A girl will look especially cute covered in finger paint. A girl will twirl for you in her favorite princess dress– *while* wearing tennis shoes and oversized sunglasses. A girl will rifle through your purse. A girl will cry when her hands get dirty and run away when you try to wash them. A girl will insist on Ariel, refuse Barney, and play Rapunzel. A girl will squirm when you fix her hair and later ask her Daddy if she looks pretty. A girl will invite you to tea parties. A girl will talk on her plastic banana like it’s a cell phone. A girl will sleep with 11 stuffed animals. A girl will cover your world in starlight, all day, every day.

I sure do love my girl.

(The “H” stands for “Harold” What, you didn’t know that? Clearly you need to brush up on your preteen heartthrob trivia.)

Anyway, for those who don’t know, “Boyfriend” is Justin Bieber’s public admission to what we have suspected all along. The child is obsessed with me.

I know. One has to admire his boldness. Not many men have declared their love for me by way of ballad. Fireworks, poetry, a whole line of cruise ships named after me– but never in song.

If you’ve not heard the ditty, our dear boy sings/croaks in his awkward preteen rap voice that he’d like to “Swag, swag, swag on you,” while enjoying an evening eating fondue. Everyone knows how much I love fondue, so this is obviously about me. Therefore, I think I should take the time to address this sweet– although misguided– outpouring of affection.

While I’m very flattered, Justin, that you would dedicate this “song” to me, I have to say that it’s somewhat inappropriate. It also betrays your youthful naivité;  I mean, for starters, I don’t do boyfriends. Trysts, flings, lovers, concubines (or the male equivalent thereof), perhaps. But boyfriends are so… pedestrian. I haven’t had a boyfriend since 2000, a full three years before you were born.

Then there’s the matter of age. The truth is, I’m much too old for you. (And really, isn’t anyone with a driver’s license?) Not to mention that I’m very much taken. Aactually, if Josh knew how forward you were being with me, I’m sure he’d be adorably outraged.

And let’s not keep on ignoring the elephant in the room. There’s always the issue of your mysteriously delayed puberty. How could a maturing woman like myself ever go out in public with someone as immortally youthful as yourself? It would not do good things for my reputation, to be sure. (Just look at what dating an ageless man did to Bella Swan! An absolute joke in high society…) The slightest suggestion of a wrinkle would make me appear an absolute crone by comparison. A woman has her dignity to maintain, after all.

Lastly, Justin, I will say this. I’m sure this is a hard pill to swallow. But at your age, you’re bound to have other interests. There will be other women (though let’s not pretend their caliber could rival mine). There are plenty of other fish in the sea, or toddlers in the nursery, as the case may be.

Take care, dear boy.

M. Mauss

P.S: And to my adoring public: I’d like to go on record as saying that I have no idea what in the world Justin means by claiming to want to “swag,” on me, but I can assure you that per my restraining order, this will be not be taking place. Justin will be keeping his swag a full 10 yards away from me at all times. The last thing I need in my life right now is to get caught doing Lord Knows What with Justin Bieber. I simply could not stand the press.

(In other news, my son– who is an *ACTUAL* baby– is eating his hands, and it is simply delightful. Put that on MTV, why don’t you?)

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2011/10/adventures-in-depression.html

It’s hard to be a depressive person. If that’s what you’d even call it. I’d say I’m terminally antsy, introspective, temperamental, and passionate — and I come with a helluvalotof emotional baggage. The upside to that is I’m perceptive about other people and bring flare to a lot of elements of life. So, there’s always that.Who couldn’t use more flare?

I’m learning to iron out my crinkles. Maybe one day I’ll be a more even, staid person. Maybe I hope so, and maybe I don’t.

People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
(Ariel)

I relate completely.

But if you’re some crazy stalker sitting in a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness plotting my demise, I should warn you that I’m a big believer in one of Colorado’s better laws. 

Ta!

Some days, my soul is an old man with disapproving eyes and an upside-down smile (because they don’t come with frowns for some reason).

Some days, my soul is wearing outlandish purple eyeshadow and carrying a red handbag.

Today, my soul is a Mr. Potato Head after Fable has lost all the parts except for the right arm, which looks totally bizarre and out of context without the other pieces. One day in about a week or two, I’ll find my soul’s nose under the couch and its feet in the toaster oven, and I’ll start putting myself back together again.

I think I’m struggling with my identity. Why else would I be comparing myself to a Mr. Potato Head, unless I was in a bad way mentally?

I want to go back to work. The world is going by without me. Even my own life is going by without me. Kids are growing. Doug is working. But time in my life–in the four corners of my head– is standing still.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being a SAHM right now. It’s nice in all the sunshine-y ways. But it’s also boring in all the sticky, tantrum-y, I-told-you-not-to-color-on-that ways. And one day my kids are going to be all grown up, and then what do I do? Who will I be then? The product of all my hard work will be out the door, Pop Tart in hand, off to live some great adventure. By that time, I will own a collection of dusty Jillian Michaels DVDs and sport a really bad haircut. And then what?

And that’s why I want to work. Because I want to tie my identity up in something else. Something that won’t grow up and leave. Something that doesn’t rush out of the house every morning at 7:00 and come back at 5:00. Something that is so much bigger than me, I can’t see the start or finish of it. Even if that makes me a cog in some great machine, I won’t mind. I can sell a little of myself to gain a little of it, too.

It’s a strange thing, identity. It’s like a necklace in a box. If the box is too big, it slides around endlessly. If the box is too small, the chain gets kinks in it. It has to be secured in just the right place.

My identity will never be secure in being a mother. Or a writer. Or a wife. Or even in being a Jesus follower.

All those things change. The seasons in my marriage are sometimes beautiful and sometimes bitter. Motherhood is often rewarding, and just as often tedious. Being a follower of Christ comes with its own culture, its own set of do-s and don’ts that change with the tides. Nothing is ever stable. Everything is always in a state of flux.

Except Christ himself. Christ always stays the same. That’s the way it works with perfection. Only imperfect things change.

So when Jesus says something about us, we can stand in the confidence that it’s true. And even better, it’s everlasting.

I know this. I know it so well that I have the luxury of forgetting it. But I am not grateful and I pick myself apart. I pluck off the pieces. I undo the face God has given me. I demand a new face—a better face. I fashion my parts in a more suitable arrangement. And so, I create something inferior, like imitation butter or store brand Dr. Pepper.

I wonder if God ever tires of me.

I wonder when I will tire of me.

I couldn’t help but think Man, aside from buying an alpaca farm and going into business creating your own line of ill-fitting sweaters, that is just about the most boring thing to do with your celebrity status EVER. 

I suspect she just reached a level of celebrity so great that she ran out of exciting things to do with it. Skydiving over the Bahamas? Meh. Been there, done that. I’ll just write a book about deviled eggs instead.

Well, I’m impressed, lady. You made dozens upon dozens of movies and achieved an unreal level of fame just to *finally* achieve your real dream. Talk about taking the most circuitous route to mediocrity known to man.

But seriously. Bravo. That takes a level of dedication and endurance I personally cannot relate to. 

The children are at it again. They are relentless in their joint efforts to see their mother go bonkers from lack of sleep. Tonight it was a symphony of coughing, hacking, and gagging. Together they serenaded me with a beautiful ballad of phlegm. It brought tears to my eyes, really.

No, seriously. There has got to be something wrong with my and Doug’s combined DNA that makes for adorable, brilliant, and incredibly sickly children. Cypher couldn’t even wait four weeks before he caught his first cold. Way to go, breast milk. Everyone’s always talking about how good you are for children. Ohhhh, breast milk is best! Breast milk is mother nature’s cure! Breast milk can kill demons! Baloney, I say! BALONEY! (See how I spelled that out phonetically for you? Even when I’m sleep deprived, I’m considerate. That, and gorgeous.)

Any old who, somewhere around 1:30 or so, it occurred to me that I may never get sleep again, so I thought I’d write one last blog post before I go insane. I mean, I’m sure I’ll post again once I’m insane, but the blog is sure to take on a more somber tone when that happens.

Where to begin? Well, let’s start with the obvious. Having two kids is infinitely more demanding than having one. Having one kid is like losing your pinky toe. Sure, you notice it. But you can still function with certain limitations. Having two kids, however, is like losing both your pinky toes and then getting slapped in the face with a big sea bass/being repeatedly gored in a stampede of bulls/head banging to Metallica for eight straight hours/standing in line at the DMV for all eternity. Yeah, I think that’s a fair comparison.

Well, alright. Maybe I’m overstating just a touch. But the point is, it’s a massive undertaking. I’m quickly realizing that sleep and showers are luxuries I must do without. One day, when I’m old and gray, I’ll look back on these days and think, “Just look how far we’ve come.” And when Fable and Cypher bring their kids to see me, I’ll be grateful the wards let me have visitors in the asylum…

Uh, what else? That’s it, really. Sorry for ending this post so abruptly, but it’s 3:30 and I can’t think of anything else to say.

Cypher is the snuggliest, most adorable little man on the planet. His dad isn’t bad, either. 

<3