(Please tell me you get the Jon Lovitz reference here. I always loved that SNL skit. Unfortunately, SNL is pretty tight with their content and no YouTube reference has been found yet.)
This is blatant self-promotion. And I hate promoting myself, which is why I don't have a book deal yet. At least this is what I tell myself. (Ugh. There were way too many first person pronouns in just the past two sentences.) The truth is that I do want people to notice me; I just don't want to be the one drawing attention to myself. I think that I just want to be discovered and then sit there shyly, saying, "Who me? You want to give me a $250,000 advance on a book? Oh, alright."
I get jealous when I hear of other bloggers who get book deals and get angry at women who are able to put together book proposals with an infant and several small children in the house. (You know that you hate them, too.) Yet, I do believe that I've been given a gift for humor and honesty, which most of the time are the same thing. At least they are for me. It helps me take life a lot less seriously. And since I believe gifts are God-given, I feel an obligation to share my talents whether it be with a handful of people or thousands.
I always think of that parable in the New Testament about the three slaves who were given bags of money commensurate with their abilities. The two with the most bags of money multiplied it. The third man was given one bag of money and he buried it, figuring he didn't have enough money to do anything worthwhile. The master was not pleased with number three. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm burying my talents. Other times I'm afraid that any attempt to showcase my talent will be excessively narcissistic. I either fantasize about being at the top of the heap or am busy burying myself beneath the heap.
Humility is a balancing act and I have horrible balance.
All these mental gymnastics are just to let you know that a friend and former colleague of mine recently asked if I would write a get-to-know-the-blogger type article for a local parents' website. I know it ain't Oprah or anything, but I agreed. I love to write and it gave me a chance to distill just what my family and I are all about and why I write on a regular basis.
So, basically, I'm sharing with you a link on my blog to an article about ... my blog. I realize this is a little circular. Enjoy the ride.
Showing posts with label honestly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label honestly. Show all posts
Saturday, October 01, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
In one week
In one week, my sister, the other half of my heart, is returning from Japan. We'll be in the same time zone for the first time in three years.
For the past three years, my mind's clock has been set 13 to 14 hours ahead. My breakfast with the kids is her bedtime rodeo with hers. And vice versa. For a while, our standard greeting was "mor'vening, dearie." At any time of my day, I know what part of her day she is in.
I've spent three years and three months without her. Three Christmases. Three New Year's. Three Easters. Three Thanksgivings. Four birthdays -- hers and mine. Two baptisms.
I've seen her once since she left three years ago. Three years have felt like an eternity, yet gone by quicker than I ever imagined they would. We dropped them off at the airport when they left. My husband told them as we hugged them goodbye, "Well, we'll pick you up here in 2011." I drove their minivan, which is now our minivan, back to our house, crying the whole way.
My life is so different now than when she left. Big Brother was 16 months old, as old as my The Baby is now. I was just weeks away from getting pregnant with Girlface. We were a family of three back then. Now we are five.
I've had two babies without her. One of them she's met just once and the other she's never met. I was by her side when her youngest was born. I always assumed she'd be by my side for at least one of my births. I never imagined that I would be navigating my children's early years without her near and without them knowing her and their uncle and their cousins from day one.
I've gotten countless packages of what we affectionately call "Jackie junk," handed-down toys and clothes from older cousins that my kids love and remember that it was Aunt Jackie who sent them.
I've spent sleepless nights with crying babies on the phone with her at my 3 a.m.
I've spent endless days with restless, whiny children longing for the distraction of cousins. She probably has, too.
We've made scores of excited and exasperated phone calls to report milestones in our children's lives: first steps, first words, funny things they've said and done, not so funny things they've said and done, what they're learning, what they're not learning.
We've had scores of phone calls and chats interrupted by crying, fighting, needy children at all hours of the day and night.
She's talked me off the ledge and through potty training my oldest. She's kept me sane through the most sleep-deprived years of my life. Sometimes talking to her was the only thing that got me through the day. She's reminded me to breathe and to rest and to eat something and drink some water and get a shower and, by all means, to go easy on the boy. She's reminded me to trust my instincts.
All from 8,000 miles away. I'm not sure what I think will change when she comes back. When I tell my husband how excited I am that she's coming home, finally, he jokes that now we'll be able to talk every day for free. Oh, wait, thanks to the magic of Vonage and Facebook, we do.
My excitement over her return is tempered with sadness for her. It's never easy to say goodbye to the life you have. She lives in a tropical paradise. She's returning to the Washington, DC, area in the middle of the hottest of summers. She's done an amazing job creating a community for herself. And I know she'll do so again where she lands. I'm so grateful for the women and the families who have been her companions there. I know she's been in good hands. Of course, it's not like it's hard being her companion. She's pretty awesome. She's the best listener and most empathetic, articulate and diplomatic person I know. They're losing a great friend, even as I am getting my sister back, and I hope that their paths cross again one day.
For the past three years, my mind's clock has been set 13 to 14 hours ahead. My breakfast with the kids is her bedtime rodeo with hers. And vice versa. For a while, our standard greeting was "mor'vening, dearie." At any time of my day, I know what part of her day she is in.
I've spent three years and three months without her. Three Christmases. Three New Year's. Three Easters. Three Thanksgivings. Four birthdays -- hers and mine. Two baptisms.
I've seen her once since she left three years ago. Three years have felt like an eternity, yet gone by quicker than I ever imagined they would. We dropped them off at the airport when they left. My husband told them as we hugged them goodbye, "Well, we'll pick you up here in 2011." I drove their minivan, which is now our minivan, back to our house, crying the whole way.
My life is so different now than when she left. Big Brother was 16 months old, as old as my The Baby is now. I was just weeks away from getting pregnant with Girlface. We were a family of three back then. Now we are five.
I've had two babies without her. One of them she's met just once and the other she's never met. I was by her side when her youngest was born. I always assumed she'd be by my side for at least one of my births. I never imagined that I would be navigating my children's early years without her near and without them knowing her and their uncle and their cousins from day one.
I've gotten countless packages of what we affectionately call "Jackie junk," handed-down toys and clothes from older cousins that my kids love and remember that it was Aunt Jackie who sent them.
I've spent sleepless nights with crying babies on the phone with her at my 3 a.m.
I've spent endless days with restless, whiny children longing for the distraction of cousins. She probably has, too.
We've made scores of excited and exasperated phone calls to report milestones in our children's lives: first steps, first words, funny things they've said and done, not so funny things they've said and done, what they're learning, what they're not learning.
We've had scores of phone calls and chats interrupted by crying, fighting, needy children at all hours of the day and night.
She's talked me off the ledge and through potty training my oldest. She's kept me sane through the most sleep-deprived years of my life. Sometimes talking to her was the only thing that got me through the day. She's reminded me to breathe and to rest and to eat something and drink some water and get a shower and, by all means, to go easy on the boy. She's reminded me to trust my instincts.
All from 8,000 miles away. I'm not sure what I think will change when she comes back. When I tell my husband how excited I am that she's coming home, finally, he jokes that now we'll be able to talk every day for free. Oh, wait, thanks to the magic of Vonage and Facebook, we do.
My excitement over her return is tempered with sadness for her. It's never easy to say goodbye to the life you have. She lives in a tropical paradise. She's returning to the Washington, DC, area in the middle of the hottest of summers. She's done an amazing job creating a community for herself. And I know she'll do so again where she lands. I'm so grateful for the women and the families who have been her companions there. I know she's been in good hands. Of course, it's not like it's hard being her companion. She's pretty awesome. She's the best listener and most empathetic, articulate and diplomatic person I know. They're losing a great friend, even as I am getting my sister back, and I hope that their paths cross again one day.
Monday, July 25, 2011
A woman's real superpower
The controversy of late regarding The Breast Milk Baby makes me suspicious of the critics' underlying feelings about breastfeeding and womanhood.
Critics say the doll is over-sexualizing young girls or forcing girls to grow up too quickly. The company that makes the doll and its supporters say the doll is teaching young girls about a natural part of motherhood. Some critics have said the doll is too graphic. And yet another headline asked "Toy for Pervs or Sex-Ed Tool?" Of course, the doll is neither. And it's a lot less graphic than a gaggle of teen girls in skimpy bikinis.
This $90 doll includes a halter top with strategically placed flowers that allow the girl to breastfeed the doll. The doll even makes noises and mouth motions consistent with suckling.
Of course, breastfeeding their dolls is nothing new to young girls. My daughter does this routinely and, much like breastfeeding itself, there is no need for expensive gadgets to accomplish this. Her 2-year-old imagination and a $10 doll work just fine. Role playing is what my daughter and my son are doing when they imitate breastfeeding or anything else they see around here. It's exactly what they should be doing. It's called the work of childhood.
I suspect, though, that discomfort with the use of breasts for anything but voyeurism is behind this ridiculous criticism. I can tell you, as a mom who has breastfed three children and still is breastfeeding a toddler, that sexual is the very last thing I feel when a child is attached to my chest. What I feel is outgoing love, a sense of calm and confidence and pride in my body's ability to care for my children in this way.
People are so uncomfortable with the motherhood slice of womanhood but are perfectly happy to promote the sexualized version of women. They teach their little girls about the most superficial aspect of womanhood and ignore the most important parts. This is why we have Toddlers in Tiaras and girls dressing like Bratz dolls, princesses and pseudo rock stars. But when a doll comes along that mimics a natural function of a woman's body, people shudder. They would rather see little girls dancing in plastic heels, dolled up like princesses or streetwalkers, than see them taking on an empowering and natural role.
A princess in training is far less intimidating than a girl who is learning to be a woman. One is submissive, taking on a false identity crafted by a patriarchal society; the latter is confidant, taking on an identity born of instinct. And raw instinct that is encouraged rather than squashed is hard to control in a consumerist and patriarchal society. The instinct to feed your baby from your own breasts won't make formula companies any money and the woman who knows the power of her own body is less likely to be submissive.
What I want my daughter to know is that her body is exquisitely designed to grow, birth, nurture and feed another human being. Of course, girls and women do want to look and feel attractive. That is merely one slice of the womanhood pie.
I never felt like a woman until I carried children in my body, gave birth and nurtured and breastfed them. The years I spent wanting children and not having them, even those years before I met my husband, were agonizing. In my twenties, I felt like I was running out of time. After I was married, each month we failed to conceive was met with grief and sorrow in those years when we were waiting for our firstborn. I felt that I was being cheated out of an important part of being a woman.
Whether I buy The Breast Milk Baby or just stick with imaginary play, my daughter will get the message that she can sustain a life. And that is the most powerful and important trait of a woman.
Critics say the doll is over-sexualizing young girls or forcing girls to grow up too quickly. The company that makes the doll and its supporters say the doll is teaching young girls about a natural part of motherhood. Some critics have said the doll is too graphic. And yet another headline asked "Toy for Pervs or Sex-Ed Tool?" Of course, the doll is neither. And it's a lot less graphic than a gaggle of teen girls in skimpy bikinis.
This $90 doll includes a halter top with strategically placed flowers that allow the girl to breastfeed the doll. The doll even makes noises and mouth motions consistent with suckling.
Of course, breastfeeding their dolls is nothing new to young girls. My daughter does this routinely and, much like breastfeeding itself, there is no need for expensive gadgets to accomplish this. Her 2-year-old imagination and a $10 doll work just fine. Role playing is what my daughter and my son are doing when they imitate breastfeeding or anything else they see around here. It's exactly what they should be doing. It's called the work of childhood.
I suspect, though, that discomfort with the use of breasts for anything but voyeurism is behind this ridiculous criticism. I can tell you, as a mom who has breastfed three children and still is breastfeeding a toddler, that sexual is the very last thing I feel when a child is attached to my chest. What I feel is outgoing love, a sense of calm and confidence and pride in my body's ability to care for my children in this way.
People are so uncomfortable with the motherhood slice of womanhood but are perfectly happy to promote the sexualized version of women. They teach their little girls about the most superficial aspect of womanhood and ignore the most important parts. This is why we have Toddlers in Tiaras and girls dressing like Bratz dolls, princesses and pseudo rock stars. But when a doll comes along that mimics a natural function of a woman's body, people shudder. They would rather see little girls dancing in plastic heels, dolled up like princesses or streetwalkers, than see them taking on an empowering and natural role.
A princess in training is far less intimidating than a girl who is learning to be a woman. One is submissive, taking on a false identity crafted by a patriarchal society; the latter is confidant, taking on an identity born of instinct. And raw instinct that is encouraged rather than squashed is hard to control in a consumerist and patriarchal society. The instinct to feed your baby from your own breasts won't make formula companies any money and the woman who knows the power of her own body is less likely to be submissive.
What I want my daughter to know is that her body is exquisitely designed to grow, birth, nurture and feed another human being. Of course, girls and women do want to look and feel attractive. That is merely one slice of the womanhood pie.
I never felt like a woman until I carried children in my body, gave birth and nurtured and breastfed them. The years I spent wanting children and not having them, even those years before I met my husband, were agonizing. In my twenties, I felt like I was running out of time. After I was married, each month we failed to conceive was met with grief and sorrow in those years when we were waiting for our firstborn. I felt that I was being cheated out of an important part of being a woman.
Whether I buy The Breast Milk Baby or just stick with imaginary play, my daughter will get the message that she can sustain a life. And that is the most powerful and important trait of a woman.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
A few of my least favorite things
Sometimes I wonder if the people who dream up toys, clothes, books and gear for children have ever actually spent time with a child. Or a parent. Or maybe even other humans.
These products are meant to make my life more convenient or be fun for the kids. Really, they just become part of the daily irritants that send me to the candy closet to hide with a cold Diet Coke. Whenever my husband and I see a fancy kid product in a store, we consider it for a second and then come to one of the following conclusions: destroyed in a day or pieces lost or scattered so far we wouldn't find them until the kids move out. We come into quite a bit of our baby and kid products second hand. But we're also unwittingly convinced that we need many of these products before we wise up and realize how completely unnecessary and annoying they are.
Here are a few of my least favorite "kid- or parent-friendly" products:
Outfits with snap up legs. (or, as we call them around here, stripper pants) Whoever thought this one up never had to wrestle a very strong baby hellbent on rolling over and wiggling. It takes me at least five minutes to snap the baby back up. It's just easier to pull pants on and off.
Zip up pajamas in any size beyond 2T. Are you nuts? I'm trying to potty train my kid. Why would I make it more difficult to go to the bathroom? Although, I must say, we got a bunch of these for Christmas and Big Brother loves them and does well getting them on and off. He, much like his father, is a fan of the creature comforts and would wear these jammies all day if I let him, which I don't. I still don't like them. There's always the risk of them dangling into a toilet bowl full of pee or worse. And, besides, they look like babies in those things.
Onesie-style tops (that is, tops that snap in the crotch) in any size beyond 2T. See above. And besides, they just look ridiculous on big kids.
Books that make noise. Books should not make noise. Ever. When my parents wanted us to stop yammering at them or bickering at each other, they told us to go read a book. I get it. They wanted quiet. One day, for a fun, educational clean-up activity, I told the kids to pick up all the books off of the floor and sort them into two piles: Books that mommy likes and books that mommy hates. They did an excellent job as you can see. And now they don't bring me any of these books to read them. In fact, I haven't heard any of these books in a while. How's that for retention of a lesson? Maybe I'll make a good homeschool mom after all.
Pop up books and books with flaps. These really don't last long in our house. My kids are about as gentle as billy goats. I regularly throw these things out. The kids don't really care if the pages are torn, but it really makes mommy twitch. And lately, I find the baby chewing on the loose and dangling pieces of these books; much like a billy goat would, actually. (You know, it really does feel like I am the shepherdess of a herd of small goats some days.)
Sippy cups. I hate sippy cups. I hate cleaning them. I hate keeping up with all their pieces and parts. I hate tracking them down. I hate breaking up fights over them. I hate that they leak when I'm promised that they won't. Recently, I banned sippy cups. Now my kids drink from cups at the kitchen table. Girlface does surprisingly well. We do have a lot of spillage, but I only ever give the kids water. I had surmised that this would make our floors cleaner, but it hasn't. It just gets my socks wet and makes the floor slippery. I kept a handful of straw cups for smoothies and water bottles for traveling but have even considered bringing a thermos and cups to the park. My hatred right now is that deep. I'll probably start The Baby on a cup at 11 months or so.
These products are meant to make my life more convenient or be fun for the kids. Really, they just become part of the daily irritants that send me to the candy closet to hide with a cold Diet Coke. Whenever my husband and I see a fancy kid product in a store, we consider it for a second and then come to one of the following conclusions: destroyed in a day or pieces lost or scattered so far we wouldn't find them until the kids move out. We come into quite a bit of our baby and kid products second hand. But we're also unwittingly convinced that we need many of these products before we wise up and realize how completely unnecessary and annoying they are.
Here are a few of my least favorite "kid- or parent-friendly" products:
Outfits with snap up legs. (or, as we call them around here, stripper pants) Whoever thought this one up never had to wrestle a very strong baby hellbent on rolling over and wiggling. It takes me at least five minutes to snap the baby back up. It's just easier to pull pants on and off.
Zip up pajamas in any size beyond 2T. Are you nuts? I'm trying to potty train my kid. Why would I make it more difficult to go to the bathroom? Although, I must say, we got a bunch of these for Christmas and Big Brother loves them and does well getting them on and off. He, much like his father, is a fan of the creature comforts and would wear these jammies all day if I let him, which I don't. I still don't like them. There's always the risk of them dangling into a toilet bowl full of pee or worse. And, besides, they look like babies in those things.
Onesie-style tops (that is, tops that snap in the crotch) in any size beyond 2T. See above. And besides, they just look ridiculous on big kids.
Books that make noise. Books should not make noise. Ever. When my parents wanted us to stop yammering at them or bickering at each other, they told us to go read a book. I get it. They wanted quiet. One day, for a fun, educational clean-up activity, I told the kids to pick up all the books off of the floor and sort them into two piles: Books that mommy likes and books that mommy hates. They did an excellent job as you can see. And now they don't bring me any of these books to read them. In fact, I haven't heard any of these books in a while. How's that for retention of a lesson? Maybe I'll make a good homeschool mom after all.Pop up books and books with flaps. These really don't last long in our house. My kids are about as gentle as billy goats. I regularly throw these things out. The kids don't really care if the pages are torn, but it really makes mommy twitch. And lately, I find the baby chewing on the loose and dangling pieces of these books; much like a billy goat would, actually. (You know, it really does feel like I am the shepherdess of a herd of small goats some days.)
Sippy cups. I hate sippy cups. I hate cleaning them. I hate keeping up with all their pieces and parts. I hate tracking them down. I hate breaking up fights over them. I hate that they leak when I'm promised that they won't. Recently, I banned sippy cups. Now my kids drink from cups at the kitchen table. Girlface does surprisingly well. We do have a lot of spillage, but I only ever give the kids water. I had surmised that this would make our floors cleaner, but it hasn't. It just gets my socks wet and makes the floor slippery. I kept a handful of straw cups for smoothies and water bottles for traveling but have even considered bringing a thermos and cups to the park. My hatred right now is that deep. I'll probably start The Baby on a cup at 11 months or so.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Signs that you're on a date with the mother of your children
She has showered, washed her hair and brushed her teeth for the first time in three days and she lets you know it. This would be considered too much information on a real date.
She calls home at least once to make sure the kids haven't tied up the baby sitter and that the baby isn't crying uncontrollably.
She eats too fast and gets heartburn immediately because she can't shake the feeling that someone will start crying or need something at any second.
She rifles through her purse to find the "coupon" for dinner and a diaper, a baby sock and 15 receipts spill out onto the table.
She asks you if you recall whether one of the children pooped that day. You then engage in a 5 minute conversation about the consistency and frequency of the children's waste products and, based upon this knowledge, which foods you should start restricting.
She excuses herself from the table to "go potty." She takes her time. It's not every day she gets to go potty alone or without someone banging on the door.
She is wearing maternity pants because they are the nicest pair of pants she owns that actually fit her.
She yawns. A lot.
You sit side by side in utter silence sipping coffee and reading magazines at a bookstore because you relish the quiet and the abundance of magazines that haven't been mauled by children.
And ...
Even though you both need a break from the kids, most of your sentences start with "Do you know what she did the other day ... " Because, really, when it comes right down to it, the kids are the most interesting and rewarding part of your life.
She calls home at least once to make sure the kids haven't tied up the baby sitter and that the baby isn't crying uncontrollably.
She eats too fast and gets heartburn immediately because she can't shake the feeling that someone will start crying or need something at any second.
She rifles through her purse to find the "coupon" for dinner and a diaper, a baby sock and 15 receipts spill out onto the table.
She asks you if you recall whether one of the children pooped that day. You then engage in a 5 minute conversation about the consistency and frequency of the children's waste products and, based upon this knowledge, which foods you should start restricting.
She excuses herself from the table to "go potty." She takes her time. It's not every day she gets to go potty alone or without someone banging on the door.
She is wearing maternity pants because they are the nicest pair of pants she owns that actually fit her.
She yawns. A lot.
You sit side by side in utter silence sipping coffee and reading magazines at a bookstore because you relish the quiet and the abundance of magazines that haven't been mauled by children.
And ...
Even though you both need a break from the kids, most of your sentences start with "Do you know what she did the other day ... " Because, really, when it comes right down to it, the kids are the most interesting and rewarding part of your life.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
One day
One day I will wake up, stretch, yawn and leisurely get out of bed instead of hitting the floor at the sound of a fussy infant or an obliviously happy toddler exhorting her big brother to wake up.
One day I will put on clothes and wear them all day long without someone using them as their personal handkerchief.
One day I will walk down the hall upstairs and not be assaulted by the smell of urine-soaked diapers. (soon I hope?)
One day I will make breakfast for one person—myself—and none of what's prepared will wind up on the floor, the window, the ceiling or in someone's hair.
One day I will put deodorant on and brush my teeth shortly after getting out of bed instead of rushing back in from the van to do this after strapping the kids in their car seats. Maybe one day I'll even take a shower upon awakening.
One day I will grab my purse, my keys and my coat and get in my car (anything but a minivan) and buckle in only myself. I will drive in utter silence and will not have to explain the rules of the road or have them dictated by a precocious 4 year old.
One day I will not have to put up a baby gate, close the kitchen doors and secure the baby (or even take him with me) just to ensure the children's safety while I go to the bathroom. In fact, one day I'll go potty, I mean, to the bathroom all alone.
One day I will walk into the TV room and the ottomans won't be overturned and there will not be a perfectly straight line of cars on the sofa. (The irony of this never escapes me.)
One day I will set a cup of hot tea on an end table and eat a cookie in the living room instead of putting the tea on the highest shelf and eating cookies in the hall closet.
One day my conversations with my husband will not revolve around poop, pee pee accidents, time outs, pacifiers, the status of the laundry or the location of Dennis the monkey, Professor Gilbert (the cat) or Princess Piggy.
One day, at dinnertime, I will feed and cut food for only myself and I will not get up to fulfill one more request for icy water.
One day my husband and I will go out to eat and the dinner conversation will not turn to the plots of such books as Owl Babies and Little One Step.
One day my exercise routine will not include bending, squatting, lifting or sweeping the floor.
One night I will slip into bed, flip on a lamp and read a book that has nothing to do with how to get children to sleep, obey or eat.
One night I will drift off to sleep without freezing every time a child rolls over or coughs or whimpers.
One day, maybe a beautiful fall day like today, I will cook a pumpkin pie and prep Thanksgiving dinner without maneuvering around a sleeping infant in a sling. Maybe on that day I will be preparing for the arrival of my grown children—because they will not be living at home. I'll probably be looking forward to a house filled with noise and chaos. And I may even cut someone's meat at our holiday meal just for old time's sake.
One day I will put on clothes and wear them all day long without someone using them as their personal handkerchief.
One day I will walk down the hall upstairs and not be assaulted by the smell of urine-soaked diapers. (soon I hope?)
One day I will make breakfast for one person—myself—and none of what's prepared will wind up on the floor, the window, the ceiling or in someone's hair.
One day I will put deodorant on and brush my teeth shortly after getting out of bed instead of rushing back in from the van to do this after strapping the kids in their car seats. Maybe one day I'll even take a shower upon awakening.
One day I will grab my purse, my keys and my coat and get in my car (anything but a minivan) and buckle in only myself. I will drive in utter silence and will not have to explain the rules of the road or have them dictated by a precocious 4 year old.
One day I will not have to put up a baby gate, close the kitchen doors and secure the baby (or even take him with me) just to ensure the children's safety while I go to the bathroom. In fact, one day I'll go potty, I mean, to the bathroom all alone.
One day I will walk into the TV room and the ottomans won't be overturned and there will not be a perfectly straight line of cars on the sofa. (The irony of this never escapes me.)
One day I will set a cup of hot tea on an end table and eat a cookie in the living room instead of putting the tea on the highest shelf and eating cookies in the hall closet.
One day my conversations with my husband will not revolve around poop, pee pee accidents, time outs, pacifiers, the status of the laundry or the location of Dennis the monkey, Professor Gilbert (the cat) or Princess Piggy.
One day, at dinnertime, I will feed and cut food for only myself and I will not get up to fulfill one more request for icy water.
One day my husband and I will go out to eat and the dinner conversation will not turn to the plots of such books as Owl Babies and Little One Step.
One day my exercise routine will not include bending, squatting, lifting or sweeping the floor.
One night I will slip into bed, flip on a lamp and read a book that has nothing to do with how to get children to sleep, obey or eat.
One night I will drift off to sleep without freezing every time a child rolls over or coughs or whimpers.
One day, maybe a beautiful fall day like today, I will cook a pumpkin pie and prep Thanksgiving dinner without maneuvering around a sleeping infant in a sling. Maybe on that day I will be preparing for the arrival of my grown children—because they will not be living at home. I'll probably be looking forward to a house filled with noise and chaos. And I may even cut someone's meat at our holiday meal just for old time's sake.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Interior decorating for parents
My house looks nothing like it did when we were first married, or even the way it did a few months ago. It's actually less cluttered and the space better organized now than ever—very few knick knacks, more open space, more storage areas, less useless junk. We've found that you don't need more stuff and you don't need much fancy when you have kids. Just pack up every gift from your wedding for the next 10 years or so and stick with whatever dishes, flatware and furniture you had when you got married. If you've already bought new furniture, put it in storage and visit your local thrift shop. Same goes for dishes.
Over the past four years, we've rearranged our house and pared down our supplies every few months just to keep a step ahead of the kids. As you'll see, "de-decorating" the house is an ongoing process. Here are a some of my interior decorating and home tips for those with babies or about to have babies:
Doors on the kitchen: When we first looked at our current house with a real estate agent, we commented that the doors on the kitchen would be in our way and besides, we preferred to have a more open floor plan. We removed them soon after moving in. Our agent predicted that we'd miss them once we had kids. We did. Jim put them back up a few months ago as Dutch doors when the kitchen started to resemble a busy hive and the queen bee became very agitated. Unfortunately, Big Brother can open both doors and Girlface can open one. Next up? Locks for the doors.
Carpet: No matter how nasty your carpet becomes, try to hold out on a new flooring until the last one is potty trained. Best to wait, too, until they can reasonably be expected to carry a drink without spilling and have a snack without turning their immediate surroundings into a pigsty.
Funiture: I mistyped that last word but decided to keep it that way since that is really what our furniture has become. Stick with whatever hand-me-down stuff you had when you got married. Our children climb, stand and jump on furniture and no amount of correction or scolding seems to work. Not only that, this furniture will be the scene of countless dirty diaper changes. (After a while, you'll just be too damn tired to trudge to that fancy, expensive changing table.) The furniture also will be puked and peed on, have snacks ground into its fabric and tucked in every crevice, and have more drinks spilled on it than a barroom floor. So we have my grandfather's recliner plus a three piece living room set that Jim got used from his sister.
A word about entertainment centers and stereo equipment: These items are like crack to young children. They can't keep resist touching all the buttons and dials. It was my kids' first stop upon learning to crawl. We've finally hit upon a solution. Our flatscreen TV is mounted on the wall and the stereo equipment is in the recently constructed hall closet. We control the system through an RF remote sensor. No entertainment center also means one less item to dust. The whole set up is the fanciest thing we own (just in case you're thinking of robbing us). I'm not saying everyone should do this; it's just an idea. You'll figure out your own solution soon enough.
Ditch the coffee and end tables: These clutter-gathering forehead gougers are totally unnecessary. But where will I put my magazines, newspapers, that dust-collecting piece of junk I got in Aruba, drink coaster, drinks? You won't be reading magazines and newspapers nor will you be lounging about with a drink of any kind let alone setting it down near a roving toddler hell bent on destruction. And that precious knick knack? It will be broken two seconds after your little darling learns to pull himself up on the table which he's already hit his head on a hundred times whilst crawling under.
Dining room furniture: Don't buy any. Wait until your kids are at least 10 years old to have a formal dining room. We bought an eight-piece, Mission-style dining room set with a china cabinet to store all our beautiful wedding gifts. Seven years later, it is childproofed to the hilt and when those devices failed, we were forced to zip tie the door handles together (hence WE can't even get into the cabinet without heavy machinery). The dining room table has grooves in it that gather dust and play dough crumbs. The dining room chairs are fabric covered and disgusting. They need to be recovered with fabric and 1 mil plastic sheeting. We should have gone with our original plan to make it into a sitting room. At least then we could put up the baby gate, hide from the children and let them have the rest of the house.
Eat in kitchen: My old boss made a point to discuss this critical feature with me upon my engagement to Jim. She was so very wise; I go from kitchen counter and fridge to table about 20 times during each meal. Be sure you have one in your house even if it means knocking down a wall to create one. The EIK is where do most of our eating, except on Fridays after Parents Morning Out when the kids and I eat Micky D's chicken nuggets in the dining room on paper plates. My kids think that's just as fancy as can be. And speaking of fancy ...
Dinnerware: Resist the temptation to have any silverware or dishes that match or that you find attractive in a way. The minute you develop a fondness for any of these things, they will be lost, broken or thrown in the trash. When my husband and I first got married, he had an assortment of plates and bowls of all different sizes, shapes and colors. Same thing with the silverware. It made me twitch. It looked like he bought cast offs from a little old lady's garage sale. We kept only two from that "set," and only because they matched the new set. That set has been broken and chipped from heavy use. Our silverware collection gets thinner and thinner with each passing toddler who finds the trash can the most fascinating device in the house.
Best way to organize things? Baskets and shelves for toys. Toddlers just LOVE putting in and removing items from baskets (it doesn't even matter what the item is). Adults' books up high, toys and kids' books down low. Everything else under lock and key.
Best way to arrange rooms? With lots of open spaces and minimal furniture. What furniture you do have should line the walls and preferably be bolted to them.
And don't buy too many toys (remember my feelings on toys?). Save that money for the fabulous new flooring, dinnerware and furniture you'll buy later.
Over the past four years, we've rearranged our house and pared down our supplies every few months just to keep a step ahead of the kids. As you'll see, "de-decorating" the house is an ongoing process. Here are a some of my interior decorating and home tips for those with babies or about to have babies:
Doors on the kitchen: When we first looked at our current house with a real estate agent, we commented that the doors on the kitchen would be in our way and besides, we preferred to have a more open floor plan. We removed them soon after moving in. Our agent predicted that we'd miss them once we had kids. We did. Jim put them back up a few months ago as Dutch doors when the kitchen started to resemble a busy hive and the queen bee became very agitated. Unfortunately, Big Brother can open both doors and Girlface can open one. Next up? Locks for the doors.
Carpet: No matter how nasty your carpet becomes, try to hold out on a new flooring until the last one is potty trained. Best to wait, too, until they can reasonably be expected to carry a drink without spilling and have a snack without turning their immediate surroundings into a pigsty.
Funiture: I mistyped that last word but decided to keep it that way since that is really what our furniture has become. Stick with whatever hand-me-down stuff you had when you got married. Our children climb, stand and jump on furniture and no amount of correction or scolding seems to work. Not only that, this furniture will be the scene of countless dirty diaper changes. (After a while, you'll just be too damn tired to trudge to that fancy, expensive changing table.) The furniture also will be puked and peed on, have snacks ground into its fabric and tucked in every crevice, and have more drinks spilled on it than a barroom floor. So we have my grandfather's recliner plus a three piece living room set that Jim got used from his sister.
A word about entertainment centers and stereo equipment: These items are like crack to young children. They can't keep resist touching all the buttons and dials. It was my kids' first stop upon learning to crawl. We've finally hit upon a solution. Our flatscreen TV is mounted on the wall and the stereo equipment is in the recently constructed hall closet. We control the system through an RF remote sensor. No entertainment center also means one less item to dust. The whole set up is the fanciest thing we own (just in case you're thinking of robbing us). I'm not saying everyone should do this; it's just an idea. You'll figure out your own solution soon enough.
Ditch the coffee and end tables: These clutter-gathering forehead gougers are totally unnecessary. But where will I put my magazines, newspapers, that dust-collecting piece of junk I got in Aruba, drink coaster, drinks? You won't be reading magazines and newspapers nor will you be lounging about with a drink of any kind let alone setting it down near a roving toddler hell bent on destruction. And that precious knick knack? It will be broken two seconds after your little darling learns to pull himself up on the table which he's already hit his head on a hundred times whilst crawling under.
Dining room furniture: Don't buy any. Wait until your kids are at least 10 years old to have a formal dining room. We bought an eight-piece, Mission-style dining room set with a china cabinet to store all our beautiful wedding gifts. Seven years later, it is childproofed to the hilt and when those devices failed, we were forced to zip tie the door handles together (hence WE can't even get into the cabinet without heavy machinery). The dining room table has grooves in it that gather dust and play dough crumbs. The dining room chairs are fabric covered and disgusting. They need to be recovered with fabric and 1 mil plastic sheeting. We should have gone with our original plan to make it into a sitting room. At least then we could put up the baby gate, hide from the children and let them have the rest of the house.
Eat in kitchen: My old boss made a point to discuss this critical feature with me upon my engagement to Jim. She was so very wise; I go from kitchen counter and fridge to table about 20 times during each meal. Be sure you have one in your house even if it means knocking down a wall to create one. The EIK is where do most of our eating, except on Fridays after Parents Morning Out when the kids and I eat Micky D's chicken nuggets in the dining room on paper plates. My kids think that's just as fancy as can be. And speaking of fancy ...
Dinnerware: Resist the temptation to have any silverware or dishes that match or that you find attractive in a way. The minute you develop a fondness for any of these things, they will be lost, broken or thrown in the trash. When my husband and I first got married, he had an assortment of plates and bowls of all different sizes, shapes and colors. Same thing with the silverware. It made me twitch. It looked like he bought cast offs from a little old lady's garage sale. We kept only two from that "set," and only because they matched the new set. That set has been broken and chipped from heavy use. Our silverware collection gets thinner and thinner with each passing toddler who finds the trash can the most fascinating device in the house.
Best way to organize things? Baskets and shelves for toys. Toddlers just LOVE putting in and removing items from baskets (it doesn't even matter what the item is). Adults' books up high, toys and kids' books down low. Everything else under lock and key.
Best way to arrange rooms? With lots of open spaces and minimal furniture. What furniture you do have should line the walls and preferably be bolted to them.
And don't buy too many toys (remember my feelings on toys?). Save that money for the fabulous new flooring, dinnerware and furniture you'll buy later.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Idling away
I've often wondered and worried over the past few years whether I should be playing more with my kids instead getting them to do the housework for me, I mean, with me and dragging them around town on errands. Should I spend most of my waking hours sitting on the floor teaching and playing and reading and talking with my kids? Should I plan every activity with their comfort and convenience in mind?
Here are the answers I've come up with respectively: Only if it's something I enjoy doing, too. And only if their discomfort and inconvenience will exponentially increase mine.
It sounds heartless in this day and age of hyper parenting to say what I just said. But, it's really not. The best thing I can do for my kids sometimes is to just leave them alone most of the time and take them along the rest of the time. Heck, I'm even finding that sometimes I need to leave the baby alone. Recently my 2 month old began sucking his two fingers to calm himself down when I can't get to him fast enough. Leaving Girlface, our 18 month old, is a dangerous proposition, but I have Girlface-proofing down to a science. She entertains herself in her own bedroom quite nicely. The other day, I left Big Brother alone in his room for more than an hour. He dug it, even though it was an extended time out. He went to the bathroom himself, returned to his room and closed the door.
And, honestly, I don't really enjoy playing with trains or play dough or making crafts. If making crafts were my thing, I'm sure my kids would be interested in it. It's not that I never play with my kids. It's just that I don't make that my main objective. It's not the only way to make my kids feel important and loved. I do that mainly by making them a part of the daily real activities around here.
Self-entertainment and self-sufficiency is important in this house and it's not because we don't care about our kids. It's important because we care about our kids. We don't want kids who are dependent on constant structure and external stimulation. We don't want kids who exist outside the realm of household duty. We want kids who can make their own fun and motivate themselves yet understand that life is not all fun and games, that chores are a shared responsibility and that work comes before play.
This evening, I felt like cooling off in the family-size blow up pool in our yard. So I did. The kids came, too, and we all had a fantastic time chilling out, literally, in the backyard. And when I felt like getting out, I got out. They didn't spend the rest of their time in the pool begging me to get in like they usually do. I sat in a lawn chair talking to baby The Baby (all of 2 months old), who is quite the conversationalist these days, I must say. I just felt more like, well, a human being instead of a babysitter.
As for the housework, over the years, we've given Big Brother little jobs to do here and there. He was "taught" to sweep the kitchen floor shortly after he started walking. Currently, his favorite chore is what my husband calls the "squoosh and push." It involves putting rolls of toilet paper into a basket in our downstairs bathroom. He's real good at it, too; doesn't need a lick of help. I just set the package of toilet paper in the hall and he goes to it. I don't even have to trick my son, Tom Sawyer style, by telling him how much fun these chores are. Nor do I have to bribe him. My son knows he's doing work and he's proud. Today he was delighted to be helping me make a big "dentist" in the pile of laundry. "We've got a lot of work today," he repeated excitedly.
The truth is that my kids want to be adults. They want to do grown up things. They want to use adult forks and spoons instead of the plastic or miniature metal utensils that barely work. They want to use the big broom and mop. They want to use the bar rags to clean the table and the baby wipes to shine the trash can. They want to stir and mix and crack eggs and add ingredients, real ingredients, to whatever I'm making. They want to sit in real chairs, not child-size chairs, booster seats and high chairs. They just use the child-sized chairs to see over the Dutch door in the kitchen or turn on lights and fans or look out the top part of the windows. More often than not, they don't want the kid's view of the world. They want to see what we see and do what we do.
And part of being an adult is slogging through the grocery store or to the post office or the bank, even when you don't want to.
The way I see it, I'm teaching my kids to be adults and my kids are teaching me to relax and just be a kid sometimes. It's a delicate balance.
Here are the answers I've come up with respectively: Only if it's something I enjoy doing, too. And only if their discomfort and inconvenience will exponentially increase mine.
It sounds heartless in this day and age of hyper parenting to say what I just said. But, it's really not. The best thing I can do for my kids sometimes is to just leave them alone most of the time and take them along the rest of the time. Heck, I'm even finding that sometimes I need to leave the baby alone. Recently my 2 month old began sucking his two fingers to calm himself down when I can't get to him fast enough. Leaving Girlface, our 18 month old, is a dangerous proposition, but I have Girlface-proofing down to a science. She entertains herself in her own bedroom quite nicely. The other day, I left Big Brother alone in his room for more than an hour. He dug it, even though it was an extended time out. He went to the bathroom himself, returned to his room and closed the door.
And, honestly, I don't really enjoy playing with trains or play dough or making crafts. If making crafts were my thing, I'm sure my kids would be interested in it. It's not that I never play with my kids. It's just that I don't make that my main objective. It's not the only way to make my kids feel important and loved. I do that mainly by making them a part of the daily real activities around here.
Self-entertainment and self-sufficiency is important in this house and it's not because we don't care about our kids. It's important because we care about our kids. We don't want kids who are dependent on constant structure and external stimulation. We don't want kids who exist outside the realm of household duty. We want kids who can make their own fun and motivate themselves yet understand that life is not all fun and games, that chores are a shared responsibility and that work comes before play.
This evening, I felt like cooling off in the family-size blow up pool in our yard. So I did. The kids came, too, and we all had a fantastic time chilling out, literally, in the backyard. And when I felt like getting out, I got out. They didn't spend the rest of their time in the pool begging me to get in like they usually do. I sat in a lawn chair talking to baby The Baby (all of 2 months old), who is quite the conversationalist these days, I must say. I just felt more like, well, a human being instead of a babysitter.
As for the housework, over the years, we've given Big Brother little jobs to do here and there. He was "taught" to sweep the kitchen floor shortly after he started walking. Currently, his favorite chore is what my husband calls the "squoosh and push." It involves putting rolls of toilet paper into a basket in our downstairs bathroom. He's real good at it, too; doesn't need a lick of help. I just set the package of toilet paper in the hall and he goes to it. I don't even have to trick my son, Tom Sawyer style, by telling him how much fun these chores are. Nor do I have to bribe him. My son knows he's doing work and he's proud. Today he was delighted to be helping me make a big "dentist" in the pile of laundry. "We've got a lot of work today," he repeated excitedly.
The truth is that my kids want to be adults. They want to do grown up things. They want to use adult forks and spoons instead of the plastic or miniature metal utensils that barely work. They want to use the big broom and mop. They want to use the bar rags to clean the table and the baby wipes to shine the trash can. They want to stir and mix and crack eggs and add ingredients, real ingredients, to whatever I'm making. They want to sit in real chairs, not child-size chairs, booster seats and high chairs. They just use the child-sized chairs to see over the Dutch door in the kitchen or turn on lights and fans or look out the top part of the windows. More often than not, they don't want the kid's view of the world. They want to see what we see and do what we do.
And part of being an adult is slogging through the grocery store or to the post office or the bank, even when you don't want to.
The way I see it, I'm teaching my kids to be adults and my kids are teaching me to relax and just be a kid sometimes. It's a delicate balance.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The other adult in the house
If I ever appear to be talking to myself, I don't have a blue tooth and I'm not crazy. I'm just talking to God. Some days he's the only adult around until my husband gets home. And I'm pretty sure he's listening because I haven't been on the evening news yet as the crazy-exhausted mommy who drove her minivan full of kids into a ditch.
However, my conversations with God are often full of "Yeah buts ... " and sarcasm. It seems irreverent, I know, but, sometimes, it's the only way he and I get to talk. And I think he knows that and meets me where I am. Many of our conversations lately sound like this:
God, are you sure about this three kids business? I mean, my husband is back at work and I'm ALONE with them.
You're not alone. You've got me. And besides, you said you wanted kids.
Yeah, but they're so close in age and I'm getting old. And gray. And really tired. And one of them pooped his pants the other day.
You wanted three of them, remember?
Well, if we had stuck to my plan we'd have had kids two years earlier than we got them and I wouldn't be so, well, old, you know.
If we'd gone with your plan, we wouldn't be having nearly as many conversations, now would we?
Touche. Can you please just make it so I don't end up on the 6 o'clock news? I don't want to be THAT mom.
I'll give you the good sense not to get behind the wheel when you're exhausted, okay?
So, that's a "No" on making my children sleep longer?
Silence ...
Great.
However, my conversations with God are often full of "Yeah buts ... " and sarcasm. It seems irreverent, I know, but, sometimes, it's the only way he and I get to talk. And I think he knows that and meets me where I am. Many of our conversations lately sound like this:
God, are you sure about this three kids business? I mean, my husband is back at work and I'm ALONE with them.
You're not alone. You've got me. And besides, you said you wanted kids.
Yeah, but they're so close in age and I'm getting old. And gray. And really tired. And one of them pooped his pants the other day.
You wanted three of them, remember?
Well, if we had stuck to my plan we'd have had kids two years earlier than we got them and I wouldn't be so, well, old, you know.
If we'd gone with your plan, we wouldn't be having nearly as many conversations, now would we?
Touche. Can you please just make it so I don't end up on the 6 o'clock news? I don't want to be THAT mom.
I'll give you the good sense not to get behind the wheel when you're exhausted, okay?
So, that's a "No" on making my children sleep longer?
Silence ...
Great.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Reading just happens ... really.
A segment this evening was about making a reading area for children. The host covered different types of shelving, lighting and other ambiance-enhancing items. She suggests having comfy pillows, reading mats and small LED lights (which don't emit any heat) - mostly from IKEA, of course. She also imparted the importance of having a place in your home where parents and children can read together.
Then she described how her son loves Godzilla and how they read books about Godzilla together and how they talk about the story afterward. To which my husband said, "Yeah, and then he stomps all over the pillows and hits his sister with them, right?" She went on to talk about how she and her son "made" their own book and hung it on a bulletin board in his reading corner.
After listening to this, I'm convinced this woman is lying about having children or is on Prozac or her kids are on some sort of drug.
Let me first say this: There is no such thing as confining one activity, like reading, to an "area" when you have children. They are like a gas ... they take up all available space. Try as I may to make distinct play areas for the children, their toys wind up in the kitchen, the bathroom, the hallway, my bathtub, their bathtub, beneath my bed, in the hampers, in the sink, under the dining room table ... well, you get the idea. Everywhere I look on my evening cleanup jaunt, there's a toy mingling with the dust bunnies. Some nights, to avoid bending over one more time, I just leave them to enjoy each other's company on the floor.
Anyhow, here's what happens when I read my son a book about his favorite topic: cars. He shouts, "Gotta get my cars" then runs them up and down my legs and arms and in my hair and throughout the roads in the book, making vroom-vroom noises the whole time. Oddly enough, despite the seemingly distracted behavior, he can later retell the story.
We do have a few shelves with books within the kids reach. Here's what happens: Every morning, Godzilla-ette clears books from the shelf in Big Brother's room, then moves on to the shelves in her bedroom and the living room. She does bring me books and lets me read to her, though, unlike her brother at that age who was more interested in, well, anything else. And as for making his own book? His attention span for anything remotely crafty is maybe 2 minutes. Then his sister would get a hold of his craft and try to eat it.We have a tent with pillows and a blanket in it for the kids to chill out in. Here's what happens: They rough house in the tent, hit each other with pillows and roll around. Eventually one hurts the other, everyone's in tears and I have a headache.
As for having a place for children and parents to read together, well, reading happens everywhere in our house from the kitchen table over breakfast and lunch to the bathroom on the potty and in the tub to the bedroom to the living room and even sometimes while he's watching television (yes, my kid watches television and still managed to develop an interest in books. imagine that.).
Seems to me that the mantra to read, read, read to your children as early as possible is rather overbearing. If you do have a kid who is interested in books early on, great. If not, no big deal. That interest will develop whether or not you reserve an "area" for them to engage in that activity or incorporate reading into your routines. If my kid is more interested in eating the book or flipping the pages, forcing the activity on them will likely turn them off to reading, wouldn't you think? This incessant read, read, read mantra seems to be born of a deep-seated mistrust in the innate ability and desire of children to learn with little prompting from adults.
Here's the dirty little secret: You and what you are doing is the most interesting thing in the world to your kids. (Seriously, it's why they stalk me when I'm doing laundry or emptying the dishwasher or making dinner or reorganizing a cabinet. And later, when I could reasonably expect some help with these things, they will, of course, be completely uninterested.) If they see you reading, then they'll want to read, too. No special area complete with IKEA furniture is required, really.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Happy New Year, honestly
Ah, the holidays are finally over. I'm not one to rue the passing of time, at least not these days. I rather enjoy it, often even savor it, especially when it gets us past such pesky periods as the seasonal joy manufactured by a consumer culture that desecrates all that is sacred. No need to adjust your perception. I've been a bit grinchy this year and have been looking forward to getting back to our usual routine.
Today we nestled back in. Monday is library day and drive by the fire department day and stalk the trash man day - you know, all the things that just delight 3 year old boys and barely one-year-old little girls tolerate. It may sound boring to some, but these days I enjoy routine more than chaos. I suppose there's something between those two extremes. However, living between those extremes is a goal but not yet a strong point for me.
There was a time, though, when I unknowingly preferred chaos to normalcy. It was about a year after I stopped drinking when I realized this. See, I had just started a new job, was dating a wonderful man who is now my husband and was sharing a lovely house with a friend. Happy with two out of three, I promptly decided that the job was just all wrong. It had to be. I'd been there all of two months and I could just feel it. (Incidentally, I stayed there for three years, now consider it one of the best jobs I'd ever had and wish I'd appreciated it more at the time. Shows what I know.) I began to doubt my entire career path and life and just wanted everything to be different and better RIGHT AWAY. I applied for every job that I was remotely qualified for. I even looked into getting my teaching certification and going into the classroom. And to further exacerbate my flight from living in the moment, I had just set up a 401K and the financial adviser wanted me to give a rough estimate of how long my savings needed to last me in retirement. In other words, I was being asked to estimate just when I thought I might die. Everything was wonderful, yet I was miserable and certain that something was wrong, even if I couldn't put my finger on it.
Someone suggested to me then that perhaps my unfamiliarity with normalcy was causing my uneasiness. "It's called serenity, honey. You'll get used to it," she said.
"Um, when exactly?" I wanted to know.
The answer? Right about the time you hit 10 years of sobriety.
The irony here is that the chaos of a household with two small children is my normal, my sanctuary, my place in the world where I feel like I'm doing the most good at this moment. I am content with what my life has become even on my worst days - those days when I feel utterly powerless over when and for how
I do apologize for the long lapse in posting here, probably my longest in quite some time. I could blame the holidays or say that, between my pregnancy and the two children, I spend most of my time in either the kitchen or the bathroom. The kitchen and the bathroom thing is actually closer to the truth ... seriously!
And it's certainly not due to a lack of subject matter. Believe me, it's been, um, interesting here. (I'll fill you in later.) It's due to a lack of subject matter that I think will portray me and my household in the most positive light possible while entertaining, enlightening and inspiring you, my dear readers (all 10 of you anyway).
That last admission was brought to you by my one and only, sort of, kind of New Year's resolution: BE MORE HONEST ABOUT MY FEELINGS. That means you may be hearing from me here on those days when I'm wondering why God thinks I'm capable of raising these children or when I truly believe God is mocking me for all those years I wished in vain to conceive these children or when I wish my children would leave me alone for just five friggin' minutes so I can pee in peace or brush my teeth or get the contact lens unstuck from my eyelid or when I'm considering selling them to gypsies in exchange for just a few more hours of sleep.
And the companion to that resolve, I'm sure, will be to not hurt anyone else's feelings or scare the hell out of innocent bystanders while I'm at it.
Today we nestled back in. Monday is library day and drive by the fire department day and stalk the trash man day - you know, all the things that just delight 3 year old boys and barely one-year-old little girls tolerate. It may sound boring to some, but these days I enjoy routine more than chaos. I suppose there's something between those two extremes. However, living between those extremes is a goal but not yet a strong point for me.
There was a time, though, when I unknowingly preferred chaos to normalcy. It was about a year after I stopped drinking when I realized this. See, I had just started a new job, was dating a wonderful man who is now my husband and was sharing a lovely house with a friend. Happy with two out of three, I promptly decided that the job was just all wrong. It had to be. I'd been there all of two months and I could just feel it. (Incidentally, I stayed there for three years, now consider it one of the best jobs I'd ever had and wish I'd appreciated it more at the time. Shows what I know.) I began to doubt my entire career path and life and just wanted everything to be different and better RIGHT AWAY. I applied for every job that I was remotely qualified for. I even looked into getting my teaching certification and going into the classroom. And to further exacerbate my flight from living in the moment, I had just set up a 401K and the financial adviser wanted me to give a rough estimate of how long my savings needed to last me in retirement. In other words, I was being asked to estimate just when I thought I might die. Everything was wonderful, yet I was miserable and certain that something was wrong, even if I couldn't put my finger on it.
Someone suggested to me then that perhaps my unfamiliarity with normalcy was causing my uneasiness. "It's called serenity, honey. You'll get used to it," she said.
"Um, when exactly?" I wanted to know.
The answer? Right about the time you hit 10 years of sobriety.
The irony here is that the chaos of a household with two small children is my normal, my sanctuary, my place in the world where I feel like I'm doing the most good at this moment. I am content with what my life has become even on my worst days - those days when I feel utterly powerless over when and for how
I do apologize for the long lapse in posting here, probably my longest in quite some time. I could blame the holidays or say that, between my pregnancy and the two children, I spend most of my time in either the kitchen or the bathroom. The kitchen and the bathroom thing is actually closer to the truth ... seriously!
And it's certainly not due to a lack of subject matter. Believe me, it's been, um, interesting here. (I'll fill you in later.) It's due to a lack of subject matter that I think will portray me and my household in the most positive light possible while entertaining, enlightening and inspiring you, my dear readers (all 10 of you anyway).
That last admission was brought to you by my one and only, sort of, kind of New Year's resolution: BE MORE HONEST ABOUT MY FEELINGS. That means you may be hearing from me here on those days when I'm wondering why God thinks I'm capable of raising these children or when I truly believe God is mocking me for all those years I wished in vain to conceive these children or when I wish my children would leave me alone for just five friggin' minutes so I can pee in peace or brush my teeth or get the contact lens unstuck from my eyelid or when I'm considering selling them to gypsies in exchange for just a few more hours of sleep.
And the companion to that resolve, I'm sure, will be to not hurt anyone else's feelings or scare the hell out of innocent bystanders while I'm at it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)