Marco. Polo.

On my bedside table, I  have a beat-up red file box filled with photos.  This box has lived next to my bed for years.  I don't remember when it took up residence- I don't remember where I got it.  I'm not sure how so many photos have ended up tossed into one silly little box.  I hardly even notice it.
Today I fled to my bedroom for a little mom-time-out (tantrum-induced. theirs, not mine) and I suddenly had to find out what was in that red box.
I'm looking through the box, attempting to find something.  Anything.  How deep do I have to go? Will I know it when I see it?  Can I find myself before?  And before what, exactly?
 I have a few questions for these photos, but I doubt they will answer.  I'm tempted to throw them all up in the air, Las Vegas Winnings style, just to see where they land.  Will I find something then?  Maybe I should build an enormous zoetrope and force them to come to life.
The photos are a mess, thrown into haphazardly, mixed up like amateur stir-fry.  In some cases I can relive the moments captured in those photos almost instantly.  The where, who, why, how, and what come to me right away.  Others are fuzzy, stirring up tiny birdies of memory and not much more. Some photos I honestly can't place.  Whose kid is that? And why would I want a picture of that sofa, for pete's sake? And not a one is in any kind of order.

Here's me when I was three, wearing terrible overalls.
Here's me when I was 17, in Hawaii by myself.
Sunset at Golden Gardens.
My childhood best friend with a potted plant on her head.
Glacier National Park.
Some guy from QFC.
Diamond Head.
My cat, Pooka.
The Church of Elvis in Portland.
High School graduation.
Mazatlan.
Deception Pass.
The feral cat I brought home from Montana.
Eastern Washington?
Moscow, Idaho.
New Years Eve Y2K.
Here I am in a wig.
Here I have green hair.
Here my hair is an inch long.
My high school band teacher.
Floral curtains in my bedroom.
Nine years old.  Purple bathing suit.
Boston.
Wilmington.
Ashland.
Somebody's baby.
Dancing with my sister.
Anna.
My uncle.
Me singing.
A wet dog.
A pink kitchen.
Here I was four.
Here I was 14.

Here I am.

I Don't Know How You Do It!

The above phrase has been delivered to me countless times. The majority of the time, the utterer has been referring to the fact that I am the mother of three and stepmother of two, with a husband who works too much, eight pets, and a part time job that involves massive sleep deprivation on my part.

I know, right?

Also, I believe that most of the time the utterer is attempting to convey to the utteree (that would be me) that this set of circumstances is unusually difficult, and that they are impressed with, I don't know, my performance, I guess? Or the fact that I'm not bat-shit crazy living under the Aurora bridge by now or something. This is Nice. This a Compliment. If They were in my place They would clearly not handle said circumstances as well. Clearly.

However, deep down in my grouchy, sleep-deprived, suspicious, nougat-y center I am suspicious. I sort of get the feeling that They are gloating. That They are just looking for a sneaky way to remind me that They don't work outside the home, that They only have one Precious Gift From Above, that They still get 8 hours of sleep daily and don't have to wear a nametag or non-slip shoes. Ever.

This paranoia of mine is almost justified by the fact that I live in the Passive Aggressive Capital of the Universe. But, since Almost only counts in hand grenades and Kardashian marriages, I should really get a grip. If anyone wants to waste their time trying to make me feel bad, they need a hobby, because I'm already way good at that.

The answer to the five dollar question is easy. I do It (what, not murder my offspring? manage to get a shower every day? can you be more specific?) Because I Have To. Because no one else is gonna do it. Because the alternatives resemble foreclosure/poverty/malnutrition/CPS investigations/therapy bills/Maury Povich.

"You do what you gotta do" is not just advice. It is fact.

On the other hand, sometimes I don't Do It. Sometimes I am so tired that I literally cry. Sometimes I yell at my kids and say silly immature things. Sometimes I wear my pajamas all day and can't pay my bills and feed my kids popcorn for breakfast and threaten to sell the dog, Playstation, car, etc. Just because I'm not twitching in public doesn't mean I have it all. I ain't June Cleaver. No f***ing way.

Since I always feel like I have to have A Point, The Point is it doesn't really matter How I do it. Thinking about How I do It just leaves me grumpy and craving sugar. Instead, let's focus on Why I Do It. The answer to this question is also easy and probably pretty obvious to most of you. I Do It because I'm mom. Because there were times when no one Did It for me. I Do It because I love hearing Declan say double-u and because Natalie hasn't had a bottle for four years but she still smells like warm milk every morning. Because the sound of kids screaming at each other is much prettier to me these days than the sound of downtown traffic, and because I have been brainwashed to equate Mess with Love.

So there. Take that.

I Do.

Perfect!

Wow, two years, eh? How ridiculous.

I've been thinking about Perfection lately, ever since a dear friend of mine introduced me to a certain blog by a certain single dad. Specifically, the disease of Perfection (yes, capital P) that appears to be mowing folks down by the millions in this country. I, too, suffer from the Perfection disease, just as my friend admits. Specifically (well, for one) the Writing Perfection disease. It's just plain idiotic of me really. I never blog because I'm waiting for the Perfect witty/charming/whimsical bullshit to just appear in my head. I bought a gorgeous journal with a japanese painting of the ocean on the front, but have I written in it? Dream on. It's still right where I tossed it when I got home from the store.

So, here we go. Perfection be damned. I'm committing to writing whatever now. Just....whatever. So I might bore y'all to death. Or maybe I'll accidentally be witty/charming/whimsical. Who knows. But it's going to be great.

I think.

You.

Go ahead and lie, and pout, and stomp and sulk. I will keep cooking. I will bake and wash and grow and sort. You can frown and thrash and wallow and blame. I will hand my heart a lunch and send it out into traffic. I will do my work and walk away. Forward, forward, forward.

This is what I know, and this is what I do. You cannot sink me. I will blow kisses to your back as you flee. I will measure and read and plan and worry. You can drift and want. I will fret and hope. Feel free to keep secrets, and glare, and dismiss and deny. I know.

I know.

So I will keep cooking.

My Girl is Broken

I have never been a bridesmaid. I have never been a maid of honor. I have never thrown a shower. I have never attended a birth. I have never visited a friend within 48 of their child's birth. People don't call me first with good news. People don't call me with bad news.

But, they're calling someone. They're asking someone to be in their wedding, and meet their child, and shriek at their news. It's just not me.

Girls have girl friends. I know this because I have seen it on the television. They do girl things. They talk about boys and clothes and babies and money and other girls and other boys and food and work. They laugh and cry and say the right thing and walk down the sidewalk together smiling. They go out of their way to see each other. They are very important to each other. They couldn't live without their girlfriends.

They.

I'm not sure why I never noticed this before. It really should have dawned on me slowly instead of falling on my head like a wine bottle off my fridge, but it's actualy true. Is this a fluke? Maybe my Best Friends haven't done anything remarkable yet. Maybe all the Best Friends are taken. Maybe?

Apparently all the lipgloss and earrings and nail polish in the world don't do a damn thing anyway.

A Break-up Letter To My Younger Self

Dear Michaela,

I know this will probably come as a huge shock (since you're pretty self-absorbed), but I'm afraid Ijust can't go on like this.  I've been dragging you around for years now, and I just don't think I can do it anymore.  You see, I just don't know what I'm getting out of this arrangement.  You're always lurking about, feeling sorry for yourself, muttering snotty things under your breath.  It's really not good for me.  So I just have to let you go.

Don't get me wrong, I understand.  You're used to things being a certain way, and it's hard to change.  To be perfectly honest, I don't want to grow up either.  I am terrified.  I mean, how am I supposed to figure all this stuff out?  I don't know what's going to happen.  This is all completely foreign to me.  What if I make the wrong decisions?  This is serious stuff, here.  This isn't just "Oh, gosh, which club should we meet up at tonight?"  This is BIG.  Like mortgages, and dinner menus, and vaccinations.  But, you know what?  I'm a little excited.  I get the feeling that I might actually like it  here in Grown-Up Land.  The pay isn't so great, but I don't have to worry about where I'm gonna live next year, or how I'm gonna tell that guy I don't wanna see him again.  I get the feeling that it's sort of safe here.  Which is a HUGE relief, I tell you what.  It's exciting being young and having endless choices, but it gets a little old (no pun intended).  When it comes down to it, I don't want to live on cigarettes and coffee, and try to be a size 3, and nurse hangovers, and listen to dumb sorority girls babble.  And it's really lonely waking up in a big empty bed.  So, I'm gonna buck up.  I'm moving forward.

It's not glamorous.  I get peed on and puked on.  None of my clothes really fit anymore (not that anyone's looking).  The grey hair is coming in at quite an alarming rate.  I'm sort of squishy and jiggly in places that would horrify you.  But that's just the way it is now.  And hanging on to you isn't doing me any good.   As a matter of fact, it's sort of pathetic.  I don't need to be young to be me.  And while I'm still not quite sure who "me" is,  I'm pretty sure I can figure it out.  People do it every day, right?

So, thanks for the memories.  Thank you for making me laugh, and taking me to places I never would go now.  Thanks for being brave sometimes.  I'm really glad we had our time together.  I wouldn't be the same without you.  And remember that guy you made me pick up at a bar that one time?  Well, he's working out quite well.  We're gonna be just fine (I might ask him to write a break-up letter of his own though.  That rebel crap is a little much sometimes).  

With love, always,

Michaela