A year ago yesterday, I began my first blog.

Here is one of my favorite, straight-from-the-heart posts.

This made me laugh then and I still think it’s funny.

And I think of this post often.

Well, there you go. A little trip down memory lane. Now, come on over and I’ll serve you anniversary cake and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Bring balloons.

Saturday night, 9:25 p.m, found me sitting in a movie theater, popcorn bag in my lap, Diet Coke in the arm rest holder, waiting for “The Forgotten” to begin.

In front me of sat three teenaged boys, spaced out with a seat between each of them. I thought they were saving spaces for three of their friends–thus the spacing–until I sat three girls walk in. The boys gestured wildly at these girls. Watching them, I could tell immediately that only one of the boy-girl pairs was a couple. The others were along for the ride. I thanked God Almighty that I was no longer a teenage girl along for the ride, sitting next to a boy, too distracted to actually watch the movie.

I didn’t have a burning desire to see “The Forgotten,” but I had a burning desire to get out of my house without a child and this movie was the only one that sounded remotely interesting that my husband doesn’t want to see. He wants to see “Ladder 49” and “Friday Night Lights” (he read the book years and years ago), so I won’t see those without him.

The movie itself was put together well enough. Better still were the shocking moments–one that caused me to shriek and clap my hand over my mouth. The entire audience tittered with nervous laughter for quite some time after that. Several moments followed that were surprising, but nothing as heart-stopping as the first moment.

You can read reviews of the movie’s plot and such elsewhere. What I have to say is this: JuliAnne Moore looked way, way, way too good for a woman who hadn’t showered for a few days, who was on the run, who was coping with a crisis of unbelievable proportions.

I haven’t looked that good on the best day of my life. If I went three days without a shower, birds would start building nests in my hair because I’d be banished to the backyard where unclean animals must stay.

This will be a hodgepodge, a mishmash, a jumble of thoughts. Run along if cohesiveness and a witty ending matters to you.

A baby born Thursday morning came to church this morning. Babygirl was itching to get her hands on that real, live baby. “Hold a the baby? Hold a the baby?” The baby’s mother (looking much too rested and beautiful) was breastfeeding her infant daughter, and when she finished, my daughter said, “Baby all done! Hold a the baby?”

I asked my friend if my daughter could hold her (three day old!) baby. She looked a little hesitant, and I said, “I won’t let her cough on the baby and I won’t let her touch the baby’s hands.” We moved closer and Babygirl suddenly shied away. I said, “Here, let me have her,” and practically ordered my friend to hand over that little one. I cradled her in my hands–so small! How can human beings be so small? My daughter refused to hold the baby, then, and I had to hand her back to her mother.

I still don’t want another baby, however. I guess that’s how you know you are done. You can cuddle a newborn without a longing that claws at the inside of your heart. You just hand the baby back and thank God you don’t have to be up every two hours at night feeding that baby.

The baby’s mother joyously told me about her job offer. After being a stay-at-home mother for the past two years, she’s going to work on November 1. She and her husband have felt the pinch of tight finances–it’s so hard to live on one income–and finally, she decided she must work. The baby will be a little more than two weeks old on November 1.

I couldn’t do it. That’s why we drive a very old car and live in a pretty old house. That’s why my blue jeans have a hole in the right knee and our furniture is hand-me-down. That’s why we have debt. Some day, I will work outside the house and get a paycheck. But not while my babies are babies. Not while there is so much to miss. I’ve been here almost twenty-four hours a day for the past 11 years and I still feel like I’ve missed so much. It’s gone by too fast and I didn’t take enough pictures and I was like a saturated sponge and I couldn’t soak any more in, so it just ran off, unabsorbed.

After church, while I was “napping” with Babygirl (I try not to fall asleep while I try to get her to fall asleep), I heard the boys’ friends arrive. Twin boys and their sister . . . so today I had seven children here again. As you might remember, this is wrong, as today is my day to have five children. Tomorrow I should have four, by Tuesday, only three, then by Thursday, I’ll have an only child, followed by Child-Free Friday. Ha! A girl can dream!

Anyway, the kids made signs for a car-wash they planned to have. The other kids are raising money to buy a puppy. My kids volunteered to help at this car wash. Nevermind that it’s October and people don’t usually look for car washes on residential streets. Their father picked up his kids and two of mine. My twins didn’t come home until 6:15 p.m.

YoungestBoy was feeling glum that he wasn’t invited, so I suggested that we go to the beach. Babygirl was thrilled with the idea, so off we went.

Here are things at the beach that scared Babygirl:

1) The slides/climbing toy filled with other kids.
2) The swing. I pushed her one time–apparently too high–and she held on for dear life and grimaced in such a way that I thought she might be having a stroke. When I reached out to stop the swing, I could feel her shaking and her heart beating. No more swings for her!
3) The shoreline, even though the waves were placid and glassy.
4) The train with its loud whistle.

What did not scare her:
1) The big Husky-mix dog she kept petting.
2) The burly, bearded man who owned the dog.

Now, finally, I’m just wondering. Is it just me? Am I the only one who finds the relentlessness of housework and childcare to be just about more than I can stand? People in other professions must deal with monotony . . . does it drive everyone crazy like it does me? The monotony, I mean?

I am more suited to an academic calendar. Work hard when the leaves fall. Dig in and study your brains out until Christmas. Sleep for two weeks. Burrow in with books until the snow melts and the tulips bloom. Stretch your arms and finish up your exams as the sun warms. Slow down through summer, put your brain on vacation, but work hard, play hard, get sunburned. Then get ready to study again when the air cools.

This every-day-is-the-same-stuff is driving me insane. It’s all the same, except for the regular interruptions of bill-paying time and illnesses.

And the details are falling through the cracks because my brain is full. I have so many projects that need my attention, but I don’t have any blocks of time.

Oh! I just remembered what else I wanted to talk about, but my eyes are burning and I need to take out my contact lenses. Tomorrow, then, same time, same place, and I’ll tell you about going to the movies.

My six year old son came rushing into the room yesterday, a stricken look on his face. “Mom, are you going to kill me? Are you going to take all my allowance?”

“What happened?” I said.

“I was looking out the window in the baby’s room and I accidentally broke her gnome. I didn’t mean to, mom!” Gnome had been sitting in the windowsill, right before he plunged to his death on the wooden blocks below.

Babygirl sat on my bed pillows, blissfully unaware of this tragedy. I hurried to her room and picked up the shattered pieces of the gnome and had YoungestBoy vacuum up the shards. Out of sight, out of mind. So far, Babygirl hasn’t noticed.

I guess I’ll be gnome-shopping in my spare time.

If you find my mind, will you please UPS it back to me? Thanks.

This morning at 8:15 a.m., I agreed to watch a friend’s two sons (ages 3 and 4.5). The husband said, “What you doing from 9 to 1?” And I said, “Just hanging out.” And he asked if I would watch the kids from 9 to 1:30 or 2:00. (Did you notice how the time immediately changed once he had me committed? Guess what this guy does for a living?**) I said, “All right, no problem,” because I had no plans to go anywhere anyway. I’m just a glutton for punishment.

My house has scattered debris as if a volcano exploded and spewed random toys and papers and pencils and dirty dishes and grimy socks everywhere. So, I showered and did my best to straighten the area of the house visible from the front door. So, I’ve spent my morning and now my afternoon with six children. Yesterday I had seven children here. I hope tomorrow I will have five or less and if the trend continues, by the end of next week, I should be child-free. A girl can always hope in the laws of logic.

Anyway, I was sorting through kitchen-counter papers and when I thumbtacked a birthday party invitation to the crowded bulletin board, I noticed with horror that the school picture envelope and accompanying paper is still there. It very clearly says, “CHILDREN WITHOUT PAYMENT ON PICTURE DAY WILL NOT BE ABLE TO ORDER PICTURES LATE. NO EXCEPTIONS.”

So, last Thursday when I carefully dressed YoungestBoy and combed his hair and sent him off for Picture Day . . . yeah. I didn’t send the payment. Luckily, there will be Make-Up Picture Day for kids with idiots for parents.

The phone rang at 2:00 p.m. exactly. My friend, the mom of these two boys, said they are running late and is that all right and they should be here by 3:00 p.m. I have been waiting to put Babygirl to sleep until they left. I’m not sure now if I should even bother getting her to sleep at 3:00 p.m. That’s when she normally is waking up.

My husband’s been gone most of the day. He took YoungestBoy to a soccer game this morning, then was home long enough to shower and dress for the wedding at 1:00 p.m., which will be followed by a baby dedication. He still has to type his sermon for tomorrow.

I still have to find my mind. You know how severely sleep-deprived people forget details and are less efficient and apt to make errors? Well, turns out that’s how I am, only I’m just time-deprived and overloaded with responsibility. In my next life, I am definitely going to be a . . . well, I can’t think of what, but someone with fewer demands like a neurosurgeon, maybe.

(**That’s right! Sales–the dad is a salesman!)

I woke to the sound of pouring rain this morning, which is the perfect time to snuggle deeper under the covers and sleep more. Only, my husband was already gone (he left for an all-day conference north of Seattle) and I had to be a grown-up and face the day. And the children.

When I’m done showering lately, the mornings are still dark. I remembered this morning how I used to wake up with the sun slanting through the drapes, sometimes even shining in my eyes. That seems like a hokey made-for-television movie now. How could it be possible to wake up to gentle morning sunlight? It’s all about fog and rain and clouds and gray skies now.

Today was a no-school day for my youngest son. I’m not sure why. They have half-days and days off all the time for no apparent reason. My schooled-at-home sons did not appreciate the fact that I intended to make them do lessons today as usual. “That’s not fair!” they cried. But, oh, it was fair, because their curriculum didn’t arrive until two weeks after YoungestSon started school. They’ve had their days of leisure.

I did have some mercy on them, however, and we only tackled three subjects. I can’t bear to describe how agonizing that was for me. Let’s just say that TwinBoyB’s strategy for hurrying through his work–both history and composition–involves skipping most of the work. He attempted to answer history questions without reading the material. For a sequential learner like me, this is nonsensical! It’s unthinkable! It’s crazy!

When we were waiting to adopt, I worried. I worried that I’d adopt an ugly baby. I worried that my baby would be affected by a birth defect. I worried that my baby would be physically deformed.

I never worried about stuff that came true.
I never worried about bladders which don’t work right.
I never worried about stepping into wet, murky things on the floor.
I never worried about children screaming “I hate you!” to me.
I never worried about having non-sequential learners who do not appreciate the beauty in order and in reading directions and in printing with beautiful handwriting.

Anyway.

While I was directing the children through their lessons, the doorbell rang. The neighbor boys arrived to play. It must have been 9:30 a.m. or 10:00 a.m. They announced they could stay until noon. I said, “Oh, but the twins are doing school today. They can’t play.” They said, “That’s okay. We’ll play with your other son.” I said, “You have to be very quiet. You have to play upstairs. You have to be good.”

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Well, the lessons dragged on. Babygirl wanted attention. DaycareKid wanted snacks. Controversy arose over a GameCube game and I yelled at the neighbor kids, “This is his game, his house, his rules! If you don’t like it, you can go home!”

Can you believe that? The child wailed, “But my GameCube is broken!”

I said, “Well, that’s a bummer for you.” He stayed until noon, and then said reassuringly, “I’ll see if I can come back after lunch.”

I said, “No. The babies will be napping.”

He actually argued with me and whined at me and frankly, if you aren’t my kid and I’m not being paid to listen to you whine, please just shut up.

I didn’t say that, but oh my.

Finally, school-at-home ended. I fed everyone lunch. I put DaycareKid to bed. I tricked Babygirl into napping. I ate lunch! Then, everything reversed and Babygirl woke up, DaycareKid woke up, and we all got ready to leave the second DaycareMom arrived at 4:30 p.m.

I whipped together a birthday present for YoungestBoy to take to his party. I packed a bag of extra clothing for newly potty-trained Babygirl. We dropped the twins off at their friends’ house and headed for the birthday party at the Germ Party Place.

On the way, I said to YoungestBoy, “So tell me, how do you want to dress for Halloween?”

He explained how he wants flame pants and flame shoes and a black cape with white stripes and red spiky hair. And a weapon, a large sword, preferably made of metal. He said all the boys at the costume party would be dressed in stuff like that. I said, “I bet some of them will be other things, like pirates or Mario [from Nintendo] or cowboys.”

He practically snorted with contempt and said, “Mom, we are talking about six year olds here. None of them would dress as a pirate. That’s for, like, four year olds. Everyone will be dressed like zombies or vampires and stuff like that.”

Well, excuse me! How archaic of me! I am so out of touch with the young generation, I guess.

But I have Babygirl and I am pretty sure she’ll be a princess when she is old enough to decide. I bet we’ll collaborate on beautiful costumes, the two of us.

Tonight, after we dropped YoungestBoy off at the birthday place (Germs at no extra charge!), Babygirl and I went to Toys R Us to buy some play kitchen stuff. She has a “new” Little Tikes kitchen and was in dire need of accessories. I found a play iron for her and some dishes and she picked out a dolly. She wanted to hold all the dollies and I managed to thrust a small $4.99 dolly into her hands, which satisfied her. I hurried out of there before it cost me more than twenty bucks.

In the car, she sat holding dolly, gazing at it lovingly and saying, “I like dolly.” She was so pleased with this plastic baby. We checked in on YoungestBoy and went a few doors down to get frozen yogurt while he finished partying. Babygirl put Dolly in a chair and fed Dolly frozen yogurt. Having a girl is so completely different from having boys.

We returned to the Party Germ Place in time to watch YoungestBoy use up his last tokens. He had such a blast. We sneaked a few tokens so Babygirl could play a few games, too. We didn’t get home until almost 8:00 p.m.

That was one long day. And it’s still raining, though the deluge has lightened to a drizzle.

My friend had a new baby girl yesterday morning. My husband went to the hospital to visit. Last night, I jokingly said, “So, did it make you want to have another baby?” and he said, “It did. She was so cute with all this red hair, and so small.”

But as we all know, babies grow up to be kids who shout and overflow toilets and tell you what a rotten parent you are. We are in no danger of romanticizing newborns around here. Even if their tiny little downy heads smell like heaven during springtime.

Way back when I started blogging (almost a year ago), I eagerly emailed my sister the URL. I also mentioned it to my mother, but I can’t remember if I sent her the URL, too. I specifically told my sister not to send it to my other sister, the one who stole pictures of my unclothed backside while I was in the process of birthing my daughter. Now, I never mention the URL to anyone here in my real life. I kind of want to pretend that I’m an island, writing to the wind, free to say whatever. Even if I don’t.

Anyway, my sister, R., promised she would never share the URL. My mother never mentioned my blog–ever–and I am fairly sure that she forgot about it, if, indeed, she ever did know about it in the first place. My mother is not exactly technologically savvy and in fact, she keeps sending me forwarded urban legends in the guise of helpful advice. I keep directing her to Snopes.com, not that it helps. This week, I learned not to fall for the old car-jacking trick where someone puts a post-it note on your back windshield after you have put gasoline into your car, because then you will get out of your car, leaving the keys in and your purse just sitting there, to remove the note and voila! A thief has your car and your purse. Which hurts a lot if you spent a lot of money on it. Which I do not. The purse, I mean.

But I digress.

So, I can’t talk much about my mother here, because she may (or may not) have the URL. My mother is dear to me and I love her whole-heartedly, but I could tell you stories that would make you weep. I can tell you those stories about my dad, because he is no longer here, snooping on google.com, but my mother? She might someday become acquainted with google.com, so I will just zip my lips.

But I do have to say a couple of things.

A few weeks ago, my mother had stopped by to visit. It was a Wednesday evening and the boys had all gone to church. Babygirl and I were just getting ready to go upstairs so Babygirl could take her nightly shower, so Babygirl was undressed completely. She loves to wear her birthday suit. Without socks. Or shame.

So, she’s unclothed and my mother and I and Babygirl are in the living room, chatting. Babygirl sits down and pokes around and says, “What’s that?” while she plings a fleshy bit in her lower regions.

Stricken, I think of two things.

1) My steadfast policy to use correct terminology.
2) My mother’s presence.

I glance from my mother to my daughter. And back. Meanwhile, my daughter looks up at me again and says, “What’s that?”

With a sidelong glance at my mother (who never had a “talk” with me, who threw a razor onto my bed without comment when I was a hairy young pre-adolescent, who failed to prepare me for the start of my menstruation as a–gasp–fourth grader), I say to my daughter, “That’s your vulva.”

Which it was. And is.

But. I said. The word: VULVA!! In front. Of. My Mother.

I was suddenly a child again, red-cheeked and embarrassed to be naming parts “down there” while my mother listened. It’s like that moment when you realized that your grandparents had relations, that they “knew” each other, in the biblical sense. Probably more than once. Especially if they have more than one child.

But that’s kind of the reason I want to call a spade a spade. Or a vulva a vulva. I want my children to have unvarnished, plain words for their body parts. I don’t want them to call “it” a silly name like “teapot” or “woo-woo.”

Still. When Babygirl asked again that night, still wiggling the part back and forth, I said, “That’s your bottom. Want to go have a shower?” It’s hard to be plainspoken and matter of fact when your mother sits there watching, judging, listening.

Tonight, my mother was telling me about a friend of hers. This friend married a loser a couple of years ago and now they are separated. The friend told my mother that she stays for financial reasons and, as my mother reported to me tonight, “because the sex is good.”

LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-I-CAN’T-HEAR-YOU!

Please, Mother! I don’t even want to hear those words come from your mouth again. As far as I am concerned, you never had s-e-x and neither did I. I don’t want to visualize you doing that, and, in fact, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t, haven’t, won’t, ever again. And as far as you are concerned, I don’t either. I haven’t. I won’t. Let’s promise to never swap stories or tips.

There is a line between my mother and me and I never want to cross it.

Meanwhile, my daughter comes in contact with her own delicate parts more than ever these days and guess how she pronounces “vulva”? That’s right. “Voo-voo”, which sounds exactly like “woo-woo.”

I outsmarted my daughter. I gave her a choice: “Would you like to nap in your bed or mommy’s bed?” She chose my bed.

I plumped my pillow, curled up, pulled the afghan to my chin and closed my eyes. She said, “I am going to sit up.” I opened one eye to see her sitting like a little princess on a purple pillow. Soon, she stretched out on her back and “read” her book for a few long minutes. I rolled over so I would not be an audience and soon she snuggled against my back and was still. Then I stifled a coughing fit. You know how the more you try to not cough, the more your throat tickles and tortures you until you at least clear your throat? Yeah. That was fun. But still, she slept.

Ha! I tricked her into napping two days in a row!

When she woke up two hours later, she came down the stairs, hair tousled, and stomped one foot and said, “I don’t want to go night-night!”

I know how she feels. I never want to go night-night, either, even if I am dead tired, because when I wake up, the cycle starts all over again.

Our history curriculum arrived, so we did the first lesson today. TwinBoyB did his typically poor-quality work, but unfortunately for him, this is not public school and I noticed and immediately requested that he do the work correctly and completely. He’s been cutting corners and flying under the radar for so long that I’m sure it’s painful for him to do what he is expected to do.

I hope that he soon realizes that doing the work right the first time is easier than half-heartedly doing it, throwing an emotional fit, crying and then having to do it right. I’m growing weary of his dramatics. At this very moment he is shouting, “OH, MY TOE!” as if the toe has been amputated.

I am fairly unflappable, though I do admit to the occasional flailing of arms as I say with gritted teeth, “I am losing my mind!” But I am stoic in the face of exploding diapers and shattered glass and odd noises in the black night.

But add a mere 26 pounds of sugar and spice and everything nice and my sturdy demeanor begins to crack. Babygirl just completed Day Five of a Nap Strike.

If I could find the bargaining table, I’d be there. I’d give her as many paid days off as she needs. “No problem. I’ll throw the books on the floor myself. You don’t need to come in on Mondays. We’ll find someone else to smear food on the high chair tray.”

Money? More money? More benefits? No problem. I’ll double her pay. No! Triple it! Free doctor’s visits! Free toothbrushes! Whatever it takes! You want a better job title? “Crown Princess of Peeing in the Potty”? “Supervisor of All That is Messy”? Flex-time? Just let me know. I will make it happen.

Why? Why, oh why, oh why? Why has she stopped napping, when she very clearly needs a nap? Yesterday, she did fall asleep for an hour in my bed, but unfortunately, so did I, so how did that help me? Today, we “napped” together on my bed, but as I half-hallucinated, half-dreampt, she thrashed and kicked me in the stomach and knocked her cement head into my nose.

I can do a lot of things. I can make pie crust from scratch. I can sew a Halloween costume. I have a ham radio license, which means that at one time I could copy Morse Code at the rate of 13 words per minute.

But I cannot tolerate this lack of naps! Lack of naps means lack of breaks. Lack of breaks means I stay up too late. Staying up too late means I wake up exhausted. Being exhausted means I am crabby. Being crabby means I am an irritable mother. Being an irritable mother means I am a failure as a human being. Being a failure as a human being means I should sign up for Extreme Makeover, but I can’t because as I may have mentioned, Babygirl cannot be away from me for even one moment or her head comes popping off. Imagine six weeks away, getting revamped, coming home with a tummy tuck and a new nose. By then, my entire house would need an Extreme Makeover or a Clean Sweep, and my husband would probably have appeared on A Wedding Story by then with his new bride.

You can see my dilemma, right? Babygirl needs to nap. Babygirl refuses to nap. Tonight at 6:30 p.m., Babygirl was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I said, “Okay, let’s go put on your diaper and jammies,” and she said, “No! No diaper!”

I went to her room anyway and, of course, she followed me because I am the magnet and she is the metal. I sat on the floor, spread out the diaper and invited her to sit down. She stomped her feet in rhythm and cried while I watched with an impassive look on my weary face. I have such dark circles under my eyes these days. She carried on, screaming, marching her displeasure. She threw the diaper. Occasionally, I mentioned how I’d like to put on her diaper and jammies and that there would be “mama milk” when she cooperated. This infuriated her, so she shrieked more.

Then she hit me.

So, I picked her up and plopped her into her crib and walked out.

I sat on my bed for exactly two minutes while she exploded like they tell us Mt. St. Helens will do any second. (Those harmonic tremors? That was my daughter, not the mountain.) When I returned to her, she was compliant and allowed me to diaper her and zip on her lavender pajamas. She was in bed by 7 p.m.

Yes, boys and girls, that means I was with my darling daughter for twelve solid hours. This is my 26-pound problem.

And in only eight hours, it begins again. Oh joy.