4th, precancer, daughter swallows quarter, best friend leaves, generally feel crappy and overwhelmed...did some of my best writing though---5th post hysterectomy and hormonal crazy woman who can't write to save her life and now last, single mom with two kids, no Mary Poppins, writing thesis and defending while playing all the roles...

I have decided to finish my thesis for Fall because, quite frankly I don't think my health or the state of the world can afford for me to continue this degree:) It is all my fault and I'm sorry...So ladies begin looking to the heavens cuz the sky is falling

No really...duck....the sky is really falling!!!!;)

Waxing nostalgia

I have been a little sad this week. I always get this way the last week of classes. While the audible sigh of relief surrounds me, I find that I reflect and think, "I'll never see these kids again." I get attached to most of my students and rarely do I see them again. To add insult to injury this semester, I'm faced with the very real possibility that it will be a while before I am in a classroom again.

Today the only student I have ever had for two semesters thanked me. He's a sweet student. Not a great writer. He's a solid B. I think he could do better but he is happy with what he's got and, at least he's consisitent. He said that he was glad that he got me for his comp teacher because comp is his least favorite subject and I made it interesting and "do-able." Well, I was on cloud nine. Not just because he seemed to realize that I needed to hear it (don't we all) but that I was getting through.

I have long believed that it is my job to make my students learn two things---first, that their writing should be clear and convey their meaning the best way it can, and, second, that there is no magic formula to writing effectively. There is no magic at all. It is a matter of learning the tools necessary to convey ideas on paper so that someone not in the room with us will understand. It is not my job to make my students brilliant writers. Quite frankly there are only a few even capable of that...I would prefer that they become more comfortable writers.

I don't mean those students who feel like they already know everything and I have nothing to teach them. I mean instead those students who have always been told that they can't write, who have had the proverbial English teacher baring the red pen as a mighty sword to slash spelling errors and concur the comma---those students who have given up. I try to reach them. I don't dumb down my class and make it easy for everyone but I seem to have a soft spot for those students that have been told that they can't write and those never given the opportunity.

I am very mindful that the comments I make to all my students will be interpreted. I cannot imagine tearing a teacher who is willing to pass judgement but not to teach. How do these students become competent if we don't show them how to do it? I realize that there are those out there who do not care, those who could care less about writing for an audience and a purpose---I have had a few of those---But the majority of my students have been taught that they can't write...then they just give up. I try to reach them and show them that there are tools that will make them effective.

So as the semester draws to a close (thank goddess;) I am thinking about those students who will encounter the red pen and those that will be told that they can't write and hope that I have at least shown the path the competency and hope that I will be given the opportunity to lead another group down that road. One week....just one week...

Bodies transcendent

The human body never ceases to amaze me. What some people can make their bodies do...it leaves me breathless.

Channel surfing I happened upon a production entitled "Dancing Upon Dangerous Ground." It was modern dance reminiscent of Irish dancing---lots of stomping and jumping, leaping and soaring. The women were able to glide as though not bound by the rules of physics and the men leapt through the air---even through the television I could feel the air around the dancers move. I watched as muscles flexed and bowed, writhed, in sheer synchronicity with one another. It was as if, at times, their bodies were fluid into one another, meshed with the stage, performing as one ethereal body. It was transcendent...

I have always wished for a body that was able to move with such grace. I have always wanted to dance. I remember as a child mentally choreographing sequences to my favorite songs, instructing my troop of stuffed animals in the proper forms, the ways their arms should float. But when I would see myself move, I was reminded that some people are born "soarers" and others remain eternally tethered by corporeal limitations. What should have looked like a slinking jaguar looked more like a loping rhinoceros. My body has never been able to achieve what my imagination would have it do.

I am drawn to the creative in others. I watched the dancers tonight bonding with them, moving with them, imagining the give of the floor as their feet solidly hit and drummed. I watch ice skaters and envy their ability to fly, to feel their bodies moving so quickly, so lithely...I long to create kinship with my body, to express through the body...unfortunately my gift is with words. My gift transcends the physical and yet I long to feel that creativity in my muscles. I do not need to know how to assume the positions to be a writer only to understand that my gift is to give voice...also important, but at times it leaves me wanting to be silent. While I describe the jaguar, I would rather feel the skin, the joints...

It leaves me wanting and yet, strangely inspired.Their bodies spoke to mine. Mine does not speak their language and yet it knows their meaning. I can imagine the strength in their calves, the ache in their thighs, the burn of their lungs. I feel them too. How I wish that I could dance instead of lope, glide instead of stumble...how I wish I were the jaguar and not the rhino...though the horn is a nice accessory;)

Hands and what ifs (I'm plagiarizing you guys)

Okay, so this one will probably be short...I've got little hands home with me today but the tv is babysitting right now so I'm going to try to do a new entry.

I am so tired of feeling like I am living at least two lives simultaneously. I know that everyone feels this way but this week has been one of THOSE weeks...so in keeping with the "what if?" I find myself wondering "what if?" I could actually do something to the best of my ability without the "hands" pulling on me. What if I could be just a teacher, with no responsibilities of my own? What if I could pour myself into my studies and actually spend time doing all the outside reading I always mean to do? What if I could just be "mom" and plan interesting and educational activities for my kids and be super involved in their school work and their lives?

I don't want to sound too maudelin. I'm not wishing any of it away...I just wish that I could really enjoy a part of my life without feeling that gnawing guilt of all the other responsibilities grabbing at me. I want to do it all but can only barely make a dent in any of it...but what if I could do it all as well as I know I could??? Wow, I would be so great then!

(I'm starting to notice a theme in my blog...more time...oh please could I have more time???)

The Massacre

Today has been a weird day:

• I have been doped up on Benadryl since Thursday 'cuz my eye keeps acting up, thus my energy has been really low
• Brad woke me up at 2:30 a.m. having puked in the sink, scaring me half to death doing that hover-at-the-edge-of-the-bed-til-you-wake-in-a-panic-thinking-there's-someone-crazy-in-your-house-to-kill-you thing; I screamed; he screamed; Craig screamed; then we calmed down and cleaned up the puke
• went to Fargo yesterday and realized that my husband's chronological age might be 38 but his actual age is 68
• Mai has been in a weird "Sybil" mood and I never know which "Maisey" I'm talking to---question: Is this the nice Maisey or the grumpy Maisey I'm talking to? answer: hmph....well....there once was a dog when I was a little girl and I was your Mommy...cut to me pulling my hair out and drooling
• I have gained and lost the same 6 pounds since January
• I'm frustrated by the lack of jobs that I seem suited for and the lack of money in the checking account

And then Craig decided to clean the fish tank....

Keep in mind that the fish tank was this putrid lime green that only exists in fish tanks (and maybe guacamole after being in the fridge a few days...) We hadn't had the time until today, nor the inclination so now we decided to do it...get all sticky and slimy with fish poo! Yeah that's a memorable family day.

Craig cleaned it. I gathered the fish. Acted like I was doing something and let him get all yucky. I am the girl after all and have done this job too many other times...let him do something nasty...I cleaned up the puke.

He cleaned it and it sparkled. The water was mountain clear. He even managed to get the rocks clean and the stupid little statues that I know are ridiculous, but still want in there...he got them scum-free. I then reappeared to deliver the fish to their clean home. We went about the rest of our day, making lunch...

20 minutes later we walk by the tank and notice that they're dead! All of 'em! All the fish are lying belly up, face down on the bottom of the tank, ensnared in the stupid statues, being gently moved by the current created by the filter...it was a massacre...an epidemic. It was eery as hell! You have to understand that I am not overly attached to the fish...I feed them every night and clean the tank when it needs it, but I don't have names for each of them and I don't stare endlessly at the tank. I do find it calming to look at in those brief periods I can spare and I love the sound of the filter bubbling and humming in the otherwise silent silence. But to have 6 living creatures die so suddenly, creatures that depend on you for their care...well it has spooked me a little. I have a feeling that karma is going to catch up to me.

Now I'm looking at this empty tank and it reminds me of the big world out there and how we can choose to see it:

On the one hand, it is a big empty space. It is lonely and scary, frightening and eery. And if you dare venture into this water, it just might kill you. There are dangers around every corner and even those with the best intentions can still f**k it up and badly. Even if we didn't mean to kill them, the fish are dead, one and the same. You dare not venture into these waters, especially with no one there to greet you and warn you of the dangers ahead.

And yet, on the other hand, it is peaceful and inviting. The glow from the light above warms the waters and the current is strong enough to keep you moving, but not so strong as to force you along. It is serene and full of possibilites. It may be empty now, but there is the promise of the life that can fill it...and the life they can have. It is clean and new.

I think sometimes I try to choose one way of living rather than the other, but I think most of our lives skip from one to the other and reside mostly in the in-between. Some days the water is dangerous and all that is around us is death, bad vibes, grouchy people---all might look well, but the water can kill you, silently suffocating...leaving you breathless. And other days are full of promise and new life, clean living, clean slates, warming light from above. And other days feel like a journey between the two. I've been in the in-between for a long time now, hoping that the waters don't kill me and hoping for the warming light and clean waters. The Massacre at noon makes me wary and weary but reminds me that our lives are much the same.

Beginnings

So I'm feeling inspired by Spring, by you guys, by my work on my thesis, and by the Writer's Conference.

I have a thought (that I am too shy to share right now...ah shucks) that I would like to develop. It isn't really a "new" idea for me; it's one of those nagging feelings that is beginning to articulate itself. My question then as a innocent/virgin writer is where to start and how to start. How to begin...and without the obvious answer of "at the beginning stupid!"

How do you begin? Where do you start? What's the incubation period? And is labor as hard???? Please keep in mind that both of my pregnancies were the things of horror movies as were the deliveries...will it be that hard? And are there at least a few moments of joy?

Wow the pregnancy metaphor went way further than I wanted it to. Okay??? Maybe I'm not cut out for this. I'll continue to blog, write my thesis and wonder if I should write...if I can...

Ghosts

I am mired in research for my thesis and nagging at the back of my mind is still the notion of the missing stories. Throughout my journey as an "academic" I have been as struck by the stories that aren't told as those that are...I celebrate in the stories that do get told and find myself then imagining those that aren't.

I remember in AK we read a "journal" by a Spanish nun in the 17th century who only joined the sisterhood because she wanted access to books and knowledge. She bodly states that it wasn't an overwhelming belief in God that brought her to the nunnery; it was instead the idea that she could have access to the same knowledge that the men of her time might have. I remember this distinctly because it came as such an "a-ha" moment for me. I realized then that I was a legacy of this woman. I am the woman she wanted to become and if not for women like her that found ways around repressive systems, I too might be faced with such a choice as hers. I felt connected to her. And then I found myself exploring the stories that weren't told. I mean, there were so many people then without the time/money/privilege to read, who toiled away their lives to put bread on a table rejoicing in death so that they might finally have some peace...there are so many stories left untold. Those are the stories I want to hear.

So this is a long way for me to say that in my research I am finding that I am hearing the voices of stories left untold. I find myself looking for the stories of the black women working for the white women of this South that I read about. I find myself wanting the stories of "Mammy" told from her voice. What must it have been like to "raise" white children knowing that they would one day be the ones who might take a whip to you, sell your children, or, if you were lucky, be the ones who might set you "free." I want to hear their voices. I cannot imagine how these women navigated that world in which you hope that you can teach them better and then probably knowing that you can't and if you don't it would have immediate consequences for those that you love. I cannot imagine that space between caretaker and slave...cannot imagine how you suckle one who might someday be the one who kills you. I just cannot imagine it...and yet I want to. I want to hear more clearly those voices in the past. Not some voyearistic pathology but want to understand how their history has helped to shape my history.

I see these ghosts in the distance and know that they are important and want to hear them call, want to tell that story, want to understand...

I know that this is morose and not our usual "banter." I know I've gone off on a tangent again and I'm not making any sense. I'm mired in the South right now and I'm trying to claw my way out:)

In over my head

As you two are already experts in your field, perhaps you can talk me down from the cliff I find myself on right now...

I begun to actively explore the theoretical concepts of my thesis and in this exploration I have found that there are many out there who say what I want to say much more artfully than I ever could. I find the work engaging and stimulating. I have that pleasant buzz in my brain that makes me feel alive with exploration but when I think about using the applications to my work, suddenly panic sets in...Aren't I just saying what's already been said?

Perhaps that isn't even what I mean. I do feel as though I am approaching it with difference, even if only subtly, but I have that uncomfortable feeling that I'll never quite be able to capture the real complexities that are muddling my brain. I think I'm on to something...I think it might be important...but I'm not sure that I'm up to the challenge.

This is not a pity party. I know that I am fully capable of understanding the material. I feel like I am digging in and teasing out the nuances, but I want this thesis to be good...not just (good) but good. I feel that I owe it to myself to really make this experience about pushing myself into uncharted territories. I owe it to myself to produce a work that should I never write something like this again, I can look at and say I am proud of. That the work can stand on its own. Not just, "that's good enough to pass."

This isn't even about unrealistic expectations, I don't think. I just want some "tips(?)" on how to get over writer envy perhaps. How do you find that place within yourself where you know that you are allowed into the conversation and that what you have to say is worthy of being heard? How do you get past self-doubt, push beyond the fuzziness and find that place of fire in a work like this? How did you guys do it? I can use all the help I can get.

More time please

I've been thinking a lot about time this week...mostly my lack of it. But it has struck me too, how everyone around me seems desperate for more of it.

Talking to K and hearing about her needing at least an extra day in the week to get through all her work...J you always seem to be in need of a few hundred hours here and there...and I am really starting to feel as though someone is shaking the hour glass, making the sands fall more quickly.

This was spring break: I had lofty plans for the week...finish all my grading, plan the rest of the semester, have handouts ready for printing on Monday that would take us to the end, make luscious dinners every night, clean the basement, go through my closets, and, keep my kids home at least one day and really enjoy them. Okay, I look at the list now and think I must've been drunk when composing it, but it was my list nonetheless...

So here's what got done...I kept Maisey home one day but didn't really enjoy her because I couldn't finish anything else on the stupid list:)

K, I've been privileged to spend some time with your boys this week. This too reminds me of time. Not only the obvious: I can't believe that the man fretting over his defunct engine is the same boy who watched my male toddler, played matchbox cars with him, and let him win occasionally at the very same fuseball table we now have parked in our basement. But also that your baby is now having a baby and my baby is turning into a man...and hence...PANIC!

I blinked and the week is over. I slept one night and England is gone (so sad) (oh and by the way, in that slumber I had another kid!) Where does it go and why can't I enjoy it more?

I am noticing a theme that seems to be recurring and it is this idea that we are never content. I have a job (that I occassionally enjoy) which is a true relief after this past summer's budget crisis. I had a week off from said job (which I should've enjoyed but instead spent the entire week spinning my wheels feeling guilty 'cuz I wasn't doing something else!) I have a husband whom I adore and kids who are reasonably fabulous...what is wrong with me? Why can't that be enough? It used to be. I used to find the balance. I used to be able to claw on to those things I really felt were important. Now I mostly feel conflicted.

So instead of writing, I have another list of things I should be doing (that I'm hoping to complete just as soon as I find the time)...

Chapters and stories

I've been thinking about a conversation I had a month or two ago. A grad student and I were discussing our class and he stated that he hated novels as he saw them as contrived. (I suppose I should mention that he is a short story writer.) He thought that short stories were more like life. At the time I thought him pretenious as hell and acknowledged that I had never thought about it one way or another. And I hadn't. But I am thinking about it now.

So which is it? Short story or novel? Anyone with sense can say that it is both and neither. We all have moments in our lives that define us. These moments shaped who we are for better and for worse. They are dramas and worthy of being written. On their own, they are engaging stories that connect us to others. Moments of birth, death, crises...and yet that doesn't tell the whole story.

Then the novel. We can all see how those dramatic moments build upon on another and how different view points, different perspectives might offer different stories. We all like to think that our lives might make a good novel. And we all hope that the novel has a happy ending. But that's the problem with the novel...they end. We don't.

So neither analogy offers the right perspective. Each are just ways to chart a journey, but neither is complete. Our lives have short stories and are a series of endless chapters. But I am coming to believe that the real life, the real living, might actually happen outside the pages.

I really wonder about the nuances. The past three years have been my novel. I have had a series of dramatic moments that build upon one another. I have had epic journeys, close calls with death, birth...(even a war) it might be a riveting story. But those moments don't capture what I love about my life. I relish the quieter moments.

For me it is the smaller moments, the ones that don't get written that really shape us. I wake up every day (thank whoever for that) and do laundry, go to work, make dinner, kiss the kids, yell at the kids, pet the cat, clean up cat puke...the list is endless, but it almost happens every day. I have routines and though I love when the routines are shook up, I feel off kilter when I can't perform them routinely. I think we need those every day hassles to help us appreciate the extraordinary and to help us see that the extraordinary happens every day. It is in those upsets to what we expect.

I believe in my life. I believe in my story. But in my story I spend as much time on the toilet as in profound conversation and sometimes I do both at the same time. I measure my daily success on how tired I am at the end of the day. There is the balance between completely knackered and wide awake. I think that the number of wow moments can only happen in contrast to the other moments. After all...how can you appreciate mind blowing sex if you haven't had the "okay, I want to but I also need to make dinner and finish washing the dishes" sex. Each are wonderful...each are necessary...but they fulfill different needs.

So my life really happens between the lines. My life is a short story and a novel but the page that it is written on. It is gloriously mundane, tumultuous, hilarious, and boring. I love it!

Women

I am sitting here after reading my students' paper (I was pleasantly surprised), considering if I should begin writing my own paper or clean and get dinner for tomorrow ready because my hubby will be working forever for the next few weeks or maybe I should start a load of laundry or maybe even go to bed early so that I won't be so tired tomorrow... when it hit me that my husband doesn't think like this.

When he is tired, he goes to bed. He'll finish it tomorrow or not worry about it. He worries about work but never "home stuff." He doesn't worry about my son's snack or my daughter's daycare blanket. And it hits me that I need to think more like my man.

No one has ever died from not having a perfectly clean blanket at daycare or not having a snack at school...dinner can be thrown together tomorrow night if I need to...and well the rest of it can wait while I drift into sleep that seems too precious to me to even mention without angels singing in the background.

Why do women worry about all of the "little" things? And why do they always seem to fall to us to worry about? I like to think that my hubby is enlightened (and he is) but he doesn't notice a sink full of dishes unless he thinks I'm the one who should do them. He doesn't seem too concerned that he won't be home for a while. He knows that I've got it taken care of...but if I should want to be away for a while, I worry and coordinate to make it easier on him.

Don't get me wrong here, I'm not complaining about him but about ME! I think that I need to slow down and chill. I need to deal with tomorrow tomorrow and just go to bed. So I will but I will return having cleaned the blanket and given the snack...I have said it before and I'll say it again...I really wish that I had a wife:)

I can't believe you talked me into this

I decided that I would "blog" too though I don't know when I'll find the time. But as you said, we all need to find the time to do those things that we love. I will write more when the kids and the hubby have gone to bed. I still can't believe I have joined the cyber people...