Girls clothes are so cute.You hear it all the time. And, yeah, well, they are.But moms of boys really need to quit their bitchin’. As I’ve sorted out my son’s clothing for the fall over the past couple of days, I can’t help but think boys clothes are daggone cute, too. And in a much simpler, more adorable way. No artifice, thank you very much. Sharp graphics on a t-shirt go a long way, actually. With a t-shirt, a pair of khakis, and a pair of sneakers, you can have yourself one fine fashion statement. Of course, I’m a sucker for the barefooted look, too.I can’t wait to get my son into some of his fall lineup. I sneaked him into one fall outfit today on a surprisingly cool morning: an orange long-sleeved t-shirt with a blue silk-screened cowboy boot. Plain and simple. And it almost took my breath away.Had nothing to do with the little boy inside the shirt. Nah, nothing at all…

Many people moan and groan as their thirtieth birthday approaches. Me? I couldn’t have been happier about the coming of the day. My husband and I nearly share birthdays — they’re two days apart — so we planned a big joint birthday pig-pickin.’ An outdoor affair in North Carolina in July could have been a brutal affair, but the Gods were shining down upon us that day: 75 degrees, cerulean skies, and a light breeze. Add in locally brewed beer, the delicacy that is smoked pig, friends, family, and a sugary birthday cake, and, well, it was bliss.But the happiness I was feeling wasn’t all about the party. I was honestly blessing the end of my twenties. Instead of the usual mourning of the passing of a youthful decade, I was elated to say goodbye, in earnest, to a decade of insecurity, uncertainty, and, yes, calling it as it is, depression. But my farewell was not one of “good riddance;” it was one of heartfelt fondness. It was a thankful celebration of the time that brought me much growth and laid the foundation for where I was on that very day: happily married, comfortably expecting my first child, and, in a word, content with myself.I thought all the work was behind me. And, in fact, for several years, I did little personal work at all; I simply coasted. I enjoyed being a new mother, and I even weathered what was a difficult birth experience, eventually turning it into a very positive experience. Indeed, much of my early thirties was smooth sailing. But then, the waters got rough.Suddenly, or, not so suddenly, I had two kids, I’d tossed away a career in which I’d worked hard to become successful, and I was floundering at home in my new environment. None of these changes were involuntarily heaped upon me; each decision was well thought out and carefully considered. Even so, months, even years after the decisions were made and the changes enacted, I found myself saying “I’m still not used to it” — not “I don’t like it”, but simply “I’m not used to it,” as if I hadn’t quite gotten entirely comfortable doing what I was doing. The shoe wasn’t quite fitting, or I hadn’t broken it in yet.To make matters worse, my support structure was fractured. While my family didn’t exactly disapprove of my staying at home with my children, I couldn’t help but feel I’d disappointed someone by apparently tossing aside a career and a college education for diapers and playground duty. And, from the stay-at-home mom front, I felt little connection. I didn’t buy into, literally and figuratively, all the mommy-and-me activities that filled so many other mom’s days. And, while I met with skepticism all the messages that my children needed to be constantly enriched and knowledgeable in their basic calculus functions by the time they’re four, being bombarded with a culture of hyper-excellence can be difficult to bear. Ultimately, it made me question what I’ve believed to be true all along. A seemingly ill-fitting shoe, a fractured support system, and a cultural message opposite that of my own suddenly-not-so-steadfast beliefs — a lethal combination, for sure. Rough Waters Ahead.And so, here we are. In the middle of Rough Waters. I say “middle” with thought. I haven’t just entered the storm, rudely shocked into a state of ignorance and unawareness, but neither am I out of the storm, thankfully resting in an eddy before moving on. Indeed, I’m well aware of where I am, tossing and turning about in the storm, but I’ve some work and toil before I get out of this mess. And, working on it, I am. But, some days I feel I’m merely paddling against the tide.It might be easy to map out the rough waters and note that they’ve coincided, roughly, with the time I’ve been at home with my children and then quickly draw the conclusion that I’ve made the wrong decision in staying at home. Goodness knows I’ve followed that train of thought more than once. But that train of thought is nothing but a train wreck.My troubles are not at all about staying at home versus being at work. I feel certain I’d be plagued with similar worries if I’d remained in the work force. Indeed, my worries are not about feeling secure with my position (or lack thereof) in the workforce; they’re about feeling secure as a competent mother, holding up my end of the marriage, and being fair and responsible to the people to whom I’m honor-bound. The worries and insecurities of my twenties were cake compared to what I face now. Back then, they were entirely and merely worries about myself; today, I feel as if my worries are ever-so-much more entangled in the lives of the people I love — which makes them more painful, I believe.And, in an extreme case of the absurd, I worry about my worries. It’s a struggle I have. Just what level of anxiety and depression is normal? When does it become dysfunctional? Some days, my worries really bother me. Those are the days I’m paddling against the tide. Other days, they don’t bother me at all. And every time I have a run of bad days — enough to make me think something might be really wrong, I’ll have a good day to let me know that my bad days are just that — just a bad day, nothing to worry about, after all.If all of this seems to be the ramblings of a lunatic, or, at the very least, a narcissistic idiot, forgive me. This, right here, is a little bit of paddling in action. I’ve been paddling on this entry for a while, actually. And, over the course of writing it, things have become a little clearer. I’ve caught glimpses, here and there, of things I hadn’t seen before — crested a wave, if you will, and I’ve seen the calm horizon in the process. One thing I’ve noticed is a common theme among all my otherwise incongruent worries: Am I doing things right? Enormous pressure, it is, that I put on myself — in all that I do. And I know this pressure just isn’t right; it’s what has brought me into these rough waters. But just how do I gracefully toe the line between pushing myself and pushing myself too hard? There’s the question.Right now, I don’t really know the answer to that question. I suspect, actually, it’s more a lesson than an answer. And I suspect it’s a tough lesson to learn.It’s a lesson in not being so hard on yourself. It’s a lesson in humility. It’s a lesson in simplicity and imperfection. It’s a lesson in understanding that we’re not above frustration, confusion and depression; we should gracefully accept this as our condition and seek, not to rise above such pain, but what’s beyond it. Even Superman can fall off a horse. It’s what we do with that tumble that makes us who we really are.I know one thing: I’m looking forward to my 40th birthday.

Evan’s very much an individualist lately. He wants to do everything himself. Or, self, as he likes to say it. In Self. Shoes Self. Chair Self. Bath Self. Dressed Self. Open-up-small-company, lead-it-into-wild-success, and-retire-impossibly-rich-at-twenty-five-Self. If it wasn’t so maddening, it would be absolutely delicious. You Go Boy.But my favorite? Whenever he does anything by himself, he’s sure to respond with the proper congratulations: “Yeah, Self!” Always accompanied by clapping hands, of course.If he can retain that self-confidence for the rest of his days, I can rest well.

Main Entry: quix·ot·icPronunciation: kwik-’sä-tikFunction: adjectiveEtymology: Don Quixote1 : foolishly impractical especially in the pursuit of ideals; especially : marked by rash lofty romantic ideas or extravagantly chivalrous action2 : the act of making two children’s beds with pillows and two sets of pillow shams, each (Plump, cozy and enticing, yes. A little too enticing. The plump pillows end up on the floor — three times a day)also3 : the act of cleaning the kitchen (Exactly three minutes after cleaning it, crushed goldfish crackers will be on the floor, peanut butter will be smeared on the cabinet doors, and dirty dishes will be dumped in the sink)4 : the act of picking up the play room (Before it’s even picked up, the toys will be out again)5 : the act of picking up a child’s room (See defn. 4)6 : my lifeBut, by god, my kitchen table looks nice.

Zoe is full of the attitude of a fifteen year old lately. In particular, she’s full of the attitude of a fifteen year old that raised Cain in a household on Yawl Point, oh, about 20 years ago. Named Kristy. So, needless to say, when she shows me that attitude, as much as it drives me completely insane, it also makes my heart melt. And it strikes the fear of God in me. Tim has been on me to encourage Zoe to learn to write. Let’s just say his request broaches a topic on which we have slight differences of opinion and leave it at that, for now. My response to his repeated requests, apart from me rolling my eyes, was finally articulated this way: “My daily interactions with her are already rife with conflict and tension at this point in our relationship. ‘Zoe, do this. Zoe don’t do that. Zoe, take your elbows off the table. Zoe, speak respectfully, please.’ Every time I’ve approached her to write something — and I have done it positively — it’s been received with negativity. I don’t need that. She doesn’t need that. She’ll learn on her own time. And her teachers can be the ones to do it, if it’s not me or you. She won’t go to college as an illiterate.” Literally.Today, as I worked a little bit more on a draft that’s been sitting idly for weeks, my daughter idled away with a pencil and paper for her “quiet time” activity. She then came up to show me her work.There, on the paper, were half a dozen “names” of the students in her class. The letters were as clear as can be; the spelling was as clear as mud. KZOBF. CXFDR. NEEOOL. SALNU. One line on the page, however, was entirely legible. That was the one that said, “Suck it, Mommy.” The smile behind the page said it all.I could have kissed her. And I did.

A North Carolina Legislature that finally got its head out of its ass. (And yes, that’s a judicious use of an expletive, thank you very much.) Finally, our state can enjoy the bottled bliss that is Hennepin, as well as any other beer with an alcohol content above 5% by volume. Though equally long in coming, this legislative coup was achieved with far less dirty politicking than our state’s passing of a lottery bill. Me? I couldn’t care less about the lottery. My vice is good beer.And as I toss back my fine brew, I’ll keep an eye on my back. Hopefully, Rita won’t turn a corner and head my way with a vengeance. Now, when I buy that lottery ticket…God, I love North Carolina.

We’re a, ahem, diverse group, to say the least. Which is a polite way of saying, I stick out like a sore thumb amongst the rest with coiffed hair and couture clothes. And, sometimes, my stockings show their runs more gauchely than other times. Like this week.I was recounting the story of a recent visit to a discount department store, building up to a tale of gross customer service. The build-up included a description of the scene, which was the shoe department of this discount department store. I described the shoe department fondly, succinctly, and faithfully as a clusterfuck.I was met with seven blank and thoroughly offended stares. Whoops. Not the right company in front of which to cuss, apparently. Discovered just a wee bit too late. Never one to really care about those things, and always willing to extend a white flag over such matters, I simply added, “Really, folks, it’s about as perfect a description as can be. I’m sympathetic to the judicial use of foul language, and, trust me, I’m using it wisely and accurately here.”Apparently, my white flag wasn’t well received. I’d offended soft, delicate ears, and it was time for my lesson. Here it was: “But, Kristy, would you like to hear that coming from your children?”It took me less than a nano-second to respond.”Fuck, yes.”

Being accused of deliberate ambiguity doesn’t become a wanna-be writer. Of course, I’m not a wanna-be writer. I’m a consultant. I should get a bonus for the other day’s entry, actually, if not the consultant’s Nobel Prize. But, for the sake of my readershi-, er, my kids reading this in years to come, I’ll explain myself.I’ve taken a contract position with a former co-worker (not at my former place of employment) to help deliver an information system for an insurance company in the coming weeks. I’ll direct the quality assurance effort, a task for which I’m highly over-qualified, but qualified, none-the-less. A pinch-hitter, so-to-speak. If all goes well, I’ll be in and out of there in the matter of a little more than a month. Wham, bam, thank you very much. I’ll leave my number on the table; call me next week.So, why all the ambivalence, you ask?In exactly one day, three hours, to be precise, I managed to erase two years’ worth of absence from the work place. With my hands at the keyboard, a system in front of me, and co-workers surrounding me, I slipped back in to my old self like I hadn’t ever stepped out. My mind was clear, my thoughts were sharp, my decisions thoughtful. I was, in a word, confident. It was a makes you feel good kind of moment.And?And, well, I knew it was a farce. As easily as I’d slipped right back in to all that was so good about working, I knew that there was plenty that was not so good still lurking behind the supply closet door. Office politics. Frustrations. Personal conflicts. The stuff that drives the best of us insane.No, I’m not ready to head back to the work force full time. I want to be home with my kids– most of the time. But there certainly is an appeal to a well-paying, on-going, part time gig, too. A little mind-sharpening work at an hourly rate that actually makes it worth your while? Appealing, to say the least. At least, that is, on the surface; there is, of course, the troublesome issue of trying to do two jobs part-time and getting only a half-assed job out of both of them. Ahhh, grass and its ever-changing states of greenness.Can you now see why Ambivalent was and still remains the word of the day?

Although our North Carolina weather lets me deny it for much longer than much of the rest of the country, I’m painfully aware that fall is knocking at my door. Well, maybe she’s turning the corner and heading toward my driveway in my neck of the woods, but, I’ll be raking leaves come November, at least. I’ve noodled on bringing out the kids’ fall clothing, though I know I won’t need it for weeks to come, and I’ve been eyeing the comfort food sections of my recipe books, though I can’t stomach the thought of macaroni and cheese for tonight’s dinner. That’s my schizophrenic way of saying I know fall is upon me, but I’m just not quite ready to accept it — yet.My most painful reminder? Evan’s haircut this morning. With each snip of the scissors, a little more of his summer highlights fell to the floor. Sigh. Summer Highlights Falling Like Leaves. Kiss.

New parents are never prepared for it, sure. Old parents laugh, a little sinisterly, when the new parents say “I never could have imagined how debilitating it is, this lack of sleep thing!” We laugh, because we know, and, well, because we’re sleeping once again.Except, I’m not laughing anymore.It’s cruel, actually, to have sleep wrested from you after you’ve been lulled into believing it’s yours once again. Evan’s letting me know that it is oh so not mine. Not at all, apparently. We’re absolutely befuddled by his recent turnaround in sleeping patterns. And, to be quite honest, we’re absolutely un-prepared for it. Sour is the mood in our house. Lack of sleep will do that to you.Sleeping like a baby, once again. As in, you know, waking up every hour and wailing. And it’s not just Evan doing the wailing.