Here’s the situation: I work in a church office that also houses a social ministry office that assists the needy (of any faith) from our community.  Today there is a certain client of theirs who has been up here repeatedly over the last year or two and today she has come with her children.  The office is not able to continue helping her and she is most unhappy about it and has chosen to yell and holler and rant & rave into her cell phone while her two children (a young girl carrying her infant baby brother) follow her around with blank faces.

Here’s why I need to vent: the children!  Why do this is front of your children?  I do understand needing help – most of us struggle and can sympathize with the panic of “how am I going to get through the day without …” but do we share that stress with our children and do we scream and act up if we don’t get what we want?  I wanted to take the kids under my arm and walk them away but they’re not mine and am I inappropriate to judge their mother for her behavior?

I left the office to get some food (an act I felt immediately guilty for) and cried in my car for the children.  I realize it’s my hormones getting the best of me, but what I’d really like to do is shake that dear woman and ask her why she’s behaving in such a manner in front of the two beings she should be protecting from the stress.  My family struggled when we were kids, truly struggled for many years, and I can honestly say that none of us stressed the family situation.  We knew we didn’t have things other kids did, but we didn’t realize it was because we couldn’t … we just figured it was because we didn’t need anything more.  And we didn’t.

Some may ask why we didn’t just help this woman, but there in a fine line between assistance and enabling.  I look forward to the day when I am comfortable with the state of my own mortgage and can walk up to someone who needs something and hand it to them.  For now, I will have to resort to crying and praying and venting to my beautiful husband who also had a hard afternoon.

I wish hormones resulted in laughter and comfort as opposed to the tears, stress, discomfort, hot flashes, and such … ho-hum.

Recently, in our little town of Orange Park, Florida, there has been a heinous crime against a little girl.   She was abducted while on her walk home from school and within hours had been treated cruelly, killed, and literally thrown into the trash.  She was found in a landfill a couple of days later.  For the two days she had been missing there were helicopters flying overhead, mounted policemen trotting through the neighborhoods and forests, dogs sniffing, and people blanketing the town with flyers showcasing this beautiful child.  Within seconds of receiving confirmation that the child in the landfill was indeed the missing child, the tone in the air changed … first there was incredible sorrow … then came the anger … the fear is continuing to linger … but almost immediately after the sorrow and anger came this wave of revenge from so many.

And this is where my problem begins.  (Many will strongly disagree with what I am about to say.)  While I feel strongly that this person, this very sick person, should be caught and severely punished I can’t bring myself to want his demise – I can’t crave his own death.  This is not to say that I haven’t thought – if that were my son who had been killed I would grab that man and beat him until I couldn’t any longer, and then I’d want my husband to beat him - I have thought that, but am I strange for knowing that I couldn’t actually do it and I even feel guilty for the thoughts?

Just because another human being has no respect for the life of a child – this girl, or even my son – this doesn’t give me the right to take their life, but it does make me responsible for teaching this person the better way to live or if the teaching is impossible then it is our responsibility to ensure that person can never again harm another.

I wonder if the people who are publicizing their desire for the demise of this killer; the ones writing “we’re coming to get you” on their vehicles, or the ones shaking their hands in the media and already itching to stick a needle in this killer’s arm … I wonder if they realize they are preying on this killer the same way in which he preyed on this little girl, but they’re doing it publicly.  People have a right to their pain, and people have a right to their grief, but do we have a right to prey on one another?  We are telling this killer that it was wrong of him to kill this child (and it was! so wrong!), but in the same sentence we are saying it is ok for us to kill him.  Am I the only one in the world to find fault with this logic?!

For those of you ready to lash out at me for being uncaring for this child … you have not listened to me, you have only read what you wanted from my words.

I have come to love that child as my own and I do not have any problem agreeing that the killer should be punished and stopped from ever hurting another, but is it really right for us to return wrong with wrong?

Wrong!!!  These things were a pain in the butt!  The mixture was easy enough … cream cheese, chopped onion, mushrooms, and a touch of hot sauce … blended.  I was to put them on croissants from the tube.  The instructions were to unroll the croissants and leave two together forming a rectangle, pinch the seam so it wouldn’t open while baking, spread the mushroom mixture on top and roll, jelly roll style, cut into 5ths, place and bake.  You’re probably wondering why it was a pain …

There was too much mixture, the seam doesn’t seal with a pinch, and the mixture oozes out while baking until you’re left with a mushroom flavored, oddly shaped mound of pastry with greyish cheese bubbling beside it.  I tried refrigerating the dough before cutting, I tried lying them different ways on the pan, and I tried cutting them into bite size pieces hoping there would be less ooze and more cohesiveness.  After the first pan came out of the oven David looked at me coyly and said, “These are for us to eat aren’t they?” knowing I wouldn’t be bringing them to the party.  When the second pan came out of the oven David very quietly said, “We aren’t bringing anything to the party, are we?”  I responded by dumping the pans contents into the trash can, turning off the oven, and walking away.

If you are one of those people thinking I should have handled this situation better … I challenge you to make a new recipe, breastfeed your child, bathe your child, pack up for your first party with your new child, ensure that you look somewhat presentable even though you haven’t been to a salon in months and you still don’t fit in any of your clothes comfortably … all in a matter of a couple of hours (perhaps less).  I digress.

I did recover and I did figure out a tasty solution.  I kept the mushroom mixture I did not use the day of the party and I purchased some puff pastry – a dough I am familiar with and enjoy using.  I did not attempt jelly roll style … instead I cut the dough into squares, placed a heaping spoonful of the mixture in the middle, used an egg wash to seal the dough and made little ravioli shaped puffs, used an egg wash to make them glisten, topped with a little sea salt … and David and I enjoyed a nice afternoon treat.

Someone needs to invite me over and ask me to bring a dish … I know what I’m bringing!

On a recent episode of Oprah, I heard women speaking about the surprises that come with motherhood. One woman announced that no one had informed her that she would “hate her husband.” While I don’t hate David, I have felt differently about him since Ben has come into our life. As a matter of fact, I’ve felt differently about everyone.

Before Ben arrived I was smitten with David. He could do no wrong. I wanted to be around him all the time and I wanted to be physically loving as well as doting. I was able to laugh about little annoying nuances he had . . . they never really bothered me to the point of anger. Now however, if the counter-top isn’t wiped down after he’s been in the general area, I become a raging lunatic. And heaven help everyone if the stove-top has the slightest crumb upon it. Gone are the days where I would giggle at his carelessness and wipe the spots myself. Now I am sure I loudly inform him that it needs to be done or I do it myself with such negative gusto that the neighbors may hear the cabinets slam shut as I pull out cleaner. When did I become this angry hormonally charged stranger? Will I ever return to the woman I had been?

Other relationships have changed as well. Take my mother for instance. I love the woman. I do. We do not, however, see eye to eye all of the time and prior to Ben’s arrival I would voice those differences. Now I am just so impressed by everything she has done for me throughout the years (something not entirely obvious until I attempted to push a large watermelon sized son out of my vagina!) that I don’t find myself voicing any opposition. I couldn’t even tell you something I have disagreed with recently, but it’s been 5 months . . . you would think there was something.

My sister and I have a new endearing quality to our relationship. We use each other as sounding blocks, encyclopedias, sources of affirmation, and best of all . . . we compete through the advances of our children. We will spend entire conversations attempting to one-up one another. Just tonight her son had begun to crawl, but Ben is now holding his own bottle. Then we compared their new funny faces and how impressed the kids are with their own accomplishments. I’m not truly happy until she admits that my son is far more advanced than either of her beautiful boys. I find this strange since I adore her boys and love them as my own.

In all the books I have read preparing myself for pregnancy and motherhood, none of them mentioned the hormonal roller coaster followed by the presumed premanent shift in personal outlook. Suddenly the men I loved are these careless strangers who couldn’t possibly understand my plight and the women in my life can do no wrong and they have been elevated to the level of superhero. Is this normal? From time to time I have a day where I am so in love with David I can’t wait for him to come home and there might even be a two hour window where I consider the up-side of making love (he may or may not be home during that window). What I really wonder is if David has had this huge change in outlook as well. Because to be honest, I don’t think I could handle the fact that I may not be his everything.

What should be mentioned is that David has not run out of the house screaming and he doesn’t throw things at me. If he talked to me the way I occasionally talk to him, I would throw things. The man deserves a medal . . . but he still needs to wipe the counters!

Case in point: my husband and I opted for a family outing to the beach over the weekend, a quick trip to introduce Ben to the ocean. We arrived and immediately set up the stroller and threw some towels in the bottom basket, put Ben’s sunglasses on, grabbed the camera, and we were off. Did anyone notice our error? We crossed the street and headed over the dunes on a man-made walkway – one that included straight paths and many stairs. Neither one of us had the “light bulb” realization while we carried the stroller over all of the stairs . . . it wasn’t until we reached the sand that I realized our stupidity. Why had we brought the stroller?! It wasn’t going anywhere in the sand and we immediately took Ben out to play in the water anyway.

Then there’s the conversation I was having with my sister regarding the weight of our little ones. I don’t particularly enjoy having to wait until the doctor’s appointment to find out Ben’s weight and it isn’t convenient to place him on our bathroom scale. Then my sister mentions that she weighs herself at the grocery store and then picks up her son to figure out his weight. Duh! Why couldn’t I have thought of that?! If you’re wondering why my sister has retained her common sense and I haven’t . . . she hasn’t, but I won’t take this time to air her dirty laundry!

Ben is almost five months old and I just recently realized that the best place to park at the grocery store, while Ben is in tote, is near the cart return space. Prior to this realization I had been standing near my car with the cart hoping some cart-needy shopper would walk by and give me an assist or I would contemplate simply leaving the cart in the middle of the parking lot (which happens to be a pet-peeve of mine). So now, after five months, I park near the cart return.

While I was pregnant lack of logic events such as this were commonly referred to as pregnancy brain and now I refer to this new phenomenon as mommy mush brain, a term coined by a friend of mine. I had previously thought of myself as a pretty intelligent person, but unfortunately I am now questioning my ability to handle even the simplest of tasks. The only thing I am sure of . . . I am so impressed with my mom for managing five of us without any of us noticing if she had these difficulties!

By the way . . . Happy Birthday Mom! I love you!

The story of my life and friendships!  There are so many people I have known throughout the years whom I should have kept in frequent communication, but I am a social slacker.  It’s true.  And I’m not the only one out there.  I can’t be.  Otherwise, all of those people would have kept up with me.

I used to try and blame my lack of building solid communicating friendships on the fact that my family moved so frequently when I was very young, but having lived in the same city for over 20 years has put quite a damper on that excuse.  I have a friend I met freshmen year of high school who I love dearly and I try to think we include each other in the milestones of our lives, but we talk rarely.  When we do get together we talk to each other with such voracity that you wouldn’t know anyone else in the world existed during that short period of time.  Perhaps if we cut our conversations shorter and more frequently we wouldn’t feel the need to douse our appetites with such strong emphasis when we meet.

Then there’s the group of people with whom I email.  Email has changed the scope of relationships for me.  Now I have an outlet to occasionally say, “Sorry I haven’t called,” or “I miss you.”  But typing those words still doesn’t prompt the ability to pick up the phone, push seven digits (or maybe ten), and have a brief conversation about each other.  I am baffled by this.  Through the computer we’ll share pictures, life updates, emoticon smiles, and sometimes even fears and downfalls, but I haven’t heard those people’s voices in quite some time.  And I’d like to.

I have even tried to excuse myself from too much guilt because I have such strong bonds with my large family, but even that’s a crock!  I have my parents and my sister who I speak to daily while I keep in touch with everyone else through them.  Is it possible I am a social slacker within the confines of my own flesh and blood?!

What will become of me?!  I have a problem.  I could go about dealing with this as if it were a form of addiction and the first step is admitting I have a problem.  My real problem will begin when I approach the step in which I am supposed to “make right with those I have wronged.”  Uh-oh . . . that will entail lots of phone calls . . . I just don’t think I have time for that!

Maybe if I carried cards in my purse, similar to business cards, that announced my status of social slacker and when I meet someone I would like to remain friends with I simply give them the card.  It will have all of my contact info and now it will be their responsibility to keep in touch with me.  That doesn’t seem fair though.

Maybe I should start a website dedicated to the social slacker.  It can pair up the socially adept folks with those of us that can’t seem to get it right.  I could call it Butterflies & Worms.  The slogan could be, “Pulling the social underground into flight!”  Okay . . . over time I could come up wwith something better, but I’m convinced it’s a good idea.

The bottom line . . . for those of you who I should be calling and keeping in touch with . . . sorry I haven’t called and miss you . . . maybe you should call me!

Unlike me, my husband is technology savvy.  I’m not completely naive, but he can navigate through most operating systems and can discover shortcuts in most software applications.  The unfortunate aspect is his assumption that if he has figured it out then everyone should as well, and if you haven’t then there has to be something wrong with you.

While there are many people similar to my husband in this world, it takes a certain strength to be married to one of them.  Other people may have the luxury of walking away from a perfectionist or dismissing their comments altogether, but continuing to share a home and bed makes things a little touchy.  Tonight for instance, I felt the urge to throw my computer at him, but instead I just snapped, “Who’s blog is it?!”  The comment made me feel better (somewhat), but simply made him giggle.  Ugh!

To be honest, his perfectionism comes in handy with such items as the lawn care, his carpentry pursuits, and especially his work.  It’s when the trait points in my direction that I begin to lose my mind.  You see, I despise having someone look over my shoulder – especially someone offering their unsolicited critiques.  (This could be the main reason I couldn’t survive the theatre! That, and my lack of true talent!)  So, when he is convinced he’s doing me a favor he’s really boiling my blood.

How do I cope?

The first thing I do is breathe . . . in for a count of four, hold for four, out in four, and hold for four more.  This prevents the onset of a panic attack and usually helps me refrain from throwing things.  I sometimes visualize items flying through the air at him while I’m breathing which both soothes my nerves and occasionally solicits an internal smile.

Once relaxed I find it’s important to remember things in which I happen to excel – a little boost to my own ego: I may have pummeled him in Scrabble that day, I could have proven my prowess in the kitchen earlier, or I simply look at my perfectly gestated son.  This ego boost is akin to building a fort, which assists in thwarting further critiques.

Then the ammunition is brought out . . . flattery.  Like many perfectionists, my husband is a sucker for affirmation.  He thrives on it and performs better at absolutely anything if he knows it is admired and/or appreciated.  The key is to be honest with the affirmation.  For example, if he is letting me know all the things I should be doing to further enhance my blog I could fire back with some compliments on how professional his website looks and how beneficial it is for his company to have such a great person paying attention to the little details.  All true, and now the focus is on his achievements and not my lack of bells and whistles.

The final step is usually to take his advice.  Unfortunately the basic truth is that he is usually right.  While I wish he paced his advice (i.e. perhaps waiting 24 hours before pointing out the flaws in my new hobby), I do eventually appreciate how things work out when I follow his suggestions.

If it sounds as if I have caved – this could be true, but the bottom line is this . . . I married the guy for multiple reasons and his personality, with all of its quirks, was one of them!  Maybe when he reads this entry he’ll wait a little longer before he points out what could have been improved.