Breaking Ice & Making Nice

The Money Tree

Your regular, run-of-the-mill money may not grow on trees, but I apparently believe that sea pay is always ripe for the pickin'.

In the last three months, both our family iPod and the last handset in our home phone system bit the dust. So, I visited the Coast Guard Exchange website and placed an order for a brand-new iPod and a phone system that actually speaks aloud the caller ID, saving me that precious ten-foot, one-minute trip from the dining room table to answer yet another dinnertime-phone-solicitor. Total cost? $400.

Sea Pay.

In one recent week, my family took four restaurant road trips to McDonald's, Panera, Applebee's, and Panera (again). Total number of trips to the grocery store? One.

Sea Pay.

Last Monday, I bought Mo a new pair of shoes. The sneaky Stride Rite sales lady measured Mo's feet, then immediately showed Mo - not me - their fancy-schmancy Super Ball sneaker (the most expensive gym shoe on the shelf, natch). Instead of suffering the pre-lunch preschooler mall-tantrum, I bought my son the stupid Super Ball shoes and cringed as I signed the receipt.

Sea Pay.

I recently lamented this weakness to my husband in a particularly guilt-laden email. His response? "You have nothing to feel guilty about. Do what you need to do to survive and more importantly, be happy. Anyway, that's what family separation allowance is for."

FSA? I completely forgot about FSA! I don't have a money tree, I've got a money orchard! Wahoo! I'm going shopping.

We Have Signed a Cease-Fire

Ten days ago, Mo and I declared all-out war on each other. He kicked, he screamed, he punched, he trampled his little brother, he even tore my shirt so hard that he ripped the collar seam. I retaliated by spanking him in anger; then I retreated to the kitchen and threw mixing-bowl grenades that dented both my oven and the bowls.

That's when I knew: If we didn't declare a cease-fire, right then and there, we were going to start hauling out the nuclear weapons. Since we live in a rental house, that was definitely not an option.

So, I called in a third-party mediator to help resolve our dispute. My friends J&L welcomed Mo into their home for an impromptu sleepover, then took him camping for a week in eastern Washington while I cooled down, found some perspective, and started a much-needed round of Zoloft.

Mo returned from camping as a happy, dirty preschooler (and proud owner of a garter snake he caught and named "Sunlight.") I welcome him back as a calm, joyful mother (who refused to allow Sunlight into her home, yard, or neighborhood).

Thanks to our cease-fire - and the Olympics - Mo and I have, for the most part, maintained our cease-fire and upheld peace in our little nation. Condoleeza would be proud.

These Are My Confessions

I confess...

...that our family is basically living out of laundry baskets and the dishwasher right now. Okay, fine, who am I kidding. We live out of the drying machine and wash kitchenware on demand.

I confess...

...that most nights, writing an email to the CDR to update him on our day feels like a burden, and reading his emails feels quite the same. I don't care about the chiefs on your boat, and I don't care to tell you about the long, hard day I've had. I care about finding a clean pair of pajamas and crawling into my bed.

I confess...

...that I like having that bed all to myself.

I confess...

...that, although I consider myself to be a highly capable, strong, and self-sufficient woman, I really do not like setting mouse traps at night and disposing of dead mice in the morning.

I confess...

...that I do not like talking to the CDR on the phone when he pulls into port for a few days. I know he longs to hear my voice, and talk with the boys, but the emotional setback we experience - tears, loss of appetite, nightmares, potty training regression, angry outbursts and tantrums - almost tempts me to say, "Please don't call."

I confess...

...that at least once a week, I am so tired that I let Mo watch an episode of Thomas & Friends in my bedroom instead of reading him bedtime stories.

I confess...

...that I have taken to referring to Facebook as "my second husband."

I confess...

...that I am having my annual physical this afternoon and asking for a low dose of anti-depressant. It's time.

I confess...

...that this afternoon, I held a good friend's four-day-old baby girl, and I had absolutely no maternal yearnings. I'm all done shoving babies out of my bajenka, thank you very much.

I confess...

...that I should be working right now, but working from home doesn't work so well for me.

I confess...

...that while I preach self-acceptance and contentment with who you are and what you have, I sometimes envy my girlfriends who are uber-crafty, super-foodie, wonder-moms who live on 4-5 hours of sleep. Why can't I be more like them?

I confess...

...that every day, I give thanks for the friendship of those women, and so many more, who take me as I am, sad slacker mom and all. I'd send you a home-baked pie and a hand-stamped card, but I think I'll go take a nap instead.