Challenge Myself

There are things that I've allowed myself to stray from. And I keep telling myself to get my shit together, I am in control, I can make the changes.

Except I don't.

I continue on doing less of the things that I value, less of the things that make me happy, less of the things that I enjoy. "Why?" you ask. I don't know, and I know too much. There are a lot of reasons why I am not doing. The reason doesn't matter to me.

I challenge myself.

Every week, for a week, I will challenge myself to do something specific every single day. No excuses. Not even legitimate ones. There are wasted minutes in everyone's life every day. No matter how busy you claim to be, everyone wastes a minute here or there. Everyone.

This week I'm a day behind, but I will forgive myself this one time. This week I get a pass, a one day pass. I created my first blog after months and months of reading other writer's blogs. I would read every single day for my own personal enjoyment. Somehow I've lost that. Case in point, and the inspiration for this post. Shit, I can credit this twitter exchange for the entire challenge. Please excuse the typos.

So that's it. For seven six days, I will read and comment on my favorite writers's blogs for fifteen minutes a day. According to Fly Lady, anyone can do something for fifteen minutes. If I don't get to them all, I will not worry about it. I will read and remember why I liked the darkside so much. The best writers read other writer's work. Not because they have to, rather they love it. They crave it.

Ellie Belly

I don't talk much about my pets. Which, in and of itself, is horrible. Before Alice, they were my children. Now they are the reason I vacuum. I have two cats and a dog. The cats I've had since I was 18 and the dog I acquired jointly with Hatta. I suppose it would be proper to say they are our pets, but in reality the dog goes where I go and the cats listen best when I call them.

Today I would like to talk about Ellie Belly. Some of you may remember a story I told back on the darkside of blogging. In said story, Ellie was stuck walking in circles, forced to walk to the left (or was it the right?) regardless of what was in her path, never able to rest. It turned out to be an ear infection, something that has plagued Ellie since as long as I can remember. If she was a toddler for sure the pediatrician would be mentioning tubes. But in Ellie's case it runs a little deeper.

Early on in Ellie's life, after many rounds of antibiotics and inacurate diagnoses, it was determined she had polyps deep in her ear. Two surgeries and thousands of dollars later, she was a happy cat. Finally for the first time in her life she wasn't on antibiotics. She was living the good life, until 2001 when she had her first seizure, followed by a few more in the weeks to come. We had her checked out by our vet and carried on. Not much thought was given to those seizures. They were merely another roadblock for Ellie to overcome, another bullet point in the list of reasons Ellie was my special needs cat.

Until last Sunday.

In one twenty four hour period Ellie had six seizures, four of them in two hours. The months leading up to Sunday Ellie had two serious ear infections and it seemed she never fully recovered from them. And, then the seizures started. One followed by four days seizure free, and then another with a few days without seizures, and then another. We knew it wasn't as simple as it was in 2001. Her appearance had changed and so had her demeanor. We knew it was finally time to visit the vet.

You may be thinking to yourself, "Seriously? Your cat had several seizures and you didn't take her to the vet?" Don't judge. We'd been there, done that...vet bills and seizure pamphlets to prove it. They discovered nothing in 2001. Speculated as likely to be a brain tumor. We've already invested hundreds and thousands of dollars attempting to give Ellie a good life. In all honesty, we knew we weren't going to pay this time to run the gauntlet of tests the vet would suggest to determine why Ellie was seizing. We just wanted Ellie to enjoy life or not have to suffer another moment. Putting a price tag on your pets well being is a difficult situation to be in, and frankly we weren't looking forward to it.

And then, there was Sunday.

I don't know if you've ever been unfortunate enough to witness an animal having a seizure, but it has to be the most helpless feeling. There is literally nothing you can do and it breaks your heart every agonizing second of it. You just want to pick up the flailing body and try to comfort the seizure away, knowing you can't you just watch...helpless and sad. And when the poor body is done twitching and shaking and spinning, it's still not over. There are after affects that last and linger for many minutes, where you sit trying to comfort an animal that's still not in this realm, still gone to this world. Try experiencing that four times in two hours. And during the last three seizures Ellie urinated, spinning and shaking her body throughout her urine. Poor Alice was there to witness a few of the seizures, her feelings of fear neglected in the moment when the safety of Ellie was more pressing. It has been a very difficult time.

Sweet Ellie was taken Sunday night to the animal ER where they allowed her to rest comfortably on Valium. She spent several nights at the vets, they ran extensive blood tests and determined she's blind (hopefully temporary) but healthy. Again, most likely a brain tumor. She's now permanently on daily anti seizure medication and hasn't had a seizure since. It seems, after a few rocky days at home adjusting to the narcotics, she's resembling her old happy self again. In fact, just today I found her on the dining table attempting to wreak havoc on my Valentine's flowers.

Letter to Myself

Dearest Nelly,

I'm not sure how to begin, the nicest way to tell you this. So I'll come right out...you have to write more. You have a million excuses. Frankly, non of them are that good. Life is hard. Yep. Got it. So what?

Write.

I know you have ideas swirling around in your head. I'm there at night when you lie awake thinking of them. I'm there when you write bits and pieces of posts in your mind and never manage to let them out. I see the pictures in your photo stream of posts not written.

Just write.

I know somedays you struggle finding the humor. That's okay. Remember, you write for you. Always have. You don't have to force yourself to write funny stories. Remember your post, if you have nothing nice to say, say it brilliantly? Write what you want. But don't forget your purpose, the reason you delved into the dark side, to cathartically chronicle your life with Alice. Write about Alice. The good and the bad. Maybe the battles don't seem as funny as they used to. She's getting smarter, the battles are much more than sharpie on your furniture. Try telling the story anyway.

Allow yourself to grow as a writer. Yes. You are a writer. You type letters to make words and words to make sentences and sentences to tell a story. That makes you a writer. You can't not write just because the material isn't what it used to be. Things change, people change. You have to accept it and embrace where you are now. You have to find a way to write it down. You enjoy writing. It's not work. It's a release. If you need to, use writing prompts or write fiction. Anything. Just start writing again.

Lylas,

Me

The Post of Links

I wrote my first post on December 18th, 2011. Of course, not at A Tea-Tray in the Sky. That first step into the darkside of blogging was somewhere else. I debate linking to old posts all the time. Even though it was only four months, Alice was excellent blog fodder, and I wrote a shit ton of stories about the trials and tribulations of raising her. But ultimately, I decide against it. I don't need my cover to be blown. So, to you fine readers that were fortunate enough to follow along back when Alice wasn't Alice and to the rest of you that have joined in along the way, I say thanks for coming on this journey with me. We've cried. We've laughed. We've drank a lot.

You know when you're watching Young and the Restless and the day's episode is like a wedding or a funeral. You know you're going to spend the whole hour watching a montage of memories. Nothing new is going to happen. You debate not even watching it, why waste an hour of your day, only you do watch it and it sucks. Just like you predicted. It's definitely not a Friday episode where they leave you with a cliffhanger of a car accident, a murder, someone falling through the ice at the lake, and an affair being consummated.

Today's post is kinda like that, a wedding episode. Nothing new, just a bunch of updates.

I love my car. Keyless entry kicks ass. It was everything I'd hoped it would be. And more. You know you've really made it in the world when you can push a button and your car doors unlock. If you happen to be one of those people that can start your car with a push of a button, please just shush. Let me bask in the glory for a little longer. Did I tell you I have heated seats? I warm my ass every chance I get. The hierarchy in my car is quite obvious. Check your ass, if it's cold on the ride to school your ranking in the family is not quite as high as mine.

Remember how I was struggling to get into my book and I wanted to quit but you guys convinced me that giving up was the wrong thing to do? You encouraged me to keep reading and I finally got hooked on Bossypants. Well. I downloaded a book to my iPad the other day. Hangs head in shame. I'm still only 111 pages into Tina Fey's book and I temporarily gave up. I bought Reflected in You by Sylvia Day. Apparently I truly am addicted to trashy novels. I heard the faintest Crossfire chatter on twitter and I was logged into my Amazon account within minutes. Just like that I succumbed to the glorified porn temptation.

As preschool room mom, I'm in charge of the Halloween party. I can't for the life of me understand how I signed up to be room mom, how I agreed to plan parties. I detest planning parties. What was I thinking?! But here I am, planning the hell out of what will be forever known as the best Halloween party the Sprout class ever had. And the Rainbow Potluck Dinner? The Sprout families will be bringing the most purple-est purple food* the school has ever seen. We will put the rest of the classes to shame!

Remember my moss? It's still a sad plot of dirt with random patches of lush green moss. People are not impressed. Oh, but mark my word, they will be. Give it time. Maybe in 2015 people will be impressed. But now, they are all laughing at me. "Crazy Nelly, weeding the dirt again." I'll update you with a new pic so you can have a good laugh as soon as I weed the dirt.

In the northeast we are heading into cold weather. Not there yet, and I'm not rushing it along. But I know with every leaf that falls we are getting a degree closer to cold and snow and ice. He still can't find his coat. And he better not think his absentmindedness gives him the excuse to buy a new one. He's going to have to grin and bear it with lots of layers. Natural consequences of life.

Today marks the fourth day since Alice has had a bath. That's right. She had a bath after swimming class on Monday and she hasn't had one since. Today's Friday. I've noticed paint and yogurt in her hair and it hasn't bothered me one bit. This morning I was finally forced to brush it, the mats were making parts for pigtails impossible. She isn't stinky, yet. I'm sure by tomorrow she will be. You see, it's not a school night so I have no pressing reason to bathe her tonight. It can wait till tomorrow. I guess it's fairly obvious the regular baths I boasted about were just a fad, a novelty to make myself feel like a stellar mom. Really, I'm just average. I still cry there's not enough time in the day.

So there you have it. The wedding episode. A glorious montage of A Tea-Tray in the Sky memories.

 

*Not me. I'm bringing wine. I'm too lazy to cook.

For the Love of a Good Book

I always thought I had fantastic followers. I've even bragged a time or two.

Then I go and ask you guys for a favor, a simple request. I needed YouTube help. But did you come to my rescue? No. Write about Alice and her love of bacon and you folks come running out of the woodwork to comment. I guess YouTube is just asking too much. I blame you, and you, but not you cause you did suggest that one video.

I received several responses to the affect of I don't really watch YouTube, don't have the time for it. Well my friends, let me share some facts straight from YouTube's site that make your claim a little shakey.

• Each minute over 700 YouTube videos are shared on twitter
• 500 years of YouTube videos are watched every day on Facebook
• 72 hours of video are uploaded to YouTube every minute
• In 2011, YouTube had more than 1 trillion views or around 140 views from every person on Earth

Suffice it to say, I'm not buying your story. I find it hard to believe you are all just like me, lord help the world if you are. I don't think the cosmos could handle another Nelly. I doubt you delete those YouTube forwards your best friend sends you. You likely click the link when the 140 characters catches your attention. And I'm sure you watched the pig saving the goat once it went viral.

My loyal readers you've left me no choice. You put me in a place I didn't want to be. I have been forced to read my book. It topped the New York Times Best Seller list 5 weeks in a row. It's sold over 1 million copies in the US alone. And yet, I am struggling to get into it. It's not one of those books that finds me in bed at one in the morning fully engrossed, still reading. I can't blame the mound of laundry on my good book. But I think it's on the upswing, page 96 and I'm hearing more mentions of Amy Poehler and Saturday Night Live.

Yes, my book is Tina Fey's, Bossypants. It was on my Christmas list in 2011 and I was quite pleased when my Mother In-law bought it for me. It's sat on the book shelf for, jeesh, 9 whole months begging me to read it. I always had fancied up porn other books that were on my must read list. Finally with the end of 2012 creeping up on me and my faithful followers being of no help in my efforts to procrastinate, I'm going to finish my book.

Want a chance to redeem yourself? I'll need a new book soon enough. This time I want something good. Something so good it's obvious when you walk in my house and see the mayhem, I've been at the mercy of an enthralling read. I'm open to anything, kids hunting down kids, glorified porn, or maybe even something vampirey...it seems to be all the rage and I am in the dark.

Have You Seen My (fill in the blank)

There's a person in my life that loses everything. I won't mention any names. I've already had to join the blogger protection program once before, not looking to do it again.

I don't even know how it's possible to lose some of the shit that disappears. Take for example a winter coat. How in world does a grown person lose a winter coat in your own home? It's only been a handful of months since it was last needed. Yet, it happened. How about a cell phone charger for the brand new iPhone 5? Mine hasn't even been delivered yet and somehow, in a matter of days, this person lost theirs. I could go on and on and on and on...sunglasses, debit cards, keys, concert tickets, shoes, et cetera, et cetera.

I tell you fine readers this saga because it amuses me. It didn't always. It used to drive me batty. Worse than batty. Wars have been fought over this shit. But somewhere in the last few years, I let it go. I realized it wasn't my belongings that were being lost (most of the time,) so I got over it and started laughing more.

I'm not a vindictive bitch, I've tried helping this person rectify the problem. I've put into place systems, a place for everything, everything in its place. Except no matter how I suggest, prompt, or bitch nag things don't end up in their place. And then they disappear. Maybe I'm blaming the wrong person. Possibly, and I'm going out on a limb here, these items all get up and walk away. It's some kind of sick trick they're playing. I dunno. All I know is the misfortune of one is entertainment to another. I am allowed that privilege as compensation for putting up with it for so many years. Retribution, if you will.

I had a good laugh this morning. Remember that iPhone charger? Well, apparently the replacement that was purchased just yesterday, turned up missing. It was only MIA for a few moments, but for those moments I was peeing my pants laughing, in my head of course.

Technology, Ain't it Great

Growing up, in my family, I was always known as the computer savy one of the bunch. I was the youngest, so computers had been a part of my life longer than my eldest sister. I remember the good old Commodore 64. I loved playing Double Dare and Family Fued on that big clunky machine. My love of computers caused my mother to send me to Computer Science summer camp, or commonly referred to by my sisters as Dork Camp. In high school, as a member of the year book staff, people came to me for Photoshop help. In college, I took a class where our semester long project was to create a website using html. I got an A and enjoyed every freakin moment of it. I was good with technology, you could say.

Let's get back to now, shall we. Somewhere between graduating college and present day I lost my tech savy-ness. And once again, I didn't even know it. I'm starting to think I lost my pre-baby brain when I lost my pre-baby body. See, one day, I was having a conversation with a friend. He was likely on his iPhone and I was likely on a cell phone that flipped and had an antennae. For some reason, the topic of wifi came up. At that moment, I knew as much about wifi as I did about space travel. I suppose I had no need to educate myself about it, my laptop in its condition wasn't even compatible. It was soo old. Like, turn the computer on, go make breakfast, settle down with the paper, enjoy the meal, and when you were done it was finally booted up. Anyway, where was I? Wifi, right. So the friend on his fancy schmancy phone was mocking me for not having wifi in 2011. I ignored him. As you should when someone begins mocking you. Several months later, the same friend asked how the wifi was coming. Yet again, I think he was mocking me. He was on to me and my wifi ignorance, knowing damn well how it was coming. Meanwhile, old laptop died and we inherited a slightly newer hand-me-down model from my in-laws. This one could handle wireless. But still, we remained tethered to the wall. The rest of the free world was sitting on their couches perusing the Internet, skyping with loved ones from the comfort of their beds. Not me, I was standing strong on my refusal to join the 21st century. Then, I got an iPad. You know how awesome it is to buy an iPad, bring home the sleek and sensual, thin piece of power...only to not be able to use it? For two weeks, I "borrowed" wifi from the nearby Radio Shack. It was spotty and in the evenings I was out of luck completely. It was not a good plan. I needed wifi. And I, still, was clueless. Tail between my legs, I crawled to the knowledge of my friend who, for the record, is not smarter than me. Turns out it's pretty damn easy to have your very own wireless connection these days. One simple amazon purchase and I had taken my house into a whole new world.

Since then, my house has exploded with technology. New phones, new tablets, new cameras! All we need to update is the laptop. Someday, when money allows a nice new MacBook.

Today, searching for a picture on my camera, I became lost in picture land. When I found myself looking at pictures of Alice and our dog, Marley, in the snow, it occured to me I have a new technology problem. Pictures. When it's 100 degrees outside I shouldn't have snow pictures on the camera. I loathe our computer, so I never log on to unload the memory card. Never a problem, unless it's Christmas morning and the card is full or until I actually want to do something with these great pictures I take. Who am I kidding? It's a problem. I have years and years worth of pictures just sitting on a hard drive. That's a big problem. One day I'll tackle the task of ordering prints and creating albums. One day. Until then, it turns out it's pretty easy to solve the memory card situation. I didn't even need to ask for live help, that's how smart I am. I just googled. For a low, low price of $30 I can buy an iPad camera connection device.

It's my new goal, I'm putting it out there for the world to hold me accountable, to take more pictures, unload them in a prompt fashion, and use them however I see fit. My mother was a picture taker. She always had her camera with her and took pictures often. She would stage ridiculous photo shoots of my sisters and I. Candids were her thing too. It shocked me, sorting pictures after her death, how many pictures she took of us just riding in the car. She documented everything. If my mother was still alive today, she would fully support this goal.

My Relationship with the Jehovah's Witnesses

I have trouble saying no. I'm sure my husband, if he read my blog, would laugh heartily at that statement, but it's true in some respects. When people ask me for a favor, it's like this impossible force within me, I must say yes. Need me to watch your kid? Sure, no problem. Going away and forgot about your dog? No worries, bring him over. I already have a dog and two cats, what's one more? The list goes on. Ordinarily, I don't think it's a big deal, except at 2 o'clock when I hear a knock on the door and I'm not expecting guests. Then my ability to say no is a gargantuan big deal.

What some of you 9-5ers may not know, while you're away at work, people are standing outside your door knocking. It's constant. Every week someone for some reason or another knocks on my door.

That fateful day, four years ago, someone knocked on my door. Itty bitty baby Alice in my arms, I opened it to find a young (17?) male African American...with a book in his hand. Not just a book, The book. In his other hand was The Watchtower. At the bottom of my front porch steps stood his grandmother with her summer hat on. He was nice to me, so I listened to him spread his belief. He gave me the required pamphlets and went about his day. That's where I went wrong. I should have nipped it in the bud that first meeting, but I didn't. I couldn't. He was so kind, I couldn't say no. So he came back. Again and again and, oh my God, again. He knew my name. He knew Alice's name. Always the same, he talked while I nodded and answered his questions, his grandmother always within ear shot. I started to like the kid. I even found myself reading some of the articles in Awake!. I remember the day I realized it had gone too far, I was in the middle of nursing Alice when he knocked. I should have opened the door and said, "Enough's enough already! I'm not buying into your belief! I celebrate Christmas and my birthday!" Not having the required amount of balls to do so, I unlatched a very furious Alice, put my boob away, opened the door and greeted my new friend. I listened, all the while bouncing Alice to keep her whines to a minimum. I didn't want to interrupt his preaching. Then, at the end of this particular visit, he said it.

"Next time, why don't my grandmother and I come inside for some bible study?"

Holy, oh my eff, what had I gotten myself into?! I had no intentions of allowing this kid in my house for bible study, no matter how nice he was. If I had just said no from the get-go, I wouldn't be freaking out about how I was going to politely sever my new friendship.

I consulted my friends. They all said the same, "What? You're meeting with the Jehovah Witnesses on a regular basis? Seriously?" Thanks, guys. Then, my sister in-law told me her mother has regular Bible study with the Jehovah's, even lunch. I knew then and there, I didn't want to be making egg salad and lemonade for this kid and his family. I needed to end it. Maybe I could just leave a note on the door.

Like ripping off a band-aid, I did it on our next meeting. As soon as I opened the door, I told him thank you for the kindness but I liked my faith the way it was. Just like that my many month long problem was gone. I was removed from the list and the Jehovah Witnesses haven't stopped by since.

I learned a very big lesson that day. If you can't say no when you open the door, don't open the door.

I spend quite a bit of time hiding behind my door, glancing through the peep hole to see if the most recent solicitor has vacated my porch yet.

Which brings me to yesterday. There was a knock at the door, and since just last week I had succumb to the temptation to be normal and opened the door to a 15 minute presentation where I wishy-washily told the guy to come back later when the man of the house would be home, I decided it best to go back to what works...don't open the door. Alice came from the kitchen, where we had been painting pre-knock, to find me cowering behind the door. Quickly, I tried to mime to her to get back in the kitchen. It wasn't working. I tried again in that voice that wants to be a whisper but just isn't.

"What Mama? Who's at the door?"

"Shh, Alice. Be quite. See, it's a stranger at the door and we don't open the door for strangers."

"Are we hiding from them so they don't come in our house?"

"They're not gonna come in our house. We just don't want them to know we are here."

I don't know if I'm scarring Alice for life by teaching her that sometimes Mama hides behind the door when people knock. I hope I'm not encouraging her to be a hermit or anything. However, until I grow a backbone and learn to say no to college kids selling magazines to fund their trip to NYC, it's not worth the risk in opening the door. I do love me some Joe Corbi's though, so if you know of anyone selling, send them my way!

The Mid-Play Pee

"Alice? Do you have to go potty?" I asked. She wasn't holding herself, but she didn't seem right.

"I already did," she stated matter-of-factly. No emotion, no expression, just the words.

"What do you mean, 'you already did?' Pee didn't come out just now, did it?" I couldn't believe I was asking this question. We were at my friend's house and Alice was playing race cars with her son. There was no way my four year old peed in the living room of my friend's house.

"It came out." That was all she said. She was killing me with her lack of concern for peeing mid-play.

"Where did you pee, Alice?"

"Over, there. On the rug."

Oh. Em. Gee. My daughter peed on the rug. At someone else's house. Sigh.

"Alice!! You can't just pee on the rug! What were you thinking? Why didn't you stop playing and go use the potty?"

I contemplated rolling up a newspaper and swatting her on the nose. Or maybe I should have pushed her face down and rubbed her nose in it.

"I don't know. It just came out." That's all she had to say for herself. No shame. No embarrassment. She had peed on the rug in the living room of someone else's house and she didn't even seem phased.

"Alice. You get upstairs and wait for me in the bathroom. I am very upset with you. I can't believe you just peed on the rug! Like a dog!" That's right. I said it. I compared my daughter to a dog.

I can recall a time not too long ago, Alice was forced to poop in the grass near I-95, and she was devastated to be defecating like a dog. But this? Peeing on the carpet? This she's okay with? Just when I think I have a clue about little kids, she makes me realize I haven't the foggiest.

Halloween in July

I found this in my mail box yesterday.

Do you know what this is? This is rediculous, is what it is! How dare a company send me a Halloween catalog in July! Blasphemy! It's July for God's sake! July! I can accept Christmas in Target before Thanksgiving, but Halloween catalogs when it's 104 degrees outside I just can not get on board with. How dare they do this to me!

As a mom, can I not get a break? Holidays are crack for kids, wiring them up with excitement, hopping them up on sugar. Summer is my salvation, a break from the crazy. And now this? Don't I even get my summer? Halloween is quite possibly the worst of them all. What with the begging complete strangers to give them candy simply because they are wearing dress up outside. That's all costumes are, fancified dress up. But now the catalogs have started to pour in. They will not stop. And every one will fuel Alice with an extra boost of crazy in anticipation for a holiday that's months away. Each one will be studied by her, as she contemplates which facade she should don.

It's already started. Seated in my lap, flipping through the catalog, she asked the name of each one until she arrived at this costume. She declared, in July mind you, this is what she wants to be for Halloween.

Convient, I tell her. That costume is currently sitting on the top shelf in her closet from last year when she insisted she had to be this exact Aurora for Halloween. The cheaper Aurora from Costume Express would not do for my champagne taste princess. It was a lovely costume and she was a beautiful princess. It was worth every penny we spent on it. And if she wants to wear it again this Halloween, the cost per wear is greatly reduced. Fingers crossed.

She continued thumbing the catalog, studying each perfectly photographed disguise. Then she landed on this gem.

Hearing the news that she already owned the Aurora costume, she insisted this year she would be Alice for Halloween. Funny. This, my friends, is what we wanted her to be last year for Halloween. More than wanted, begged. We promised she could trick-or-treat with her uncle's beagle, the dog she adores, dressed up like the white rabbit. I promised her I would dress up as the Queen of Hearts, if she would please, for the love of all things good, pretty pretty please pick the cheaper, adorable Alice costume.

I don't know what she will decide. It is, after all, MONTHS away! It will certainly be easy for me if she settles on Aurora. All she'll need is a new crown since she broke hers in a fit of rage one day. Alice...well, I think we all know how I feel about Alice. It would be oh so fitting for my Alice to finally be Alice. Nothing would make me happier. It's still too early to place bets yet, it is after all only JULY!! She did stare longingly at the Darth Vader costume. I don't think we can rule anything out yet. I'll let you good readers know how it pans out...in THREE MONTHS FROM NOW!

My Very Own Picasso

I'm sure I'm not alone when I say, "Oh, how I wish I could get more sleep. Just sleep a little longer." This morning, Hatta and I did just that. I don't know what his excuse was, but I stayed out a little too late catching up with a good friend last night. Alice's whiny delightful sounds woke me too early this morning. Ignoring her, knowing she was awake and heading, unsupervised, downstairs, I rolled onto my stomach and pulled the pillow over my head. I never could fall back asleep. I didn't rise feeling rested. "Sleeping" in was a waste.

Grudgingly, I forced myself out of bed and headed downstairs to be greeted by my lovey daughter and her productive use of her early morning freedom.

She's quite the artist. She took it upon herself to paint a masterpiece on my table using an entire bottle and then some of glitter acrylic paint. I think simultaneously she tried to play games on Hatta's iPad. Luckily he had the cover on. Did you know acrylic paint is not washable? I didn't find a paint brush. Either she used her hands or there's a purple glitter covered paintbrush hidden somewhere in my house. Note to self, check the couch cushions. If I'm being honest, and I am, I fared well this time. She didn't dump the paint on the floor, smearing it around with her hands leaving purple glitter handprints all over the kitchen. Or worse yet, she didn't decide to paint her body, head to toe. There was only minimal damage in and around the sink after she attempted to clean up after herself. I do believe we're making progress. I think, by golly, my little girl is growing up.

Kanceling the Kardashians

You may remember a few months back, I gave up television for Lent. No tv. At all. I felt compelled to end the addiction when I found myself caring about the Kardashians and Abby Lee and her dance moms. I was no longer just watching the few shows I was invested in, I was watching junk. Worse yet, I was watching said junk On Demand. I was seeking it out.

The weeks without tv were awesome! Seriously. Since I knew it wasn't an option, I replaced my post Alice bedtime addiction with porn reading and writing. It was nice.

After Easter, I slowly resumed watching tv. Weird at first, I didn't know what to do. How I imagine inmates feel when they're released from prison and are expected to reintegrate themselves into society. At first they avoid their old friends, like I did with Whitney, the Broke Girls, and my friends in Genoa City. But it doesn't take long before the old crew comes knocking at your door at 2am with a dime bag in hand.

My friends, I do believe I'm right back where I was. I'm addicted again. To worthless mindless junk. Now let me be clear, if you love watching Snooki that's awesome. She is captivating. It's just not a show I care to be invested in. Nor is Hoarders, Teen Mom, or Jerseylicious. I. Just. Can't. Stop. Watching.

I'm done. I'm throwing in the towel on my addiction. I hope to be transferred to some swanky rehab joint in Southern California where I can spend my days recovering. If that fails to happen, a call will be made to Comcast. It's the only logical decision. I've been left no choice. I must go to my dealer and cut off my supply. I'm canceling cable.

Hi. My name is Nelly and I'm a cable tv addict. It's been 12 minutes since I last used.

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Digging Myself Out Of The Trench

After adjusting the laces on my shoes, I stepped on, set the treadmill, and started to run. With my iPod in hand, I scrolled through the artists and found what I was looking for, an oldy but goody recently added to my new iPod, Damian Jr Gong Marley, and pressed play. I ran for a few moments, my thoughts racing from my to-do lists to my worries, and then the chorus kicked in. Just like that, I was transported back six years ago. To a time when things were different. I was different. And in that moment, running, all thoughts disappeared but one.

I'm back.

You often hear new moms talk about the dream of getting back into their pre-baby clothes, and don't get me wrong, I wanted the same. After six months I was there...mostly. But, without even being aware, what I needed most, was to get back to the pre-baby me. That has been a horrendously long journey. Alice just turned four and I can finally say I'm there...mostly.

In that moment, running, I felt it and it felt terrifically familiar. The it being the old me. She was there and finally shining through.

At my baby shower, four plus years ago, seasoned veterans offered advice like sleep when the baby sleeps and take all the help that's offered. Everyone made it out like all you needed to be concerned with is the window of time when your new child is a baby. It came off to ignorant me like life would return when the baby started to sleep through the night. People neglected to inform me that not only would life never be the same again, I would lose myself in the process.

Lose myself I did.

I wasn't even aware. That may have been the worst part. I was no longer me and I didn't even know it. It has taken several years and unique circumstances for me to finally shine the light on myself and examine what I have allowed myself to become. I had given in to the role of mom and become nothing but. I had allowed myself to become unimportant. I was a mother, nothing else. I can see how it happened. I became so engrossed in the infant stage, survival mode in the trenches so to speak, and every stage of motherhood thereafter brought new and equally urgent requirements. I never stopped for a moment to look out of the trench, look around at life and see it all going by.

Until I did.

When I finally woke up and realized the old Nelly was gone, it was a relief...sort of. It sucked, but at least I was aware. It's like being sick for years, being told countless times we can't find anything wrong, and finally having a diagnosis. At least I could begin to work to dig me out from underneath the mom mountain I had created.

It's taken awhile and many changes, but seeing myself in the mirror, running, listening to Jr Gong, I saw me. I saw Nelly, not just Mama. And when I had finished working out, I retrieved Alice from daycare. As we walked out of the gym, her hand in mine, talking about the butterfly she had made and the bug that had been on the step the day before, she took my hand and wiped her nose with it.

And all was good.

Possible Erotic Fiction Junkie

I don't want to alarm you, but maybe, just possibly I might have a problem. It's still too early to be sure.

I downloaded another erotic fiction novel, Bared to You by Sylvia Day.

After reading the Fifty Shades trilogy, my introduction to the genre, I attempted a grown up, semi intellectual book. Maybe you'll remember my reaction when my husband read said book.

And another tweet a few days later.

I'm guessing that's where I went wrong. If you've been doing coke (which, by the way, I've never tried) and you run out, is moving on to candy necklaces really going to cut it? I think not. I was used to reading porn and I tried to switch to oceanic science. No part of me was having it. Especially not my libido.

Then, through the chatter on twitter I heard what I needed to hear.

Hanging my head, I visited my amazon account and added a new book to my kindle cloud. Reading the first page, it was like that itch I had been trying to scratch for weeks was finally soothed. I had given in, to smut. Glorified porn. And I liked it.

I'm not sure what's to come, hehehe, with my possible addiction. Will I be able to read non-trashy novels again? I can't answer that right now. Only time will tell. But I know, for the moment, I'm pleased to be reading something so, um, pleasurable.

Dear Ole Dad In-law

Happy to report, I might just have a stalker. Relax, no need to be jealous quite yet. No one is hiding in the bushes with high tech photographic equipment taking pictures of me undressing. I haven't even received any cool hate mail, constructed entirely of hand cut magazine letters and blood.

I believe it's just my in-laws.

Pray tell, you ask, why are your in-laws tracking you down?

Easy. My old blog was crack to them. A highly addictive fix that got them through the day. I was their dealer, yet, I had no idea until their supply was cut off. I always suspected they were using, but never could be certain. They lurked in the shadows, enjoying my words, reading my thoughts aloud, never commenting, never saying a thing.

Until their son heavily tread on my free speech and I ended it all. Then, out of deranged withdrawal, they came forward. But not to me, mind you. Just to my husband. Wanting my intoxicating tales of their granddaughter.

A few days ago, my husband warned me, "My dad may or may not have a twitter account now."

"Okay. So? What's that even mean...he may or may not?"

"He does. My dad's on twitter. And he asked about your blog, if you were still blogging."

"Okay. Whatever."

Here's the thing. I'm easily found. I may be hiding out here as Nelly, but it wouldn't take long if someone really wanted to locate me. My old blog is still online. Many of the same people that commented then, comment now. And I like to return the favor to my few readers. My old twitter account is still in use, with many of the same followers. Connecting the dots is just a few clicks away. I'm okay with that. I don't need the anonymity. What I do need is for my cover not to be blown. I enjoy blogging. It's like therapy, only free and I don't have to cordinate appointments around sitter availability.

Dear dad-in-law...if you're reading this, please play by my rules. If you blow my cover, I'll have no choice but to blog privately. This time, don't let it be known that you lurk, certainly not to my husband. Don't quote directly from my posts in normal conversation. Read my blog secretly, just you and mom. Remember, inebriated family members tend to talk with loose lips. If you follow the code, things with be just fine. So, please, just try and be cool.

Porta-Potty

Today, by the suggestion of a fellow mom, I found my myself at a local nursery (not the baby kind) that also has wooden death traps structures for kids to climb on and a petting zoo. As a proud helicopter mom, there was a lot to be concerned about.

The wooden structures were...borrowing a quote from the Russian figure skating coach in The Cutting Edge, "Legano...Illegano...Is grey area." I'm fairly certain the wooden ark didn't pass safety standards and regulations. How Alice didn't get her leg stuck, leaving her body flailing around, suspended between the levels in the ark is beyond me. But, it wasn't the play equipment that worried me.

A stones throw from the play area were the animals. Goats, horses, turkeys, geese, an emu, and a pig. The goats were innnn-sane! Vicious, child-eating goats, and one was loose running amok with the kids. Weaving in and out of the angelic children brave enough to try to feed the caged animals, his head down and his horns right at rib level. Again, I wasn't worried.

I was preoccupied with another matter entirely. We arrived at 11:00. We ate at noon, and by ate I mean whined, cried, and generally threw a tantrum for all to see, temporarily refusing to eat the horrible lunch I packed. And now it was 1:00. My mind was ruminating. It was eminent. Too much time had passed and she had ate and drank. As the saying goes, what goes in must come out. The facility was nice, but it was a fairly bare bones establishment. Public bathrooms were not going to be an option. I saw a line of 4 porta-potties when we walked in. I'm not sure if you've had the pleasure of taking a small child into one of these pristine enclosures, but I'm sure you yourself have been in one. It's never something anyone enjoys doing. I have a friend who, at a camping music festival, didn't shit for 3 days out of porta-pot fear. A decision had to be made, leave now before the urge hits her or pray for the best, knowing the inevitable was coming.

The decision was made for me.

"Mama, I have to go potty." ....wait for it.... "It's poop."

For a moment I contemplated what to do. I could ask her to hold it, but I remember how that turned out when Alice ended up shitting on the side of some back road off I95. I could take her to the car and use the in-case-of-emergencies-handy-dandy-portable-poop-in-a-bag potty. But then my almost 4 year old is pooping in my car in a parking lot. I guess it was time to suck it up and brave the porta-pot.

Armed with a pack of wipes, we walked over. Picking which door to open is sort of like Russian roulette. I chose door number one...mistake. As I opened the door I saw a sight common in the portable toilet sector, a man's back to me as he's standing there peeing. What is it with guys not locking the door? Men! Lock the freaking door! I have no desire to open door after door seeing you and your junk pissing. I said a quick "sorry" and let go off the door, dumbfounded as to why I was apologizing for walking in on him. Thankfully, Alice was in la la land and didn't notice.

Up next, door number 4. I opened the door and ushered Alice inside, laying down the ground rules. "Don't touch anything." I surveyed the scene. It wasn't pretty, but surprisingly, it didn't stink. Pee all over the toilet seat and dribbles on the floor. This was going to be tricky. I pulled her shirt up and tucked it under her chin as I mulled over whether to take her skort completely off or pull it down. All the while, she's talking.

"Mama? What's that? Why is the water blue? Why's there so much blue water? Why's there pee on the seat? What's that in the potty? Watch me, Mama."

"Alice just be still. Stop moving. Pretend your feet are glued to the floor. Don't touch your shoes, please, Alice."

In one fell swoop I pulled Alice's skort down and lifted her into the air. So far, so good. Step one done and minimal contact with urine. Holding her little bum over the potty, I told her to go for it. And go for it she did as pee started to flow. This was where things started to get dicey. She must have had to pee like a race horse cause the pee was flowing with some force and I could hardly see where it was going. Holding her entire body above the potty, I moved her around to aim the pee in the hole. It was trial and error, really. If pee hit the edge or splattered on me, I knew it was time to readjust. Step two done, with a bit more damage. Though, at least this time I was sure who's urine was on my toe. Note to self, remove skort completely next time.

"I don't need to poop, Mama. Poop's not coming," she pleaded.

"Alice, we're in here. You said you had to poop. You're trying." The last thing I wanted was to go through all that for her to demand a bathroom on the way home. Holding her a bit more firmly, I gave her no choice. A bit of grunting and a few pushes later, she was done. I thank the Gods, when the poop fell into the depths of the blue disinfectant it didn't splash back on us. Step three, check.

We were almost in the clear. All we had to do was pull her skort back up and we were home free. This step was definitely harder than I thought it was going to be. As I dropped Alice to her feet, I neglected to hold her flowery skort. I watched as it cascaded down around her Tevas. I saw the dribbles of pee scattered around her feet. I cringed at the thought. As fast as I could, I grabbed her skort and her Rapunzel undies and tugged upward. They got stuck at her knees. See, it was a hot day, things were sweaty. I was forced to drop the skort and work solely on the undies.

"Alice, help me out. Come on. Stop moving around and help me get your undies up. Stop! Your skorts getting in the pee! DO YOU SEE THE PEE?!"

It was obvious. She didn't care about the pee. She was walking around, her skort down around her ankles, skimming the disgusting, feces stained porta-pot floor. Her undies we rolling and sticking, refusing to go in place. I was forced to abandon the porta-pot. I grabbed her, opened the door and procedded to dress her outside. Step four, done. A little more urine and possibly trace amounts of feces rounded out the mission. All in all, a success.

Alice resumed playing like portable toilets were no big thing. And really, they're not. They are disgusting hot beds for germs and probably diseases I can't even name. But, when you've got to go you've got to go. I just worry about what I'm going to do when she's too big for me to hold over the potty and yet too small to hover feet on the floor. Do those kids actually sit their behinds on the porta-potty seat? I shudder at the thought.

Breaking Point

breaking point: noun

1: the point at which a person gives way under stress

2: the point at which a situation becomes critical

************

Today, I hit my breaking point. Maybe, quite possibly, I had previously thought the same. I stand corrected. The early "Alice incidents," however destructive they were, did not cause me to give way under stress. In other words, lose my mind. Screwdriver in hand, today, I lost my mind...momentarily.

Anyone know what that is? And if you say, merely a hinge with a bad paint job then you are wrong my friend. That's a glorious photograph of my breaking point.

Alice is a door slammer. Place her in her room for time out and she slams the door repeatedly. Pissed off and stewing, over and over again..slam, slam, slam. It's maddening to listen to. MADDENING!! I try to ignore it. Negative attention is still attention...they say. I've tried confronting her, appealing to her voice of reason. "Alice, if you keep slamming your door, the angel hanging above it is going to fall on your head and break your skull and blood's going to gush out. And I'm not taking you to the doctor if that happens." No matter what I say, it doesn't matter. She keeps slamming the damn door.

I had threatened before. Several times actually. Finally, either I had enough balls to do it or I had gone mad, but I had had enough! The door was coming down. In time out for some reason or another, maybe she yelled at me or hit me. Maybe she kicked me. I don't even remember. All I remember is the sound of the door as she, pissed off, slammed it shut over and over again.

As I was unscrewing screws that had been permanent fixtures for more years than I know, I heard Alice's tear filled lament.

"Mama, NO! You can't take my door. No, Mama! That's my door! What am I going to do without my door. I NEED my door, Mama! Papa's going to be so mad at you."

I have to admit, momentarily, I did have that thought...is Hatta going to be pissed at me for potentially causing us more work down line. You never quite know with these old homes, maybe when we try to reattach the door, the screw holes will be striped...but just as quickly as I thought it, I dismissed it. She's a defiant terror and drastic measures need to be taken. Down it came. I was in charge, oh how the tides had changed. Quickly I realized what a privilege it had been for her to have a door. Maybe, just maybe, I stand a chance to win this battle against my 3 year old. Here's to hoping.

Issues

Quite a few years ago, Hatta and I lived with his grandmother. Her husband had recently died and she had developed lameness of some sort. The cause, knee surgery...broken hip, escapes me at the moment. Regardless, it wasn't safe for her to be living alone, so we moved in temporarily. Before moving in, we attemped to convert the upstairs into "our space." We cleaned. We painted. We tried to make it feel like home. But, it didn't change things. We never settled in at her house. We left the vast majority of our belongings boxed up, only unpacking necessities. We never felt at home there.

Meanwhile, life kept turning during the brief time we lived there. I changed careers and even though it was what I wanted to do, it was emotionally hard. My mother's illness became much more prominent. I vividly remember having a phone conversation trying to convince her of the severity of her illness. Previously, we had been living in the city and loved it. Moving in with Hatta's grandmother meant us moving to the county, and not an area of the county we usually frequented. We became homesick, in a sense. I developed county allergies. Literally. I guess my system wasn't used to the trees, grass, and pollen because that spring I had asthmatic allergies like I've never had since.

Those few months were hard, but we made it thought them. When his grandmother was well again, Hatta and I moved back to the city, into the same house we had lived in before, only this time the larger first floor apartment was vacant. So, really, it all did work out for the best.




I shared this story with you to help explain where I'm at right now...blog speaking. I used to write elsewhere. And even though I know A Tea Tray in the Sky is not temporary, it doesn't feel like my home. I'm having a hard time getting settled in. My belongings are still boxed up. I haven't even picked out paint colors. I'm terribly homesick. Meanwhile, the trials and tribulations of life are still spinning around, making this whole settling in process even harder. But, like before, I will make it through and come out for the better on the other side. Please bear with me as I try to get adjusted here. Possibly my feng shui is off. Maybe my colors aren't projecting the right energy or I should just add a mirror.