Tums for the Soul

Since blogging last, I have:
Baked cookies for everyone we know, and them some.
Taken girls to the doctor for seasonal maladies, discovered the doctor was not in, and tried again the next day. And again the next day. And again…
Finally Skyped a doctor friend in the States at 1 a.m. to find out if we should be panicking over Natalie’s fever or not (Answer: not).
Finished Christmas shopping.
Loaded up on groceries.
Cracked the code of crunchifragilistic caramel corn.
Used up the last of our wrapping paper.
Painted.
Made a mental list of the dumbest holiday song lyrics ever (Winner = Emery’s “God, please make a way for Santa’s sleigh”).
Put Sophie back to bed 4,687,721,003 times.
Concocted a white-chocolate-blood-orange cheesecake that will be the death of all other cheesecakes henceforth, amen.
Hosted Christmas Eve Brunch, complete with Christmas Casserole, games, and intense theological discussions.
Watched our girls open their gifts and hit the ceiling with explosions of sheer joy (a tent! a dollhouse! finger puppets! story books! Legos x 10⁴⁸⁰!).
Hosted Christmas Dinner, complete with chili, cornbread, and assorted fight-and-make-ups.
Guzzled Delicately sipped three gallons a bit of eggnog.
Read an entire book cover to cover (over the course of three days… but it totally counts).
Edited and uploaded reams of photographs.
Conquered the slopes with my new snowboard.
Worn the same sweater three days in a row.
Rolled sushi with the hubby (a fork may have been necessary at one point… shhh).
Gone on a hot date.
Wound up lost on spaghetti-sized mountain roads in the dark.
Attended two parties.
Swept under the shoe pile (lordy).
Been asked by a new acquaintance if I’m expecting a boy or a girl.
(Note: I am not with child. Not even remotely.)
Eloquently told the new acquaintance, huh?, at which point he dashed away.
Laughed.
Cried.
Laughed.
Cried.
Cried.
Cried.
Cried.
Laughed.
Been kissed by hordes of Europeans in celebration of the New Year.
But not gotten any spumante.
Twisted and shouted.
Participated in Italian group karaoke.
Finally finished a giant puzzle that Dan and I gave up on several years ago.
Climbed Mount Laundry and lived to tell about it.

The one thing I haven’t done is sat down to write, which had a lot to do with the flurry of guests and baked goods and teething Sophies. It also had to do with the stampede toward 2009… life getting off the couch to boogie, and my perspective getting trampled into the chocolate-stained rug. Symptoms of my new year include sweating palms, hair loss, and repeated trips to the chocolate bowl.

I’ve had over a year now to get used to life with two little ones, but I honestly feel more overworked than experienced these days. Soul-searching is limited to five minute bursts between dirty diapers and boiling pasta until my mind is impossibly fragmented and just. wants. sleep. You know that feeling, yes? Last New Year’s Eve, I had inklings of a lush, creative beautyscape ahead, but this year, I’m swerving along a tightrope with a chasm of housewifery below and aspirations obscured by neon signs flashing “Selfish! Selfish!” and “Untalented: YOU!” Miles away from champagne and fireworks, I know.

My belly has been an awful character lately (aside from making people think I’m pregnant, though that is certifiably awful): gnawing at me from the inside-out, tying itself into knots, whispering with clenched teeth that 2009 will be a wasteland. It won’t. I have to believe it won’t, but damned if it doesn’t look just like dirty bathrooms and tumbleweeds from here. Anyone have a burst of inspiration to share? An extra sprinkle of optimism? Some champagne-and-fireworks wishes that I can pop like Tums and transform my stomach from a gremlin to an upstanding citizen again? Because I’m not so good with tightropes, and Mount Laundry’s no longer waiting to break my fall.