Some days the pressure is just too much. Nineteen months and counting. Nineteen months of rejection letters, revised resumes, watching our savings dwindle to zero, depending on odd jobs and the church to help us as money runs low.

People have done unbelievably kind things for us.  A friend sent my kids new bike helmets and Easter treats, little care packages arrive in the mail, brightening my day, anonymous friends have dropped cashiers checks off on our doormat- generosity that I’m unable to even thank them for… We have been richly blessed by this trial- I can see that already, and it’s not even over.

There are some days, days when the kids are crabby, days when we didn’t perhaps get enough sleep, days when maybe my hormones are insane, days when a new bill comes in, or the sink  explodes- those are the days I feel like I’m in a pressure cooker, and I need a release or I might die.

Those are the days where David and I become adversaries instead of companions trying to row the same flimsy boat. Those are the days where yelling overtakes the house, followed by unsettled wars of quiet. Those are the days tears spill down cheeks and eyes cut at each other in anger.

How are we? Fine. We’re going to survive.  I stand alone in the garage doorway as my husband goes out to lick his wounds, and I retreat into the rapidly warming July house, to do the same. Mine wounds are bigger. No, mine are. You hurt me worse, no YOU hurt me worse. The pressure cooker rattles on. Eventually it’s too much and the steam finds tiny fissures and escapes with a scalding scream. Steam burns are the worse.

I smile and nod, like Tom Seleck. How am I? Shoulder shrug, nod, “Fine.”

Extreme Naval-Gazing ahead. You’ve been warned.

I’m a picky eater. Which is funny, because I’m fat- so I obviously and conspicuously have no problem finding food to eat- it’s just that my preferences are… um… strong. Most of my family and friends (including my internet besties) know about my disregard for peanut butter, watermelon, cotton candy and marshmallows. I’ve been vocal there- but I’ve been thinking- and there are a lot more things on my list of “No Thanks” than just those…

Jell-O: this seems to have been passed on chromosomally to my kids. Abby actually gags on it, Jeffrey won’t touch it, and Beanie says he likes it, but then just sit and pokes at it for a while, finally getting up and leaving it. I hate Jell-O. All flavors, all kinds- and if you mix stuff in with it, it goes from being merely unappetizing to utterly wretched. Don’t argue with me. Don’t tell me if I tried YOURS I would like it. The only Jell-O I’ve ever even partially liked came with pretzels and cream cheese. And I picked most of the red Jell-O layer off.

Which brings me to my next item- Hard Pretzels. Ick. Why? Why do people like these? There is just something so… wrong about them. Like little giraffe necks, with their beaded salt globules and cardboard tastelessness. Nope.

Brownies: Yeah, I know, I know. I don’t hate brownies- I mean, I could eat one if I were jonesing for sugar and there was nothing else, but I will never, ever seek one out, nor will I pay for one. No matter what. And if it has nuts in it? Not in a million years. NO nuts.

Which brings me to walnuts. My mother loves them, and packed them in baked goods my whole childhood. Walnuts are bitter, they sting, and the tannins are sour.  Like I want that all over my food?

Macaroni or other cold past salad. Something about the cold mayonnaise on the noodles- with the inevitable celery and … and… just ew.

Once in a great while I will have a hamburger, or a thin, thin slice of flank steak. But seriously? If there is any other choice in a five minute radius? The red meat loses out. The smell, the texture, the smell… the texture… nope. In restaurants, to this day, I order vegetarian whenever possible.  ANYTHING with tendons or bones- I just cannot.  At home the only way I can deal with cooking chicken is to buy the frozen boneless skinless pink icy tenders. Then I don’t even have to touch them- just use the tongs and pop them in the pan. Once I left the kitchen in tears while David cut up a whole chicken to make soup from. I’m a wuss.

Ice cream with chunks in it- unless it’s Cherry Garcia.

Banana, zucchini, or other kinds of quick-breads. Not even when I was a kid did I like these- and my kids are looking like they inherited that too. Serves me right… I made banana bread yesterday (no walnuts, of course) and gave all three loaves to neighbors and friends.

Plums, nectarines, peaches or other stone fruit (besides cherries, which I love). The pit of a peach or a nectarine gives me the yeeshies. It’s like those lotus-pods, and I HATE those- absolutely HATE THEM. I won’t even eat peach pie. I make a mean one, I’m told, but I won’t touch it. Neither will my kids.

(Maybe I’m the reason they’re so picky…? Hmmmm… never thought of that…)

A few things I particularly adore: Cheese, bread with no bumps, anything LEMON, the smell of grapefruit, cheese, salt, olives, cheese, yeast bread, butter, raspberries, cherries, blackberries, lettuce, wintergreen, nutmeg, licorice, tomatoes- all of them, cheese, bread, butter, cheese…. hmmmmm. I could live forever on a cheese platter with a smattering of fruit, a dolop of honey, some olives and some crusty, seedy, sourdough twists. FOREVER.

Boy, have I been in a vile mood lately. Honestly, Mama’s in a bad bad mood. Grumpy, mean things just pop out of my mouth before I even know they’re coming- and that’s not like me- I’m not quick on the verbal uptake. But wowzers, I’m even surprised at the vitreol and fury flying. Tonight, I threw a total tizzy because I couldn’t find the exact bra I wanted- I mean throwing things, swearing at the walls- thankfully the kids were in the playroom, and only David was privy to my mega-meltdown. Yes, I know it wasn’t about the bra.

So I took off all by myself and met Mo at the local pottery-painting place.

I had never been there, and by the time I arrived I was done wanting to throw things- because honestly? Not the place to have a temper tantrum. They had lots and lots of cute stuff- and I was actually rather enchanted by the plain simple whiteness of all the bisque. It was calming. I needed calming. It was also calming just sitting with a paintbrush in my hand while Mo chatted me up about her new job and what’s been keeping her so busy. Sometimes just listening is a good thing.

She made a cupcake, I made a plain old plate. But I painted a cupcake on it.

When I got home, all the babies were in bed, but not asleep yet, so I got the best part- stories and kisses- and got to skip the gloopy toothpaste and dirty kids in a bath part. The kitchen was also spotless- and the clean laundry had been carried upstairs. Sigh… Sometimes being married ten years has it’s pay-offs.

Everyone is asleep. The house is lulled by only by the quiet hum of the fan, and my fingers and they fly over the clickety keys. Even the dishwasher is done. And I have a date with with giant brick of a history book I’m plowing through- with great delight. I love me some history…