Random notes from my head

I tip my hat to Maya Angelou and Anne Lamott. They are two women who, as single mothers, managed to raise their children and still find time to write and live their lives. Damn, how I envy them. Now, I don't have them on some great Mother/Writer pedestal, I know it wasn't easy and like many in the arts sacrifices were made, but still they persevered and to that end I say, "hooray"

Sometimes I am awake in the middle of the night and I write glorious prose in my head, but in the light of day the words have escaped me. So, sometimes I quietly crawl out of bed and I flip open the laptop in hopes of capturing the words before the seep away... but alas, the glare of the screen, the lure of the Internet is all too much. No, if I'm going to get the words down, I'm going to have to do it long hand, on a yellow note pad, with wide, not legal, ruled lines. The pens must be just perfect, even pencil is preferable to a pen that skips along the page, stopping and starting.

If I could only get up earlier then my children in the morning, but it seems no matter how early I get up, 5 minutes after my shower I either hear Lucy calling from her crib or Noah is bounding into the room with a cheery, "Hello my name is _______" fill in the blank with any number of names for the day. Sigh... I have morning children!



These morning children are a delight to be around. Lucy, although still not possessing a complete grasp of words yet, babbles and sings nonsensical words. She'll greet you with a giant grin and a big, "HI!" Every time she says "HI" she beams as if she's just mastered the word for the first time. (and not said it on end for the past several weeks) It is awesome. She toddles around the house with great pride at having mastered walking. Soon she'll be chasing Noah, and there will be no stopping her. I think the only thing keeping her from having a perfect life right now is her inability to open the cabinet where the cereal, crackers and other good things to eat are stored, on her own. If she could crack that puzzle, she would be in heaven. (and I don't mean Iowa)



Noah, sigh, Noah... it's such a wonderful name, Wouldn't you agree? Picked out specially for our first born. But, currently we hardly get to use it. Noah, you see, has turned into a warthog named Pumba, at least it is today. Yesterday he was a Triceratops named Sara, and the day before he was tank engine named Thomas, and the day before that he was a train named Emily. He won't answer if you call him the wrong name. And woe to you, if you forget who he is, or worse yet he's changed his name between the last time you addressed him and the moment you are in now. It's a wonderful, delightful, and exasperating phase we are in. I try to embrace it, but sometimes I just want Noah to come home. Sometimes, I am sure he's living in some world without me and I want him to come back.. now! But, when asked where Noah is, and when he might be coming home, Pumba/Thomas/Sara et al will respond, "Noah can't come home, he's at work." (opening a whole new world of Mommy guilt)

"Will he come home soon?" I ask him.

"No, not for 40 days." He'll respond. And so, on it goes.

I had an overactive imagination as a kid. I used to get so far into my imaginary worlds, whether in reading a book or just playing, that I would not hear my mother come up the stairs looking for me. I would get in trouble for ignoring her... I wasn't ignoring her, I was just gone. I understand the power of the imagination and how it gives you freedom in a world where you might not feel in control or free. I worry that Noah feels he has no control, and it freaks me out. Then I remember that he is three... of course he has no control... that's my job. He is just being three and realizing that while everyone around him tells him what to do, when to do it, and how, there are indeed somethings he can control. He can control when and where he poops (and so far, that's not in the potty. But that's another story) and he can pretend he's something different every day. And that's pretty cool.


And that's just a few of the random thoughts floating around my head this evening, how about yours?

You'll wann do it too!

Too much time on my hands... but oh so fun.

sharing a love of music

I love musicals! I grew up on Showtunes, I can name a showtune and/or musical for every letter of the alphabet, and can sing selections from even more. When I was young I would sit at my bedroom window and sing the slower songs to the outside world. This would often take place on summer evenings when I had to go to bed at 8:30 and it was still light out. While the neighbors caught up on the latest gossip and news, their cool Milwaukie's best cans sweating as much as they were in the Iowa humidity, I would serenade them. "Where is Love?", "(I must have done) Something good", "Over the Rainbow" and on and on... At some point Dad would look up at my window and tell me to go to bed, but I swear there was always a twinkle in his eye when he would do so.

As my life went on I participated in musicals in high school, both on and off stage. I have stage managed many a Musical and, honestly, I think I deserve a medal for stage managing "The Wizard of Oz" three seasons in a row. (The final year I was literally dreaming the show forwards and backwards!!) I have been known to burst into Musical numbers at random both in the house and in public. It's just part of who I am.

I am now the mother of two beautiful children, and despite the fact that my husband is NOT a big Musical fan, they are learning many a showtune. I was pleasantly surprised to hear my son singing a number from Oliver! just last week. Imagine my surprise to learn that it wasn't "Who will buy" or even "ooom-pah-pah" but rather "Oliver" the song where Mr. Bumble berates the boy and threatens to 'feed him on cockroaches served in a canister"!

And the legacy continues - enjoy

I got nothing

I got nothing today. I have been wracking my brain all day for something, anything to write about. I felt especially compelled to write something, anything, since I harrassed my husband about putting up a year old essay on his blog... the gods are now getting the last laugh on me.

Nope, I got nothin' tune in tomorrow.

There are women

There are women who never run out of 'personal' products. I am not one of them.

I am a woman who is grateful that all her parts still work, no matter how inconvenient it may be.

There are women who always have a well balanced dinner on the table. I am not one of them.

I am a woman who almost always ensures her family eats at least one meal together every day, despite crazy schedules. And yes, that means sometimes we have cereal for dinner and leftover mac-and-cheese for breakfast.

There are women who's children are always color coordinated clothing when they walk out the door. I am not one of them.

I am a women who's children know it is okay to play in whatever they have on, and that their individuality should always shine.

There are women who's children always have clean hands and faces and always sit quietly in church. I am not one of them.

I am a woman who's children aren't afraid to get dirty. Who know that in order to find the worms, you might have to eat a little dirt. And they will know that it is a good thing to make "joyful noise unto the Lord" (or buddah, or mother earth, or whoever)

There are women who never roll their eyes when their husbands say goofy things in public. I am not one of them.

I am a woman who loves her goofy, brilliant, adorable, honest and trustworthy husband.

I am a woman who has to remind herself daily that I am the woman I want to be, most of the time.

The Archbishop responds

Dear Ms. Wohlmut,

Please accept this acknowledgement of your letter to me of February 15. Your decision to break your 'ties' with the church saddened me. I apologize for any way in which I have not served you on your journey of faith adequately.

It seems you have found a new place of worship which makes you feel at home. The beliefs and convictions of our Catholic community seem to have been too challenging for you. Be assured they they are challenging for us all of us. The church's evangelizing mission entails preaching the good news and a calling to a conversion. The second part is the hard part.

You said you leave with a 'broken heart'. Hearts break for many reasons, not always due to an external aggressor. Your letter and a few other experiences this spring prodded me to write a column for The Catholic Sentinel of March 7. Perhaps you may be interested in reading it.

As we move closer to Easter, I promise to keep you in my prayers. I pray that God will one day lead you back to your true home, a community of saints and sinners all struggling in thier search for the face of Jesus. God Bless.

Sincerely yours in the Lord,

Most Rev. John G. Vlanzy

I post this today without comment. I need to let it sit for a day or two, but be assured I will have something to say about this response, or lack of... CA

Practicing Patience

I thought this post was going to be about practicing patience with my children. There's been a lot of that going on in our house. Between the refusing to nap, the occasional fights over toys and all the other pitfalls of being a two children household; patience is in high demand in our house. But as I thought about it the person who I really need to practice patience with is myself.

I promised myself I would write more, and yet I find myself wasting more time worrying about having no time to write then actually writing. Then when I do write, I find that everything sucks. No, seriously I've got three essays going and you're just going to have to trust me when I say, "they suck". They don't suck beyond repair, mind you, but they do suck. My inner critic is working over time these days and mostly what she lacks is the patience to let me actually take the time to get things written. To her I say, 'slow down. These things take time. As long as I'm writing something, I'm winning the battle... so back off."

I promised myself I would excercise more patience with my kids. But, as I mentioned above I think the true test is can I be patient with myself when I forget to exercise said patience? After all, just as my kids are exploring the world for the first time and everything is new to them, so is being a parent new to me. How can I possibly know how I will react the first time anything happens , or for that matter how I'll react the gazillionth time something happens? It's all new.
To my inner mommy critic I say, 'slow down. You can only take this Mommy thing one day at a time. Kids are resilant and you'll all bounce back from a bad day. And the good days will carry you a long long way. Be patient with yourself, you are a good mommy'

I promised myself I would figure out (with many discussions involving my husband) our family economics, and where I want to go next in my career, and where to buy a house, and how to find time to organize the chaos that is my desk at home, and... and on and on goes the lists in my head at night when ( or is it why?) I cannot sleep. To the inner obssessor I say, "relax, slow down. Remember you are a Mommy of two, you are a wife, you are working a day job, you are running a show ,you are keeping a house running and you are struggling writer. Be patient, all these things will work out in time, they always do. Trust yourself, your love, and the universe. Give your mind a little quiet and peace"

Practicing patience is simply that "PRACTICING"