The Search for the Couch and Other Stories.

We had to have a plumber come to our house today (leaking bath tub + wet ceiling = bad news). That’s bad enough, but you know what’s worse? Having to clean the house for the plumber.

Yep, you read that right. Our house was so embarrassingly dirty that my husband and I spent more time than I’d like to admit making it presentable. For the plumber. Not spic and span, by any means. But clean enough so that we’re reasonably sure the guy won’t call CPS on us.

Which he might have, had he seen it on Saturday.

The kitchen floor was littered with cheerios, puffs, pieces of dog biscuits and other random bits of trashy excellence. So much so that I found myself constantly chasing Tori around, snatching things out of her mouth (I may or may not have let her eat a few stray cheerios along the way).

The table was piled high three feet high with books, magazines, cereal boxes and mail. It had gotten so bad that I was forced to shove things aside to make room for our plates every time we actually wanted to have a meal there.

The family room and living room were buried in toys, laundry and the other flotsam of daily life. In fact, it took me fifteen minutes to even find the couch. And when I finally got out the vacuum? I managed to completely fill up the canister before I even finished a single room (but in my defense, the animals are all shedding).

And don’t even get me started on the state of our bedroom.

I’m sick to death of living this way. Tired of being greeted by a scene from a disaster movie every time I open my front door. I don’t want to live with a laundry pile that’s perpetually in danger of taking over the house. And I certainly don’t want to plan my meals based on what pots are clean.

But I’m not sure how to get a handle on it.

The things my mom always told me? You know, like put stuff away after you use it. And wash the pan you were using before you take another one out. And do a load of laundry every night. Those kind of things?

Are all very good ideas. And seemingly easy to implement. Except they’re not. At least, not for me.

I won’t lie, I’ve always been a slob. But since Tori was born, it’s got a thousand times worse. The dishes don’t get done after dinner because as soon as I’ve eaten, I’m rushing to get her ready for bed. My things don’t get put away because I almost never finish what I start—halfway through, I get pulled away by a Tori roar and never quite make it back.

And as for laundry? Well, by the time I can tackle the clothes pile, all I want to do is collapse on the couch for an hour or two.

My husband and I have resolved (yet again), to do better. To actually clean up after ourselves and keep the mess under control. We’re really going to try. At least until the memories of our latest cleaning frenzy fade. I'm just not sure how.

How do you guys do it? How do you manage to get everything done in the 24 hours we’re allotted each day? Does it ever get easier to pull off the super mom charade?

The World's Smallest Headbanger.

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, I fancied myself something of a headbanger. I rocked out to what passed for hard rock in that era, including bands like Guns n Roses, AC/DC, Poison, Bon Jovi, Warrant (yes, really), Skid Row and, ummm, even Nelson (yeah, I cringed when I wrote that).

But I never thought my daughter would follow in my footsteps at the tender age of ten months.

So you can imagine my surprise when she started banging her head.  Sometimes, it's obvious she's doing it just for fun. Sitting in her high chair, she'll rock backwards into the seat back. When playing in the kitchen, she'll knock her forehead on the cabinet doors, grinning at the sound. In her crib, she'll gently bang against the wooden slats.

That doesn't worry me.

But you know what does? The way she slams her skull around she gets angry. If she's on the floor, she'll bang her head into the ground. If I'm holding her, she head butts me (and believe me, that can hurt). If she's sitting in her high chair, she gets up close and personal with her tray.

Fortunately, it never lasts long.

See, she has my temper. So she'll get extremely, explosively angry for short periods of time. She'll scream, she'll flail, she'll throw herself around and generally be a pain in the ass for five minutes or so. Then she'll get distracted by something shiny and the storm will pass as quickly as it started.

Almost before you can blink an eye, her smile will be out in full force again, and the only sign of the temper tantrum that was are the tears still tracking down her cheeks.

What do you guys think? Should I be worried? Or should I just start collecting video for her VH1 Behind the Music episode when she makes it big as the lead singer of a heavy metal band?

A Blogging Identity Crisis.

When I started this blog, I had no real idea what I was going to do with it. I had this domain name, and needed to find something to write about. So I  began chronicling my pregnancy and told friends and family where to find me.

For many, many moons, they were the only ones who read it. But then something happened. I started getting into this whole blogging thing in a serious way.  I loved having my own personal soapbox. I loved feeling like I was connected to a larger community of women. Blogging became less of a "want to" and more of a "have to for my sanity's sake."

And now? Well, obviously, this here blog is still pretty tiny in the big scheme of things. But it's getting bigger, and being read by people from all over the darned place. And when you google "amber page?"  This is the first listing that comes up.

All that is perfectly awesome, of course. Except...me being out here like this, writing on a blog called "Amber Page Writes," is making my family nervous. Because that means they're all out there too. I mean, I try to be careful about what I say. The general rule is, if I don't want my mom or my boss to read it, I don't put it out there.

But what I consider over sharing and what the rest of my family considers over sharing are sometimes two very different things. Two very, very different things.

So, I'm toying with the idea of changing my name.

I've got a domain purchased and everything—it's "Adventures of a Clueless Mom."

The question is, should I? Or is this something I should have thought about six months ago? Would I be shooting myself in the foot? I really want your advice. What do you guys think?

A First Birthday Dilemma.

In six short weeks, Tori will celebrate her first birthday, crossing the boundary from babyhood into toddlerhood. She, of course, will have no idea that she celebrating such a momentous occasion, but I? I will know.

And I think that milestone sounds like a fantastic reason to get falling down drunk. I mean, come on. After surviving childbirth, six months without a single good night's sleep, and all the assorted trials, tribulations and nasty surprises the first year had to offer (projectile poop, anyone?), I think mama deserves to let her hair down a little, don't you?

But since that's not a socially acceptable way to spend a child's first birthday, the real dilemma centers around how big of a party to throw. And where.

See, we live many, many miles away from our nearest and dearest, including all Tori's aunts, uncles (biological and honorary) and grandparents. So while we could invite them all down here for her birthday party, chances are no one but the grandparents would show. I could also bully my friends here into coming, but I've attended far too many painfully boring children's parties to force that particular fate on anyone.

In other words, if I insist on having her birthday here, it will be a quiet celebration. Which isn't a bad thing. In fact, until very recently, that's what I thought I wanted. Just me, Brian, Tori and a big old cake to smash all over her face.

But now? That seems kind of lonely. Truth is, after a long winter completely free of family obligations, I kind of miss them. Okay, I really miss them.

Which makes our other option—that of turning her first birthday into a weekend-long road trip to Michigan—seem like a halfway decent idea. Except for the fact that on our last trip  home, her screams did permanent damage to our ear drums. She, to put it lightly, is not a fan of her car seat.

So is it fair to subject her to 14 hours of car seat-induced torture, just so I can have the first birthday party I want for her? I don't know.

Plus, I know if I do bring the party to the people, the grandmas will take over, most likely not letting me pay for much and exhausting themselves in the attempt to throw the perfect party. And that's not really fair to them, is it?

I also worry that my assorted relatives would think all this is just a ploy to get more presents for her.  Which it isn't (or wouldn't be). That girl has more toys than any baby needs—especially since her favorite play things are currently a bungee cord and my old electronic piano synthesizer thing.

I really don't know what to do. So Internet, I'm asking you. Am I worrying too much about all this? Should I just have a quiet party at home, and let the relatives come down when it's convenient for them? Or should I drag my little family to Motown and make it an occasion to remember?

Or, should I go for option three and just go buy myself a giant bottle of champagne and obliterate my memories of her first year in a sea of bubbles? I do love champagne...

Tell me what to do.

There's No Escaping the Guilt.

As a working mom, I often feel like I'm shortchanging, well, everyone. I run out of work as fast as I can so I can spend time with my daughter. Then I half-ignore her so I can get some housework done. And my husband? Well, let's just say it's a good thing he's a patient man.

But the one person who almost never gets any attention at all is...me. My hair hasn't been cut in almost three months. My makeup supplies haven't been replenished in six. Since Tori was born, I've been out with friends all of twice. Maybe three times. I'm lucky to get one book read every month, and naps (which used to be a treasured part of my weekends), have gone the way of the dinosaur.

Sometimes, I get to feeling like I'm running on fumes. Like I've got nothing left to give anyone. Like I just. need. a. break. If only for a couple of hours.

Today was one of those days. Tori's teething, or fighting a cold, or possessed by demons, or something (maybe all three). My house is a pigsty. My laundry pile is reaching epic proportions. And my husband was annoying me just by breathing (which does not diminish my love for him, right honey?).

And just to make it worse? There was no fricking coffee. Or tea. Or even coke (the caffeinated beverage. although maybe I need to consider investing in the other kind) anywhere in the house. It was a bad scene.

So, pretending I was heading to the grocery store, I left. And headed directly to Starbucks. Where I ordered a giant vat of caffeinated goodness, plunked myself down at a table and opened my book. It was heaven. Before I knew it, over an hour had passed.

As soon as that realization sunk in, guilt raised its ugly, snaggle-toothed head. How dare I neglect my family this way, it asked. Wasn't I always complaining that I didn't get enough time to spend with my daughter? I was a baaaaaad mom, it asserted.

So I called home and told my already fed-up sounding husband that I had lost track of time and would head to the grocery store immediately.

But I didn't. Instead I went to Kohls. Not looking for anything in particular. Just putting off the inevitable. Because I? Hate grocery shopping. Besides, I wasn't anywhere close to feeling recharged yet.

Unfortunately, Kohls had nothing I wanted to buy. It's that terrible time of year where I can't stand to look at sweaters anymore. But spring? Could very well be years away, so there's no point in buying any cute duds for that supposedly upcoming season.

Finally, I took myself off to Kroger, and after loading up on supplies, headed home. Where Tori was plunked in front of the TV (which she ordinarily is not allowed to watch. ever.) and my frustrated-looking husband was trying to pull a (wickedly delicious) chicken out of the oven.

Oh, the guilt. It hit me like a tsunami. I was asking too much of my husband. Caring too little for my child. How dare I leave them for that long? Bad person! BAAAAD person!

But the guilt was accompanied by a wave of resentment. Why shouldn't  I take some time out for myself? Didn't I count?

The only solution was to pour myself a biiiiig glass of wine. Which I eventually did, and am, in fact, currently sipping. But the frustration hasn't left me yet. It's just been pushed to the back of my mind and put on simmer.

So I'm asking you again, oh wise women of the Internet. Is it possible to find balance? Do I just need to get better at ignoring the guilt? Does it eventually get easier? Enlighten me. Please.