Sometimes I think I might be too sensitive to criticism. Okay, well maybe that was a teensy-tiny understatement. I’m hoping that when I turn forty (soon, very soon), I will care less what people think about me. I think it will be true because I care so much less now than I did when I was thirty. And when I was twenty and in college, I cared so much about what people thought that I never left my dorm without my hair flowing freely and make-up on my face.

The problem with being sensitive to what people think of you and keeping a journal on-line is that people read it. And then when they read it, they form opinions about you. And yours. Which is all good. Except for my teensy-tiny pathologically crippling problem about being oversensitive to criticism. Or even perceived criticism. As a part of this disorder, I remember the snotty comments more clearly than the kind ones.

For instance, remember that anonymous commenter took me to task for my tongue-in-cheek (mostly) movie review of Fahrenheit 9/11, here,, the one who then criticized my mothering skills because I mentioning that two of my children were adopted?

Or how about not long ago when another anonymous commenter who told me to “shut up for awhile!”?

Within the last few weeks, a fellow blogger actually pointedly removed me from her blogroll because of a link I have on my blogroll. Ouch. The reasoning behind her move doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Well. It’s certainly one thing to write about your life, but it’s another to find yourself open to judgment and comments from people who have you all figured out, based on what you choose to write. This isn’t fiction, people. I am writing directly from my guts. And when my guts get snickered at or critiqued–or even if I mistakenly, crazily assume that’s what’s happening–I tend to get a little defensive, I guess. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I snap off your head or give you a dirty look or even just get a little wordy in my defenses. Clearly, it’s a personal problem for which I should seek psychiatric care, but I just don’t have time between all the demands of ironing pants and wiping the 2 year-old’s runny nose.

Defensiveness is another of my issues. Yes, I’m just a barrel of laughs to actually live with. Ask my poor, male chauvinist husband. It’s a good thing I’m so witty and cute or he’d toss me to the curb, probably. At least he should. If he could lift me.

Well. Anyway. I was going to write about The Meaning of Life, and I even got started and quoted a newspaper and opened up my Bible to Ecclesiastes, but then my head started to throb and I thought more about my overreaction to comments and criticisms and then I thought, WHO DO I THINK I AM, TACKLING THE SUBJECT OF THE MEANING OF LIFE? And so I went to watch Road Rules, Real World challenge for a few minutes until the panic passed.

But still. The Meaning of Life post will have to wait until I regain some equilibrium. Or until I figure out a way to calm my inner-crybaby.

Teri Hatcher has no idea, really, what it means to be desperate.

Desperation is sleeping as late as possible, getting up to put on clothes, wrapping your hair into a ball on the top of your head, slapping on your glasses and crawling back into bed until the baby calls your name. Desperation is bacon and eggs for dinner. Desperation is a rainy, dark trip to Target to buy decongestant for the unable-to-breathe among us. Desperation is wearily staying up until the late, local news ends because sanity demands two hours alone, per day, without kids.

But the day is over. The plague has passed. Saturday! A Saturday which will not be followed by a Sunday involving company awaits me. Glory be.

YoungestBoy returned to school today after two days of being home (questionably) sick. He coughed all night, but played all day and on those kind of days, Mommie Dearest inside wants to shoo him out the door with wire coat hangers, but Glenda the Good Witch waves her magic wand instead and lets him stay home.

Anyway, after school, I said, “Hey, how was your day?”

And he said, “Oh! We had a substitute, the meanest substitute ever!”

“She was mean?” I said, “What did she do?”

He said, “Yes, she gave us second-grade work.”

I said, “Like what?”

And he said, “She made us spell the word electrifying on our spelling test!”

I stopped. “She did?” I said, “Your words should have been fun, sun, run, at, be!”

He said, “Mom! I’m just kidding!” And then he grinned.

Drat. I fall for it every single time.

I was a new bride, living in Connecticut. One day, a package arrived from my dad. In it, I found a spiffy set of kitchen knives and a cutlery block in which to store them. Those knives still live in my kitchen, silently begging for professional sharpening, yet still doing an admirable job of chopping and slicing. They do such a good job that I never give their adequacy a second thought.

That is, until the other day when I wrestled with my broken cheese-grater.

For some reason, I just can’t justify a purchase for anything decent in my kitchen. My husband does not suffer from this problem and that explains our Juiceman Juicemaker and the George Foreman Grill. He’s a sucker for infomercials and longs for one of those chicken rotisseries. We just don’t have space for any more faddish appliances. Plus, I say, why spend money on something if what you already have is adequate?

Not that my cheese-grater is adequate. When I purchased it (to replace one that inexplicably disappeared about the same time a GameBoy and a cellphone vaporized from the premises), I thought it was Perfect. It unfolded into an upside down V–you could grate finely on one side and not-finely on the other.

Perfect. Until it broke. Now, the legs on the not-finely side are gone and the cheese-grater is crippled. You can’t open it all the way and place it flat on your bowl. Nor can you prop it on a cutting board. To grate cheese requires a delicate, yet firm, grip, which often involves shredded skin and pinched fingers.

I need a new cheese-grater.

That’s what I thought the other night while grating cheese. Then I remembered my dad and the knives. He gave me those knives because he really needed a decent set of knives in the kitchen. When he died, he was 47 and he’d never owned a really great set of kitchen knives. He did not want me to suffer the way he did.

Yet I do suffer. Exactly in the same way he did. What do you bet I find a really fabulous, expensive, glorious cheese-grater–to give to my daughter as a wedding gift, to prevent her from shredding her fingers and otherwise enduring the agony of a lifetime of living with a worthless, broken cheese-grater?

Better yet, maybe for my 40th birthday–coming soon–I’ll splurge and buy myself the best cheese-grater money can buy. Life is too short to bleed on dairy products.

I’ll tell you what’s worse than throwing up. Hearing your husband throw up throughout the night. Realizing at 7:00 a.m. that your two-year old is going to spend the day vomiting. Holding your inconsolable two-year old as she pukes into a stainless steel bowl. Spending a whole head-throbbing day comforting your two-year old as she cries, “My tummy hurts,” and knowing you can’t do a thing about it.

That’s what’s worse than having a stomach virus–spending a day with those you love while they suffer from the stomach virus.

Thank God today is over.

The last time it happened, I was in 7th grade. This afternoon while I was curled under a layer of covers, shivering, woozy, I did the math. That was about 26 years ago.

That time, I’d had porkchops and rice–that casserole with cream of mushroom soup. This time, I have kids. Last time, I was secretly thrilled that my brown, suede-ish pants were loose when I returned to school.

Even my pregnancies did not feature vomiting. I vomited delicately once during each pregnancy, once when I brushed my teeth a little too vigorously and once when I ate a deviled egg on an empty stomach.

But today. Oh, today I rolled out of my deathbed and stumbled to the bathroom and didn’t even have enough time or warning to hold my hair back. I think I can still feel it in my nasal cavity.

But there is good news. First, my husband responded valiantly at 7:00 a.m. when I told him, “I have the stomach bug. You have to stay home today.” He did a fine job watching kids all day (minus DaycareKid). Babygirl’s loneliness for me drew her to my deathbed throughout the day, but she managed without me. Sort of.

The other good news is that last night was the Church Women’s Fellowship Annual Salad Potluck and I ate a bit too much and then finished off that peanut butter pie last night. For once, my lack of self-control will have no consequence.

Unless you count the taste of . . . well, it wasn’t as bad as porkchops, but I’ll be steering clear of cabbage for awhile.

Tonight, at the annual Women’s Fellowship Salad Potluck Christmas Program, I tried to listen, really. But I got distracted and found myself thinking about this really old woman I used to visit when I was in college.

I had volunteered to adopt a grandparent. I was assigned this woman named Annette, who had crazy gray hair and dentures that clacked together when she talked. She also made a bunch of weird food for us to eat each time, strange combinations like ice cream and Rice Krispies with peanut butter on apples. We sat at her tiny table and I told her stories about college, all about the boy I was obsessed with and she told me stories about teaching. She’d never married and never had children.

We visited every week for two years.

Several years after I graduated from college, I found myself back in that midwestern town and thought I’d drop in on my old adopted grandma. I knocked at her door, waited for an eternity for her to make her way through her tiny apartment and then the door swung open.

She stood and looked at me with a completely blank look on her face. I said, “Hi! It’s me! Mel!” She had no idea who I was. I said, “I used to visit you every week when I went to college next door.” She said, “Well, I can’t really remember. Would you like to come in?”

I should have been thinking about Baby Jesus and about gifts we can give Him (our time, our money, our talent), but instead, I thought about Annette and how she didn’t remember a second of our time together.

But I guess that wasn’t really the point of it. I didn’t realize it at the time. I was young and I attached significance to everything. Now I know that sometimes, a moment is just a moment and then it slips away. Some moments don’t have a future. That’s why you’re supposed to notice them because you might only have that one chance.

Moments today: I came downstairs to find the kitties playing volleyball with the Christmas ornaments. One shattered. I found a headless Virgin Mary in the African nativity set and a Wise Man without a foot.

Babygirl absolutely refuses to wear a shirt. I hope this is not a sign that she will one day serve beer in a seedy bar with other topless waitresses.

YoungestBoy was coughing his head off tonight. This can only mean that we are now playing Ring Around the Virus and he’ll now have a sloppy, mucusy cold. I hope that Babygirl doesn’t come down with the Stomach Virus from Hell.

I shot a roll of film this week with my very old Nikon and nearly every picture had a line scratched through it. I have had this trouble off and on with this camera. It appears that something scratches the film as it forwards through the camera. At any rate, not a single picture turned out well enough to meet my standard for this year’s Christmas Letter Picture. I might end up using one from this summer when we went to Mt. Rainier. It’s getting more and more difficult to take pictures of all of the children at the same time.

I am post-party and found myself sort of immobilized today. I can’t really think of what pressing matter needs my attention–though Christmas is coming, I have yet to compile my student records and academic plans for the twins, laundry never ends. I did so little today, especially since I gave the still-lethargic boys the day off. At least the peanut butter pie is gone burp and is no longer a distraction to me.

Thank you for your comments about your favorite posts here. I am taking all your comments to heart. I’ll let you know what I come up with.

Babygirl is busy hacking up a furball. At least that’s how it sounds. Yesterday, she said a few times, “My elbow hurts,” and then she pointed to her neck, just below her ear. She hasn’t had anatomy class yet, so we’ll overlook this glaring physiological error.

The twins have moved from the “Mom, am I gonna die?” stage to the “Mom, I’m bored. When can we do something fun?” stage. TwinBoyB is pretty bummed that last night ended up being a vomit-fest instead of a funfest at their twin friends’ house. They were supposed to spend the evening over there, but instead were quarantined in their room. TwinBoyA is still lethargic and has spoken less than fifty words today, which is proof of his illness. Normally, he is a non-stop talker.

I spent today doing as little as possible. It’s amazing how quickly the house falls back into shambles. Tonight, the kids (those who are eating) are having left-overs. I have to go to the annual Christmas salad potluck for church women at 6 p.m. I will have to rush home afterwards because my husband has to go to a Christmas dinner, too, for a different organization.

Today, when I tricked Babygirl into napping, I fell into a deep sleep, too, and when I woke up and moved, just a little, she stirred. So I stayed still and slept during the whole naptime. Normally, during naptime, I slip out of bed as quickly as possible so I can have lunch, but today I was full of peanut butter pie and leftover stuffed mushrooms. Who needs lunch?

First, the good news. I survived my dinner party (6 guests) and there is, indeed, leftover peanut butter cream pie. My house is clean, the dishes are washed, the floor is grime-free.

Now, the bad news. I lost all chance of winning The Mother of the Year award this afternoon when my twin boys said, “Mom, my stomach hurts,” and I said, “Well, if you use the bathroom, be sure to wash thoroughly.” And then, after they threw up, I threw up my hands and said, “DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T COME INTO THE KITCHEN! DON’T BRING YOUR GERMS HERE!” I did not kneel next to them on the bathroom floor and mop their brows. I did not tenderly lead them to their beds. Their colorless lips did not faze me.

My husband said they will probably need therapy and they will tease me mercilessly when they are grown. Let’s hope they find the humor in my pathetic, non-nurturing parenting style.

I washed my hands so many times that they are rough, like a fine-grade sandpaper. Between Babygirl’s running nose and the boys’ running to the bathroom, I can practically see the germs dancing closer to my delicate mucus membranes. Fortunately, YoungestBoy feels fine already. Meanwhile I am afraid to walk through the boys’ room, to touch their doorknobs, to peek into their bathroom.

I had an out-of-body experience this afternoon while I was preparing for my company. I’d already prepared all the food (stuffed mushrooms, date-almond bacon wraps, potato casserole, peanut butter cream pie, pecan pie, chocolate cookies) and I was cleaning, somewhat obsessively. As I dumped crumbs from the toaster and cleaned the individual burners on the stove and washed behind the flour, sugar and tea canisters, I wondered why? Did I think my guests would notice the sugar crusted behind the canisters?

I don’t spring clean, though I suppose I should. I company clean. I felt a little crazed while I did it, but I knew it had to be done.

And now, hooray, it’s done. The flurry of preparations have left my house decorated and the Spode Christmas Tree china clean. The outside lights are on, the gigantic snowman waves from the front yard and we are ready. I only wish that Santa would actually bring presents so I wouldn’t have to find a golden-egg laying goose to solve my money shortage.

Now. I’m eating pie and pretending it’s not almost time to go to bed.

Today is the day before the staff dinner here at my house.

That explains the following things.

Babygirl woke up with a runny nose, the kind that triumphs over the tissue box. Why? Of all days, today? My agenda included cleaning, laundry, food shopping, decorating, cooking . . . not nose-wiping.

While putting up decorations tonight, suddenly my husband realized that YoungestBoy was crying somewhere in the house. He said to the older boys, “Tell him to be quiet! The baby is sleeping!”

They couldn’t find him, so my husband went upstairs. He immediately returned, saying, “He wants to talk to you.” I abandoned the Christmas lights and went upstairs to find YoungestBoy with tears on his face, perched on the toilet. He said with true concern, “I just need to know. Is it normal for pee to come out of your b*tt?”

He’s had an upset tummy today. Enough said. I did not laugh at his distress because I am a compassionate mother, a gentle mother. But, oh boy, that was funny.

About an hour later, I heard, “MOM!” Then again. “MOM!” Unmistakable voice of my angel, Babygirl. I trudged upstairs, abandoning the Christmas decorations yet again. Her light was on (she can reach the switch from her crib). She looked so cute with her hair all tousled. It was 9:24 p.m. She said, “I want to go downstairs.” I told her it was still nighttime and I sat and rocked her for ten minutes. She asked again to go downstairs, but I reminded her again that it wasn’t morning and put her to bed. She’s been quiet ever since.

Please, God. Please. Ler her sleep all night.

A bit later, when I investigated an unplugged lamp, I found a spot of kitty piddle on my new carpet.

We got the Christmas tree up. For the first time ever–miracles never cease–my husband actually helped assemble it, so it went up fairly quickly. I was a Christmas tree purist in my pre-children days. We always had a real tree, and sometimes even a live tree which we planted in the yard after Christmas. All that ended the Christmas I got pregnant. I was seven months pregnant with YoungestBoy and I said, “No way am I going to put up a real tree this year.” I remembered the year before when we dragged the tree–one we picked out and cut down ourselves–into the house. The melting snow dripped into my eyes, because I am always the lucky one to put it into the stand and to struggle to straighten it. The needles were sharp and disappeared into the carpet after Christmas, only to poke through our socks into our tender feet months later.

So, now we have a fake tree. I buy a Yankee candle for the scent and call it Christmas. Good enough.

Tomorrow, we’ll stay home from church so Babygirl doesn’t infect all the other babies in the nursery. I will be cooking most of the day and mopping for a little aerobic exercise amidst the calories.

Best of all, in twenty-four hours this will all be over. My house will be ready for Christmas and I will have leftover peanut butter pie. I hope.