Caffeinated Babe: Merry...um...Holidays.

Caffeinated Babe: Merry...um...Holidays.: "In the old days, it was not called the Holiday Season; the Christians called it 'Christmas' and went to church; the Jews called it 'Hanukkah..."

Merry...um...Holidays.

In the old days, it was not called the Holiday Season; the Christians called it 'Christmas' and went to church; the Jews called it 'Hanukkah' and went to synagogue; the atheists went to parties and drank. People passing each other on the street would say 'Merry Christmas!' or 'Happy Hanukkah!' or (to the atheists) 'Look out for the wall!' - Dave Barry "Christmas Shopping: A Survivor's Guide"



So.  The Caffeinated Babe knows nothing about bloggery, but I CAN change the font color in honor of Festivus.  Enjoy the red and green...we'll return to placid blue soon enough.

I love this quotation--really.  To me, Christmas is in the heart, not in the words "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Solstice" or  "enjoy your time off due to some irrelevant, consumer-driven holiday season".  Even though I am more than a little enamored with words, I am definitely a SPIRIT of the law vs. a LETTER of the law kind of gal.  Which applies to my spriritual journey as well.

This is my take on Christmas: Celebrate.  Or don't.  Worship. Or don't.  Go to church.  Or don't (Easter is right around the corner, if you are more of a spring fashionista).  Shop.  Or don't.  Drink to excess.  Or don't.  Whatever you do, or don't do, don't blame it on Jesus--the little dude was born in a barn.  And let's face it, the way our society celebrates Christmas these days has very little to do with Jesus. 

Here's the thing about Jesus--really, all he came to do was share Love.  Cosmic, pervasive Love.  And if that Love takes the form of your family ringing the Salvation Army kettle bells or bringing a jar of peanut butter for the food drive, personally, my God is good with that.  If you enjoy celebrating Hanukkah or ignoring any insensitive mention of The Christ in Christmas, I'll just bet that Jesus gets EXACTLY where you're coming from.  Just try not be nasty about it (I notice that few fierce anti-Christmas peeps are devout enough to insist on working through the holiday...).

When Jesus was born (whether you think he was the Messiah or not), he was a pretty low-key guy.  His dad may as well have worked at the shipyard, his mom helping in her mom's beauty shop.  He wasn't so much about loving HIM as loving each other, even if the "others" were tramps and thieves.  Which is the challenge.  Because it's always easier to judge than to love, whether you are a scripture-quoting Christian or a devout Atheist. 

Spiritual musings aside, my point is...be kind.  Not because it's Christmas (though being kind is an excellent way to demonstrate Love), but because it makes our shared time on the planet much more pleasant.  If you are a homeless person getting a hot meal, I don't think you give a shit whether the person serving it is a self-proclaimed Christian or not. 

And I don't think Jesus much cares either.

Caffeinated Babe: Pageantry...(have you ever seen an angel/star/wise...

Caffeinated Babe: Pageantry...(have you ever seen an angel/star/wise...: "'Tis the Season Tis the season...Christmas Pageantry has arrived. Christmas pageants, like so many elements of the holidays, ratche..."

Pageantry...(have you ever seen an angel/star/wiseman pick his/her nose?)

'Tis the Season



Tis the season...Christmas Pageantry has arrived. 

Christmas pageants, like so many elements of the holidays, ratchet up expectations.  Which, inevitably, means your own expectations.  Almost everyone, churchgoers and non-churchgoers, believers and atheists, whatever label you slap on yourself--almost everyone has some enchanted memory of a winter holiday, often including something like a candlelight Mass, Christmas concert, holiday party, etc, when finally:  for a brief, sparkling moment of festivus, the world was equal parts beauty and magic.  The trouble comes, when later, you cannot find that moment again, no matter how hard you look.

Which brings us to the pageantry.  Today's rehearsal is confidential:  my church is a group of people I consider to be extended family.  Hence, actual facts must be omitted...because we all have expectations, and the greatest of these (in most cases, at least) are our children.  Pageantry makes a parent humble.  In the past, my children have played the baby Jesus, angels, stars, innkeepers, shepherds, etc.  Thank God, my baby Jesus behaved.  By the time my 3rd child was of age to play Jesus the Babe, my nerves were shot...I begged a fellow parishioner, whose baby was fresh and new, to let her baby play the part.  Because, I was older, and KNEW my limitations.  Rationally, I knew that Baby Jesus (MY baby Jesus) could scream to kingdom come for the entire pageant and that people would chuckle kindly, and that there would be a quiet sea of empathetic murmurings from the moms in the congregation, but that really, it would be just fine.  Emotionally, the very thought caused me unacceptable palpitations.  No f*cking way.  I called my friend, who happily agreed to play Mary, tote her own sweet and beloved offspring to the stable, and call it a night.

Here are some things I have personally witnessed, at Christmas pageants past, present and future (so you know there's some fiction here, but work with me...):  one friendly beast kicking another (siblings); an angel picking her nose; a star wetting her pants; an entire choir not singing; an entire choir singing with NO discernible melody.  Sometimes you can catch a wise man getting his myrrh stuck in his neighbor's hat, and sometimes the Baby Jesus doll gets hurled across the sanctuary.  Sometimes the stage hands hammer while the stars are singing and the Innkeeper goes by Judas of Marriott (thanks for that, Tom Hay!).  To sum up, shit happens.

Here is my point--whatever pageantry you attend this year, Christian, Pagan, Whatever Holiday Doesn't Offend You--bring your expectations.  But expect that you will leave with different ones.  If you think your sweet baby angel is going to sing like one, that you might see actually starlight in her hair as she sings her heavenly song, then most certainly, she will sneeze a great, goopy, green sneeze, mid-anthem and wipe it on her white angel's garment.  But if you are lucky (even blessed), you might catch your angel's eye, post-sneeze, wink and let her know she is the most precious one of all...and if you are very lucky, you will have so many of these precious moments that they might all run together .  Both you and your angel will know that the purpose of pageantry is love, laughter and sharing these gifts with a cold, windy world. 

So.  Wipe your nose and enjoy.

Murder. Just perfect.

You may find this hard to believe, but--sometimes the effort of feigning a "normal" household is exhausting.  Don't get me wrong--I have a pretty dandy life--my children are fun and funny, my husband is much kinder and better-looking than I, and buying groceries is very do-able within the parameters of our household income.  When shoveling the Thomas tracks back into the toy bin for the 75th million time starts to wear on my authentic and groovy "babeness", however, I look to a good murder mystery for inspiration.

Let me be specific.  I need a good mystery (murder is the juiciest, of course), with compelling and charismatic crime fighters.  Frankly, I don't like my criminals to be too sympathetic--this messes with my head.  I need some good writing, with a healthy, but unsentimental element of sexual intrigue.  The plot can't be TOO complex, or it's too much work to stay fun.  My current favorite:  John Sandford's Virgil Flowers series, an offshoot of Sandford's "Prey" series.  http://www.johnsandford.org/flow01.html  Read Dark of the Moon, and you'll want to solve crime with Virgil too.  In fact, you might think of a few other activities...he's a great outdoorsman and possesses mad skills. ;-)

So.  While my domestic life is actually some flavor of idyllic, for me, there really is nothing like a good, old-fashioned, "OH MY GOSH...THEY'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME...OH, OUR HERO IS DRIVING LIKE A MADMAN ON A MISSION FROM GOD..."story to occupy my mind while shoveling those Thomas tracks.


Plus, I think Sir Topham Hat has been up to mischief.  If we could crack the diesel engine conspiracy on the Island of Sodor, we could blow the Wikileaks thing off the map.


Think about it.

Caffeinated Babe: Murder. Just perfect.

Caffeinated Babe: Murder. Just perfect.: "You may find this hard to believe, but--sometimes the effort of feigning a 'normal' household is exhausting. Don't get me wrong--..."

Caffeinated Babe: Parade day...unfettered joy and rapture.

Caffeinated Babe: Parade day...unfettered joy and rapture.: "A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together.' ~ Garrison Keillor (1942-)..."

Parade day...unfettered joy and rapture.

A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together."
~ Garrison Keillor (1942-), American author. 'Exiles,' Leaving Home (1987)



Greetings, friends!

Today is the Gloucester Christmas Parade--well, it might be Holiday Parade(holiday v. Christmas designations are a whole nother blog):  the festivus which entails lots of people, gathering together to see and be seen.  Usually, I anticipate these festivities with guarded glee.  Today's festivities are no exception.

When I think of Christmas Parades from years gone by, I should drop to my knees in immediate and enthusiastic gratitude that I have survived thus far.  Some doozies which come to mind are:

*One special parade day in the early 90's. 
I was much younger, as the iffy date tells you.  I tell you this because I was too young to honor the misery of a toothache ignored, and had a nice, abscessed tooth festering.  Cleverly, I thought to eliminate the situation with the liberal use of my then very-good-friend, Alcohol.  I bonded with said friend Friday night~I was so soused that I was hurling before midnight. 
    
My plans for attending the big Christmas parade were replaced by wretching dry heaves, and musings about whether or not I might require treatment for alcohol poisoning.  Even now, I would say that ranks as one of my top 5 most hideous hangovers ever, and I can claim expert status in that department.   So much for that parade.

*Another parade, this one in the late 90's. 
By now, my friend Alcohol and I had broken up.  Thanks be to God.  Anyway...this was the Williamsburg Christmas Parade, a morning exhibition.  I had just finished having coffee with some friends on this morning, and had completely forgotten that I would be blocked in by parade-related street closures.  So far, no big deal. 

The big deal was that I was pregnant, newly so.  And during my post-coffee, restroom visit, I discovered signs that the pregnancy was not going well.  I was aching to get out of there, to call my husband, my sister, anyone who might be able to help me figure out what to do about this.  Instead, I spent the hour, folded into the crowd, fighting the sick, clammy feeling of panic that my miracle was slipping away, amidst the indignity of marching bands and Shriners scooting about recklessly.  All the happy loudness just made me want to scream.  Not that anyone would have noticed...but that's the magic of the parade--you, as you, don't count.  You are part of a bigger You, for better or for worse.

*The last parade memory I will make you read about in this God-forsaken Blog. 
This memory comes courtesy of the 2001 Gloucester Christmas parade.  The late 90's, early 2K's were rough on our little family--in the space of about three years, we lost my mother, my grandmother and both of Ed's grandparents.  Of course, the whole country was still reeling from the 9-11 bombings, and in other news, Ed had been diagnosed with Hodgkins' Lymphoma and was smack-dab in the middle of a grueling chemotherapy regimen ("the chemo we give you is tough, because we're going for a complete cure," said Fran, one of our favorite nurses).  On top of this, we had a crotchety toddler (the happy result of the previous parade scare) with abysmal sleep patterns and had just moved into the big, old farmhouse where we now reside. 

In a well-intentioned attempt to feign normalcy, Ed, Christopher and I set out for the Christmas parade.  Gloucester was experiencing a mini-heat wave that day, and I remember thinking that, on top of everything, it was a sin against God and nature that I should be sweating so damn much at a Christmas parade (actually I probably thought "fucking Christmas parade").  Our toddler faced the traditional sirens and marching band music with terror rather than delight.  While he climbed my body in an attempt to escape the festivities, Ed pushed the empty stroller.  I recall fantasizing about lying down on the sidewalk to rest, just for a minute.  But, by God, there we were, celebrating the season--even if it damn near killed us.

Present day Parade plans.
Another decade has passed, and here we are again, preparing for the Gloucester Christmas Parade!  No-one interesting has died lately, and Ed is downstairs, making eggs for the short people, cancer-free.  Our toddler has grown into a 10 year old, and our little Montessori School has decided to march in this year's parade.  Our numbers are slim this year, so every marcher counts.  Barring an automechanic or medical emergency, I see no way out of it--I'll be there with my elf hat, marching with the Montessorians.  While I know that lots of people delight in parade marching, I would rather have a root canal.  I will probably spend some time wondering why I quit drinking...   :-D
   
     The point of this bloggery is a reminder to myself:  no matter what, it could be worse.  And, as always, watch out for those Shriners.

 

 

 

A real bite...

First, do no harm.

Parenting, I believe, is the single most important thing I do, will ever do.  I spent most of my pre-parenthood, adult life trying to repair myself so as not to inflict my parents' mistakes on my own children.  Not to mention my own, authentic character failings--it seemed only fair to TRY to keep the babies out of the cycle of recurring pain and suffering.

So.  ACTUAL parenting humbled me profoundly.  It turns out that all the swaddling and breastfeeding in the world will not make a baby stop crying at 5:03 pm.  Or 5:03 am, for that matter.  Mercifully, I knew just enough to know that "every baby is different" and that my little man's weepiness was not really my fault...  Which didn't always help on 2 hours' sleep.  I tried not to do harm, but I was in the soup now; as my husband says, I had skin in game.

Having said that, now, here, ten years later, there are some parts of every day when I'm pretty sure I've ruined them, that my best efforts have amounted to shit.  As an example, my third child, a handome little blond boy, who has a better sense of humor than most grown-ups, has had two incident reports written up on his behalf this week.  It seems that he's taken to biting his peers.  Yum.

Luckily, his teachers and peers are an understanding lot, and, truly, at three years of age, biting is not the social faux-pas that it is at say...40 years of age...BUT...  Not such a happy after-school report.  A muzzle? 

To me, it is a reminder that no matter how often I say, "Gentle, gentle.  Use your words," Luke might chomp his peers anyway.  And while there are many times I say "the right" things to my children in an effort to civilize them, there are many more times that I raise my voice to them, saying grandly inappropriate things like, "STOP DOING THAT!  WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?  DAMMIT, I SAID 'QUIT IT'!!!"

My point is this:  no matter how good my intentions, I am going to screw up my parenting daily.  The result?  A whole NEW flavor of addled family life, with the goal of spilling no blood before sundown.  

Now.  If you see Luke today, give him some space...  :-D

Caffeinated BABE? Really?

According to the Urban Dictionary (http://www.urbandictionary.com/), the number one definition for
Caffeinated is:  "To be wired on caffeine.  Have a caffeine buzz."
Babe is:  "1.endearing term. 2. adjective used to describe a good looking girl, sometimes describes guys."

So how did I come to call my blog "Caffeinated Babe"? 

Here's some background:  I had my first baby in August 2000.  Unfortunately, my "babe" status had been in decline for a good five years before that (red-hot, sexy positions as pre-school teacher and veterinary receptionist... FYI, when you take a position which requires that you deal with fecal matter daily, well...you don't see Heidi Klum cleaning kitty litter in her lingerie).  Becoming the mother of a newborn actually improved my babe status there, for a short time.  Alas...the erratic sleep patterns, eating poptarts to stay conscious, two more babies, more poptarts, hallucinatory sleep patterns, haphazard bathing habits, preschool drop-offs, really bad hair (as a result of my moody color choices in the hair color aisle at Walmart)...all factors contributing to an increasingly frumpy, decidedly UNBABE-like demeanor.

Last year, though, something quite remarkable happened.  My youngest child, Luke, started going to pre-school three days a week.  By the grace of God, he also started sleeping through the night, more or less.  Slowly, so slowly, my sanity and a speck of my SELF (by this I mean original thoughts not having to do with bare bones survival) began to return to me.  I found I could bathe 5-6 times a week.  Further, I could apply makeup 3-4 times a week.  Occasionally, I could engage in a conversation and not lose my train of thought.  Well, maybe only lose it 3-4 times in the one conversation.  Believe me, Heidi's talent scouts were not knocking down my door (ask anyone in the car line at our school), but tiny, baby steps were happening. 

Last spring, there was an Open House at our little Montessori school.  In preparation, I had: a) bathed; b) applied makeup;  and c) worn a dress made of infinitely flattering material.  One of my grooviest friends (also the chick responsible for getting me hooked on Facebook...not to name names, Shannon...you know who you are) took an impromptu picture of me at said Open House.  There is an accidental shaft of light shining from behind me in the picture, and my photographer called the photograph "Illuminated Babe".  God bless her, that was one of the nicest things anyone had said/written/uttered about me in the previous decade (not counting, of course, my fiercely loyal husband, whose brain has been just as addled as mine during these past years).  Through snickering wordplay, "Illuminated Babe" (d)evolved into "Caffeinated Babe", and we all still get a good giggle from it around here.

So.  There you have it...how I became the Caffeinated Babe--at least in cyberspace.  Now, if I could just bring the whole "babe" thing to the three dimensional reality...  :-D 
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=1009650&l=daa142ed27&id=1467077452

Over the river, into the woods...

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!!!

Yes, I probably should be doing something besides blogging at this instant.  Scarily, all children are bathed and dressed, my pies and green bean casserole are bagged up in their thermally protected bags and we are almost ready to go.  Which probably means that someone will either fall in a mud puddle or pee in their pants momentarily.

In the interim, this is just to say--I am glad to have a fantastic family to visit with today, three healthy (albeit slightly snotty) children, and kind and generous husband.  I am not sitting with a sick family member in the hospital nor am I nursing a spectacular hangover.   

I am blessed in all the ways that people who have everything they need never truly notice.  May your year ahead be blessed in kind.  And if you can't have the entire year, go for the day!

What do you do all day?

So.  About six weeks ago, I started taking a class at this very cool writing center in Norfolk.  The class in itself is a blog topic for me, but for our purposes here today, let me just say I LOVE IT!  From my amateur perspective, the "Beginning Fiction Writing" class:  there is not a dud writer among us, everyone is just a little whacked out and the teacher is (in addition to being a fiercely talented, published author) more like a minister of creative essence than a writing instructor. 
Alas...
I digress.

One of my fellow students in the class is a stay-at-home dad.  After class one afternoon, we were standing around the parking lot, discussing how fabulous Montessori education is (his son is in Montessori as well), engaging in general chit-chat.  Here's the question that stumped me:

"What do you do all day?"

Well shit, I thought.  When the stay-at-home moms and I chit-chat, we all roll our eyes conspiratorially and immediately begin our lists of things we should be doing, have done, won't ever be doing, etc, ad nauseum.

Cleverly, I replied, "I don't know."

At which point, my friend says, also quite cleverly, "You don't know what you do all day?"

Here's the thing:  I don't know what I do all day.  I am temperamental (polite word for moody or flaky) and have an unfortunate disdain for scheduling.  Probably because I suck at it.  Some days, I might clean some obscure corner of my kitchen, or wash and fold laundry. 

More often, I drop my children at school (45 minute round trip) and then explore Walmart.  Consumerism is a most excellent drug...I can enjoy ten minutes of choosing lunch meat for the onerous lunches I make for the kidlets.   It's way more fun to choose the lunch meat than it is to make the fucking sandwiches.  Usually by the time I have finished inspecting Walmart (do they have a new nail polish color I MUST have?) and get my gatherings back home, it's lunchish time.  Hell, I'm ready for a nap.

Most accomplished house goddesses (or gods, I can't forget my stay-at-home men friends) are having palpitations as they read the previous paragraph.  They have schedules and do productive things like packing their childrens' lunches the night before!  Their childrens' socks are clean, matched and in drawers.  My children always have clean socks:  they just have to leap into a mountain of clean laundry to find them!  I consider it my own version of character building.  Plus, now they will have plenty to share with their therapists one day.

The point is--I have no freaking idea where my days go.  My children are mostly clean, mostly happy and are capable of thoughtful conversation (well, except the 3 year old, who is fond of hurling trucks in lieu of conversation--everyone has their limits).  I'm sure I could perform adequately if there were some bitchy house inspector who checked my work daily--so far , the health inspectors haven't been summoned, so I'm on my own.

I read a lot of good books, have a lot of good conversations and can take my family members to doctor's appointments if need be. 

Will this hold up on a resume, do you think?

I'll keep you posted!  :-)

Let's go.

Apologies in advance--I am completely new to Bloggering and have not yet figured out how to post any kind of picture.  This sucks for you, who may need some visual stimulation here, soon. 

Basically, my life is mind-numbingly dull and fascinating all at once.  It seems only fair to spread the love, n'est pas? 

I am a "stay at home mom", which is deceptive.  You might think that I spend my days doing my beautiful family's laundry, while preparing wholesome, nutritious meals to sustain us physically as well as spiritually.  Yep.  Notsomuch.  And, unless I am zapped by aliens or suffer a traumatic brain injury, not likely.

In truth, I am more of a full-time piddler.  Hence, my deep and abiding love affair with Facebook, coffee, suspenseful television shows, and good books that don't require me to keep notes to follow the plot lines. 
I am a terrible gossip and don't have to know you to want your life story.

I am hoping that this blog will inspire other full-time piddlers and story tellers along the way. 

C'mon.  Let's go.  The couch is waiting.