Silence

Things I Love

1. My children. Most of the time.

2. The fact that the Bojangles down the street from my house has a sanitation grade of 100.

3. The TV show "House M.D.", whose lead character Greg House, M.D. is played by the brilliant Hugh Laurie, whose birthday, incidentally, is the same as mine. This is not coincidence.

4. America's Next Top Model. I was on that show once. Only it wasn't called America's Next Top Model then. It was called America's Next Top Drag Queen.

5. Anything resembling a book.

6. The Lord of the Rings. I'm one of those freaks who loves this trilogy so much that I actually have J.R.R. Tolkien's initials tattooed on my arm, along with a phrase in Elvish written in Bilbo Baggins's handwriting. Yes. I did that. And no, it had nothing to do with the movie, although they were fabulous. I read this book for the first time when I was 7 years old, and have not put it down since. It's what I'm reading when I'm in between other books.

7. The movie Dead Poets Society. If you haven't seen this movie, don't ever speak to me again because we simply cannot coexist in the same galaxy.

8. Carolina basketball. (Please see list of Things I Hate for information on Brandan Wright deciding to put his name in the NBA draft and not return to UNC next year.)

9. Dooce.com. The author of this blog/website, Heather Armstrong, is a gem among women.

10. My Sesame Street blanket that was made for me by my great-grandmother as a baby gift for my mother, and with which I still sleep at 27 years of age. This is a subject of many "jokes" from those close to me.

11. The Pittsburgh Steelers. Though I have never been to Pittsburgh and should probably be a fan of the Carolina Panthers, the Steelers have a pretty sweet football team.

12. Mr. Mike's Used Books, a lovely store about five minutes away from my house where I can buy used books for two or three dollars.

13. Candles.

14. The fact that I have never and will never pay for a toothbrush.

Things I Hate

1. Anything resembling an alarm clock.

2. The O.C. I find this drivel insulting to my intelligence as a Generation X-er.

3. Rap music. How anyone can make money off of a song with words like "do yo' chain hang low, do it wobble to and fro / Can you tie it in a knot / Is it platinum or gold" is completely out of my realm of understanding.

4. Traffic, and people who can't drive in it. I am not one of these people.

5. Going to the dentist. Sorry, Dad, but it's true.

6. Having my boobs checked for lumps by a doctor who has all the finesse of Edward Scissorhands.

7. The buyer's remorse I have after any purchase, be it toilet paper or a car.

On Gratitude

I just wanted to say a great big juicy THANK YOU to the people who have encouraged me to write, and write well, and who have been so incredibly, amazingly supportive and empathetic to me as I begin my fledgling writing career. I can't name them all, so I'll just name a few key players in this new obsession of mine:

Leslie Ruth, my cousin, to whom I swear that we will one day collaborate on a book on The Coolest Dysfunctional Southern Family Ever. I love you very much and miss you out there in Texas. I think we've both grown and changed very much in the last few years, and I'm glad you're my cousin, Cousin! Where would The Family be without our favorite Drama Queen? (Well, first favorite. It's apparently genetic, so second favorite would be Lila.)

Rebecca, who really has no idea what she means to me and probably never will because she is so infuriatingly modest, or what she did when she, a True Teacher, brought literature to life for a chubby freshman in English class. And who, years later, is not only still a Teacher of sorts to me, but a Friend and Fellow Woman.

My Dad, who all of my life told me that one of the things I must do in life is to master the written and spoken word. Hopefully I've started my journey there, and May It Never End. And also for everything he has done for me, things much too numerous to mention here, but he knows what they are and how much I am grateful.

My Precious, Precious Mom, who is herself a former teacher of English literature, and whom I can call at any time of night or day if I forget what a past participle is or where it goes in a sentence, who lovingly reminds me to never end a sentence in a preposition, and who has always encouraged me to write and to read because she knows this is Truly What I Love to Do (Is "do" a preposition, Mom?). And that was just for the writing part of the thank you. Everything else she has done for me would take a lifetime's worth of blogs to even skim over, but she should know how much I love her.

My sister, who told me that my blog was even more addictive than American Idol. No higher praise than this can be given. Besides, she's going to be famous one day and she can promote my writing from the red carpet.

My best friends Kim and Lizzie, who don't read my blog. But they do everything friends should do and more: Encourage, support, babysit, dye hair, and not make fun of my favorite book in the world being The Lord of the Rings. They have no idea how they have kept me afloat since high school, and how much of my life is possible because of them.

My boyfriend Jay, for calling my writing "constipated", and making me laugh and then give my writing an enema. I hope it's improved, darling.

My family, including but not limited to aunts, uncles, cousins, and everyone else who can lay claim to the name of Cruise. I am so fortunate to have a family like mine, and all of them were so supportive of my idea to begin writing, and even excited to read what I had to say! I love all of them dearly and desperately, though they may not know it. Also thank you to my family for providing unlimited stories to tell and retell with much laughter over the years, and for providing much fodder for this very blog, yet to be written.

There are so many others I thank as well. I know this sounds like an Oscars award acceptance speech (cue the music for the one who went way over her time limit), but gratitude and joy were really on my heart tonight and I wanted to share it. I have a good feeling about my dear little musings80 blog, and so here's to bridges that will be built with new friends or rebuilt from old ties, and to really seeing the heart and soul and beauty of the world and the people in it through their words, because that's what writing is. I learned that in Freshman English.

A Day in the Life

I think toddlers should come with an owner's manual. And a lifetime warranty. Nobody told me what having two 3-year-old boys would be like. If someone had told me this when they were babies, I probably would have laughed and taken them to the nearest bar, my treat. Being a parent, especially a single parent, has taught me a lot. Yes, I've learned much in the past three years. Pregnancy is great because you still have your life and don't really need to do much except plan for the arrival and make sure you eat right and stay in shape, and plus it's the only time in a woman's life when not only can she flaunt a large stomach, but she can go to a store geared specifically to choosing clothing that will accentuate a huge belly. I miss this. In my case, the eating right and staying in shape were optional, because I was under the (grossly mistaken) impression that I would shed the extra baby weight effortlessly after the boys were born. I spent my pregnancy reading everything I could get my hands on about being pregnant with twins and what would happen after the babies were born. I entertained rosy dreams about feeding my babies organic, unprocessed baby food that I made myself from raw ingredients purchased at Whole Foods, and how they would sleep through the night after we got home from the hospital, and how much I would enjoy breast-feeding and the bonding that comes with it. I firmly decided that my children's fragile minds would not be polluted with such trash as is mass produced on TV for kids, and that they wouldn't even watch TV at all, but would sit and read Chaucer, Tennyson, and Dostoyevsky, perhaps with an infant-sized ascot and smoking jacket. We would play educational games and take nature walks, and I would proudly show off my intellectually superior offspring at family gatherings, malls, and grocery stores while watching other, less evolved children throw temper tantrums in the check-out lines.

Yeah. Not so much.

All these beautiful ideas vanished along with my waistline and any hope of being able to wear a two-piece bathing suit ever again just a few short months after the boys were born. And now, with the boys at 3 years old, I think back on those days before they were born and figure I must have been sleepwalking to the local crack house and scoring some 8-balls, or smoking some other sort of illegal controlled substance.

This is what a typical day looks like in my house. I wake up around 7:00 a.m. I don't need an alarm clock because I can rely, like clockwork, on the sounds of things crashing, creaking, and breaking. This is bewildering to me because the only things in their room are their big-boy beds with no headboard or footboard, no pictures, nothing on the walls, electric outlets covered, doorknobs childproofed, baby gate in the doorway wedged tight enough to stand in for the Hoover Dam. I even took the blinds down out of the windows because I've had to replace all of them twice in the boys' room since I moved here. Who needs all the million and one toys and books we've bought when one has blinds from the Home Depot that have cords with which to garrote one's brother? Or the wands that open and close the blinds to break off and threaten to spank one's brother with? Or the plastic slats to chew off and throw around the room because you're "making sugar"? Come on, people. GET WITH THE PROGRAM HERE. So I wake up at 7 a.m. to the sounds of things breaking and crashing to the floor. I immediately pray for patience and calmness. Then I take my psych meds and a shot of bourbon. Then I pull on some clothes, usually ones I've worn for three days and always made of some form of Spandex. Then I trip over the baby gate crammed across the door because Jonathan cannot abide an actual closed door but tolerates a baby gate, and untangle Elijah from the blinds while trying not to slip and break any bones on the tangled mess of Spiderman sheets on the floor that used to be on their beds. Jonathan, either by electoral vote or in the spirit of Adolf Hitler, is the spokesperson for the two of them. He immediately demands supper (an all-encompassing word for food) for the both of them because "Jonafan and Jijah are hungwy!!". So we change diapers (yes, we're still in diapers) and go into the kitchen where I proceed to throw together bowls of cereal and Pop Tarts. That I made from raw ingredients purchased at Whole Foods. Jonathan prefers to throw his food on the floor under the table and inhale his food through his nose while lying on his stomach on the floor. Elijah sits in his chair, carefully selects one single Froot Loop (he is a connoiseur) and lick it until it's gone, and then chooses another one, a different color, and repeats. After breakfast, we get dressed so the boys can go outside if it's a nice day. If it isn't, we turn on Noggin or watch Shrek 2 for at least the 500th time. The boys play outside all day. I keep a window open by my computer desk because Jonathan, as mentioned, cannot tolerate a closed window regardless of the temperature outside and insists that I can only see him if the window is open. All the way. Glass does not factor into his equation. Only insect screens, apparently, are valid for seeing through. About ten minutes after breakfast the demands for snacks start. Apparently during gestation some neural connection was made as their brains developed that being outside is synonymous with eating. The entire time they are outside. Outside is just not cool without snacks, many and varied. So they park themselves by the open window and yell for snacks while I try desperately to work on my computer six inches away from the open window. There are many tears and histrionics, with both boys falling on the ground in paroxysms of grief, shaking, moaning, and much wailing and gnashing of teeth. There are fights over the yellow Tonka dump truck, of which we bought two that are exactly the same, but for some reason they fight over one in particular. I haven't been able to find any visible difference between the two. Maybe the suspension is better on that one, I don't know. So eventually we come inside to take a quiet time, which is almost never quiet and almost always involves someone getting injured. We eat lunch after Jonathan finishes foaming at the mouth because he doesn't understand why he can't have salt and vinegar chips and chewable vitamins exclusively.

You get the idea. Nighttime is my favorite time of the day because I'm unreasonably excited to watch America's Next Top Model or American Idol, and I can put my boys to bed. I'm tired, and grumpy, and wonder when I'll have time to take a shower, go to the gym, or do the eighteen loads of laundry that are waiting for me. The bathroom is waiting to be cleaned, the kitchen needs to be cleaned up, typing needs to get done for work, and the ants have decided to take up permanent residence under the breakfast table. Then I read Rebecca's blog and feel instantly guilty about being grumpy after my day, and I resolve to be a better person and a better mom tomorrow. I go in and say goodnight to my boys, give them "snuggle kisses" and sing them a goodnight song they especially like, "Eye of the Tiger" from Rocky.

Then, as I go to each one in turn to say goodnight, they throw their little arms around my neck and give me "a stinks on the cheek", which is basically blowing a big, wet raspberry on my face, and they say, "Wuv you, Mommy. See you in the mornin' for supper, Mommy."

And that makes everything worth it a million times over.

I Finally Commited

Okay. This is it. I have finally done it. In answer to all those who said I should, I did. I created a blog. I know you're probably laughing about my title, but that's alright. I love my title. I think it's very pleasantly ironic. I forewarn you that I will occasionally muse, but I make no promises about its intellectualism.

For instance, my musings lately concern such heady topics as why the chip people only fill their bags of chips one-quarter full. Even the Family Size bags. The rest is just...air. Which is interesting to me, because I breathe air every day for free (mostly), and here I am paying $3.99 for a bag of chips that's only one-quarter full of chips and three-quarters full of air. Prepackaged air at that. So basically I'm paying $1.00 for chips and $3.00 for air. This is concerning to me as a consumer, and thus I muse on it. So this is the sort of thing you might read on my brand-new blog. Along with whatever else I feel like writing at any particular moment.

I didn't really want to start a blog. I was afraid of commitment. I didn't know if I had the time to keep it up. Then I checked my cousin Leslie's blog and saw that she hadn't posted anything since March 18th, and I felt better about that. My next objection to starting a blog was not having anything to write about. Then I sat and observed my kids for five minutes and realized I would never be able to make that one fly. So here I am. Blogging. And for this, I would like to thank the author of dooce.com, who made writing about your kids couture, and Rebecca, whose blog I will never come close to matching and in whose reflected literary glory I gladly bask. And last but not least, my cousin Leslie, who was the first to utter the word "blog" in our family, and proceeded to do so with much enthusiasm. Until March 18th.

And so, Reader, whoever you are, thank you for reading my blog and do not hesitate to laugh either with or at me. Enjoy.