Waste not, judge not

I'm currently putting out feelers to try to find someplace to donate Kai's old diapers and the powdered formula that formula companies always manage to foist upon you when you are pregnant. I hate to just throw these things out, because I know in my heart that there are moms out there that desperately need them. But I don't know how to get them into their hands. Hopefully I will make contact with a group or organization that can help.

And if that organization can manage to do so without passing judgement on the moms, more the better. The web sites and resource lists I've come across so far make me sick. Making moms prove they need help...making them take classes to earn diapers and baby needs.

What. the. everloving. F.

I am seriously considering starting my own damn charity. One where you don't have to do anything to get help but ask. One with no minimum age requirements for the mothers. (Again, whisky tango foxtrot!) Because the person you're really punishing by withholding charity is the baby. And no matter what you think of the mother's situation and choices, the baby had nothing to do with it.

Asshats.

My big girl

Anya keeps telling me she's a big girl. Usually the context is something she wants to do without help that I don't want her to do without help, like making me a cup of tea -- real, almost-boiling tea, not tea-party tea -- or changing her brother's poopy diaper. (Seriously...where did I get this kid? She is sweet beyond words. But also, ay yi yi. If she's this independent now, her teen years will be the death of me.)

She has little-baby moments. Where she wants to be picked up and cuddled and coddled and taken care of. No problem. I can do that. It's hard to believe that as recently as this past February, she looked and acted like -- and was -- a toddler. My baby girl. Round cheeks and pudgy belly and cuddles. And now...now she is a child. A preschooler. All long legs and maturity and helpfulness.

She holds conversations. She introduces herself and her entire family to parents in stores. She never fails to ask how you're doing, and will inquire about illnesses and injuries if she knows you've had them. She compliments your clothes and asks where you got them. She wants to know everyone's name. (If no name is provided, she dubs he/she/it Chocolate Candy Cane. No, I don't know why.) Her enunciation is getting better; strangers can understand much of what she says now, with little translation from me.

My baby girl is still in there. She still tantrums. Still pouts when she doesn't get her way. She wants my lap and her Mimi's lap  all to herself. Still needs to rub my earlobe as she falls asleep. There are growing pains, and new-sibling pains; she liked being the doted-upon baby, and sometimes resents the interloper (though he is "cute-cute") and the expectation that she be more mature now. She lashes out, acts up, goes "purple Minion." But she also rubs my back when I am tired. Talks soothingly to me when I start to lose it. Sings to her brother when he's teething, and makes him laugh when he's cranky. Helps me clean house on Saturday morning.

My big girl.

Running on empty

I've worked at least 8 hours a day for the past seven days, and will likely work 10ish per day for the next five.

My air conditioner broke down Saturday, and it took two days to get it looked at. It's still not fixed, either. Hopefully tomorrow.

I went under again this month. And my taller half worked another short weekend.

My daughter has been...well, a spoiled brat since spending the weekend with her grandparents. As an only child, I do not use those words lightly. I thought the "terrible" was supposed to end at 3.

My back hurts, my head hurts, my hands and wrists ache. Bad enough to wear this thing.

In this heat.

My sinuses are clogged from having the fans going 24/7, and of course I can't take anything for that.

I have had zero time to myself in days; I tried to sneak in a self-pity cry while showering last night, and even that was interrupted.

It's been one long effing week, and this one isn't looking any better from the front end.

I'm outta mojo, steam, happy thoughts...whatever you use to carry you through times like this. And none of the usual tricks are bringing it back. (Well, I haven't tried going for a walk. If I can't have a quick shower ugly cry, I certainly can't go for a walk.)

Times like this are the ones that make me miss having friends I actually see from time to time. Typing at people is great and all, but I could probably do with the occasional cuppa with some one sympathetic.

Preferably somewhere air conditioned.

The next phase

In my early years, fear was my motivator. Fear of failing, fear of being alone, fear of being with the wrong person, fear of disappointing my parents, fear of getting hurt. Everything I did came from fear. It's a sucky way to live.

I recently realized that I no longer operate that way. Now my motivator is guilt. Guilt that I am not working hard enough. Guilt that I am working too hard and not spending enough time with the kids. Guilt that I am neglecting my partner's needs. Guilt that I neglected myself for so long. Guilt that I wasted all that time in my early adulthood being afraid of stuff instead of doing something cool. This is not a much better way to live, but at least I get shit done now.

I recognize that this state is temporary. Everything I feel guilty about will no longer be an issue someday. What will motivate me then?

I'm hoping for joy.

Just look at what you're missing

A random thought hit me the other day: It's reasonably likely that I am, to one person at least, the girl who got away.

Not that I think myself a catch. This thought was part of a larger one: Odds are, everyone is "the one that got away" to someone.

This thought occurred to me as I was driving home with two screaming children in the back seat. It was 7 o'clock on a Saturday night, and most of the cars on the road were heading toward the city. Going out for the night. My plans consisted of baths, stories, and bed. I was hoping we'd all be asleep by 9.

I then wondered if this hypothetical person would still feel that way, seeing me coated in sticky toddler hand prints and baby puke.

Probably not. But it gave me a good laugh just when I really needed one.

Becoming a "good enough"ist

Gretchen Rubin advises not to let the perfect be the enemy of the good. I'm a perfectionist from birth (I am an editor, after all), so this is hard for me. But I get what she's saying. Doing something, even if it's not everything you'd hoped it would be, is better than letting your perfectionism keep you from doing anything at all.

The reason my books haven't gotten anywhere: They keep turning into chick lit, and I don't want to be a chick lit author. So I stop writing. Meanwhile, my best friend is making money from his writing. Sure, it's not his dream gig -- he's selling smut on Amazon. But at least he's being read. (And getting paid!)

The reason this blog isn't getting anywhere: I keep waiting for a topic idea (not an issue) and the time to write it (um...) and also time to polish the writing into something I'm proud of (ahahahaha). Ultimately, I don't end up posting anything.

I've been applying the "good enough" approach to other areas of my life. I am learning to live with a house that looks clean on the surface. (If a door is shut, please don't open it.) I'm okay with doing some form of exercise most days, meditating almost every day (even when I fall asleep doing it), and having well-rounded family dinners often. I should cut myself some slack in other areas. Like this blog.

I follow all manner of creative people on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. I like seeing how their minds work -- what they're doing, reading, making. It's inspiring to me. I don't want to be the person who works all day, watches TV all night, cleans all weekend, and never creates anything. But I have something most of them don't: Small children. Who also want a piece of me. And they come first.

Still, I want to do something. So I am going to try to post M-F, even if it's just a thought or a photo. Expect a rocky start; I've got a ton of freelancing work at the moment, and am also trying to get some other plates spinning (minor things like regular exercise and adequate sleep). I've queued up a few ideas to get the ball rolling.

Nick Hornby gets me

High Fidelity is on Netflix now. It's been a few years (okay, nearly two decades) since I've seen it, so I gave it a rewatch. And was pleasantly surprised that it holds up. The movie, the story, John Cusack...all of it. It's every bit as charming as it was in the theater.

I was also surprised at the revelations I had while rewatching the movie. Rob Gordon is my ex-husband -- I figured that out a long time ago, after rereading the book. But what I missed until now is how sad a person Rob Gordon is. Self-absorbed. Helpless. Childish. I love him because Nick Hornby's brilliant words are coming out of John Cusack's mouth, but would I like him if he were played by, say, Nic Cage? Not so much. He's too whiny. Too irritating.

Too much like how I used to be.

Guess that explains how a girl like me ended up with a guy like my wasband.

"Only people of a certain disposition are frightened of being alone for the rest of their lives at the age of 26," Rob says, "and we were of that disposition." That's me in a nutshell. Or was.

I was afraid to date for a long time after I got divorced. My ex was the culmination of every mistake I'd made thus far, and I'd made my fair share. I was, I said, too stupid to date. And I was not wrong.

I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. Blaming my current misery on events, people, whatever. Running from issues rather than dealing with them. I spent way too many nights staring at the ceiling in a sea of angst. Too many gorgeous days looking out the window, wishing I had a life.

Somewhere along the way, I changed. I am not Rob Gordon anymore. I'm not sure who or what I am, exactly. It's possible that I'm every bit as self-absorbed as I ever was, just busier. But I at least do things now. I have goals. Sometimes it feels like I have more goals than I can accomplish in one lifetime. I'm not sure that is a bad thing, though; it means I will never run out of things to do and see and learn.

Watching High Fidelity was like looking at a photo from my childhood; I remember being that person, but have grown so much that the person I was then would not recognize the person I am now. But, y'know, with an abundance of quotable lines. And John Cusack.