Keep your junk to yourself

When did dancing with someone become simulated sex? Can someone please tell me when this happened?

I'll admit, it's possible that this extremely intimate dancing has been going on around me for years and I never noticed. I'm into my own moves on the dance floor--rolling my arms, shaking my booty, flinging my hips, and sliding my feet. Plus, I haven't been out dancing to pick up guys in more than 10 years, so I could just be out of touch with how single people interact with each other.

I enjoy dancing with people. But it's more like parallel play with toddlers. My son is playing with his car here, and your daughter is playing with her doll there. They aren't playing together necessarily, but they are playing near each other, enjoying the other kid's proximity. That is the way I like to dance. I shake my groove here. You hustle your moves there. But we do not share toys, so to speak.

So how did I happen to notice this Dirty Dancing on Ecstacy phenomenon? Someone told me that I seemed "timid."

I used to be the girl who blushed back when I was just starting out as a reporter. But timid? As in, timid on the dance floor? That just is not me. Or at least I didn't think it was me. For as long as I can remember, I've always run enthusiastically onto an empty dance floor. I didn't need anyone or anything except a song with a good beat.

Dancing is my thing. It's my release from a long and stressful week with kids. I look forward to it the way a hungry baby latches onto a milky breast. After that guy's comment, I took a minute to look around me, to notice the other dancers taking up space around me. And there were some definite distinctions to the way I dance versus what I saw:

1) I do NOT grind up against my girlfriends.

2) I do NOT let guys grind their junk into me.

3) I do NOT bend over and touch the floor while dancing.

4) I do NOT look like I'm having sex with the person I'm dancing with.

So if you add those things up, I guess I am a timid dancer. And I guess I'm okay with it because I will not change adapt to this new, way-too-much-information style. I'll stick with my solo style and ignore all that groping and grinding going on around me.

You're always 95 percent done

The art of writing seems too fluid to ever be set in stone. And that makes my job difficult. I keep editing. And editing. And editing. Every time I read my book proposal, I tweak a sentence here. I add some color there. I rearrange something in the table of contents. I can't imagine there will be a time when I read it, and I don't see a single word that should be replaced with a better, more appropriate word. But if I continue with this line of thinking (and editing), I will never, ever send this proposal out to agents. I will never move past this fluid phase.

My talented husband said that as with software development, a project is always 95 percent finished. But you need to pick end dates so that you can actually ship the product. That same theory should be applied to this proposal as well. Letting the calendar dictate my end-date seemed like the perfect way to help me move past this editing phase. As a result, my new deadline is Saturday, April 5. That gives me one more week to tweak, edit, add, delete, paste, and perfect before I stop.

I know a big part of my hesitation is just the idea of putting my words and ideas out there. The idea of moving into the uncomfortable phase where strangers will cut it down, move things around, and ask for revisions is daunting. But I believe in myself, and I believe in my project. I need to remember that a year ago, the idea of writing a business plan for my book was daunting. But I did it. And I know I will do this too because I know that ultimately, all those revisions, all that criticism, and all that outside feedback will make it even better.

No one's butt but my own

There was no one to feed but me, no teeth to brush but mine, and no butts to wipe but my own.

It only took 72 hours to undo the damage done to my mental status as a result of spending three years with my children without a vacation from them. A three-day, mini trip to Portland was thoroughly enjoyable, and I'm relieved to find out that I am still me under the stress and frustration of two children who enjoy biting each other, kicking each other, and removing fists full of hair from their sibling's head. While I do love them dearly, I sometimes I feel like they bring out the worst in me, and I find myself shouting (when I should be talking), scowling (when I should be laughing), and wondering how to escape (when I should be enjoying these fleeting times).

Since I've been back, I've been trying to laugh things off a little more and let them sort out their squabbles a bit more frequently. So far it's working, but it has not been easy. They sure know just what to do to make me cringe.

Anyway, I can't remember why I used to hate traveling before I had kids. It was so easy, and there was so much less to carry. I even enjoyed being at the airport. Without children, there was no one to distract me from my latte and my book. And I'm already planning the next get-away. Being selfish, I've realized, is good for the whole family.

It isn't laziness

It seems that whenever you get a bunch of talented mothers together, inevitably the talk eventually turns to work and the frustrations of trying to get some without abandoning the idea of raising the kids.

I had an opportunity to talk with Floral Designer Friend over the weekend. We were at a delightful birthday party for Aspiring Writer Friend. The party was delightful for so many reasons... good food, good friends, no kids. And then we started talking about work.

FDF has been an at-home mom for the past year and a half, and she has been thinking about going back to work part time. "I'd really like to figure it out," she said. "But I'm just too lazy." Floral design seems like the perfect job to do part time. But sadly in order to make it work, she would actually be spending money to go back to work because it would cost her more to pay for childcare than she would earn at her job. There has to be some equation where it would make sense financially.

Lazy is the wrong word. It just should not be this difficult to figure out.

If FDF decided to go back to work and pay for the privilege, she wouldn't be the first woman I know to go that route. Early Childhood Education Friend has been volunteering at a farm doing animal therapy with disabled kids and disabled veterans. She says it's rewarding work, but ECEF shouldn't have to work for free. She's hoping it will eventually lead to a paying job.

This is not laziness people. The system does not seem to value the brainpower of mothers. Where are the childcare credits for working moms? Where are the tax incentives for employers that make it more attractive to hire part-time professionals? I know that some employers go the extra mile to retain women and get them back to work in flexible jobs after they have a baby, but they seem to be the exceptions.

A reason to love...

This bowl filled with amazingly delicious strawberries is another example of why I will live in California forever. Things like this are plentiful at the grocery stores. Even in February. We ate them outside where the sun was shining and the temperature was a delightful 70-some degrees. Again, in February. I love California.

The miserable downside of my fabulous new neighborhood

I never considered the downside of our fabulous new neighborhood with lots of fabulous neighbors. It never occurred to me that all of those neighbors would be able to hear what a terrible mom I am or how miserable, loud, and obnoxious my children are. But now that we spend a lot of time outside and the lot sizes are small and tightly packed, they can easily hear my children screaming, crying, and throwing temper tantrums, which are frequent and long-lasting.

Then between screeches, you can hear me trying to stop them from crying and screaming. At first, my voice is even-tempered and soft-spoken as I try to redirect them to something less frustrating. But as my attempts backfire and the crying escalates and shouting persists, I get annoyed and my even-tempered voice escalates into an annoyed boom. I cannot figure out how we went from happily swinging in the hammock to hair-pulling, kicking, and sobs alternated with screeches in just two minutes flat.

As this all-too-common scenario unwinds, I immediately think of the neighbors that I've met a couple of times and who I wave at whenever I see them. I think of their one child who is only 16 months old. I think of how at 16 months, she can't cause much havoc. And then--as they hear all of us shouting and crying and screeching--they must cringe and wonder what kind of terrible mom and terrible children and terrible family moved in right next door to them, not 15 feet away from them, and their nice, quiet, single-child household.

Then, I imagine, as they have a moment to consider the situation, they must certainly think: there goes the neighborhood. Sure this crying and shouting happened at the old house, but our lot was bigger, the house was bigger, and the neighbors were camped out in their own expansive house, far away from our loud sounds. Well, hopefully these new neighbors will be fabulous enough to overlook these flaws.

Someone gave the clutter our new address

It's been two weeks and we're getting settled in the new house. It's fabulous and I don't really miss the old house at all. Well, maybe I miss the views. Preschooler in Chief told me that he misses the kitchen. I honestly can't give that comment all that much credence. When we asked him what he likes most about the new house, he told us he likes the dining room table. But that table was at the old house too. Then again, perhaps he likes it because it's familiar.

There are still boxes everywhere. That is expected. But I'm have to admit that I'm a little bit surprised that all the of clutter from the old house ended up in the new house. It's a bit depressing. We got rid of furniture. We got rid of old clothes we don't wear. We got rid of toys and exercise equipment and outdated electronics. But somehow, even though we got rid of so much stuff, there is still clutter everywhere.

There are still stacks of paper to sort.

Toys are still scattered everywhere.

There are still baskets of laundry.

There are still dishes in the sink.

I guess I sort of thought once we moved away and left all of our clutter behind, it would not appear at the new house. Silly me. Oh well. We may have clutter, but at least we can walk to downtown, the park, and the elementary school.

Hoping for a hospital-free 2008

Many of you know that my son was born with severe heart defects and that he has had five heart operations. As a result, February 14 means more to me than just flowers and candy and the warm goodness that surrounds people when they love each other. That's because February 14 is also Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Day. Heart defects are the number one birth defect, affecting one out of every hundred babies born. That's more than 40,000 in the United States every year.

All wrapped up with hearts and flowers and candy, February has become difficult. For the past two years, February was just a couple of weeks from extended (and sometimes unexpected) hospital stays and surgeries. I'm keeping my fingers that we won't be there again in a couple of weeks. Right now R seems to be doing great. Still, because there are so many unknowns that sort of linger the way the smell of antiseptic lingers in the hospital's air, it's hard to not believe that we'll be there again. It feels sort of like we have a standing appointment in the Pediatric Cardiac Intensive Care Unit this time of year. It's like I'm waiting for that one thing to go wrong that sends us there again. That rips Riley from his routine at preschool. That disrupts our immediate family's lives. That affects our extended family's lives as they fly in to support us.

See Father in Chief's blog for suggestions on how you can make a difference in the lives of kids affected with a congenial heart defect.

Off the radar

A recent move has left me without a telephone or the Internet, and much to my surprise, it's been a little refreshing. Usually I sprint to the computer between toddler squeals and dumped over bowls of Cherrios at least 26 times a day because I can't stand the idea of getting behind on email and the latest headlines. But knowing that I cannot connect except for a rare moment at my gym--which offers free Internet access--has freed me to focus. I'm still need to finish packing up miscellaneous items at the old place, and I'm buried with boxes at the new place. And without Internet access, there is nothing to distract me... Well, except for my two kids and all their needs. But without the computer calling my name, there it seems as if there is at least a few more productive minutes in my day. Still, it has been a little bit hard to put my work on hold. For now, it is waiting patiently in the background.

Accomplishing more in less time

Because I have a limited amount of child-free work time each week, I want to maximize the ratio of butt-to-chair and finger-to-keyboard efforts. As a result, I barely leave my desk when I am home alone.

This effort to maximize my work time is reminiscent of an old habit from when I was employed full-time in an office that was not attached to my living room: I've started eating at my desk. I microwave leftovers and eat behind my keyboard, barely conscious of the fact that I've lifted and lowered my spoon 17 times before my bowl of lentil stew is empty. Pangs of hunger are gone, but my palate barely remembers the taste. This is a very important reason as to why I NEVER bring a bag of anything to my desk.

I mentioned my working-through-lunch habit to Photographer Friend a couple of weeks back, and she told me that she always takes a full-hour lunch break. My initial thought was that seemed decadent when there is so much to accomplish in such a short amount of time. But the reality is that taking a break boosts productivity.

As a result, I will give this a try. It won't be this week (since I'm trying to pack the house for our move). And it won't be next week (since I'll be trying to get us unpacked in the new house). But I like the idea of a mandatory break. A few minutes to reflect on what I've accomplished. Or maybe I'll use the time to read a book. Or flip through a magazine. Or maybe I'll just stare off into space as I savor my leftovers.