carl in casimirland.

V is for vent.
Stay-at-home-mom is kind of a dumb term. Full-time mom is even more problematic. Primary caregiver is a little stilted. But the next time some antiquated, moronic soul refers to me as a housewife, I'm going to correct them and instead just suggest housebitch. I think the latter is kind of less offensive actually, because at least it's got some sarcasm and irony going on. I'm also just tired of questions I can't even afford to answer. Would I take my kids on a vacation? Don't I need one? Are we going to finish the basement? Why not get a massage? Well, no, I would never, ever take my kids on one of them dangerous airplanes just so we can go to the beach, I like our basement with cement floors, and massages are creepy. Someone touches you! That's why I don't. Really.

This is a picture of my shrink. Sort of.
Well, not a whole lot has moved me to blog-blather lately. I must not be drinking strong enough coffee. Plus I've spent the last few days playing Pokey, which is a game Casimir invented. This basically involves me playing the Fisher Price Little People mechanic who Casimir renamed Pokey, putting him on the coffee table/matchbox car freeway, and asking Casimir if I can cross the road. Then Casimir says "No!" and continues to move the cars and tells me to ask again. Even Carl gets bored of it. Who says spending time with young children isn't intellectually stimulating?

And you know what, lately I've just sort of given up on the intellectually stimulating part. I'm so mentally frazzled sometimes trying to simultaneously let it all go and keep it together, that I find I am kind of conforming to this stereotype of stay-at-home-moms being intellectually stimulated by Dr. Seuss. It's because they're too damn tired to read the paper for at least a year. That's why. I was hoping that I'm still more informed on worldly affairs than the average American moron. But lately I've gotten most of my news headlines from the Yahoo homepage which usually reports on stuff like two-headed snakes and the world's biggest pillow fights. I also am no longer embarassed to admit that I adore America's Next Top Model and American Idol. And read tabloids sometimes. Next thing you know I'll be bragging about bargains. Oh, wait. I do that too.

I'm getting really good at letting things go though. I feel like it's all about the expectations. I constantly have to readjust my expectations and just let go, or I'd go postal. Oh I thought I was going to have a couple hours to read after I got them both to bed? Wrong, dumbass. Babies rebel, wake, and plans change. I feel like my 12-step program toward mental success right now is 1. let it go 2. don't worry about it 3. let it go 4. forget it 5. shut up and move on and you get the idea. I suppose in a grown up relationship, continually lowering your expectations and giving in all day would make you kind of a sorry ass. But unlike grown ups, kids actually do change, and most funky stuff is temporary. It's not that I don't need my (cue mommy speak) "time to myself." I do, and I have to pencil it in, announce it, and then just leave (with a grown up there, duh), or it won't happen. But in between those points of escape, frustration serves no purpose. Giving in seems to give me more peace of mind, and I'm even reading those inspirational sayings on the sides of my herbal tea boxes, so god knows something in me is giving.

Having children is like ongoing therapy if you ask me. Because nothing brings out your issues, shortcomings, or general fucked-upness like shifting your life focus onto raising dependent, helpless little people. My brain continually forces me to think so much about my own childhood, about what is hard for me to handle, and why, and I haven't even had to pay anything. I'm coming up with new inner resources for coping that I didn't think I had, and without Prozac and all those frustrating sexual side effects. It's not a bad deal, considering you get kids out of it too.

Paul took the two in the house who holler the most over to visit his parents so I can get some work done. But something about peace and quiet and children removed from the equation does not make me want to work, believe it or not. I was so thrilled, in fact, to be able to get something (anything!) done, I got all energetic and excited and even started cleaning and picking up in a big whirlwind, which is just, I don't know, DISTURBING. So I'm settling down to read some blogs and email, though I should probably really relax and sit down with a book and my friend Guinness. And I can't figure out what is with my old friends who live far away and are apparently email-impaired. We talk on the phone every so often and they're all effusive and all "we have to talk more often!" and then I email them and they respond like "Hello. I'm fine. How are you?" and that's it. I know everyone is not as gifted at typing fast as I am, but I wish they were more into daily emailing so I could at least feel like I'm communicating with grown ups during weekdays. Calling doesn't work really, because something about my talking on the phone makes Casimir dance in front of me shouting Mommy! and while I'm used to it and while it's appropriate for telemarketers, my friends probably wouldn't like it while at the office. Anyway.

I see so many glimpses of Casimir's baby self in Carl. Carl will be lying on the changing table with his butt in the air and his feet in his mouth, Casimir's old shirt on, and he looks just like a picture of Casimir doing that. I have so many pictures of each, I keep vainly leafing through them to find a couple similar pictures at similar ages, so that I could compare them, but I can't find any. I enjoy likening them to butter and margarine- alike but just different enough to tell the difference. And full of buttery, fattening goodness.