on Goguenizing. . .

Goguenize: [go-gen-nayze] verb - ized, izing:

1. to make tasks more difficult than they need to be.

2. to apply chaos and hazard to normally mundane daily functions.

3. can be used to describe a state of being.

I am a Goguen. That is, Goguen is my maiden name and inherently in my blood. I've come to terms with that. Because I also have some Paradis influence, I am able to recognize and speak about, what I lovingly call, the art of Goguenizing. I also sometimes fall prey to the Goguen curse, too.

Goguenizing is when it takes 35 minutes to leave the house because everyone in my family thinks they need to drive. Goguenizing is taking everyone's order for a sub run. . .carefully jotting down every cheese preference and condiment topping. . .just for them to decide on pizza. It can be wearing a Nascar hat to church, or putting makeup on to go to the dump. Goguenizing is 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife. You understand.

It started with my sister-in-law as a small, secretive joke. I'd see it coming. Usually at some holiday or family function. . .and I'd lean to her and whisper, "They are Goguenizing. Sit back, watch and wait." Over time, my brother, sister and I have recognized we Goguenize, and can laugh about it when it's brought to our attention.

Once, I mentioned Goguenizing to my dad. He didn't get it. That's a true Goguen.

But it's there. Always. Lying dormant in my subconscious waiting for those moments where I, too, will Goguenize. Luckily they aren't too often. Bill might disagree. I'm strong enough to admit that I'm deep in a Goguen binge right now that I can't get out of. . .

It's about the kids' clothes. I just can't stop Goguenizing them. They are piling up, everywhere. In the bedrooms. In the laundry room. In the hallway for goodness sake! I have so many little outfits that neither of them fit into anymore, just taking up space. It's gotten to the point where my husband and I sleep in a gigantic closet of the kids' clothes. It's. . . . . so. . . . . .Goguenizied.

I have bins for organizing. They are in the kitchen. This is not helpful. Even if they were where the clothes are, I really wouldn't know where to start. Do I sort by size? By child? By season? By donations or hand-me downs? And what about hand-me-downs that need to go back to their respectful owners? How can I tell one from the other? Oh. . .and there's that sweater I've been looking for. . .

So I close the door. Tell Bill he has to sleep on the couch because I keep Goguenizing. It's not my fault. It's genetic. I need to get a handle on it soon. The two of them will be wearing receiving blankets like togas for the summer if I don't figure it out. Because, by the way, I must have at least 200 receiving blankets that I refuse to get rid of. That's also part of the Goguen condition. . . hoarding. I don't have time to get into that now. . .

Goguenizing isn't all bad. There are some positives to the condition, too. I'm a brilliant multi-tasker. If, by multi-tasking you mean I can be loading the dishwasher, chatting on Facebook, plucking my eyebrows and nursing a baby all at once. And. . .if by saying "at once" you mean, doing portions of these things but not finishing a one. I'm awesome at that. I'm also pretty funny most of the time. That's part of Goguenizing. It's irrelevant if you're laughing with me or at me.

All that being said, this blog entry is one gigantic example of Goguenizing. I should have spent this time sorting those darned clothes. . .

And in kid news. . .Matilda is sleeping much better these days. It's tough to know exactly how long her stretches of sleep are when we co-sleep. . . which we still do. Last night I made it a point to put her back in her bassinet when she woke up. She went to bed at 10:00 p.m., woke up at 4:00 a.m., woke up again at 8:00 a.m. and is still sleeping now, and it's 10:00 a.m. That's probably pretty good for an almost 4 month old.

Cole is "exploring" his potty. By "exploring", I really mean, that he likes to run around pulling the toilet paper off the roll and tries to flush the big toilet over and over and over until I finally get fed up and quarantine him from the bathroom. He still has no visible interest in actually using the potty, but he does like pat his bum once he's pooped and say the word, "potty." That usually makes a fine mess. C'est la vie.

Here's Cole this week eating sand and playing in his sandbox. . .such a boy.