http://www.amazon.com/Must-Have-Wine-Toast-Motherhood/dp/0615716792/ref=lh_ni_t
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Must. Have.Wine.
At the risk of sounding like a self-promoting ego maniac, I'd like to direct your attention toward this book written by a new friend of mine, Leah Speer and her writing partner Katrina Epp. Great stories about motherhood - some poignant, some funny - all relatable. I was lucky enough to have a story chosen for it and am luckier still to have read the words of other moms who are trying to the best by their kids every day. Following is a link:
http://www.amazon.com/Must-Have-Wine-Toast-Motherhood/dp/0615716792/ref=lh_ni_t
http://www.amazon.com/Must-Have-Wine-Toast-Motherhood/dp/0615716792/ref=lh_ni_t
UGH Boots
This holiday season, I have been having a battle with myself. The good news is that since it is a situation of me versus me, I've won. The bad news is; I've also lost. When I lay out the details for you, it will seem extremely shallow and ridiculous but hopefully you'll come to understand my quandary and why I was at war with myself.
You see, for Christmas, I had decided to get both of my daughters a pair of Ugg boots. Let me give you some background on my experience with Uggs. They are a fantastic shoe. We all know from previous posts that I am no fashion plate. But please believe me when I say that I was one of the first people I know to own a pair of Uggs. I don't point this out in order to brag; I am simply stating a fact. Now, this was in the days before the Ugg boot craze. The shoes I had (my then-boyfriend-now-husband had them too) were not the boots but rather some clog-ish comfy shoes. No one had ever heard of Uggs and there they were, on my feet. Fast forward a few years and everywhere you go, people are wearing them - this time in boot form. Did I start a trend? Well, most likely, yes. It's what I do. That's an obvious joke for those of you who have had the misfortune of peering into my closet. But I say that because I need you to understand that I was not an Ugg bandwagoner (bandwagoner is totally a word).
Fast forward a few more years and now not only is everyone wearing these boots, but now everyone's kids are wearing these boots. And my six year old really, REALLY wants a pair. She has asked me simply for "boots" for Christmas - but I know which ones she means. All of her friends have them. All of her friends' friends have them. They are everywhere. So, I decided that I would get her and her sister a pair. They are very cute boots and go with practically everything. They will both get plenty of wear out them which is important because of the price. Speaking of price, when I looked into it, I was shocked at how much they cost. The ones I had owned over ten years ago were almost $100 so I should have guessed their value would have increased with the years. But I figured buying them in children's sizes would shave some off of the price. Perhaps it does, but not nearly enough.
These shoes are $120 dollars at minimum. I couldn't wrap my mind around spending that kind of money on a pair of shoes that would look new for the 10 seconds it would take to put them on for the very first time. As soon as my kids would have them on their feet they'd be scuffed, muddied, stained, and more or less ruined and I would be kicking myself for spending that much money. My father refers to decisions of that nature as "throwing money up a hog's ass".
So, bearing that in mind, I began to look for other brands. Off-brands. Knock-offs. I had a friend who told me that a local shop had Emu brand (very similar in style and quality to Uggs) on big-time sale. She told me that they were practically giving them away. In a dramatic fashion, she just said "75". Wow! 75% off? Sold! I arrived at the store only find out that the big-time sale price was actually $75.00. Not low enough. So, I pressed on. I decided that I would wait until Black Friday to try and find some decently priced Uggs. Of course, I wouldn't dare to go near any store on Black Friday but I knew these chains would also have good sales online. So, that day, I trolled around several sites and found some Uggs for right around $100. At a few different sites, I got as far as placing them in my cart, but I was just never able to pull the trigger. I decided to wait until Cyber Monday when the really good online deals would save me even more money.
Cyber Monday came and went with the same result - getting far enough to put Uggs in my cart, but never willing to actually make the purchase. Perhaps there would be some kind of Totally Marked Down Tuesday deal or Why Waste All Of Your Money Wednesday in the near future where I could find some brilliant deal that no one else was offering and that the general public was not aware of. In between almost buying all of these pairs of Uggs, I also went to sites that had boots that looked exactly like Uggs but were a fraction of the price. I went through the same routine of very nearly purchasing those, and then backing down. Why? Well, because I wanted my kids to have Uggs. Uggs are what everyone wears. Ugg is the recognizable brand. Uggs are what their friends have. Non-Uggs might get them teased. Emus wouldn't. Or some other acceptable brand that would be priced comparably to Uggs. But non-Uggs - non-expensively labeled shoes - would.
I can remember as a kid when Reebok high-tops were the hot shoe (please don't do the math). I really liked the looks of them and ended up in a shoe store with my mother where she was kind enough to buy a pair for me. What I didn't realize at the time, was that the store we were in was a local store called Kenney's. Kenney's was a shoe store with shoes that looked exactly like name brands but were not. So, we bought my high-tops and I wore them proudly. Unbeknownst to me, they weren't the right ones because they weren't Reeboks. Once that was brought to my attention by a classmate, I didn't like my beloved shoes anymore. The only thing that had changed about them was that I knew that the appropriate label wasn't on them. And I didn't want them anymore. What I had liked about them from the beginning was the style - the high-tops. What I now didn't like about them was the 1/8" label that was missing from them - a label I didn't realize was even supposed to be there in the first place.
Of course I was a kid and that's what kids do. Kids worry if they don't have the right clothes and the right friends and the right "things". Kids don't realize that "labels don't matter". But wait. I'm no longer a kid and apparently they still do. If they didn't, I would have run screaming from the Uggs and just bought the first attractive knock-offs I could find. I decided to search again, for what had to be the 49th time, to find a good pair of these boots that were now becoming my Captain Ahab-like obsession. And lo, I found a pair of Emus that had been marked down. I had also come across an online coupon so I got even more off of the price. I was able to find expensive boots at a really good price. So, I didn't have to compromise my standards by paying too much for a pair of boots that my kids would surely ruin. And I also didn't have to stoop to the depths of buying the "wrong" kind of boot for my kids. Their reputations would remain (in this instance) intact. A Christmas miracle!
A few days passed and then I experienced that sweet, sweet sound of my doorbell ringing after hearing a large truck; a delivery truck; come to a stop in front of my house. My awesome finds had arrived! I happily trotted the package upstairs and carefully opened the box. I needed to be sure the sizes I had chosen online were going to work. When I pulled each pair from the box, the first thing I noticed was a very big, very bright pink and black label on the back of each shoe.
It didn't say Emu.
And because the label was black and pink, it was practically flashing "THESE ARE NOT UGGS OR EMUS BUT SOME WEIRDO BRAND". My heart sank. I had visions of my kids getting the crap beaten out of them by the monkey bars - the other kids having ripped their off-brand shoes off of their feet and using them as weapons. I was going to have to return them and just throw my hands up in defeat and spend $120 on boots for a five and six year old. I even went back online to look at original order. The "Emu" I had spotted when placing the order was not the label but the type of fur used in the lining of the boots. I began searching for information about how to do a return. But I thought about it. I worried about it. I wondered what kind of message it would send to my children if I decided to go this route. Of course, they would have no idea about all of this inner-turmoil. All they would see would be the boots they had asked to receive as a Christmas gift. They wouldn't even notice the label or think anything about what it carried with it.
But I would know.
I would know that I made a decision based on my perception of what others would think if they noticed that my kids had the wrong boots. I would know that I spent what I considered to be an unreasonable amount of money on shoes for my children given how they treat many of their belongings and how rough they are on their shoes. I would know that the "right label" was more important than making a good decision for me. And I would know that I had failed them. How would this translate later on? If they treated someone badly because they weren't popular or cool, would I be okay with that? Absolutely not. Even though this was a situation involving a shoe, the theme of regarding labels or brand names or whatever you want to call it as paramount would most certainly carry over into other aspects of their lives. So, I knew I needed to set a good example for them and choose to get them a perfectly good pair of shoes that was priced within a range I felt was appropriate for them. I kept the shoes I had ordered. My kids will be happy to get them.
Please understand, this post is not an indictment on people who have purchased this particular brand of shoe for their child(ren). What people choose to do is not my concern and I am sure they had better reasons than mine for buying them. They are terrific shoes - excellent quality and very nice looking. Once it became clear to me however, that I was only looking at the Uggs because they were UGGS, I knew it wasn't right for me to get them. If I had purchased them, I think it somehow would perpetuate in my children the belief that the shoes are more important than the quality of the person wearing them. I pride myself on not being that way, so it was a blow to me to realize that it took so much energy and effort to make what should have been a very simple decision.
All of this over a damn pair of boots. What on earth am I going to do when it's time to get a car?!!
You see, for Christmas, I had decided to get both of my daughters a pair of Ugg boots. Let me give you some background on my experience with Uggs. They are a fantastic shoe. We all know from previous posts that I am no fashion plate. But please believe me when I say that I was one of the first people I know to own a pair of Uggs. I don't point this out in order to brag; I am simply stating a fact. Now, this was in the days before the Ugg boot craze. The shoes I had (my then-boyfriend-now-husband had them too) were not the boots but rather some clog-ish comfy shoes. No one had ever heard of Uggs and there they were, on my feet. Fast forward a few years and everywhere you go, people are wearing them - this time in boot form. Did I start a trend? Well, most likely, yes. It's what I do. That's an obvious joke for those of you who have had the misfortune of peering into my closet. But I say that because I need you to understand that I was not an Ugg bandwagoner (bandwagoner is totally a word).
Fast forward a few more years and now not only is everyone wearing these boots, but now everyone's kids are wearing these boots. And my six year old really, REALLY wants a pair. She has asked me simply for "boots" for Christmas - but I know which ones she means. All of her friends have them. All of her friends' friends have them. They are everywhere. So, I decided that I would get her and her sister a pair. They are very cute boots and go with practically everything. They will both get plenty of wear out them which is important because of the price. Speaking of price, when I looked into it, I was shocked at how much they cost. The ones I had owned over ten years ago were almost $100 so I should have guessed their value would have increased with the years. But I figured buying them in children's sizes would shave some off of the price. Perhaps it does, but not nearly enough.
These shoes are $120 dollars at minimum. I couldn't wrap my mind around spending that kind of money on a pair of shoes that would look new for the 10 seconds it would take to put them on for the very first time. As soon as my kids would have them on their feet they'd be scuffed, muddied, stained, and more or less ruined and I would be kicking myself for spending that much money. My father refers to decisions of that nature as "throwing money up a hog's ass".
So, bearing that in mind, I began to look for other brands. Off-brands. Knock-offs. I had a friend who told me that a local shop had Emu brand (very similar in style and quality to Uggs) on big-time sale. She told me that they were practically giving them away. In a dramatic fashion, she just said "75". Wow! 75% off? Sold! I arrived at the store only find out that the big-time sale price was actually $75.00. Not low enough. So, I pressed on. I decided that I would wait until Black Friday to try and find some decently priced Uggs. Of course, I wouldn't dare to go near any store on Black Friday but I knew these chains would also have good sales online. So, that day, I trolled around several sites and found some Uggs for right around $100. At a few different sites, I got as far as placing them in my cart, but I was just never able to pull the trigger. I decided to wait until Cyber Monday when the really good online deals would save me even more money.
Cyber Monday came and went with the same result - getting far enough to put Uggs in my cart, but never willing to actually make the purchase. Perhaps there would be some kind of Totally Marked Down Tuesday deal or Why Waste All Of Your Money Wednesday in the near future where I could find some brilliant deal that no one else was offering and that the general public was not aware of. In between almost buying all of these pairs of Uggs, I also went to sites that had boots that looked exactly like Uggs but were a fraction of the price. I went through the same routine of very nearly purchasing those, and then backing down. Why? Well, because I wanted my kids to have Uggs. Uggs are what everyone wears. Ugg is the recognizable brand. Uggs are what their friends have. Non-Uggs might get them teased. Emus wouldn't. Or some other acceptable brand that would be priced comparably to Uggs. But non-Uggs - non-expensively labeled shoes - would.
I can remember as a kid when Reebok high-tops were the hot shoe (please don't do the math). I really liked the looks of them and ended up in a shoe store with my mother where she was kind enough to buy a pair for me. What I didn't realize at the time, was that the store we were in was a local store called Kenney's. Kenney's was a shoe store with shoes that looked exactly like name brands but were not. So, we bought my high-tops and I wore them proudly. Unbeknownst to me, they weren't the right ones because they weren't Reeboks. Once that was brought to my attention by a classmate, I didn't like my beloved shoes anymore. The only thing that had changed about them was that I knew that the appropriate label wasn't on them. And I didn't want them anymore. What I had liked about them from the beginning was the style - the high-tops. What I now didn't like about them was the 1/8" label that was missing from them - a label I didn't realize was even supposed to be there in the first place.
Of course I was a kid and that's what kids do. Kids worry if they don't have the right clothes and the right friends and the right "things". Kids don't realize that "labels don't matter". But wait. I'm no longer a kid and apparently they still do. If they didn't, I would have run screaming from the Uggs and just bought the first attractive knock-offs I could find. I decided to search again, for what had to be the 49th time, to find a good pair of these boots that were now becoming my Captain Ahab-like obsession. And lo, I found a pair of Emus that had been marked down. I had also come across an online coupon so I got even more off of the price. I was able to find expensive boots at a really good price. So, I didn't have to compromise my standards by paying too much for a pair of boots that my kids would surely ruin. And I also didn't have to stoop to the depths of buying the "wrong" kind of boot for my kids. Their reputations would remain (in this instance) intact. A Christmas miracle!
A few days passed and then I experienced that sweet, sweet sound of my doorbell ringing after hearing a large truck; a delivery truck; come to a stop in front of my house. My awesome finds had arrived! I happily trotted the package upstairs and carefully opened the box. I needed to be sure the sizes I had chosen online were going to work. When I pulled each pair from the box, the first thing I noticed was a very big, very bright pink and black label on the back of each shoe.
It didn't say Emu.
And because the label was black and pink, it was practically flashing "THESE ARE NOT UGGS OR EMUS BUT SOME WEIRDO BRAND". My heart sank. I had visions of my kids getting the crap beaten out of them by the monkey bars - the other kids having ripped their off-brand shoes off of their feet and using them as weapons. I was going to have to return them and just throw my hands up in defeat and spend $120 on boots for a five and six year old. I even went back online to look at original order. The "Emu" I had spotted when placing the order was not the label but the type of fur used in the lining of the boots. I began searching for information about how to do a return. But I thought about it. I worried about it. I wondered what kind of message it would send to my children if I decided to go this route. Of course, they would have no idea about all of this inner-turmoil. All they would see would be the boots they had asked to receive as a Christmas gift. They wouldn't even notice the label or think anything about what it carried with it.
But I would know.
I would know that I made a decision based on my perception of what others would think if they noticed that my kids had the wrong boots. I would know that I spent what I considered to be an unreasonable amount of money on shoes for my children given how they treat many of their belongings and how rough they are on their shoes. I would know that the "right label" was more important than making a good decision for me. And I would know that I had failed them. How would this translate later on? If they treated someone badly because they weren't popular or cool, would I be okay with that? Absolutely not. Even though this was a situation involving a shoe, the theme of regarding labels or brand names or whatever you want to call it as paramount would most certainly carry over into other aspects of their lives. So, I knew I needed to set a good example for them and choose to get them a perfectly good pair of shoes that was priced within a range I felt was appropriate for them. I kept the shoes I had ordered. My kids will be happy to get them.
Please understand, this post is not an indictment on people who have purchased this particular brand of shoe for their child(ren). What people choose to do is not my concern and I am sure they had better reasons than mine for buying them. They are terrific shoes - excellent quality and very nice looking. Once it became clear to me however, that I was only looking at the Uggs because they were UGGS, I knew it wasn't right for me to get them. If I had purchased them, I think it somehow would perpetuate in my children the belief that the shoes are more important than the quality of the person wearing them. I pride myself on not being that way, so it was a blow to me to realize that it took so much energy and effort to make what should have been a very simple decision.
All of this over a damn pair of boots. What on earth am I going to do when it's time to get a car?!!
Friday, December 7, 2012
Christmas Tizzy
Well, it's been a little while since my last post. The main reason is because I'm in my annual how-the-heck-is-it-Christmas-already tizzy. I had intended to write a post about all that I am thankful for during Thanksgiving, but that is now a distant memory. I'm still thankful for all of those things I would have told you about, but I just don't have time to get into all of it. Just know that I am a very thankful and grateful person. K?
We did have a nice Thanksgiving. Mike and I started the day by running in the Turkey Trot here in Chattanooga. I'm not sure why we've never done that before. It was a fabulous idea - it completely erased all guilt I had about gorging myself on turkey and dressing later in the day. Also, it was the first race I had run that was more than a 5k. This was 5 miles. I had never done that before so I was proud that I hit my goal - to complete it inside 48 minutes. My actual time was 48:53 so I did it by the skin of my teeth. Of course, my friend Lara who ran with Mike and me had finished the race and read War And Peace by the time I crossed the finish line. But I was still proud of my accomplishment. Baby steps.
At any rate, I allowed that race to assuage the guilt I would have felt for my Thanksgiving dinner, the chips and dip I had with my turkey sandwich later that evening, the sausage biscuit I had the next morning, the spaghetti I ate Friday night, the steak nachos I inhaled at lunch the next day, the chili I ate with Fritos Scoops during the (gut-wrenching) Iron Bowl and the leftover-chili cheese and onion hot dogs - with more chips and dip! - I had for dinner Sunday. Yep, Thanks goodness I ran Thursday morning. Otherwise I could have been a total cow.
So, Thanksgiving came and went and now we are in the so-called hustle and bustle of Christmastime. It has taken me almost the two weeks that have passed since Thanksgiving to drag all of my Christmas decorations out of storage and put them up so that my house can be properly bedazzled. Poor Mike just shakes his head every time he notices a new wreath or other ornament perched on something that was previously uncovered. It's time once again for him to suffer through my love of Christmas and my Nazi-like approach to decoration and tradition. I spent a lot of time last year describing all of that, so I won't put you through it again. Plus, who has the time?
In my attempts to get the house decorated, I have not been able to find time to do what is perhaps even more important - keeping the house clean. There must be a 1/2 inch layer of dust on every piece of furniture. It's thick enough to be noticeable but unfortunately not thick enough to be assumed to be decorative Christmas snow. It looks awful. And our aging dog keeps peeing and pooping in my dining room; sometimes multiple times a day; so our home fragrance is a mixture of Frasier Fir and feces. A lovely combination to mark this festive season. So, I do get to clean that up everyday, but have not yet managed to dust, vacuum or mop. Which is pretty gross considering there is canine waste where my family eats. (I do clean that up with a vinegar mixture so don't be too disgusted.)
I did find some time yesterday to sweep and vacuum the floors. Kate wanted to help which is so sweet. So sweet but also very inconvenient because I can do it better and faster. But, I have to encourage her to continue to want to help me and I want to reward the fact that she is nice enough to offer, so I let her. Within five minutes of "helping" she managed to knock over my 32 ounce jug of water which had been full at the time. She felt so bad and was so discouraged. I felt so sorry for her. I assured her that it was okay - that it was only water and totally not a big deal - but of course, now I had 32 ounces of water to clean up. Aaah, kids.
In addition to trying to find time to clean my house, yesterday I had agreed to bake 4 dozen cookies for Teacher Appreciation day which is being held Friday. So, I went to the store and got all of my ingredients and came home to begin the process. I could have just gone to a bakery, but I opted to make them myself. One, making them was going to be cheaper than buying them. And two, I really like these cookie bars I make. Selfishly, I wanted to make more than what was required so that we could keep some and enjoy them over the weekend. So, I went about beginning the process only to discover that I had failed to buy a key ingredient at the store. This happens to me ALL THE TIME. My friend Amber will chuckle at this as she is normally the one I call when I am making macaroni and cheese but have forgotten the macaroni or chicken and dumplings but have no chicken. I couldn't call her because each batch calls for one stick of butter and one stick of margarine (they are super healthy). Who has that much butter and margarine lying around? So I got to go to Wal-Mart for the second time yesterday which is the perfect opposite of a Christmas miracle.
I loathe going to Wal-Mart. I was there the other day (of course, since it is a daily or sometimes twice-daily adventure for me) and was reminded of how much I hate it. I was in line in the 20 Items Or Less lane behind an obese woman on a motorized scooter who clearly had more than 20 items, four of which were cans of FDS. I've complained about these products before and about having the visual of people using them so I won't get on that soap (or FDS) box again. But I will say that had she not inconsiderately gotten in the wrong line, I wouldn't have had to witness that and wonder what kind of horror was going on with her nether regions. So, maybe it's not Wal-Mart that I loathe but people.
Anyway, on my return trip to Wal-Mart I passed yet another Salvation Army bell ringer. This guy didn't realize I had been there earlier in the day and dropped my change into the bucket. He also didn't realize that I am there EVERY day and have already contributed quite a lot. Nor is he aware that everywhere I have been in the past two weeks I have been asked to donate a canned good or a dollar or a book or a coat or a toy or a meal - all of which I have done. Now, despite what these blogs and my tone may suggest, I am a caring person and do have a compassionate and charitable heart. But I am constantly giving, giving, giving because what else am I going to do?
"Would you like to donate a holiday meal to a family who can't afford one?"
What am I going to say?
"No, thanks."
"Would you like to give money to go toward the purchase of coats for children who do not have them this winter?"
"Well, it's really not been that cold so far, so no."
Of course I'm going to give those things. And of course I'll do it this time of year because I love Christmas and I can't stand the thought of people not having a Christmas of their own to celebrate. But when you get asked everywhere you go, it begins to add up. And when you've been to Wal-Mart twice in one day and you can sense the judging stare of the bell ringer as you walk by pretending to talk to someone on your cellphone so you'll have a good enough reason to just walk right past him, you begin to feel like not that great a person. On second thought, after re-reading this, I think maybe I'm not that great a person.
So this is what the pre-Christmas tizzy is like for me. Once it is all over I'll be all sad and nostalgic and wonder where it all went. I need to just breathe and not let it get too overwhelming and stressful. Writing this post has been fairly therapeutic for me and I hope that reading it hasn't been too disturbing for you. I can get up now and see about attacking the dust that remains on my furniture. But before that, from what I am hearing in the next room, it sounds like I'll be cleaning dog-vomit off of my bed. 'Tis the season...
We did have a nice Thanksgiving. Mike and I started the day by running in the Turkey Trot here in Chattanooga. I'm not sure why we've never done that before. It was a fabulous idea - it completely erased all guilt I had about gorging myself on turkey and dressing later in the day. Also, it was the first race I had run that was more than a 5k. This was 5 miles. I had never done that before so I was proud that I hit my goal - to complete it inside 48 minutes. My actual time was 48:53 so I did it by the skin of my teeth. Of course, my friend Lara who ran with Mike and me had finished the race and read War And Peace by the time I crossed the finish line. But I was still proud of my accomplishment. Baby steps.
At any rate, I allowed that race to assuage the guilt I would have felt for my Thanksgiving dinner, the chips and dip I had with my turkey sandwich later that evening, the sausage biscuit I had the next morning, the spaghetti I ate Friday night, the steak nachos I inhaled at lunch the next day, the chili I ate with Fritos Scoops during the (gut-wrenching) Iron Bowl and the leftover-chili cheese and onion hot dogs - with more chips and dip! - I had for dinner Sunday. Yep, Thanks goodness I ran Thursday morning. Otherwise I could have been a total cow.
So, Thanksgiving came and went and now we are in the so-called hustle and bustle of Christmastime. It has taken me almost the two weeks that have passed since Thanksgiving to drag all of my Christmas decorations out of storage and put them up so that my house can be properly bedazzled. Poor Mike just shakes his head every time he notices a new wreath or other ornament perched on something that was previously uncovered. It's time once again for him to suffer through my love of Christmas and my Nazi-like approach to decoration and tradition. I spent a lot of time last year describing all of that, so I won't put you through it again. Plus, who has the time?
In my attempts to get the house decorated, I have not been able to find time to do what is perhaps even more important - keeping the house clean. There must be a 1/2 inch layer of dust on every piece of furniture. It's thick enough to be noticeable but unfortunately not thick enough to be assumed to be decorative Christmas snow. It looks awful. And our aging dog keeps peeing and pooping in my dining room; sometimes multiple times a day; so our home fragrance is a mixture of Frasier Fir and feces. A lovely combination to mark this festive season. So, I do get to clean that up everyday, but have not yet managed to dust, vacuum or mop. Which is pretty gross considering there is canine waste where my family eats. (I do clean that up with a vinegar mixture so don't be too disgusted.)
I did find some time yesterday to sweep and vacuum the floors. Kate wanted to help which is so sweet. So sweet but also very inconvenient because I can do it better and faster. But, I have to encourage her to continue to want to help me and I want to reward the fact that she is nice enough to offer, so I let her. Within five minutes of "helping" she managed to knock over my 32 ounce jug of water which had been full at the time. She felt so bad and was so discouraged. I felt so sorry for her. I assured her that it was okay - that it was only water and totally not a big deal - but of course, now I had 32 ounces of water to clean up. Aaah, kids.
In addition to trying to find time to clean my house, yesterday I had agreed to bake 4 dozen cookies for Teacher Appreciation day which is being held Friday. So, I went to the store and got all of my ingredients and came home to begin the process. I could have just gone to a bakery, but I opted to make them myself. One, making them was going to be cheaper than buying them. And two, I really like these cookie bars I make. Selfishly, I wanted to make more than what was required so that we could keep some and enjoy them over the weekend. So, I went about beginning the process only to discover that I had failed to buy a key ingredient at the store. This happens to me ALL THE TIME. My friend Amber will chuckle at this as she is normally the one I call when I am making macaroni and cheese but have forgotten the macaroni or chicken and dumplings but have no chicken. I couldn't call her because each batch calls for one stick of butter and one stick of margarine (they are super healthy). Who has that much butter and margarine lying around? So I got to go to Wal-Mart for the second time yesterday which is the perfect opposite of a Christmas miracle.
I loathe going to Wal-Mart. I was there the other day (of course, since it is a daily or sometimes twice-daily adventure for me) and was reminded of how much I hate it. I was in line in the 20 Items Or Less lane behind an obese woman on a motorized scooter who clearly had more than 20 items, four of which were cans of FDS. I've complained about these products before and about having the visual of people using them so I won't get on that soap (or FDS) box again. But I will say that had she not inconsiderately gotten in the wrong line, I wouldn't have had to witness that and wonder what kind of horror was going on with her nether regions. So, maybe it's not Wal-Mart that I loathe but people.
Anyway, on my return trip to Wal-Mart I passed yet another Salvation Army bell ringer. This guy didn't realize I had been there earlier in the day and dropped my change into the bucket. He also didn't realize that I am there EVERY day and have already contributed quite a lot. Nor is he aware that everywhere I have been in the past two weeks I have been asked to donate a canned good or a dollar or a book or a coat or a toy or a meal - all of which I have done. Now, despite what these blogs and my tone may suggest, I am a caring person and do have a compassionate and charitable heart. But I am constantly giving, giving, giving because what else am I going to do?
"Would you like to donate a holiday meal to a family who can't afford one?"
What am I going to say?
"No, thanks."
"Would you like to give money to go toward the purchase of coats for children who do not have them this winter?"
"Well, it's really not been that cold so far, so no."
Of course I'm going to give those things. And of course I'll do it this time of year because I love Christmas and I can't stand the thought of people not having a Christmas of their own to celebrate. But when you get asked everywhere you go, it begins to add up. And when you've been to Wal-Mart twice in one day and you can sense the judging stare of the bell ringer as you walk by pretending to talk to someone on your cellphone so you'll have a good enough reason to just walk right past him, you begin to feel like not that great a person. On second thought, after re-reading this, I think maybe I'm not that great a person.
So this is what the pre-Christmas tizzy is like for me. Once it is all over I'll be all sad and nostalgic and wonder where it all went. I need to just breathe and not let it get too overwhelming and stressful. Writing this post has been fairly therapeutic for me and I hope that reading it hasn't been too disturbing for you. I can get up now and see about attacking the dust that remains on my furniture. But before that, from what I am hearing in the next room, it sounds like I'll be cleaning dog-vomit off of my bed. 'Tis the season...
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Picture Perfect
Yesterday was the worst day of 2012. How so, you ask? It was the day I designated "Christmas Card Picture Day" at the McCallie house. Within the last ten months, I've gotten two nice, news lenses for my camera. I got both lenses after seeing the incredible pictures my brother was taking. He helped Mike find them to give to me as gifts. There was just one thing that Mike didn't purchase when he got me these lenses. Talent. The reason my brother's pictures are so good is that he has an eye and a talent for picture taking. He's also one of those photographers who frequently adjusts shutter speed and changes his white balance and things of that nature. He understands his camera and what it can do. I just point and click. With seemingly disastrous results.
But it wasn't just the quality that was lacking. Oh, it was lacking alright. I'll get to that in a minute. The bigger issue was that by the time it was all over, I wanted to disown my children. If you read my last post, you saw me gushing over them and trying to bottle their enthusiasm. If their enthusiasm had been in a bottle yesterday, I would have thrown it onto the pavement so it would shatter into millions of teeny, tiny little pieces. If you read that post, you know I love them dearly. But I wasn't feeling the love yesterday. AT ALL.
I thought I had planned it perfectly. It was a gorgeous day. Sunny. Fall colors bursting all around us. I had both of them shower so they'd have nice, clean hair. I had done the laundry earlier in the day so their little outfits were clean, wrinkle-free and coordinated. I had even scouted out a location in the neighborhood. Pretty wildflowers. Fall leaves in the background. A couple of waterfalls. Very picturesque. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for starters, the girls and I showed up. It pretty much went downhill after that.
In an effort to avoid an ugly incident, I told the girls before we left that I had remembered last year's photo shoot and how badly it went and that my expectation was they this year's would be different. Well, it was different. It was actually worse. Last year, Kate goofed off the whole time and made silly faces every time the photographer tried to take a nice shot. I was getting so angry with her because her sister was always perfectly posed with a sweet smile. If Kate had just cooperated, we could have been done in 15 minutes. But no, she is exactly like I was as a kid so she was intent on ruining every shot with an idiotic expression on her face. I know that I must have threatened her with spankings at least four times during that hour-long shoot. I was certainly embarrassed by her ridiculous behavior but was also embarrassed by my own in front of the photographer. It was just all so stressful. With photo shoots, you get whatever you get. You only have the time the photographer is present to get whatever pictures you're going to get. And during the time she was there, Kate was acting like she had eaten 216 doughnuts shortly before the girl arrived to take the pictures. I decided during that experience that I would be the one to take the pictures for the next year's card.
So, here we were, roughly a year later. I was actually confident when we drove up to our scenic location - stupidly confident it turns out. I had explained my expectations and felt as though they clearly understood what kind of behavior I was looking for. They would be the perfect little children I was raising and obey my orders with and diligence and reverence. Once we got out of the vehicle however, Kate immediately ran off almost completely out of earshot. I hadn't even gotten the camera out of my car and she had already spazzed out. And Meg was pretty much jammed up my rear end - a tactic she has adopted to try and win favor with me if her sister is misbehaving.
"I stayed with you, Mama, isn't that so good?"
"Kate ran off but I did what you asked me to do, right, Mama?"
Yes, you little brown-noser, that's correct. Anyway, I called after Kate and demanded she come back up to a nice spot in front of some flowers. She did, so I felt myself calming down. She walked right up to Meg and I asked them to look natural. Well, of course, they don't know what that means - how to look "natural". Every time you take a child's picture they are begged to smile so they don't know how to stand there and not have a phony grin plastered across their face.
I asked for a few different poses.
Hold Hands.
Goes reasonably well. They can do that. Whew!
Put your arms around each other.
Kate puts Meg in a stranglehold. Meg screams at her sister. I scream at Kate.
Sit down back-to-back.
That means don't face each other.
That means looks away from each other and touch backs.
They finally get the pose, but since both kids have been cursed with my deplorable posture, they are both completely slumped over their legs.
Straight backs!
Kate slumps further.
Tall backs like in ballet.
Meg raises her shoulders as though she's in a Broadway musical having to over-emote the act of shrugging. At the same time, her eyes get really wide and her eyebrows almost touch the top of her hairline.
Relax and just kind of lean your backs into each other.
Kate flops back onto Meg so that Meg's chin is in the mulch.
I decided to try a new location. Every time I found a nice spot, the sun was such that it was directly in their eyes if they had their backs to some nice background scenery. I tried the ol' keep-your-eyes-closed-until-I-count-to-three-and-then-open-them-and-smile routine, but you can just imagine how those shots turned out.
I found a shady place and made a couple of adjustments to my camera so the pictures wouldn't be too dark. We tried the back-to-back thing again (because apparently I like chaos), this time with better results. I think I only had to yell 5-6 times (in the spirit of the holidays...). The main problem with this particular set-up was the precision of my lens. I didn't really notice it until I got home and uploaded the shots to my computer, but there were several weeds in the area. One in particular was positioned right in the foreground of the shot. Therefore, I have 17 pictures of this perfectly crisp tall, gangly weed with my two fuzzy children in the background. The lens captured every crease and dew drop of that weed. It's really quite lovely. It's just not quite what I had in mind for our Christmas card. ("Weed" wish you a merry Christmas anyone?)
After my inadvertent nature shoot, we moved to an area on some nice big rocks with the girls' backs to a waterfall. By this time, we had probably been at this thing for at least 30-45 minutes so the girls were really past their threshold for good behavior. I can't really blame them. I guess I should say that I shouldn't really blame them. To say I "cant" blame them gives off the impression that I didn't blame them which I absolutely did.
Kate started up with her crazy faces again and so an eager-to-please Meg joined right in (I guess this time she was eager to please Kate and not her Mama). When they would finally calm down, something would happen like Kate would step in front of Meg accidentally or Meg would sneeze. At no point were both girls looking in the same direction at the same time with both eyes open and a decent expression on their face. If ever there was a time for a Christmas miracle, this was it.
Also hindering this process was the fact that somehow between last year's shoot and this one, Meg has forgotten how to smile. Meg is actually quite photogenic. But, I have no idea what she was trying to accomplish yesterday. It was like a scared robot doing an impression of Jack Nicholson's "Joker". She was completely stiff and unnatural. She looked ridiculous. So on the off chance that Kate actually had a nice expression on her face instead of her best Phyllis Diller impression, Meg looked like a deer in headlights. A drunk deer.
At the end of it all, none of these things ended up mattering. The quality of the pictures I took just wasn't up to par. I mentioned my encounter with the weed, but I also never did get my settings right for the light I was in. I was so annoyed when I uploaded the images to my computer because even if I had gotten one decent shot (I didn't), I'd have to Photoshop the crap out of it to make it usable. So on top of being angry with my rambunctious children, I was depressed that I have these nice lenses and no immediate talent for using them. I do have an appointment with a photographer on December 2nd, but I was hoping to be done with my cards by then. I guess now she will have to witness me losing my patience all over again just as she did last year. This means, of course, that my Christmas cards will go out late this year since I likely won't even have proofs back until at least a week after that. So, until then, please enjoy some of my favorites from yesterday.
*I deleted the glorious shots of the weed before I had the idea to turn this into a post, so you won't get to experience the beauty and splendor that I captured.
But it wasn't just the quality that was lacking. Oh, it was lacking alright. I'll get to that in a minute. The bigger issue was that by the time it was all over, I wanted to disown my children. If you read my last post, you saw me gushing over them and trying to bottle their enthusiasm. If their enthusiasm had been in a bottle yesterday, I would have thrown it onto the pavement so it would shatter into millions of teeny, tiny little pieces. If you read that post, you know I love them dearly. But I wasn't feeling the love yesterday. AT ALL.
I thought I had planned it perfectly. It was a gorgeous day. Sunny. Fall colors bursting all around us. I had both of them shower so they'd have nice, clean hair. I had done the laundry earlier in the day so their little outfits were clean, wrinkle-free and coordinated. I had even scouted out a location in the neighborhood. Pretty wildflowers. Fall leaves in the background. A couple of waterfalls. Very picturesque. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for starters, the girls and I showed up. It pretty much went downhill after that.
In an effort to avoid an ugly incident, I told the girls before we left that I had remembered last year's photo shoot and how badly it went and that my expectation was they this year's would be different. Well, it was different. It was actually worse. Last year, Kate goofed off the whole time and made silly faces every time the photographer tried to take a nice shot. I was getting so angry with her because her sister was always perfectly posed with a sweet smile. If Kate had just cooperated, we could have been done in 15 minutes. But no, she is exactly like I was as a kid so she was intent on ruining every shot with an idiotic expression on her face. I know that I must have threatened her with spankings at least four times during that hour-long shoot. I was certainly embarrassed by her ridiculous behavior but was also embarrassed by my own in front of the photographer. It was just all so stressful. With photo shoots, you get whatever you get. You only have the time the photographer is present to get whatever pictures you're going to get. And during the time she was there, Kate was acting like she had eaten 216 doughnuts shortly before the girl arrived to take the pictures. I decided during that experience that I would be the one to take the pictures for the next year's card.
So, here we were, roughly a year later. I was actually confident when we drove up to our scenic location - stupidly confident it turns out. I had explained my expectations and felt as though they clearly understood what kind of behavior I was looking for. They would be the perfect little children I was raising and obey my orders with and diligence and reverence. Once we got out of the vehicle however, Kate immediately ran off almost completely out of earshot. I hadn't even gotten the camera out of my car and she had already spazzed out. And Meg was pretty much jammed up my rear end - a tactic she has adopted to try and win favor with me if her sister is misbehaving.
"I stayed with you, Mama, isn't that so good?"
"Kate ran off but I did what you asked me to do, right, Mama?"
Yes, you little brown-noser, that's correct. Anyway, I called after Kate and demanded she come back up to a nice spot in front of some flowers. She did, so I felt myself calming down. She walked right up to Meg and I asked them to look natural. Well, of course, they don't know what that means - how to look "natural". Every time you take a child's picture they are begged to smile so they don't know how to stand there and not have a phony grin plastered across their face.
I asked for a few different poses.
Hold Hands.
Goes reasonably well. They can do that. Whew!
Put your arms around each other.
Kate puts Meg in a stranglehold. Meg screams at her sister. I scream at Kate.
Sit down back-to-back.
That means don't face each other.
That means looks away from each other and touch backs.
They finally get the pose, but since both kids have been cursed with my deplorable posture, they are both completely slumped over their legs.
Straight backs!
Kate slumps further.
Tall backs like in ballet.
Meg raises her shoulders as though she's in a Broadway musical having to over-emote the act of shrugging. At the same time, her eyes get really wide and her eyebrows almost touch the top of her hairline.
Relax and just kind of lean your backs into each other.
Kate flops back onto Meg so that Meg's chin is in the mulch.
I decided to try a new location. Every time I found a nice spot, the sun was such that it was directly in their eyes if they had their backs to some nice background scenery. I tried the ol' keep-your-eyes-closed-until-I-count-to-three-and-then-open-them-and-smile routine, but you can just imagine how those shots turned out.
I found a shady place and made a couple of adjustments to my camera so the pictures wouldn't be too dark. We tried the back-to-back thing again (because apparently I like chaos), this time with better results. I think I only had to yell 5-6 times (in the spirit of the holidays...). The main problem with this particular set-up was the precision of my lens. I didn't really notice it until I got home and uploaded the shots to my computer, but there were several weeds in the area. One in particular was positioned right in the foreground of the shot. Therefore, I have 17 pictures of this perfectly crisp tall, gangly weed with my two fuzzy children in the background. The lens captured every crease and dew drop of that weed. It's really quite lovely. It's just not quite what I had in mind for our Christmas card. ("Weed" wish you a merry Christmas anyone?)
After my inadvertent nature shoot, we moved to an area on some nice big rocks with the girls' backs to a waterfall. By this time, we had probably been at this thing for at least 30-45 minutes so the girls were really past their threshold for good behavior. I can't really blame them. I guess I should say that I shouldn't really blame them. To say I "cant" blame them gives off the impression that I didn't blame them which I absolutely did.
Kate started up with her crazy faces again and so an eager-to-please Meg joined right in (I guess this time she was eager to please Kate and not her Mama). When they would finally calm down, something would happen like Kate would step in front of Meg accidentally or Meg would sneeze. At no point were both girls looking in the same direction at the same time with both eyes open and a decent expression on their face. If ever there was a time for a Christmas miracle, this was it.
Also hindering this process was the fact that somehow between last year's shoot and this one, Meg has forgotten how to smile. Meg is actually quite photogenic. But, I have no idea what she was trying to accomplish yesterday. It was like a scared robot doing an impression of Jack Nicholson's "Joker". She was completely stiff and unnatural. She looked ridiculous. So on the off chance that Kate actually had a nice expression on her face instead of her best Phyllis Diller impression, Meg looked like a deer in headlights. A drunk deer.
At the end of it all, none of these things ended up mattering. The quality of the pictures I took just wasn't up to par. I mentioned my encounter with the weed, but I also never did get my settings right for the light I was in. I was so annoyed when I uploaded the images to my computer because even if I had gotten one decent shot (I didn't), I'd have to Photoshop the crap out of it to make it usable. So on top of being angry with my rambunctious children, I was depressed that I have these nice lenses and no immediate talent for using them. I do have an appointment with a photographer on December 2nd, but I was hoping to be done with my cards by then. I guess now she will have to witness me losing my patience all over again just as she did last year. This means, of course, that my Christmas cards will go out late this year since I likely won't even have proofs back until at least a week after that. So, until then, please enjoy some of my favorites from yesterday.
*I deleted the glorious shots of the weed before I had the idea to turn this into a post, so you won't get to experience the beauty and splendor that I captured.
God bless us everyone.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
My Baby Is Turning Five
My baby is turning five. My BABY. My younger daughter. My youngEST child - as there will be no more to follow. This is the last year that one of my children only needs one hand to count her age. That's kind of monumental. A milestone. A reason to celebrate and reflect. And a reason to mourn the passing of youth. A few more years and she will be an insolent, angst-and-acne-riddled teen who is totally embarrassed by my existence.
I have a journal I've been keeping for five years now. I'm slow at updating it, so I'm still working out of the same notebook, but the purpose of it is to share with my girls what is was like to be their mother in the early years. They are likely to be a mother one day themselves and I wanted them to know that it's more than just baby showers and sweet, posed pictures. There is fear; there is anxiety. There is the knowledge that you have no idea what you are doing. There is self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. All of these are normal. There is also elation. Joy. Love in it's simplest and purest form. Fierce protectiveness. Pride. Total selflessness. Oh, and guilt. Lots of guilt. It even has a name - "Mommy Guilt". But, mostly there's joy.
The reason I started keeping a journal (as opposed to "journaling" which is not a word but is actually a noun that we as a society seem to have found acceptable turning into a verb) was because after my Meglet was born, I went through a period of profound post-partum depression. I've been vocal about it with those who know me and have reached out to a couple of people who don't know me at all to try and help them through what for me was the worst time in my life.
I'm vocal about my experience with post-partum depression for a couple of reasons. One, I think far more women experience it than you'd think. Two, I still suffer from it. I'll explain what I mean by that in just a minute. Plus, so many people helped me and were there for me that I feel like it's my job now to return the favor. If I can help someone in the way I was helped through it, then that's absolutely what I need to do. When I first realized that I was suffering, I knew I needed to get past it, so I talked about it with people. I was shocked by the number of people who admitted that they "probably" had dealt with it too but never sought help. Some of those people I met in therapy when they were trying to get sober after years of drinking away their depression.
When I say I still suffer from it, what I mean is that I am still very aware of what I went through. I think about it every singe day. The therapist I saw when I was going through all of it told me she thought I had post-traumatic stress disorder - with the trauma for me being the PPD I went through. I have a lot of guilt that the first several months of Meg's life were, for me, not filled with joy. Sure, there was a deep love that I knew was there, but it was buried deep under other feelings. Feelings of wanting to run away. Feelings of regret that I'd "given up my life" in order to have kids. In my moments of clarity (that sadly, were rare during those lonely months), I knew I loved my babies. But I was terrified. Terrified that my life was only going to be a series of doctor's appointments and birthday parties. I could not have imagined what I would feel five years later.
After copius amounts of research on post- partum depression, therapy, anti-depressants and most importantly, time, I evolved into the mother I am today. (If that terrifies you, just know I used to be much worse than I am now!) And I go back though my journal periodically and can see the sun slowly begin peeking through the clouds. I see the weight being lifted over the period of several months through several entries. I see myself as I come back to life. It's an interesting thing to read to see how motherhood, and I, have evolved over time. Here is an excerpt from my last journal entry dated 9/30/2012. I share it now in hopes that perhaps you can relate to it in some way.
Tonight on the eve of Meg's 5th birthday, I want to reflect on her for a bit. Her birth is, of course, the reason this journal exists. That time was fraught with stress, anxiety, fear, guilt and yes, love. The love was always there of course, but the post-partum depression was just in the foreground for a while. My how things have changed...
I've said (and written) several times what an enormous impact PPD had on my life. It does to this day because, as a mother, you don't easily forget how awful it is to know that you once had thoughts that you didn't want your babies. I hope I'll be able to explain it to them in such a way that they know that those feelings weren't real and they weren't me. It was real, of course - it happened and there's no denying that. But those feelings were not what was truly in my heart and soul and what remains there today.
I look at little Meg and she is pure joy. She is joy in the sense that she is full of joy herself, and bounces and hops everywhere she goes. She also brings joy to others - to Mike, Kate and me for sure. She cracks us up every single day! How can you not smile when you look at that happy little round, freckled face? Tomorrow will mark five years that she has been in our lives. I can't believe my baby is FIVE! And her precious sister is approaching SEVEN. That sounds so much older somehow than six. Time is passing so quickly. Too quickly.
When I was first dealing with PPD after Meg's birth, time couldn't pass quickly enough. Mike couldn't return from work fast enough. I couldn't get back to work and off of maternity leave fast enough. I lived for their nap time and any other time I didn't feel smothered by them. It was such a sad and debilitating time. What's really sad about it is that it is supposed to be such a joyous time. And yet, I felt stuck. In the five years that passed since the start of my journal, I went from praying that they would hurry and grow up to acknowledging that "time is passing too quickly". The excerpt continues:
I want to find a way to bottle their joy and innocence. Their energy and curiosity. Their purity and imagination - because we all know how disappointing it can be as you learn and come to understand the realities of the world we live in. There is suffering and loss. Sadness and anger. Helplessness and evil. Self-absorption and loneliness. There is squandered potential and tragedy. Both girls are already aware that things "aren't fair". Of course, it's "not fair" to Kate that Meg has a birthday tomorrow. Just as it won't be "fair" to Meg when Kate's birthday rolls around in January. It's "not fair" that Kate has to go to school five days a week and Meg only goes three. It's totally "not fair" that Meg went to a birthday party and got a cupcake while Kate got to spend the night with her beloved Nonny and have homemade ice cream and hot fudge. UGH. No, I suppose it's not fair. But when they say things aren't fair, they have no idea how right they are. Life isn't fair. My heart wants to shield them from that forever and yet we all know this is not possible. You cannot be on this earth and not experience some of what makes life unfair.
And yet, they are growing up and these are lessons that they will learn. Gently, I hope. It will build their character to learn these things. But with that knowledge will come the loss of something that they will not ever get back. What they'll lose - that innocence; that "spark" - they have it now. I need to enjoy it today and nurture it so that it doesn't go away completely as they age. I look at them now - their little personalities - and I am so proud of how happy they are. Meg is about to explode because of her birthday. She cannot WAIT she is so excited! I can't believe I was able to get her to sleep tonight. And Kate is dancing and doing her gymnastics all over the place. They are always smiling. Always laughing. That will help them through the tougher times in life.
And on this night five years ago, I remember that I went into the den and cried my eyes out for an hour wondering what on earth I was going to do with two children. I was already suffering from PPD at that time, I just didn't know it yet. All I knew was that I was scared to death and could not imagine how I would handle it all. I felt like I had made a huge mistake by disrupting my life and having children. And I knew it was a mistake I could not correct. It was done. I had one child and was on the eve of having another one. And that night and for far too many nights afterward, I didn't want any of it. Which I should have recognized as being strange feelings at the time since I had so enjoyed Kate in the 20 months I had had her. But that was temporarily erased by my hormones and chemistry during the months that followed Meg's birth.
But this post is not about depression. And neither is my journal. It is about life and living. You can read it in the pages of my strange journey. It starts out sounding like hopelessness. It's bleak. But as the story goes on there are little victories. The first outing with two children to the grocery store, for example. Until finally, the entries at most make a passing reference to it. It became about what I was thinking and feeling as my girls grew. One day I hope they will treasure it. I hope they won't need to read it because they are going through what I went through after childbirth. But perhaps if they do, they will see that there is a light at the end of the tunnel for them. Just as there has been for me. The conclusion:
But here I sit. Five years later. With a very happy home, two very secure, very happy girls and a beautiful great, great life. We are so blessed. Kate and Meg are so loved. Our lives are nothing fancy, but we have happiness. We have fun. There is nothing I need other than the three other people in this house. The person who started this journal bears only a faint resemblance to the person who writes in it now. But I am glad for the experience that person had. Because she has helped this person truly appreciate her children and the joys of their childhood.
I have a journal I've been keeping for five years now. I'm slow at updating it, so I'm still working out of the same notebook, but the purpose of it is to share with my girls what is was like to be their mother in the early years. They are likely to be a mother one day themselves and I wanted them to know that it's more than just baby showers and sweet, posed pictures. There is fear; there is anxiety. There is the knowledge that you have no idea what you are doing. There is self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. All of these are normal. There is also elation. Joy. Love in it's simplest and purest form. Fierce protectiveness. Pride. Total selflessness. Oh, and guilt. Lots of guilt. It even has a name - "Mommy Guilt". But, mostly there's joy.
The reason I started keeping a journal (as opposed to "journaling" which is not a word but is actually a noun that we as a society seem to have found acceptable turning into a verb) was because after my Meglet was born, I went through a period of profound post-partum depression. I've been vocal about it with those who know me and have reached out to a couple of people who don't know me at all to try and help them through what for me was the worst time in my life.
I'm vocal about my experience with post-partum depression for a couple of reasons. One, I think far more women experience it than you'd think. Two, I still suffer from it. I'll explain what I mean by that in just a minute. Plus, so many people helped me and were there for me that I feel like it's my job now to return the favor. If I can help someone in the way I was helped through it, then that's absolutely what I need to do. When I first realized that I was suffering, I knew I needed to get past it, so I talked about it with people. I was shocked by the number of people who admitted that they "probably" had dealt with it too but never sought help. Some of those people I met in therapy when they were trying to get sober after years of drinking away their depression.
When I say I still suffer from it, what I mean is that I am still very aware of what I went through. I think about it every singe day. The therapist I saw when I was going through all of it told me she thought I had post-traumatic stress disorder - with the trauma for me being the PPD I went through. I have a lot of guilt that the first several months of Meg's life were, for me, not filled with joy. Sure, there was a deep love that I knew was there, but it was buried deep under other feelings. Feelings of wanting to run away. Feelings of regret that I'd "given up my life" in order to have kids. In my moments of clarity (that sadly, were rare during those lonely months), I knew I loved my babies. But I was terrified. Terrified that my life was only going to be a series of doctor's appointments and birthday parties. I could not have imagined what I would feel five years later.
After copius amounts of research on post- partum depression, therapy, anti-depressants and most importantly, time, I evolved into the mother I am today. (If that terrifies you, just know I used to be much worse than I am now!) And I go back though my journal periodically and can see the sun slowly begin peeking through the clouds. I see the weight being lifted over the period of several months through several entries. I see myself as I come back to life. It's an interesting thing to read to see how motherhood, and I, have evolved over time. Here is an excerpt from my last journal entry dated 9/30/2012. I share it now in hopes that perhaps you can relate to it in some way.
Tonight on the eve of Meg's 5th birthday, I want to reflect on her for a bit. Her birth is, of course, the reason this journal exists. That time was fraught with stress, anxiety, fear, guilt and yes, love. The love was always there of course, but the post-partum depression was just in the foreground for a while. My how things have changed...
I've said (and written) several times what an enormous impact PPD had on my life. It does to this day because, as a mother, you don't easily forget how awful it is to know that you once had thoughts that you didn't want your babies. I hope I'll be able to explain it to them in such a way that they know that those feelings weren't real and they weren't me. It was real, of course - it happened and there's no denying that. But those feelings were not what was truly in my heart and soul and what remains there today.
I look at little Meg and she is pure joy. She is joy in the sense that she is full of joy herself, and bounces and hops everywhere she goes. She also brings joy to others - to Mike, Kate and me for sure. She cracks us up every single day! How can you not smile when you look at that happy little round, freckled face? Tomorrow will mark five years that she has been in our lives. I can't believe my baby is FIVE! And her precious sister is approaching SEVEN. That sounds so much older somehow than six. Time is passing so quickly. Too quickly.
When I was first dealing with PPD after Meg's birth, time couldn't pass quickly enough. Mike couldn't return from work fast enough. I couldn't get back to work and off of maternity leave fast enough. I lived for their nap time and any other time I didn't feel smothered by them. It was such a sad and debilitating time. What's really sad about it is that it is supposed to be such a joyous time. And yet, I felt stuck. In the five years that passed since the start of my journal, I went from praying that they would hurry and grow up to acknowledging that "time is passing too quickly". The excerpt continues:
I want to find a way to bottle their joy and innocence. Their energy and curiosity. Their purity and imagination - because we all know how disappointing it can be as you learn and come to understand the realities of the world we live in. There is suffering and loss. Sadness and anger. Helplessness and evil. Self-absorption and loneliness. There is squandered potential and tragedy. Both girls are already aware that things "aren't fair". Of course, it's "not fair" to Kate that Meg has a birthday tomorrow. Just as it won't be "fair" to Meg when Kate's birthday rolls around in January. It's "not fair" that Kate has to go to school five days a week and Meg only goes three. It's totally "not fair" that Meg went to a birthday party and got a cupcake while Kate got to spend the night with her beloved Nonny and have homemade ice cream and hot fudge. UGH. No, I suppose it's not fair. But when they say things aren't fair, they have no idea how right they are. Life isn't fair. My heart wants to shield them from that forever and yet we all know this is not possible. You cannot be on this earth and not experience some of what makes life unfair.
And yet, they are growing up and these are lessons that they will learn. Gently, I hope. It will build their character to learn these things. But with that knowledge will come the loss of something that they will not ever get back. What they'll lose - that innocence; that "spark" - they have it now. I need to enjoy it today and nurture it so that it doesn't go away completely as they age. I look at them now - their little personalities - and I am so proud of how happy they are. Meg is about to explode because of her birthday. She cannot WAIT she is so excited! I can't believe I was able to get her to sleep tonight. And Kate is dancing and doing her gymnastics all over the place. They are always smiling. Always laughing. That will help them through the tougher times in life.
And on this night five years ago, I remember that I went into the den and cried my eyes out for an hour wondering what on earth I was going to do with two children. I was already suffering from PPD at that time, I just didn't know it yet. All I knew was that I was scared to death and could not imagine how I would handle it all. I felt like I had made a huge mistake by disrupting my life and having children. And I knew it was a mistake I could not correct. It was done. I had one child and was on the eve of having another one. And that night and for far too many nights afterward, I didn't want any of it. Which I should have recognized as being strange feelings at the time since I had so enjoyed Kate in the 20 months I had had her. But that was temporarily erased by my hormones and chemistry during the months that followed Meg's birth.
But this post is not about depression. And neither is my journal. It is about life and living. You can read it in the pages of my strange journey. It starts out sounding like hopelessness. It's bleak. But as the story goes on there are little victories. The first outing with two children to the grocery store, for example. Until finally, the entries at most make a passing reference to it. It became about what I was thinking and feeling as my girls grew. One day I hope they will treasure it. I hope they won't need to read it because they are going through what I went through after childbirth. But perhaps if they do, they will see that there is a light at the end of the tunnel for them. Just as there has been for me. The conclusion:
But here I sit. Five years later. With a very happy home, two very secure, very happy girls and a beautiful great, great life. We are so blessed. Kate and Meg are so loved. Our lives are nothing fancy, but we have happiness. We have fun. There is nothing I need other than the three other people in this house. The person who started this journal bears only a faint resemblance to the person who writes in it now. But I am glad for the experience that person had. Because she has helped this person truly appreciate her children and the joys of their childhood.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Because If This Hasn't Touched You Already In Some Way, It Likely Will
I am participating in a very important cause. Please follow this link to learn more. Women everywhere need your help!
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
You Can't Spell L-A-M-E Without "ME"
This past weekend was a sad and stark reminder of how lame I am. I always joke that I'm lame - it's part of my shtick. But as it turns out, I have been absolutely right all of these years. I nailed it all along. In fact, if there were a word that meant lamer than lame, that's what I'd be. Until I figure out what that word is, "lame" will have to do. Let me take you through the evidence.
Mike gets tickets to the Titans game through his company that they use on customers and vendors. One of his potential contracts was going to be in town for the Titans/Patriots game, so Mike and a guy who works for him decided to treat this client to dinner and tailgating over the weekend. Because it's the weekend before my birthday, this was sold to me as a "birthday trip" during which we'd eat great food and catch a ballgame. What it was in actuality, was us wining and dining (and most importantly, partying up) this guy in order to get his business. Not that I really minded that. I was still getting a fun overnight trip during this lovely cool snap we are experiencing. However, once I heard that this guy was single and ten years younger than Mike and me, I began to get nervous. Additionally, the guy who reports to Mike and his wife are also ten years younger than we are and can out "party" us even back in our heyday.
Side note - I loathe using the word "party" as a verb and therefore I never do. I loathe even hearing it used as a verb. I know that over time we've misused it and popularized the misuse of it to the point that we've turned it into a verb but really, it's not a verb. It is a noun. And the word "party" was used as a verb WAY too many times over the course of a less than 24 hour period to suit me. But I digress... BUT, since I am digressing, here's another digression -
Side note #2 - Even back in my heyday, I was never a so-called partier. I enjoyed drinking with friends, but I didn't enjoy going out to loud, crowded places to do it. I liked gatherings at people's houses or getting a table at a restaurant and listening to music while drinking and laughing. One of my favorite quotes is: "Few pleasures better than to drink and talk with those whole really think." Some friends of my parents had this etched into a cool piece of wood and hanging in their kitchen. I bragged on it so much that she got one of her friends to paint one for me so I could hang it in my house - which I have in my bar area. That's my idea of a fun way to drink - drinking and talking with friends. So, when I was in college, I preferred that to going to clubs and (gulp!) dancing in public and (gasp!) possibly making out with a random guy. That just wasn't fun for me. Still isn't which I suppose is a good thing for my husband...
So, before the evening even started things began unraveling for me. I had brought what I had hoped would be a sufficiently trendy outfit - good, dark jeans, a cute, flowy black top and a colorful, fun necklace. (If you'd like to read all about how I learned to properly dress myself, go here.) The jeans were good. Slimming. So far so good. My hair was bad but I didn't have enough time to do anything about it, so I was just going to have to rely on a decent outfit and my sparkling personality. Next I went to put on my top. It used to be too big for me so that I never wore it. It was gaping a bit at the chest so if I leaned over, you could see my bra. Really, you could see my tiny boobies since I always bought bras bigger than I needed in hopes that somehow my breasts would try and fill them up. But, in the past couple of years, the shirt has fit me better. Perhaps it was because of the difference in my chest size since having babies. It's still not terribly impressive, but it's better than the concave look I used to have.
This time, the gaping issue wasn't a problem. And the shirt wasn't too tight either. It actually fit pretty well. The problem was the fact that the buttons ended before the bottom of the shirt met the top of my pants. Therefore, you could see about a half-inch of flesh. I have no idea how this happened. It never did this before. My best guess is that I used to wear high waisted pants and only recently joined everyone else in the 21st century with the lower rise pants. Must not have been an issue back when my pants came up to my armpits. But this was no good. If I moved my arms up at all, you could see my belly button. So, I had to regroup. Luckily, I was smart enough to have brought a second choice for the evening. A casual dress that's not too dressy and pretty comfortable. When I put it on, I realized it was fine, but not really very cute. I didn't realize how matronly it actually was until later in the evening when EVERY OTHER WOMAN was wearing skinny jeans, ridiculously high wedge shoes and tight fitting funky tops that showcased their boob jobs. Whereas I looked like my eighth grade math teacher (only with worse hair).
So, you know how it is when you go out already not excited about the way you look - it affects how the rest of the evening will go. If you're not comfortable, you can't really relax and enjoy yourself. So when we met Mike's colleague and his wife in the lobby, I was already feeling awkward and uncomfortable. She, of course, looked great. Not one ounce of fat. Cute. Blonde. Boob job but not obvious boob job. Bitch. I suspected that others in the lobby must have assumed that she and her husband were going out with their parents.
At any rate, by the time we got to the restaurant, the word "party" had been (mis)used as a verb a minimum of five times. I definitely wanted a drink. But I wasn't too keen on "partying". The four of us got a seat at the bar and waited for the customer of Mike's to arrive.
Another side note - I was not the only one in our hotel room to fret over the choice of outfit for the evening. Mike and I had a very long conversation about whether or not he needed to tuck his shirt into his jeans.
I think most guys wear their shirttails out now.
Well then, wear it out.
But I don't think I can pull that look off.
Well then, tuck it in.
Everyone else will have their shirttails out.
Then leave it out.
I think the "look" is to have your shirt out. Casual.
What if you tuck it in and untuck it later if you think you need to?
Won't it be wrinkled at that point?
Ultimately, the decision was made that he would be more comfortable with his shirt tucked in. And as luck would have it, that's how his coworker was dressed as well. He made the right call! Disaster averted!
Anyway, the four of us were at the bar and in walks the customer and a buddy of his. He's young, big, and just has "cool" dripping off of him. Looks good in his clothes that clearly show that he doesn't care if he looks good or not. He's from up north, so he's got a confidence - a subtle swagger - that sets him apart from what you see here in the south. This dude is going to want to be shown a good time in Nashville. And somehow I am part of the group that's going to have to do it. How did I end up here?
So, dinner was excellent as it usually is when you go to a nice steakhouse. I had two cocktails and a glass of wine. I was beginning to relax even wearing my grandmotherly frock in which I believed I experienced 6-7 hot flashes. I ate too much as is my general guiding principle when out to dinner. So, I had three drinks and lots of dinner in me. Naturally, I was ready for bed. It was almost 9:00 so it was getting pretty close to my bedtime. It would have been a perfect evening if Mike and I could have just been done at that point. But we weren't. The party (used properly as a noun) was just getting started. Dammit!
We left the restaurant and walked about a block to the first of what would be about 10 bars we went to and stayed only long enough for me to be offered a shot (and politely decline - except for one which I will discuss in a moment) and drink half of a beer. Because we were "bar hopping", we were never in one place long enough to lay claim to a table where I could sit down and hide my bulging belly behind a table. Didn't these people realize that I don't own spanx and you could see my steak gut protruding through my dress? I am now 39 - I've stood enough in my life. I'm ready to sit. Or at least have some room instead of being smashed up next to some sweaty dude who keeps saluting the band with his beer bottle.
At long last we went to a bar where we actually did make it to a clearing and had some room. As it turns out, it was actually part of the dance floor. UGH. I was nowhere near intoxicated enough to dance publicly and so I was mainly just working on trying to not appear to be as awkward as I felt. I was gawky enough that I was very aware of my arms. They were crossed at my ribcage and I was gripping my purse; which, at this point, became a "pocketbook" since I looked like a seventy year old. I kept trying to reposition them, but every time I did, I looked even more uncomfortable than before. Right hand on hip, left hand holding beer. Both arms down by sides. Left hand casually rubbing the back of my neck as if to say, I'm too sore from all of my previous dancing to engage at this time. Both hands clasped around beer down by waist. It dawned on me that with all of the arm movement I might have looked like I was trying to perform the Macarena, so I just decided to have them settle "naturally" with one hand clutching my beer and the other down by my side.
At one point, Mike's colleague asked, "Are you having a good time?". I detected a bit of a condescending tone. Good Lord, I'm now the one in this place who's being pitied for looking so out of place. I never want to be that person. By the end of the evening, he had asked me that question about five times. I looked over at one point and there was a couple who had to be in their late 50's having a ball. They were dancing - like parents dance, mind you, but they were still having fun and looking reasonably cool while doing so. It dawned on me at that point that my age had nothing to do with my being lame. It's not age. It's lameness in its purest form. I've got it. In spades. I had it in my teens, I have it now and I'll have it in my 60's. It's who I am.
At the same bar, the buddy of the client we were showing a good time waltzed over with a round of Jagermeister - which is the worst tasting stuff EVER - shots. After my attempts at previous locations to decline this nonsense, I decided that perhaps it would be in my best interest to be drunk. I took the Jager shot (or was it diesel fuel?). Of course, I sipped at it, but it all went down. Now I was ready to party! Except that it had no effect on me whatsoever. In fact, I swear if it did anything, it actually sobered me up. I guess I had eaten enough at dinner that it was going to take a lot more than what I was doing to get me tipsy.
While I was lamenting that this horrid shot of Jager (or was it the liquid form of all that is caked in the bottom of my oven?) had done nothing to loosen me up, the band started playing. I felt like I was back in college. Really? We're still playing Sweet Caroline? Good times never seemed so good - so good! So good! So good! And of course they played the obligatory, I wanna rock and roll all night and party everyday. Boy, if I've ever had a mantra... So now, I was being reminded of how awkward all of this felt back when I was in college and here it was 20 years later and I was more awkward than ever. If the Jager (or was it a homeless person's urine?) shot hadn't sobered me up, that realization did. I was done.
We went to two more bars with much of the same result when Mike finally turned to me and asked if I was ready to go. Where were you two hours ago?!! The wife of Mike's colleague was slurring and needed to go, so I was able to make my exit under the guise that I needed to help her get back to the hotel and not because I was ready to stop partying. Cause I wasn't! I desperately wanted to keep the ol' freak flag flying! Woo hoo! But, if it was in her best interest to go, I should be a good friend and take one for the team. We hailed a cab and I was on my way to sweet, sweet freedom.
Once back in the hotel, I did what any other normal and perfectly awesome person does to end a solid evening of partying. I dove into the tailgate food we had brought for the game the next day to try and dilute the alcohol that I did have during the course of the evening, and drank a big, fat bottle of water while watching a documentary on September 11th on the National Geographic channel. Mike, who is almost but not quite as lame as I am, got back to the hotel a scant 20 minutes after I did.
The next day at the game, everyone was dragging - a sure sign of a successful evening. I was worn out, too. That is a long documentary! The good news is, Mike's company got the contract - which really was practically a done deal before all of this was forced upon me. And I did have a good birthday at home with my kids and my husband which is exactly where I'd want to celebrate it.
So, all of this to say, it was a very eye-opening weekend for me. I always knew I was lame, but I got a nice glimpse at just how right I was. You probably already knew it too, which is okay. Every group of friends has to have someone who doesn't quite belong. In all of my groupings I've never really been able to discern who that person is, so I guess it's been me all along. That's okay. It really is. Hopefully what you can take from all of this is that the next time you want to rock and roll all night and party everyday, I'm your gal.
Mike gets tickets to the Titans game through his company that they use on customers and vendors. One of his potential contracts was going to be in town for the Titans/Patriots game, so Mike and a guy who works for him decided to treat this client to dinner and tailgating over the weekend. Because it's the weekend before my birthday, this was sold to me as a "birthday trip" during which we'd eat great food and catch a ballgame. What it was in actuality, was us wining and dining (and most importantly, partying up) this guy in order to get his business. Not that I really minded that. I was still getting a fun overnight trip during this lovely cool snap we are experiencing. However, once I heard that this guy was single and ten years younger than Mike and me, I began to get nervous. Additionally, the guy who reports to Mike and his wife are also ten years younger than we are and can out "party" us even back in our heyday.
Side note - I loathe using the word "party" as a verb and therefore I never do. I loathe even hearing it used as a verb. I know that over time we've misused it and popularized the misuse of it to the point that we've turned it into a verb but really, it's not a verb. It is a noun. And the word "party" was used as a verb WAY too many times over the course of a less than 24 hour period to suit me. But I digress... BUT, since I am digressing, here's another digression -
Side note #2 - Even back in my heyday, I was never a so-called partier. I enjoyed drinking with friends, but I didn't enjoy going out to loud, crowded places to do it. I liked gatherings at people's houses or getting a table at a restaurant and listening to music while drinking and laughing. One of my favorite quotes is: "Few pleasures better than to drink and talk with those whole really think." Some friends of my parents had this etched into a cool piece of wood and hanging in their kitchen. I bragged on it so much that she got one of her friends to paint one for me so I could hang it in my house - which I have in my bar area. That's my idea of a fun way to drink - drinking and talking with friends. So, when I was in college, I preferred that to going to clubs and (gulp!) dancing in public and (gasp!) possibly making out with a random guy. That just wasn't fun for me. Still isn't which I suppose is a good thing for my husband...
So, before the evening even started things began unraveling for me. I had brought what I had hoped would be a sufficiently trendy outfit - good, dark jeans, a cute, flowy black top and a colorful, fun necklace. (If you'd like to read all about how I learned to properly dress myself, go here.) The jeans were good. Slimming. So far so good. My hair was bad but I didn't have enough time to do anything about it, so I was just going to have to rely on a decent outfit and my sparkling personality. Next I went to put on my top. It used to be too big for me so that I never wore it. It was gaping a bit at the chest so if I leaned over, you could see my bra. Really, you could see my tiny boobies since I always bought bras bigger than I needed in hopes that somehow my breasts would try and fill them up. But, in the past couple of years, the shirt has fit me better. Perhaps it was because of the difference in my chest size since having babies. It's still not terribly impressive, but it's better than the concave look I used to have.
This time, the gaping issue wasn't a problem. And the shirt wasn't too tight either. It actually fit pretty well. The problem was the fact that the buttons ended before the bottom of the shirt met the top of my pants. Therefore, you could see about a half-inch of flesh. I have no idea how this happened. It never did this before. My best guess is that I used to wear high waisted pants and only recently joined everyone else in the 21st century with the lower rise pants. Must not have been an issue back when my pants came up to my armpits. But this was no good. If I moved my arms up at all, you could see my belly button. So, I had to regroup. Luckily, I was smart enough to have brought a second choice for the evening. A casual dress that's not too dressy and pretty comfortable. When I put it on, I realized it was fine, but not really very cute. I didn't realize how matronly it actually was until later in the evening when EVERY OTHER WOMAN was wearing skinny jeans, ridiculously high wedge shoes and tight fitting funky tops that showcased their boob jobs. Whereas I looked like my eighth grade math teacher (only with worse hair).
So, you know how it is when you go out already not excited about the way you look - it affects how the rest of the evening will go. If you're not comfortable, you can't really relax and enjoy yourself. So when we met Mike's colleague and his wife in the lobby, I was already feeling awkward and uncomfortable. She, of course, looked great. Not one ounce of fat. Cute. Blonde. Boob job but not obvious boob job. Bitch. I suspected that others in the lobby must have assumed that she and her husband were going out with their parents.
At any rate, by the time we got to the restaurant, the word "party" had been (mis)used as a verb a minimum of five times. I definitely wanted a drink. But I wasn't too keen on "partying". The four of us got a seat at the bar and waited for the customer of Mike's to arrive.
Another side note - I was not the only one in our hotel room to fret over the choice of outfit for the evening. Mike and I had a very long conversation about whether or not he needed to tuck his shirt into his jeans.
I think most guys wear their shirttails out now.
Well then, wear it out.
But I don't think I can pull that look off.
Well then, tuck it in.
Everyone else will have their shirttails out.
Then leave it out.
I think the "look" is to have your shirt out. Casual.
What if you tuck it in and untuck it later if you think you need to?
Won't it be wrinkled at that point?
Ultimately, the decision was made that he would be more comfortable with his shirt tucked in. And as luck would have it, that's how his coworker was dressed as well. He made the right call! Disaster averted!
Anyway, the four of us were at the bar and in walks the customer and a buddy of his. He's young, big, and just has "cool" dripping off of him. Looks good in his clothes that clearly show that he doesn't care if he looks good or not. He's from up north, so he's got a confidence - a subtle swagger - that sets him apart from what you see here in the south. This dude is going to want to be shown a good time in Nashville. And somehow I am part of the group that's going to have to do it. How did I end up here?
So, dinner was excellent as it usually is when you go to a nice steakhouse. I had two cocktails and a glass of wine. I was beginning to relax even wearing my grandmotherly frock in which I believed I experienced 6-7 hot flashes. I ate too much as is my general guiding principle when out to dinner. So, I had three drinks and lots of dinner in me. Naturally, I was ready for bed. It was almost 9:00 so it was getting pretty close to my bedtime. It would have been a perfect evening if Mike and I could have just been done at that point. But we weren't. The party (used properly as a noun) was just getting started. Dammit!
We left the restaurant and walked about a block to the first of what would be about 10 bars we went to and stayed only long enough for me to be offered a shot (and politely decline - except for one which I will discuss in a moment) and drink half of a beer. Because we were "bar hopping", we were never in one place long enough to lay claim to a table where I could sit down and hide my bulging belly behind a table. Didn't these people realize that I don't own spanx and you could see my steak gut protruding through my dress? I am now 39 - I've stood enough in my life. I'm ready to sit. Or at least have some room instead of being smashed up next to some sweaty dude who keeps saluting the band with his beer bottle.
At long last we went to a bar where we actually did make it to a clearing and had some room. As it turns out, it was actually part of the dance floor. UGH. I was nowhere near intoxicated enough to dance publicly and so I was mainly just working on trying to not appear to be as awkward as I felt. I was gawky enough that I was very aware of my arms. They were crossed at my ribcage and I was gripping my purse; which, at this point, became a "pocketbook" since I looked like a seventy year old. I kept trying to reposition them, but every time I did, I looked even more uncomfortable than before. Right hand on hip, left hand holding beer. Both arms down by sides. Left hand casually rubbing the back of my neck as if to say, I'm too sore from all of my previous dancing to engage at this time. Both hands clasped around beer down by waist. It dawned on me that with all of the arm movement I might have looked like I was trying to perform the Macarena, so I just decided to have them settle "naturally" with one hand clutching my beer and the other down by my side.
At one point, Mike's colleague asked, "Are you having a good time?". I detected a bit of a condescending tone. Good Lord, I'm now the one in this place who's being pitied for looking so out of place. I never want to be that person. By the end of the evening, he had asked me that question about five times. I looked over at one point and there was a couple who had to be in their late 50's having a ball. They were dancing - like parents dance, mind you, but they were still having fun and looking reasonably cool while doing so. It dawned on me at that point that my age had nothing to do with my being lame. It's not age. It's lameness in its purest form. I've got it. In spades. I had it in my teens, I have it now and I'll have it in my 60's. It's who I am.
At the same bar, the buddy of the client we were showing a good time waltzed over with a round of Jagermeister - which is the worst tasting stuff EVER - shots. After my attempts at previous locations to decline this nonsense, I decided that perhaps it would be in my best interest to be drunk. I took the Jager shot (or was it diesel fuel?). Of course, I sipped at it, but it all went down. Now I was ready to party! Except that it had no effect on me whatsoever. In fact, I swear if it did anything, it actually sobered me up. I guess I had eaten enough at dinner that it was going to take a lot more than what I was doing to get me tipsy.
While I was lamenting that this horrid shot of Jager (or was it the liquid form of all that is caked in the bottom of my oven?) had done nothing to loosen me up, the band started playing. I felt like I was back in college. Really? We're still playing Sweet Caroline? Good times never seemed so good - so good! So good! So good! And of course they played the obligatory, I wanna rock and roll all night and party everyday. Boy, if I've ever had a mantra... So now, I was being reminded of how awkward all of this felt back when I was in college and here it was 20 years later and I was more awkward than ever. If the Jager (or was it a homeless person's urine?) shot hadn't sobered me up, that realization did. I was done.
We went to two more bars with much of the same result when Mike finally turned to me and asked if I was ready to go. Where were you two hours ago?!! The wife of Mike's colleague was slurring and needed to go, so I was able to make my exit under the guise that I needed to help her get back to the hotel and not because I was ready to stop partying. Cause I wasn't! I desperately wanted to keep the ol' freak flag flying! Woo hoo! But, if it was in her best interest to go, I should be a good friend and take one for the team. We hailed a cab and I was on my way to sweet, sweet freedom.
Once back in the hotel, I did what any other normal and perfectly awesome person does to end a solid evening of partying. I dove into the tailgate food we had brought for the game the next day to try and dilute the alcohol that I did have during the course of the evening, and drank a big, fat bottle of water while watching a documentary on September 11th on the National Geographic channel. Mike, who is almost but not quite as lame as I am, got back to the hotel a scant 20 minutes after I did.
The next day at the game, everyone was dragging - a sure sign of a successful evening. I was worn out, too. That is a long documentary! The good news is, Mike's company got the contract - which really was practically a done deal before all of this was forced upon me. And I did have a good birthday at home with my kids and my husband which is exactly where I'd want to celebrate it.
So, all of this to say, it was a very eye-opening weekend for me. I always knew I was lame, but I got a nice glimpse at just how right I was. You probably already knew it too, which is okay. Every group of friends has to have someone who doesn't quite belong. In all of my groupings I've never really been able to discern who that person is, so I guess it's been me all along. That's okay. It really is. Hopefully what you can take from all of this is that the next time you want to rock and roll all night and party everyday, I'm your gal.
Monday, August 27, 2012
I Steal Tupperware (and other oddities)
You know those times when you are with a friend, family member, recent acquaintance, or generally another person's company and they do something that makes you think, "that's odd"? We all have these little things that we do that seem perfectly normal to us but to others seems off-putting or weird. Or stupid. Or crazy. In my case, I either recognize that these things are weird or have been told so by well-meaning friends. If you and I are friends, chances are good that you, too, are odd. So here's my list of things that make me oddly me. I hope these make you feel a little better about all of the weird-o things you do that give people the creeps.
1. I Steal Tupperware
Bear with me here. I don't steal it from, like, the grocery store. None of my odd habits are illegal (that I know of). But I do steal it readily from my friends. If you are reading this, I've likely got something of yours in my cabinet. Anytime someone comes to my house bearing gifts in the way of food, I am secretly more interested in the Tupperware they will be providing than the meal they've prepared. (The one exception to this would be Dena's pot roast.) I don't remember the last time I bought Tupperware. If I ever do pay for it, you can guarantee I will not ever put something in it meant for someone else. If I've paid for it, I don't want to lose it. You'd think I'd hold that same philosophy if you bought it. But you'd be wrong.
No, I'll never bring you a dinner in my good Tupperware. Because if you look at Tupperware as "no big deal" and either keep it (like I do) or toss it (thoughtless, bastard!), then I will never see it again. And I keep Tupperware forever. My favorite piece is almost seven years old - a(n unintended) donation from our former neighbors, the Schramkos, who brought me dinner while I was on bed rest during my pregnancy with Kate. The homemade chicken soup she made was delicious. The Tupperware, however, was perfection. The perfect size. Sturdy. Not one of those that stains when you put something tomato-y in it. Just perfect.
2. I Am Particular About Paper Towels, Gum, and Kleenex
I have an irrational fear of running out of certain items like the aforementioned paper towels, gum and tissues. This one is a little like the Tupperware hoarding, but it's kind of for a different reason. I have very specific rules about usage of these items because I do not ever want to be in a position where I need one, and do not have one available. Imagine - you grab a garlicky lunch with a friend and then head to the school to meet with a teacher. You reach in your purse to find gum and do not find any immediately. So, you begin to dig a little more furiously. Then you begin removing items from your purse because you just know you have some. It must be hiding under your wallet. But it isn't there. And your breath could keep vampires away.
That is a position I NEVER want to be in. I have nightmares about it. Because of this, I really resent having to share my gum with others - even good friends. Even my husband. So much so that I will actually secretly get myself a piece of gum where you can't see it so you won't know I have some and ask me for a piece. Because unfailingly, you will not adhere to my rules when ever you chew a piece of my gum. Which is really no fault of yours. You likely do not know my rules. Most people happily share their gum without strings attached. But not me. If I give you a piece of my hard earned gum, and you spit it out in under ten minutes, you have committed an unforgivable faux pas. Irredeemable. What were you thinking? If YOU are going to have the audacity of chewing a piece of MY gum, you best keep it in your thieving mouth for no less than an hour.
I'm not as maniacal about my tissues and paper towels, but I have rules there, too. Not so much with the tissues. My weird Kleenex thing is that I use the same one multiple times (like our elderly grandparents' parents used to do back during the depression when provisions were scarce). I will use one until it is threadbare (paperbare?) and has holes in it and cannot possibly contain the nose blowing it's getting any more (keeping reading for an interesting take on how I clean my nose). And paper towels - I have very specific things I use them for. If you come to my house and wash your hands and then reach for a paper towel to dry them, you run the risk of not being invited back. Not really (kind of). Paper towels are for wiping down counters and tables. They are for cleaning up spills. They are for my daily routine of cleaning Dudley's tee-tee spot in my dining room. They are not for drying off your hands. That's what my kitchen HAND towel is for. It's right there. Looking at you. Begging you to dry your hands with it. And you're ignoring it. While you're wasting my paper towels and polluting the earth. Damn you.
3. I Stick My Fingers Up My Nostrils When I Blow My Nose
Okay, not during the act of blowing, but once I've blown and I've got some cleaning to do. It is pretty gross, I suppose, and I am so accustomed to doing it this way that I've probably done it in front of you without even realizing it. But, one of my nagging daily fears is that I'm parading around town with a visible something in my nose. As sarcastic as I can be, how foolish would I look if I said something obnoxious (but hilarious) to you and the whole time you were in on a joke about me that I was unaware of? It would be disastrous. So, I do everything in my power to ensure that it will never happen. Once I blow my nose - which we all must on occasion - I will put my finger through the tissue (that I've used 712 times) and go into each nostril to get whatever remains. I turn my finger clockwise to gently scoop any foreign matter out so nothing is left behind for your amusement or disgust. But, you take away the Kleenex and really I'm just picking my nose. Not something that should be done in public, I guess. And if I'm paying attention, I won't do it publicly. But again, these are little idiosyncrasies I have that I am very likely doing A LOT more often than I realize.
4. I Am Stricken With A Gentle Thump In My Right Ear Every Time I Put My Silverware Away
This one is just plain weird. It's not anything that anyone would ever notice but it's kind of what inspired me to tackle this hard-hitting topic. Without fail, when I empty the dishwasher and put my silver (not even the good stuff; just the every day plated stuff) away, I get a thumping in my right ear. Every time. It does not happen at any other time doing any other thing. Ever. How odd is that?! It can't be normal. What on earth would cause it to do that? Is it because I'm leaning over a little? I do that every time I stretch for a run. Is it because of the metal (or whatever it is) in the silver itself? I don't know. I can't explain it. It's just the way it is. I have an thumpy ear. So there.
5. I Love Listening To Good Ol' Congested Coughs
Kate has one right now and I am loving it. It was really annoying last week when it was just a dry cough. But now I am getting to hear the sweet, sweet sounds of the crackling deep within my baby's lungs. Of course, I don't wish her sick. That would make me a horrible mom. But I'd be lying if I said that I don't look forward to when she gets into one of those really long, drawn out coughing fits. (*She's on antibiotics and the doctors say it's just allergies so this really doesn't make me a terrible person.) If I could switch places with her, I would in a heartbeat. For one thing, I really don't want it to balloon into something worse for her. But really, I am jealous. I have had strep only twice in my life. The first time was in college and it was the best coughing I've ever had. That rattling! The phlegm! It was marvelous! The second time, all I got was the damn sore throat and fatigue. What a waste. I was so bummed.
Many people hear that sound and think it's gross. Not me. I know that's weird, but I love it. Now, if you are chomping down on an ice cube or piece of hard candy, I'll want to punch you into the next room. That's just annoying. But if it's a real good guttural cough that's got you by the balls, please, please come sit next to me in a quiet room.
6. I Have To Pee Whenever I Hide From Someone
This dates back to my childhood I always hated playing hide-and-seek because I would go into a closet and immediately have to pee. I can remember so vividly, holding myself, legs crossed, while listening to faint footsteps coming closer and closer to wherever I was hiding. I don't know if it was because I was in a place I knew I couldn't leave for an undetermined amount of time. I don't know. The same thing happens at night when I go to bed. I'll read a couple of chapters in a book or play some mindless game on my IPhone and I'll have to pee no less than five times before I can actually go to bed. It's like subconsciously I think I'll have to wake up in the middle of the night if I'm not absolutely empty. Whenever we go skiing, I'll put my layers and layers of ski clothes on and then have to pee like a racehorse before we leave the cabin, when we get to the resort, and once we get in line to get on the first lift. If I had regular clothes on that weren't such a pain to put on, I could probably hold it all day. But you put three layers and a cumbersome pair of ski boots on me, and it's Niagara Falls.
6. Every Night I Tell My Kids It's Time To Go Brush Their "Toofy Toofs".
I can't believe I just typed that last one. It's conceivable that I could find a sympathetic friend on any of the last five, but this one is really just awful. I said it one night and it just took off. I'm not saying my kids liked it. They had no reaction whatsoever. But I said it and then it came flying out of my night the next night as well. This has been going on for over a month now. As the words come out of my mouth, I hear it coming and I tell myself how stupid it is. And yet, come out they do. And it's only at night. In the mornings, we simply "brush our teeth" like a normal family. But something about my routine at night; I am powerless to change the fact that this is the idiotic utterance that I direct at my children. And if my children were to ever repeat this to anyone, they would ostracized from all of the other "normal" kids they interact with. "Toofy Toofs" is kind of a cutesy phrase too. Nothing about me is cutesy. Nothing. So, how did this even become part of my daily vernacular? And why in the world am I telling you about it??!
Well, I suppose that's a good start. I'm sure there are countless other things I do that I have no idea are odd that you all are listing quietly to yourselves at this very moment. What I would enjoy is for my blogging friends to compile their own lists so I could enjoy reading about the random and ridiculous things they do. The things that make us uniquely "us" are really quite fascinating (as opposed to this particular post about them...). Somehow I have managed to make my way in life. I have a husband. I used to work. I am raising kids. So maybe I'm not all that odd as compared to everyone else. But I did just have a sobering thought. If I'm this weird, what on earth are all the weirdos hiding from view? I'm looking at you, Lady Gaga.
1. I Steal Tupperware
Bear with me here. I don't steal it from, like, the grocery store. None of my odd habits are illegal (that I know of). But I do steal it readily from my friends. If you are reading this, I've likely got something of yours in my cabinet. Anytime someone comes to my house bearing gifts in the way of food, I am secretly more interested in the Tupperware they will be providing than the meal they've prepared. (The one exception to this would be Dena's pot roast.) I don't remember the last time I bought Tupperware. If I ever do pay for it, you can guarantee I will not ever put something in it meant for someone else. If I've paid for it, I don't want to lose it. You'd think I'd hold that same philosophy if you bought it. But you'd be wrong.
No, I'll never bring you a dinner in my good Tupperware. Because if you look at Tupperware as "no big deal" and either keep it (like I do) or toss it (thoughtless, bastard!), then I will never see it again. And I keep Tupperware forever. My favorite piece is almost seven years old - a(n unintended) donation from our former neighbors, the Schramkos, who brought me dinner while I was on bed rest during my pregnancy with Kate. The homemade chicken soup she made was delicious. The Tupperware, however, was perfection. The perfect size. Sturdy. Not one of those that stains when you put something tomato-y in it. Just perfect.
2. I Am Particular About Paper Towels, Gum, and Kleenex
I have an irrational fear of running out of certain items like the aforementioned paper towels, gum and tissues. This one is a little like the Tupperware hoarding, but it's kind of for a different reason. I have very specific rules about usage of these items because I do not ever want to be in a position where I need one, and do not have one available. Imagine - you grab a garlicky lunch with a friend and then head to the school to meet with a teacher. You reach in your purse to find gum and do not find any immediately. So, you begin to dig a little more furiously. Then you begin removing items from your purse because you just know you have some. It must be hiding under your wallet. But it isn't there. And your breath could keep vampires away.
That is a position I NEVER want to be in. I have nightmares about it. Because of this, I really resent having to share my gum with others - even good friends. Even my husband. So much so that I will actually secretly get myself a piece of gum where you can't see it so you won't know I have some and ask me for a piece. Because unfailingly, you will not adhere to my rules when ever you chew a piece of my gum. Which is really no fault of yours. You likely do not know my rules. Most people happily share their gum without strings attached. But not me. If I give you a piece of my hard earned gum, and you spit it out in under ten minutes, you have committed an unforgivable faux pas. Irredeemable. What were you thinking? If YOU are going to have the audacity of chewing a piece of MY gum, you best keep it in your thieving mouth for no less than an hour.
I'm not as maniacal about my tissues and paper towels, but I have rules there, too. Not so much with the tissues. My weird Kleenex thing is that I use the same one multiple times (like our elderly grandparents' parents used to do back during the depression when provisions were scarce). I will use one until it is threadbare (paperbare?) and has holes in it and cannot possibly contain the nose blowing it's getting any more (keeping reading for an interesting take on how I clean my nose). And paper towels - I have very specific things I use them for. If you come to my house and wash your hands and then reach for a paper towel to dry them, you run the risk of not being invited back. Not really (kind of). Paper towels are for wiping down counters and tables. They are for cleaning up spills. They are for my daily routine of cleaning Dudley's tee-tee spot in my dining room. They are not for drying off your hands. That's what my kitchen HAND towel is for. It's right there. Looking at you. Begging you to dry your hands with it. And you're ignoring it. While you're wasting my paper towels and polluting the earth. Damn you.
3. I Stick My Fingers Up My Nostrils When I Blow My Nose
Okay, not during the act of blowing, but once I've blown and I've got some cleaning to do. It is pretty gross, I suppose, and I am so accustomed to doing it this way that I've probably done it in front of you without even realizing it. But, one of my nagging daily fears is that I'm parading around town with a visible something in my nose. As sarcastic as I can be, how foolish would I look if I said something obnoxious (but hilarious) to you and the whole time you were in on a joke about me that I was unaware of? It would be disastrous. So, I do everything in my power to ensure that it will never happen. Once I blow my nose - which we all must on occasion - I will put my finger through the tissue (that I've used 712 times) and go into each nostril to get whatever remains. I turn my finger clockwise to gently scoop any foreign matter out so nothing is left behind for your amusement or disgust. But, you take away the Kleenex and really I'm just picking my nose. Not something that should be done in public, I guess. And if I'm paying attention, I won't do it publicly. But again, these are little idiosyncrasies I have that I am very likely doing A LOT more often than I realize.
4. I Am Stricken With A Gentle Thump In My Right Ear Every Time I Put My Silverware Away
This one is just plain weird. It's not anything that anyone would ever notice but it's kind of what inspired me to tackle this hard-hitting topic. Without fail, when I empty the dishwasher and put my silver (not even the good stuff; just the every day plated stuff) away, I get a thumping in my right ear. Every time. It does not happen at any other time doing any other thing. Ever. How odd is that?! It can't be normal. What on earth would cause it to do that? Is it because I'm leaning over a little? I do that every time I stretch for a run. Is it because of the metal (or whatever it is) in the silver itself? I don't know. I can't explain it. It's just the way it is. I have an thumpy ear. So there.
5. I Love Listening To Good Ol' Congested Coughs
Kate has one right now and I am loving it. It was really annoying last week when it was just a dry cough. But now I am getting to hear the sweet, sweet sounds of the crackling deep within my baby's lungs. Of course, I don't wish her sick. That would make me a horrible mom. But I'd be lying if I said that I don't look forward to when she gets into one of those really long, drawn out coughing fits. (*She's on antibiotics and the doctors say it's just allergies so this really doesn't make me a terrible person.) If I could switch places with her, I would in a heartbeat. For one thing, I really don't want it to balloon into something worse for her. But really, I am jealous. I have had strep only twice in my life. The first time was in college and it was the best coughing I've ever had. That rattling! The phlegm! It was marvelous! The second time, all I got was the damn sore throat and fatigue. What a waste. I was so bummed.
Many people hear that sound and think it's gross. Not me. I know that's weird, but I love it. Now, if you are chomping down on an ice cube or piece of hard candy, I'll want to punch you into the next room. That's just annoying. But if it's a real good guttural cough that's got you by the balls, please, please come sit next to me in a quiet room.
6. I Have To Pee Whenever I Hide From Someone
This dates back to my childhood I always hated playing hide-and-seek because I would go into a closet and immediately have to pee. I can remember so vividly, holding myself, legs crossed, while listening to faint footsteps coming closer and closer to wherever I was hiding. I don't know if it was because I was in a place I knew I couldn't leave for an undetermined amount of time. I don't know. The same thing happens at night when I go to bed. I'll read a couple of chapters in a book or play some mindless game on my IPhone and I'll have to pee no less than five times before I can actually go to bed. It's like subconsciously I think I'll have to wake up in the middle of the night if I'm not absolutely empty. Whenever we go skiing, I'll put my layers and layers of ski clothes on and then have to pee like a racehorse before we leave the cabin, when we get to the resort, and once we get in line to get on the first lift. If I had regular clothes on that weren't such a pain to put on, I could probably hold it all day. But you put three layers and a cumbersome pair of ski boots on me, and it's Niagara Falls.
6. Every Night I Tell My Kids It's Time To Go Brush Their "Toofy Toofs".
I can't believe I just typed that last one. It's conceivable that I could find a sympathetic friend on any of the last five, but this one is really just awful. I said it one night and it just took off. I'm not saying my kids liked it. They had no reaction whatsoever. But I said it and then it came flying out of my night the next night as well. This has been going on for over a month now. As the words come out of my mouth, I hear it coming and I tell myself how stupid it is. And yet, come out they do. And it's only at night. In the mornings, we simply "brush our teeth" like a normal family. But something about my routine at night; I am powerless to change the fact that this is the idiotic utterance that I direct at my children. And if my children were to ever repeat this to anyone, they would ostracized from all of the other "normal" kids they interact with. "Toofy Toofs" is kind of a cutesy phrase too. Nothing about me is cutesy. Nothing. So, how did this even become part of my daily vernacular? And why in the world am I telling you about it??!
Well, I suppose that's a good start. I'm sure there are countless other things I do that I have no idea are odd that you all are listing quietly to yourselves at this very moment. What I would enjoy is for my blogging friends to compile their own lists so I could enjoy reading about the random and ridiculous things they do. The things that make us uniquely "us" are really quite fascinating (as opposed to this particular post about them...). Somehow I have managed to make my way in life. I have a husband. I used to work. I am raising kids. So maybe I'm not all that odd as compared to everyone else. But I did just have a sobering thought. If I'm this weird, what on earth are all the weirdos hiding from view? I'm looking at you, Lady Gaga.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Beautiful Summer
Well, my first official summer as a stay at home mom is coming to an end. It seemed all too brief. Where did the time go? It seemed like only a few days ago that I was looking ahead at my new found freedom from employment (well, paid employment anyway) and wondering what all we would do over the coming months while the girls were out of school. Now I am getting back to the evening routine of making lunches, scrambling to get everyone fed, bathed, read to, teeth brushed, pottied, etc.
Since my last blog entry - about a month ago -I am sorry to say that I've accomplished nothing in the way of good projects around the house. Although to be fair, I have on occasion knelt down and scooped up the gigantic dog hair wad tumbleweeds that have been collecting in the corners throughout my home. (I'm guessing that Dudley is shedding more than usual due to the oppressive heat we've experienced this summer?) That's as much of a cleaning job as I've felt compelled to do. Now that the kiddos will be in school, I should have reports of more cleaning/organizing in future posts. Unless, that is, I become so sedentary that the hair wad tumbleweeds overtake me on the couch. That is a very real possibility.
Also, since my last post, we've had our annual trek to the beach with my family. I used to describe my family of origin by saying that we put the "fun" in dysfunctional. I have learned over the years that there really isn't anything fun about the dysfunction (perhaps I'll write about that someday), but that we do have an awful lot of fun when we are together. Everyone who goes on this beach trip is just hilarious. We cannot have a meal together without several quotables emerging that stay with us for the rest of the week. And we are weird - we never go out for meals at the beach. The guys will go out for breakfast before golf, but that's it. People ask me all the time for recommendations for good eats in Hilton Head. I am somewhat embarrassed to say that I have no idea as we've never patronized any of them. There's too many of us. We'd miss out on too much in a noisy restaurant with awkward seating where we couldn't all interact with each other. Not to mention the wonderful food and drinks we'd miss out on.
Yes, we cook our own meals starting with elaborate appetizers and ending with an even more elaborate and sinful dessert to cap off the evening. All of the meals are comprised of our best recipes and each year we remark that it's the "best food we've ever had at the beach". This year as with previous trips, as the week progressed, my collar and hip bones became less and less discernable. Eating and drinking with complete abandon in just one week's time while fun, is not good on the figure. And there are pictures to prove it. Between my brother and I alone, we took over 2000 pictures. That's not an exaggeration. Not a typo. Over 2000. Just ridiculous. I'm sure by the end of the trip, Mike was ready to chuck my camera into the ocean. I was just scared that if I put down my camera or, gulp, left it in the house, I'd somehow miss out on the best-picture-taken-by-anyone-ever. So it pretty much went with me anywhere I needed to go. Which wasn't far.
Wake up.
Go downstairs for breakfast.
Go upstairs for bathing suit.
Go downstairs for towels and sunscreen.
Go to beach.
Come in for lunch and bloody mary or whipped cream flavored vodka drink.
Go back out to beach.
Come in for shower.
Go downstairs for dinner and too much wine.
Go upstairs for advil and bedtime.
Repeat for seven days.
So, as you've gathered by now, the beach trip was fantastic just as it always is. What's really gotten fun about it is that the older my children get, the more I get to see them experience what I always loved about our family vacations. They enjoy the beach and playing in the sand and ocean more and more each year. And they LOVE playing with all of their cousins. The trips for them are very similar in many ways to the trips I took when I was their age with the same family members. I grew up loving spending time with my cousins at the beach. Meg is named "Meg" after my cousin, in fact. When I use the restroom, I use the "john" because my cousin is named John. Also, Mike and I have a "will" in case of our deaths (in case???) because another cousin of mine is named Will. See how much we all mean to each other?
But to watch them experience and enjoy the humor that is always present with this group of people is really a touching thing for me. I hear people talk about needing a vacation after their vacation or dreading having to spend time with the family. I have never really been able to relate to that because that beach trip is the one time of year I can really let my mind go and relax. Something about the salty air and all of the memories from the 35+ years we've been doing this... it's kind of exceptional. And the perfect way to put a close to this special summer I've had with my babies.
They are no longer babies, but they'll always be my babies. And I had the pleasure of spending my summer with them unimpeded by the stresses of work. We got to go to the beach twice. We spent long weekends at the lake - sometimes as a family, sometimes with friends. We took a couple of road trips. We went to movies. We had spend the night parties when daddy would travel. We ate LOTS of pizza and popped LOTS of popcorn (much of which I would discover in my sheets for several days afterwards). We did everything we wanted to do. It was... lovely.
One thing that started close to the end of the summer but has quickly become one of my very favorite things to do with them is story time before bed. It's not what you may be thinking - we've always read books at bedtime. But one night, in an effort to calm Meg down in a crying spell due to exhaustion, I told them a story that I made up as I went. To be honest, I don't even remember what it was about or who the characters were. But they do. The next morning they were talking about the storyline. Asked about the characters - did they do this or did they like that. They had really paid attention. Much more so than when we read to them.
So every night they began begging me to tell more stories. I would have to oblige since it it seemed to mean so much to them. Since that first time, I've told them stories about a deer family. There was one about a turtle named Tippy. There was one about a new student at school who was having a bad day until someone went up and spoke to her. After a particularly nasty day of the two of them fighting, I told them a story about two sisters names Sally and Sissy Sue who learned a very important lesson about the value of having a sister. They hang on my every word. It is such a sweet time that I get to spend with them. The best way I know to describe it is sweet innocence. I have no idea if they know that I'm making it up or if they really believe the stories are true. I just know how much they look forward to that time we spend and I would not trade that feeling for anything.
This has been a beautiful summer. Everything I had hoped it would be when I made the decision to walk away from a great job. In a few weeks, Mike and I will celebrate our tenth anniversary. I am so grateful to him for supporting my need to be home with the girls. I have no idea where we'll be after the next ten years. I'll likely be blogging about how much my kids hate me and are embarrassed by me. But until that time, I think I'll enjoy their sweet innocence as long as they'll let me. I don't know if my house will ever be clean and organized, but something tells me that's not what matters. And just think, I only have 281 days to wait to get to experience it all over again.
Since my last blog entry - about a month ago -I am sorry to say that I've accomplished nothing in the way of good projects around the house. Although to be fair, I have on occasion knelt down and scooped up the gigantic dog hair wad tumbleweeds that have been collecting in the corners throughout my home. (I'm guessing that Dudley is shedding more than usual due to the oppressive heat we've experienced this summer?) That's as much of a cleaning job as I've felt compelled to do. Now that the kiddos will be in school, I should have reports of more cleaning/organizing in future posts. Unless, that is, I become so sedentary that the hair wad tumbleweeds overtake me on the couch. That is a very real possibility.
Also, since my last post, we've had our annual trek to the beach with my family. I used to describe my family of origin by saying that we put the "fun" in dysfunctional. I have learned over the years that there really isn't anything fun about the dysfunction (perhaps I'll write about that someday), but that we do have an awful lot of fun when we are together. Everyone who goes on this beach trip is just hilarious. We cannot have a meal together without several quotables emerging that stay with us for the rest of the week. And we are weird - we never go out for meals at the beach. The guys will go out for breakfast before golf, but that's it. People ask me all the time for recommendations for good eats in Hilton Head. I am somewhat embarrassed to say that I have no idea as we've never patronized any of them. There's too many of us. We'd miss out on too much in a noisy restaurant with awkward seating where we couldn't all interact with each other. Not to mention the wonderful food and drinks we'd miss out on.
Yes, we cook our own meals starting with elaborate appetizers and ending with an even more elaborate and sinful dessert to cap off the evening. All of the meals are comprised of our best recipes and each year we remark that it's the "best food we've ever had at the beach". This year as with previous trips, as the week progressed, my collar and hip bones became less and less discernable. Eating and drinking with complete abandon in just one week's time while fun, is not good on the figure. And there are pictures to prove it. Between my brother and I alone, we took over 2000 pictures. That's not an exaggeration. Not a typo. Over 2000. Just ridiculous. I'm sure by the end of the trip, Mike was ready to chuck my camera into the ocean. I was just scared that if I put down my camera or, gulp, left it in the house, I'd somehow miss out on the best-picture-taken-by-anyone-ever. So it pretty much went with me anywhere I needed to go. Which wasn't far.
Wake up.
Go downstairs for breakfast.
Go upstairs for bathing suit.
Go downstairs for towels and sunscreen.
Go to beach.
Come in for lunch and bloody mary or whipped cream flavored vodka drink.
Go back out to beach.
Come in for shower.
Go downstairs for dinner and too much wine.
Go upstairs for advil and bedtime.
Repeat for seven days.
So, as you've gathered by now, the beach trip was fantastic just as it always is. What's really gotten fun about it is that the older my children get, the more I get to see them experience what I always loved about our family vacations. They enjoy the beach and playing in the sand and ocean more and more each year. And they LOVE playing with all of their cousins. The trips for them are very similar in many ways to the trips I took when I was their age with the same family members. I grew up loving spending time with my cousins at the beach. Meg is named "Meg" after my cousin, in fact. When I use the restroom, I use the "john" because my cousin is named John. Also, Mike and I have a "will" in case of our deaths (in case???) because another cousin of mine is named Will. See how much we all mean to each other?
But to watch them experience and enjoy the humor that is always present with this group of people is really a touching thing for me. I hear people talk about needing a vacation after their vacation or dreading having to spend time with the family. I have never really been able to relate to that because that beach trip is the one time of year I can really let my mind go and relax. Something about the salty air and all of the memories from the 35+ years we've been doing this... it's kind of exceptional. And the perfect way to put a close to this special summer I've had with my babies.
They are no longer babies, but they'll always be my babies. And I had the pleasure of spending my summer with them unimpeded by the stresses of work. We got to go to the beach twice. We spent long weekends at the lake - sometimes as a family, sometimes with friends. We took a couple of road trips. We went to movies. We had spend the night parties when daddy would travel. We ate LOTS of pizza and popped LOTS of popcorn (much of which I would discover in my sheets for several days afterwards). We did everything we wanted to do. It was... lovely.
One thing that started close to the end of the summer but has quickly become one of my very favorite things to do with them is story time before bed. It's not what you may be thinking - we've always read books at bedtime. But one night, in an effort to calm Meg down in a crying spell due to exhaustion, I told them a story that I made up as I went. To be honest, I don't even remember what it was about or who the characters were. But they do. The next morning they were talking about the storyline. Asked about the characters - did they do this or did they like that. They had really paid attention. Much more so than when we read to them.
So every night they began begging me to tell more stories. I would have to oblige since it it seemed to mean so much to them. Since that first time, I've told them stories about a deer family. There was one about a turtle named Tippy. There was one about a new student at school who was having a bad day until someone went up and spoke to her. After a particularly nasty day of the two of them fighting, I told them a story about two sisters names Sally and Sissy Sue who learned a very important lesson about the value of having a sister. They hang on my every word. It is such a sweet time that I get to spend with them. The best way I know to describe it is sweet innocence. I have no idea if they know that I'm making it up or if they really believe the stories are true. I just know how much they look forward to that time we spend and I would not trade that feeling for anything.
This has been a beautiful summer. Everything I had hoped it would be when I made the decision to walk away from a great job. In a few weeks, Mike and I will celebrate our tenth anniversary. I am so grateful to him for supporting my need to be home with the girls. I have no idea where we'll be after the next ten years. I'll likely be blogging about how much my kids hate me and are embarrassed by me. But until that time, I think I'll enjoy their sweet innocence as long as they'll let me. I don't know if my house will ever be clean and organized, but something tells me that's not what matters. And just think, I only have 281 days to wait to get to experience it all over again.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Here Even Late-lier
Not a whole lot has changed or happened in the week that has passed since my last entry. I have one kid at a day camp and one taking an impromptu nap (which can only mean she's coming down with something) so I find myself having some free time to avoid doing the laundry. So here I sit, pecking away.
Some of my post-retirement accomplishments this week have been:
1. Cleaning out the bench area that is in the hall that connects the kitchen to the garage. It's where my kids leave their shoes and we hang our jackets, etc. It's also, apparently, where we keep an HDMI cord we purchased from Wal-Mart back in December that we intend to return, perhaps in 2013. Additionally, we keep blankets we haven't used since March, book-bags left untouched since May, and a pair of underpants that do not belong to anyone who lives in this house. Because of where it is located, this area catches a lot of things we don't know what to do with when we first come in the door. So, we set them down and promptly forget about them.
2. Cleaning out the big closet off of the guest bedroom. This closet has been a thorn in my side - not to mention a likely fire hazard - for about as long as we've lived in this house. It's where I keep my gift wrapping supplies so you can imagine how horrible it's been looking. Aaron Spelling used to have a room specifically for gift wrapping in his bazillion square foot mansion. I used to think that was ridiculous, but now I know why it is necessary. There were empty spools of wrapping paper everywhere, crushed and flattened bows, tangled heaps of curly ribbon, and even pieces of ribbon that had been pulled off wrapped presents that I hilariously thought I'd be able to re-use. And there were at least 25 used gift bags; only eight of which were in any condition to re-gift. Grrrr. I was also keeping clothes in there that I had both gotten to fat and too thin for. I made a bag for the Goodwill of the clothes I've gotten to thin for. The ones I'm too fat for are still hanging in there (albeit, more neatly) as a means to shame myself into eating better. I also have everything I could possibly need to both begin working on and fully complete the scrapbook for Meg's first year of life. Considering she will be five in October, I am not optimistic I'll get to it anytime soon.
This particular cleaning project will not matter to anyone but me. Mike had no idea how awful it was because he never has a need to be in that closet (insert a Mike "in the closet" joke here). But all of the guests who have had the misfortune of using that room and having no way to hang up their clothes (you couldn't walk into the closet it was so packed) will appreciate it during their next visit. That is, of course, if I can keep it looking nice. I'm sure it will be fine until the Christmas gift wrapping season is upon us and then - no telling.
3. Cleaning and organizing my pantry. I found a can of She Crab soup from the Fresh Market with a slightly expired date on it. Care to guess what year it expired? If you said 2006, you would be correct. This is significant for a couple of reasons. Not only have I had this can of soup for at least 6 years (but mostly likely much longer - canned goods keep forever), but it also made the move from our old house to our new house. And guess what: We moved here in 2008! That's right - 2008. So that means that either I didn't pay any attention to it at the point I packed it up and then unpacked it, or that I just didn't care. Obviously it's not the latter. But how many other horribly outdated and possibly poisonous things have I prepared for my family over the years??! And did you realize that spices expire? I didn't. But they do. Just ask the block of coriander I had sitting in my spice rack. And what's the rule on how long you should keep brown sugar? If it's so hard that you could use it to rest your car on while you fix a tire, should you throw it out? Just to be safe, I did.
This project will also not be visible to anyone other than myself since people rarely find themselves in my pantry. What I probably should have done is spent some time sifting through and organizing the clutter that has built up in my kitchen since that is one of the most visible rooms in the house. But I just couldn't feel good about what groceries to buy, etc., until I knew exactly what was in that pantry. And now I know. I can see almost every item in there now as opposed to seeing what was in the first row and missing everything that was shoved deep into the abyss of the shelves.
and finally...
4. Cleaning out my car. We went to the lake a couple of weekends ago and the ants were out in full force. They are really bad there so we have to be very careful about where we eat food in the house because if there are crumbs anywhere, they'll find 'em. A couple of years ago, the girls ate some chips in their bed and two days later had ants crawling all over the top bunk. Lovely. I despise ants. So imagine how disgusted I was when I realized that they had sniffed out some crumbs in my car and were crawling all of the place. I did the best I could cleaning it out for the ride home but as I drove home they were crawling all over the dashboard and my children's car seats. G-R-O-S-S!!!! So, not only did I get all of the crap out of it (random Happy Meal toys, trash, etc.) but I washed the windows, cleaned the dashboard, doors, and seats, and steam cleaned all of the rugs and the floors. It looks SO much better in there now and I feel better that I (hopefully) got rid of all of the footy-prints and poop, etc. that those pesky pests leave behind.
Yet another project that no one else will appreciate except for me. Well, the girls and Mike probably appreciate my efforts on the car more than any other of my projects so far. But there are several other glaringly obvious opportunities in my house that I am hoping to tackle in the coming weeks. The time that has passed since I began typing this, as an example, would have been a wonderful opportunity to get something productivedone. Oh well. Can't get to everything at once.
This retirement has started off kind of like a pregnancy. I have been excited at the new phase I am entering into in my life. I've been nervous I won't be a good mother (stay at home mom) and have begun nesting (randomly cleaning/straightening things in my house). This means that right around the corner I will be dog-tired and pudgy. I see a lot of naps in my future. I see Mike having to rub my feet. I see myself growing back into the clothes I've just marked for the Goodwill. Dammit.
Stay tuned if you'd like to follow my progress.
Some of my post-retirement accomplishments this week have been:
1. Cleaning out the bench area that is in the hall that connects the kitchen to the garage. It's where my kids leave their shoes and we hang our jackets, etc. It's also, apparently, where we keep an HDMI cord we purchased from Wal-Mart back in December that we intend to return, perhaps in 2013. Additionally, we keep blankets we haven't used since March, book-bags left untouched since May, and a pair of underpants that do not belong to anyone who lives in this house. Because of where it is located, this area catches a lot of things we don't know what to do with when we first come in the door. So, we set them down and promptly forget about them.
2. Cleaning out the big closet off of the guest bedroom. This closet has been a thorn in my side - not to mention a likely fire hazard - for about as long as we've lived in this house. It's where I keep my gift wrapping supplies so you can imagine how horrible it's been looking. Aaron Spelling used to have a room specifically for gift wrapping in his bazillion square foot mansion. I used to think that was ridiculous, but now I know why it is necessary. There were empty spools of wrapping paper everywhere, crushed and flattened bows, tangled heaps of curly ribbon, and even pieces of ribbon that had been pulled off wrapped presents that I hilariously thought I'd be able to re-use. And there were at least 25 used gift bags; only eight of which were in any condition to re-gift. Grrrr. I was also keeping clothes in there that I had both gotten to fat and too thin for. I made a bag for the Goodwill of the clothes I've gotten to thin for. The ones I'm too fat for are still hanging in there (albeit, more neatly) as a means to shame myself into eating better. I also have everything I could possibly need to both begin working on and fully complete the scrapbook for Meg's first year of life. Considering she will be five in October, I am not optimistic I'll get to it anytime soon.
This particular cleaning project will not matter to anyone but me. Mike had no idea how awful it was because he never has a need to be in that closet (insert a Mike "in the closet" joke here). But all of the guests who have had the misfortune of using that room and having no way to hang up their clothes (you couldn't walk into the closet it was so packed) will appreciate it during their next visit. That is, of course, if I can keep it looking nice. I'm sure it will be fine until the Christmas gift wrapping season is upon us and then - no telling.
3. Cleaning and organizing my pantry. I found a can of She Crab soup from the Fresh Market with a slightly expired date on it. Care to guess what year it expired? If you said 2006, you would be correct. This is significant for a couple of reasons. Not only have I had this can of soup for at least 6 years (but mostly likely much longer - canned goods keep forever), but it also made the move from our old house to our new house. And guess what: We moved here in 2008! That's right - 2008. So that means that either I didn't pay any attention to it at the point I packed it up and then unpacked it, or that I just didn't care. Obviously it's not the latter. But how many other horribly outdated and possibly poisonous things have I prepared for my family over the years??! And did you realize that spices expire? I didn't. But they do. Just ask the block of coriander I had sitting in my spice rack. And what's the rule on how long you should keep brown sugar? If it's so hard that you could use it to rest your car on while you fix a tire, should you throw it out? Just to be safe, I did.
This project will also not be visible to anyone other than myself since people rarely find themselves in my pantry. What I probably should have done is spent some time sifting through and organizing the clutter that has built up in my kitchen since that is one of the most visible rooms in the house. But I just couldn't feel good about what groceries to buy, etc., until I knew exactly what was in that pantry. And now I know. I can see almost every item in there now as opposed to seeing what was in the first row and missing everything that was shoved deep into the abyss of the shelves.
and finally...
4. Cleaning out my car. We went to the lake a couple of weekends ago and the ants were out in full force. They are really bad there so we have to be very careful about where we eat food in the house because if there are crumbs anywhere, they'll find 'em. A couple of years ago, the girls ate some chips in their bed and two days later had ants crawling all over the top bunk. Lovely. I despise ants. So imagine how disgusted I was when I realized that they had sniffed out some crumbs in my car and were crawling all of the place. I did the best I could cleaning it out for the ride home but as I drove home they were crawling all over the dashboard and my children's car seats. G-R-O-S-S!!!! So, not only did I get all of the crap out of it (random Happy Meal toys, trash, etc.) but I washed the windows, cleaned the dashboard, doors, and seats, and steam cleaned all of the rugs and the floors. It looks SO much better in there now and I feel better that I (hopefully) got rid of all of the footy-prints and poop, etc. that those pesky pests leave behind.
Yet another project that no one else will appreciate except for me. Well, the girls and Mike probably appreciate my efforts on the car more than any other of my projects so far. But there are several other glaringly obvious opportunities in my house that I am hoping to tackle in the coming weeks. The time that has passed since I began typing this, as an example, would have been a wonderful opportunity to get something productivedone. Oh well. Can't get to everything at once.
This retirement has started off kind of like a pregnancy. I have been excited at the new phase I am entering into in my life. I've been nervous I won't be a good mother (stay at home mom) and have begun nesting (randomly cleaning/straightening things in my house). This means that right around the corner I will be dog-tired and pudgy. I see a lot of naps in my future. I see Mike having to rub my feet. I see myself growing back into the clothes I've just marked for the Goodwill. Dammit.
Stay tuned if you'd like to follow my progress.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)