All left behind.

Here's a morose post. After listening to and reading a lot of news over the past few weeks, I've come to the conclusion that, as a voter, I don't exist unless it's election time. That's true for all voters. We're just a means to an end, an entity that ceases to exist once a politician is elected. We get politicians, whoever they are (Republican, Democrat, Other), elected to an office so they can fight amongst themselves autonomously of their voters' wishes, almost like Greek gods fighting in Olympus, having long forgotten about us mere mortals here on earth. They remember us when they need us and promptly forget us when they're distracted by something more important like who said what.

I think the abortion debate is a great example. If you look at the statistics, most people fall about in the middle on abortion. Most of us would prefer that it wasn't needed; however, most people are also realists and think it should be a decision between a woman, her doctor and her conscience. But if you ask a Republican politician, all us liberals want to be out killing babies; if you ask a Democrat politician, all the Republicans want to force women to carry to term, regardless of the consequences. Each side has so demonized the other. But if you ask a person on the street, it seems like the most common answer is, "Well, I don't like the idea, but it should probably be legal or at least up to the state to legislate."

It's that type of disconnect that bothers me so much. It seems like virtually every elected official has completely lost sight of the people they were elected to represent in the first place and now must fit some caricature of one side or the other. I hate that. It tells me that I can get someone elected, but it'll be pure luck that results in a country that more closely resembles the one I want to live in. And that absolutely sucks.

Crazy? Or really, really crazy?

My dad, his girlfriend and my husband ganged up on me this morning and now I'm all excited. They're pushing me hard to start a new business. Can I do it? I already did it once, but this would be different. Should I do it? Well, businesses have a remarkable tendency to fail, but my previous one was successful.

I'm spurred on by a few things: in my field I'm considered an expert. Yes, that sounds snotty and arrogant, but somehow I learned enough about a really boring subject to be considered knowledgable. Which isn't too hard - it just takes time. Also, I hate my boss. I've never had such a terrible boss. I try not to talk about it because that tends to bring things down. But it's safe to say that, compared with my previous terrible boss, this one looks like Satan. Additionally, the company I work for as a whole sucks and the CEO is a git. Yes, a git. I've heard him speak and I don't think I've ever sat through such an unprofessional, disjointed, repetitive "speech" in my life. I got one concept out of it. And that was that he was a bad speaker.

Cons: I need health insurance. It could fail. I may need money for a designer and will eventually need other employees if I'm sucessful. It's also freakin' scary.

Hmmm. But the pros: I'd get to work from home. I wouldn't have to drive to the armpit of the world every day. I could make a hell of a lot of money. Most importantly, I could spend more time with the kid.

So far, the pros definitely outweigh the cons. Crap. Hold me, I'm scared.

Busy, busy, busy.

Things have been crazy busy lately, at work and personally. Ragsy has again stopped sleeping through the night, too, which has made for delightful mornings. I wish he'd stay in bed. As funny as it may sound, fishing him out of laundry baskets filled with clean laundry is really not as exciting as one might think at 1:30 a.m.

Apparently he fell into my husband's clean laundry the other night while trying to make it to my side of the bed. I was woken to, "I'm trapped, Mommy! I'm trapped!" Okay, I lied - it was hilarious, even at 1:30 a.m. Well, I'm off - it's almost 9, Ragsy has yet to stop singing to himself in his bedroom. I'm assuming it's not going to stop anytime soon, so I might as well try to work out instead of waiting for him to wind down.

I'm a big princess.

Or at least my son is when he wears my hair clip. I am the big mama princess, he's the big boy princess and my husband is a big daddy princess. And our fearless steeds are our cats. Did I mention it was a good weekend?

Aquacize!

I never realized how much of a workout it was to teach a little kid to swim. This explains why I used to be so exhausted after Ragsy's swim lessons when he was a baby. But he's gotten heavier, so I feel like I've been lifting weights.

As you've probably realized, I took Ragsy to the pool today. It was a ton of fun, but he's much, much larger than he was last year (around 36 to 37 pounds I think), so holding him horizontal in the water while running up and down the lanes resulted in sore biceps, a sore core, achy butt and sore thighs. I'm glad I went and want to go again next weekend. It was a better, more difficult workout than the last time I lifted weights. (Then again, that probably means I'm lifting wrong.)

But he loved it and he kicked really well. So far, we've just barely gotten beyond the around-the-neck death grip and moved on to floating, kicking legs with the occasional right-handed splash. I asked him if he'd prefer to do something else, but he was bound and determined to go swimming, so we went. The better to wipe him out, my dear. And the exercise isn't hurting either of us.

Even better, afterward we were done, he used the potty - at the Y! This was absurdly exciting to both of us, almost as exciting as his pooping in the potty was yesterday afternoon. I think something has clicked. All of a sudden this week he's telling us when he has to go and actually going instead of using it as a stalling technique to avoid going to sleep. Hopefully it won't be too much longer before we're out of the diapers during the day.

Later today, we'll be working in the yard, getting a haircut and going to the store, possibly with an ice cream trip thrown in. We rarely bribe Ragsy, but I think it'll be worth it for the haircut. Gotta choose your bribes carefully. Thank God he's totally susceptable to them.

Time to dig up the garden.

This is the perfect weekend to plant my starter seeds and dig up the backyard again. This time I'm going to have a larger veggie bed. I think I might do raised beds this year. I'm definitely going to trellis. So, tomorrow I need to:

Get a hummus and manure mix

Pick up either a few 2 x 4s or some rocks to go around the perimeter (probably not terribly necessary, but I want to clearly mark the beds)

Dig up the beds I want

Turn over the soil and mix the hummus and manure in, along with any extra leaves I want to use (we were lazy this fall, so we have plenty

Plant the starters

Cut down the remaining grasses in the front yard

I can't wait. I'm sure Ragsy will help, too. In the next few weeks, I'm going to have to figure out how I want to set the trellises - do I want to do rounds or straights? I'm thinking rounds. Now I just have to figure out how to get rid of the unsightly park picnic tables the previous owners installed in the backyard. I want a small wrought iron round table for the patio and a nice, larger family table for the screened-in porch. Yeah, because those will be cheap. Ah, I love spring.

Don't press pause.

My husband and I have a long-standing movie-watching pattern. It goes like this: he wants to watch a movie and I want to hang out. I rarely have an opportunity to see movies, so for all I know, I could be missing something really good. So I agree to watch. Unfortunately, even though I like to watch movies, unless I'm at a friend's house or in a theater, I have serious trouble sitting through movies, even the ones I've asked to watch. I'm on a 12-step program, but I don't think it will help. This is the way I was raised.

Anyway, I often get up to move around and my husband always pauses the movie for me. It's very sweet of him - I normally appreciate it, even though I feel guilty forcing him to stop and start the movie. But today's movie is Silent Hill, a particularly creepy horror film. I'm using my computer as something to look at right now so I don't have to watch the movie. It's very freaky. Fortunately, he's agreed not to pause this one. I don't think I want him to.

I got played.

Foiled again by an almost-three-year old. Why, yes, we're still having sleep issues. Why did you ask? Strangely, these "issues" have grown exponentially with the sass coming out of our son's mouth. I never in my life imagined that someone who doesn't even come up to my waist would snarl, "Mommy! Lay down now! And rub my back!" Yeah, right. Because speaking to me that way works oh so well. I mean, I'm pretty laid back as far as parenting goes, but regardless of his age, he shouldn't speak to people like that. So, after being snarled at one too many times over the last couple of days, this evening included, I was forced to pull a Super Nanny at bedtime. Two hours later and I'm still periodically getting up and putting him back in bed. But I haven't been snarled at in over an hour, unlike last night when he was dishing it out until he passed out around 9:40.

Oh, well. There's only silence coming from his room now. I guess I should go check on him to make sure he's where he's supposed to be. Sometimes being a parent sucks. First, you don't know what you're doing. Second, when you do something, you don't know how much damage, if any, you're causing. Third, doing what you know needs to be done no matter how much you wish you were wearing ear plugs, regardless of the rut you wear in the carpet traveling back and forth to put a reluctant toddler to bed and how much time it takes to finally calmly but firmly get something through to someone who really couldn't give a crap absolutely stinks. Still, sass me once, shame on you. Sass me twice... Well, you know the rest.

Conversations I'd rather not have.

A few weeks ago, I had one of those conversations you'd just rather not have with people who don't know you well. I was at work and chatting with one of the ladies in the call center. Most of the women at work are openly extremely religious. Not to the point of making me uncomfortable (thankfully, no one has informed me I'm going to hell...yet), but I've heard a few "Praise Jesus'" and in-depth discussions on why people should accept Jesus as their Savior that don't seem to fit with a professional workplace.

To avoid such conversations, I've made no secret of the fact that I come from a diverse background religiously. My family became even more diverse with the additions of my brother in law and husband and his family. So now our religious mix includes not only Methodism, Judaism (Reform), but also Greek Orthodox, Hinduism and a little dash of Buddhism. Not being particular when it comes to religion, I think this is awesome.

Unfortunately, my somewhat unusual household has generated almost equal enthusiasm and curiosity among some of my co-workers, with a few of them asking me what religion I'll raise my son. When I said that my husband and I planned to educate him as much as he was able to absorb on the religious mish mash that is his family and let him decide, I was met with surprised stares. Then, "That's okay - God is love, baby, God is love. I don't think you're going to hell."

Wait, what?? I realize that was meant as something positive - or at least that's how I'll take it - but seriously, I have never received such a backhanded...thing. It's even worse than when someone tells you that you look great now that you've lost all that freakin' weight. I don't even know what to call that. Approval? Comment? Compliment? Reassurance? What would she have said if I smilingly told her that, au contraire, we were going to hell because we were going to instruct Ragsy in the drinking of blood under the full moon? Perhaps I should have gone that route. I'd probably get fewer questions.

There's a bit of chicken in all of us.

Putting my son to bed has always been difficult. Earlier, the kid was just too upset about having to go to sleep to be able to sleep. Lately, he's entertained himself far too much. This evening, I couldn't get him to stop acting like a chicken. Where on earth does this kid get this stuff? He'd stand up, flap his arms, yell "bock, bock!" and start doing a chicken dance in bed. Then I'd tell him to lay back down (this is during pre-sleep snuggle time), only to have him stand up and do it again. This went on a few times where I wasn't sure whether to burst out laughing because he was acting like a chicken or if I should be annoyed because he was clearly not listening to me. Or at least wasn't for long.

So, I left eventually - there's really no point snuggling with a chicken - only to hear him merrily belting out the words to "Oh, Suzannah" and "She'll Be Comin' Round the Moutain." After he wound down and quietly told the animals on top of him (all six of them) that they should change their shoes because food comes out their feet after they eat (as poop? I haven't figured that out yet), he finally passed out. Did I fail to mention that my son has a raccoon named Crack? So during Christmas, we were carrying around a big bag of Crack.

What a character. How did I ever live without this kid?