Why a blog?

It’s amazing, even puzzling—I checked this morning and as of today, there are about 1,800 other people in the Pittsburgh area alone who are keeping a blog. Not all of them are dedicated to it; some go weeks without entries. Still others post something several times on a single day. They’re men, women, kids, weirdos, mostly people who are strangers to me…except that we share a region of Pennsylvania and a desire to put our thoughts down in writing, via a somewhat or completely public forum.

Why do we do it? Well, I would guess that a lot of people who opt to write a blog are wordy; perhaps they have a lot to say and insufficient opportunities to say it. Some people may be seeking an audience, or hoping for input, or looking for a way to reach potential clients or voters or what have you. I suspect some folks just like to write; they prefer putting thoughts down on paper, or in this case onto a screen and hard drive. It’s enjoyable for them, and relatively easy to do; some of them may even be more pleased with their writing than with their speech, especially when you consider the frequently mundane, repetitive speech of everyday existence on this orb.

For some people, a blog is simply a way to record the day’s or week’s events. Truly, it isn’t that different from a journal or diary, and people have kept those for years, dutifully describing the often-dull events of a typical life. Many written personal histories never see the light of day, but the ones that do are sometimes cherished, a few even lauded—as little pieces of a forefather’s life, a distant relative’s journey, even rare glimpses into a famous person’s private world. Sometimes such a journal can offer amazing and valuable historical insights, as in Anne Frank’s heart-breaking diary.

I wish my own goals for this blog were lofty and far-reaching. They’re not. What is the biggest reason I wanted to do this? The real, selfish reason? Because it helps me reconnect with the person I used to be. Sometimes I feel so removed from my old self: my pre-baby, working self, my spunky single self who was ridiculously self-reliant and more than a tad self-centered. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that there are plenty of things about the old me that I’m happy to release. She’s not “all that,” by any means. Yet, there are parts of her I’d like to retain: the literate part, the thinking part, the part that finishes thoughts and sentences and notices what’s going on in the world outside her little bubble.

Being home with a toddler makes it easy to lose touch with reality. I’m sure that many moms out there would agree with me, especially when they recall the absolute upside-down feelings that occur after the first baby. It’s easy to forget that you still exist somewhere deep inside you, that you’re more than a warm lap, a food supply, a pair of rocking arms. Even as the child grows, a mom role can also grow and eventually consume the woman who used to reside in that same body. I don’t want to be totally consumed. I want to keep the best of both worlds, help them stay simultaneously afloat, teach them to hold each other up. Writing this blog helps me connect the two selves; it helps me sort out what’s worth keeping and what should be tossed like jetsam.

Is a blog worthwhile? Is it merely a smug soapbox? A narrated family album? Or is it just another expression of our culture’s absolute obsession with ourselves? It’s all of those, and more. Is it wasteful of my time and energy? Well, if I’m being totally pragmatic, of course it is. So are about 90% of the things that many Americans spend much of their lives doing and buying. Is it wasteful to have more than 40 TV channels? To drive gas-guzzling, expensive vehicles? To shower already wealthy kids with silly amounts of presents at Christmas? To participate in hobbies and pastimes that don’t directly benefit anyone? To pay millions of dollars to professional athletes? To eat out at restaurants that charge 2, 3, or more times what the meal would cost to prepare at home?

The whole issue of wastefulness is an entirely different post, and honestly it would be the kind of post I promised myself not to write. So, I’ll leave it alone. Whether or not a blog is a worthwhile pursuit will remain an opinion in each reader’s mind. I’ll keep writing, partly for you, but mostly for me. (Something from the old me that I'd like to maintain is the truth-teller.)

Talk to you soon! And happy autumn to you. Boots and sweaters weather at last--hurray!

Our family

We had a sweet moment here, earlier this evening. Todd was home from work, we’d finished eating dinner, and the “boys” were wrestling around being silly on the floor. Marcus was getting tickled, mostly, and I was watching from the safety of the club chair. When the tickling became a bit much to bear, the boy ran to the chair and piled in with me for protection.

Of course, we simply changed the method of torture, and both of us began kissing him relentlessly instead of tickling. We were all snuggled up in a few shared square feet, like warm fuzzy critters, and Marcus said through giggles, “This is our family.” And then, without missing a beat, he reminded his dad, “Daddy, that’s enough.” Tickling or kissing, I’m not sure which—but regardless, it was a priceless treasure of a moment.

See, that’s the stuff that keeps us going through the tough times, the weekends spent in and out of corners, the belligerence... A poignant statement about family, uttered by a 2 ½ year old—that’s a powerful thing.

The changing of the birds

Even with the wacky, unusually warm temperatures we’ve been experiencing of late, the birds that frequent our little feeder and birdbath are not fooled. They know what’s up, and they're moving—out, or in.

First, the tiny hummingbirds showed up less and less frequently, until I realized it had been several days since I’d seen any sipping nectar from the feeder. That was an exceptionally sad day for me, since they’re my favorite. I know, how trite—they’re everyone’s favorite. But I can’t help myself; they’re just such petite, delicate little things, and so fast; watching them move is like watching a bejeweled bauble come to life.

Then, I noticed all of a sudden that I hadn’t seen a robin for weeks. And there was a noticeable paucity of any little wrens, not that we’d had many to begin with. And then, last week, I saw a chickadee at the finch feeder. A chickadee! I hadn’t ever seen one of those before, not here.

The finches have remained somewhat constant, but even they are beginning to diminish in numbers. I miss their lively gold heads and sweet songs. The little red-headed house finches are disappearing, too. Do they fly south? Or are they simply moving to proven, more secure winter dwellings?

It’s fascinating to watch them all, far better than any reality show. The kid and I sit transfixed for many minutes as the colorful little birds jockey for position on the feeder, or wait their turn to drink at the birdbath.

The only birds who’ve stayed through every season thus far are the crows. They haven’t budged, the loud, annoying things. Their big inky bodies dot the lawn in the morning, and their insolent, shrill caws break into my thoughts. I always open the back door and clap my hands to get them to leave; it works, in that they fly from the yard, but then they perch in the neighbor’s tall oak tree, waiting for my guard to drop so they can return without being bothered. I can’t stand them.

Goodbye, summer—I fear you are truly making your exit this time. See you next year.

Falling short

It’s been a loooooong weekend. Marcus has spent many minutes in the corner. He’s been the unhappy recipient of a few spanks. It has not been pretty.

Every time I lose my temper, I resolve to be more patient, to keep my cool. I resolve to appreciate anew the blessing that is this little boy. And then, he unleashes his defiant, rebellious 2-year-old self. And I forget all those promises I made to myself, and to God, and I lose it. (I have seen him torment Todd, too, so I know it really isn’t personal… although sometimes it feels that way.)

I guess this is an ongoing process, this changing of my angry, short-tempered heart into an all-loving, grateful heart. And honestly, I can put these broken parenting resolutions in a big sack alongside other areas of my life where I resolved to change, to be better, and then failed again and again and again. Can’t we all think of areas where we made a commitment and fell far short? That metamorphosis (step forward, fall on your face, stand up and take another step, fall again) is all part of becoming a caring and effective parent, a supportive spouse, a thankful daughter or son, a considerate friend.

I cling to my belief that the awareness of failure has to be a step in the right direction. When you know that you need to keep working at it, keep praying, keep trying—surely that knowledge of your own shortcomings increases momentum in the right direction, toward the person you know you are capable of being. We can’t do it alone; maybe our repeated failures are intended to remind us of our absolute dependence on the Father. Thankfully, my failures as a parent--and my child's stubborn, self-reliant nature--can remind me that just as we love our little children (a.k.a. monsters) unconditionally, we are loved that way, too.

Yakkety yak

(Marcus has now lasted 36 hours without a fever. Hurray! I think he’s nearly mended from the second cold of autumn.)

Now, I've been known to berate myself for sometimes being cross with this sweet child of mine. I know I should be more patient, more understanding. I know I should be cherishing every moment of his tiny years. And truly, most of the time I do cherish him and my time with him. He’s a gift.

However. Even though he’s managed to shed the latest flu season malady, he continues to suffer from an ongoing condition that worsens daily. It’s rather serious: I believe its scientific name is Quietus Neverus. What am I saying? The kid never stops chatting. At me, at himself, at others, at his stuffed friends, his matchbox cars, even the TV. He talks and talks. He says things over and over until a somewhat proper response is elicited from his listener (or should I say captive audience). If no response is offered, then his monologue becomes louder, even vociferous—he is increasingly determined that You Will Answer.

When he speaks to his inanimate objects, he often gives them voices as well, so that a proper conversation can take place. This can be quite entertaining, as the objects themselves earn voice characteristics dependent upon their purpose and appearance; the steam roller and the elephant have deep, gruff voices, while Teddy and little tow truck have small, soft voices. And when his toys are having conversations, my ear gets a little break.

It’s adorable. It is. It’s just a bit much sometimes, such as when I’m lost and trying to find my way in heavy traffic (“Mama! Mama! There’s a puppy on that sign! Mama! Did you see the puppy? Did you see it? Mama! There’s Old McDonald’s restaurant! Mama, we go to Old McDonald’s? What’s that? There’s a big truck! Mama, car transporter! See it?”)

No, son, I didn’t see it. I DID see the street I was supposed to turn onto. It’s back there. I passed it.

But that’s okay. In a few short years, you won’t want to be seen with me, let alone talk to me. Keep on talking, little buddy.

To sleep, perchance to dream

What happened? I used to sleep like a dream. Blissful slumber was mine for the taking. Reaching the REM state was assured nearly every night; I awoke feeling refreshed, ready to face the day, the world, whatever it may bring.

Then pregnancy happened. Pregnancy and I did not get along too well. Among unexplained aches and pains, itches, giant pillows, and snoring (yes, I snored while pregnant), sleep fell by the wayside. All the other moms I knew laughed knowingly when I told them this; they looked at each other with a wiseguy gleam in their eyes, and said, “Yes, I remember—that’s to get you used to going without sleep. Then it won’t be such a shock when the baby comes.” Okay, that’s fine. Logical. Makes perfect sense. And it was kind of true, at least for me; by the time the wailing infant was entrenched in our home, sleeping more than 2 or 3 hours at a time had already become a very infrequent occasion.

But—ahem—the kid is now 2 ½. No longer an infant. And yes, he’s sick with a stuffy nose/cold/fever thingie right now, so sleep is not easy to come by for anyone in the home. But STILL. The reason I’m so beat today isn’t because I didn’t get enough sleep last night. No, I am exhausted and cranky today because last night was just one more night in which I slept like crap. The sleep I used to take for granted has become rare and elusive.

It’s partly because of the boy. Even when I don’t think I am, I still find myself listening for him, especially right now when his normal breathing patterns have been replaced by wheezing, whining, generally blocked attempts to take air into his lungs. Did the vaporizer use all its water? Is he too warm? Too cold? Is he on the verge of falling out of bed? Is his nose finally running, thereby plastering mucus to his pillowcase or whatever area of sheet he’s pressed his little face against? Perhaps I should just check…

Honestly, though, I can’t even blame the kid entirely. It’s his presence, somehow, and the way it’s altered me forever. I can’t quite relax like I used to. And I seem to have lost the ability to turn off my brain. Women stink at this skill anyway, and breeding has definitely affected my turn-off mode: That mode no longer exists. Prayer helps, but even that can't shut me down entirely.

Will it improve? Doubtful. I’ve already heard the stories about how you worry more as kids grow older. About how you never stop listening for them, even after they’ve left home. Besides, by the time that happens, I’ll be physiologically primed to a) go menopausal if I haven’t already, and b) simply require less sleep because I’m getting older.

Nap, anyone? Oh, wait—that’ll just make it harder to fall asleep tonight.

Coffee, anyone?!

Take me out to the show

Sadly, there have been some technical difficulties with the photos taken at the Pirates baseball game we attended on Friday. So, these Marcus quotes from game night will have to suffice. See if you can picture him there as you read:

“I want chips.”
This was spoken—repeatedly—as we threaded our way, overflowing nacho container precariously in hand, through people and up many steps and then back where we’d been (we had missed the entrance to the section where the seats were) and down more steps to our seats. By the time we were seated, he'd forgotten about the chips.

“I want some French fries.”
This was spoken after he’d stuffed himself with countless chips. He still had tortilla chip crumbs wafting from his lips as he made the request. (No, he did not get fries. The food at that park is darned expensive.)

“What’s AAAAHHHHTTTT? Look, Mama, a jeep!”
The object that brought this admiration was actually a little Pirates golf cart that scooted around the perimeter of the outfield.

“There’s the parrot parrot!”
This one’s a no-brainer if you’re a Pittsburgher—the Pirate parrot, of course. Marcus adored the parrot, his antics, the hot dogs he shot high into the sky, his dancing…all of it. The pierogi race was interesting, too—but Marcus had never heard of a pierogi until that night. He’s heard of a parrot.

“It’s time to go inside.”
He began uttering this, every couple of minutes, after the 7th inning had begun. Frankly, I was impressed that he’d made it that far; we hung in for the 7th inning stretch (which perplexed him) and then made our way out of the park.

“This is a big hill!”
There’s a giant circular ramp on one corner of the stadium, and that was the exit path we chose. He loved it. To punctuate its greatness, the ramp ended with a giant escalator.

“Is Willie Parker a baseball player?”
He asked this as we drove home. I had to explain the difference between baseball and football (hopefully you know that Parker is a current Steelers great). He also asked if we could go to a baseball game "adin." I guess that means he liked it.

P.S. Thanks, Shelley, for joining the fun!