Won't you take me to...

While going through some old pictures I found this video clip featuring my eldest daughter at around 2 years old and her mad booty shaking skillz. Her hair isn't combed (It was just after a nap. I miss those days.), and her shirt is too short. Also, I have no idea why she's wearing her boots in the house. I'm chalking it up to her being two.

She's just so freaking adorable, I want to eat her up and use her little finger bones as toothpicks.

My dog, Fisher, is in it too. He's pretty adorable himself but he's kind of stinky these days so I'll leave his bones alone.

I must have watched this video a thousand times in the past two weeks. It makes me happy on days when I want to chuck my now almost four year old daughter out into the snow.



Funky Town from Chicky Baby on Vimeo.

Just write (and breathe) and write some more

Damn, this getting happy business is hard.

I meant for this blog to be a journal of me trying to shake this funk and instead it's become a lot like my other blog with its sporadic posting and me trying to convince myself and anyone who reads that my shit? It is so together, yo.

I have to just write. I need to write every day to remind myself that even though I may have spent most of the weekend walking around in a fog and sighing a lot, I do still have some good moments. I need to remind myself of my accomplishments as well as my failures, no matter how mundane. Most of all, I need to stop starring at the blink, blink, blinkity-blink of the cursor while saying Well, fuckall. Who the hell cares anyway?

I care. That's important. Nobody is going to get me out of this but me.

********

So, today....

I kept my temper (so far) with my eldest.

My baby, who never falls asleep while nursing, dozed off at my breast. It was all I could do to put her in her bed to finish her nap. That hurt. But it's a nice memory that will keep me warm when she's up again in the middle of the night.

The bathrooms are a mess and I just can't deal.

There's a book next to me that I desperately want to finish.

The sun is shining, it's above freezing and I got the girls out of the house to get supplies to make Valentines.

I did my hair today instead of being lazy and putting on a ball cap.

I just finished off a tub of cheese spread and there are Girl Scout cookies screaming at me from the counter. I won't be able to resist for much longer.

All in all, I'm not feeling as down as I did this weekend. It's not a great day but it's not a bad day either. Tomorrow is another day.

*******

Random picture that makes me happy: Three years ago this week - My oldest daughter, who was around 10 months at the time, and my dog, Fisher.


It made me smile. That's all I can ask for.

Chop therapy

Feeling blue? Down? Depressed? Like you're ready to kick a puppy or punch a loved one in the throat, or maybe stab your mailman with a butter knife because he refuses to get out of his freaking truck and insists on cramming your mail into the mailbox until it resembles something the dogs chewed on? Then might I suggest taking your handy dandy ice chopper and hacking the living sh*t out of an ice covered walkway until all blind rage and pent up frustration is expelled and you can calmly walk back into your home without fear of your children telling their grandparents, "See this hole? This is where mommy sits and bangs her head while she sucks her thumb and hums to herself"?

It's highly satisfying.


You've heard of talk therapy, right? Well, this is Chop Therapy. I recommend this to anyone who is seconds away from heading up a clock tower with an automatic weapon. Or if you just don't want to clean up another broken dish.

As much as it pains me to admit it, I can be downright violent when pushed to my limit. I throw things, punch things... Basically, I just like to hear things crack and shatter. So chopping ice that was at least an inch and a half thick in places was exactly what the doctor would have order. If I actually saw a doctor.

I'm sure I put on a damn good show for the neighbors - lots of grunting and violent stabbing with ice chopper in direction of my feet. About a fourth of the way through, a man and his dog drove up and parked at the end of the street, presumably to take a walk in the woods. If I were a paranoid person I would have sworn he sat there and watched me flailing around for awhile before heading up the trail. Come to think of it, I am slightly paranoid and now I'm pissed because he totally should have paid me for the pleasure of watching me go bat sh*t crazy. Better than the price of admission to see Slumdog Millionaire, I'm telling you.

I would have chopped more but my shoulders were killing me and pieces of skin were starting to spontaneously jump from my hands. Also, my back was screaming, "Cut it out, you stupid bitch." And when my back starts yelling obscenities, I am inclined to listen.

It left me with such a high that, if my kids nap for awhile, I just might go back out there and chop some more. Which leads me to think - what the hell am I going to do when spring comes?

Guess I'm going to need some more dishes.