As you may have noticed, there have been some rather drastic changes around here. For one, the title of the blog has changed. For two, so has the entire style. I wanted to (briefly) explain the motivation for this.
This blog started as a way to keep myself in a lighthearted and humorous perspective of my life as a stay-at-home mother. As I’ve been looking back over the last several months of posts, though, I found less humor and more philosophy. Seeing as I spend plenty of time ruminating on how things should be in my life I think this is counter-productive. Instead, I’d like to focus on things that do happen and the joy (and laughs) I derive from them.
As a means to this end, I’ve decided to start adding cartoons.
They are not meant to be high-quality, just illustrative of what I’m thinking. So don’t think you have to be impressed by the artwork!
Just preparing for this new take on my blog has changed my last week considerably. I found myself laughing at myself more and scolding my children less, and I’m very excited about that!
This is not to say that I will never get philosophical again. It’s just that I’ve come to realize that sometimes motherhood needs less philosophical reflection and more sheer enjoyment.
And that’s what I’ll be focusing on from now on.
Please, PLEASE feel free to give me your reactions, however. I am really interested to hear what you think of all these changes.
Without further ado, to get us geared up for this, my first “new generation” post:
Momma… Has Left the Building
People who see me driving my car must think I’m crazy.
Especially when I’m taking StrawBee to her brand-new gymnastics class.
This is the only time that it’s just the two of us in the car, which means it’s the only time I can bust a move to children’s CD seeing as Ladybug has decided that only one person is allowed to sing and/or dance in the car at a time.
But it really did just occur to me this week that my strong feelings on teaching young children about music, rhythm, and movement might just translate into “utter psycho” when viewed by my fellow drivers. These poor people get stuck next to me in traffic and probably have their cell phones open with 911 pre-dialed in case I jump out of my car and come after them.
I, for one, have never experienced such an encounter with myself. Despite that, I think I have a pretty good idea of how it goes for these people.
1. The Spotting
First, there’s The Spotting: You see me, but don’t really believe it. You can’t hear my boisterous rendition of “Wheels On the Bus,” or know that I’m waving my arm in a circle only because I can safely do just half of the wheels on said bus while driving. Of course, the whole attempting-to-look-over-my-shoulder-without-turning-around-to-see-if-she’s-paying-attention only adds to A) The safety of my driving and B) To the look of utter insanity on my face.
2. The Realization
Next comes The Realization. Yes, that woman next to you is literally acting like a cry-baby. And from the perspective of you short little luxury sedan, all you can tell is that the soccer mom in the mini-van next to you has finally cracked. Her kids have made her so crazy she’s not even capable of real tears anymore–just childish playacting with some sad hope that those outside of her see it as the desperate cry for help it really is.
3. The Hiding
Finally, there’s The Hiding. After being stuck waiting for this train for five-plus minutes, you can tell she’s just getting worse. She must be bi-polar. You sneaked one look and she was literally bouncing up and down in the seat. Then she was crying. For a while she clapped her hands and stomped her feet. Now she’s throwing her arms in the air and shouting something that looks mysteriously like “HOORAY!!” over and over again.
Just hunker down as far as you can in your seat and studiously avoid eye contact. Start anxiously gazing down the tracks looking for the end of the train, occasionally darting glances in the direction of the mini-van to see if she’s gotten out and started doing a rain dance in the middle of the street.
Rev your engine as soon as the end of the train is in sight, then zoom away as quickly as that manual-shifting piece of awesomeness that you spent the same amount of money on as that mom spent on diapers in the last year can move you away from the insanity.
Safe at last, and also reminded of why you’ll never drive a minivan: They apparently induce utter insanity.
What I know, from safe inside my so-called “minivan” (I prefer to refer to my transport as a pregnant Ferrari, due date: Sometime after the year 2050) is that it’s really what’s in the backseat, not the car itself, that brings on such fits of disturbingly uninhibited behavior.
I think the drivers in those other cars would feel a lot better if only that could see my petite little angel-face staring at the back of my head and flailing arms. Then they would know that, at the very least, they aren’t alone in thinking I have completely lost it.