I jotted this down yesterday morning. If you’re back, thanks. Blogsome has been down. A whooole lot of bloggers have been groaning loudly. If you’re not back, then this doesn’t apply to you.

I am reading The Gold Coast. Nelson DeMille. Great book. Loaned by my Dad. And I’m liking it so much, I *gasp* crawled back in bed with it this morning, while the children still slept. And. did. not. get. on. the. computer! Till now, of course. What’s to become of me???

Mafia dons, old east coast very monied families, country clubs, restless mid life crisis lawyer to the elite, gentry and servants, regal women, a little great marital sex (even some fantasy)…all the good stuff. And that’s just the first 50 pages. Now, my dear husband has just finished a book of, well, substance. The Holiness of God. R.C. Sproul. And suggested on his way out the door that this is a book I would like. I should read. It is compelling, and thought provoking. Challenging. I must have stared back at him as if he had just suggested I shave my head and march naked down the street singing Yankee Doodle Dandy, for he just shrugged, shook his head, and stated you’ll never read it. And he seems to think (I’m talking to you, love) that I never read anything he suggests. I have a simple answer. And it’s not some form of subtle passive-aggression. Really. It’s just that I have chosen, for a some time now, to read nothing that challenges me to anything other how to retrieve the Cheez-its from the kitchen while I turn pages breathlessly to discover if the lawyer really does get into cahoots with the mafia don, and is she, his wife, as I suspect, going to have an affair with same said don?!?

So just in case you’ve forgotten, hon, I used to read for brain stretching. Really I did. Whitman poetry. Faulkner. Kate Chopin. Doris Lessing. Thomas Hardy. Some Shakespeare (for pleasure, no less), Christian theologians. And you, my dear husband. You still readMere Christianity, and The Business of Heaven by C.S. Lewis. The Narnia series. This Sproul book. Waking the Dead, John Eldridge, and Purple Cow…Transform Your Business by Being Remarkable, Seth Godin. And Lord love you hon, I really admire your brain and stamina to get through such incredible material, but I. don’t. want. to. think. any. more. than. I. have. to. I have to think all the time. Why does electricty work? Don’t you think I’ll be bored in Heaven when games are played, because no one wins or loses? What’s for breakfast…what’s for lunch…what’s for dinner…where are my socks…how do you spell ‘tenuous’…why do you like him more than me…why do I feel melancholy…he said I’m stupid…she won’t let me in her room…Moooommmmm, he won’t put his pants back on…Moooommmmm, that thing is gross…Mooommm, why do I have a penis…no you didn’t, yes I did, no you didn’t, yes I did…

This is all along the lines of the fact that I stopped listening to/buying/understanding current music somewhere in 1998. And when you, my sweet hubby, want to share your latest discovery, it gives me a headache. The girl who used to roll down the windows, and blast the stereo, and sing at the passing cars has gone away somewhere. The girl who let you convince her to smoke a Clove and really inhale, to ‘carpe diem’ , and didn’t mind the price of wretching on your sofa an hour later, in the name of mad infatuation…she isn’t here right now. Or at least, she’s temporarily on hiatus. I hope it’s temporary. That I don’t stick this way. Like if I cross my eyes too long. I loved that girl. Or parts of her. Some of her was just ridiculously self absorbed. And I loved her with you. Oh, that was awesome. That time in a relationship when you just. can’t. keep. your. hands. off. each. other. When it’s a good thing you may still be on your parents tab, because if were up to you to make a living, you couldn’t. You’d be too busy sneaking around to steal a little nookie. But somehow, that girl would be too flighty to hack it in our current world. Which is full of, along with real joy, sacrifice, long hours, choices about bills, how to raise the children, can we handle our mortgage, and the neighborhood assessment bill being due. She’d bail out for sure. The first bad hair day, and she’d be out the door. Forget the ripped up nipples of early breastfeeding. And these stretchmarks {shudder}. And the giving up great new shoes for 3 children’s wardrobe.

In her place, I pray is someone better. A bit more stable. And able to be counted on. Someone who may be filtering the not so important from really important. Someone who, while seemingly having lost a good portion of her thinking capacity, has really just been forced to replaced it with something worthwhile, eternal even. If I have to choose between great stimulating literature, and being able to absorb all our children have to throw out at me, I guess the later is where I have to go. Not that it’s always great fun. Or that I come off as very bright. I cannot tell you, or anyone else, the real current state of the affairs in Iraq, or give you a reasonable opinion on whether or not we should really be over there in the first place, but buddy, let me tell you how to get an unwilling toddler to use the potty. I’m somewhat embarrassed to say I don’t really understand the NASDAQ, or even what those letters mean, but I’ve got some good coping skills for sleepless nights. And I know how to have a rocking anniversary celebration on $22. And how to check out 53 books from the library, keep up with them all for a month, and return them on time. Usually. Want to know how to continue to sit on a sofa, and love it, years after it should have been curbed? I’m your gal. What’s for dinner with 7 left over ingredients that in my right mind would never ever never go together, and wow, it’s yummy? Me. I can do it, go figure. I can take days, weeks, months, years of constant child care, birthing and nursing, while we move, many times (OK, with a little help from my friend Zoloft). I just can’t take Radiohead. I can turn a house into a home with some cheap Christmas lights, $50 and my designer hubby’s input. I’ve learned to say things like stop diddling yourself at the table (to our sons, not you dear, that’s strictly up to you), and don’t draw on the toilet seat while you potty, like they’re perfectly normal statements. These are the things of survival now that 15 years ago, I would have thought were a pathetic excuse of a life. The things, that when as a teenager, I pointed out some youngish mom to my own mother, inquiring how could she be so lame? and she replied, no really, it won’t matter, I couldn’t decide which was worse. That anyone could be like that, or that it had indeed, become no issue over which to fret and fuss. How could a woman be so pitiful as to not care?

What makes me a bit nervous, truth be told, is whether or not, when the intensity of this season passes, I’ll be able to let loose, or looser, again. Not with my personal hygiene. I can only go up from here. But be a bit more free, in my spirit again. Run out the door without the forethought of drinks, snacks, is- everyone-buckled, no-you-sat-in-the-front-last, I said-sit-on-your-bottom, do-I-have-to-come-back-there. But with the hard earned wisdom that comes with getting that far. To sort of rediscover who I was, and meld it into who I have become, and who I can be. Is that possible? I don’t want to be the mad-face-no-fun mom (you get wrinkles on your forehead), but sometimes, that comes with the job description. I don’t want to be the grumpy say-no Mom, but I’m not put on this earth to be their best friend. Not yet. You know, you get into this mode, of responsibility and real consequence. And really, we can forget what it was like to have the deepest worry of our life be passing the oral Spanish exam, a big zit on my nose, or if the clothing allowance check from your parents would come in time to buy some more ripped up jeans and margaritas for Friday night. When my brow didn’t furrow 712 times a day.

I just can’t help it. That how I cope with all this seems to be by eliminating most of the current world input as it zooms by me, and that it leaves me to think the Rachel haircut is still hip (is hip even a usable word now?). And just what kind of shoe do you wear with satin cargo pants? Should I wear satin cargo pants? Should anyone wear satin cargo pants? I am in brain overload all day, every day. The constant input, output, stimulation, challenge. It is exhausting. Yet this thing of raising our children. This thing of being called to educate them here. These I have to do. I want to do. Most days. I do not have to read a book that doesn’t fly by like a beach bodice ripper, or listen to any music post Y2K. And you can’t make me. Nanny nanny boo boo. But when they’ve grown, and I’m not wishing it to pass quickly, just don’t leave me in this current state. Get me out of the house and show me what I’ve missed. Or actually, didn’t miss. But just didn’t experience, because I really didn’t want to miss what matters most. This job of loving and raising our children. Are we on bell bottoms, straight leg, or back to pegged jeans now?