When your life is an over-stuffed suitcase, it's hard to find your pen.

A few weeks ago a blogger I read regularly disclosed casually that before she became a stay-at-home mom, she had been making six figures at her job. It wasn't something I had given any thought to, when I read people's blogs I tend to accept that I am reading about only a small part of their lives, and - unless our correspondence deepens - I rarely give much thought to those elements not represented on the blog. What's the point? They could be anyone, I could be anyone, the internet's illusion of anonymity is a big part of its appeal.

Still, when something like a person's income, or religion, or political conviction is revealed suddenly I can't help being a little startled. I can't help but wonder how different everything would be if I wasn't working two jobs, raising a family and anticipating adding grad school to the mix this fall. What would my life look like if I had finished school first, started a career and then had children? I can barely conceive of this unfulfilled potential future/past, the elements congeal, but the substance of such a life remains out of focus.

The first thing I imagine was that I would have much more time for adventures if I wasn't busy making ends meet all day, and that my blog would be ever so much more exciting. Then I remembered that I only find the blogger who revealed this information about herself mildly amusing half of the time.

I do think that if I wasn't so busy I'd have more insights for you, for me, more time to reflect on my surroundings: on the primary, on the delightful insanity that is restaurant work (I will tell you more soon, I promise, it's really great fun), and on the ways in which I finally feel like this town is becoming my home, just as I am about to leave.

At the only really good coffee shop in town yesterday morning I sat for a few minutes and tried to write. I was alone, and while there were not too many distractions, the solitude itself was disarming. I watched a young family settling in, finding a place for their over-sized stroller between the tables, people heading off to work, or sitting to chat, listened to the bubbly enthusiasm of the barista as she served all of her regular customers their daily joe. I tried to bring my mind back to what I wanted to focus on, the shape of the story I want so badly to tell, but what I wanted and what I needed were too different, and people watching won the day.

Finding time for introspection isn't easy, but it has become necessary. Six-figure salary be damned, the time to simply be might be considered a luxury, but it's one that I deserve, and if I intend to continue calling myself a writer, it's one that I need to cultivate.

The Golden Comp-Ass

(Warning: Spoilers ahead.)

I have not yet offered any movies reviews here, for the simple reasons that not only do I rarely go out to the movies, but also I'm not that picky. I'd much rather relax and enjoy a movie than watch it critically, although I know that can be fun, too.

The problem arises when a film just won't let you relax and enjoy it. Sometimes, this is only partly the film's fault, like when I read the book first and had a solid point of comparision, knew the backstory and could not understand why things that only needed one little tiny line of exposition were left hanging.

I understand that transforming a novel into a screenplay is tricky business, after all the two mediums could not be more different from a writer's perspective, and it takes a skilled hand to concisely capture the inner lives of a novel's characters or condense lengthy exposition in a screenplay.

Still, The Golden Compass did one thing which I simply cannot excuse or explain away. An unforgivable error of judgment and since I don't know who made the call, I'll just blame everyone. They completely neutered the story.

The ending of the novel was powerful and bleak, leaving Lyra feeling that everything she thought she knew and understood was gone, but also more determined than ever to continue her journey. The ending gave the book it's true power, redefining the meaning of things that had come before, and leaving the reader eager to see what would happen next.

But it wasn't Hollywood enough apparently, so the film's solution was simply to fade to black before the bad stuff happens. There was no alternate ending, the film simply stopped. The screen went dark. It was terrible. Unforgivable.

And apparently Phillip Pullman was cool with it, something that I find hard to believe given his elitist opinions on most topics relating to the purity of his craft.

Repeating the words will make them true.

Thank you all so much, both for your kind words of encouragement and for all of the helpful suggestions for preparing the house for renters. I have a tendency (as you may have noticed) to feel like I have to do everything and do it all perfectly and in five minutes. I try to stop and breathe, but sometimes I forget.

It's going to be fine.

I got an email from TurboTax letting me know that since I had them deduct their fees from my refund, my ill-gotten rebate check will be here six weeks later than it would have if I had paid them upfront. Why? They didn't say. Also, when saving money for a move, it would have been nice to start from the good side of zero.

It's going to be fine.

Last night (while Steve was stuck in NYC eating an amazing free meal at this restaurant) my youngest brother and his girlfriend, Bonnie, hung out with the girls. The best part? Bonnie is going to come twice a week and watch the girls during the gap between when I have to leave for work and when Steve gets home. And she rocks! They made pizza, played duck-duck-goose and freeze tag, and when I got home they were fast asleep. Who could ask for anything more?

Everything's going to be fine.

This is what happens, things pile on until the top of the stack is waving in the breeze above my head. I can see it - I want to reach up, steady it, steady myself, but the wind pulls my hand away.

My attention is drawn now to something else, to the world all around me and I want everything to stop, just for a second, just so I can reorganize my pile - moving some of the heavy things to the bottom would help I think - but of course it doesn't.

And when the pieces begin to fall I can only hope that they - and I - kind of sort of know what we're doing and that they will fall in the right places, at the right time, and that I will not fall while I am holding my pile of things.

Everything's going to be fine.

I have a question.

Actually I have a lot of questions, but there's one that I could use your help with. If our house doesn't sell in time - and it's looking like it won't - how perfect should our house be if we're going to rent it out?

The house isn't in bad shape, and obviously we'd make sure all of the functional parts were in good working order, but I'm wondering about things like the trim in the bathroom, re-painting the living room, repainting the white wood floors. If I was renting I'd appreciate the ability to put pictures on the walls, but should we give the whole thing a fresh coat of paint? How much is too much? How little is not enough?

Additional info:

Rentals in our area range from cheap crack houses ($550ish) to really nice vacation homes ($2000+). Our house is somewhere in the middle. It's walking distance to a lot of stuff, but tucked away and private, with a good sized yard, and it's a house, not an apartment.

What do you think?

How am I? I don't know.

Family obligations, multiple jobs, having a house on the market, and preparing to move my family halfway across the country in a little over two months, not to mention the usual daily details have left me little time for introspection lately, and even though part of the reason I keep this blog is to record the day-to-day - both for my future self, and for long-distance family and friends - I have a hard time sitting down to write when I feel I have nothing to say.

It's not so much that I have nothing say, that's not true, it's just that I don't know what I have to say because I haven't had time to think about it, and yet... here I am.

The end of the school year is approaching, our house is not selling, and I can feel a black panic creeping up behind me, like flood waters rising at an imperceptible pace. They weren't there the last time I looked, but now I'm ankle deep!

The what ifs are beginning to feel imminent: what if we can't sell the house or find a renter? what if we can't afford the moving truck? what if we don't actually get into the graduate housing? what if Steve can't find a job? what if we can't find childcare for Freya? And they're not all that rational: what if the people at the University change their minds and decide I'm not actually good enough to be in the program after all? what if all of the people I owe money to decide they want to collect tomorrow or force me into indentured servitude?

I try not to think about them. I shut them out, I'm pretty good at that, but they're still there and I know that holding the panic at bay involves a careful balance of not thinking, and thinking critically. I'm trying to do that, I'm trying.

It's just that from this perspective, from the angle I'm standing at right now today, it's hard to tell if I'm doing a good job. I alternate regularly - often eighteen or nineteen times a day - between marveling at how much I do, and seeing clearly what a hopeless failure I am at being a grown-up.

For Spring

...a new haircut.

Transitory Employment

I start a new job today, at this place. I'm pretty excited, aside from some extra cash - which we need to move our junk halfway across the country - I kind of like waiting tables, never mind that I swore I was done with it forever! There's nothing like the draw of a few extra hundred bucks a week to suck me right back in.

But. It's the opposite of the work that I do from home: it gets me out of the house for one thing, alone, and it's social, I get to talk to people, and be funny and engaging, which, even when I do it at home (which I totally do all the time, right honey?) it's not the same. Also, I get to dress nice, which is kind of fun since all I usually wear is jeans and t-shirts.

Another perk? It's only for three months, which means I won't have time to get totally bored and fed up with all the tourists who think they're better than me.

Can you tell I have mixed feelings about the whole enterprise? Wish me luck, I'll let you know how it goes.

Freya Goes Boldly Where Most Children Dare Not Tread (and with good reason)

Prologue
I have issues with immunizations. Yes, I'm one of those freaks, I'm just going to put it out there before I tell this story because, well, because it's a big part of it. Matilda had a tetanus shot when she was three, and the rest of her shots when she was five, leading into kindergarten. Freya hadn't had any yet (until today). I'm not totally opposed to them, I know that immunizations have saved thousands of lives, I'm not unaware of the risks of choosing not to immunize my children, it's just that the idea that something could go wrong freaked me out.

Specifically that something could go wrong when they were so little I'd never be sure what caused it - I mean, they want to give every baby a Hep B shot 12 hours after birth, hello, my kid's not using the hard drugs yet, it just got here! What if my child was diagnosed as autistic at age two and had been getting shots since she was born? How would I ever be able to know if autism was just part of who she was, or if it was caused by something I gave her?

It wasn't something I took lightly, I did a lot of reading, but Steve and I both agreed that the way to go was just to hold off - we'll immunize, we said, just not yet. Give them a chance to become strong first, then we'll shoot 'em up.

Cut to Today
Matilda's been complaining that her ear hurts off and on for about five days. Neither of my children have ever had an ear infection, but after five days of complaining, I decided it was time to drag her to the doctor's office. I gave her the day off of school and she and Freya and I drove over to the doctor after lunch.

In the car Freya said, "I want to get a shot."

This is something she has been saying for a while now. I've been thinking the same thing, so I assured her that I'd see what I could do.

In the waiting room the girls busied themselves with Barbie books until Matilda's name was called.

Matilda looked at me, not wanting to go in, but closed her book and stood.

Meanwhile, Freya dropped what she was doing and ran up to the nurse. In a loud, clear voice she said, "I want a shot."

Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at us. The receptionist practically vaulted over her desk to get a look at my crazy kid. "Did she really just say that?" she exclaimed, "That's definitely a first!"

As we followed the nurse down the hall - Matilda reluctantly, Freya with eager anticipation - I could hear them already telling the story of the little girl who wanted a shot, to whoever had missed it.

In the patient room we waited, read more books, waited. Then the doctor arrived.

"I want a shot," Freya said firmly.

The doctor looked a little taken aback, "Well," she said, "I think I should just take a look at your ear first."

I explained that there was nothing wrong with her, that actually her sister was the reason we were there, and after she looked at Til and told me what to do for her, we moved on to Freya.

Freya was very clear about what she wanted. "I want a shot." She wanted a shot. And since I had been thinking about getting her started, we decided there was really no reason to wait.

The nurse came in and she sat on my lap, still completely convinced that this was what she wanted.

I don't know what she expected (after all, she had come with Matilda for plenty of her shots) but whatever it was, the reality of getting shots was all wrong.

Man, was she pissed! She screamed and writhed like a little hell beast!

And who can blame her? All that anticipation for something most people grit their teeth and bear. Poor kid. She'll know better next time, and so will I. It's one thing when she decides she wants to do something, it's quite another when she then decides she never wants to do something again. Ever.

Epilogue
With chocolate ice cream, and a mini stuffed dalmatian puppy that matches one Matilda already has, I am pleased to announce that Freya made a full recovery.

What's that? Matilda was the one who was sick? Oh yeah. She'll be fine too, after all, she's the wise older sister who offered to hold Freya's hand, and shrugged knowingly when she was turned down.