Entries Tagged 'Reality check' ↓

Update: So when I read this post 24 hours after I wrote it, I decided I should have titled this “My Bleeding Heart, Anti-hate, Tempter Tantrum”. Not that the points I make are any less valid (because I’m quite proud of my bleeding heart). But sometimes you just have to yell it out right?

*Cleansing breath* and hoping for positivity.

*****

This is one of those posts where I’m not sure if I want to hit the publish button. And I’m not even two sentences in. But I know. The words are up in my head daring to jump out onto this post.

I know I haven’t shared my opinions on anything specifically political recently. Why?

… searching for an answer…

Things are tough out there. Nothing is easy. Which isn’t what discourages me so much. It’s how horrible people have become as a result. And when I get so discouraged and so sad about it, I quiet down. Not so constructive, huh?

Yeah. I know.

But as of this moment right now, recently set off by someone’s comments in passing, I’ve kind of had it.

So I’m just going to say it.

Stop. Stop hating our President because he isn’t what you’re used to. I don’t care how mad you are a democrat was elected. I don’t care what you want to believe. He is American. He is Christian. His middle name is also Hussein. And he’s bi-racial. Stop stop stop letting that freak you out so frigging much.

Stop deciding a person of another faith is less American. Stop hating differences. Stop deciding where someone can worship. Stop pigeon holing, stop assuming, stop blaming 9/11 on anyone with a head covering. Stop deciding that people who speak another language are second class citizens.

Stop buying the horse pucky being shoveled out to you thanks to all those Glenn Becky entertainers posing as legitimate news resources. They make it ok to fear otherness. They tell you information that is not true. They tell you this and you think its the nightly news. Its not. It warped and misinterpreted and worked to sound exciting and controversial so that you turn on that show. And they get paid a lot of money for promoting news-looking information that is simply wrong. Don’t be so easily swayed. (That goes for liberal news pundits too. I’m well aware.)

Don’t settle into your comfortable homes and hope that people just like you move in next door and if they don’t well then Obama wins and what a horrible President he is. Stop it.

Stop forgetting to think for yourself. Challenge yourself with different. Make yourself learn more. Read and listen and open your mind and heart to lots and lots of resources. Question everything. Come to your own conclusions.

Stop blaming. Stop promoting hateful language and feeling smug because some new party says its ok and then do nothing – NOTHING – to make anything better at all. Be constructive.

Be yourself. Don’t fall in line with what the majority thinks just because its easier to agree than disagree. Celebrate new and interesting differences.

I don’t know best but neither do you. Stop yelling at people to get off your lawn and start working together. Stop allowing fear and misinformation to divide and conquer.

Its not his fault, or hers, or theirs. It’s ours. It’s time to take some responsibility.

….so.

I’m running out of momentum now. I’m not even sure this is worth posting after all. I got it out of my system. But I have to wonder if it even matters anyway. If those who feel irked by what I write will just turn their noses, call me wrong and go back to what they were doing all along anyway. If they even read it at all. And those that agree will just agree.

So I remain discouraged. Reading unbelievable news headlines, trying to find something constructive somewhere and hoping hoping hoping this hate begins to abate somehow.

I still haven’t decided if I want to click publish. But I suppose you’ll know if decide to bother.

I have some interesting and odd spots on my skin. Like some living astral phenomenon, one could spend a lot of time mole-gazing and making varied celestial dot to dot creations across my skin. A triangle… the Southern Cross… look Ma, the Big Dipper! I have moley skin. So did my mother. And she had melanoma at my age.

Last week, my friend Julie posted about a small innocent looking mole on her belly. It turned out to be dysplasic. She posted a picture of it and said she had to have it removed.

Huh.

Once I was done reading her post, I lifted my shirt up and stared down at the brown blips connecting the Big Dipper. Her mole looked a whole lot like so many of mine. In fact, I think I had her mole about five times over just where I had lifted up my shirt.

I don’t think five minutes had passed before I was on the phone with the closest Dermatologist I could find. They could see me next Monday. Perfect. I’ll be there.

Today is Monday and, after being looked over with a very fancy brand of flashlight in the doctor’s office this afternoon, the verdict is in. I too have a small innocent looking mole camped out on my tum that needs to go. Just like Julie, it shows signs of mild dysplasia which means it may harbor potentially pre-cancerous cells. After next Monday, the Big Dipper won’t be quite so big after all.

So how do I feel about all of this? Actually, I feel pretty good. I am glad I made that call and had my mole-gazing done by a professional. I am thrilled that there is nothing too serious going on. And I am relieved I caught this one sly spot before it it turned on me and potentially changed my life down the road.

And I am kind of inspired by the power of blogging connections and the change writers can affect just through words. Julie’s post slapped some sense into me. Duh. Go get checked. I live in Florida – land of excessive and uber damaging sunlight – and I have a history of skin cancer in my family. What, did I need sky writers to get me there?

Nope. Just a writer, another blogger, telling her story.

I hope I inspire some of you to go get checked. And if you would like to learn more about taking responsibility for your health, check out the American Cancer Society’s new campaign called Choose You.

So back to mole gazing but with a decidedly more watchful eye.

I think… yep, I think I just found Orion’s Belt.

My tomato finally ripened.

And I could try to find some sort of symbolism in it. But I won’t.

Because sometimes everything just plods along and there doesn’t have to be any kind of grand interpretation of it all. Because days pass and that’s fine and there isn’t a significant moral to any sort of story. Because for the first time in awhile, I don’t feel like there is something very sad suspended just below, waiting to break the surface tension and disrupt my very carefully tended sense of steady.

All is well. All is peaceful. The tomato ripened and needed to be picked.

And like cigars, sometimes a tomato is just a tomato.

So. I sliced it up and put in my lunch salad. Without any over-wrought writer’s fanfare.

There are lots more blooms on the verge of budding however.

It’s all very promising.

I’m going to use the tomato plant analogy again. So consider yourself warned.

My tomato plant broke. With the best intentions, I heaved my now fairly enormous plant (still boasting only one thriving tomato but many new budding flowers) out to the backyard during a soft rainfall. And during the transition, it swayed suddenly and broke itself.

I should have known. These plants need to cared for with cloth ties and trusses and all this extra stuff. They need support.

I should have known.

I know it’s only a tomato plant. I know I give a damn far too much. I know there far worse tragedies in the world. Still. The way it suddenly snapped in the wind, snapping because it was just too heavy for itself, kind of broke my heart. And certainly stood for where my mind has been recently.

Be warned readers of mine. If I don’t write for awhile it may be because I am busy with real life. Or. It may be because I’m having a tough go of it. Yes, again.

So there I was with the wind picking up and the rain pouring down and not enough support for this now precariously crooked and bent plant. I said many bad words. And my three year old heard it all. Wonderful.

I hauled it back under cover and leaned it up against the screen on the porch. Hands on my hips, I stared at it. Hands on his hips, my three year old stared at it too and asked what’s wrong.

“It’s just mommy’s silly plant. It’s no big deal. Mommy is being silly about getting so upset over a silly little plant.”

“….Silly mommy.” He affirmed. And went back to his broom riding. (Back to cackling and riding my 6 year old’s baseball bat around the porch. Maybe I had mumbled something like “Auntie Em” having seen the storm coming…)

Still, as soon as Morningside Dad arrived home, I took off like a shot to find this plant some much needed support. I found it at the local Walmart, jammed it into the back of my car, and returned home to my wounded plant. With some gentle nudging and stringing and positioning, the tomato plant has what it has needed all along. A little support. Which I should have KNOWN it would need. And I should have prepared for ahead of time. And maybe not dragged it out in the middle of a storm and assumed it was strong enough and would be just fine.

The top portion may not make it after all. And that’s ok. Watching one portion die and get snipped off hardly means the whole thing is done for. Really. If cared for correctly, all will be well and there is no need for the usual dramatics. Sure, it might change shape a bit, it might take longer to fruit, it might not flower for awhile. But it will come back with a little support and some careful nurturing.

You get what you ask for right? It certainly was asking. I just need to pay it some attention before it, you know, snaps.

Once again I am taking my cues from a tomato plant.

And once again this analogy is about as subtle as a jackhammer.

But who cares. Maybe subtle isn’t what I need. Maybe stating the obvious loudly enough will slap me upside the head and remind me to take better care of myself and ask for what I need.

I’m green at all this sometimes you know.

Yep, another tomato joke. Thought you’d appreciate that.

When I woke up yesterday morning with no particular plan for my family, I sat down with my cereal at the computer and happened to read this article. The headline read:

“Oil Spill: DEP says it will hit Florida’s beaches mid-week”

I immediately felt ill. Ever since hearing the news about this spill, I have felt desperately ill. It has seeped into my conscious and I can’t seem to shake it. Last week, when I read the Governor’s reaction upon seeing the spill from the air, my stomach lurched once again.

“Until you actually see it, I don’t know how you can comprehend and appreciate the sheer magnitude of that thing.”

And it’s still spilling out. It’s not capped. Just erupting into the Gulf ceaselessly and oozing its way across the Gulf’s expanse. And now, it will hit our shores this week.

I want to spit.

I’m heartbroken, I’m powerless, I’m really really angry.

So without thinking twice, I announced to my family that a trip to the beach was in order. We better go enjoy it. We better spend a whole day appreciating what a fantastic slice of the natural world we have 45 minutes away from our front door.

And of course I packed my camera.

I want to share with you what we have here – what one small section of beach in Florida looks like.

This beach is in Tarpon Springs, a small town north of Tampa. This beach is in a park actually and we pay nothing to be there. The water is shifting, rolling glass – clear, blue and breathtaking.  The wildlife rivals any aquarium. Locals fish on the beaches edge and pull up striped, gulping species that I certainly can’t name. And it is nothing new to find dolphins swimming around the periphery hoping to snag a fish escaping a line. I got so close to a dolphin once I could have reached out and pet it. There are stingrays and birds and starfish and sand dollars and hermit crabs and horseshoe crabs and regular crabs. There are these small sand colored fish that nibble at your toes in the surf. There are beautiful tiny white shells lining the shore. And powder fine sand, like nothing I’ve seen, that you sink your feet into and then swear you’ll give up your job and your life in suburbia so that you never ever have to leave.

It’s heaven.

And it’s all up and down this entire coast. A resource like nothing else. A resource we take for granted.

So what can I do? As if some super sentimental post about my favorite beach will do anything at all. The oil is coming and we are all sitting aside, waiting and watching. Powerless.

Obama calls this “a massive and potentially unprecedented environmental disaster”.

I don’t even know what to say to that.

I hate oil. I hate that we need it for our cars. I hate that we haven’t worked harder to harness other fuel resources. I hate that this kind of crap gets tied up in politics and partisanship and money and power and who has whose back. Our coasts and livelihoods and amazing wildlife care nothing about all that. But they will certainly pay dearly for it.

So why don’t we leave this post on a humorous note, shall we?? Because I think we could all use a good laugh right about now. And whose better at inspiring a giggle or two than our good buddy Sarah Palin? Here’s what she had to say to Biden about drilling during the Vice Presidential debate over a year ago (via The Huffington Post):

“You even called drilling — safe, environmentally-friendly drilling offshore — as raping the outer continental shelf. There — with new technology, with tiny footprints even on land, it is safe to drill and we need to do more of that.”

It’s time for me to start working again.

Again. Like I haven’t been working for the past two years. But does it really count?

Over the past few weeks, I have been reunited with my old resume again. The years-old file was pulled up, dusted off and, with some effort and focus, it is now finally updated. But all this focus on my experience and value as an employee has got me thinking about my own perceptions of work and blogging and how it’s counted after all. 

Before I was a blogger or a parent, I worked “for real”. I had a decent salary, I wore suits to work, I had an assistant and people I supervised and years of experience in a career I liked well enough for the time being.

Fancy, huh?

But then I had my first son and, after some heart stopping birth trauma, I dropped that nice salary to stay home and watch my son breathe and feed and make sure he actually exisisted after everything we went through.

And I don’t regret it. Almost seven years later surviving on one salary and a miracle, I am proud of every second I’ve spent watching both of my boys live and play and grow into the people they are today.

But during that time, I started blogging. Little ol’ me started writing and writing and writing. I found a furious affection for it and just kept writing. And then readers started reading. Two years passed and here I am with an enormous archive of posts, a boatload of loyal readers, experiences beyond anything I could have dreamed of and such curious titles as “Mommy Blogger” , “Freelancer” and “Influencer”.

Still. While I updated my resume, I wasn’t initially sure what I had to show for myself recently. Even after all of this hard work and all of these posts. It didn’t seem to count as “real” work. Why? Well, no one is paying me to do it. No one is standing over my head with deadlines expecting me to pump all of this out. I don’t have a fancy office or an assistant or co-workers to go have drinks with after work. No salary and benefits seems to give all this Morningside Mom stuff so much less value in my mind.

Which is wrong.

And when I fill out my information under “employment” on forms or meet new people or talk to family members about what I am doing, I’m still a stay at home mom – oh, and who happens to blog *blush*, which is no big deal.

Not ok. At least in my own mind, it deserves more serious consideration and, well, pride.

Why is that so hard to find?

There has been a lot of recent discussion about parent blogs, some of it not so positive. As if we are some sort of  catty, free stuff grabbing, bon bon eating, children ignoring, blog writing annoyances. As if we’re not here taking our work seriously while still parenting our children well. As if we’re not actually professionals – fancy salaries or not.

But doesn’t it say something about a person to love their work and focus so carefully on it and maintain a purposeful writing schedule and attend expensive conferences and hold themselves accountable when they have nobody breathing down their necks and are paid absolutely nothing to do it?

And I have to wonder if the fact that we aren’t paid to be “influencers” does us some damage. Because not only are we at risk of not taking more pride in our own work, but we are more easily written off by media, companies and the interwebs at large. We’re just misinformed, chattering outlanders: not journalists, not paid professionals. And if you don’t like what we write, who cares, no one takes bloggers seriously anyway. Clearly, not being held accountable or associated with a particular company or not being given a monetary value can absolutely translate as no value at all.

Screw that.

After all these years of working and writing and caring so much about what I do certainly gives me and my writing value. And as I plugged things into my resume and reviewed posts in my archives, I realized that I have a ton of experience. A ton. While raising my boys, I’ve managed to get an extraordinary amount done on my own accord. And I’ve done it well.

I know being home alone without any one patting me on the back has withered my confidence to some degree. But resume writing always results in important soul searching and I’ve come to realize that all of this – right here, where I have so diligently and loyally posted my thoughts and reviews for over two years - deserves pride and it deserves recognition.

So there.

Ok. So fine. I feel a little better about myself. And that’s very nice, isn’t it? But what will it really mean down the line? Will I find employment doing something I already do and love doing? Or will I find myself starting from scratch because maybe my value as an employee doesn’t really translate just because I have a blog where I write.

Isn’t that nice, dear. Now. What have you REALLY done, hmmm? Perceptions of bloggers are what they are, no matter how much value I give my own work.

I’ll keep you posted as I always do. Until then, I have some ramblings running around in my head about my usual topics: my kids, some punditry, fabulous upcoming giveaways, missing my mom, Florida living, random ponderings and so much more.

It’s what I do and – take it or leave it - it’s what I do well. Let’s just hope that folks who might actually pay me in real, actual dollar bills think so too.

I’m a big fan of the ladies over at Aiming Low. So I am ripping a page out of their book today (imitation being the highest form of flattery, of course) and will attempt to explain just exactly how low I can aim. Specifically? When cleaning. I make a total shamockery of the whole concept of house cleaning. And here’s how I do it.

Wait, let me back up and tell you why.

While some of my childhood friends had things matched and just so and put away in their places, I did not. I could care less about order. Many memories of my mother include exasperated pleas to do something about my bedroom. But my kind of cleaning usually resulted in finding old stuff and playing with it in the very corner I started in until she came back in and saw me off in la-la land still surrounded by the shambles of my bedroom. Call me rebellious or just a particularly lazy kind of lazy or perhaps distracted by my own unique style of creativity (oh, I like that one), I kind of only barely did anything to make heads or tails of my own living space.

Then I became a grown up. And when dishes got left someplace or the rug pilled exotic animal hair balls, I heard my mother’s voice grumble from under my breath: “Who do you expect is going to clean this up?” Me. Damn. Do I have to? I guess.

So, yeah, I clean now. But only because I have to. And usually only when I invite someone over. Or I get mad. When I’m mad, I love to clean. So consider my home a happy place when it’s dirty (which is often, so yay for us). But maybe worry if it’s too clean. Really. Or else just expect company to ring our doorbell in the next 5 – 10 minutes because that’s about how clean it will remain with my boys at large, trailing dirt from shoes, dismantled toys and sandwich crusts.

But if I hate to clean so much, how do I do it exactly? You should not be surprised to hear that when I do clean, it isn’t the most thorough job ever. Shocked and appalled, I’m sure, but you need to understand that buffing the underside of the frig’s crisper drawers just doesn’t turn me on. It just doesn’t, I’m sorry.

Ok, time to discuss cleaning itself. I’ve procrastinated enough. I usually start with the dishes. Because there is NO way a home can be considered even remotely clean if there are dishes in the sink. So that means unloading the dishwasher, cramming everything haphazardly into whatever cabinet that fits it and slamming the doors shut to keep it all from falling out. Then cramming the dishwasher with whatever could possibly fit in there too. As long as the spinning water thingie on top clears, we’re good.

Then I wipe down the kitchen. No I don’t pick up the toaster and look for crumbs. No I don’t scrub every milk circle off the table. No I don’t scrub the scum off the stove burners. I have, but you have to be some big-wig kind of company for me to go that far.

Then I sweep. Where you can see. (Do NOT move my couches or you will be asked to leave my house.)

Vacuum? …Maybe. It depends. I take a step back and eyeball my carpets. Like a ripe melon, you just know when the accumulated grime is impossible to ignore.

If there is a splat of something on the floor, do I grab the mop and wet the whole place down? I’ve done it before. A few times ago, I did it. But usually? I grab an anti-bacterial wipe and spot treat. Perfection.

(Note: Those antibacterial wipes are fab. No sponges or extra spraying steps. Wipe everything down and you know bad germies are gone(ish). Yes, I know they’re wasteful. But one goes a long way, let me tell you. Or at least they do for me…)

Oh. Clutter. Yeah, there is always a place for that. Usually in the guest room. All things unwanted and undealt with go to die in my guest room. And then when you are looking for tax forms or insurance cards, you always know where they are. More or less.

(No, I file stuff. I have special piles. I know where everything is. Not to worry. …Don’t look at me like that.)

Toys? Oh I have a favorite spot for toys. If they don’t fit into the established toy baskets or if they are falling apart, they usually go in a bag to charity. Seriously. If they are cluttering everything up and aren’t being used, buh-bye. Easy.

Laundry might be my favorite. Well, at least the part where you can throw heaps of it into the washer and shut the top. Voila, gone! It’s just the part about taking it back out again and sorting and folding it. Lame. So my kids get their school clothes out of the “probably” clean hamper. Wrinkled? My husband’s remedy is to sprinkle them with water and throw them into the dryer for a couple minutes. And yes, this is a wasteful use of electricity. Duly noted.

So them’s my tricks for clean living here at Chez Morningside. Feel free to steal a couple. Or take this post as permission to let yourself slide now and again. Because any parent of young children who takes the time to perform multiple exercises in futility clean regularly should expect it undone within the hour.

Granted, if you get mad about that, maybe you’ll want to clean again.

Funny how it all works out.

I have lines on my face.

And so does just about every woman in her thirties and far far far beyond.

But humor me while I quickly consider this fact. And you probably will since I’m going to bet that many readers have been at this moment, pouting deep within the indulgence of his or her own ego, realizing that her face is simply not what it was.

In those very early, hardly adult years, I think a lot of us kind of kid ourselves. Not me. I won’t get lines. I’ll be one of those Jane Seymour types that never ages. Lines happen to everyone else. Like my mom. Or, ok, if I do get lines, it will be a long, long, very long time from now. Like when I’m as old as Rose from “Titanic”, and they will look beautiful, regal and well earned after the amazing life I’ve led. And then with a dramatic sigh, I will die peacefully in my sleep with memories of steamy love affairs with Leonardo DiCaprio comforting my way to the pearly gates. Lines show up then. Not now…

Not true.

The other day I was flying about my house trying to get my kids out the door to a game. Did they have their shoes, where are their snacks, stop hitting your brother, get in the car, STOP hitting your brother, where is my cell, SIT DOWN, stop hitting your brother, here is your water, are you strapped in, ok.

And I shut the car door.

Well, there I was staring back in the window’s reflection. I’m not sure what it is about a car window’s reflection – but I saw it all. Or at least more than I usually do. Deep, annoyed grooves, pressed lips, sagging parentheses around my mouth, horizontal zigzags across my forehead and two harsh vertical divots between my eyes which I believe are called the “elevens” (thank you Dr. 90210 for naming the ugly).

So much for Jane Seymour.

Now I know this is nothing unique and hardly deserves any sympathy. I am 37. Time goes by, your face changes, suck it up. I’m not even all that woeful and wishing I was a pretty little 23 year old thing. Because I’m just not. I’m a 37 year old mature, regular, typical mom thing. And that’s totally fine.

But seeing that reflection was certainly one more lesson in vanity and the useless time wasted on vanity, a lesson on time gone by and of course my own mortality.

I watch my children grow and run and change around me everyday. My six year old’s ankles have suddenly shown themselves under the cuffs of his pants legs. His new, adult teeth are boldly making their place in his mouth. I find him standing with his hands in his pockets, or lying on the carpet with his hands behind his head – glimpses of the relaxed adult he will be. And my three year old is going to school too and even reading. And finding the bathroom when he needs to go on his own. And finally taking turns. They are morphing before my very eyes, becoming something completely new over the course of days, months and years.

Why do I assume that time stands still for me? That I remain unchanged and unaffected? I honestly shouldn’t. Because I don’t.

This post isn’t supposed to be another wistful feel sorry for myself blather. I mean it. I don’t think I look particularly awful or anything. And I am certainly not hoping to score some free botox for a nice little review on my site. (Although I’m betting it happens on blogs elsewhere.)

I’m really ok about it (…I post here as convincingly as possible…). I’m just making a note of it. I have lines on my face. I am not who I was. I age.

(Bleh.)

Now to make sure any new arrivals become laugh lines instead of any other kind. It’s something to work on at least. That and to someday be as beautiful, as at peace and as satisfied with my life as Rose’s character was in Titanic. I’d toss everything of value in the ocean too if I could have that.

So until then, onward.

(Just promise not to tell my husband about those Leonardo DiCaprio affairs. A lady must have her secrets…)

So I bought some Diet Coke yesterday. I’m not a huge Coke drinker really but I’ve recently been having the urge to “rest my eyes” at traffic lights on the way to picking up my kid from school. Not good. So I’m thinking an afternoon pick me up once in awhile might just be a good idea.

(Sidebar: I get really… er… hot flash-ish, heart racy and all freakified if I drink too much caffeine. Unfortunately coffee is just a bad idea. Think “Tweek” from South Park. So one Diet Coke has got me covered for a loooong while. Just to clarify.)

But I have this strange aversion to buying drinks that have no purpose. Who needs to get all hooked on the extra sugar and caffeine and aspartame and preservatives and crap for all that extra money. (“Extra money” being the key phrase here. Really? I’m usually just too cheap to shell out for the fun stuff.)

So we mostly drink milk and water around these parts. (Oh and wine. And beer. Both of which have a purpose, but I digress.)

But now and again, I buy some Diet Coke as a treat. (Way to live the life, right?) Oh and it’s purpose? To keep my engines revved so I actually move my car forward when the light turns green rather than take a little afternoon snooze right there in the middle of an intersection.

(… You know what? I should probably just get unsweetened ice tea. I’m betting its cheaper and better for me. Again I digress.)

So I wheely wheeled my kid crammed grocery cart over to the drink section the other day and saw row upon row of Cokes on sale. Which one was the one I wanted? Ummm, the caffeine one with cancer causing sugar substitutes. Yeah that one.

Wait. What’s this? A Diet Coke with pretty blue swirlies on it? What does it mean?

“Diet Coke Plus” it read. “Diet Coke with Vitamins and Minerals.”

Wha…? You mean the Coke peeps are trying to make me think that drinking Coke is good for me? They think that dropping some vitamin B6, B12, some niacin, and zinc in with my phenylalanine and aspartame is really helping a mother out? Or are they thinking that maybe I’ll buy it now because it has a little added value since I can’t get my act together to take a daily vitamin?

Well, it worked. I bought it over the simple red and silver can. Oooh blue swirlies that look all healthy-ish. It can’t hurt, right?

I don’t know. There is something amiss in all of this. I can’t help but feel a little duped. I’ve seen it more and more often these days while I wheely-wheel around my Publix. Crappy products with no real dietary value are suddenly showing up with extra vitamins and minerals. And 5 grams of fiber. And added protein and calcium.

Along side their usual 30 grams of sugar and high fructose corn syrup and trans fat and aspartame and glunk, gook and more bad for you stuff.

It rings a bit sinister I’m afraid.

I mean, SURE, I’d like 5 grams of fiber in my serving of cookies. If I was planning on buying that crap anyway, I may as well have some added something to it. You know, to take away the guilt of buying those dreaded (…nom, nom, nom…MORE…) cookies in the first place.

But if folks think that they can somehow live a MORE healthy lifestyle with these added nutrients dropped in and amongst the regular crap… well… yikes.

There has been a lot more recent priority placed on healthy lifestyles in this country. Which is great. And I am hoping folks are going to make better choices about what they eat and how much they eat. But I just wish these companies would do more to put an overall more healthy product out that we want to buy – rather than keep the same old same old, except for dropping in a vitamin or two, swishing it around and calling it a day.

I know, I know. I still bought the Diet Coke. I still fell for the whole “oooh vitamins in a healthier looking can” thing. (Sidebar: There is a reason for this. And it all traces back to my myers-briggs results which happen to show that I am in the group of people who tend to fall for product placement and advertising more than any other group so its NOT my fault.) I mean, I am not the perfect eater. And my kids need to eat more (ANY) veggies. And we eat fast food sometimes and boxed mac and cheese is part of the rotation and I’ll have a Diet Coke every so often. Sue me.

It’s just. Dude. I know my Diet Coke Plus won’t make me a healthier person. But does everyone else know that? And will we as a collective group just settle for these “healthier” changes? Or will we push food companies further and start expecting them to take out the bad while putting in the good? And maybe expect them to make a more healthy product for real.

And will WE take more responsibility (rather than rely on a Diet Coke for our vatamin B12) and buy more fresh foods and substitute water for sugar drinks and eat green leafy things and cut back on scary stuff that eats our brains? Or will we buy that box of Cheeze-its because it’s got more fiber now and call that dinner?

I’m just saying.

…I can’t believe I wrote a post about a can of Coke.

…which is sitting in front of me.

…and so I’m totally blaming the caffeine swimming in and amongst my “plus” vitamins for this post’s total random factor and multiple sidebars. For real.

(Disclaimer: I had two VERY large Diet Cokes the other day while waiting for my crappy Hard Rock lunch before the TMBG concert. Which now, in retrospect, might explain my tweeked out fan freak out post. Because, yes, I can keep a caffeine tweek for a full 24 hour period. You’re so jealous, right?)

(Another disclaimer: No the Coke people did not ask me to review Diet Coke Plus nor did I get anything free for writing about it. Other than an annoying, pounding sensation…)

….I think I have a headache.

*Setting down the Diet Coke Plus and walking away.*

Confidence is such a tricky thing. For anyone. I don’t care how many fancy degrees you do or don’t have under your belt, how hard you rock your job or how many awards you’ve earned as mother of the year. Confidence never comes automatically with any of it.

I am struggling to find a little of it myself these days. I privately brim and bubble with so much self doubt. It feels a little pathetic, and lonely, and then just feeds back into the cycle, so I feel worse and silly and not worth the trouble.

How did I get to this point? Why can’t I find my own private brand of “awesome” and feed off of that all day?

I have been out of an office place for almost seven years. And I am starting to re-fire my engines and consider going back (into something, anything) later this year. I don’t feel ready, I don’t know what I am doing, my professional skills feel entirely too atrophied, any competitive edge I thought I had seems long LONG gone.

Something happens when you stay home with your children. Something happens when you bring home your newborn and have to lower your expectations of productivity to a snails pace. Maybe you’ll get a shower in during the day or a bit of food. Maybe. You don’t prioritize your needs and then you don’t expect to owe yourself much. I think I kind of just got used to never quite being 100% so great at anything ever since. Or I assumed I wasn’t. It’s just not about me anymore.

(Ugh. Patheticness. Am already annoying myself with this post.)

Ok, its not as if I shouldn’t feel proud of some of the things I have accomplished. My children are amazing. And I am grateful for that. And to make a general statement that staying home with your kids makes you weak, well, come on. We KNOW that’s not true.

It’s just you have to dig way down deep to reclaim that piece of awesome I had reinforced on a regular basis beforehand.

Because you know that having children just adds a heap load more reasons to doubt myself. A heap load. When it comes to something so dear to your heart, when you have two children’s futures resting in your hands, when its on you to make sure they turn out ok… well, it’s hard to feel like any kind of rock star parent. There is a LOT to mess up, my friends. A lot.

Plus raising children 24/7 with no job review, or cute clothes, or pat on the back from any sort of boss, or flashy benefits assuring that you are SO worth that fancy “mom” title. Well. I usually have no idea if I am even in the ballpark of doing an ok-ish job as a mom.

So I have to dig deep.

Shovel, sling dirt, Yoo hoo, where’s my awesome? Shovel, sling dirt, it’s gotta be down here. Shovel, sling dirt, I think. Shovel, sling dirt, somewhere.

Somewhere, somehow, that old “who gives a crap what they think” will resurface, that swagger, that special something that I used to have.

Meh. Yeah. I don’t know.

And I know its not just me. I know lots of parents feel this way. Or every day folk stuck in jobs that they don’t love but are lucky to have. Or anyone stuck in any kind of rut or wishing for something more or wondering where the old “me” went and if they ever had it in the first place.

I am going to have to muster up a sizeable amount of “I’ve got nothing to lose” if I want to get back out there and work again. I have to find my value, my real worth and then – *eeps* – actually flaunt it. I have to convince someone, anyone that I am worth paying a chunk of money to and that I am so super-fabulous-awesome even though I’ve only worked part time here and there and really the only productive thing I’ve done over the past seven years is write. But how productive is that when it’s amounted to the equivalent of a few grocery trips and tanks of gas? No disrespect, glad to have that much, but how the hell do I, little ol’ me, translate as anything worthy?

Groan. WOW. I don’t like not being confident. I don’t like how I sound. I feel all kinds of icky when I’m feeling sorry for myself. And then I assume if I annoy myself this much, I must be annoying to everyone else so I back off. Don’t mind me. I’m the frumpy mommy mess, talking to myself in a corner. Move along. Nothing to see here.

I SO scream “hire me!” don’t I?

So yeah. Confidence is a tricky thing. Fleeting, here and there, evaporating, condensing, dropping back in, and gone again.

I think its rebuilt on the little achievements and the possibility of doing more the next time. I think its about taking chances and promising yourself that any risk is worth the reward. Its about reminding yourself about what you’ve done before and your ability to do that bigger and better the next time.

My parenting abilities, my writing skills, my job worthiness, my value as a friend, my position as a valuable, contributing member of society.

I’m working on it. I’m digging for it. Deep. Shovel, sling dirt, I remember leaving it down here, somewhere.