So. Hey. Do you realize that tomorrow is the first day of the first week of the running program we’re supposedly doing? I feel partly excited (something new! maybe slimming and energizing!), and partly heavy with dread (maybe unpleasant and exhausting! maybe yet another failure in the quest for health and fitness!).

The shopping part is fun, though. I have some nearly new all-purpose exercise shoes from the last time I kidded myself that I was going to exercise and I’m going to start off with those–but then if I do this for “awhile” (two weeks? three? a month?) I’ll buy some running shoes. But Rob and William had only slip-on shoes, so they needed something they could run in, and they need that for the new school year anyway. Today we went to Target (*choir of angels sound effect*) and I found a pair for Rob at 50% off and a pair for William at 75% off. “Woo,” and also: “hoo.”

Also, we bought a pedometer. We don’t NEED one, but….well, it’s a fun toy. And Rob learned that “10,000 Steps A Day” thing at school, so he is wildly enthusiastic about it and asked if he could have his own pedometer as a Christmas present, and then William asked if he could have one for Christmas too. That is a pitiful request. If this one seems good (it was $6-something, and maybe it’ll be craptastic and we’ll need one that costs a little more than that), I’m going to buy one for each of them.

I can already tell that this particular pedometer is not going to work for finding out how many steps I walk in a typical day back and forth between the recliner and the brownies: at around 200 steps I sat down for awhile, and when I got up it was over 300. I thought it was an anomaly, but then I went down to cycle the laundry, and when I looked again afterward it was over 500. Hmm.

I’ve been thinking about Devan, whose husband is in trouble right now for seeing dishes in the sink and asking her, “What did you DO all day?” Devan has a toddler and a newborn. Devan’s husband still has all his parts attached, but it may be just a matter of time.

What I’VE been doing all day is thinking about that question. I think of it as living on the list of questions and comments that are never under any circumstances okay to use. It doesn’t seem as if we would have to come out and say that these were Forbidden; it seems like at this point it would be understood by everyone in the entire human race that these are the things you say right before rotten produce starts flying through the air toward your face. And yet no.

So for the sake of those who are still struggling with this, claiming angrily not to be mind-readers, I think we should compose a cheat sheet: a list of all the things no one should ever, ever say. I’ve made a start on it:

1. What did you DO all day?
2. I work all day.
3. Is that on your diet?
4. Have you been putting on weight?
5. Sure, you could stand to lose a few pounds.
6. Is that what you’re wearing?
7. This isn’t rocket science.
8. I hope we can still be friends.
9. I love you, I’m just not “in love” with you.
10. I have a new co-worker—younger than us, but she’s already had a highly successful career as a porn star! Smart, too! We talked for hours today about [insert boring work problem here] and she was so interested and had such great ideas!

This morning had a moment so madhouse, I wasn’t sure I could pull through it without crying or screaming. The twins were in the tub, and Henry started crying and I realized it was time to nurse him, so I started taking the twins out. It’s a little tricky to wrangle them both out by myself, but it’s possible. Henry was really working himself up, so I worked fast getting the twins dressed. Then I picked up Henry—and my hand sent me an urgent message that I was not holding a dry, clean baby. He had blown completely through his diaper and outfit, and was sitting in a puddle in his new bouncy seat. And he was screaming so hard, and the bathroom still had pjs and wet towels and bath toys all over it, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to clean that up or stain-treat Henry’s clothes before he needed to nurse, and I was worried the twins were going to get into the mess on the bouncy seat while I was cleaning up a screaming Henry, and I was still unshowered and wearing my baggy sloppy pajamas which had (1) milk, (2) bath water, and now (3) diaper on them. Not a good moment, is what I’m saying.

Part of my crisis this morning was that the house seemed to have crossed a subtle line between its usual Friendly Squalor and a new state of Unacceptable Horror. In fact, after I decided to see what I could do to improve things, I wandered hopelessly from room to room, near tears, thinking it wasn’t even possible to get started. And my mother-in-law is supposedly visiting in October (this is Day 26 of her not telling us she’s coming).

But! I got a grip. And I started with the kitchen table, which I have cleaned before on this blog. It doesn’t stay clean because we don’t eat at it and it’s such a handy place to put things. This must change. For one thing, we need to start eating at it. For another thing, I can’t stand it the way it is.

Here’s the before:

And here’s the after:

Hi, table! Long time no etc.!

The tablecloth was ripped in several places, so I threw it out.

Elizabeth in her Never Crabby shirt

Shelly’s Peanut
Jen’s L #1
Jen’s L #2< Lori’s Macy
Staci’s Emma
Marie’s Marin
Tessie’s AD

Did I miss your girl? Sorry—tell me again and I’ll add her!

So—yesterday’s post. What I meant to do was vent a little about how hard it is to keep my mouth shut in situations where it would be stupid for me to talk. What I did instead was:

1. Imply that one of you wrote a blog post that pissed me off
2. and that probably you do that all the time
3. and that maybe all the other commenters don’t like you either.
4. Imply that I don’t think blogs should be about controversial topics
5. and that I think people shouldn’t discuss things unless they agree
6. and that what you wrote about _______ was way too controversial.
7. Imply that we should all go around kissing up to each other all the time
8. and no one should ever say anything that isn’t positive
9. and that we should all be icky-sweet and no one should say anything bitchy or strong.
10. Imply that all conflict is bad
11. and that pleasant, intellectual debate between consenting adults is also bad
12. and that in a perfect world, all of us would act and think identically.
13. Imply that I never give my 2 cents’ worth on other people’s blogs
14. and that my silence means I disagree
15. and I’m quietly thinking bad things about you but you’ll never know because I won’t say it.
16. Imply that I don’t want you to give your 2 cents’ worth on my blog
17. and that if you have in the past, you’ve totally hurt my feelings and pissed me off
18. and that if you do it ever again I won’t be your best friend anymore.

I is such a awesome communicator! I rocks!

I do often comment if I disagree with something, and I want you to comment even if you’re not saying, “You’re totally right! I totally agree! Also, I like your shoes!” I think we can disagree and still be friendly. Good thing, too, since there are SO MANY THINGS to disagree about! Including my shoes.

There are some topics, though, that I don’t want to talk about anymore, and that’s generally when I choose my voluntary dose of STFU. The blog setting wouldn’t be right for me anyway: I’m a person who typically leaves a comment and doesn’t come back to see who commented after me, so it’s not a good place for me to get involved in a heavy debate.

Also–and this is harder to describe–there are certain times when I can FEEL that my reaction is not good and that I shouldn’t talk, that it would not be RIGHT for me to talk. Do you know what I mean? Because I’ve spent about 24 hours trying to think of how to put it, and that’s the best I’ve got. It’s just a FEELING that tells me I should shut up.

But, silly dears, I was not talking about any of YOU. You are all sweeties, and I’m sure I agree with every word you say. Also, I like your shoes.

It is so difficult to voluntarily take a dose of STFU. In general, my feeling is that if I don’t like what I’m reading on a blog, I should stop reading the blog rather than repeatedly venting my dislike in the comment section. I’m not chained to my computer, eyelids pried open while someone else chooses my reading matter: if I don’t like it, I should go away. But oh, sometimes it is so difficult.

There are so many hot issues (religion! politics! parenting!), so many things that make me feel like fighting. I can tell they make other people feel like fighting, too, because of all the comment sections that boil up and over the edge. What’s amazing is that any of us get along at all.

I read awhile back that humans are naturally contentious–that if peace were handed to us on a platter, we wouldn’t be able to accept it even if we wanted to. Our natural state is to live together in communities, and to fight constantly within that community and also with other communities. My experience with human nature backs this up so far.

This is discouraging. I think I’ll take another dose.

So it sounds to me like we pretty much all agree that my OB is hoping to get another big fat c-section fee out of me by telling me I’m safe for at least 12 weeks. I got a prescription for the mini-pill, which I’m going to try. I say “try” because from what I’ve read, a lot of women find it gives them a fast flying kick into the land of crazy–but I’m hoping I luck out and it doesn’t happen to me. We’ll see. I like how I have to wait four weeks before it renders me safe–and the four weeks doesn’t start until I actually fill the prescription, which, who knows when I’ll get to the store next, or if I’ll remember to fill it while I’m there?

Researchers need to do better on this birth control thing. Right now there are four kinds:

1. Options used in the heat of the moment.
2. Options used constantly, medicating the woman even when there isn’t a need for it.
3. Options in which something that looks like a sharp metal insect takes up residence in the woman’s uterus.
4. Options in which someone gets a crucial reproductive organ snipped.

All the options suck. Heat-of-the-moment options are messy and yucky and can cause allergic reactions, and it is difficult to make sensible birth control decisions during the time they need to be made. Constant-medication options can affect a woman’s mood, weight, and–hello, helpful!–sex drive, not to mention the crazy gland. Metal-in-the-uterus options make me uncomfortable just thinking about them. Permanent options make me sad just thinking about them.

Obviously it would be nice if, for the hot new birth control option, men could take a turn dealing with the expense and side effects, but I understand researchers are FAR too busy working to increase men’s sex drive and hair growth.

Apparently there is a down side of coffee, which is that I am wide! awake! when I should be sleeping. It isn’t as if I drank a whole lot of coffee: I have a 4-cup coffee pot, and I made “3” cups, and the 3 is in quotes because what they call 3 cups will fill a mug once with a little warm-up-your-cup slosh (or, depending on the morning, a little evaporate-into-a-sizzling-stain-on-the-bottom-of-the-pot slosh) left over for later, and that’s it. And I am not talking about a huge mega-mug, I am talking about a normal, even SMALLISH mug.

Do I have a mother-in-law story to tell here? Why, yes I do! She likes to talk about how her late husband used to “fib” to the doctor about how much coffee he drank. “He’d say, ‘3 cups,’ and I’d say, ‘Those must be MIGHTY BIG CUPS!’ He was filling it to the 6-cup mark on our coffee maker every single day!” She tells this anecdote once per visit, but then refers to it again almost daily when she sees me making coffee: “I just keep thinking about Lloyd saying he only drank 3 cups! Ha ha ha.” She, of course, is not a coffee drinker. Never could stand the stuff. Never saw the point, either. Why not just go to bed at a decent hour? She just doesn’t understand it at all—never has. And the taste! My stars.

I had my OB appointment today. Did you know there could be a POP QUIZ on Kegels? With GRADES? It was like that nightmare where you realize you forgot to attend classes all year and now that you’ve found the classroom you have to take a test.

The OB says that if I’m breastfeeding exclusively, I’m fine without any birth control at all for at least 12 weeks. But I have five children already, and there is the question of whether I want to bet the farm on a claim made by a guy who earns his money on a per-pregnancy basis.

If you know of any greater pleasure than sitting alone in a quiet house with a pint of Dove “Vanilla with a Chocolate Soul” ice cream, reading blogs and finding pictures of Erin’s and Sam’s new babies (congratulations, Erin! congratulations, Sam!), knowing that both the new Harry Potter book AND the next disc of Angel are standing by for the next nursing session, then don’t tell me—my heart can’t take it.

My August copy of Jane magazine (which, by the way, I hear is the last: the magazine has gone under) arrived this weekend, and in it was this:

Is that a sign or what? Oh, well, yes, it’s literally a sign. But I mean, is it, you know, a chorus-of-angels type sign? Answer: no. But! A neat coincidence.

I am gradually becoming resigned to the idea that we will be trying the running program. I remind you all that I am almost certain to ditch it, possibly the very first week, so if you’re looking for a bellwether (that’s the lead sheep; also, a good book by Connie Willis) you’d be better off finding someone else. But if you want someone who did the absolute minimum required to pass gym and after every session got a bag each of Doritos and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to restore precious, precious electrolytes, then join up with me, my friend! And lo, we will pant and curse together! And then partake of delicious restorative substances! And then quit! and hide the receipt for the running shoes! and partake of even more delicious restorative substances, now that our time is not being taken up by that pesky running program!

Speaking of delicious restorative substances, please note that there is NO DIET taking place at this time. I reserve the right to add one later if I start feeling all awesome, but “One horrible torture at a time,” that’s my philosophy. If I am running, I am also eating pints of Dove ice cream (also if I STOP running). The goal right now is only–ONLY–to get the buns off the recliner for a brief session per day. That’s IT. Then it’s back to the recliner.

I am drinking coffee again! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I was feeling so, so sleepy every day, and finally I got it together enough to get the coffee pot out. (I put it away when I got pregnant. Coffee makes me feel barfy when I’m pregnant, and “being pregnant” already makes me feel as much barfy as I want to feel.) I made some yesterday morning and felt good all day. I drank more this morning (note to self: teach children to make coffee and bring it to me in bed) and feel great again. Yay coffee!

Two questions I am not asking Paul this morning, because I don’t know how such a conversation would begin:

1) What were you planning to use for birth control, dumbass, if I hadn’t pushed you away? When people asked us if we “knew how this kept happening,” they were kidding–but now I’m wondering if I need to sit you down for The Talk.

2) Did you seriously think you were going to score in the middle of the night with a nursing mother? You’re lucky I didn’t leave for a hotel. And that all your parts are still attached.