It’s been almost four years since I essentially collapsed from exhaustion. Unrelenting stress will do that to a person. Ironically, last year’s stress was considerably worse, but I had coping strategies learned from that collapse. Going gluten free, for one. Getting enough sleep for another. And respecting the day’s energy.

Wait. No, I’m still trying to learn that one. I’m good with the gluten free, I really try to get enough sleep (kiss my rosy red <ahem>, insomnia), but respecting the amount and kind of energy I have and working with that is still a struggle. Most days I feel pretty good and can get a lot accomplished. It may not look like a lot got accomplished, but it did. Then there are days like today, when I feel like I’m walking through Jello and concentrating on making lunch is a struggle. I know I haven’t been glutened, but I have a wicked headache that no amount of ibuprofen and caffeine is touching. I’m not the only one struggling today; A slept until 9:30 this morning and doesn’t feel well. School this lovely Friday has consisted of him reading several chapters of history; the rest of the day will be spent on the couch watching documentaries (right now it’s Into the Universe with Stephen Hawking).

So as he and I muddle through the day, I try to work on things and feel guilty that I’m not doing anything of great importance. Emails stare at me while my headache stares back. I’m trying to work with the energy I have, so that I can rest enough to recover from whatever the hell is giving me this headache and bounce back tomorrow. I’ve learned that if I don’t respect the energy I’m a lot worse off in the long run. I’m grateful that he and I can be at home to rest and still learn and work.

All that said, this post sucked my thinking energy dry. Back to the couch and documentaryapalooza.

Well, nothin’ like writing a depressing post about insomnia and the soul-crushing thoughts that creep through your mind late at night and then just disappear for nearly a week. So let’s go another direction, talk about something entirely different.

Let’s talk about sex.

Specifically, fruit fly sex. Yes, you read that correctly. I can call myself an expert on fruit flies because I had a unit on the life cycle of fruit flies back when I was in second grade. Never mind that that particular unit was thirty-one years ago, I’m on this. We had tubes of fruit flies lined with blue goo. They hatched on the blue goo, they ate the blue goo, they pooped on the blue goo, they surely had a little nudge-nudge at night on the blue goo, and then they died a happy little blue goo death. Circle of life and all that…with blue goo.

Last I checked, I have a house completely devoid of blue goo. And yet the fruit flies appear and have little fruit fly orgies and squeal little fruit fly squeals of delight in little fruit fly labor and delivery rooms somewhere within these walls. They are everywhere, and because it is winter and supplies are scarce in fruit fly world, they are tiny. Tiny enough that when you slap at them everyone else in the room thinks you are either having a seizure or a bad LSD trip. It was like this in Colorado, it is like this here. And I think I know why.

I am a fruit fly badonkadonk magnet. They swarm to me, wanting only to bask in my fruit fly badonkadonkness as they make other little fruit flies. I suppose I should be honored, but frankly I’m a little skeeved out. Little fruit fly hussies. I’d show them all the door, but they’re small enough they’d find a crack and sneak right back in. They know I’m on to them, though. They’re all in hiding, wherever that may be, waiting for my attention to be otherwise diverted before they continue with their little fruit fly key party. I just never figured my lead role in life would be as a fruit fly centerfold.

Or it’s the bananas. Yeah, they’re hitching rides on the bananas. I like that idea a whole lot better.

The house is quiet, dark but for the backyard motion sensor light. It flashes on as it is jostled by the wind, casting vague shadows on the curtains. The boys sleep, finally silenced by the exhaustion they always refuse to acknowledge. The dog clickety-clacks through the darkened rooms, looking for a soft place to land. And the husband breathes deeply beside me, well into the dreams he began down on the couch earlier in the evening. I lie there, half-asleep.

This is when the gremlins come out to play.

They whisper to me, getting louder and more insistent the more I try to ignore them and try to sleep.

The homeschooling won’t work, you know. You’re just in the easy honeymoon stage. Once more structured curriculum is introduced, you’ll be back to the battles, but they’ll be all day. And you won’t be allowed to complain, because this was your idea. The best part? There.Is.No.Plan.B.

You do realize that you’re just not going to make any friends here, right? It’s been six months and you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve gone out. You’re never going to have the kind of tight-knit community you had back in Colorado. The sooner you accept that, the better.

The minutes tick by. I toss and turn; blankets on, blankets off.

Your book is going to suck. Doesn’t matter what you do or how hard you work, it’s going to be a miserable piece of shit. No one wants to read about raising a twice-exceptional kid. No one believes these kids exist. And you have a hard enough time finding the funny on a daily basis; getting that onto the page? Right. Good luck with that. 

The economy is not going to improve. You’re never going to find a part-time job to help stabilize the family budget. Regardless of how desperately you all need a vacation, it isn’t going to happen. Home improvements? And the massive remodeling project you want to undertake? Will.Never.Happen. You built your dream home in Colorado and left it there. Better just accept that. It’s easier that way. Just keep praying your rapidly aging van keeps trucking on. Peace of mind? No.

Music on, music off. The husband rolls over and begins to snore.

J is getting lost in all this. He’s such a quiet and loving kid, and he’s going to grow up resenting you because his squeaky wheel sibling needed so much. And A has never handled change well. You’ve thrown more change at that kid in the last few years than he could reasonably handle and you wonder why he lashes out? Way to go, mom. There’s an award for you around here somewhere.

You’ve wasted your 38 years on this planet, Jen. What have you done with your life? You were given every opportunity: a loving family, a great education, citizenship in a country that rewards hard work. You have little to show for your time here. The people you grew up with have careers and recognition that match their similar upbringing; you see them in print and on the news. You’ve done nothing.

A trip to the bathroom, a drink of water. Surely sleep must come soon. But no. The gremlins have saved their best for last.

The best part, Jen, is that none of it matters. Someday you’re going to be cold and dead in the ground, and none of what you do or work for or care about will matter. 

Blessed, dreamless sleep.

The day breaks with the sun glinting off the snow from the previous day’s storm. The gremlins are banished for another day, their whispers gone from my ears. Life is good.

Until the bed is warm and the house is dark and the gremlins again come out to play.

I love her to pieces, but I am convinced my dog is hell-bent on driving me batshit crazy as fast as caninely possible. I can think of no other reason for her existence on this earth.

Rosie is a sweet dog, very mellow. I rarely write about her, because as darling as she is, she’s about as interesting as pocket lint. Unless it’s pocket lint from the boys, then it’s probably mixed with Legos and random trash. Except for her Flatulent Superpower (Able to clear an entire room faster than the speed of light! Now with super-magic-longevity! Her aroma gets into a car’s air system and WHAM! Months later you get to repeat the pleasure!), she’s like a platypus. She doesn’t do much.

Ironically, as I wrote that last paragraph, Rosie started growling in her sleep. Tom and I waited with great anticipation to see if she’d suddenly leap from the couch and chase her dreams into the furniture. I am only a little embarrassed to say that I was disappointed.

In Rosie’s eyes, I am Alpha Dog. I’m the only one she listens to, which is kinda nice. I’m not accustomed to a creature in the house actually listening to me. However, this comes with a down side. I cannot take so much as five steps without her shadowing me. She’d be the worst spy ever. Sometimes I just walk a few steps to see if she’ll move, and sure enough, it’s like she’s on a short chain, following me nearly step for stepstepstepstep. You must picture that with the sound effect of her nails clickityclickityclickity on the hard floor. Her favorite thing to do is to walk directly in front of me…no, wait, in front of me is being generous…directly beneath me and look over her shoulder with every step to make sure I’m coming. This is especially awesome descending our incredibly steep stairs. It’s just a matter of time before I end up in traction. Making eye contact is as good as giving up the next half hour to belly rubs…on her stinky one-third-Basset Hound belly. Sitting down with idle hands will result in a cold nose prodding those idle hands, demanding attention. And belly rubs. She knows when it’s 5:00PM and will not leave you alone until you feed her. I could knit a chihuahua every week with the sheer amount of fur I vacuum.

All this is just daily life with our sweet girl. But lately she’s gotten more…ornery.

While we were out a few weeks ago she dug into A’s zipped backpack, pulled out the snack box that was closed with an elastic band, disassembled it, ate the granola bar in there wrapper and all, and puked it back up. The granola bar was still in rectangular shape. A few weeks before that, she somehow got ahold of a Ziploc baggie of Cub Scout chocolate covered caramel corn that was in one of the boys’ backpacks. We didn’t discover what the hell had made her so sick until we endured nearly a week of EVERYTHING MUST GO! ALL EXITS! NO WAITING! Thankfully/not-so-thankfully the basement carpet is brown. On the bright side, the boys have gotten good at checking for land mines. The dog walker once texted me that it appeared that Rosie had learned to open the Lazy Susan cabinet and started to dig through it looking for food. I swear we feed her. She has recently taken up the hobby of eating her own poop and puking it back up once inside. I’m getting really really good at cleaning up dog vomit. Sadly, not something I can put on a resume. She has commandeered the loveseat and sits on the back of it like a kitten during the day, looking out the window. In the evenings she curls up on top of the pillows and naps…when she’s not chewing on and licking her tail to the point the cushion is soaked. Why yes, a carpet/upholstery cleaning is in our near future!

She’s making me bat.shit.crazy. And I suspect a near-future vet visit is just going to send me down Batshit Crazy Road just a little faster.

Back up a couple of weeks, and you’ll see I snuck in a sentence about a book when I was expounding upon being grateful:

I am grateful to have been asked to write a book on parenting (and now homeschooling) the aforementioned twice-exceptional son while trying to find the funny (yeah, I’ve been sitting on that announcement for some time-more on this at a later date).

I have a hard time talking about it, afraid that if I look it straight in the eye it will either vanish or attack. Better to observe and monitor it through peripheral vision. Or with a towel over my head and a large book with Don’t Panic on the cover. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, can’t believe I now get to do, and overall am trying to keep myself from freaking the freak out. If you ask me about it in person, kindly note that I will probably turn about a dozen different shades of red. This is normal…mostly.

The book will be out this summer, published by Gifted Homeschoolers Forum press.

Between now and then you can find me writing and actively trying to find the funny. It’s around here somewhere…

My previous adventures in time management can be summarized thusly:

Present Jen is the Future Jen of Past Jen’s present, and Present Jen is pretty pissed off at Past Jen’s decisions not taking into account Future Jen’s present desires.

Clear as mud? Yeah, for me too. I’d draw a flowchart, but Present Jen doesn’t want to piss off Future Jen by taking the time to do so, and Past Jen is backing out of the room slowly and carefully, praying no one takes notice and blames it all on her. It’s a laugh riot of personalities around here today.

After reading all the wonderful comments about time management the other day, I’ve had to confront the fact that it’s not entirely about managing my time, it’s about managing me. I’m going to be constantly interrupted for at least the next ten years, so I’d better just suck it up buttercup and find a way to work around that. The problem has been is that once things are quiet and calm, I don’t want to do a damned thing. I want to sit and revel in the quiet calmness, and there is the dilemma. The plans I have for my life do not get accomplished when I’m sitting and hungrily swallowing silence and calm, and then later I look back and mentally kick myself in the head for not taking advantage of that time of peace and quiet.

This is why I’m at the library this afternoon writing instead of at home. Even with Tom taking the boys to the sledding hill this afternoon, there are too many distractions at home. Here I have the peace and quiet, and trust me, I’m not distracted by the shelves of music history books in front of me. Rather, they’re incentive to keep working: “Jen! You’d better get your list accomplished while you’re here or we’re going to haunt your dreams tonight!” That’s the set of The New Grove Dictionary of Opera talking. It’s mean.

So here’s how I’m going to attempt Me Management this week: act in the present as if my future self was staring at me over its bifocals and thinking, “WTF Jen? Really?”

Future Jen does not want to sweat like a feral pig this summer when it’s 90 degrees with 90 percent humidity, so Present Jen is going to avoid consuming anything that would prevent weight loss.
Future Jen does not want to be an old cantankerous woman, so Present Jen is going to continue being grateful for all she has, and add in some yoga so she can move without sounding like a bowl of Rice Krispies. Maybe return to some weight lifting.
Future Jen wants to take this blog to the next level, so Present Jen is going to MAKE THE TIME to participate in the 31 Days to Build A Better Blog challenge. Past Jen did the challenge once, and Present Jen is seriously pissed Past Jen didn’t take it seriously enough or make time for it.
Future Jen does not want her sons to think she is permanently attached to her computer, so Present Jen is going to get off the machine and read a book. Not necessarily with them, but near them.
Future Jen needs a vacation, a renovated house, a retirement account, and peace of mind, so Present Jen is going to somehow find employment that flexes around homeschooling because if PastPresentFuture Jen doesn’t get a vacation soon it’s gonna get ugly. Driving cross country in a gypsy caravan with a flatulent canine is not a vacation.
And finally, Future Jen wants Present Jen to remember that beating oneself up over what Past Jen did is defeating, and to just keep going.

Again, clear as mud?

PastPresentFuture Jen will learn to work in harmony if it kills me them us.

I’m over at freeplaylife today, guest posting about being a new homeschooler. Tiff has been a mentor of sorts when it comes to homeschooling, waaaay back before I even thought about having an inkling regarding the possibility. She is one of the most fearless women I know, a passionate unschooler, and a lifelong learner. Her oldest daughter gives me such hope. Naturalist struggled with writing for years, very much like A, and just recently did a month-long writing workshop. Hope. It’s what’s for dinner. And lunch. Breakfast with a side of coffee.

Pop on over and join the party at freeplaylife.

Mid-January and Chicago finally got measurable snow. Will get. Is getting. It is coming down out there, is what I’m trying to say. I am not a fan of the white stuff. It’s cold, for starters. It’s wet. And it needs to be removed from where it lands so we may continue with our lives.

Case in point:

That is one long-ass driveway. I shoveled that sumbitch by hand. Both hands, actually. I’m typing with my eyelashes right now; my tongue hurts too much from biting off the profanity for 90 minutes. I took this from the sidewalk. Behind me is the rest of the driveway to the street. Don’t forget the sidewalks themselves! Have to clear those as well! And behind that one car garage there that will someday be an office and mudroom, there is a widening of the blacktop to the two car garage in back. In closing, I hurt and we’re out of Ice Melt.

But Chicago knows how to do a WINTER STORM WARNING!!! (yes, all caps required) right. They don’t dick around with snow removal out here. A plow barreled down my street no fewer than six times today, both plowing and spraying salt. Like a winged chariot from Snow Heaven, I tell you. I can count on one finger the number of times I saw a plow down our street in Colorado; I’m convinced he was lost. Colorado relies on the Divine Intervention method of snow removal: pray for the sun to come out and melt it. Chicago learnt its lesson in 1979. I was a wee lass of five, but I still remember that blizzard and the HELL it played on the metro area. Nine feet of snow. The mayor learned that elections are won and lost (um, lost, in this case) by snow removal, and I learned that I could finally reach the bottom branch of the ginormous tree in front of our apartment. Oh, and that if you shovel out your parking space, sawhorses and boards really are needed to save it from the soul-sucking morons who would park there, may they be cursed with incurable armpit rot.

As of now, school (for J) is still on for tomorrow. As a new homeschooler, A has the pleasure of school regardless <insert evil cackle here>. Tom can work from home. I will continue with muscle-building cardio snow removal day two. The driveway looked like that for precisely 7.8452 seconds before it started snowing over again. There’s another solid couple of inches out there waiting for me.

Winter has finally arrived. It can leave any time now.

And…right now every single person who has ever worked with me in any capacity is laughing until tears run down his/her leg.

Jen? <guffaw> Not organized? <hiccup> Seriously? That’s rich, tell me another one! <gasp>

I am the very model of an organized individual. I could lose (and have lost) an entire day at IKEA. The Container Store gives me chills. I get twitchy when my desk is the slightest bit out of sorts, I have several furniture-quality filing cabinets that look like sideboards, and I’m about to take a machete to my kitchen because it is so poorly laid out my brain aches. I draw the line at matching the boys’ socks or hanging my clothes by color; a girl has to have limits.

But time. I cannot manage my time for love or money, and it sure as hell ain’t for lack of trying. All the way up until I had children (heh, that’s the tipoff right there, isn’t it?), I was Time Management Queen. Well, maybe Duchess. Now, I’m a Peasant at best. I lived and died by my Day Timer, getting progressively better ones until I got a PDA for Christmas one year. Bliss. The iPhone was a dream come true: calendar AND tasks list AND contacts AND planning AND Words With Friends.

But. Kids.

After A was born, that child who would not sleep and wanted company in the wee hours, my time was no longer my own. Instead of planning out my hours based on what needed to be done and where I needed to be, it was now entirely based on WHAT CAN I GET DONE WHILE HE IS TAKING A VERY PRECIOUS AND VERY VERY BRIEF NAP? Then double that when J was born. And now quadruple it by homeschooling. It’s only been ten (holy crap almost eleven) years and I still can’t get a handle on it. My brain has a bad case of Hey look! A squirrel!

Case in point. While writing this very post, the boys barreled in the door from Cub Scouts. I folded and put away a load of laundry, got J a snack, corralled A into pajamas, talked to Tom, and sketched out tomorrow’s school plans. Fifteen minutes minimum, and I’m still being interrupted now. No, I do not have an office with a door; that will be the first major renovation. Eventually.

I’ve done time-logs, I have tried several different calendar/to-do apps, I’ve been turning off Facebook/Twitter/various time sucks. And still time gets away from me. If this was my desk I would have gone batshit crazy long ago. (Pulled away again, to push the boys through their bedtime oatmeal, have a discussion about Greenland, pour Benadryl for the snotty one, wipe up aforementioned oatmeal, threaten bodily harm if the clothes do not get put away in the correct dresser drawers in a timely manner<and yes, the correct drawers, for otherwise they’re jammed in there and can’t be opened>)

Courtesy of the interruptions, my train of thought has derailed. This is my entire day. For nearly eleven years.

So.

Needless to say, this cannot continue. My quality of work disappoints me, “timely” and “email reply” haven’t so much as flirted in months, and I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels. Wait, arise from my warm slumber earlier, you say? Only if you want me to rip off the head of anyone within arm’s reach for the next seven hours.

I hate this and have no idea how to go about changing it. It’s most noticeable to me now because I worked full time for three months this fall and my time was rigidly scheduled. The great majority of my life fell by the wayside, but my time was scheduled, by God! I’m open to suggestions here, people. Hit me with your best time management suggestions.

Organize your house? Um…no.

I want to be all positive and optimistic and Pollyanna about our new homeschooling adventure, but if I’ve learned anything the last few years it’s to temper all that. When I don’t the foul-smelling lumps start scanning the horizon for an air-circulation device.

At this time I shall say only that things are going remarkably well. Surprisingly well. Well enough that I am considerably spooked. That is not to say all is rainbow-farting unicorns here at the House of Chaos, but that the stress around A and his education has lowered to the point that my shoulders are no longer attempting to climb to the top of my head and signal for help.

Today is Day Four of the Great Homeschooling Adventure. And the child whose typical modus operandi around writing was to freak the freak out or flat-out refuse or fart around until someone scribed for him or all of the above has been writing with a lot less of all of that. He’s written every day (though today he’s heavy on the farting around portion of the activity), and I call that a (very minor) win.

We are still in the deschooling phase, which I.do.not.like. Not sure if you noticed, but I’m not a “hang back and relax it’ll be ok” kind of personality. I know he needs more of a hands-off approach at the moment, but it is killing me. I don’t see measurable progress! I don’t see active learning! I don’t see an interest in anything other than the PowerPoint presentation on Rube Goldberg devices that he’s working on right now that was supposed to be a journal entry and somehow has ended up becoming less writing and more multi-media! He will never learn to put thoughts into words and end up being some sort of word-mute individual who will never find success in the 2.0 world and will one day find himself living in a van down by the river!!!

I don’t do hands-off very well.

Yes, it’s very early in the process. Yes, he’s young and colleges don’t care about the elementary school years. Yes, it’s going to be ok once we get into a groove. And yes, I need to throttle that little voice in the back of my head. I am just terrified of screwing this up, or getting so fed up that we can’t continue; we have no Plan B.

This afternoon will be his favorite: ZYLAR. Zip Your Lip And Read. He read for a solid eight hours on Friday, barely stopping to eat. Maybe some Khan Academy modules. Household math as I double a recipe for dinner. And hopefully a family game after dinner.

Me? Deep breaths. More curriculum hunting. Sign up for a coop. More homeschool reading.

And still more hoping and praying that it continues to go well.