Do you ever have those “oh crap!” moments?

I was invited to join Shelfari by the lovely Anne Glamore (don’t you love that name?). Well it seemed like a good idea. I love books. I love to hear what others think of books. I’m in a bookclub dammit!

What I didn’t intend to do was spam every single person I have ever exchanged an email with.

Maybe I need to just turn in my computer as Shakey so gleefully suggested (nice husband huh?), OR maybe Shelfari shouldn’t have the send button that appears at the bottom of one list apply to the list below it as well.

Should be intersesting to see what sort of conversation starter this is. Many of the people on the list don’t know who MammaLoves is. I’m hoping they won’t put two and two together. I’m not so sure I want old boyfriends reading my blog. They might find out I was faking it the whole time.

Let’s hope this Shelfari thing is worth it.

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Edited to add: For any of you reading this, I was meaning to send the invitation to you. I just thought my boss, my neighbor and my old clients from a past job probably didn’t need to receive the invitation. They probably didn’t want to know about the dildos??

And I’m not talking about the 18″ zucchini we just harvested from my garden–though the sucker is big.

No, tonight it’s Mr. 5.

Mr. 5 is my son best characterized as a golden retriever (right now Mr. 11 is a whippet and Mr. 3 is a Jack Russell, but that’s always subject to change). He’s sweet and happy and full of love, and playing with my hair has always been his comforting device–even as far back as when I was nursing him in public.

Mr. 5 and I were laying in bed tonight. He played with my hair as I read him his story. Tonight’s selection was Johnny Appleseed. We came to the part that described Johnny as a peace-loving pioneer who wanted all people to live together as brothers. And that’s when Mr. 5 did it, when he made my heart swell. He stopped me and said, “and sisters too.”

My budding feminist!

To top the whole evening off, he snuggled his nose up to mine as the story finished and told me he loved me. “I love you mama, so much.”

Thank you my sweet boy. That is the best gift I could ever receive. I will love you forever.

I wear my excessive weight like a suit of armor. It gives me an excuse for you not to notice me or like me. Then when you don’t want to interract with me I know it’s not because of me–of who I am–but because who wants to talk to the fat girl??

Ironically, I snuggle into my armor time and again anticipating the comfort that awaits, but as soon as it’s on I realize it doesn’t fit. It’s too tight. It becomes hard to move. My heart can’t beat as loudly with it on. Of course, when I go to take it off I realize I can’t. I’m stuck.

And there I am–alone. Exactly what I was trying to avoid in the first place.

I’m so uncomfortable I don’t think I can stand it one more minute. But, the task of exposing myself once again is frightening. The job of disassembling the intricate fit from the inside out is formidable. I feel so helpless, and I begin to lose my will to try.

So there is one more reason for you to turn away in disgust.

Cold, hard, lazy, unwilling yet needy, needy, needy. Why would you stop to engage me?

Please though. Just for a moment understand I wasn’t always this way. It’s just so much easier if I give you a reason not to like me before you decide you don’t.

It’s very lonely in here. I know that will never change as long as I keep the armor on. I just need to remember it’s never serves as protection but rather a wall.

While standing at the table doing puzzles:

Mr. 3: I fart in the tub and bubbles come out.

Mr. 5: Awesome.

I don’t know why, but this sounds like fun. And I don’t know what came over me to pick Dare, but I’m all in on this one.

I pray there is no public nudity involved. I’d hate to send that many people to therapy.

Head on over and pick one. I’ll set up some linky love to all participants who took part at my urging.

Edited to add: I’m a little disappointed by the lack of male participation in this fun. What are ya? Wimps?!

One of Charlotte’s babies has taken up residence under my eave. Protecting her safety has become an act of daily vigilance on my part.

Why are bearers of the Y chromosome so horrified by spiders?

Some of the burliest men I know (my brother and the four penis-bearers in my house, as well) can be reduced to wimpering ninnies at the sight of a spider in their path.

And I don’t get it.

Spiders eat the other insects that aren’t as pleasant to be around. They protect small pink pigs (one of my favorite books as a child) and they do cool things in space.

What’s to fear?

Now disease carrying rats, venom-spewing snakes and squirrely administration officials–that’s the stuff of horror films.

To the beautiful Marine Major eating his lunch today at Cosi–the one with the strong shoulders, experienced hands, gorgeous face and cute little scar on the back of his head:

Thank you sir for turning a typically dull wait for my salad into a mini-museum outing.

Your well-worn wedding band probably made you even more attractive. Your wife is a lucky woman.

I must apologize if I stared just a little too long. I tried to look away. But damn!

You made my day. Feel free to serve my country any time.

Sincerely,
Mamma

NOTE to the Manager at Cosi in Rosslyn, VA: Pay this serviceman to eat in your restaurant every day. I promise. You’ll do a booming business.

That’s the nice way to say I’m a slob, right?

Don’t get me wrong. I love clean spaces. I love uncluttered homes. I love for my space to be light and easy on the eye, but I CAN’T SEEM TO MAKE THAT OCCUR IN MY LIFE!

Can you tell I’m frustrated?

I’ve been this way forever. Ask my mom. The poor woman tried to teach me better. She’s the most organized woman I know. She cleaned my room so many “one last times” when I was a kid. No matter what her threats, it always fell apart. Because of this I started doing my own laundry at a fairly young age.

My office isn’t usually bad. My car can be kept neat for long periods as long as no one else ever drives it, but my house? UGH!

My messiness does not tend to get in the way of my ability to do things. I can always find my keys. I know where my important papers are. Usually I can find both shoes in a pair. The clutter and the unkempt look of things stresses me out though. So you’d think I’d do something about it. But I don’t. I can find a gagillion other things I’d rather do. And if I get it partially organized? It falls apart after a few days.

I know there’s probably some deep-seeded “issue” I haven’t dealt with that makes this so. Some of Fly Lady’s thoughts hit home (yes, I even thought about trying Fly Lady but I could never get my sink clean to start). But really! It’s just stuff.

I don’t know what I want to hear from you dear readers. Tell me how it works for you. Tell me you suffer the same challenges. Tell me if you WERE organizationally challenged by now you’re reformed. If you have recovered, I want you to pour your secrets into that comment box. PLEASE.

I’m tired. I need to sleep. See, another thing I’d rather do than organize my life.

I don’t feel like I am really a grown up until I can have a house that looks put together. Hmmmm……

PS–I don’t want you all getting the wrong idea. There aren’t old milk cartons piled in the corners. You don’t have to weave through stacks of magazines to get from one room to another, but there is a big pile of clothes in my room which has become a permanent fixture in my room around which I must decorate.

HELP!!!!!

Driving in the car–alone–with the windows down and the radio turned up, it’s easy to pretend that you have no responsibilities, no one to answer to, no one counting on you to protect them and nourish them. For a moment, I am a single woman and I have my whole life ahead of me but with the knowledge I’ve gained over the last decade or so.

And I’m free.

I can feel passion. I can be gorgeous. I can travel the world. I might still be a doctor, or a photographer or a dolphin trainer. I’ll dance under the stars. My clothes will be stylish. There will be fabulous dinner parties and views of the ocean. The births will be natural and the babies will sleep through the night.

I look forward to the life ahead of me.

Then my phone buzzes. A client needs something. Will I pick up milk while I’m out? Back to School night starts in twenty minutes. At that point it’s as if my body stopped short but my heart kept moving forward. It’s pressed up against my ribs aching to keep going. I give it a pat and soothe its racing beat.

Choices have been made.

But what do I tell it, my heart? Why does it yearn to start over again and do it “right” this time? What would it change? What would it be willing to give up? Nothing. Then why does it press its face against the window and dream?

It was a beautiful day here that day. All the descriptions you’ve read of the bright blue sky and crisp air are true. It wasn’t a day you’d expect such horror, but when would you?

I wasn’t going to write about the events of this day six years ago, because I wrestle with many of the actions that have been taken since in the name of that ghastly day. I had to write about it though upon reading many of the thoughtful posts featured in that little box of wonderful posts in the left column of this space.

Because we must remember.

September 11, 2001. I doubt there is a person in this country who doesn’t know where they were when they found out about the attack.

I was in my office, exceptionally early for me, going through email when a co-worker came in to tell me about a plane hitting the Twin Towers. We assumed it was an accident as most others did I believe. Our company didn’t have a TV so we sought one out in a neighboring office on our floor and sat down just as the second airplane hit. At that moment, we knew this was no accident.

As we sat there, the phone rang and the woman whose TV we were watching took a call from a friend. Her friend was calling to tell her that his wife had just called and she was on the plane that hit the Pentagon.

Immediately, we went up to the roof of our building to see the smoke rising from the Pentagon just miles away. It was so surreal–the beautiful day, the plumes of black smoke and the silence. Our building was in the flight path for National Airport and yet it was silent–until the fighter jets screamed across the sky. Seeing fighter jets fly that low over the nation’s capital is something I never want to see again. To this day, if I hear a jet (typically from Andrews AFB) fly low over head, a surge of panic freezes me in my spot.

I was pregnant on that day. I had just found out and only my husband knew. That fact prevented me from truly experiencing all that was happening around me. I called my mother and tried to reassure her that I was safe. I wanted to say, “it’s okay I’m pregnant!” I knew that would stop her tears, but I couldn’t. Secretly, I was worrying about the world that was going to exist for my child. Would it ever be the same?

Now that baby is five years old and he runs and he laughs and he plays baseball and he doesn’t yet know about that terrible day. And each day on my way to work, I drive by the side of the Pentagon that was destroyed. Never do I pass that spot without looking to the right at where the building was hit and to the left from where I imagine the plane must have come. Never do I forget the people who died there.

I wasn’t going to write about this, because I didn’t lose anyone that day. But, many people did. And, I will never forget.