White noise

A human being's made of more than air

With all that bulk, you're bound to see him there

Unless that human bein' next to you

Is unimpressive, undistinguished

You know who...

Cellophane

Mister Cellophane

Shoulda been my name

Mister Cellophane

'Cause you can look right through me

Walk right by me

And never know I'm there...

"Mr. Cellophane" Chicago

I know I'm not the only mom in history that feels like they're constantly ignored. It doesn't seem to matter what I say, or how loud I say it. I've gotten used to the fact that, in order to get any kind of response, be it positive or negative, it has to be screamed. I hate this. I don't like yelling. I'm not the kind of person who enjoys hollering at the top of my voice.

Unless, of course, it's in the throes of passion, but I digress.

Today has been hell when it comes to children listening to me. The 5 year old and 3 year old both decided that shitting in their pants (or on the floor) was preferable to the toilet. They decided this multiple times. I know I've said this before, but I'm tired of wiping other people's asses. Even if they're the cute little butts that belong to my precious children.

After telling them, numerous times, that we don't poop or pee in our pants, that I would prefer, as would most of polite society, that they do that sort of thing in those wonderful new-fangled contraptions called toilets, it seems they took it upon themselves to ignore me completely, as they continued to force me to clean poop off my carpet.

I'm beginning to see a pattern here.

It seems everything I say, to pretty much anyone in the family, goes in one ear and out the other. You know how static, either on the radio or TV, can be gawd-awful to try & listen to when you first hear it, and how you will do anything to just get it to stop? But, have you ever forced yourself to listen to it? After awhile, it just becomes white noise in the background. You find you can ignore it for the most part. You still hear it, obviously, but it doesn't seem as urgent as when you first heard it.

That is how I think my children must regard the sound of my voice.

This is why I hate yelling. It doesn't get me very far, and all it accomplishes is me feeling like a crappy mother, and having my children crying in a corner because I've completely lost it.

Not to mention it ends up with me sitting at the computer, eating frozen semi-sweet chocolate chips out of the bag, and writing a blog entry no one will probably ever see.

I need a life.

Is it bedtime yet?

7:30 am is too early to be yelling.

I have that thought pass through my head every single day. And every day I think to myself "It'll be fine, the kids will listen to me, they just woke up from a great night's sleep, they'll be in a good mood, so no yelling will be necessary."

Have I mentioned how often I lie to myself?

Some days are good. I can actually get a cup of coffee in my hand and breakfast on the table before I have to raise my voice in order to be heard. Other days are not. And I find myself straining to be listened to before my feet have even hit the floor.

The cosmic gods must have thought giving us this combination of children was a fucking riot.

We have the tween diva, who finds it necessary to correct me whenever she thinks I'm mistaken...like when I've told her that she doesn't need another snack or that her room does indeed need to be cleaned. No matter what I say, she has an answer. Part of me thinks it's great that she has such a mind of her own, and isn't just a sheep. The other part of me wishes she would just shut the hell up and please do as I say.

We have the Kindergardener, who can hear me say the word "cookie" from across the house, but seems to have difficulty hearing my voice when it's right next to her ear. She's the queen of selective hearing. She has special needs, but we try not to treat her any different than we treat the other 2. Because even though she doesn't talk all that much, I know for certain she can hear everything I say.

And then we have the preschooler, who is too smart for her own good. She's my constant talker. And I do mean constant. From the moment she wakes up, to the moment when she passes out on her bed, she is talking. Some of my repetitiveness must either be genetic or from example, because she can't just say something once. It has to be at least 4 times, for maximum awareness. She has also hit the whiny stage. So not only is she talking almost every minute of every day, but it's always in that "OH MY GOD MY EARS ARE BLEEDING" type of voice. She can put the sound of nails on a chalkboard to shame at times.

If you hadn't guessed by now, yes, we have three, count 'em, three girls. They will ALL be teenagers at the same time. No, my husband doesn't have a shotgun, but I can foresee the purchase of one in his future. As I can see a bottle of Xanex in mine, only much, much sooner.

But I don't WANT to wear the big girl panties

There are times when I feel completely alone. I have a wonderful husband and 3 beautiful kids. I have a few good friends, and plenty of acquaintances. But there are times when I feel like I have changed so much over the years that no one knows the real me. I have family who love me, but I'm not really close to any of them. At least not enough for me to be able bare my whole soul to them. At times, I don't even think I can do that with my husband. I'm constantly afraid that I'll be called selfish and immature and told to just suck it up and be a grown up instead of complaining. I know this is a typical phase to go through when you got married at 19 and had three kids by the time you were 28. I didn't get to go through the whole "wild and crazy younger days". I've had moments where I've been able to let go and feel like I had absolute freedom. But, those are few and far between.

One thing I miss (and it's hard to miss something you never really had) is a close bond with my siblings. I ache to be able to just call one of them up and tell them about my day, and have them do likewise. Hell, I'd love to be able to do that with my dad. Talking to my dad is like having a conversation with a plant. Not a lot of response. I know my dad loves me, he does all the things that a dad is supposed to do: he sends me cards, calls me on my birthday, buys gifts for my kids. But there's very little emotion. The most emotional I've ever seen my dad was my mom's funeral. He actually cried. I don't think I've ever seen him cry.

My parents divorced when I was very young, maybe 3 or 4. He remarried when I was 6. According to many family members, my step-mother didn't like the fact that my dad had "baggage" in the form of me. She was cordial to me (I was only 6 remember) but as soon as my sister, and then two brothers came, I became the proverbial red-headed stepchild. It was like she was trying to replace me with other kids in my dad's heart. I don't know if she figured that as soon as they had a family together, that he would think less of me. I don't think that was her intention and I don't think my dad ever consciously decided to do it, but it felt like it worked. My mother was single for most of that time, working more than 40 hours a week to support me, with what amounted to a crappy-ass child support payment every month that she would sometimes have to call and remind Dad to send. When she remarried when I was 7, he took it upon himself to lower the amount, because, well, she was married, and she had more income coming in every month now, didn't she? She never took him to court over it.

I spent every summer and every other Christmas with my dad. During the summer, I was able to do some pretty fun stuff: theater camps, music camps, swimming at the beach, spending hours at the library. My dad took off 1 week at the beginning and end of summer and we would go camping/boating as a family. That was the only time, aside from weekends, where I would spend more than a few hours at a time with my dad. Every morning we would commute the 45 minutes from his house to my grandparents' house, where I would spend the entire day. Once my siblings came along, they went to daycare, but more often than not, my grandparents would end up with 1 or all 3 of them.

I know this all sounds like mindless whining "Oh, poor pitiful me, look at what a horrible childhood I had!" I know in the grand scheme of things, my childhood could almost be considered idyllic. And I suppose that, if my mother were still alive, it wouldn't bother me so much. But, the fact is, she's not. She died. And he's the only parent I have left. I know it's probably wrong of me to sit here & bitch about my "absent father". And I'm probably a psychologist's Freudian wet dream with all my parental issues. And I'm more than positive that my history has in some respects affected my relationships with both my husband and my children. I'm not happy about it. I wish I could change it. But, I can't change him. The most pitiful part of all of this is, he doesn't even know that I feel this way. I'm too much of a coward to say anything to him.

We lived in one place for almost 5 years while the hubs was in the military. It was about a 4 hour drive from where he lived. He visited maybe twice. We've lived in our current, albeit MUCH farther away, location for almost 6 years. He hasn't visited once. And we've had 2 children since we moved here. I've come to accept that he's just not that interested in being a key part of my life, or his grandchildren's lives. The sad part is, my kids might be the only grandchildren he ever gets. I have a feeling that my siblings, my sister in particular, are NOT interested in having kids, at least not for another 10-15 years. So we're it. And half the time, I know it's actually my step-mom who's bought the card/gift that was sent. Which is hard for me to deal with because, while I know she cares about us, I can't help feeling like the only reason why she bothers is because it's expected of her.

LIfe was so much simpler when all we had to worry about were cooties.

Dreams

It seems that dreams, whether they be in real life or literary works, are the windows to the soul.

Or maybe that's the eyes, but I digress.

Everyone and their mom seems to be having extraordinary and realistic dreams that defy their wildest imaginations. These people wake up, after having some sort of prophetic vision, and suddenly their lives have meaning.

I should be so lucky.

I don't dream. Much. I remember being a young child and having extremely vivid dreams that would stay with me for years. I had one particular dream when I was about 7 or 8, of my best friend at the time and I being chased through Toys R Us by 2 male & 1 female vampires. They caught my friend at the top of one of those gawd awful skyscraper type aisles. Then I woke up screaming. I had this dream for years. I remember it to this day, 20-some odd years later.

I suppose it could probably be explained away by the fact that, as children, our imaginations are running rampant and subsequently our subconscious is way more active, culminating in crazy dreams.

Whatever.

I just would like to dream, and be able to remember it longer than 20 seconds after I wake up. I suppose that's the crux of the matter. I have dreams, every so often, but I can't remember shit about them. I would especially like to remember the sexy dreams. Double especially when they have some hot sexy actor who currently plays a cold, sparkly vampire.

Ahem

Another part of me wishes I would dream, so I would dream of my mother. My mom died almost 2 years ago, and I have never had a dream about her. Not once. I'm not a real religious person (I think I've been to church once in the last 5 years) but there have been times when I've actually prayed to have a dream about my mom. I think about my mom everyday, but I can't see her in my head, while I sleep.

I've had a few discussion with myself about this. Me and the voices in my head are tight. It could just be that my subconscious thinks I'm not ready emotionally for that. Losing my mom took a tremendously huge toll on my psyche. It was a long journey, and it was emotionally draining. Maybe I'll start dreaming of her when I've worked through all my issues. Which, seeing the list of issues that I've accumulated, might be awhile.

But, going more over to the religious side of things, I've contemplated that maybe it's because she's in Heaven. She resolved all her "business" before leaving this earth, and now is peacefully watching over my family & I, without having to creep into my sleeping head.

My only problem with that theory is, I need her. Again with the selfishness you're probably saying. Let the poor woman rest for eternity in peace without having to drag her back into the crappiness of life just because you need a mental hug! But that's just it. I am selfish, and I do need her. Especially with the fact that my only other parent seems to think it's perfectly acceptable to only call on birthdays and holidays, and even then he's either late or forgets and I have to call him.

I've thought about starting a dream journal and trying to keep it by the bed so that I can quickly jot down all those juicy details of my nighttime psyche before they drip out of my ear holes. But I have enough problems trying to haul my tired ass out of bed in the morning, even when I can hear little voices in the room across the hall yelling,"Moooooom, I pooooped!!!!" Being able to consciously grab a pen and coherently write down whatever weird, Freudian thoughts had been creeping around in my head all night sounds like way too much work, and quite possibly might provide no insight into my life at all. It would be just perfect to have a dream, and try to write it down, but have nothing be legible on the paper other than: I like cheese.

Talk about profound.

Aren't I a grown-up?

I have a serious fanfic habit.

As in, might be considered clinical, type of habit.

An acquaintance of mine turned me onto it about 2 months ago, and I've become obsessed. The hubs has stopped bugging me about it, but I know it annoys the shit out of him. I blame it on my incessant need to read. Some of it is pure smut, which, I'll admit, is pretty awesome. But, some of it has chapters of nothing but actual plot & story, and I love it!

I pretty much only read "Twilight" fanfic (yeah yeah, start the flame wars; I don't give a shit). I loved the books, I blew through them in less than a week. I was a tad late to the whole hysteria. Not gonna lie, the movie didn't really do the book justice. Rob Pattinson is one sexy ass man though. He & Jackson Rathbone are on my list. You know the one I'm talking about.

I used to write original stories when I was younger, but I've never felt like I had a secure enough grasp of the English language or a big enough imagination to create a whole complex fictional world that made sense to someone reading it. To be honest, reading fanfic is one of the reasons that I've been thinking of changing my major. Well, that and the fact that I'm not sure I'll have enough patience to be a teacher and will end up smacking some smart-ass kid in the head.

I've always been a voracious reader and thought maybe I could do something with that. But, unless I want to be an editor, there really isn't much. Plus, editors have to read a bunch of shit that's completely awful and yet try to tell the author that it'll make them rich and become a best seller.

But, then there's my love of music. I thought about maybe becoming a music therapist. I know first hand that music can sooth the savage beasts in little kids. It's sad: I feel like I'm 17 years old again, trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. You'd think I'd have a grasp on that by now.

Don't let the door hit ya on the way out

It seems I go through a pattern every time my husband goes out of town: I become an instant slob. I don't get dressed or shower unless I have to, the house pretty much goes to shit; I cook, I feed my kids, I take care of them, but everything else pretty much becomes "Lord of the Flies". I'm fairly certain my husband knows this about me, but I am not tidy by nature. It takes a huge amount of effort for me to clean. Now, don't get me wrong, I enjoy a clean house. Very much so. I just don't like having to get it clean myself.

My husband is of the mindset that in order to get anything done, certain steps have to be taken - most importantly, he must have a shower. Even if the only thing he's preparing to do is to go on a 3 mile run, he must first take a shower. I personally think that's counterproductive and entirely nuts. I mean, WTF mate? Taking a shower before you do an activity that will require another shower less than an hour later. Can we say wasteful use of the world's water resources?? Or, on an even shallower level, making our fucking gas & water bill higher?

As much as I love my husband, and would love to spend every minute of every day with him (except when he's in the bathroom, uh, ew) I have to admit I enjoy when he goes out of town. I could say that's because of the old adage "Absence makes the heart grow fonder". In reality, it's so I can indulge my inner slob. The kids don't give a rat's ass if dinner isn't ready at exactly 5:30pm, they're more than happy to spend the day in their pj's, and who the hell cares if I have to hand wash a dish in order to have something to put lunch on?

Plus, I can get away with making Ramen or quesadillas as a main dish.

I love my kids to death, but I am a very selfish person. I just don't get to indulge in that side of me very often. When DH is gone, I usually don't get to bed before 2am. I spend the time after all the kids are (finally) asleep to wrap myself up on the couch, put the earbuds in, fire up my favorite Pandora station, and read. I am in my own little cocoon and the time passes quickly and enjoyably.

Wonder what my theme song is?

I miss the days when I could legitimately lay in bed all day and not have to worry about little children running amok or housework or any other responsibilities. I miss laying in my twin bed in my mom's house, on a warm early fall day, with the sun peeking through the blinds. Sleeping the day away. It was made even sweeter when I skipped school to do nothing but lay around all day.

My life is too complicated now. Too many things on the "To-do list'", too many little hands needing cleaning, too many butts to wipe, too many mouths to feed. My husband wonders why I constantly have my earbuds on. It's my escape. It allows me to have a few minutes (or hours) of time I can pretend my name isn't constantly being called.

Or at least to pretend I don't hear it.

It helps me think and decompress. I'm beginning to think that music is my salvation. I've always been a musical person. I played 2 instruments growing up, I sang in church and school, I tried to teach myself piano (and I still remember the very 1st song I ever learned). My taste in music is pretty vast. With the exception of hardcore rap, I listen to almost everything. My playlist is almost comical. Garth Brooks right before Nine Inch Nails; Claire du Lune after Eminem. I would rather listen to music than talk or watch movies. My idea of heaven is reading a good book with my earbuds in, completely engrossed in the story.

I probably spend way more time than I should doing just that: reading and listening to music. If you don't already do, get a free Pandora account.

Best. Thing. Ever.

I don't what sort of hoodoo, voodoo magic programming leprechauns they have working for them, but they rock. Pandora app on the iPhone beats iTunes any day. Only thing I wish they'd fix was the inability to do ANYTHING else when listening. You can't go back to the home screen, it'll shut the program down. So, when you're listening on your phone, you can't do anything else. Which, while I'm doing the dishes or folding laundry is fine. But, not when I'm actually trying to do anything on my phone and listen to decent music at the same time.

My favorite bands at the moment:

Muse

Paramore

Flyleaf

Fireflight

Cartel

Check out: "Teardrop" by Massive Attack. Apparently it's the theme song to "House", which I don't watch, but they've got good taste. Fucking awesome.

Tell me about your father...

I'm entirely tired of wiping other people's asses. I've been doing this for nearly 10 years straight. It's times like these that I question 1) my abilities as a mother & 2) my quest to be a teacher.

I've wanted to be a teacher since I was 12. I always thought I'd teach 2nd grade. I figured it was the perfect age: not too young, like in Kindergarden where you have to teach them everything from scratch, but not old enough to have attitudes yet.

I waited almost 12 years in order to finally be able to go to college, all the while thinking that I was still on course to be a teacher. And the funny thing is, it's not even my classes that are making be second guess myself. It's my life. I know that I'm caught up in all the stress that is involved with having 3 kids under the age of 10, two of which are still in diapers.

Every single day I lose my patience. It's not even an exception anymore, it's the rule. My husband says that I have more patience than he does (and in certain respects, I do), but I'm no saint. I hate yelling, I know it's probably doing some serious psychological damage. I could probably go on and on about how this is just a manifestation of my childhood, and how my need to have my children's lives be everything mine wasn't is somehow sabotaging my ability to live in the here and now.

Whatever.

So, I came from a broken home. So has more than 50% of my generation. I had a somewhat absent father and a step-mother who had a superiority complex. My mother I don't think ever got over my dad, and proceeded to marry two complete and total losers. I was shipped back and forth between families 4 times a year, and became the "other child" once I had siblings.

Again, whatever.

I don't like trying to justify the crap I put my family through on a daily basis. But, damnit, sometimes I just want to feel sorry for myself. I like reading stories, fact or fiction, of people who overcome astronomical odds with their heads held high and their sanity intact. Only because that way I can put a name to the people I'm secretly insanely jealous of.

This is part of my problem. I'm not a "Keeping up the with Joneses" type of person. That's not my thing. I blame that part of my emerging paranoia on my husband. He is TOTALLY that kind of person. I have told him countless times that I wouldn't care if we lived in a van down by the river, I just want to be happy. Don't get me wrong: I'm not some sort of hippie, who wants to live in a commune and give all her worldly goods to the poor, I realize the world runs on money. But I'm sick of the trappings of it all. My kids are thoroughly spoiled. My in-laws try to make up for the fact that they sucked at raising their kids by making me feel like less than an adequate parent. I know they love my kids, but according to them (and in turn, according to my husband) the way to manifest your love to someone, is to buy them something shiny.

So, sum up: I lash out at my family because of the crap I went through when I was growing up. I'm envious of the people who apparently are able to go through hell and come out unscathed because all I want to do is throw myself a pity party. Did I miss anything?

Welcome to my quarter life crisis.

Technical issues

While, by the time I actually put this blog somewhere (because I've just been putting random thoughts in a text file every once in awhile when something strikes me), I will most likely have a name for it, at the moment I am stuck. The name I thought would be perfect is actually taken. And what's worse, they haven't updated their blog since 2006. WTF? I don't know if Blogger has some sort of time limit on domain names. I've contemplated just making an actual domain but, the truth is, I suck at code. And I don't want to have to ask for help with backgrounds and all that shit that I probably should have learned 10 years ago when I was first getting into blogging and the web in general. I consider it a small miracle that I can make text italicized, bold and strike thru without having to pull up any outside menus. Me & HTML don't get along all that well.

ETA: After speaking to a friend online, I figured out how to get around the fact that the actual name I wanted was taken. I hope to have a domain purchased and this blog up by the end of the weekend. Until then, Blogger's free and I have an itch to get my ramblings out there.

So It Begins

I've started this blog, not because I have anything important to say, but because I have many thoughts going through my mind at various times and nowhere to put them. You might say, why don't you talk to your friends or family? Because I have to admit I'm ashamed of some of things I think. Not proud of that, and I am far from trying to portray the image of perfection in the eyes of the people I love and care about. But, I need an outlet to put every crazy, asinine thought that can't be screamed in front of my children or spouted off at the grocery store in front of the clerk who only wants to get through her minimum wage shift without some nut-ball woman shouting in her line.

I need a place to put down all my thoughts so I can look back on them later with some sort of hindsight. An unbiased 3rd party, albeit inanimate, who I can vent to when I have a craptastic day who won't tell me I'm going to be fine, or find some way to turn the situation back on me and make me feel even more awful.

I've thought about just putting everything into an actual, paper & pen journal, but (and here's one of those shameful thoughts) I want some feedback.

I bet you're thinking, Wait a minute, didn't she just say she didn't want anyone knowing about all this? Isn't that why she isn't talking to a real, living, breathing person?? Yeah, I know. I didn't say this wasn't complicated or slightly insane. I'd like feedback from anyone who reads this. I don't care if it's a simple, hey I've been there. Or a rant that basically tells me to get my shit together and quit clogging up the interwebs with my rambling nonsense. Either one would be welcome. And this is cheaper than therapy.

It's not even like I think what I go through on a daily basis or my life in general is any different than the average "30-something mom & wife". On the contrary, I think the rambling ideas & crazy shit that goes on in my head & in my life are quite normal and commonplace. I don't want to give the impression that I think what I deal with is in any way harder or more important than what every one else is going through. I just don't want to be one of the thousands of people who keep everything bottled up. Which is way more commonplace than actually speaking your mind. But, that being said, I'm still a fucking coward and want to do my soapbox sermons anonymously. Because while I'm tired of being silent, I'm not ready to be completely transparent.