Twas Brillig

Wordless Wednesday

About a million years ago, back when Brian and I were first dating, he and I went on a double date with my sister Amy and her husband Rob. We went to a movie—something sad and sappy. Amy and I watched the movie, enjoying it, and didn’t really realize (because it was such a common occurrence) that everyone in the audience was crying but us. When the lights came up, both Brian and Rob had red eyes and tear-soaked cheeks. Rob stared at me and Amy with our clear eyes and dry faces and yelled out, his voice still rough with emotion, “YOU HEARTLESS THOMAS WOMEN!!!”

Amy and I stood there, confused. And then… we busted up laughing. Because we realized that he was right! This “show no emotion” thing is a Thomas family trait!

Over the years, we’ve all laughed about this many times.

I’m certain that it’s not that we feel things less deeply than others feel them.  We don’t weep.  We don’t call each other.  We don’t blubber.  But we mourn, we stress, we anguish.  I FEEL sad movies, but I don’t cry during them.  I just don’t.

Both of my older brothers married weepers.  I know that for my oldest brother, at least, it was quite a shock.  It seemed to him like his young wife was crying all the time, and he had no idea how to deal with it.  (This was many years ago—I’m sure that over the years he’s begun to figure it out…)

My husband, however, has occasionally had a tricky time dealing with my calm-headed coolness.  He’s never called me “hard-hearted,” nor has he ever called me an ice queen, as others were prone to.  But I’m sure that there are times when he wonders what is wrong with me and why his eyes are wet and mine are fine.

There are exceptions to this, of course.  When I’m pregnant (and when you take into account that I’ve been pregnant 7 times in the last 6 years, you see that that’s quite a lot) I can be a big fat bawl-baby.  Or when I’ve just had a baby.  And occasionally during that special time of month, I’m more prone.  Still, even then, my emotions are quite mild in comparison to most of the women (and some of the men) I know.

Another exception to my cry-less-ness is when one of my children is suffering or struggling.

This last weekend, we learned that Fuzzles will need surgery, but it’s a simple operation and we should see immediate results.  This is good news—better news than what we’d dared to hope for.

Out of duty, I emailed my siblings to let them know what was going on.  For some of my siblings, this was the first contact I’d had with them since our ill-fated family reunion last December.  I only wrote because people get mad at me if something’s going on and I don’t tell them about it.  Just because they feel that they were left out of the loop—not because they actually care.  I didn’t expect any response.  I’ve never really gotten the feeling that most of them cared at all about me or my kids.

I sent the same email to a few friends.  Every one of my friends wrote back, offering love, prayers, support, and encouragement.  From my siblings?  Silence.

At first I found their silence humorous.  Hahaha.  My crazy family, I thought.  My crazy, heartless, immovable family.

But soon, their silence wasn’t funny anymore.  Where in the crap were they?  Shouldn’t they at least acknowledge the existence of my email?  Shouldn’t they pretend, even if just for one brief moment, that they care?  Pretend to care about my stress and my concerns?  Pretend to care that their baby nephew needs surgery?  Even just pretend to care that it looks like he’s going to be fine?

Nope.

(However, both of my brothers’ wives DID write!  Both sent very sweet letters.)

I found myself saying, “those heartless Thomases!!!”

When I realized what I was saying, I started laughing, and remembered that others see me the same way, and it’s not true, nor is it fair.  I decided to get up and walk away from the computer.  They would reach out to me in their way.  They aren’t heartless.

This evening, I received an email from one of my brothers, along with an email from the sister I least expected to hear from.  Both were extremely brief—one-sentence long.  But it was an announcement that they DID get my email, they WOULD pray for us, and they WERE thinking of us.

It made me think that the other three of my siblings and their families were also aware of us, praying for us, loving us.

Because, see, they’re not heartless.  They still love, they still feel, they’re just not as obvious about it as others are.  And that’s okay!

Tonight as I close my eyes and go to sleep, I’ll pause for a few minutes to feel their love—I’m completely confident that I’ll find it there.

I’ve been given a few ideas about Soap Opera Sunday this week that I’m excited to talk about.

1. Because sometimes Kate or I are out of town or unable to post or whatever, it was suggested that we consider “guest hosts.” As I thought about this idea, I thought it was really great. Rather than have Kate and I host SOS every week, we would love for others to guest host from time to time—put up the rules and the links at their site and everyone links back to that host for that week (I would let you all know well in advance who the guest host would be for the week). If you are interested in guest hosting, let me know—leave me a comment or email me! It would be fun if we had a different host every week!

2. Many, MANY of our readers have told us that they would love to play Soap Opera Sunday, but they have friends or family or others who read their blog that they’re not comfortable sharing their stories with. This week, it was suggested to me that we start an “anonymous SOS” blog that people can post on— this would give people the chance to write something where their mom can’t find it and people would be allowed to either sign it and link back to their normal blog OR remain completely anonymous! It also gives people who DON’T have a blog the opportunity to share their soapiness too. Several people would be able to use this blog each week if they wanted to, and each post would be entered separately into the Mr. Linky. So! Because I’m SO on the ball, here’s the site! Anonymous Soapiness. If you want to submit a post there, you can email your story to me or to Kate and we will enter it for you. If you don’t want even me or Kate to know who you are, consider creating a bogus email account to send it from. We won’t do any detective work—we’ll respect your privacy. Please, PLEASE remember, though, that there are rules to what kinds of stories we will accept! (I will also be listing this new blog at my Cre8buzz profile—it would be super if you could go here to rate it so that we can get the word out and increase our SOS-ing, and thus increase everyone’s traffic!)

My own soapy story for today is brief. Last week I met with Fluffy’s kindergarten teacher for parent/teacher conferences. Her teacher told me that all the little boys in her class have a crush on Fluffy and try very hard to impress her. Fluffy, as it turns out, demands good classroom behavior. Her teacher laughed and told me that Fluffy makes her job so much easier! I died laughing. That’s my girl— a Soap Queen in the making!

And that’s all, folks! Are you playing Soap Opera Sunday too? Enter your link here. Do you WANT to play too? You’ll find the rules here.

… and other random stuff.

The fact that my earlobes feel like they’re on fire really isn’t the point of this post.  In fact, I don’t actually KNOW what the point of this post is yet.  I’m making it up as I go along.  But it’s definitely not that my earlobes are on fire.

See, I’m allergic to nickel, which means I’m also allergic to white gold (which is “white” because they mix gold with nickel).  Since I look terrible in yellow-gold, I’m pretty much a silver or platinum kind of gal.  ANYWAY.  I’m wearing white-gold earrings because they said that the posts were stainless steel…

And yet, my earlobes feel like they’re on fire.  Which, again, is NOT the point of this post.

Thanks to all who have written to make sure I haven’t fallen off the face of the planet.  As it turns out, I haven’t.  Though I suspect it might have been easier.

I have sick kids.  Last week, Fluffy and Fuzzles were sick.  This week, Scooby and Fuzzles are sick.  Sigh.  My poor babies.  Fluffy is all well now, and Scooby will be all well soon.  But things are never quite that easy for Fuzzles.  Life has just been harder for my Fuzzles than it ever was for my other kiddos.

As you’ll recall, he was my baby who was born early, though not remarkably early,  and he was sick from the start, though not remarkably sick.  A few months later, all of my kids had a cold.  Fuzzles got it, and it turned into RSV and bronchiolitis, for which he was hospitalized for about a week.  Then a few months later, all of my kids got a stomach flu.  Fuzzles got it too, and it turned into severe dehydration which landed him, once again, in the hospital for a couple of days.   These are the two most extreme examples, but the point is that when everyone else gets sick, Fuzzles gets sicker.

On top of that, Fuzzles is very behind developmentally.  He’s nearly 14 months old, but he’s wearing 6 month old clothing.  He’s not walking at all, and, most alarming of all, he’s not talking.  He’s months and months overdue for his first words.  He’s not even close—he’s not even sort of saying words.  An exam shows possible hearing loss, possibly (but hopefully not) permanent, and he’s slated to see a pediatric ENT this week.  I just pray that we’ll have ANSWERS this week.  Or at least some idea of what’s going on with him.

So, that’s that story.  And could explain some of my absence, and much of my exhaustion, which sounds really selfish, so I apologize for sounding selfish.  Or something.

Tonight I taught a class on budgeting and savvy shopping.  See, in my REAL life—the one where I’m not called “Brillig”—I’m quite an expert at all of that.  But it was a last minute request, because the person who was teaching a different class had to cancel at the last minute, so I subbed in with my class.  It went well, but required hours of last-minute preparation.  I’m glad it’s over.

And yesterday, my sweet mother-in-law, who I love as my own, had a mastectomy after having recently been diagnosed with breast cancer.  The whole family was in a bit of shock—the women in her family die of heart disease and diabetes.  No one knows of one single instance of cancer.  So this was a big surprise.  Hubby and the kids and I will take dinner in to her tomorrow and spend the evening chatting with her and my father-in-law.  Apparently the recovery from a mastectomy is brutal.  She’s in her early sixties and still teaches first grade full time.  It’s hard on her and her students for her to be gone for so long.  But the good news is that apparently everything went very well and she’s going to be just fine.

My parents are well.  And frickin’ cute.  They’re on a mission in Spain and they’re doing some amazing stuff.  I had let contact between us slip, and I finally managed to resume it this weekend.  I love being able to email them and know that by the time I wake up the next day, there will be a beautiful, exciting, adventure-filled email waiting for me.

And this post still doesn’t have a point.

Anyway, I’m off.  And I’m going.

Oh, and California is on fire and New Orleans is under water again.  I need to remember to be less whiney.  Lots of people are suffering a lot more than you or I right now.

The end.

Welcome to Soap Opera Sunday!

Are you playing too? Enter your link here. Do you WANT to play too? You’ll find the rules here. My post is below the Mr. Linky.

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So, I’m sitting here right now, aware of some movie on the TV that is on in the same room as my computer. I have no idea what the movie is—I haven’t been paying any attention, really. But I just glanced up and saw this very cliche’ scene:

A man and a woman—who are acquaintances and not yet in love, though you know that in a matter of minutes they will be— are on the run, hiding from people who are chasing them. As the chasers approach, the man and the woman “hide” by engaging in a passionate kiss. The chasers are completely duped, and the man and the woman are safe.

Okay. So. Um….

1. Have you ever done something like this? (If so, you MUST tell the story!!!)

2. Would you not recognize two people that you were chasing, just because they were kissing? “Oh, wow, I wonder where those two went—all I see is people who look exactly like them who are making-out, so it couldn’t POSSIBLY be them. They’ve just vanished!” I guess what I’m saying is, would the kissing really throw you off?

3. Have you ever fantasized about doing that? (Oh, shut up. Of course you have. This isn’t really a question.)

4. Is it an effective tactic in the movies, or does it drive you crazy in its over-used-ness?

Okay, ready! Set! SPILL!

Oh, and just so you know, I just wrote a long, soapy tale. But I became so intrigued by this game of Hide and Go Kiss that I had to ask about it. I figured it still fit the Soapy bill. The SOS I was going to post today has gone into draft form and will be published at a later date, if I still like it at that time. hahaha.

Happy Soap Opera Sunday, everyone!

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(Cre8buzz members: Rate and comment on this post at Cre8buzz by clicking here.)

Shrouded in darkness, I go about my business. I speak in hushed tones and whispers as I perform the sacred rituals. I belong to the most powerful secret society in the universe:

Motherhood.

As I snuggle this tiny person against my chest and sway back and forth in our special chair, I think about this vast sisterhood that I belong to. All across this darkened portion of the planet, thousands and thousands of mothers are doing exactly what I’m doing: wiping tears, calming fears, tending to the sick and the helpless. There are no cameras, no award ceremonies, no worldly glory for our labors. We are never thanked and rarely acknowledged. We work a 24-hour shift every day.

In the glaring light of day, I look frazzled. I’m overworked and overweight. There are lunches to be packed, laundry to be washed, groceries to be bought. It’s a whirlwind of activity, noise, and chaos. The world may forget us. They may even snicker at us. They will laugh at the black circles under our eyes–the circles we earned through love. They will wonder how we can stand to be “just a mom.” We may even allow them make us feel inconsequential.

But in those sacred hours of the night, while “important” people are sleeping, my little baby and I share powerful moments full of love, peace, and serenity—things that society doesn’t give him but that perhaps one day he’ll give to society. As I rock him, I tell him who he is, I tell him who he can become, I tell him who loves him.

These are the moments that will change the world.

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(Cre8buzz members: Rate and comment on this post at Cre8buzz by clicking here.)

Thank you for your overwhelming response to my post about my hair and what to do with it! I read each of your comments and followed all of your links and was so grateful for the fun ideas and helpful tips you all gave me.

And so I will now show you the hair process. And because of the nature of this post, it will require pictures of me. WAY too many pictures of me. But I have two disclaimers first.

1. I was taking these pictures in the mirror and, therefore, couldn’t use the flash on my cheap and crappy camera. That means that the pics are quite dark and in an attempt to lighten them with MOPM (cuz I’m on a computer that doesn’t have anything fancier than that) they got all grainy and blotchy. So you don’t need to point out to me that the pics are dark, grainy, and blotchy. I KNOW that already. Sheesh.

2. When bloggers post pics of themselves, their readers tend to feel it their duty to exclaim that the blogger is gorgeous, whether or not they think so. So, I’m begging you, PLEADING with you, not to give in to that pressure. My posting pics of me is NOT my way of begging for compliments, so please. Don’t.

Okay. On with the show.

On Friday, as I was reading all of your comments, my hair looked like this:

Then, in the middle of reading your comments and IMing with some friends, I put my hair in a ponytail. And then… I sliced the pony tail off. With pinking sheers. Leaving my hair thus:

I sent the picture to a few friends, all of whom suggested I now attempt bangs.. As that had been part of the original plan anyway, I did. It… didn’t work.

(That last pic was taken the next day, post shower, revealing just how not-well I’d cut my hair. haha.) So, I did what I knew I’d end up doing all along—the next day I went to a cheapo haircutting place and had them fix it. The lady was super cute and super nice, and was trying very hard not to laugh too boisterously at me. She turned my mess into a modern-looking, fun haircut. However, when she got to my bangs, she did her best to fix them, and then suggested that I keep them pinned back for the next few weeks. Hahahaha. Well, I’m an obedient girl. Anyway, this is the end result:

So there it is. I’m still getting used to it, fiddling with it and figuring it out. And I love that it’s still long enough that I can pull it back into a mini-pony tail on those mornings that I have to get kiddos to school and I’m running late. Thanks for all the suggestions. You’ll notice that I actually incorporated a LOT of your ideas.

And many of you have been worried about Hubby through all of this, understandably. Fortunately, Brian is SO used to my crazy “emotional hair-cutting” (as Jenn in Holland called it) that he wasn’t phased at all. And he showered me with compliments, because he’s a doll like that.

And this, Gentle Readers, is the END of my lengthy posts about my hair. I promise!

Welcome to Soap Opera Sunday!

Are you playing too? Enter your link here. Do you WANT to play too? You’ll find the rules here. My post is below the Mr. Linky.

(Please note that our beloved Kateastrophe is NOT playing this week—she is in the middle of moving into her brand-spankin’-new crib and she doesn’t have internet hooked up there yet. She will be greatly missed. *sniff*)

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So, the painful truth is that my Soap Operas didn’t always turn out happy. No, in fact, sometimes they were really awful. Especially in my early years…

So, flashback to Brillig, age 14, having just transferred to a massive high school from a teeny tiny private school. I knew almost no one.

My older brother, J, was a Senior in the same high school and while we really didn’t see each other very much, it was very reassuring to have him around.

One day I was hanging around J at school and suddenly found myself surrounded by the school’s hottest boys. The cool Senior boys. The boys the whole school was drooling over, the captain of whom we will call “Tom.”

Tom was it. In my teenage eyes (and the eyes of any other teenager on the planet) the boy was perfect. He was… well… hot. And insanely popular. And… well… okay. I didn’t know anything else about him. But at 14, what else is there?

What shocked me—and everyone else, I suspect—was that Tom became very attentive to me. And not just that day, but for the rest of the school year. Here I was, a NOBODY freshman, and he was the hottest Senior in the school.

But I was SO insecure! I was completely ga-ga for him, and that made it worse. When he would come near me, I’d get all flustered and high-pitched and annoying. And sweaty. One day, he offered to drive me home from school and I accepted. He was sweet and flirty. About halfway home, he asked if he could hold my hand.

Cue the choir of angels.

However, a quick check of my hands told me that they were DRENCHED IN SWEAT. There was no WAY I could subject him to such sopping-wet-ness. So I said no.

And he was crushed—and humiliated. But I couldn’t possibly tell him the truth, so I let it stand. He said, “well, if you ever change your mind, let me know.”

Still, despite my rejection of him, he hung around. He flirted shamelessly. He made arrangements (i.e. suddenly becoming “best friends” with my brother—who he’d previously only been barely acquaintances with) to be around me.

And I loved it. I was addicted to him and his attention. So much so that I actually started holding hands with him. Hahaha.

And then, one day we found ourselves in an empty hallway. He was so close to me. He pushed my hair out of my face and said, “would it be okay if I kissed you?” And as he leaned in towards me, I PANICKED!!! See, I figured that a boy like this had probably kissed a thousand girls. And I was still the president of the Virgin Lips club, and worried that I could never measure up.

So…. I turned my head. Did you read that? I TURNED. MY. HEAD!!! And then I ran away.

Poor Tom was, by now, the most confused guy in all of history. And he surely started to see me as a whacko. For some reason, I expected him to continue with his attention, but instead he started to pull away (proving he did still have one or two brain cells left in his head). And so what did I do? I got all psycho and possessive and obnoxious, of course. My now 15-year-old self didn’t quite know what else to do. I really liked him, and I’d driven him away. And all of my attempts to win him back were making it worse. It seemed that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t be myself around him—you know, that girl he liked. Instead, I was a psychotic, jealous, guilt-tripping, and freaky version of Brillig.

Somewhere in here, J had to intervene and tell me to knock it off because he and all of his friends (who were all openly talking and laughing and mocking me) were ready to kill me. I was so embarrassed. I never could figure out how to make it right again. I’m sure Tom looks back on our days together as some of the most confusing and annoying of his whole life.

And, sadly, I can’t really blame him!

So, I have a lot of hair.

I have a lot of black hair.

I have a lot of long, stringy, damaged black hair.

Every time I vacuum (you know, every decade or so) the vacuum gets clogged with my long black hair.

All of the drains in the house are clogged with my black hair.

The hair needs to go.

So, here’s me and my hair:

Anyway, see how my hair just hangs there? Limp? Lifeless? Style-less? You see where I’m going with this, right? For the sake of my sanity (and perhaps my marriage—I can’t tell you how NOT fond of clogged drains and vacuums my hubby is) I need you to style my hair. Cut it. Remove it from hence. Tell me WHAT to do with it. Here are the things you need to remember:

1. It has to be EASY. You KNOW that my days are crazy and spending time on my hair is not really an option most of the time.

2. I can’t go somewhere expensive to get this done. We’re talking my bathroom sink with my scrapbooking scissors (Ha! Like I scrapbook! But I DO have some fun scissors) and when that goes badly, a quick trip to SuperCuts or somewhere equally glamorous to even it up.

3. I have a fat face. It’s fat. All of me is fat. My face is no exception. Some haircuts do not exactly flatter a fat face. I need a fat-face-flattering look.

4. Help!

(I have been working on this post for, oh, three days now. So when I say “today” I’m really talking about MONDAY. )
Carla, Kateastrophe, and The Bakers Rock all wanted to hear about “a day in the life of Brillig.” So, here we go!

This morning I woke up at 6:00 a.m. after going to bed around 2:00 a.m. (This is not a strange sleep routine for me, alas, as many of you know who have noticed me blogging in the middle of the night.) But today I woke up with visions of Donny Osmond dancing in my head, due, I suppose, to staying up way too late last night watching videos to find just the perfect one for this post.

So, after rubbing the Donny Osmond from my sleepy eyes, I went downstairs to get Princess Fluffy and get her ready for school–her school uniform was all set out, ready for her to put it on after her bath.

Just as she was nearly ready, I woke up the three boys and loaded everyone into the car to drive clear across town to Fluffy’s school, and then turned around and came home. First item of business once we returned home was, of course, to check my email. Oh, how I love those of you in different timezones who leave comments for me while I sleep!!!

Anyway, as I was blogging/emailing/cre8buzzing/IMing, I heard a crash. Uh-oh. I ran into the kitchen and found that Scooby had dropped a jar of strawberry jam, which shattered when it hit the hard tile floor. Shards of glass and glops of red jam were EVERYWHERE. Sigh. Poor kid scared himself to death, so I first comforted him in his terror and then I sent him to watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse while I cleaned up the mess. I would normally make him help me clean up, but because this one contained lots of broken glass I decided to remove him from the premises.

Once that was cleaned up, it was time for Scooby and Fuzzles to take their naps, so I gathered up their various must-have items and snuggled them down in their beds. Bubba wanted to go play outside with his friends, so I sent him out and realized that I had an utterly quiet house! How did I want to spend my free time? Well, I wanted to play the piano and sing through some of my favorite pieces. So, I selected the sheet music that I wanted and adjusted the piano bench and opened the fall board. Except… the fall board wouldn’t open.

At this point, I began to panic. You see, the piano in question is my parents’ piano which I’m babysitting. It’s an original Wm. Knabe (original, as in, back when Knabe was actually made by Knabe, as opposed to the new ones that are made in Korea by Sammick–and yes, there IS a HUGE difference) baby grand. It is an absolute treasure… and it’s broken.

I fished around to see what was going on and found that Scooby, I presume, had jammed a hot wheels car into the fall board, behind the keys. There’s NO way to get this out without taking the piano apart. I haven’t yet done that… I’m not exactly an expert at disassembling priceless pianos… I’m still rather stressed about this…

Soon it was time to take Bubba to preschool, post lunch and baths, etc. I loaded all three boys into the car (keep in mind that all of my children still need carseats, by law, so “jumping in the car” is a HUGE ordeal) and off we went to preschool.

When the littlest boys and I returned home, I set to work. I have a goal that every day I will dedicate an hour to housework. If I don’t schedule a full hour, nothing ever gets done. As you can imagine, I hope, with four little ones as little as mine are, keeping the house under control is Mission: Impossible. But I do feel a lot better about myself, my home, and my abilities when I do that hour’s work. And what doesn’t get done just doesn’t get done. But at least I try.

Then, of course, it was time to go get Bubba from preschool. If it sounds like I spend my life loading and unloading children from the car, then you’ve got us figured out. That’s my life. So, we got Bubba, whose preschool is on the exact opposite end of town from Fluffy’s school. So even though Bubba gets out 45 minutes earlier than Fluffy, I have to head directly to Fluffy’s school after picking him up.

Then, I sat in the car, in that interminable line to pick Fluffy up from Kindergarten. Fortunately, the car is stocked with granola bars for the boys, my All American Rejects CD which is oddly the kids’ favorite thing in the world right now, and my copy of Shannon’s Mirror, the outstanding novel by Luisa from Novembrance. More on the book in a different post, coming soon…

Once we finally got through the line and got Princess Fluffy, we headed to Walmart. Sigh. Walmart is crazy enough. Walmart with four kids ages 5 and under is INSANE. Walmart with four kids at that time of day is enough to get you hauled off in a straight jacket. Just this photo of the shopping cart alone could cause any mother to start hyperventilating, so consider yourselves warned:

Four kids, one shopping cart.

(Fuzzles doesn’t really look this scary—not quite sure what’s up with the pale sickly look. Haha.)

After picking up all the essentials, like diapers, fruit snacks, string cheese, and hairclips (because Fluffy seriously seems to go through a thousand of these a week), and hearing “Mommy, can I have this? PLEASE? PLEASE MOMMY? I’ll be really good! I’ll clean my room! I won’t hit anybody!  I’ll eat all my food at dinner!  I won’t pick my nose anymore!  PLEASE mommy?” about every single item we passed in every single aisle, we headed home. Hubby called to say he was on his way, and how would I feel about going to the canyon for dinner and marshmallow-roasting and a Gospel lesson (every Monday night, we gather our kids together for a Gospel lesson and a fun activity—we call it “family home evening” even though we’re not actually “home” for it a lot of the time). Anyway, I said SURE! So we gathered the wood and the marshmallows and sweaters for everyone and headed up the canyon. Hubby and the boys did a lovely job on the fire—Fluffy even took a photo of it:

Fluffy took about a thousand pictures. This one is, alas, the best.

Anyway, it was a lovely time, despite all the craziness that you can imagine when you combine kids, fire, food, and cold air.

And that, dear friends, is a day in the life! Some of you may wonder when on earth I do all this blogging. I’m starting to wonder the same thing…