Oh Mother Where Art Thou?

I think it's a good thing when you are so busy living your life that you do not have time to write about your life, except that writing makes me happy. I have so much to say. There's an upcoming unmarriage development, and I have to find the right (benign) words to tell you about it. I'm trying. Writing the truth sometimes makes people unhappy, apparently. Words hurt feelings and share details, and my intent is not to make the world mad at The Man I Will Soon No Longer Be Married To. I have to be fair and the-opposite-of-inflammatory when I publish anything about our family, but it's my truth and my journey, so I still get to write about it. 

 

I have spent weeks working on and off on a small painting project. As in, paint a layer and then wait seven days to paint another layer. This should be a full post with before and afters within a week.

Hello...is it me you're looking for?

Sometimes I get on the Blogger and I near-shriek when I see how long it has been since I last blogged, and then I get lost in a reflection of what I have been doing for the past however-many-days have passed between my last post and my new post (this one.) But I cannot recall all of it, because the answer is usually that I have been doing nothing. And everything.

 

Like engaging in giant battles of wills with the short people in my house over important social and familial issues like What Do I Have To Do To You to Halt This Apathy You Have In Non-Response to Not Figuring Out Seventh Grade Yet? and I Swear, Son, If You Do Not Resolve To Use Kind Words and Change Your Tone You Will Not Live To See Eleven.  Right now, I am not winning either of these, but I do not despair, because I am meaner and smarter and older and I am going to win both of these battles.

Knock on wood

Let's go back to The House That May One Day Be. We're closer and closer, but I am not allowed to state anything definitive about it until the potential owners have keys in hand. I jinx things. It is the opposite of the Midas touch. Like last Friday I signed a purchase agreement for my house, and today I signed a cancellation for same said purchase agreement. I am Suzanne.

 

This house needs some love. My peeps saw the house, and felt that they had the love to put in to the house, at a price that would allow them to love it a pretty good amount and buy some furniture. Not "new counters and backsplash before we move in" kind of love, but "let's bring a man with a paint sprayer in here to get this freshened up a bit." Also something about leveling the yard, which makes its own swimming pool when it rains.

Not as much as football

Please catch up on what we've got going on this school year before you keep going!

 

Raising a son with special emotional and developmental needs has always commandeered this blog. I talk about Jake more than Landen. Back here, we're exploring some sort of medical anomaly that I hope to have pieced together like some WebMD Nancy Drew with a great story at the end for how much better Jake feels. On the other end of that spectrum of activity, we have tackle football.

 

Warning: this will make you swoon.

Maybe this time

Two weeks ago, I did room boards for a particular living room built around a gray sectional. This week, I'm back, still unable to tell you about the house, but having played and put together room boards for a linen sectional. Because this is what I do when I cannot sleep. Sometimes the excitement causes an inability to sleep.

 

This one got a big "no." Because it's too fancy and impractical. It is not Rock Hudson or Doris Day. Maybe some Elizabeth Taylor with some Nate Berkus. I suwannee, who would not want to have an old fashioned in this room at the end of the day. Especially with a roaring fire and Charlie Hunnam.

Set this party off

Updated: my cousin just reminded me that her father, a Wilson, married an Allbritton, her mother, who is also from the same original group of Allbrittons as my wasband. Our Wilson-Allbritton wedding invitations were a joke because of this. That Wilson-Allbritton union went belly-up as well. From the source: "I would devote a whole page to explaining why Wilsons and Allbrittons CANNOT marry....like a chemical reaction, the chemicals are initially attracted to each other and create a really pretty color...then explode after seven minutes of chemically bonding." Because, people, this is science, which is always true.

If you want to add to your understanding what it means to live as perfectly imperfect (to augment what I clearly have to teach you about it), go read this blog at Momastery. Joy unto me. Because you know that split second between when you realize you are about to spill something that is going to be difficult to clean up and the moment it actually happens? That mood-altering moment between oh sh*t! and sonofabitch! I exist in that space, almost entirely, from head-off-pillow to head-on-pillow. And I'm not afraid of it at all, because I do it boldly, assertively, and with supreme confidence that more often that not, I will not make that big a mess.

In the gray area

One of the blogs I read religiously chronicled, among many enlightening and hilarious parenting adventures, her struggle to adopt a child, after birthing three. She was convinced there was another baby out there for her to love, and she was denied by every agency and every country at every turn. But then her sister got pregnant with her first child, and she realized that her nephew was the baby she felt a calling to have and love. Plus, it was not as expensive for her.

 

This week, I'm leaning toward renting when this mothereffing house sells. In a big complex, which makes me uneasy about sending the boys outside to play when I just cannot take the noise anymore they need fresh air. We do not have high school plans for Jake yet, and the LAST thing I want to do is buy now and need to get out in less than two years. So renting seems safest, and if I rent on the SJS bus route and save myself $250 a month from after care, fiscally prudent.