So, did you know they clean school buses by raising up the front and then power-washing the inside so all the water and dirt runs out the back? Something new every day!

I learned this because yesterday William threw up twice on the bus on the way home, and the dispatcher called me to give me the heads-up, and so I went running out with towels to help clean up the bus, but the driver told me not to worry about it.

Of course, I AM worried about it. I am very, very worried that William will get on the bus next time and no one will want to sit next to him because he threw up. I’m worried someone will make him feel bad about it. Also, I’m worried about middle school and high school and car accidents and people breaking his heart. But right now I am focusing on the barfing problem in particular.

I took him to the doctor, not because he barfed but because he’s had an increasingly bad cough and he said he barfed because he coughed so much, and also because he could barely walk from the bus to the house, and also because he then lay on the couch pale and motionless for the rest of the day, and also because AFTER taking Motrin his fever was still 103.4.

It turns out he has a huge ear infection, so that the doctor flinched back and said, “Ouch!” and then said, “Buddy, you’ve got to COMPLAIN more.” But William said the ear hadn’t hurt him at all until the doctor poked it. We stopped on the way home and got him his antibiotics, and now he’s home watching cartoons in the living room and eating cinnamon toast. I picture the antibiotics going through his system now, popping the little bad guys: Pop! Pop! Pop!

I’m breaking my usual “pay it forwards on weekends” thing because Motherhood is Painless is doing a special one: the first three people to comment on this post automatically win a handmade gift. And I thought if I waited until the weekend, you’d miss out.

And while we’re here: Alice in Wonderland is starting a new contest.

Also: William threw up on the bus on the way home. Twice. ZOMG. Guess which bus driver is getting a really nice holiday gift this year?

This idea can sound preachy, so I saved it for a Sunday!

I remember learning back in school that people in civilizations we’d consider primitive were perfectly happy with their lives as long as they remained isolated from other cultures. The second they found out that other people were not still digging holes in the dirt to pee in, but were instead choosing which of three household bathrooms to use, they felt unhappy. This concept had a name, which I have forgotten along with all the Latin I took.

I think this same comparative unhappiness thing happens within a culture, and in fact I’d bet cash money that the whole “they were perfectly happy” thing wasn’t exactly true, either: someone surely resented someone else’s larger supply of pretty rocks, or larger mud hut, or whatevs. It certainly happens in our culture, where those of us with one bathroom might look enviously at households with three bathrooms, and where those of us scrubbing those bathrooms might look enviously at people who hire others to do the scrubbing, and where those of us who hire others might look enviously at people who can write the check for it without flinching.

Notice the direction of the unhappiness: comparing UP makes people unhappy. And so here is my tip for today, a Sunday and a perfect day for preaching techniques human beings may or may not be capable of following: compare DOWN. I know, you can’t always do that; neither can I. Most of us can’t avoid wanting more than what we have. I’m sure even Bill Gates wishes he had more of something. It’s perfectly natural to prefer having MORE rather than having LESS.

But when I catch myself doing that, I’ve been attempting to look the other direction. Like, I think of my great-great-great grandparents, and how THEY would have seen my house. Imagine the Ingalls family checking out your running water, central heat, and windows—even if your pipes creak, your furnace is expensive to run, and your windows are drafty. Imagine mud-hut dwellers checking out your floors—even if your floors are a little unfashionable, a little beat-up, maybe a few decades years past replacement date. Imagine anyone from the outhouse era looking at your one single indoor bathroom, even if your bathroom DOES have 1960s aqua fixtures. Even your grandparents (or great-grandparents, if your grandparents were too young for The Great Depression) sure would envy your grocery store and the way you can just throw away the aluminum foil after you use it.

I know! It sounds impossibly preachy. It also sounds a little icky, like I’m saying you should make yourself feel better by looking at people who are worse off than you. Which, er, IS what I’m saying. But it’s not so much “Make yourself feel better by looking at other’s misfortune,” it’s more, “Don’t make yourself feel worse by looking at people who have more, when you are ALSO a person who has more.”

There! /sermon! Let’s have doughnuts and coffee!

Edit: ZOMG, I would DEFINITELY not want this confused with the “It could be worse” school of thought, the one used to make people feel like they can’t complain about anything. For one thing, I LOVE complaining and love reading complaints. For another thing, I think complaining is legitimate even if you are not the person with the #1 Worst Circumstance: that is, I think it is perfectly legitimate to complain about morning sickness, without people telling you the ways in which It Could Be Worse. And for a third thing, I just totally disagree with the whole “It could be worse” philosophy, and consider it completely different from the “Imagine how good this looks to someone else” philosophy, which I use not for truly sucky situations but only when I think I am feeling a little overly sorry for myself for having an unfashionable couch.

Second Edit: I also wouldn’t want this confused with the “it would be better to have less” school of thought, which is worthy but not something I personally live in my own life. That is, I would rather have MORE. I would rather have MORE money, a bigger house, a more recent car, nicer furniture, and better clothes. I use the “Other people would envy ME” philosophy for when I CAN’T have more. It’s to keep me from focusing on being envious of people who DO have more.

I’m getting my hair cut today. I don’t know why I always get hand-wringy about it and spend so much time mentally rehearsing what I’ll ask for: not only does my stylist ALWAYS give me a cut I like, but I ALWAYS get pretty much the same thing. There is no need to post a photo of my haircut, because it is just “the same as the last time I posted a photo of myself with a new haircut.” I get it cut as short as it can be without going above the hairline, and I tuck it behind my ears, and I like for it to have potentially flippy ends. She always asks me questions as we go along, and I always say, “Uhhhhhhh….” and then she says, “Why don’t we….?” and I leap on her suggestion with relief.

The only thing I would change about my stylist is that I wish she were more CHATTY. I like the kind of stylist where I can sit back and say, “Oh!” and “Really!” and “My goodness!” and “Tsk!” as a river of chat (ideally gossipy chat) washes over me. I find it soothing. Otherwise I sit there in the silence feeling like I should make conversation, my mind frantically searching for something—anything!—to talk about. Last time I even resorted to discussing the haircuts of Katie Holmes and Victoria Beckham. But I’m not switching: I’ve had chatty stylists who should have been focusing more of their attention on TEH HAIR, so I’ll keep the awk silence and the consistently good cuts.

I have been thinking of going back to bangs. I can’t believe I’m even considering it, after the ordeal that was growing them out, and after revisiting those old photos of me where the bangs are parted like the Red Sea because of my cowlicks. I guess I’m not REALLY considering it.

********
Pay-it-Forward Updates:

MO Mommy is showing the giftie she got (from me!)

Midwest Mom is showing a giftie she got and starting a new contest.

Scenic Overlook is showing the giftie she got.

That whole drama with Christopher so far all happened before mid-November of 7th grade.

Swistle, age 12

(note poor bangs—double cowlick)
(we ALL had rainbow shirts, right?)
(and we all tucked them in?)

Not even ten days after I drew a large broken heart with “Me” on one half and “Chris” on the other, I write: “I only like Chris as a friend now, and Lori is welcome to him.” So that’s good news, and I’m totally sure I was 100% sincere. *eye roll* Obviously I was a BIG LIAR. But I think I would have been over him if he hadn’t then continued toying with me. A month later:

I’m really confused. I wish Chris would make up his mind. Does he like Lori or me? He still hangs around Lori, but yesterday he and I were talking about winter, and I was mid-sentence when he interrupted. I was saying things like, “I hate cold” and “I hate snow,” and he said, “I love you.” I was shocked. Also today, I wore a very flattering blouse, and Chris told me five times that I looked pretty today, and that it was a beautiful color on me. He’s been hanging around me alot, and I must have blushed about 20 times!!! And that’s just today. I wish he’d write me a note and explain.

Yes, well, we ALL wish for a little note sometimes. And if the “explanation” were accurate, the note would read “He’s a jackass! Kick him to the CURB, honey! P.S. ‘A lot’ is two words.”

Look how he continues to mess with me:

Tonight my youth group went caroling and Chris came along. All of us had to squeeze into the back of a van, and the whole time Chris had his head on my shoulder, and he kept snuggling up to me, and once he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re cute,” very softly. All this time my heart was going bananas because here I was, snuggled up to my favorite boy, and he’s telling me I’m cute. Even thinking about it makes my heart skip beats. But then he had to spoil it by asking me if he should buy Lori a stuffed moose. How can he possibly hurt me like this? I should be mad at him but, darn it all! I’ve fallen in love with him again. I’m filled with a hatred for Lori, my rival.

Well, well, well. And look who’s got things just the way he wants them. And please tell me what is with girls that we then fight between ourselves over the jerk? I mean, clearly he is being really awful here, and I turn my dislike on the OTHER GIRL. Whuh? It’s like the whole “Team Aniston” and “Team Jolie” thing, as if we all thought the two women should duke it out to decide who “wins” Brad Pitt, aka The Real Homewrecker Here.

Nearly two months go by with no comment. In early February, I write: “Today Chris and Lori broke up. I have decided that if he starts liking me, I won’t like him back.” And on the blank facing page, I wrote in big letters: “I LOVE CHRIS,” then a big line underneath it, and then “NOT ANYMORE, I DON’T.”

Then NOTHING! How could I do this to my future self? What happened in the two months between “hatred for my rival” and “broke up”? Did I pursue him? Continue to have a crush on him? And then what’s with this entry in early March:

My mother keeps praying for me and my dad asked me if anything depressing had happened in Florida [where my brother and I had gone by ourselves to visit our grandparents]. This morning I caught a catch of a conversation that sounded like they were talking about me. I think something’s up.

But WAS something? WHO KNOWS? Because my silly 12-year-old self just left it right there! (My theory: I had a raging case of The Twelves, and my parents were wondering WTF.)

In mid-April, I throw myself a crumb:

I haven’t written in a long time so here’s what’s been happening. Chris and I have been friends ever since February 5th. We have been fighting about once a day, and each fight lasts from 5 minutes to a few hours. He’s hugged me 5 times but I think they’re just friendly hugs. Chris is madly jealous of Jenny because she’s my best friend and he’s not. He tells me that I’m HIS best friend even if he’s not mine. *SIGH* P.S. I think I really like Jimmy, a boy who goes to our church. He’s ultra-fantastically cute!!!

I didn’t remember that we fought so much, although I definitely remember fighting. Chris and I were both the type to get red-faced and teary-eyed and “I hate you!!!” when angry, so things never went well. But what did we fight ABOUT? I don’t remember AT ALL. And every DAY?

And what’s with the possessive stuff? Was he kind of a…loon? He didn’t want to date me, but he wanted to be the center of my world. Sure wish we’d had the term “whatevs” back then. I could have said it to him. I could have held up W-fingers for emphasis.

I like Jimmy as much as I liked Christopher. Poor Jenny has to be friends with someone who is constantly falling in and out of love! P.S. Chris and I haven’t had a fight for over a week!!!

Then Lori dumps Chris (evidently the first break-up didn’t take), and I’m afraid I try my hand at haiku:

Lori, although you
Were dazzled by Chris at first
You did the right thing.

See, if she does what I want her to do, that’s The Right Thing. Isn’t that an easy way to look at the world? Ah, 12!

My dad scanned in some photos of me from the ages of my embarrassing diaries, so now I have illustrations. I added the two photos below to the I LOVE DAVID!!!! post and to the I LOVE CHRISTOPHER!!!! post, but since we’re done with those posts I’m also posting the photos here:

Swistle, age 11

(braces)
(turtleneck and vest)
(growing out bangs)
(undereye circles EVEN THEN)

Swistle age 12

(just got braces off that day)
(the orthodontist hadn’t told me he was going to)
(gave up on growing out bangs)
(unfortunately, double cowlick immediately reminded me why I’d been growing them out)

My nice boss at Milk and Cookies gave us two $25 Amazon.com gift certificates to give away, so go on over there if you want a chance to win one.

I just chose lighting fixtures for the dining room. I’d thought that would be FUN, and I’d planned to buy something pretty/interesting. But I needed flush-mount fixtures because the ceiling is slanted and not high enough for danglies, and when I looked at a whole display room full of flush-mount fixtures, these were my choices (I yoinked these images from LightingUniverse.com):

Pardon me for inquiring, but is the buyer for the lighting store a MAN by any chance? Because every single one of these fixtures looks like a BREAST. It’s even more apparent when you’re standing under a ceiling full of them, looking up.

Furthermore, I needed…two.

I ended up with these, except with white thingies instead of metal:

At least they’re SMOOTH.

My brick-and-mortar friend (term credit: Marie) Mairzy is perhaps wondering if I am going to suddenly confess a childhood crush on another old classmate of mine, her husband August. We were in a combined-grade classroom, and August was in the younger grade while I was in the older grade. A grade makes a huge difference at that age, and I don’t remember any of the younger boys even being on our Crush Radar–even though there was such a shortage of boys in the older grade. The grade-younger boys just seemed sooooo much younger.

I will, however, tell a story that involves August, and it is a story of an incident I consider one of the most mortifying situations of my entire childhood. …How’s THAT for a sure-to-disappoint build-up?

My family occasionally went over to August’s house to play games in the evening. (Yeah, NOW the roller rink looks pretty fierce, doesn’t it?) This was a ton of fun, and 99% of the reason is that August’s family is the kind of family that, if you were going to have an arranged marriage, you’d be slipping the matchmaker bribes to marry you into it. They are NICE and FUNNY and SMART (also healthy and attractive with good teeth and hair!), and totally righteous dudes overall without being, you know, all treacly and lame about it.

One evening as we were saying our goodbyes, August’s little sister (who was and is the sort of person you’d describe as Bringing Joy to the World, she is such a cutie/sweetie/sunshine) asked if I could sleep over. My parents had a policy for these situations, and that policy was No Spontaneous Plans: it’s too difficult to arrange these things on the spot, and too hard for parents to say no if they want to. But for some reason they let this offer stand (THANKS), and four adults and four children waited to hear my RSVP.

I am not sure you know this about me, but I am not a “go with the flow” type. And so the thought of changing course like this and spending the night was…startling. My first protest, in fact, was that I didn’t have my THINGS with me, and of course August’s mother said that was no big deal and that they could even rustle up a brand-new toothbrush for me. And then everyone waited again.

But here was my REAL reason, the protest I couldn’t say: “SPEND THE NIGHT??? In the house of a BOY from my CLASS???? Wearing PAJAMAS?????”

I mean! Imagine! BRUSHING MY TEETH down the hall from A BOY! Having him see me in the morning with Sleep Hair!!! PEEING IN THE SAME BATHROOM. It was unimaginable. Or rather: far too imaginable. If I had previously considered the grade-younger boys “SO much younger,” I suddenly felt they were in fact my exact same age.

This is, however, not the kind of reason you can give when four adults and the boy in question are waiting for your reply. And here is another thing I’m not sure you know about me: I don’t think quickly on my feet. Early in my educational career I considered law, but rejected it because a trial lawyer (which was the only kind of lawyer I knew about) needs to think quickly on her feet. Well, and also I was scared of the bar exam. Because I like to fear things way in advance if possible.

And so I needed an excuse, and I needed one fast, and I am a rabbit-in-the-headlights thinker, and so what I said was that I thought I was coming down with a cold. I believe I added a little fake cough for emphasis. This was so patently an Excuse Lie, especially when offered after the objection about not having my Things, it was insulting to all present. Like saying, “I can’t—I need to wash my hair.” I’d just spent the entire evening with them: if I were indeed coming down with a cold, I’d just given them a hostess gift of GERMS. And I’d betrayed no symptoms of said cold, not in several hours of visit. LIE LIE LIE GLARING LIE. I knew instantly, but there was no fixing it: even if I could have gone back in time, I still had no good reason to give in its place.

All the way home, I died. I continued dying when I should have been sleeping. I died over the next several days, and then periodically–TO THIS VERY DAY–I revisit that scene to die some more. (STILL have no good reason.)

First, the pay-it-forward updates, because I think at least one of them is ending today:

Scenic Overlook is starting a new contest.

Honest and Truly! is showing a giftie she got and starting a new contest.

Second, I am having super-fun shopping for Erin‘s prize, and I really do recommend this pay-it-forward thing if you enjoy shopping and want a little morale boost. It is FUN. And it is so pleasant to have something to look for at the store other than toilet paper, shampoo, and cat food. I have to stop myself from doing a new one EVERY WEEK.

And lastly, a confession/edit: I was talking with my mom about the I LOVE CHRISTOPHER!!!! post, and I was telling her about an edit I made to something I quoted, because I felt the original version was too excruciating, and she said I HAD to come clean because these are NO GOOD if they’re edited to save myself embarrassment.

Okay FINE. FINE. What I TOLD you I wrote was: “I think that my love for him is different from my love of David. With David, I was in love with his appearance and not his personality.” There is a snip between those two sentences. What I ACTUALLY wrote was:

I think that my love for him is different from my love of David. My love of David was a wild, crazy, all sex, no feelings love. I was in love with his appearance and not his personality.

OKAY? OKAY? My face is BURNING. “All sex”!! “Wild, crazy”!! What was I TALKING about?? I was ELEVEN! And had had NO PHYSICAL CONTACT WHATSOEVER with any boy! And was still in the “Ewww, kissing” stage! AAAaaaghhh!! The pain of encountering one’s previous self!

Actually, I know exactly what I was talking about. I was quoting the adults who had taught me thoroughly about the differences between Physical Attraction and Actual Feelings, and I thought I was being Very Sophisticated to talk as if I understood the difference and could apply it to my crushes. What I MEANT was that I thought I’d only liked David for his looks, but that I liked Christopher for his INNERMOST BEING. (That contention is UTTER CRAP. David was a sweetheart and a nice boy who was kind to other people; Christopher was a young sociopath, a player learning the game, and not a nice boy at all.)

My mom points out that this is why it’s a bad idea for parents to read their children’s diaries: imagine if she’d read that! Imagine how flipped out she’d have gotten, and over nothing of substance! I was merely trying to prove how much more Real my feelings for my current crush were than for my previous crush (actual difference: NONE), and my mother would have been freaking out that her 11-year-old was having sex and/or interested in sex. Sigh.

I’m just going to keep going through the diaries until I get bored with it. Who knows how long that will be, considering how long I maintained interest in WRITING these awful things. You may want to go do something else for awhile. Like, okay, go make these brownies, but instead of salt, put in a bag of Andes mint baking chips and 1/2 t. peppermint extract, and add a few minutes to the baking time. MMMMMmmmmm.

Swistle age 12
(just got my braces off that very day)
(notice haphazard bangs: DOUBLE COWLICK)

I’m continuing through my journal from age 11-12. Here’s an example of what a little planner I was:

Some things I’d like to do or have or whatever when I’m a teenager are: Have one thing I eat when I’m upset. I read a book about a girl who ate pistatios when she was upset. Maybe I’ll eat saltine crackers. I also think I want one boyfriend (some freckles on him would be nice) who is my best boyfriend, and then I don’t care if that’s all the boyfriends I have or if I have seven more.

I think that was pretty flexible of me, don’t you? Pistachios are expensive but saltines are cheap, and I was okay with ANY number of boyfriends up to and including eight. And I only had physical-attribute suggestions for the FIRST one.

I remember the very book I was referring to there. It was called The Pistachio Prescription, it was by Paula Danzinger, and I see they reprinted it in 2006. I liked the lead character’s name, which was Cassandra.

Let’s skip ahead to a couple of months after I announced my crush on David.

I am hopelessly in love (at least I think I am) with David. I don’t want him to kiss me or anything, but I want him to like me for what I am. I think he might like (or maybe love!!) me already but he’s trying not to show it. He smiles at me a lot and when he’s grumpy and I get mad at him, he always apologizes VERY quickly.

ZO-kay, well obviously this was the early days of Female Delusion Syndrome, in which men who show zero interest are presumed to be hiding that interest. We are talking about an 11-year-old boy here. Considering he was outnumbered by girls and a good half-foot shorter than the shortest of us, I’d say the quick apologizing was a smart tactical maneuver.

Then there is page after page after PAGE of fantasy valentines and fantasy notes—and, most agonizing of all, fantasy SCRIPTS in which I have David confessing his secret love for me and only me, and in which I explain that I had been afraid to tell him I felt the same way until I was sure of his returned feelings. In each script, he brings a flower to the conversation: a daisy, a pink rose, etc. WINCE, GAG.

Okay, and then there is a gap of FOUR MONTHS, followed by this entry:

I think I’m going to crack. David doesn’t love me. David doesn’t even LIKE me. I think I’ll just have to give up on him. Maybe he once had a crush on me, or maybe he’ll love me in the future, but right now he thinks I’m a flirtatios, ugly brat. (Unless he’s just pretending, which I dought.) I’ll probley still love him for awhile though.

Well, gosh! What happened? I don’t remember at all! Notice I still allow for the possibility that he’s just HIDING his true feelings under a FALSE FRONT of dislike. Also: notice my misspelling of “flirtatios” is similar to my misspelling of “pistatios,” above.

Luckily the heart mendeth with time, and within days I’m announcing a new crush, the new boy in school:

This time I think I’ve finally found a boy who loves me back. On the first day of school he said that he liked girls. I really would not be surprised if he kisses girls. I think that my love for him is different from my love of David. With David, I was in love with his appearance and not his personality. With Christopher I really do hurt with him and laugh with him. I think Christopher would make a good husband for me.* If I were to marry David I think I’d live to regret it.

ACK. FLINCH. BLUSH. The asterisk leads to this note at the bottom of the page: “*But I have no intentions of actually marrying him.” Ermmmm-kay, noted.

This is all of two weeks after meeting Christopher, and I could not have been more wrong about his husband potential. Rookie mistake: thinking charm and good looks equal good person. He sure did capture the imagination, though. My old classmates Jen and Heather can back me up on this: was he THE CUTEST, Jen and Heather, or WHAT? I think every girl in fifth, sixth, and seventh grade liked him, and probably even the fourth-grade girls raised an eyebrow in his direction. Tall, blond, blue eyes, VERY FLIRTY in a group of kids where all the other boys were still going, “Huh? What?” Plus, he had a SPORTS INJURY:

Today Christopher broke his arm. He was being so brave about it that I could just cry. I could tell that the pain was agonizing because he was occasionaly making agonized faces, but he didn’t cry like I would have. If he lets us sign his cast, I think I’ll dot my i with a heart.

Excellent plan. A couple of weeks later, a newsflash:

CHRISTOPHER LIKES ME! So, you don’t believe me, do you, Diary? We went through this all before with David, didn’t we, Diary? Well this time I have a note to prove it.

Well, and as it turns out, I DO, and it’s taped to the page. In the note he explains why he asked another girl to couple-skate at the roller rink (SHUT. UP. The roller rink was SWINGING), and his explanation includes the fact that he WANTED to ask me, but was “in a bind” because the other girl’s sister asked him to ask the other girl. The best part of the note, though, is the end.: “P.S. Remember I only like her as a friend. You on the other hand.” ZOMG is that HEADY STUFF or WHAT?? I write:

It’s a strange thing, love is. It’s very strange to be wild about someone, to wish on every star, and pray every night that that person will love you, and then they tell you that they do and BANG! you’re in a confused world that probley every teenager has once visited. That’s how it is with me and Chris. It’s like he’s a stranger; he’s not the same boy I loved before, and yet, I can still see the same qualities. Right now I’m just confused. I’m sure, though, that it will clear up soon.

HA HA HA HA HA! Oh, YES, dear, love just clears RIGHT UP. (Also: BARF, WINCE, FLINCH.)

I’d forgotten how this little relationship between 12-year-olds ended, so as I was reading along I was thinking, “Well? WELL??” And geez, it’s not pretty, so I’ll make it quick: He asked to sit next to me every day at lunch, he gave me his last M&M, he told me “someone” was in love with me. Then he wrote me a note asking how I felt about him, and I risked it and wrote back that I loved him, and he wrote back that he’d been asking because he wanted to know if he’d hurt my feelings if he asked another girl out. He wrote: “So things were going fine and I thought I was falling in love with you, but a couple days ago her friend told me she liked me, which I had figured but I took it as good news. I still like you a lot but not as much as someone else.”

YOWK. Do you know, that still makes me feel gaggy, well over twenty years later? What a nasty set-up that was, huh? I don’t look back on that and think, “Ha ha, funny little puppy love!” I look back on that and think, “That was BRUTAL.”