My husband and I are living in perpendicular universes.  Not parallel, but perpendicular.  While he arises the second the alarm rings and leaves the house by 6 a.m., I drag out of bed as late as possible, which means 8 a.m. on a school day.  He telephones me every afternoon, exclaiming how fast the day has gone, how many meetings he’s been in, how many people he’s talked with, how busy he’s been.  “And how are you?” he says, “Anything exciting?”

And every day my answer is the same:  “No.”  My day is dragging.  I am dragging.  I am in slow-motion, barely creeping through life.

I begin working at about noon each day and my job responsibilities are routine.  I seldom interact with my co-workers since I am a “remote” employee.  I am seriously boring and oftentimes, bored.

My husband, on the other hand, is very engaged in his job and often has stories to tell about crazy stuff that has happened at work.

I have stories to tell about how much the kids bickered, which are not very amusing stories.

And for the past two hours, he’s been sound asleep while I’ve been working.  He’ll call me in twelve hours, shocked at how quickly his morning slipped away and I will tell him that nothing much has happened, unless you count laundry.

* * *

Last night, I put away the Christmas decorations.  My grandmother used to just put her fully decorated tree in a closet until the next Christmas.  I have a great aunt who is rumored to leave her tree up until Valentine’s Day–but I’m not sure if that’s true or just a fanciful story I made up in my head.  Have you undecorated?

Three weeks ago, she couldn’t wait to get outside into the snow.

Today, it began to snow again.  Our streets have been clear, only big sandy piles of plowed snow left in places to remind us of the record-snowfalls we received over Christmas.

My daughter said, with conviction, “I am done with snow!”

My 10-year old son, on the other hand, is sorrowful that the snow is turning into rain already.  The inch is melting into slushy water as we speak.

Personally, once January 1 hits, I am ready for spring.  This is just one of many reasons why northern Michigan and I were incompatible. *One year we lived there the first snow fell in October and it was March before we saw the grass again.  Six straight months of snow on the ground is about five and a half months too long, if you ask me.  I want to see crocuses emerging from the February ground.  I was to see trees budding by March.  I want daffodils in riotous bloom by April.

One more day, then the kids go back to school on Tuesday and life as I have come to know it will resume.

* * *
*We lived in northern Michigan–look at your right hand; see your middle fingernail?  Right about there–for four years.  I have lived in the Pacific Northwest most of my life, with college and newlywed stints in Missouri, North Carolina and Connecticut, so northern Michigan was a foreign country to me. 

When my parents were my age, I was in college.  I met my husband when my parents were my age.

At my age, I live with four kids who aren’t even remotely close to being college material.  My daughter is only six.  My teenagers are fifteen but I cannot even imagine them driving a car, let alone attending college or answering to a boss.  I know things will change and they will mature and grow up and, hopefully, move out.

But in the meantime, I’m worn out from their company.  An extrovert who finds refreshment in the company of many fellow human beings might find herself energized living in this house with its constant stream of neighborhood kids, not to mention the five other people who live here and who can’t seem to return return any item to its rightful home.  (For instance, at a glance, I can see shoes and a random chopstick and a crocheted afghan and an empty water bottle.)

People wear me out, even people that are related to me.

These are the thoughts of a mom on the second week of Winter/Christmas vacation.  The week prior to “vacation” were complicated by snowfall, so my daughter hasn’t been to school in three weeks.  I’m not sure who missed it more–me or her.

I feel pretty terrible about feeling so wiped out.  Did Ma Ingalls ever lose her cool when Mary and Laura got on her nerves?  Did Mrs. Cunningham complain about the Fonz popping in to see Richie too often?  Did Mrs. Cleaver ever roll her eyes at Eddie Haskell?  Did Mrs. March ever scream her head off because Jo, Beth, Meg and Amy would not stop bickering?

No.  No, no and no.  But I have felt trapped and delirious and screamy at my kids and my life and my house.  Especially since I told Sugar we can no longer be friends.  (”And take your cousin, White Flour, with you!”)

* * *

On another abrupt note, I saw “The Curious Tale of Benjamin Button” today.  The movie was really good, beautifully filmed and acted and all that.  You really need a “willing suspension of disbelief.”  (I fixed that sentence thanks to Julana.)  I did enjoy it, though.  However, I read the short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald the other night–I skimmed it to see the plot–and it was so vastly different that I kind of regret having done so before the movie.  The short story and the movie shared only one or two points:  a character name and the idea of aging backwards.  (The synopsis and link to the story can be found here.)

My husband and I saw “Valkyrie” the other night with Tom Cruise.  We liked it, too.

Both movies were free of cursing (maybe one or two mild expletives) and nudity (except for one bare bottom), but subject matter is not for children, in my opinion.

And now, I’m going to put my 6-year old to bed.  Hooray.

A review of my blog reveals that I have been a rotten blogger this past year.  Good thing I don’t charge admission or I’d have to close the thing down, considering the economy and all.

Seriously.  Where else can you read this stuff?

For instance, here’s what happened when I did the laundry a little too efficiently.   Mom = one.  iPod = zero.

Then, my grandmother died.  She’s just turned 102, but still. Gooseberries remind me of her. I thought about my own life while packing her stuff into boxes.

Weirdly enough, I dreamed about swimming with walruses this year.

I contemplated my own mortality.  I missed the old days when my kids were little.

Then I ranted a little about the habit my family has of opening more than one container of EVERYTHING. I made a public service announcement about killing fruit flies.

I lamented my tendency to speed through life - of maybe I was complaining about how slow everyone else is.

And I ended the year with the realization that my life is more about being stripped than being accessorized.

This year, I started working full-time from home.  I traveled to New York City on business, then to California for a writing conference.  My husband spent a long weekend with college buddies in Michigan.  My teenagers turned 15, my younger son turned 10 and my daughter turned 6.  I had a tooth pulled.  My husband resigned from our church and started a new job.  I read a lot of books, saw a lot of movies, sat by the pool as much as possible.  I had some writing published, gained weight and grew my hair long.

Happy New Year!  May your year be free of fruit flies (but if it’s not, you know what to do).

Today is Sarah Markley’s birthday.  Won’t you go wish her a happy birthday?  (She writes a remarkable blog called “the best days of my life.”)  Click here to wish her happy birthday.  Leave her a comment and tell her I sent you.

Thanks!

You know that old joke, about the fearful child who says he/she wants God with skin on?

I am so lonely for a friend with skin on.  I have so many friends across the country, blog-related and other, but no one here with skin on.  I am in such desperate need for a long girlfriend conversation, the kind where you have to take a bathroom break halfway through to pee because you’ve had so much coffee or Diet Coke.  I want to be able to speak freely, without reservation, without wondering if my words will be used to judge me or hurt me or gossip about me.

Sigh.

It was a lot easier making friends in high school and college.  Now?  Now it seems like everyone is rushing around the track in their own lanes and there’s no time, no way, no how.

The difference between having infants and having teenagers is that if you leave your carpets unvacuumed, no one is likely to choke to death on a rogue dime.  And if your teenagers are awake all night, you can go to sleep anyway.  Plus, if teenagers are stinky, all you can do is suggest a shower and some deodorant, but it’s really out of your hands. However, infants don’t sass and they are usually delighted to see you.

After another day here in the house, working, while kids play and bicker, that’s all I’ve got.  The snow has melted, but has been replaced by wind and rain and the kids are inside, playing video games, annoying each other and eating all the tortilla chips and nacho cheese they can find.  I can’t catch up on laundry even though I’m constantly carting dirty laundry to the laundry room and carrying clean laundry upstairs.  When I’m not working, I scheme to get out of the house instead of staying put and cleaning out cupboards and the storage room.

For it’s that time of the year when I want to purge, to dig out the casserole dishes I haven’t seen since I shoved them into the cupboard a year or two ago.  I want to clear the floor of the storage room but in order to do that, I need to ditch the toys I stashed there.  I need to figure out why I have nothing to wear and yet my closet is stuffed.  I should organize the spices.  But I don’t want to do any of that if there is a chance I can run away from home.

Truth is, I feel a little gloomy.  I recognize it as a low-grade depression or maybe just melancholy typical to my personality, but I don’t want to do much of anything.  I have to work.  I have to take care of the children.  I have to function, but all I really want to do is sleep and read and eat and go to the movies.

*yawn*

By the way, I read The Tale of Despereaux last night.  It was so much different from the movie and, of course, so much better.  I’m also reading Ninety Minutes in Heaven because it was co-written by Cec Murphey, whom I’ve become acquainted with this year.  (Barely–we’re on a Yahoo group, but he is Someone and I am not.)   Before that, I read Child of My Heart (Alice McDermott) and The Reader (Bernhard Schlink).

What are you reading?  Do you recommend it?  I think I’m going to read Elizabeth Berg or Anne Tyler next.

The snow is melting and so my mother-daughter day in Seattle did not involve dying in a car accident.  Instead, we arrived at a conveniently located parking garage at 11:20 a.m., gazed at the Seattle Center comatose fountain, scurried into the Seattle Center building (such a shadow of its former tacky self), examined the life-sized snow-globe and then rode the Monorail to Westlake Center for a quick shopping expedition at Children’s Place (new hat, gloves, sweatshirt, matching pants and three stuffed animals).  Then, at her insistence, we ascended and descended and ascended the escalators before returning on the Monorail to the Seattle Center where we dined at Quincy’s.  (My daughter ate five mini-corndogs, asked for more and threw away most of her fries.  What a weird kid.)

But all that was the prelude to our real purpose for being in Seattle on a Friday afternoon.

My six-year old and I attended the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s “Nutcracker” performance.  She, of course, has never been to the ballet and I hadn’t been since I went with the International Club in high school.  We had amazing seats–why go at all if you can’t see?

Tonight, I asked her what the best part was–she said it was when the Mouse-King bit the girl–and then, I said, no, I mean the best part of the whole day and she snuggled against me and said, “Spending the whole day with you.”  I hope she still thinks that in ten years.  My boys would much rather hang out in their cave with their friends and an unbeaten video game than with their mother–which is as it should be.

* * *

Christmas Day was a rousing success, if I do say so myself.  Saying so seems self-congratulatory because, face it, without me, there would be no Christmas.  I mean, without Baby Jesus there would be no Christmas.  But without me there would be no celebration festivities homemade fudge.

We told the kids they could look in their stockings but that their dad and I would not be down before 9 a.m.  We were and it was all over by 10 a.m.–well, unless you are me, and then there is cooking to do.  We have a hearty meal, but one that’s easy to prepare, and one of my teenagers likes to cook.  By 3 p.m. we were cleaning up and my husband–God bless him!–suggested that I go to a movie.  So I did.  I saw “Doubt” with Meryl Streep and, uh, that guy whose name slips my mind, but he was fantastic.  I said to the ticket-taker guy, “Hey, what are those people waiting for?” and he said, “The Marley movie,” and he said, “Doubt?  What’s that?”  And I said, “You know, the nun movie?” because, really, did I want an existential conversation with a ticket-taker guy who doesn’t even know the basic plots of the movies showing at his theater?

Well.

I can see why “Doubt” has received rave reviews.  I really liked it.  (More than “Seven Pounds” which is hardly a fair comparison, but that movie, “Seven Pounds” has a basic premise that I do not accept.)

My family room is a wreck at the moment–I just looked over searching in vain for a good ending sentence for this blog.  I guess it’s a sign that the kids here are living it up, enjoying life in my house.  That’s fine, as long as no one spills anything sticky.  The carpets were cleaned recently and wouldn’t it be nice if no one spills Kool-aid for awhile?

Another holiday over and done.  Check it off the list.  Let’s move along.

We’ve had ghastly weather for over a week, but this morning when I opened the front door, I heard the glorious sound: drip-drip-drip.

So, at noon, my daughter and I raced to the grocery store so she could buy her brothers a present.  (She hadn’t remembered until today, apparently.  She’s six years old.)  Of course, I need important things like sour cream and black olives.

We have two vans–a normal mini-van and a Chevy cargo van which is 13 years old.  My husband drives the newer van to work, leaving the gigantic old van for me to motor around town.  I can finally park it between the white lines in a parking lot–a skill which took me a couple of years to master.  (That’s just pulling in straight.  I could never ever parallel park this behemoth.)

The last time I drove the big van was when it had started snowing a week ago.  It took me six tries to get backed out of my sloping driveway and then I slid all over my unplowed road.  Truly, driving this van on the snow is like trying to steer a living room on wheels–without brakes or steering wheel.  Or like motoring a boat on a stormy sea . . . with no rudder or oars.  Kinda scary.

I was confident today, though, because of the drip-drip-drip.  I had my teenagers shovel the snow from behind the van.  The funny thing was that they didn’t shovel as much as they raked and “broomed.”  Whatever.  As long as I didn’t have to contend with a snowbank before I even hit the road.

Our road was slippery, but once I hit the main road all was well. Hooray!

The parking lot at the grocery store was another story.  A bad story.  I had to park way out in the parking lot because it’s not easy to park an enormous van in a slushy snowy parking lot packed with a million last minute grocery shoppers.  Awesome, though, because I was out in the world and not at home without sour cream.  Then I stepped out of the van and into a deep puddle of melty slushy snow.  Pretty.

But we shopped.  We paid.  Then, back to the out in no-man’s-land.  I couldn’t push the cart to the van because of the icy slushy snow pack.  Instead, I carried the bags from the cart which sat pretty much in the middle of the parking lot.  I hurried, though, then returned to the cart and waited for an opening in traffic and backed out.

Only when I backed out, I couldn’t pull forward because I was stuck.  And a car was waiting for my parking spot.  I had to pull forward and try again.  But another car stopped to wait for me . . . and when I backed out, my tires spun, unable to get traction and I couldn’t move.  So I pulled forward again, gunned it, hoped to not hit the car behind me. . . and got stuck again.

After four or five tries and a little Christmas jeering (MOVE ALONG, PEOPLE!) I realized I could turn the opposite way.  So, I was able to exit the parking lot.  Hooray, hooray.  It’s the small things–like being able to drive backward and forward in my living-room-on-wheels that make me happy.

Anyway, what a long story without much of a point, but hey, Merry Christmas!  I hope you have a delightful day and that no one vomits in your house.  (Huh?  Where’d that come from?)

I love this website:  ReadKiddoRead.com.  James Patterson created this website as a way for parents, educators and librarians to find great books for kids to read.  You can find books in several different categories:  Great Illustrated Books, Great Transitional Books, Great Pageturners and Great Advanced Reads.

Don’t take my word for it.  Go check out ReadKiddoRead.com.  I can’t wait to examine every link on that site.  As a voracious reader myself, I am constantly searching for intriguing and addictive books to pass along to my kids so they will grow to love reading as much as I do.  One of my sons is an avid reader.  My 10-year old is becoming interested in reading more and more.  I have a very reluctant reader and an almost-reader (she’s so close!) so almost every category on the website appeals to me.

So, if you have gift cards at a bookstore to spend or have some after-Christmas spending to do, check out ReadKiddoRead.com first for reading recommendations.  You’ll be glad you did.

(Yes, this is another commercial written in cooperation with MomCentral.com.)