Housewife’s log, day 1, Planet of Not Even Pretending To Know Star Trek Lingo:

The 7 of us residing in this house have embarked on a media fast this week, for a variety of reasons. The MOG has multiple spiritual quests, which I am also on, and in addition to that, I recognize that I am struggling with sadness, which typically plunges me into all-day Facebook refreshing and too much TV and movies via interwebs. I think it will be healthy for me to actually deal with my sadness instead of self-medicating via technology. The Artsy-teen-in-residence and all the miniclarks don’t have a choice, because we literally unplugged the internet.

Despite being raised by a techie geek and having most of my relationships and friendships online, I want my kids to learn how to live in an analog world. So maybe this week of misery cutting back will help us relate to each other more in a real way. Don’t be too quick to congratulate me on cutting off the virtual world, because a) this blog is on the internet and b) it’s just a week.

I’m writing this on Sunday night, end of day 1. I definitely feel a little jittery and anxious, and am continually picking up my phone to check Twitter or Facebook, wanting contact with somebody besides my immediate relatives here. I am so used to sharing my thoughts and pictures every few hours, it seems strange to talk to my kids or watch them play without making mental 140 character notes to be posted later tonight.

I’ve read 2 novels today and I imagine I’ll be mainlining some cookies in a minute, so it’s not like I’m filling the empty space with prayer and meditation. I have so many coping mechanisms, I’ve just cut off one, which has been my primary form of community and communication. Maybe I’ll make some progress there, I hope.

Day 1, in the can. 6 to go. 

Every year, the MOG and I battle it out over the appropriate display and duration of Christmas cheer.

He would very happily skip decorating altogether and sit down on Christmas morning with non-seasonal music playing, for a peaceful exchange of gift cards, after which we would independently text holiday greetings to our family members who live 12 hours away. In fact, Richy, I bet you're reading this and thinking how nice that would be. 

If I had the money and the manpower, I would cover our entire roof and every one of our trees in lights. It would look like the Galleria in my yard, and I would have a chuckling life-size Santa on my porch to greet passers-by. Inside, it would be more lights and Christmas music and an 8 foot tree in the living room with a couple of smaller trees, like 6 footers, in various locations around the house. We'd put the trees up the day after Thanksgiving and have presents wrapped and stockings stuffed by the first week of December, and Christmas music would start and play continuously as soon as temps dropped below 70. Couple of dancing Santa dolls. Eggnog fountain. You get the drill. I'd dress the kids up in sweaters with snowmen on them and we'd get our pictures taken. Cookies for the neighbors. And then I'd teach the kids Christmas carols and make them put on a show, which I'd video and put on the internet. And then we'd drive to Texas for a week of reveling and salsa. 

We're lucky we agree on the important stuff, like honesty and Apple products. But every year, it's a battle, because it's cold outside, and trees are expensive, and sticky and poky and needles everywhere and you have to put them in the tree stand and water them and so on. And I always wail and say MY DAD IS DEAD, GIVE ME A TREE, which is the way a mature woman communicates her felt needs. And then we get one and put it up and it's great and beautiful. It's just the process that he hates. I guess. Or happiness. 

This year, the MOG is a cripple of sorts, as his back has slipped, and he looks kind of like a candy cane man from the side, leaning to one side with his hip all jacked out of place. 34 and 33, y'all, and we're all like, kidney stones and back failure. Maybe we should go to a home.

Anyway, we have plotted for days the way to drug him and drag him around, so he can stand long enough to get a tree, and so we executed the plan, arriving at Lowes exactly as he reached the pinnacle of his pain. So maybe we're not the smoothest planners, shut up. Then, Lowes was out of tree netting. yougottabekeedingme. So we hobbled back to the van and drove over to Walmart, who no longer carry fresh trees, and the MOG was strongly considering biting down on his arsenic tablet, and all the kids were like, are we going to get a tree? times one million and R2 was starting to get worried because now we a) ate dinner b) went to Lowes and c) went to Walmart, and he still wasn't getting a tree, which was concerning him very, very much, and he indicated this by pointing as insistently as possible at every Christmas-related item in the store, which were LEGION.

In the end, even though my DAD IS DEAD, I surrendered and accepted a fake tree. And I like it. A lot. It is very, very tall, and I don't have to water it, and it looks great, and everyone is happy. So, there you go.

Now, to pick just the right gift card...

It's December, y'all. That means it is FULLTIME Christmas cheer from now till December 26th. In fact, I started early this year, and the MOG has offered only mild protests to the round-the-clock Christmas tunes pouring from the ol' iPod. He's weakening, see, because of these mini-humans around here. R2 has a black eye from beating his head into the bus wall, in an attempt to communicate frustration, but even with his Rocky face, he is giddy, jumping around everywhere and pointing insistently at the Christmas tree I drew on the whiteboard. And Toby and Brynn are just enchanted, by the music and the decorations and the plans. The MOG and the ATIR (artsy-teen-in-residence) make feeble little Scroogey statements but are silenced by the cuteness. So.

And I have this homeschool guilt that I haven't made Christmas that much about Jesus, although they know the Nativity story and whatnot. But I put most of the emphasis on decorating and family and tradition, and presents, (not gonna lie) and eggnog. But my relevant-slightly-hipster-question-everything-some-things side is all like, "Uh, does Jesus care about Christmas? Like is it His for real birthday and it hurts His holy feelings when I mostly use it as a year-end party for friends and family?" Because I don't know if He cares. You know?

I mean, His birth story is important, it's key to our whole faith. I just think sometime we make Jesus into this petulant man-child, sitting up in heaven with His feelings hurt because we get more excited about football than church. Do we have our priorities screwed up? Heck yes. Does He want to be God above everything? Yes. But is He sulking? I don't think so.

So what happens if I never make Him a birthday cake? What if I try to teach my kids to love Him, and to honor Him all year, and to love people, and to welcome them into our family, and maybe we water down the soup a little so more people can eat it? And we listen to each other, and we learn to honor each other and give gifts that build each other up and celebrate our differences? And what if we sit inside on a snowy night and laugh at the baby dancing, and drink hot chocolate and make traditions, because that's heritage, and history, and family? What if we learn to love like Jesus, to share like Jesus, to lay our lives down for others like Jesus?

I think that might be a party He'd come to.

I've started this Bible-in-90-Days plan, and I'm in Genesis, you know, because it's at the beginning and all that. Genesis is pretty Jerry Springer, y'all.

God made Adam and Eve. They were the beginning, and maybe you've got parents or grandparents or whatever, the stable ones. Maybe some other branch of the family, if you're the Black Sheep Family of the family, I don't know. But you have that stable branch of the family, who maybe sowed a couple wild oats back in the prehistoric era but they've been a model of decorum since then, you know? That's A & E. And they start having kids and all the sudden it is a trashy reality show.

We got some serious white-trash roots, y'all. And they probably weren't even white, considering how we turned out every-which color. Eve was probably throwing up her hands and watching the grandkids all the time, in between visiting the boys in prison and leaving a light in the window for all the runaway concubine daughters. I bet Eve had some regrets, I tell you what. I bet Adam was all like, "You had to listen to that snake..." and Eve was all rolling her eyes.

And then somebody'd get ahead, like Abraham with all his livestock and money and his hot half-sister wife and next thing you know, his corrupt relatives are picking a fight and running him off his land. And then him and Sarai get crazy and start bringing in sister wives and throwing them out and now we got all these Muslims, and then it just gets worse.

Back at Piney Woods Christian School, all of us were safely encased in hideous uniforms and 6-inch-distance rules. We were so square, every now and then a "bad boy" would come to our school to be reformed and try to tell us dirty jokes and we'd all laugh, but nobody knew what the heck he was talking about. "Song of Solomon 8:8", a note passed in class would say, and that was scandalous enough. But Genesis, with all its sex and violence, was allowed. I guess part of the logic is that it never really works out, because people were always getting leprosy and swallowed up by the earth and whatnot. It might be useful in abstinence training, actually. Food for thought.

In some alternate universe, I'm a genuine multi-tasker. Now the MOG and all my sci-fi geek friends (looking at you, jennerith) are spitting out their coffee and being all like, "That's what you'd do in an alternate universe? What about *insert scientific fantasy concept*? Why wouldn't you do something like that? And besides, that's not how alternate universes work. Gosh." I acknowledge my lack of credible scientific knowledge, despite watching my dad watch Attack of the Killer Tomatoes and Tobor and so much more all of my childhood. I am on the outskirts of this wormhole. (coffee spit break) Okay, so maybe that's not how wormholes work. 

Like today, for instance. I sit down to write a blog about multi-tasking, or something, I've forgotten now, and then I'm off on a tangent about sci-fi. You know what's the worst? Or pretty bad? When you're watching a romcom (romantic comedy, y'all) and there's some part where, you know, magic happens and they find each other again or whatever, and I'm squealing inside my head, "Love is alive! Magic! Flowers! Cusack!" and the MOG is all like, "Pfft. Yeah, 'cause that would happen." This from a guy who has no issue with people turning into mutants from bug bites or people who are part human, part machine or whatever. Ending up on the same airplane after not seeing each other for 20 years: possible. Having spikes inside your knuckles, flying, interplanetary teleporting: not possible. Who's the idealist here? 

So the challenge now, (remembered it! will continue as if I had written the post I planned) is how to figure out how to balance all the things I need to do well, as well as adding in the dietary, exercise and spiritual changes that need to happen, and make them all work without it killing me. It is possible, I know. Once a year or so, I make A Plan For My Life, in Excel, with color coding and 15 minute increments or whatever, or I buy a schmancy new planner, and I think, now, NOW I will get it all together. But then I get all stressed out looking at my chart and wondering where is my cookie/book/facebook hours? I can't live this way anymore! And so, before ever beginning my new plan, I am already suffering from corporate burnout. 

You know what I need? A radioactive insect. Imma go find one. Get ready for SuperHomeschoolBloggerActivistWifeMomAuntFriend! Also, flying! 

Now, if you're a longtime stalker reader of this blog, then you know I come from what used to be a big family before I moved to KC and started hanging out with mini-mega-families. I mean, I am one of 5 kids, and then there are 1000* more kids that have sprung from our loins and our paperwork, and various family members we added over the years who may or may not have any biological connection.

And they are the Yablonskis, them who raised me. Yablonski is a fictional surname my parents made up, probably in a sickly-sweet smelling smoky room with Jimi carrying on in the background. By the time I came around, the only smoke was Mama exploding the green bean pan, and the soundtrack was Michael Card and Twila Paris. I'm glad they got saved, but I think I might have gotten the musical short end of the stick. Anyway, Yablonskis. That's us, the ever-expanding family, with the same joie de vivre passing down the generational lines.

Now I live 700 miles away from them, and for the last 2 years I haven't been "home" for Thanksgiving. So I gather my little crew and friends and neighbors and I try to cook and capture that feeling of belonging, of being known. And it does feel like a holiday, like a celebration, but it's not the same. Sometimes it seems like I am only completely me when surrounded by my mom and my siblings. 

Adulthood. On one hand I am thrilled to be able to drive my own car and have my own family and do all the grownup stuff, but part of me will never stop wanting to be Mouse, the littlest one, watching the big kids and Daddy beat each other over the head with wrapping paper tubes. The littlest one, when the big kids went home and out with friends, the littlest one sitting in between Mama and Daddy, eating popcorn and listening to them talk about their plans to fix up the place.

But life changes, and growing up is inevitable, unless you choose to be a perpetual child, which is a whole 'nother topic. So I will wake up early and I will cook the ham and the pies, and I will be thankful that God has given me children, and time. And I will miss my roots, even as I put down roots for my little ones. And I will be thankful.



*not exact number

Liz

I'm not a medical type. I can hold my own when I need to talk to doctors about my kids, but besides that, I tend to steer clear of medical discussions, unlike my attractive and single friend Liz. She likes to talk about things, and sometimes she makes me faint or puke, while telling an amusing anecdote about a guy's face coming off, or what have you.

Still, the fact is, my life has been kind of a continual Medical Update lately, and so I feel the need to talk about that-time-I-almost-died-yesterday. The only problem is, it is all involving kidneys and other kidney-related functions, and I'm not really wanting to take you all to the virtual bathroom with me, even if you're just talking to me from the other part of the room while fixing your mascara in the mirror. Quandary.

Well. The thing is, I had this minor infection, which I self-diagnosed using the Google (who needs doctors, right?) and so I had started home-remedying myself with cranberry pills and cranberry juice and massive amounts of water and little martyr sighs and such, and then I woke up yesterday with a New Pain. It was kind of like somebody was bludgeoning me in the back and the side with a Nerf Bat, and really using their strength. I consulted Dr. Google and he told me I might have a kidney infection, or possibly a terrible fatal 24 hour disease, something like that. And then it started getting worse, the New Pain. So the MOG and I were off to Urgent Care, and they agreed with my self-diagnosis and sent me home with a prescription for antibiotics.

By this point the Nerf-welders had stepped it up and were practicing easy swings with a real bat. I got in the car but walking was getting kind of challenging, and then it got bad. I started getting nauseated, like all the way this-is-going-to-happen nauseated, and the pain in my side was swelling up, and then the nausea and the pain started increasing and swirling together like some macabre symphony of chaos and then I started thinking I might die. My arms and legs went tingly and then it spread all the way up into my ribs. I couldn't breathe and I started thinking, "Is this what it's like to die? Will I be aware that I'm dying, all the way out?" I was really, really scared. REALLY. In the mixture was an awareness that my spirit was all right, and I was heaven bound and all that, but I was terrified to not be able to breathe or feel my body, or to make complete sentences.

While all this was happening, the MOG was asking many questions, and I was mostly just gasping and praying out loud and saying, "I don't know, I don't know, I'm dying." So he drove me to the ER. Note: even if your whole body is numb, the touchscreen on iPhones still work. So I was googling my symptoms while I was pretty sure it was the end. Not sure what that says about me.

At the ER, feeling finally started coming back and then I realized I was in a lot of pain. I had self-diagnosed at that point and told them maybe my appendix had ruptured, but they weren't terribly concerned. "Tell them you have a high pain tolerance! Tell them you're not a hypochondriac!" says the MOG, while the bedraggled man next to us twitches and waits for pain meds. Our friend Randy came up and chatted with me while I waited, and by then, I was feeling much better and thinking about making a run for it, but I was kind of nervous about the whole thing happening again. Randy says I can't really write a near-death experience book about this, but I'm not so sure.

This is already long. Hours and hours at the ER. CT scan and an IV and telling my story over and over, but by this point I am no longer in significant pain. The doctor tells me it was probably a kidney stone, and I probably hyperventilated because of pain, and it's gone now, and the other infection should be fine with antibiotics. Google backs her up.

I'm glad to be alive, even if I maybe was never dying. Still glad.

You know those friends of yours who are shacking up, and they keep saying they're going to get married, but they have to do this insurance thing first, or renew their lease, or get divorced or whatever, and they're all like, we really want to be married, but, you know... (disclaimer: I don't know anybody in this exact situation right now, and this is definitely not aimed at you and your shack-up hunny. it's just a general example. But you should get married)
That's kind of how it's been with our house. We started trying to buy it last year, I think. It seems like a long time ago. We've been living here for 2.5 years, and we like it, plus we don't want to move, so when it went up for sale with us in it, we decided to try to buy it. Maybe you're all like "Do... or do not, there is no try." Back off, Yoda, it's our first home purchase.

So we were all like, "Okay, house. You're 'the one' and we're ready to commit to massive debt and one city and sure, you need a little nip and tuck, but okay. Let's do this." And then the ladies at Bank of America, Les Incompetents Department, were all like, "OMG my coworker is such a COW and she lost your paperwork and I need you to write it 50 more times and did you see what she was wearing? BTW, your loan will be denied in 24 hours because you didn't sign that document I never sent you LOL." After a few months of that, we fired them and went with another company, and they got it done, so now we're here at the altar, ready to change our Facebook stati to "Homeowned", and I'm a little nervous.

Yesterday was the long-awaited closing date, and we rolled up to Chicago Title in our minivan full of short people and sticky Sonic cups. We took turns, one going in and signing stuff while the other one stayed in the van and made vague threats about "inside voices" and "loss of life".

And I did it, I signed the papers, and now we're waiting for a phone call, because they still have to send your documents around so everyone can laugh at your "salary" and draw mustaches on your driver's license. After it makes the rounds, they call and say "Congratulations! You are now 6 figures in debt and contractually obligated to live in this house until you are dead!"

So, homeowners. Homebuyers. Next time my garbage disposal shocks me, I'm going to look it right in the exposed wire and say sternly, "Knock that off. I OWN you."

There's these lines, in blogging, and marriage, and blogging about marriage. I aim to be good at mocking my husband without dishonoring him, and talking about the work of being married without making a big deal about how hard it can be.

Like, when you're married a long time, and you have the same fights over and over again. One of those fights, for us, is about the word "fight". To me, that means we disagreed, and may or may not have raised our voices, and it took a few or more circular rounds of logic and emotion to resolve it. To him, the word means fisticuffs and grenades, blood and guts and police helicopters. Let me clarify for you: when I say we had a fight, I mean, we had an argument. If you had been here, your discomfort level at being in the middle of a conflict would have been: low to moderate. So.

Anyway, that was today. Marital Communication 102: Male and Female Mental Patterns. I say (a) he hears (b), and vice versa. And the plot thickens, as we try to muddle through a) what we're saying b) what we mean and c) what we're not saying, while small people poke their heads through the door to announce successful bathroom exploits or helpful trivia about obscure US Presidents. It's like therapy with the Muppets.

So the war rages on, in quiet tones over the peanut butter and jelly- construction, in short sentences during the Lego-storing, and eventually is resolved. Then it's like, what was the big deal, anyway? Oh yeah, because you totally said (a).

My joy-baby is 1. We're having his birthday party later this week, but his real birthday was yesterday. I've been reliving the days around his birth, and thinking about his birthfamily a lot.

Tristan is such a part of me, I've started forgetting he was adopted. He is thoroughly weaved into the fabric of this family, and he adds so much. We are so grateful for him.

Click here to read the post from his birthdate: we meet: Day 1.