A NEED to be grateful...

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Whew, had to get that digital scream off my chest.

Why is Christmas time so crazy? Crazy enough that I feel so crazy that I have to neglect my crazy blog, where I document my life of crazy and therapeutically vent the craziness out of my soul! It's absurd.

Tonight tonight, when I should be sleeping (seeing as I've been exceptionally ill for a week and a half and my children are both finally asleep) I have to say something of the inner turmoil I feel about this Christmas.

TODAY...sucked today....

Depression Pills, Mother's Little Helper?
I watched this episode this morning while I was getting my Littles ready. It really pissed me off. Watch it, tell me your thoughts. We'll discuss...

Insomnia and Inspiration

My depression began as a child. I grew up very poor, in a very violatile home. Tonight, as I do many nights, I'm having trouble falling asleep. It's strange, but more than the sadness and loneliness as an 8-year-old, the thing I remember most about my depression in that stage was the Insomnia.

Fast forward a couple of decades and here I find myself, stuck in the same old pickle. Except....

PART 2: Redemption Song

We got our Christmas Tree.
We had our magical night.
It is, Enough.

I started this blog because I couldn't keep in all the crazy chaos that I truly feel in my life. I don't know how to be a picture perfect Mo-Mo-Mo (Molly Mormon Mommy, for those of you outside the Mormon culture). Hell, I don't know how to be a picture perfect anything. I take that back. I DO know how to be a picture perfect basket case, and that is exactly the problem.

Let me explain, my last post was right, I do Suck At Life, sometimes.

PART 1: So tonight I lost it...

Sometimes I think that it isn't so much life that lets us down as expectations.

I expected tonight to be a great night.

Tonight we were supposed to continue a tradition that my husband and I started a couple of years ago for just us. A special tradition created just for our family. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, or perhaps naive, but some part of me still believes that there is magic in specially created traditions. I wanted tonight to be magical. I was so looking forward to it that I had one of the best days I've had in weeks.  I managed to clean my entire bedroom and get myself and my Littles up, dressed, and fed before 10 am. I got all of the endless loads of laundry not only washed and dried, but they actually managed to get folded and put away properly. I finally tackled the daunting stacks of dishes that were slowly taking over every inch of counter space in my kitchen. I finished wrapping all of the Christmas presents. I made a vegetarian lunch of angel hair pasta, squash, zucchini, red bell pepper, and a balsamic shallot sauce and had it ready when my hubby came home for his 30 minute break before heading back to his internship.

All of this, all of it I did because I was so excited about our Christmas Tree tradition.

Ten minutes

There are so few distinct memories I have of my own childhood. I know my own history, the chronological unfolding of events that made me who I am, but sometimes when I think back on it all I feel detached from it. It's almost like a sort of saga that I've told myself over and over until I'm not sure if the details I recall stem from the actual event or simply the last time I rehearsed the story. The early memories are hazy, at best, and blurred beyond recognition in the years following my parents divorce and several years of tough living that I know my mind blanks over to protect itself.

But today, a memory...

A gem pulled from some recess in my mind that hasn't felt an illuminating light in years.

The memory: a pot. A beat-up, dinged silver pot spotted with water and wear. 

Potty Training

So the title of this post should be enough to inspire dread in mommies everywhere.

The Beginning & the Epoch of Honesty

I am cheating on my other blog. Yes, this is my second blog. The other blog and I, we keep up appearances, for the sake of the kids. All of my family, my in-laws, my church acquaintances read my other blog. They comment on my syrupy posts and pictures; they tell me how cute and big my kids are getting. I hate the sound of my own narrative in my other blog. When I write in it late at night, I start out one way and before the post is finished I've erased, edited, and deleted anything I find emotionally or intellectually stimulating. Then I lay in bed dejected because I didn't get where I wanted to go. There is no revelation, no release, no "Ah, Ha!" moment. It's the ultimate blogger frustration.

I've been thinking about doing this for months, toying with the idea of exposing myself to a new audience. Tonight, I couldn't seem to stop myself. I was caught up in the raw, aching, primal desire to write something that I actually felt. I hate my other blog. I hate the fake family portrait it paints. So instead, I find myself here letting it all hang out with complete anonymity. Thrilling, isn't it?