parenting

Thank you, Walt

This photo depicts Walter Elias Disney’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ok, I admit it. I was a tad overambitious when mapping out my writing plan for the weekend. A three day weekend! While I am getting back in the habit, and I’m pleased with the progress I’m making, I don’t have the stamina I once did. A really good writing day leaves me fried the following day. So…I didn’t get a whole lot of words down yesterday. I did, however, hammer out some plot points that had been nagging at me, so that counts as something. And I made enough dinner to have leftovers for tonight.

That means the only chore that had to get done today was making the week’s gumbo for the dogs. No, no, don’t look over at the laundry pile. All the stars aligned, I had the breakfast in the house that Flower Child actually wanted to eat, and plenty of milk for coffee. And then, when I sat down to write, and Flower Child wilted, exhausted from being awake for 30 minutes, we found Mary Poppins was playing on the Disney channel. After Mary Poppins came Lady and the Tramp, and after Lady and the Tramp came Hercules, and after Hercules came Alice in Wonderland, and now Aladdin is on. Hear that? It’s the blissful sigh of a productive writing day, gumbo made and cooling, the girl happily snuggled on the couch with Little Incredibly Dumb Dog watching movies, Big Senile Dog snoring to provide the background music.

I’m a Disney fan. Not politically correct, but true. I like most of their movies, and have truly happy memories of vacations at Disney World with Husband and the fringelings when they were younger and we had enough money to take a vacation every other year. Sure, there’s also the memory of having to go to the first aid station with Nerd Child when he was an infant, and one of Husband’s chest hairs got wrapped around his eyeball in a way that required medical attention. I think that was the same stay when I got heat stroke our first day there, between 8000% humidity and nursing. But the next morning, I was on Dumbo with Man Child, what could be bad?

I’d like to think I’ll be able to write a little more after Flower Child goes to bed, but I doubt it. On the other hand, I’ve got an overwhelming urge to listen to Grace Slick. Any day that ends with Jefferson Airplane is a good one.

Cuddling With that Late Night Booty Call: Want

Deutsch: Irische Hard Shoes, auch Hornpipe Shoes oder Jig Shoes genannt. Jig Shoes. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*Warning: Defensive post ahead.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked past a favorite shoe store, recently renovated so the ambiance matches the price points. In the window was an absolute wantwantwant Pas de Rouge shoe. So much so, I took a picture with a phone, posted it to my personal Facebook wall, and had fun with friends dreaming about $400 shoes. (for some reason I can’t transfer pics from my phone to this blog, sorry) Fun? Yes. Silly? Absolutely. But there’s something about a sole full of awesomeness that some roundheels like myself can’t deny. Resist, sure, but not deny.

But here’s what I’m thinking about today. We’re expected to deny our wants. As women, certainly as women with children, we’re supposed to forget about our pesky little wants, dreams, and desires, at least until all children our grown and gone. I’m not talking about ridiculously expensive shoes, but the other stuff. Like writing, or painting, or photography (except of our children), or going back to school, or a vacation that isn’t educational. Even hobbies are relegated to after the kids are asleep. You know what? After the kids are grown and gone is a long, long time. Add in a special needs child and multiply this by eleventy billion.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It doesn’t seem so long at first, when they’re babies, toddlers, and young children, and your days meld together with feeding and changing, soothing and crooning. Hell, just looking at this photo makes my boobs tingle, preparing for a non existent milk letdown, and it’s been years since I nursed.

My belief that children come first is strong. Most of us deny ourselves a lot of wants, put off needs, because the kids come first. It’s what our biology and our society dictates; in my opinion this is as it should be. I know it isn’t just women who put certain wants off until the kids are grown, most of us, male and female, are on limited budgets, and many of us have to either give up or put dreams aside until the immediate responsibilities are fewer. Being last is okay, as long as I’m still in the race.

But since I began blogging about my newly rediscovered determination to get back to a regular writing and submitting schedule, more than a couple of my female followers have made reference (both on and off the blog) to wanting to do X, and waiting to do X until the kids are gone. Feel free to jump in and tell me you’ve heard otherwise, I’ve never heard a man say he’s waiting to investigate and pursue a hobby until the kids are gone. When I read the stories of writers who have been successful after having children, but before the kids are gone, they’re a little different. Both male and female showed tremendous drive, dedication, and passion. The men talk about coming home from their day jobs, locking themselves in whatever little nook they can carve out for themselves in their home, and writing. Women talk about coming home from their day jobs, supervising homework, making dinner, doing the bedtime thing, and then going to whatever nook they’ve carved out for themselves. Or, if they were SAHMs, writing during naps and loads of laundry. And of course, eating all those bon bons. Who needs sleep, right?

I don’t know about you, but when I sleep and dream, it isn’t about juicy younger men or my formerly perky parts. It’s about space and time for myself that isn’t shrouded in guilt.

English: A photograph of an engraving in The Writings of Charles Dickens volume 4, Oliver Twist, titled “Oliver at Mrs. Maylie’s Door”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think it’s valid, sensible, and important to recognize the difference between wants and needs, and then further breakdown to prioritize these needs and wants. What I don’t get is why this is supposed to equal no wants or dreams. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I recognize that I live in this spoiled American society and I am a spoiled American. I don’t have a McMansion and don’t want one. I also don’t want to live in a hut, with just enough grains of rice to keep me going, foraged Pepsi bottles strapped to my feet with woven grass. I hear those are terrible for dog walking.

Pursuit of Personhood

Pursuit of Happiness (Photo credit: changyang1230)

January 2nd and I haven’t given up, woot!

Back to life today, for me and most of the other parents of school-aged children. Took Flower Child to school this morning, and Husband just took Nerd Child to catch the bus back to boarding school. Man Child is still home, but will be setting off any day for an internship in something I can’t spell, related to theater.

The Christmas tree is gone, the wreath gone, but the ribbons, bells, and fallen pine needles remain to remind me I’m still going to be me and behind on housework no matter my intentions.

I am not, however, going to say I’m getting back to my usual routine. First of all, my routine is a great big fail. A huge to-do list, and each day I begin by trying to do more than is added. That hasn’t been working so well. I’ll just try to accomplish the things that are most necessary, like clean underwear. Does anything else matter?

Little Incredibly Dumb Dog needs a bath. Really, really needs a bath. And yet, still smooshable. Especially if you don’t breathe in through your nose while smooshing. See how easy it is to drop something down to the bottom of the list?

On New Year’s Eve, I rejoined a writer’s forum I used to belong to. Couldn’t remember my old username, and I’m fairly certain I was using a different email then, but that’s ok. A fresh commitment. I like having a connection to other writers, keeps me motivated, accountable (sort of), and humble. There are a lot of excellent writers out there, producing and submitting. And then, I didn’t cry. True, I sniveled a bit, and indulged in a large glass of Baileys, but I’m quite certain there were no auditory sobs.

This morning I did something I haven’t done in too long. I started a new short story. I did not give in to the temptation of spending my writing time fiddling with the short story I’ve been fiddling with for 6000 years. Don’t I have two full length WIPs? Yes, yes I do. But I felt the need for something fresh. And I like it. Just a beginning, still needs a middle, an end, and about a thousand hours of editing, but I like it. I am woman. I can do this.

Once upon a time #2 (Photo credit: Andrea Marutti)

Picture Day

vintage class photo, 1957 (Photo credit: deflam)

Yesterday, detangling Flower Child’s hair.

Mrs Fringe, “Tomorrow is picture day, so let’s make a little extra effort, and you have to pick an outfit that you want to take a picture in.”

Flower Child, “No it isn’t. It’s De-cem-BER. Picture day is October 30th.”

Mrs F, “It was supposed to be October 30th, but there was no school that day because of the hurricane. So picture day was rescheduled for tomorrow, December 3rd.”

FC, “The paper said October 30th. I read it.” *preens*

Mrs F, “October 30th has passed. It was the day before Halloween. We’ve been through all of November, and now it’s December. Picture day is tomorrow. Do you want to wear the dress you wore for Thanksgiving?”

FC, clearly not believing me, “OK.”

This morning, getting ready.

Mrs Fringe, “Remember, it’s picture day. I’m filling out the paper for school, please give the envelope to the teacher.”

FC, “Umm, ohhhh,” rubs her stomach.

Mrs F, “Are you sick?”

FC, “No. Maybe. I don’t think so. It’s October 30th?”

Mrs F, “No, it’s picture day.”

We keep getting ready, Flower Child alternating between fighting nervous smiles, tearing up, and ummming. I sit down on the couch with her, finally figuring out she doesn’t want to wear the dress she’s already wearing.

I’ve already filled out the form and sealed the envelope. She picks a different outfit. Polka dot little too short skirt. Striped too big shirt. Sparkly tights. Mismatched socks. Early bag lady, but she’s smiling. I like to think she’ll smile when they take the picture, but if I was laying money down, I’d have to bet she’ll be giving her very best “smeyes,” a la Tyra Banks. Going to look fab against the fake flowering tree background.

The Cheshire Cat (Photo credit: Wild Guru Larry)

Is That You, Hot Lips?

M*A*S*H (Photo credit: L.A.’s Filming Location Expert)

What can I say? I needed a little break from the battering of life on the fringe. I waited and waited, but neither Hawkeye nor BJ showed to patch me up before sending me back to the front line. (Though I swear I saw Klinger at the Thanksgiving Day parade.)

Speaking of Thanksgiving, I can’t believe it’s already come and gone. The best part? Both boys were home! Nothing cures self absorption like non stop hours of prepping, dishwashing, cooking, and more dishwashing. And of course, the time honored American tradition of kicking off the holiday season with gluttony. Do they still make Alka Seltzer?

dishpan hands (Photo credit: sammydavisdog)

Man Child left early this morning, he came for the long weekend with his friend Miss Great Smile. Nerd Child leaves tomorrow morning. The nice part is they’ll both be back before long, for the Christmas break.

Miss Great Smile was a good sport, helping with prep AND she dragged Mrs Fringe into the 21st century, getting me signed up for Twitter. So please look down to the bottom left of this page and follow me.

Parenting is like anything else in life. Most things that come up are subjective, open to interpretation. But there are certain absolute truths in mothering.

1) It always gives me warm fuzzies to have my fringelings with me. The warm fuzzies grow barbs when they leave.

2) You never get tired of Parent Teacher conferences when teachers are telling you how great kiddo is.

3) Parent Teacher conferences always suck when kiddo struggles.

4) I could really use someone reminding me to breathe when talking to the doctors at the end of any appointment with Flower Child.

5) Getting your finger caught in the front door because you couldn’t resist one last, “Did you remember to pack…?” when saying goodbye hurts like hell.

What are your absolute truths?

MACY'S THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE 2012 / &qu...

MACY’S THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE 2012 / “Happy Thanksgiving” – Sixth Avenue & 42nd Street, Manhattan NYC – 11/22/12 (Photo credit: asterix611)

Merry Epilepsy!

Mercury EEG (Photo credit: Max ☢)

It’s always somebody’s awareness day, week, or month, right? November is Epilepsy Awareness month. If you’ve noticed purple ribbons, or purple in general, showing up in icons on Facebook over the past few days, that’s why.

Seizures and epilepsy are part of my little corner of Fringeland. I believe awareness is particularly important to epilepsy, and people with epilepsy, because there’s such a long history of stigma attached, so much misinformation. There are those who still believe it’s the mark of Satan. Hell, years ago, when Flower Child was diagnosed, I received phone calls from well intentioned relatives telling me if I would just pray harder….The fact is, seizures are a misfiring in the brain, and how much of the brain gets involved and where determines the presentation of the seizure; in other words, what you see. Anyone can have a seizure. A diagnosis of epilepsy is usually made when there are two or more unprovoked seizures.

To give a short but clear idea, I’ll just say Flower Child had a favorite EEG technician long before she had a favorite teacher.

Flower Child doesn’t quite “get” the concept behind awareness, but she knows she’s got a great reason to wear purple every day, and has noticed all the purple icons popping up when looking over my shoulder. Being an excellent advocate, she’s letting everyone know. Sort of. In her mind, it’s kind of like letting people know it’s her birthday, or wishing people a Merry Christmas. She also likes to use weighty words, though their definitions get confused in her mind.

Their Purple Moment (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So you know she makes sure to tell everyone on the elevator, and in the store (before fatigue brought her down for the day and she wasn’t telling anyone anything), “It’s Epilepsy Appreciation Month! You should wear purple!”

Lots of elderly people in my building, losing their hearing, they all assume they’re hearing her incorrectly if they did in fact hear her words clearly. One wished her a happy birthday. Several others look at me to “translate.” I do, and they do a double take, “Oh, well, umm, thanks for telling me.”

The reality is, my world is pretty small. Most of it is quite tedious. If it wasn’t, I might not feel such a drive to write fiction, and create imaginary worlds. And yet, somehow every day is an adventure.

I’ll leave you with just a few facts:

-Never ever put anything in the mouth of someone having a seizure, you risk injury to yourself and to them.

-Epilepsy is a spectrum of neurological disorders.

-70% of people with epilepsy are well controlled by medications. That means 30% aren’t.

-About 50,000 people die in the US each year from epilepsy. Yes, epilepsy. That’s more than breast cancer, more than skin cancer, more than drunk driving accidents.

-A seizure isn’t always obvious to a casual observer. Tonic clonics, or what used to be called “grand mals” are only one type of seizure.

Epilepsy Awareness Ribbon (Photo credit: Cynr)

Go Play In Traffic

Lower center of the The Last Judgement by Michelangelo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Several years ago, I read “A Complaint Free World,” by Will Bowen. In it, there’s a challenge to go 21 days without complaining, gossiping, or criticizing. You put a bracelet on, and when you catch yourself in one of the aforementioned activities, you switch wrists, and begin the count again. It wasn’t magical, I didn’t “start enjoying the life I always wanted,” but it was enlightening, to say the least. Now, I don’t think anyone will nominate Mrs Fringe for sainthood, but the exercise left an impression on my brain, if only so I’m aware, and recognize when I’m engaging in these behaviors.

So, I’m quite aware I’m about to be judgmental. Mea Culpa.

The other day I was walking up my block, when I heard, “Hey, hey, HEY STOP!” I looked across the street to where the voice was coming from, and saw a man yelling and running towards a toddler who was running into the street, with a truck coming pretty fast. There was a group of people in front of a building, the little guy was obviously part of that group and had wandered away. Maybe he lost his ball, maybe he was following a pigeon. It was fine, little guy was spotted and safe before the scene was a script for the evening news. It happens. Dad thinks Mom is watching the baby, Mom thinks Auntie is watching the baby, Auntie thinks Grandma is watching the baby, etc. Frightening, but not shocking or cause for judgement.

But then, I was walking along Central Park West and saw a man in a snappy suit, riding his bike. Nice, thanks for saving the environment while getting your workout in. His baby was on the bike with him.

English: Looking north past AMNH along Central Park West. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you aren’t a New Yorker, let me tell you, Central Park West is not part of the park, it’s a big, busy avenue. And it was dusk, when visibility is worst. Aww, look at dad, doing his share. Only one problem, baby wasn’t in a safety seat designed for a bike, she was strapped to Dad’s chest in a soft, front carrier. WTF are you doing, Dad? I see you had a helmet strapped on your own head. This is not safe, can’t possibly be legal.

Suddenly, it all made sense to me. All those ridiculous labels on walkers (which I don’t think exist anymore, “don’t leave baby unattended near stairs”), the danger of bath seats. Heh, imagine, you shouldn’t walk away from your 5 month old in the tub, even if they’re in that nifty seat? There really are adults who can read who need these warning labels.

I can’t say that was a regular sight, but it wasn’t surprising. I don’t get it. New York parents are the most paranoid bunch you’ll ever see. Inside. God forbid their toddler should learn not to touch something. There’s an entire industry, not just comprised of safety products to pad those corners, but of people who are paid to “consult,” come to your apartment and make it safe for baby. The earlier the better, preferably long before baby is born. Because, you never know, baby could slip out of your irritable uterus at 26 weeks, just when you’re standing near an outlet, amniotic fluid spraying into said outlet just as baby flings out his arm in a startle reflex, poking one delicate finger into the open socket. Could happen, right? What a racket.

So in the apartment, all is non toxic, organic, non breakable yet sturdy, soft and yet firm enough not to suffocate, elegant yet flaccid–no wait, that’s Mom’s wine, out of reach, of course.

But outside, on the streets and sidewalks, suddenly a different story. These same parents seem quite vested in proving to the world that even their toddlers are sophisticated New Yorkers, eating edamame at snack time, and intuitively understanding the flow of traffic patterns in New York. Except they don’t. Because even if they did, often they can’t be seen by a driver or bicyclist. So these parents who have spent hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars for a baby proofing consultant to divulge the secrets of padded walls and common sense don’t think any of these rules apply outside. Every day I see kids running, scootering, or wheeling their little wooden scooter bikes down the sidewalk on their way to school (of course, morning rush hour when sidewalks and streets are busiest), half a block to a block ahead of the parent, while mom or dad calls out a gentle stop-at-the-corner reminder. Watch and give it a minute, then you see the same mom or dad running to catch the two, three, or four year old who didn’t stop and is now crossing the street by themselves, or forgot they were going past an active parking garage.

And let’s not forget the other pedestrians, who are expected to move out of the way for little Susie and Johnny so they can enjoy their childhoods unfettered, and show their suburban cousins they get just as much time playing outside, and it really is worth paying $3500 a month for a two bedroom apartment.

I get it, to some degree. The same child who will whine about walking seven blocks to school will happily pedal there. It’s nice to give them an opportunity to burn off some energy before they’re indoors and building their SAT vocab skills. Can’t start too early, yanno, competition is fierce.

If you haven’t been to Manhattan, let me tell you, all the horror stories you’ve heard about driving in New York are true. The streets are crowded with cars, buses, taxis, bikers, and pedestrians. Don’t forget the ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars on their way to an emergency. Lots going on, every driver has to be aware of every possibility.

wrong way, lady! (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

For the most part, I think they do a great job. But with all this going on, so much congestion, parking, double parking, taxis stopping and starting without notice, delivery guys on bikes who don’t watch where they’re going but say a prayer instead, ummm, accidents happen. All the time. People get hurt. Car vs bike, bike loses. Bike vs bike, both lose. Car vs pedestrian, pedestrian loses. Bike vs pedestrian, pedestrian loses.

Parenting is hard, nobody makes the right call all of the time. Parents whose children are diagnosed with epilepsy are cautioned by pediatric neurologists about bathtubs and swimming pools; NY parents are cautioned about bathtubs and the subway. Parenting in NY does carry extra challenges, I’ve made decisions that my suburban counterparts don’t understand. But I can say with a clear conscience that I’ve never sent my kids out to play in traffic.

This has been a Public Service Judgment by Mrs Fringe.

20070901 – Greg Z’s birthday party – Nicole – new tattoo – the more you know – (by AE) – 1306312142_8cf5b6332e o (Photo credit: Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL))

Can You See the Real Me?

The Who – Roger Daltry (Photo credit: Scott Ableman)

Sounds like I’m going to be naval gazing again today, right? Not exactly.

I was on the elevator earlier, saw a young, hip couple that live in the building. Very East Village looking, big gages in their ears, cool drapey clothes in black and odd prints, etc. We said hello, and I mentioned how much Flower Child loves seeing them; the young woman has excellent style, and there’s nothing Flower Child loves more than inspecting a young woman who’s styling. Not to be confused with stylish. They both laughed, said thank you, then told me they often admire her style. Understood, her closet isn’t so much a closet as a costume department. What they didn’t say was what I saw stamped across their pierced faces…where did FC get her style from? Certainly not me. Not Husband, either. He used to be quite the snappy dresser, but no one would have ever accused him of cutting edge fashion sense.

I’m actually pretty good at knowing what will look good on other people, how far they can push the envelope to make a statement. For me, not so much. This all started me thinking about “seeing” myself. Physically. I’m terrible at it, and I wonder, is it just because I’m not especially visual? Is it an American thing? A female thing? An adoptee thing?

When I took psychology 101, I learned about a study that had been conducted, showing photographic representations of the different ways one woman was perceived.

[ M ] Johannes Adrianus van Maanen – Self-portrait with a girlfriend in a funhouse mirror, France (1947) (Photo credit: Cea.)

How she saw herself, how her husband saw her, how others saw her. My money says she was divorced within 6 months of the study being published. But, whether these perceptions are positive or negative, this made sense to me, and it still does. I’m very lucky in this regard. Husband and I met when I was about 14, and I’m pretty sure that he sees me forever the way I looked when I was about 19. Well, plus the gray hair, which he likes and doesn’t associate with aging, since many in his family are noticeably gray by their early twenties.

We all know about body image issues, the way perceived flaws can appear tremendous and exaggerated to the one looking in the mirror. Who among us never had a zit we saw as the size of Mt Everest?

But, where I seem to differ from friends is that I can’t see myself in other people, either. I hear all the time that Nerd Child looks exactly like me, “Did you make him by yourself?” I know we’re shaped similarly (why yes, I could be confused for an adolescent boy from behind); we both blow out the right knee of our jeans before anything else, both have long inseams for our respective heights. Man Child I hear about his eyes and mine, and Flower Child, while not considered a carbon copy, I often hear she looks a lot like me. I don’t see it. At all. I see the similarities and differences between the three of them. I see Mother In Law’s dimples on one, Husband’s chin on another, but me? Don’t see it at all.

Do you/can you see physical resemblance to yourself in others?

English: Vogue magazine cover, May 1917 Español: Portada de la revista Vogue correspondiente a Mayo de 1917 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

That Lady Has A Biiiig Belly

If you’re a parent, this is a familiar moment. In the elevator, sixteen years ago, no mistaking it was heard by the “lady” in question. Children make observations. Out loud. Sometimes, really loud. I have a friend who used to call these moments “beyond embarrassing.” True, but these are also necessary, so we can teach our children about courtesy, manners, and develop their filters.

Lady Victoria Marjorie Harriet Manners (1883–1946), wife of Charles Paget, 6th Marquess of Anglesey (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am no Miss Manners, nor do I long for the days of yesteryear when everyone filtered everything and a mention of indigestion caused a nervous titter among those seated at the dinner table. But basic courtesy, stopping to think about what how a comment might be received before letting it pass your lips–or fingers, I’m all for it.

I’m pretty sure each generation tweaks what they consider appropriate in polite company. Ok. I’m a product of my generation; I love jeans, casual conversations, political debates, no holds barred comics, and colorful language. I’m also pretty sure I could raise my blood pressure and feel myself turn bright red if I began to catalogue all the times I’ve put my foot in my mouth. I don’t see these things as the antithesis to courtesy and civility.

But Houston, I do believe we, as a generation, have a problem.

rocket crash (Photo credit: shellorz)

There seems to be a collective loss of our filter. Keyboard warriors are running amok on our internet forums, Facebook, and the comment section of every cyberboard I visit.

The internet has become a huge part of how we connect and communicate with each other. As I’ve said previously, I love the internet, the ways it has opened my mind and my world, the friends it has brought me. I think it’s made me a more thoughtful person. Maybe because I’m a writer, but the need to think about how each comment will be read and interpreted has been front and center in my mind from the very first forum I participated in. Am I always successful at making myself understood, and avoiding bruised feelings? No, but I try, and I’m aware. Emoticons are helpful, but they don’t take the place of real life facial expressions, body language, and tonal inflections.

Yesterday, I was following a political discussion on Facebook. We all know those can get acrimonious. But this discussion turned a bit frightening. A not so vague threat was made. This is an extreme example, but not uncommon enough, either. In this day and age, predatory behavior feels more threatening than ever, because the magical internets can make someone three thousand miles away uncomfortably close, and bring them to your door with a few clicks. Not just figuratively, but literally, because it’s all to easy for someone with malicious intentions to find out where you live,work, etc. Without hesitation, this conversation, and this person, raised the hairs on my neck more than the the guy I saw growling to himself as he systematically rooted through the garbage bags when I was walking the beasts last night.

Google, and you’ll find countless quotes on civility, manners, basic courtesies, and the importance of these to a successful society. My question is this; am I just old, noting a societal shift into more casual behaviors and speech patterns becoming acceptable, thinking this represents more than it does? Or are we truly losing our filter, losing our ability to care about someone else’s feelings more than our own need to project our opinions and thoughts?

Chicken Little (2005 film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wake Up!…Your Early Morning Call

Kate Bush – Hounds Of Love (Photo credit: Piano Piano!)

A little Kate Bush playing on the iPod in an attempt to prod myself along. Not sure what today’s sin is, but it feels appropriate to have that background voice proclaiming “guilty, guilty, guilty!”

I’m about 5 hours late for my usual blogging time. On a good day, I have 1 to 1 and 1/2 hours to myself before anyone else wakes up. My most productive time of day since I had children, though I’m not a morning person by nature.

English: Alarm clock Polski: Budzik (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s my time to work out, check my (non-Mrs Fringe) Facebook acct, read and answer emails, and now blog. Hmm, either I’m over-scheduled for that time slot, or there’s something very wrong with my time management skills cause I haven’t been getting half of those things done since Man Child and Nerd Child left, and Flower Child began school.

It used to be two hours of focused time, but Flower Child’s new school is further away than the old one, so we need to leave the house earlier. For those who don’t live in NY, getting kiddos off to school is different than most of the rest of the country (if you’re an at home mom, different again if you’re getting yourself off to a paying job no matter where you are). Yes, we NY mamas also get up, get the kids up and fed, make lunch, meds for the med needs kiddo (s), and all that other fun morning trauma, but we have to get ourselves dressed, no waving to the school bus driver in our pj’s. Somewhere in here I also walk the beasts.

A man and his son dancing to the band in Times Square station (Photo credit: wwward0)

Then walk to the train, down and down the subway steps, catch the train, ride a few stops, up and up the train steps, walk from the train to the school, and then get ourselves home; to be repeated at pick up time. Most days, I’m grateful my days of carrying a stroller up and down those steps are over. When Flower Child isn’t well and needs assistance, I’m wishing I still had it.

This morning I went grocery shopping after dropping her off (Trader Joe’s is my best friend). Husband even came to pick me up, so a morning that started off behind schedule picked up nicely. Started cooking the Doggie Gumbo for the week, unloading the groceries, and the phone rang. Mother in Law needed Husband to help her get Father in Law to the ER.

Just another morning in Fringe World. I really need to work on my schedule, but for now, I’m going to put Jig of Life on for the 8th time, and dance around the empty apartment.

“I put this moment…………………here.”