« October 2007 | Main | December 2007 »
First Snow
Like a child, the earth's going to sleep,
or so the story goes.
But I'm not tired, it says.
And the mother says, You may not be tired but I'm tired --
You can see it in her face, everyone can.
So the snow has to fall, sleep has to come.
Because the mother's sick to death of her life
and needs silence.
--Louise Gluck
Some people persist in believing that animals don't have feelings. Silly humans.
Me, after hearing M crying upstairs as Jamie was helping her to get ready for bed: What was all that crying and stuff about?
Him: She was saying she was going to miss me when I died.
Me: WHAT? Oh no!
Him: And she asked if I'd still be alive when she was 6.
Me: What brought that on?
Him: I don't know.... maybe something to do with that book about dinosaurs you two were reading. Extinction, all that jazz...
Me: Oh yeah. Aww, poor sweetie!
. . .60 seconds later:
Me: Saaaaay... why wasn't she worried about when *I* was going to die, huh?
Him: Oh she asked about that too.
Me: And you told her I was going to be alive a long, long time?
Him: No, I told her that you were already dead inside. I said: “Mommy's been dead since the day you were born.”
Me: Great. That level of honesty is going to cost us at least two more years worth of therapy down the road, you know.
Goes by, simply, “Snaily.”
Though something of a Buddha molester, she's actually pretty fun to watch.
For Thanksgiving this year we made a pilgrimage North by car to the land of my birth: New Jersey. “Joy-zee,” as it's pronounced by the natives, with little to no irony. My Aunt Elaine -- who is my Father's sister -- still lives in the great Garden State, holding it down and keeping it real for Gaughrans everywhere.
And so we must return to pay homage.
My Aunt is something of a human powerhouse, let there be no doubt. She's a shining example of 1960s & 70s Feminism, a woman who rose to greatness, power, and self-sufficiency in the professional sphere, amassed something resembling a fortune, and has now retired to travel the world and work at her pleasure “for fun.” Growing up, she was ever-present in my life, perfectly coifed and well-put-together, forever business-casual and smelling of expensive perfumes with names I couldn't pronounce. And though as an adult her sophistication and gentility have often left me feeling oafish and decidedly uncouth, I've learned much from my Aunt over the years, and benefitted greatly from her seemingly boundless generosity (the reason I've never bought a car in my life? SHE KEEPS GIVING HERS TO ME. okthxbai!).
But, having said all that, there's something else you should know. My Aunt is a crazy cat lady.
No, she isn't living in filth with 50 of them... Though I'm fairly convinced if she could find a way to deploy a tireless army of cleaning robots to keep her home in it's typically furniture-showroom-pristine condition despite such a ginormous feline hoard, she indeed would. That woman loves her some fuckin' cats, man. Here, perhaps this visual aid will give you some sense of what I'm talking about:
I'm in yr Living Room, cloggin' your walls.
Continue reading "I'm in yr Thanksgiving eatin' yr stuffins" »
Because you are owed a Truman fix, here's a photo M snapped of the dog in question preparing to consume sweet Noah's digits (collateral damage, dude):
It can be spuds tiems nao? Nom nom noms?
...to Aunt Elaine's house we go!
Thanksgiving morning had just broken...
At least two travelers were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (one literally).
(Meanwhile I was seriously contemplating the need for and sad absence of a caffeine IV drip, natch.)
Tegan and Sara, Back In Your Head
from the album The Con
[Track Only]
This Saturday M attended a Pancake Mountain Dance Party with Tegan and Sara, and even got a chance to play their drum set:
Umm, I mean NATIVE AMERICAN.
Happy Thanksgiving, Kimosabe.
Posting will likely be light here for the next few days, as I will be busy gorging myself repeatedly on stuffing and mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce (all organic of course, ahem-cough), and may in fact be too bloated to type without feeling sort of, err, sea-sick.
What's that sloshing? Oh, IT'S MY BODY.
Here's hoping you have a wonderous holiday, one shared with family and friends, full of love and laughter and warmth and light.
xoxo PEACE OUT, BRUTHAS AND SISTAHS!
PS: Be sure to check out the Sweetney Site Of The Week!
So it's been a little over two weeks since I quit smoking. And I know that I'm now officially entering decrepitude and living on Old Lady Time because that seems like freakin' yesterday. Doans pills and a hot water bottle, anyone?
Anyway, yes, I am still quit. (QUITTER!!!) And I'm pleased to say that I haven't cheated once -- not even in the realm of nicotine gum, lozenges, or patches -- and though the first few days were an unremitting hell of physical withdrawal, I passed quickly from the smoking cessation version of the DTs into a miraculous recovery of a sense of overall physical well-being: I frankly haven't felt this energetic and physically alive since I was in my early 20s (when I of course never appreciated energy and health, or a lack thereof, unless it somehow interfered with my main life objectives at the time: drinking copious amounts of alcohol and flirting with cute boys (in that order, in most cases)).
Gee, it's almost as if I'd been RELENTLESSLY POISONING MYSELF EVERY DAY, SEVERAL TIMES A DAY, FOR FREAKIN' DECADES. (smacks forehead) (and gives self The Finger)
And with these feelings of healthfulness has come a kind of, well, optimism. Something along the lines of: Well, if I can feel THIS much better making this one, single change, how much better might I feel if I removed some of the other toxins from my life that I've been marinating in?
Okay, before you start looking at me sideways and wondering who the hell I am and what I've done with Tracey, please know that this does not mean I'm going to start listening to The Grateful Dead, playing hacky-sack, or wearing tie-dye. I am committed to bodily cleanliness, loathe the smell of patcholi, and firmly reject anything and everything smacking of overly-earnest college student hippieism. I have never been, and never will be, anything remotely close to touchy-feely, and my love is far from free. None of that has changed.
I am, however, very interested in not slowly killing myself and those I love with potentially toxic, chemical-laden substances that we may be thoughtlessly putting in, on, and around our bodies. Call me crazy.
This experience of quitting smoking has made me think a lot about my biology -- about human biology generally, to be honest. And let's all face facts: those of us who eat Standard American Diets consume a whole lot of processed crap chock full of chemicals and additives and genetically-engineered food-like substances that our bodies were never intended to process. Next time you're in the grocery store, just randomly pick up packages of any kind of pre-made food and marvel at the dyslexic alphabet soup of language under “Ingredients”. What the hell ARE those things? A lot of it borders on frighteningly Frankensteinian. I mean, yes, these chemicals and additives came from substances found on planet earth, but beyond that their origins are unclear. And logic would suggest that if we can't spell, pronounce, recognize, or comprehend these things in our food, our bodies might have just a wee bit of trouble dealing with them as well.
Like, DUH. (gives self The Dread Double Finger)
Continue reading "The one where I get all crunchy-granola on your ass" »
What M did with Amy's iPhone when she wasn't looking:
(Checks to make sure the coast is clear)
SSSSLLLLUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRP!
Well you can't deny that she has good taste. (heh. geddit? snort.)
No Children by The Mountain Goats
From the album Tallahassee
Easily one of my favorite songs of all time. Nuff said.
Last Thursday, as you may have heard, the Sweetney household was overrun by hostile foreign invaders a plague of locusts a sinister killer fog authored by Stephen King the Amalah family. I would've mentioned this sooner, but I spent most of Friday retching into a variety of household receptacles, while moaning piteously to no one in particular that my head might indeed explode at any moment, so BRACE YOURSELVES.
Such are the joys that friendship brings. Oh, yes.
Well, joys and three bottles of red wine. And some related head-poundy nausea. But no matter. FRIENDSHIP, PEOPLE! Let's remember what's important here.
My view of our shriektastic point-and-click Battle Royale, during which Amy took actual hostages. That's low, dawg.
Continue reading "Sung to the tune of “That's What Friends Are For”" »
By Hasbro! heh.
With this, M signifies her allegiance to both The Bloods Doggies and The Crips Kitties. How she rolls, yo. She's a uniter, not a divider.
The stuffed best friend du jour...
(EXHALE)
Hey, what happened to my site?! Heh.
Next time I get all ambitious and decide to completely overhaul my site after three freakin' years, PLEASE someone, stop me. There's a reason I hadn't redesigned Sweetney for so long. It's called self-preservation. For, like most humans, I tend to try to hold onto whatever small remnants of sanity I still possess, and avoid pain and suffering when possible. I'm nutty like that.
But after TWELVE GOT-DAMN HOURS, and much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and some weeping, and a bunch of unladylike swearing, and some stylesheet help from the ever-righteous Miss Zoot, VOILA! Sweetney 2.0, if you will. You like? I like. Please to enjoy.
BIG, FLAMING SHOUT-OUT to friend, comrade, and not-so-evil overlord of my husband, Bill Colgrove, who created the original Sweetney logo as well as this new redesign. He's one of Jamie's bosses and a kick ass designer at Threespot -- the web design company where Jamie works -- and I can never thank him enough for his time and energy and general awesomeness. ALL FOR FREE, mind you. It's a blessing to have talented friends, people.
More on all this, and the continuing story of my quitter's progress, and some stuff about my burgeoning quest to live a more toxin-free life (and not in a stupid old church, duh) to come... but now on to the confessional!
. . . . . . . . . .
True Mom Confession: I let my infant son stare at the TV in order to entertain himself... Not only when I am exhausted or busy doing other things, but just when I can't be bothered singing the itsy bitsy freaking spider for the 100th time that day.
Hmm. This is a toughie. Because on the one hand, I feel you. I mean, the Itsy Bitsy Spider can be downright snoozy, admittedly. But, on the other hand, I'm getting some haunting, flashback-like images of Clockwork Orange-esque forced television viewing, which makes me a little creeped out, honestly. Not that you'd, like, make your baby wear a bowler's hat and eyeliner or anything... Does he like baseball, by any chance? Yes? No?
Continue reading "Sweet(ney) Talk: Step Away From The Idiot Box" »
Somehow when they play, it always ends with him trying to eat her. Shame, really. (Not that I blame him. She is, after all, deeeeliscious...)
PS: Don't forget to visit the totally rad Sweetney Site Of The Week!
Our Lady Of Weblog Redesign has shone grace and goodness upon us. Let us give thanks and rejoice. (And then commence with the drinking.) (No, seriously.) (First round is on me.)
I'll tell you all this right now: my husband is fucking insane.
He has... how shall I put this? A very on-again off-again relationship with reality. It isn't so much that he's lost his grip on The Real, but rather that he willfully chooses to ignore it, editing out select portions of The Truth Of How Things Are that don't exactly jibe with his wants and desires.
What do you call that? Selective Stupidity? What?
True, there's an incredibly charming side to this aspect of his personality, and it's definitely something that attracted me to Jamie when we first began dating. Because, quite often, this detachment from reality thing manifests as a kind of exuberant, ecstatic, seize-the-day attitude -- something that is difficult to argue with without feeling like a Scrooge and/or being overcome with self-hatred. I mean, he's right: OF COURSE we should jet off to Vegas for the weekend... and buy that really expensive Tiffany ring... and spend $300 on one meal. You only live once, right? RIGHT?
Sure, I participated along the way. Sure, I've reaped the rewards of living with someone who's knee-jerk reaction is to always say YES!, damn any and all consequences. I'm not denying that Insanity Has Its Benefits, and that I've enjoyed those.
But my willingness to stretch reality for shits-n-giggles has it's limits, folks. And they were recently reached -- nay, pressed beyond -- when Jamie began campaigning for us to buy an old $900,000 stone church.
I'll let that sink in for a moment. Do you need some smelling salts? Because I sure do.
Alright, so let me get this part out of the way: is the church awesome? Yes, yes it is. It's a mammoth stone-and-stained-glass relic of Old Baltimore, complete with a freakin' antique pipe organ. It's huge and beautiful and kick-ass.
It is also NINE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS. That's the number nine, with five fucking zeroes. In case that wasn't clear.
Continue reading "My crazy husband. Let me show him to you." »
But no, well, you know.
And yes, I'm probably going to hell for this. See you there?
M: Mommy, what eats birds?
Me: Umm... well, people do. Cats do, if they can catch them.
M: Cats eat mice.
Me: Yes. And our cats have even caught bats. Which are sort of like mice-birds!
M: I don't remember that!!! (!!!!)
Me: This was before you were born. Wallace caught bats two different times.
M: And then you had me. And I peeked out of your pouch: “Hi!”
Me: (?!?!) Wait, am I a marsupial now or something? When did I get a pouch?
M: MOMMY-SUPIAL! MOMMY-SUPIAL!
My “I'm quitting smoking, and thereby saving us a gazillion dollars a year” present to myself. It's slightly bigger than a pack of Trident gum. I am IN LOVE. You'll be seeing the result of this love affair in the days to come.... squee!
Yeah, you should really read the fine print on the packaging.
Salsa loves boooooooze. (And can you blame salsa, really?)
And yes! The site of the week is Teh Awesome!
Before I leap headlong into today's confessional, I figure I owe it to y'all and your incredible support to provide some kind of update on my Quitter's Progress.
[drumroll]
It's day three. I still haven't touched the stuff.
In fact (not to toot my own horn or anything) I even gave up the nicotine lozenges after ingesting a single one the morning of the first day, because it made me feel as though I were Wile E. Coyote and that chalky-minty thing I was rolling around in my mouth was an anvil I was repeatedly braining myself with. My head went the proverbial KABLOOEY, people. I may have been a hardcore smoker for most of my life, but even I couldn't handle the pure, pharmaceutical-grade junk.
So yes, I'm on my way to being a confirmed quitter. I'm practically QUITASTIC! All told, I'm finding the habit part much harder to break from than the chemically addictive part, the practice being so much a part of the ins and outs of my day-to-day life for so many years that I still find myself preparing to go out for a smoke -- a compulsive repetition of a well-worn pattern that now summons a forehead-slapping “D'OH!” But overall, so far so good. Steady as she goes and all that. Please keep all available appendages crossed for me, however, as I can certainly use all the positive energy I can get.
(And thanks, everybody. So, so much. Again.)
. . . . . . . . . .
True Mom Confession: My MIL is appalled that my 5 year old refers to her vagina as her “vagina”. What would you prefer I teach her to call it. Her “woo woo”? her “na na” or should she just say “down there”? Get a grip, it's a body part and she is going to know the PROPER term for what it is.
How about “Hoo-Ha”? Have you tried that yet? It's a personal favorite! Errm...
Okay, here's the thing: while I 100% agree with you that young children should learn the proper terminology, and that there should be no shame whatsoever attached to the discussion of genitalia or their various wondrous functions, I must admit to being a user of the “Hoo-Ha” and “Vajayjay” myself.
Hi, My Name is Tracey, and I'm a Vajayjay addict.
Mortal enemies no more!
Panda Bear, Comfy In Nautica
A favorite of Jamie's, it's The Beach Boys on Acid... plus: SKATEBOARDING!
I know my limits, people.
(The final pix of the series...)
Today is a special day, dear internet. A horrible, yet wonderful day. To be perfectly frank it's a day I've been dreading for a long, long time, yet knew was coming, was inevitable, was necessary. A personal day of reckoning, if you will. For today is the day I'm quitting smoking.
[Insert here the sounding of majestic horns heralding my imminent triumph. Or strains of George Michael's “Freedom”, whichever you prefer.]
[Then inserts sounds of me retching, because at the moment I'm fairly overcome with fear and nausea, to be perfectly honest.]
I've been smoking on and off since I was thirteen years old -- with some degree of seriousness since I was around eighteen. That's a minimum of twenty years, or essentially the whole of my adult life. Meaning I'm not sure I know how to be an adult without smoking. Perhaps through quitting I'll regress back to my early teens, begin making mix tapes in earnest and brooding in my bedroom, and then reenter adulthood afresh without a rancid butt dangling from my fingertips? Absent the whole dreaded having-to-attend-high-school bit, that wouldn't be so bad, would it? Can you hear the terror rising in my voice yet, or am I masking that adequately with humor? Umm, ha-ha? HA?
RAWR!! WE WILL HAVE YOUR SOUL!
(These were 10-foot-tall monstrosities, producing the “Awe” seen earlier in the series.)
The Little Mermaid made a fuzzy friend!
When the lovely people over at True Mom Confessions asked me to write a column for them responding to some of the confessions posted on their site, sharing my own experiences and perhaps imparting a little advice, my first reaction was: errm WHA? Followed rapidly by: uhh HUH? Because, as those of you who've read my blog for any length of time know, I'm far from a SuperMom. I'm not an expert or even a self-styled know-it-all -- I'm just a regular Mom. And, like most Mothers, I've made mistakes, and fretted endlessly about my own parenting, and wondered if I've made the right choices. I still wonder, almost daily. Sure, there have been some bright moments of parental triumph mixed in with the self-doubt, but for the most part I'm not really sure that I know what I'm doing much of the time, learning mostly through trial and error as I've cleared a path through the Amazonian jungle of my daughter's early childhood.
Wait, maybe I should call this column “The Blind Leading The Blind”?
But after thinking about it for a few minutes, It dawned on me how the idea for this column was, in fact, PERFECT. Expert advice is everywhere on the internet -- you can't throw an e-rock without hitting some kind of fancy Professional Parenting Site, chock full of specialists and doctors and assorted other luminaries ready to provide definitive, capital-letter Answers and promised Truths about parenting. And while that's a wonderful thing I guess, these sites tend to not really address Mother's feelings about parenting, and the anxiety, worry, and loneliness I know that I for one have often felt as my daughter has grown from baby to toddler to preschooler. Those sites tend to not talk much about things like, oh, the sinking feeling you get that you are alone and carrying the weight of this tremendous responsibility of raising a child squarely on your shoulders, or that it's harder than you thought or anyone told you, or the sense that you're just flailing through by the seat of your pants, barely making it from nap time to nap time.
But I know. I've SO been there.
And that's the point, really. That all of us feel confused and exhausted, that we're all haunted by our missteps and failures (real or imagined), and that Motherhood can at times be so spirit-crushingly frustrating and lonely that what we need isn't to consult with a professional, but just to hear that someone else knows exactly what we're talking about, has felt those things too, and that we aren't alone.
So my purpose here isn't to impart glowing pearls of righteous wisdom (mostly because I don't have a lot of wisdom to go around), or tell you the right way to do anything (mostly because there is no right way). Instead I just hope to share some of my own small life experience and what I've learned, five years deep into parenting, that might be comforting or useful. Though my opinions may be informed by some actual real-world experience, they are, of course, just opinions, and it's not like I have a PhD in Parentology or something. No one does. (Well, except Dr. Sears and those people that wrote the “What To Expect...” series. They know everything, right? (snort))
My hope is that this will be a candid dialogue, with comments and sharing of your own perspective and experience -- a chorus of “Me Too”-ing, blended with a chorus of different opinions and alternate viewpoints. All points of view are welcome, as I believe that Mothers need to hear from each other -- to share the joys and frustrations of parenting in a honest, non-judgmental space. I truly hope we can have that here.
After all, as the tagline goes: Motherhood is Hard. Admit it.
On to the first confession!
Continue reading "Sweet(ney) Talk: I Don't Know What I'm Doing Either" »
« October 2007 | Main | December 2007 »
I'm an imperfect Gen-X Parental Unit from Baltimore. I believe in early afternoon cocktails, the greatness of Jon Stewart, and that being a smartass is a virtue. More about me...
