My cell phone just rang. My cell phone never rings. Everyone knows that I'm always home, and I never answer it anyway. I have it so I can call from the grocery store and ask what that other thing was that I was supposed to get. So there I was finding my purse, which I had left on the kitchen table, then struggling with the zipper, because Ezra decided to be helpful and zip it (I have never zipped my purse, and now I know why). Then I had to find the phone in the recesses of the purse, while it blared "Flight of the Bumblebee" at me. I finally found it and saw "mom-cell" on the display. Of course. She's the only one, other than the occasional telemarketer, who calls that number.
I answered it and was told, "Jeanne is gone."
One of my mom's oldest friends, she was diagnosed with cancer about a year ago. Particuarly because of its unspecified origin, they attacked it with everything the local hospital and the Mayo Clinic had. And a couple of months ago, she started to improve. I should have realized she had merely been granted more time (of course, isn't that all we ever have? never all the time in the world, only more than right now, if we are lucky). She was able to attend a famliy reunion, spend time with her sons and grandchildren, and go on an annual trip with her girlfriends to the Boundary Waters. Then the cancer regained its strength and slowly took all hers. Last week they decided it was time to stop treatment, to let go, to get ready to let her go.
I am full of grief for my mom, for Jeanne's children and her dear grandchildren. For her husband, whose great joy in life has been sharing a tandem bike with his wife--now left without a partner. I am soberly reminded that there are no guarantees, that even "remission" does not mean "cured." That a time will come when I must say my goodbyes as well.
But while I think these things, life goes on. Matilda insists that she must eat noodles like the big kids, which not only means using silverware, but for some reason, eating them directly off the serving spoon. So one noodle after another goes onto the spoon, then she spends most of a minute trying to slurp it off with her lips. Ezra eats his favorite lunch with unbridled enthusiasm, saying things like "Thanks, Pishy, Pishy," then laughing hysterically. Zachary shows me that he has indeed eaten his broccoli and then is excused to go play with his new Batcave, where I hear him telling stories to himself about buying gas and never stopping until the job is done.
I am sad, but oh so happy. For in the same moment, my heart is full of aching grief for a mourning family--and aching gratitude for the family I have.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Where have I been?
Thank you so much to Jasmine for letting me know that I am not alone in the world and that there actually are people who read this blog--when I get around to writing in it!
It's been a pretty busy summer; I'm a little inclined to say lousy, but let's go with busy instead. If you are ever inclined to do any major home renovation, take a deep breath and ask yourself if it's truly worth it. The first week in May, we broke ground on an addition to the house. The second week in June, Zachary finished school and has since been home. Around the middle of June, we lost the use of Ezra's room, since they knocked out the wall to expand the room so the boys can share it; since then, he's slept in our room. Since Matilda is already sleeping in there, this almost immediately meant that he stopped napping. A couple of weeks later, we lost the upstairs bathroom when they ripped it apart to add onto it, and we lost much of the use of the basement bathroom, since they tore apart the ceiling in there to get to the pipes. Somewhere in there, we were also informed that we needed a new roof and that insurance ought to pay for it; but of course we had to fight with claims adjustors for a few weeks.
Last week, I got an email from the mother of the victim of Matilda's biting; she'd been bitten again on Friday, and they decided to take a couple of weeks to decide what to do next. I cannot overstate the anxiety this created in me. I have already been all worked up about the biting, have taken two classes about it, and have consulted my child care licensor and another child care provider, who is the person I go to whenever I have a question. I have done--and am doing--all I can, and now it's just a matter of waiting to see if it gets better. I understand that's a lousy thing to hear when it's your kid getting bitten, but it's also pretty upsetting when you feel like you're the only person in the world who doesn't think your 16-month-old is a little monster. There actually hasn't been a single biting incident in the two weeks that this baby has been gone; and though I don't blame the other baby at all (she is just a baby, I realize that), it's so much less stressful when she's not here and I don't have to wait, poised, to see if Matilda is going to strike.
So yesterday this family gave me their notice that they're going to pull their daughter out of my day care. After a couple of weeks to think it over, I'm not surprised or extremely upset. I've talked with a lot of people about it and believe that she's a little caveman, not a bad person, and though I can't tolerate biting, I can accept that it's common for kids her age.
The house is almost done. Though the backyard is a mud pit, the bedroom and bathroom are just about done; I think the boys are going to move in tonight. We tried to find a baby sitter and only found a guy who kind of creeped us out and now won't stop emailing to ask why we didn't hire him. We decided to use my husband's nephew instead, and he was great the first weekend but just didn't show up last weekend. We have a woman who comes every two weeks and cleans the main floor of the house, making our lives easier and my father-in-law's room a more pleasant place for him to live; she also didn't show up, for the fourth week in a row. I need a haircut. It's dumb, but it really bothers me because I have short hair and have been in in the "I need a haircut" stage for at least a month.
Today I had a screaming match with Ezra during nap time. He wouldn't stop screaming, and eventually it made me scream, and there was a lot of screaming and crying, from both of us. I feel like I haven't had more than three seconds in a row to call my own since April. Sorry if this sounds bitchy, but I can't tell you how good it feels just to complain about it all, to get it out and admit that there is all this stuff that is bothering me. As I've been writing, the kids have been eating supper--eating ketchup with their fingers instead of eating actual chicken dipped in the ketchup, insisting that they give their crackers to the dog and then needing new ones, wanting to "try something" on me that they saw on TV. They're being kids--my delightful, annoying kids. Tonight I'm going to help the boys move into their new room, and sometime soon Matilda will move into her new room, Zachary's current room. And then I will have a bedroom with only adults in it, something that has been true only sporadically since Zachary was born almost six years ago.
I keep thinking of a line from The Simpsons, one of my favorite shows. Homer is upset about something, as usual, and says, "Why do I have three kids and no money? Why can't I have no kids and three money?" I admit, I feel that way sometimes, especially about the total absence of space and time to call my own. I've never had high financial aspirations, but space and time used to be things I could claim for myself. Sometimes I wish I could have "three space" and "three time," but most of the time, most days, I'm still overwhelmingly grateful to have three kids instead. Especially ones as delightful and annoying as mine.
It's been a pretty busy summer; I'm a little inclined to say lousy, but let's go with busy instead. If you are ever inclined to do any major home renovation, take a deep breath and ask yourself if it's truly worth it. The first week in May, we broke ground on an addition to the house. The second week in June, Zachary finished school and has since been home. Around the middle of June, we lost the use of Ezra's room, since they knocked out the wall to expand the room so the boys can share it; since then, he's slept in our room. Since Matilda is already sleeping in there, this almost immediately meant that he stopped napping. A couple of weeks later, we lost the upstairs bathroom when they ripped it apart to add onto it, and we lost much of the use of the basement bathroom, since they tore apart the ceiling in there to get to the pipes. Somewhere in there, we were also informed that we needed a new roof and that insurance ought to pay for it; but of course we had to fight with claims adjustors for a few weeks.
Last week, I got an email from the mother of the victim of Matilda's biting; she'd been bitten again on Friday, and they decided to take a couple of weeks to decide what to do next. I cannot overstate the anxiety this created in me. I have already been all worked up about the biting, have taken two classes about it, and have consulted my child care licensor and another child care provider, who is the person I go to whenever I have a question. I have done--and am doing--all I can, and now it's just a matter of waiting to see if it gets better. I understand that's a lousy thing to hear when it's your kid getting bitten, but it's also pretty upsetting when you feel like you're the only person in the world who doesn't think your 16-month-old is a little monster. There actually hasn't been a single biting incident in the two weeks that this baby has been gone; and though I don't blame the other baby at all (she is just a baby, I realize that), it's so much less stressful when she's not here and I don't have to wait, poised, to see if Matilda is going to strike.
So yesterday this family gave me their notice that they're going to pull their daughter out of my day care. After a couple of weeks to think it over, I'm not surprised or extremely upset. I've talked with a lot of people about it and believe that she's a little caveman, not a bad person, and though I can't tolerate biting, I can accept that it's common for kids her age.
The house is almost done. Though the backyard is a mud pit, the bedroom and bathroom are just about done; I think the boys are going to move in tonight. We tried to find a baby sitter and only found a guy who kind of creeped us out and now won't stop emailing to ask why we didn't hire him. We decided to use my husband's nephew instead, and he was great the first weekend but just didn't show up last weekend. We have a woman who comes every two weeks and cleans the main floor of the house, making our lives easier and my father-in-law's room a more pleasant place for him to live; she also didn't show up, for the fourth week in a row. I need a haircut. It's dumb, but it really bothers me because I have short hair and have been in in the "I need a haircut" stage for at least a month.
Today I had a screaming match with Ezra during nap time. He wouldn't stop screaming, and eventually it made me scream, and there was a lot of screaming and crying, from both of us. I feel like I haven't had more than three seconds in a row to call my own since April. Sorry if this sounds bitchy, but I can't tell you how good it feels just to complain about it all, to get it out and admit that there is all this stuff that is bothering me. As I've been writing, the kids have been eating supper--eating ketchup with their fingers instead of eating actual chicken dipped in the ketchup, insisting that they give their crackers to the dog and then needing new ones, wanting to "try something" on me that they saw on TV. They're being kids--my delightful, annoying kids. Tonight I'm going to help the boys move into their new room, and sometime soon Matilda will move into her new room, Zachary's current room. And then I will have a bedroom with only adults in it, something that has been true only sporadically since Zachary was born almost six years ago.
I keep thinking of a line from The Simpsons, one of my favorite shows. Homer is upset about something, as usual, and says, "Why do I have three kids and no money? Why can't I have no kids and three money?" I admit, I feel that way sometimes, especially about the total absence of space and time to call my own. I've never had high financial aspirations, but space and time used to be things I could claim for myself. Sometimes I wish I could have "three space" and "three time," but most of the time, most days, I'm still overwhelmingly grateful to have three kids instead. Especially ones as delightful and annoying as mine.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
In Other News
Okay, I feel kind of bitchy about that last post. I'm still not happy about it, but I love my dad and would someday like to have a relationship with his wife again. It will never be the way it was, but I know I can either spend my life being angry about it or I can stop being angry and start feeling better.
So here is some other news.
First of all, Matilda has been giving kisses the last couple of days. She selects her victim, uh, recipient, and waddles up to them. Usually it's another kid, so she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in tight. The first time she did this, I was nervous, since she's had a bit of a biting habit in the past. But once she's got a firm hold, she plants a giant, open, slobbery mouth on top of her friend's head. Then she smiles at me to make sure that I know what a wonderful friend she is. Of course, I'm sure to let her know that I do know what a nice person she is, which usually leads to more kissing. I'm still always a little nervous that she's going to bite or strangle, but the thought is there. (As I am writing, Zachary and Ezra are standing at the dining room table playing play-doh. Matilda just took the opportunity to walk up and kiss Zachary's bottom.)
Second, I received 6 separate emails today about swine flu. Three of them were from our health insurance company, and three were from child care organizations. Let me summarize the information they contained: There is this thing called swine flu. It's not like the regular flu, so your flu shot? Worthless. It's really dangerous but so far only in Mexico. If you get sick, don't come to work, because that could make others sick. If you're a day care provider, tell parents if their kids get the swine flu, they shouldn't come to day care. The best way to prevent it is by washing your hands. Seriously? For this, they emailed me six times? If you have a vaccine or a cure or a case in my town, that warrants six emails. But "wash your hands"? I think I could have figured that one out on my own. And no, no day care parents have been asking about my swine flu policies. I know perspective can be a difficult thing to come by, but it doesn't help to have 35 channels screaming that we're all going to die (maybe) and getting the same advice we get for preventing the common cold.
Finally--and definitely best--my mom called this morning to say that my brother had called her. He wants to know if he can give his girlfriend the ring my dad gave my mom for their 30th anniversary. She said she wanted to ask me and my sister before she told him it was okay, so no one felt slighted. I told her of course it was okay, that I think it's an absolutely beautiful gesture. He's been saying for years that he can never get married, because with mom and dad in such bad shape, how would he manage the wedding? I think that concern faded a few years ago, but I think it was replaced by a very real fear of marriage--that if his parents' marriage could turn into this mess, what would happen to his? So we learned never to ask if they were ever going to get married. They live together, and he just got a job in New Orleans, and it's been understood that she would go too. But we were never allowed to ask about permanence. And now my baby brother's going to get married! She made it very clear that this is a big secret, but this is the advantage to not actually telling anyone you know about your blog: you get to spill the beans, because if anyone reads this, who are you going to tell?
So even in this messy world that makes me so mad sometimes, good things happen. And I'm so grateful.
So here is some other news.
First of all, Matilda has been giving kisses the last couple of days. She selects her victim, uh, recipient, and waddles up to them. Usually it's another kid, so she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in tight. The first time she did this, I was nervous, since she's had a bit of a biting habit in the past. But once she's got a firm hold, she plants a giant, open, slobbery mouth on top of her friend's head. Then she smiles at me to make sure that I know what a wonderful friend she is. Of course, I'm sure to let her know that I do know what a nice person she is, which usually leads to more kissing. I'm still always a little nervous that she's going to bite or strangle, but the thought is there. (As I am writing, Zachary and Ezra are standing at the dining room table playing play-doh. Matilda just took the opportunity to walk up and kiss Zachary's bottom.)
Second, I received 6 separate emails today about swine flu. Three of them were from our health insurance company, and three were from child care organizations. Let me summarize the information they contained: There is this thing called swine flu. It's not like the regular flu, so your flu shot? Worthless. It's really dangerous but so far only in Mexico. If you get sick, don't come to work, because that could make others sick. If you're a day care provider, tell parents if their kids get the swine flu, they shouldn't come to day care. The best way to prevent it is by washing your hands. Seriously? For this, they emailed me six times? If you have a vaccine or a cure or a case in my town, that warrants six emails. But "wash your hands"? I think I could have figured that one out on my own. And no, no day care parents have been asking about my swine flu policies. I know perspective can be a difficult thing to come by, but it doesn't help to have 35 channels screaming that we're all going to die (maybe) and getting the same advice we get for preventing the common cold.
Finally--and definitely best--my mom called this morning to say that my brother had called her. He wants to know if he can give his girlfriend the ring my dad gave my mom for their 30th anniversary. She said she wanted to ask me and my sister before she told him it was okay, so no one felt slighted. I told her of course it was okay, that I think it's an absolutely beautiful gesture. He's been saying for years that he can never get married, because with mom and dad in such bad shape, how would he manage the wedding? I think that concern faded a few years ago, but I think it was replaced by a very real fear of marriage--that if his parents' marriage could turn into this mess, what would happen to his? So we learned never to ask if they were ever going to get married. They live together, and he just got a job in New Orleans, and it's been understood that she would go too. But we were never allowed to ask about permanence. And now my baby brother's going to get married! She made it very clear that this is a big secret, but this is the advantage to not actually telling anyone you know about your blog: you get to spill the beans, because if anyone reads this, who are you going to tell?
So even in this messy world that makes me so mad sometimes, good things happen. And I'm so grateful.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
My Dad's Marriage(s): Part 1
I felt it was appropriate to title this one "Part 1" because I know this is going to be one of those stories that, even though you think it's done, there's really more.
Let me begin with the most basic information. My parents were married--to one another--all my life. I was born (several weeks early after an unplanned conception--yay me!) a little over a year after they got married. I grew up as one of the only kids I knew whose parents were married to one another. It wasn't the greatest marriage in the world, but I figured they were doing a good job, because they were still together. I always knew, although it was almost never discussed, that my dad had been married before. It was short lived and there were no kids. In fact, it was very shortly after his first marriage ended that he met my mom; the story went that he was visiting a friend to "get over" his divorce, and they threw a dart at a map to decide where to go. It landed on Crystal Ice Caves, where my mom was a tour guide. And the rest was history. Until 2005, when, a month before Ezra was born, my dad announced that he was moving out. There had been stirrings in the marital waters to be sure; in 1997, when I was studying abroad for six months, we learned that he'd had an affair with one of his (graduate) students for pretty much the entire time. There had been speculation, mostly between the siblings, that this wasn't the first time. But officially things were back on track. And then suddenly they weren't. Officially they were taking a break, he was going to "find himself" or something for a year while living on his own, but it was pretty quickly clear to everyone but my mom that he wasn't looking back.
He told us all that this was a hard time for him, that he was really a private person who'd been living for the last 30 years as though he were a very social person. He was trying to be true to himself, to be the fundamentally alone person that he was. And no, there was no way on earth that he was seeing someone--not now, not while he was still with Mom, not at all. Those rumors that he was dating my friend--the one who had coincidentally gotten a divorce around the time he moved out, the one who was his student, the one who had kind of stopped calling me? Those rumors were completely false, and it was kind of insulting that we would think otherwise.
Until the day he told me they were true. And they were getting married. And, as I have tried over and over to explain to him, I don't have excesses of friends or family. And my dear friend, the first one to visit me in the hospital after Zachary was born, the first friend I'd made at my first grown-up job, the one with a daughter 9 months older than Zachary, my friend and my dad had chosen one another over me.
There's more, of course. There's always more. But that continues to be a crux of the situation for me. My mom is hurt and angry and insists that the only thing we can do to help is "be loyal." My brother, who has always looked up to my dad, is not speaking to him. My sister is sick of being the one my mom turns to, sick of being the one to take care of her and tell her it's going to be all right. And I'm the pushover, the easy one, the one who's always been closest to him--and terrifyingly, most like him in personality. And I'm the one they betrayed most, at least more than my siblings. And though I haven't actually spoken to her since all this happened, he has never once apologized. He's said he understands that people are hurt and it's too bad that things worked out that way, but he's never once said, "That must really be hard on you. I wish you hadn't beem hurt like that. I'm sorry."
Let me begin with the most basic information. My parents were married--to one another--all my life. I was born (several weeks early after an unplanned conception--yay me!) a little over a year after they got married. I grew up as one of the only kids I knew whose parents were married to one another. It wasn't the greatest marriage in the world, but I figured they were doing a good job, because they were still together. I always knew, although it was almost never discussed, that my dad had been married before. It was short lived and there were no kids. In fact, it was very shortly after his first marriage ended that he met my mom; the story went that he was visiting a friend to "get over" his divorce, and they threw a dart at a map to decide where to go. It landed on Crystal Ice Caves, where my mom was a tour guide. And the rest was history. Until 2005, when, a month before Ezra was born, my dad announced that he was moving out. There had been stirrings in the marital waters to be sure; in 1997, when I was studying abroad for six months, we learned that he'd had an affair with one of his (graduate) students for pretty much the entire time. There had been speculation, mostly between the siblings, that this wasn't the first time. But officially things were back on track. And then suddenly they weren't. Officially they were taking a break, he was going to "find himself" or something for a year while living on his own, but it was pretty quickly clear to everyone but my mom that he wasn't looking back.
He told us all that this was a hard time for him, that he was really a private person who'd been living for the last 30 years as though he were a very social person. He was trying to be true to himself, to be the fundamentally alone person that he was. And no, there was no way on earth that he was seeing someone--not now, not while he was still with Mom, not at all. Those rumors that he was dating my friend--the one who had coincidentally gotten a divorce around the time he moved out, the one who was his student, the one who had kind of stopped calling me? Those rumors were completely false, and it was kind of insulting that we would think otherwise.
Until the day he told me they were true. And they were getting married. And, as I have tried over and over to explain to him, I don't have excesses of friends or family. And my dear friend, the first one to visit me in the hospital after Zachary was born, the first friend I'd made at my first grown-up job, the one with a daughter 9 months older than Zachary, my friend and my dad had chosen one another over me.
There's more, of course. There's always more. But that continues to be a crux of the situation for me. My mom is hurt and angry and insists that the only thing we can do to help is "be loyal." My brother, who has always looked up to my dad, is not speaking to him. My sister is sick of being the one my mom turns to, sick of being the one to take care of her and tell her it's going to be all right. And I'm the pushover, the easy one, the one who's always been closest to him--and terrifyingly, most like him in personality. And I'm the one they betrayed most, at least more than my siblings. And though I haven't actually spoken to her since all this happened, he has never once apologized. He's said he understands that people are hurt and it's too bad that things worked out that way, but he's never once said, "That must really be hard on you. I wish you hadn't beem hurt like that. I'm sorry."
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Good One, God!
So remember all the sobbing on the floor after the hitting the head? (I still have a big red scab there, by the way--very sexy.) This was followed by much crying about pretty much nothing, leading to a few possibilities: one, my medication isn't working. Since I'm on an insanely high dosage of antidepressants, I hesitate even to think that's an option. In fact, I was just thinking that it was about time to talk to my psychiatrist about lowering my dosage, now that all the having babies and other stressors are done with. Two: maybe I'm just crazy. This is a logical next step in my head, that if I'm not dealing well with whatever is going on around me, I must therefore be "broken." That was mostly what I had concluded until... this afternoon, in a moment that confirms that God has a sense of humor, I got my period!
Now, this might not be very exciting news, but for a few things. One, it does seem to explain a lot; I've just been been PMS'ing. But I'm nursing, and I have a body (and kids) such that I don't get a period for a year or so after baby is born, what with the refual to sleep in their own beds and such. Additionally, I've been on the pill since, oh, 1999. Seriously. When we got married in 2002, I decided to switch brands over to the good-for-your-skin one before the wedding. Dumbass. I spent our honeymoon dealing with spotting and finally decided to go off it for a month or two and reset my system; I was pregnant before I got my first period off the pill. (We had been planning to try "soon," just hadn't decided on "immediately.") I went on the mini-pill as soon as he was born and was on it until he was 15 months old. I was pregnant within a month. I lost that pregnancy but was pregnant within a month after that. (3 C-sections; my body dearly loves to make babies, and it would keep them forever if it could.) After Ezra was born, I went back on the mini-pill and then onto the regular one. It was while I was on that pill that I got pregnant with Matilda. (Yes, I obviously screwed up somewhere; everyone asks if I forgot to take it. Apparently I did. And of course, I will be forever grateful that I did, since if I had been more responsible, I would be missing one of the things that makes my life whole.) After Matilda was born, I had my tubes tied.
So you see, I have not been without strange hormones of some kind coursing through my veins in about 10 years. I've been pregnant or on the pill pretty much the entire time. And I'm terrified. I first started the pill because of the severity of my periods, and now they're back, with no artificial hormones to dampen them down? (Could I even go back on the pill now, if they're intolerable? Would they think I was crazy if I tried?)
What's more, we're leaving tomorrow for the weekend. It's not a romantic getaway, at least there's that. And we're not camping. My potential discomfort would put a real damper on the outdoor experience. No, instead, my husband, three children, and father-in-law are driving 3 hours to visit my husband's brother (who we see a couple of times a year) and his wife. So for the next few days, I will be dealing with cramps, diarrhea, cold sweats, and all the shit that goes with something I was so grateful not to have to deal with for the last, well, two years at least. And I'm going to do it all while dealing with extended family who don't know me very well and make me nervous at the best of times. I'll be placating everyone, watching the little kids while my husband takes Zachary into the hotel swimming pool, being the good daughter-in-law and making sure his dad has everything he needs, and generally trying not to think about how much I wish I was alone, in my bed, with a novel and a glass of wine.
God, you crack me up!
Now, this might not be very exciting news, but for a few things. One, it does seem to explain a lot; I've just been been PMS'ing. But I'm nursing, and I have a body (and kids) such that I don't get a period for a year or so after baby is born, what with the refual to sleep in their own beds and such. Additionally, I've been on the pill since, oh, 1999. Seriously. When we got married in 2002, I decided to switch brands over to the good-for-your-skin one before the wedding. Dumbass. I spent our honeymoon dealing with spotting and finally decided to go off it for a month or two and reset my system; I was pregnant before I got my first period off the pill. (We had been planning to try "soon," just hadn't decided on "immediately.") I went on the mini-pill as soon as he was born and was on it until he was 15 months old. I was pregnant within a month. I lost that pregnancy but was pregnant within a month after that. (3 C-sections; my body dearly loves to make babies, and it would keep them forever if it could.) After Ezra was born, I went back on the mini-pill and then onto the regular one. It was while I was on that pill that I got pregnant with Matilda. (Yes, I obviously screwed up somewhere; everyone asks if I forgot to take it. Apparently I did. And of course, I will be forever grateful that I did, since if I had been more responsible, I would be missing one of the things that makes my life whole.) After Matilda was born, I had my tubes tied.
So you see, I have not been without strange hormones of some kind coursing through my veins in about 10 years. I've been pregnant or on the pill pretty much the entire time. And I'm terrified. I first started the pill because of the severity of my periods, and now they're back, with no artificial hormones to dampen them down? (Could I even go back on the pill now, if they're intolerable? Would they think I was crazy if I tried?)
What's more, we're leaving tomorrow for the weekend. It's not a romantic getaway, at least there's that. And we're not camping. My potential discomfort would put a real damper on the outdoor experience. No, instead, my husband, three children, and father-in-law are driving 3 hours to visit my husband's brother (who we see a couple of times a year) and his wife. So for the next few days, I will be dealing with cramps, diarrhea, cold sweats, and all the shit that goes with something I was so grateful not to have to deal with for the last, well, two years at least. And I'm going to do it all while dealing with extended family who don't know me very well and make me nervous at the best of times. I'll be placating everyone, watching the little kids while my husband takes Zachary into the hotel swimming pool, being the good daughter-in-law and making sure his dad has everything he needs, and generally trying not to think about how much I wish I was alone, in my bed, with a novel and a glass of wine.
God, you crack me up!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
I hate all things sharp and pointy
That's it, I am clearing out the house. At the curb, I am placing all things pointy. Forks, knives, pens, scissors, all yours for the taking. Everything must go. Especially shelves that stick out of the wall at forehead level and then attack without warning when all you did was drop a can of juice that you were trying to put in the recycling like a responsible person until you bent down to pick it up and then--wham! On the floor, sobbing, for five minutes.
It had been a cruddy afternoon. No one was listening to a word I said, then they decided to pull out every single puzzle. Some time ago, I took all our jigsaw puzzles of 100 pieces or so and put them in zip-loc bags and put the bags in a plastic tub. Clever storage, no? Yes, until they decide to open the tub, take out every puzzle, and open the puzzles on the floor in Ezra's room. I told them several times that as soon as all the puzzles were picked up, we could go outside. But every time I turned around, there were more. So I was near the end of my rope anyway. I decided to take a break from the puzzle-related anger and make more juice. And then came the dreaded shelf to the forehead. I was bending over, didn't realize it was right there, and now I have a giant, red, swollen rectangle on my forehead. It hurt enough to justify some serious swearing, but probably not the actual crying that ensued. I just couldn't believe that the world was being that mean to me today--and that the house full of children, whose owies I kiss, whose butts I clean, whose fights I referee, not one of them asked if I was okay, as I lay on the floor crying.
That was several hours ago, and it still hurts. When I suggested that it would be a good night for a pizza, my husband reminded me that we're going out of town this weekend and will be eating out for several meals. Of course, he's not doing any cooking tonight, so what does he care? My head hurts, and no one is being nice to me. Zachary and Ezra are playing "sneak up tp Mommy and pull her hair, because we're spies... or something." Matilda is following them around and getting pushed over occasionally. They need baths, and I don't feel like giving them. I'm so cranky and really want someone to take over my jobs--all my stupid keeping-everything-in-this-house-clean-and-alive jobs--for just a few hours.
On second throught, maybe I won't put all the pointy things out on the curb. Maybe I'll just sit out there. Maybe someone will offer to take me away, or maybe I'll just get a little time to myself.
It had been a cruddy afternoon. No one was listening to a word I said, then they decided to pull out every single puzzle. Some time ago, I took all our jigsaw puzzles of 100 pieces or so and put them in zip-loc bags and put the bags in a plastic tub. Clever storage, no? Yes, until they decide to open the tub, take out every puzzle, and open the puzzles on the floor in Ezra's room. I told them several times that as soon as all the puzzles were picked up, we could go outside. But every time I turned around, there were more. So I was near the end of my rope anyway. I decided to take a break from the puzzle-related anger and make more juice. And then came the dreaded shelf to the forehead. I was bending over, didn't realize it was right there, and now I have a giant, red, swollen rectangle on my forehead. It hurt enough to justify some serious swearing, but probably not the actual crying that ensued. I just couldn't believe that the world was being that mean to me today--and that the house full of children, whose owies I kiss, whose butts I clean, whose fights I referee, not one of them asked if I was okay, as I lay on the floor crying.
That was several hours ago, and it still hurts. When I suggested that it would be a good night for a pizza, my husband reminded me that we're going out of town this weekend and will be eating out for several meals. Of course, he's not doing any cooking tonight, so what does he care? My head hurts, and no one is being nice to me. Zachary and Ezra are playing "sneak up tp Mommy and pull her hair, because we're spies... or something." Matilda is following them around and getting pushed over occasionally. They need baths, and I don't feel like giving them. I'm so cranky and really want someone to take over my jobs--all my stupid keeping-everything-in-this-house-clean-and-alive jobs--for just a few hours.
On second throught, maybe I won't put all the pointy things out on the curb. Maybe I'll just sit out there. Maybe someone will offer to take me away, or maybe I'll just get a little time to myself.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Seriously... What the Hell?
My mom's friend is dying.
I haven't really accepted it until now, but I went and reread her CaringBridge journal entry from this past weekend, and it looks like it's pretty official.
20 or so years ago, my brother was on a grade school soccer team. All the parents on that team became friends. All they had in common was that their boys were in the same grade at the same school. Some had older or younger kids, some had no other kids at all. They varied a lot in terms of their income, relationships, education, and ages. But for the last 20 years, they've kind of been the focal point of my mom's social life. When I was in high school, we used to go camping every year over the New Year. We'd rent out several cabins at a group campsite and spend the weekend. I remember one year, when it was the men's turn to cook, and they all--10 or 12 men my dad's age--came marching out of the kitchen in full drag. They'd all gone to used clothing stores and put together these elaborate, ridiculous outfits. My dad's was a navy blue sequined jumpsuit with black feathers at the wrists and collars. It was spectacular. When one of the dads was sent to prison for reasons related to a pyramid scheme, all the other families rallied around his wife and sons. And when he came back, they were still there for him, friends. When my parents got a messy, messy divorce, my mom said she didn't want to lean on them, because she was embarrassed; but I reminded her that they've been her friends for 20 years, and this is what friends do. All the ladies have breakfast together once a month and go camping in the Boundary Waters every year. My mom says this year it looks like they'll be taking ashes with them.
About 5 years ago, my uncle was diagnosed with colon cancer. My mom assured us that this was it for him. He got good treatment, they caught it early, and he's fine. My brother's friend (one of the kids from that long-ago soccer team) was sent to Iraq, and my mom was sure that he wouldn't be coming back. He served his time there and is back in the States now, physically no worse for wear. I've grown used to the fact that my mom always assumes that the world is ending. So what do I do, now that it kind of is? Her friend was diagnosed close to a year ago, with lung cancer. They've treated it, more and more aggressively. She's been on drug trials, but now they're starting to wonder if she can handle them or whether they ought to just back off. My mom says she has only weeks left, but I never know what to think of my mom's conclusions.
I'll take a moment, I promise, to be grateful. I am healthy. So are my kids, my husband, my parents and siblings. I think of this woman's sons and grandchildren, of her husband who is having to mourn while still do all the things to keep life going day to day, and I am immensely grateful. I know this is not about me. But I'm still overwhelmed. She threw my bridal shower and my baby shower. She has been a part of my life, even if mostly behind the scenes, for most of my life. And I don't know what to do. My mom is a mess (between this and ongoing stuff with my dad). I want to do something. They take turns bringing her meals. I live 45 minutes away and have three kids. I want to send flowers, a card, a blanket for crying out loud. But what do you do, send a card that says, "I'm so sorry you're dying"? Maybe they have a "This Really Sucks" bouquet.
I just can't stop thinking about her, about my mom trying to deal with this and also with the mess of sorting out a divorce after 30 years of marriage. And I feel so helpless. Words are the thing that I'm best at, the thing that I bring to the table, and there are times when words just simply aren't enough.
I haven't really accepted it until now, but I went and reread her CaringBridge journal entry from this past weekend, and it looks like it's pretty official.
20 or so years ago, my brother was on a grade school soccer team. All the parents on that team became friends. All they had in common was that their boys were in the same grade at the same school. Some had older or younger kids, some had no other kids at all. They varied a lot in terms of their income, relationships, education, and ages. But for the last 20 years, they've kind of been the focal point of my mom's social life. When I was in high school, we used to go camping every year over the New Year. We'd rent out several cabins at a group campsite and spend the weekend. I remember one year, when it was the men's turn to cook, and they all--10 or 12 men my dad's age--came marching out of the kitchen in full drag. They'd all gone to used clothing stores and put together these elaborate, ridiculous outfits. My dad's was a navy blue sequined jumpsuit with black feathers at the wrists and collars. It was spectacular. When one of the dads was sent to prison for reasons related to a pyramid scheme, all the other families rallied around his wife and sons. And when he came back, they were still there for him, friends. When my parents got a messy, messy divorce, my mom said she didn't want to lean on them, because she was embarrassed; but I reminded her that they've been her friends for 20 years, and this is what friends do. All the ladies have breakfast together once a month and go camping in the Boundary Waters every year. My mom says this year it looks like they'll be taking ashes with them.
About 5 years ago, my uncle was diagnosed with colon cancer. My mom assured us that this was it for him. He got good treatment, they caught it early, and he's fine. My brother's friend (one of the kids from that long-ago soccer team) was sent to Iraq, and my mom was sure that he wouldn't be coming back. He served his time there and is back in the States now, physically no worse for wear. I've grown used to the fact that my mom always assumes that the world is ending. So what do I do, now that it kind of is? Her friend was diagnosed close to a year ago, with lung cancer. They've treated it, more and more aggressively. She's been on drug trials, but now they're starting to wonder if she can handle them or whether they ought to just back off. My mom says she has only weeks left, but I never know what to think of my mom's conclusions.
I'll take a moment, I promise, to be grateful. I am healthy. So are my kids, my husband, my parents and siblings. I think of this woman's sons and grandchildren, of her husband who is having to mourn while still do all the things to keep life going day to day, and I am immensely grateful. I know this is not about me. But I'm still overwhelmed. She threw my bridal shower and my baby shower. She has been a part of my life, even if mostly behind the scenes, for most of my life. And I don't know what to do. My mom is a mess (between this and ongoing stuff with my dad). I want to do something. They take turns bringing her meals. I live 45 minutes away and have three kids. I want to send flowers, a card, a blanket for crying out loud. But what do you do, send a card that says, "I'm so sorry you're dying"? Maybe they have a "This Really Sucks" bouquet.
I just can't stop thinking about her, about my mom trying to deal with this and also with the mess of sorting out a divorce after 30 years of marriage. And I feel so helpless. Words are the thing that I'm best at, the thing that I bring to the table, and there are times when words just simply aren't enough.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Project Honesty 2: I Love My Husband
I was trying to fall asleep last night, while the baby (13 months old, but still my baby) was fussing in her crib across the room. And I was trying not to get frustrated with her, so I started thinking about how much I love her--and everyone else.
My darling little girl: I love you purely. Who else would I allow to keep me up all night, every night, because you'd rather suck on me than sleep? Who else has such kissable cheeks, such a tickle-able belly, such sweet curls? When I look at you, I am horrified to think that there was ever a chance you would not be in my life. We were clearly not a complete family until you arrived. You are my daughter, and as the daughter of a mother myself, I know that our relationship will not always be so simple. I do not relish the day when you accuse me of being selfish because I won't allow you to do something, or when I worry that you're making all the same mistakes I made--and that I am making all the same mistakes my own mother made. But I will always love you, no matter what. And when things between us are hard and complicated, I will look back on this time, when I cheered your every word, when I laughed with you as you discovered how to roll a ball across the room, when I swung you up in the air and watched your two little bottom teeth flash as you screamed with delight, and I will know that I love you with a pure love that can never be tainted.
My sweet middle boy: I love you fiercely. I think that is the only way to love you. It is certainly the way you love me. You approach everything in your life with the same no-holds-barred intensity, it floors me. I remember the night we were staying at a hotel, on our way to our vacation. You were refusing to settle down, keeping your brother and the entire family up, and nerves were frayed. Finally Daddy told you, "That's it! If you don't go to bed right now, I'm going to put you in the car, and you're going to have to sleep out there, all alone in the dark, all night." You quietly gathered up your blanket and pacifier and prepared to head out the door. That was the night Daddy called you "Cool Hand Luke" for the first time. I love the way that you stand up for yourself, never compromising for a second. You may get scratched, pushed, even bitten, but you give as good as you get. You are a force of nature, and I admire the hell out of that. But I also love the way that you curl up against me, rest your head on my chest, insist that I snuggle you just so, and remind me that for all your intensity, you are 3 years old. You must have your water from the "big giant cup" (the pitcher), in your orange cup, often insisting on ice. You will agree to put your head on your pillow at nap time, but you insist that you will not be closing your eyes. You drive me to distraction, bringing me to levels of frustration I have never known before. Then, in the same breath, I find myself loving you with a mother bear intensity that almost scares me. We fight to be sure; you push my buttons and my limits. But the ferocity of my love is astounding.
My wonderful firstborn: I love you with my soul. The way I feel about you fills me up from the inside. When I think about how I love you, my heart drops into my stomach for a moment, as though being your mother is some sort of carnival ride I never understood until I was strapped in for good. You are so much like me that it frightens me. You look just like your daddy did at your age, and you have his imagination to be sure. But sometimes I look at you, and I think you're going to turn out just like me, and I get scared and sad. You're so sensitive that you cry at perceived slights, not just the real ones. You regularly complain of throat and stomach pain, when your emotions get to be too much for you. You don't want to ride a bike or jump off the edge of the pool, so afraid of what might happen. And when you do these things, I think: That's me. That's the worst of me, coming out in my son. And I try so hard to encourage you to try, and then I push, and then I see myself turning into my mom. I don't want you to live a life scared of what might happen, and I don't want to hurt you by pushing too hard. But I also want you to have a better life than I have, to be more confident and proud than I am. Because believe me when I say: You have no idea how spectacular you are. I didn't know I could love someone as much as I love you. It consumes me, and I burn up inside of it, then rise again to love you some more. And if I make mistakes, if I push too hard or not hard enough, if I understand you too well or too little, know that it is only because my love wants to wrap you up inside it and guarantee that you will live the best, happiest life there is.
My beautiful husband: I love you unfairly. I know this. I love you intellectually, timidly, fearfully. I admire you. I enjoy you. I live afraid that you will stop loving me. We have three amazing children together, and we both know that we love our kids; we say so all the time. And loving our kids is so much easier than loving each other. They're uncomplicated in their love, they're flesh of our flesh, and they depend upon our love for their very survival. We, on the other hand, have our own agendas, our own complicated desires, our own assumptions about the world and about each other. And without me, I know you would go on living. So what is it that keeps you here? Is it just that I'm a good mother? Is it that staying is easier than leaving? Or is it that you truly, deeply love me? I'm afraid to even ask the questions, so afraid of what it looks like to be asking why my husband stays with me. At the root of our relationship, I know, is our friendship. You are there for me in a way that no one else is. You protect and encourage me. You listen to me and you guide me when I need it. As our children grow, I know they will need us less, and we will have more and more time with the two of us, to remember why we fell in love in the first place. I worry that your love is conditional, that one day you will simply run out of reasons to love me. But though I may not love you with the completeness you deserve, I hope that you will hang on and love me anyway, giving me time to believe that, the same way that our children know there is nothing that would stop my love, you and I really will be in love forever.
My darling little girl: I love you purely. Who else would I allow to keep me up all night, every night, because you'd rather suck on me than sleep? Who else has such kissable cheeks, such a tickle-able belly, such sweet curls? When I look at you, I am horrified to think that there was ever a chance you would not be in my life. We were clearly not a complete family until you arrived. You are my daughter, and as the daughter of a mother myself, I know that our relationship will not always be so simple. I do not relish the day when you accuse me of being selfish because I won't allow you to do something, or when I worry that you're making all the same mistakes I made--and that I am making all the same mistakes my own mother made. But I will always love you, no matter what. And when things between us are hard and complicated, I will look back on this time, when I cheered your every word, when I laughed with you as you discovered how to roll a ball across the room, when I swung you up in the air and watched your two little bottom teeth flash as you screamed with delight, and I will know that I love you with a pure love that can never be tainted.
My sweet middle boy: I love you fiercely. I think that is the only way to love you. It is certainly the way you love me. You approach everything in your life with the same no-holds-barred intensity, it floors me. I remember the night we were staying at a hotel, on our way to our vacation. You were refusing to settle down, keeping your brother and the entire family up, and nerves were frayed. Finally Daddy told you, "That's it! If you don't go to bed right now, I'm going to put you in the car, and you're going to have to sleep out there, all alone in the dark, all night." You quietly gathered up your blanket and pacifier and prepared to head out the door. That was the night Daddy called you "Cool Hand Luke" for the first time. I love the way that you stand up for yourself, never compromising for a second. You may get scratched, pushed, even bitten, but you give as good as you get. You are a force of nature, and I admire the hell out of that. But I also love the way that you curl up against me, rest your head on my chest, insist that I snuggle you just so, and remind me that for all your intensity, you are 3 years old. You must have your water from the "big giant cup" (the pitcher), in your orange cup, often insisting on ice. You will agree to put your head on your pillow at nap time, but you insist that you will not be closing your eyes. You drive me to distraction, bringing me to levels of frustration I have never known before. Then, in the same breath, I find myself loving you with a mother bear intensity that almost scares me. We fight to be sure; you push my buttons and my limits. But the ferocity of my love is astounding.
My wonderful firstborn: I love you with my soul. The way I feel about you fills me up from the inside. When I think about how I love you, my heart drops into my stomach for a moment, as though being your mother is some sort of carnival ride I never understood until I was strapped in for good. You are so much like me that it frightens me. You look just like your daddy did at your age, and you have his imagination to be sure. But sometimes I look at you, and I think you're going to turn out just like me, and I get scared and sad. You're so sensitive that you cry at perceived slights, not just the real ones. You regularly complain of throat and stomach pain, when your emotions get to be too much for you. You don't want to ride a bike or jump off the edge of the pool, so afraid of what might happen. And when you do these things, I think: That's me. That's the worst of me, coming out in my son. And I try so hard to encourage you to try, and then I push, and then I see myself turning into my mom. I don't want you to live a life scared of what might happen, and I don't want to hurt you by pushing too hard. But I also want you to have a better life than I have, to be more confident and proud than I am. Because believe me when I say: You have no idea how spectacular you are. I didn't know I could love someone as much as I love you. It consumes me, and I burn up inside of it, then rise again to love you some more. And if I make mistakes, if I push too hard or not hard enough, if I understand you too well or too little, know that it is only because my love wants to wrap you up inside it and guarantee that you will live the best, happiest life there is.
My beautiful husband: I love you unfairly. I know this. I love you intellectually, timidly, fearfully. I admire you. I enjoy you. I live afraid that you will stop loving me. We have three amazing children together, and we both know that we love our kids; we say so all the time. And loving our kids is so much easier than loving each other. They're uncomplicated in their love, they're flesh of our flesh, and they depend upon our love for their very survival. We, on the other hand, have our own agendas, our own complicated desires, our own assumptions about the world and about each other. And without me, I know you would go on living. So what is it that keeps you here? Is it just that I'm a good mother? Is it that staying is easier than leaving? Or is it that you truly, deeply love me? I'm afraid to even ask the questions, so afraid of what it looks like to be asking why my husband stays with me. At the root of our relationship, I know, is our friendship. You are there for me in a way that no one else is. You protect and encourage me. You listen to me and you guide me when I need it. As our children grow, I know they will need us less, and we will have more and more time with the two of us, to remember why we fell in love in the first place. I worry that your love is conditional, that one day you will simply run out of reasons to love me. But though I may not love you with the completeness you deserve, I hope that you will hang on and love me anyway, giving me time to believe that, the same way that our children know there is nothing that would stop my love, you and I really will be in love forever.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
19 and other tricky concepts
There are few things I love more than listening to my kids talk to one another. They are trying so hard to piece together the world, and much the same way I do, they often have to fill in the blanks.
My oldest son is in kindergarten this year, and it's been extremely exciting. He loves going to school every day, even if he doesn't love getting up. He tells me he has 4 friends (though their identities vary) and that there's not that many girls that like him. He tells me he's being bullied, but when I talked to his teacher, she said that it was a pretty boy-heavy class this year; he's not being targeted, there's just a lot of boy energy going around the room, with a lot of rough play and some fights. Then, a few weeks after that conversation, I happened to walk him to school (he usually gets a ride). I decided to take the chance to poke through the lost and found for the various hats and mittens that have gone missing this year (no luck). And as I was on my way back toward the door, his teacher hailed me. It seemed that she had been out one day recently, and she wanted to know if I had heard about the "incident." I hadn't, and of course I immediately wondered what my kid had done. I shouldn't have worried--about that--because as it turns out, another student had choked him because he wanted my son's crayon. That's right, strangled over a crayon. She assured me that she was dealing with it and had spoken with the other child, but in case my son had said anything, she wanted to make sure I knew it was being handled.
Of course, I told my husband about it that evening, and we both sort of had the same reaction--that we were very surprised that it had happened but more surprised that he hadn't said anything. So after dinner that night, I asked him: Are you doing okay in school? Yes. Are you getting along okay with the other kids? Yes. I heard you had trouble with another kid the other day. No. Okay, cards on the table: Your teacher told me that another kid tried to choke you--that he put his hands on your neck. Do you remember this? No. Can I watch my show?
I couldn't get over this: My kid keeps telling me that he's being picked on, that there are bullies in his class, but it's no more than what he deals with from his little brother at home. But the one time he has every right to complain, that a kid actually is mean to him, he not only doesn't mention it; he apparently doesn't even remember.
Some time later, there was a day when both my boys went to work with Daddy one day. While they were there, he got them each a little toy from the hospital gift shop--a miniature measuring tape. They love the real ones and are always getting in trouble for playing with them, so these were extra cool toys. In the car on the way home, they were measuring everything in sight--the windows, their seats, one another. And my oldest said something about 21 inches. So I said, "You were 21 inches long when you were born. Your brother was 19 inches long. Can you find 19 inches?" He's been having trouble with the teen numbers, mixing up 19 and 90, for example, so learning to properly identify all the teens has been a math goal lately. He worked hard for several minutes, looking all over his measuring tape, considering and then rejecting several choices. Finally, very thoughtfully, he announced, "I found 19. Except it has a 2 in it."
Never stop finding the answers, my son. And in the absence of any useful answers, never stop provinding your own.
My oldest son is in kindergarten this year, and it's been extremely exciting. He loves going to school every day, even if he doesn't love getting up. He tells me he has 4 friends (though their identities vary) and that there's not that many girls that like him. He tells me he's being bullied, but when I talked to his teacher, she said that it was a pretty boy-heavy class this year; he's not being targeted, there's just a lot of boy energy going around the room, with a lot of rough play and some fights. Then, a few weeks after that conversation, I happened to walk him to school (he usually gets a ride). I decided to take the chance to poke through the lost and found for the various hats and mittens that have gone missing this year (no luck). And as I was on my way back toward the door, his teacher hailed me. It seemed that she had been out one day recently, and she wanted to know if I had heard about the "incident." I hadn't, and of course I immediately wondered what my kid had done. I shouldn't have worried--about that--because as it turns out, another student had choked him because he wanted my son's crayon. That's right, strangled over a crayon. She assured me that she was dealing with it and had spoken with the other child, but in case my son had said anything, she wanted to make sure I knew it was being handled.
Of course, I told my husband about it that evening, and we both sort of had the same reaction--that we were very surprised that it had happened but more surprised that he hadn't said anything. So after dinner that night, I asked him: Are you doing okay in school? Yes. Are you getting along okay with the other kids? Yes. I heard you had trouble with another kid the other day. No. Okay, cards on the table: Your teacher told me that another kid tried to choke you--that he put his hands on your neck. Do you remember this? No. Can I watch my show?
I couldn't get over this: My kid keeps telling me that he's being picked on, that there are bullies in his class, but it's no more than what he deals with from his little brother at home. But the one time he has every right to complain, that a kid actually is mean to him, he not only doesn't mention it; he apparently doesn't even remember.
Some time later, there was a day when both my boys went to work with Daddy one day. While they were there, he got them each a little toy from the hospital gift shop--a miniature measuring tape. They love the real ones and are always getting in trouble for playing with them, so these were extra cool toys. In the car on the way home, they were measuring everything in sight--the windows, their seats, one another. And my oldest said something about 21 inches. So I said, "You were 21 inches long when you were born. Your brother was 19 inches long. Can you find 19 inches?" He's been having trouble with the teen numbers, mixing up 19 and 90, for example, so learning to properly identify all the teens has been a math goal lately. He worked hard for several minutes, looking all over his measuring tape, considering and then rejecting several choices. Finally, very thoughtfully, he announced, "I found 19. Except it has a 2 in it."
Never stop finding the answers, my son. And in the absence of any useful answers, never stop provinding your own.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Project Honesty
I recently heard an author comment that he found, in writing his memoir, that the more intensely personal he was in his writing, the more nakedly honest, the more universal he found that his message was. This was really a powerful insight to me, and I've been thinking about it a lot. Deep in our cores, we as humans are all really similar. We differ from one another in a lot of ways that are very important as well as in ways that are not at all important. But we are all afraid, we all want to love and be loved, we all want to matter. In the most important ways, we are exactly alike.
So in that spirit, I hereby launch Project Honesty. In each entry, I will discuss something about myself in as honest and open a way as I possibly can. It won't necessarily be of the "tell me something you've never told anyone before" variety, but it will be true. I will attempt to strip away all the things I usually say that make me look better, or that make me sound wittier, or that I just don't want to admit to. I will attempt to simply be honest.
Today's entry: No One Knows About This Blog
It's true. I have a husband, a few friends, a mother, a father, a sister, a brother; and none of them know about this blog. If anyone has read it, ever, it has been a stranger who either found it accidentally or who followed me here from a post on another blog. At first, I was just not sure what I was doing, and I was embarrassed that someone I know might read my words--sort of like my mom reading my diary, which is silly since you don't publish your diary on the internet if you want to keep it a secret. I was also concerned about how honest I would be able to be if I knew the people in my life were going to read it. I mean, it's a little hard to talk about my dad leaving my mom for a woman who was formerly my best friend... if I think any of them are going to read it. I read several other blogs, and I'm regularly amazed at how open they are with the details of their lives, not only with things like pictures of their kids but with being honest about things that I don't think the people in my life would love me sharing. I'm just not that comfortable with the idea of how unhappy people might be with what I'd say about them.
But now I just feel kind of dumb. My dad (who, despite having married my friend, is someone whose opinion matters to me) commented recently that he thought I ought to start a blog--because I'm such a good writer that I ought to easily become one of those people whose blogs gets read. Now, to be 100% honest, I think I'm a so-so writer. I read enough to have a good sense of what words look good together. I think I have a decent sense of humor, enough to recognize when something is witty though not necessarily enough to produce it myself. But mostly, I'm really good at spelling, commas and knowing when to use "your" and when to use "you're." I'm not really sure that makes me a good writer, it just makes me relatively good at passing for one.
So I'm trying now to put my words out into the world, to feel like the things that I say matter... but I'm not telling anyone about it. That must be some major kind of statement about my emotional well being. If you're reading this, thanks. If you comment, thanks even more, because it's the only tangible evidence I have that my words, sent out like some sort of sonar, have hit something and returned. I promise to be as honest as humanly possible, though not necessarily as entertaining as I'd like. But I'll work on that too.
So in that spirit, I hereby launch Project Honesty. In each entry, I will discuss something about myself in as honest and open a way as I possibly can. It won't necessarily be of the "tell me something you've never told anyone before" variety, but it will be true. I will attempt to strip away all the things I usually say that make me look better, or that make me sound wittier, or that I just don't want to admit to. I will attempt to simply be honest.
Today's entry: No One Knows About This Blog
It's true. I have a husband, a few friends, a mother, a father, a sister, a brother; and none of them know about this blog. If anyone has read it, ever, it has been a stranger who either found it accidentally or who followed me here from a post on another blog. At first, I was just not sure what I was doing, and I was embarrassed that someone I know might read my words--sort of like my mom reading my diary, which is silly since you don't publish your diary on the internet if you want to keep it a secret. I was also concerned about how honest I would be able to be if I knew the people in my life were going to read it. I mean, it's a little hard to talk about my dad leaving my mom for a woman who was formerly my best friend... if I think any of them are going to read it. I read several other blogs, and I'm regularly amazed at how open they are with the details of their lives, not only with things like pictures of their kids but with being honest about things that I don't think the people in my life would love me sharing. I'm just not that comfortable with the idea of how unhappy people might be with what I'd say about them.
But now I just feel kind of dumb. My dad (who, despite having married my friend, is someone whose opinion matters to me) commented recently that he thought I ought to start a blog--because I'm such a good writer that I ought to easily become one of those people whose blogs gets read. Now, to be 100% honest, I think I'm a so-so writer. I read enough to have a good sense of what words look good together. I think I have a decent sense of humor, enough to recognize when something is witty though not necessarily enough to produce it myself. But mostly, I'm really good at spelling, commas and knowing when to use "your" and when to use "you're." I'm not really sure that makes me a good writer, it just makes me relatively good at passing for one.
So I'm trying now to put my words out into the world, to feel like the things that I say matter... but I'm not telling anyone about it. That must be some major kind of statement about my emotional well being. If you're reading this, thanks. If you comment, thanks even more, because it's the only tangible evidence I have that my words, sent out like some sort of sonar, have hit something and returned. I promise to be as honest as humanly possible, though not necessarily as entertaining as I'd like. But I'll work on that too.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Post to the President
Have you seen this website, Post to the President? I love this idea. First of all, I love the idea of getting in on the ground floor of something that could really be earth changing. Could you imagine President Obama reading each and every one of those posts, actually giving them all the weight they deserve? Equally importantly, I love the fact that this is such a 21st-century thing to do. He got elected largely through raising funds via his website. He gets major press for refusing to give up his Blackberry. If ever there was a president who would take a blog devoted to communicating with him seriously, this is him. But I just keep thinking about what I would say if I had the chance. And you know what? I do have the chance. I'm at least as intelligent, articulate, opinionated and important as Joe the Plumber, and his opinion was taken mighty seriously. So this is the post that I'm adding to the website:
Dear Mr. President:
First of all, congratulations. My son is five years old, and when he saw your picture on my computer this morning, I asked if he knew who it was. He thought a moment, then said, "Our president! Barack Obama!" I almost cried. At five years old, yours is the first presidency he will remember. He has no idea what a big deal that is. After 8 years of putting up with what can only be called a shitty administration, he will get to see what it's like to have a president you can be proud of.
I'm not proud of you because you're the first black president, though you certainly have broken down some barriers. And I'm not looking to you to stand up as an example for an entire race. To me, your color is beside the point. I'm proud of you because when you talk, I want to get up and act. You have called upon a nation to take responsibility for itself and you have promised to lead us on to better days. When I talk about you to my son, I talk about a man who is helping our country to find a better way. He asked me, "So the president can do anything he wants?" And I told him about being elected, about how the people choose who will lead them--and I told him that being a leader means helping people to get things done, getting people to work together, listening to the people and working toward their goals. It doesn't mean working alone; it means working with us.
So that being said, what are you doing and what can we do to help? All I hear about is the economic crisis. I send my oldest child to a school that is finding new and creative ways to make fewer dollars go further, and I'm trying to help. I care for my youngest two children at home, along with their friends and playmates. I don't eat out. I rarely drive. My sister and I pass garbage bags of baby clothes back and forth. I provide child care from home and do freelance work when I can. We do okay. But while we're managing, thousands and thousands of families aren't. We have health care we can afford--for now. We have a house we can afford--for now. We have jobs we can rely on--for now. I'm all for government doing what it can to help the people; government is supposed to be an entity, created by the people, that provides us with a way to create peace, safety, and prosperity. But you got where you are because you made people want to act. Now help us out. Do what you can from up there. Pass that stimulus package, get us out of Iraq, close down Guantanamo. I will trust your judgment and that of the people you have chosen to work with you. But since I have such faith in your ideas, pass some along this way. I want to do what I can to make this country a better place, but I don't know where to start. So here's your chance. Send out a call to action. Be the leader that makes us want to follow you. Show us the way to help one another, and we will. But you have to help us out. I don't have much in the way of money or time, but I have to believe that I can help this country get back on the path toward living up to its promises.
Don't be the first black president, because that's just a historical milestone that will be reduced to a date in a textbook. Instead, be the president who led the United States out of a period of fear and intolerance and into an unprecedented era of unity and responsibility. We will follow you, if you will show the way.
-- A mother and citizen in Minneapolis
Now is your chance. Take a minute and tell him what you have to say.
Dear Mr. President:
First of all, congratulations. My son is five years old, and when he saw your picture on my computer this morning, I asked if he knew who it was. He thought a moment, then said, "Our president! Barack Obama!" I almost cried. At five years old, yours is the first presidency he will remember. He has no idea what a big deal that is. After 8 years of putting up with what can only be called a shitty administration, he will get to see what it's like to have a president you can be proud of.
I'm not proud of you because you're the first black president, though you certainly have broken down some barriers. And I'm not looking to you to stand up as an example for an entire race. To me, your color is beside the point. I'm proud of you because when you talk, I want to get up and act. You have called upon a nation to take responsibility for itself and you have promised to lead us on to better days. When I talk about you to my son, I talk about a man who is helping our country to find a better way. He asked me, "So the president can do anything he wants?" And I told him about being elected, about how the people choose who will lead them--and I told him that being a leader means helping people to get things done, getting people to work together, listening to the people and working toward their goals. It doesn't mean working alone; it means working with us.
So that being said, what are you doing and what can we do to help? All I hear about is the economic crisis. I send my oldest child to a school that is finding new and creative ways to make fewer dollars go further, and I'm trying to help. I care for my youngest two children at home, along with their friends and playmates. I don't eat out. I rarely drive. My sister and I pass garbage bags of baby clothes back and forth. I provide child care from home and do freelance work when I can. We do okay. But while we're managing, thousands and thousands of families aren't. We have health care we can afford--for now. We have a house we can afford--for now. We have jobs we can rely on--for now. I'm all for government doing what it can to help the people; government is supposed to be an entity, created by the people, that provides us with a way to create peace, safety, and prosperity. But you got where you are because you made people want to act. Now help us out. Do what you can from up there. Pass that stimulus package, get us out of Iraq, close down Guantanamo. I will trust your judgment and that of the people you have chosen to work with you. But since I have such faith in your ideas, pass some along this way. I want to do what I can to make this country a better place, but I don't know where to start. So here's your chance. Send out a call to action. Be the leader that makes us want to follow you. Show us the way to help one another, and we will. But you have to help us out. I don't have much in the way of money or time, but I have to believe that I can help this country get back on the path toward living up to its promises.
Don't be the first black president, because that's just a historical milestone that will be reduced to a date in a textbook. Instead, be the president who led the United States out of a period of fear and intolerance and into an unprecedented era of unity and responsibility. We will follow you, if you will show the way.
-- A mother and citizen in Minneapolis
Now is your chance. Take a minute and tell him what you have to say.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Who Do You Think You Are?
I've been thinking a lot lately about identity. I'm sure that for some people, they think of themselves first and foremost in terms of their profession. "I'm a lawyer." (I guess that when you spend that much money to become something, it better be a pretty important part of your personality when you're done!) And I hear other people describe themselves in terms of their hobbies or interests: I'm an avid read; I'm a volunteer; I'm a passionate fisherman, or whatever. And of course, a lot of people describe themselves as parents. And I do the same thing. I mean, to most of the people who know me, I'm Z, E, and M's mom. But a few years into parenting, especially if you're a stay-at-home parent, I think you have to start to wonder if you're ever going to be anything other than your kid's mom again.
There was a time when I was widely considered to be smart; when people actively sought out my opinion about things ranging from punctuation to politics. There was a time when I had an active social life and knew which places to frequent when, depending on the kind of crowd you were up for that night; when I knew how to make a martini and how to drink one and still usually chose beer. There was a time when I had all kinds of friends, all ages, all interests, all backgrounds; when we used to get together and just see what was going to happen that night. There was a time when I was considered funny; when I used to say witty things and people would laugh. And let's not forget one of the fundamentals: There was a time when I used to spend all my time with people who were totally, completely potty trained--people whose poops were no one's business but their own. Those were the days, huh?
Now I'm considered an authority on how to get babies to sleep, on how to stop fights from getting out of hand, on how to handle diaper rash (there are several schools of thought on all of those, just so you know). Now the places I go rarely vary: the living room, kitchen, and E's room for most of the day, occasionally interrupted by the TV room and bedroom. Once a week or so, I venture out to the bank, and on Saturday I usually make it to the grocery store. Once every couple of months, I make it to book club, and I'm trying to make it to PTA once a month. I remember only that you shouldn't put too much vermouth in a martini; but I'm very good at mixing a bottle, even with that tricky, crazy thick formula. I still usually drink beer, but now it's always at home. I haven't heard from most of my old friends in years. We lost touch when I got married and had kids and they didn't. I had birthday parties and day care, and they had budding careers and new relationships. Now they may have the birthday parties and day care, but too much time has passed, and we just don't connect anymore. We try to email or call occasionally, but it never lasts. And new friends are hard to find when you never leave the house. No one thinks I'm funny anymore, unless you count my 10-month-old, who laughs when I stick out my tongue and wiggle my finger at her. And very few people in my life are potty trained. Let's face it: poop is now a major player in my life/
I'm not complaining per se. It's not that I would leave my kids and go off to some sparkling new job all day if I could. I love getting to be here with them, and I love the kids I stay with. (Both genuinely true and the "standard mom disclaimer," as my sister calls it.) But I think in addition to the isolation that comes with staying home with kids, which is another post in and of itself, it really calls into question who exactly you are; if you're not all the things you used to be, who are you instead? And have all the previous dimensions of your personality been replaced by "my kid's mom"? I try to do things--this blog is an example--that remind me and everyone else that I am more than just the person I appear to be from day to day. But I wonder how everyone else handles it. And how women have handled it for hundreds of years. Because I do wake up most mornings wondering, now that things have changed so much in the last 5 years or so, just who I think I am.
There was a time when I was widely considered to be smart; when people actively sought out my opinion about things ranging from punctuation to politics. There was a time when I had an active social life and knew which places to frequent when, depending on the kind of crowd you were up for that night; when I knew how to make a martini and how to drink one and still usually chose beer. There was a time when I had all kinds of friends, all ages, all interests, all backgrounds; when we used to get together and just see what was going to happen that night. There was a time when I was considered funny; when I used to say witty things and people would laugh. And let's not forget one of the fundamentals: There was a time when I used to spend all my time with people who were totally, completely potty trained--people whose poops were no one's business but their own. Those were the days, huh?
Now I'm considered an authority on how to get babies to sleep, on how to stop fights from getting out of hand, on how to handle diaper rash (there are several schools of thought on all of those, just so you know). Now the places I go rarely vary: the living room, kitchen, and E's room for most of the day, occasionally interrupted by the TV room and bedroom. Once a week or so, I venture out to the bank, and on Saturday I usually make it to the grocery store. Once every couple of months, I make it to book club, and I'm trying to make it to PTA once a month. I remember only that you shouldn't put too much vermouth in a martini; but I'm very good at mixing a bottle, even with that tricky, crazy thick formula. I still usually drink beer, but now it's always at home. I haven't heard from most of my old friends in years. We lost touch when I got married and had kids and they didn't. I had birthday parties and day care, and they had budding careers and new relationships. Now they may have the birthday parties and day care, but too much time has passed, and we just don't connect anymore. We try to email or call occasionally, but it never lasts. And new friends are hard to find when you never leave the house. No one thinks I'm funny anymore, unless you count my 10-month-old, who laughs when I stick out my tongue and wiggle my finger at her. And very few people in my life are potty trained. Let's face it: poop is now a major player in my life/
I'm not complaining per se. It's not that I would leave my kids and go off to some sparkling new job all day if I could. I love getting to be here with them, and I love the kids I stay with. (Both genuinely true and the "standard mom disclaimer," as my sister calls it.) But I think in addition to the isolation that comes with staying home with kids, which is another post in and of itself, it really calls into question who exactly you are; if you're not all the things you used to be, who are you instead? And have all the previous dimensions of your personality been replaced by "my kid's mom"? I try to do things--this blog is an example--that remind me and everyone else that I am more than just the person I appear to be from day to day. But I wonder how everyone else handles it. And how women have handled it for hundreds of years. Because I do wake up most mornings wondering, now that things have changed so much in the last 5 years or so, just who I think I am.
Friday, October 10, 2008
The "Smart One"
I imagine it's true in every family, but I've been thinking a lot lately about how in our family, everyone got assigned roles--and pretty early, it seems to me. For as long as I can remember, my brother, sister, and I have all had pretty clear labels in the family structure. I was "the smart one" but also "the disorganized one" and often "the emotional one." My sister was "the organized one" and "the social butterfly" (read: the pretty one). My brother, four years younger than her and six younger than me, seemed to have his own set of rules. He is the only boy so inherited the "boy" identity: the sporty one, the daredevil, daddy's boy. He's also the baby, so he got to be the special one in some ways. (I think that sounds resentful, but it's not meant to be. I don't think any of us really chose our family roles; he just took what he was handed.)
So fast forward: We're now 32, 30, and 26. And in many ways, we're still acting out these same roles. My brother has moved halfway across the country. My sister has lived all over the country and has settled (for the moment) here in Minnesota with her husband and 1 1/2 kids. I'm the mother of three obsessing over whether I'm assigning them roles the same way they were assigned to us. My parents split up in a very, very messy divorce just as my second was being born (he moved out when I was 8 months pregnant.) Now my dad's remarried and I have a step-mother and step-sister to wrap my head around (particularly tricky, as step-mom is my age, and step-sister is in kindergarten, just like my oldest). The family as we knew it is gone with the wind. The more we think and talk about it, the more we realize it was never really there. And yet there I am, still trying to live up to being "the smart one," still accepting that I'm disorganized and will never be any better. And my sister is realizing that she went through much of her life thinking she had almost no emotions, and she's only now trying to get in touch with the ones that have been there all along.
My oldest is sweet and sensitive. He's been that way since the day we brought him home from the hospital and I slept on the couch with him in the bassinet next to me, eventually bringing him in with me--where he then slept for the next year. My middle son is, as my husband says, "a force of nature." He's surprisingly sensitive, but I am often reminded of Stampy from "The Simpsons," head butting people just for kicks. And my youngest, our girl, is so far pretty sweet and easy going. And I'll admit to wanting to dress her in sundresses and hair ribbons until she eventually screams in protest. So how do I look at these three and stop myself from assigning them the roles of "the sweet one" or "the strong one" or even "the girl"? Long after they're at all relevant, my siblings and I are still acting out our family roles and trying to outlive their impact. I know I'm going to screw them up somehow, but shouldn't it count for something that I see this one coming?
So fast forward: We're now 32, 30, and 26. And in many ways, we're still acting out these same roles. My brother has moved halfway across the country. My sister has lived all over the country and has settled (for the moment) here in Minnesota with her husband and 1 1/2 kids. I'm the mother of three obsessing over whether I'm assigning them roles the same way they were assigned to us. My parents split up in a very, very messy divorce just as my second was being born (he moved out when I was 8 months pregnant.) Now my dad's remarried and I have a step-mother and step-sister to wrap my head around (particularly tricky, as step-mom is my age, and step-sister is in kindergarten, just like my oldest). The family as we knew it is gone with the wind. The more we think and talk about it, the more we realize it was never really there. And yet there I am, still trying to live up to being "the smart one," still accepting that I'm disorganized and will never be any better. And my sister is realizing that she went through much of her life thinking she had almost no emotions, and she's only now trying to get in touch with the ones that have been there all along.
My oldest is sweet and sensitive. He's been that way since the day we brought him home from the hospital and I slept on the couch with him in the bassinet next to me, eventually bringing him in with me--where he then slept for the next year. My middle son is, as my husband says, "a force of nature." He's surprisingly sensitive, but I am often reminded of Stampy from "The Simpsons," head butting people just for kicks. And my youngest, our girl, is so far pretty sweet and easy going. And I'll admit to wanting to dress her in sundresses and hair ribbons until she eventually screams in protest. So how do I look at these three and stop myself from assigning them the roles of "the sweet one" or "the strong one" or even "the girl"? Long after they're at all relevant, my siblings and I are still acting out our family roles and trying to outlive their impact. I know I'm going to screw them up somehow, but shouldn't it count for something that I see this one coming?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Things are not improving
So I hate conflict of any kind. I accept that. I even accept that I'm going to pay for it, mostly by being walked over. But how did it get this bad?
I'm the oldest of three children, and I'm very close to both my siblings, a brother and sister. And to this day, I resist telling them things because I'm afraid of what they're going to think of me. I'm having a problem with one of my day care families, and I've been trying to sort through things with the mom. We've been emailing and we've spoken (just barely) a couple of times. And through this, I really need all the insight I can get--this is both a business and a personal relationship, and I'm trying to sort out how to balance them and how to stand up for myself in both aspects of the relationship. But it all started with some time off that I took, which may have been a misttep on my part (I've apologized repeatedly for the "inconvenience"). And as I'm talking to my husband, to another day care provider who has answered questions and helped me out in the past, and trying to sort through things in my head, I'm still not telling my siblings about this, mostly because I'm afraid of what they're going to think. I'm afraid that they will both come at me with a list of reasons that all this is my fault.
I've had the same problem in any area I can think of. In my old job, before I started day care, I remember standing in the parking lot and crying one afternoon because I hated it there so much--and I later realized that this was 5 years (!) before I finally left that place. What kind of person stays with a job for 5 years after they realize they're deeply unhappy there? Either a person with no other options (thankfully not my problem) or a person who is secretly convinced that they deserve every bad thing that happens to them. I'm not for jumping on the "we're all clinically depressed because of the breakdown of society" bandwagon. I don't go for the romance, that was so appealing when I was 14, of wallowing in self-pity until I eventually die a very beautiful death. But it is frustrating that this many years later, I still find myself in the same position of being walked on because I can't find the guts in myself to tell people that's not okay.
I come up with lots of reasons not to confront this parent directly: I'm afraid I'm actually wrong; I think if I back off, she'll calm down and we can move on; her son is E's best friend and he doesn't have a lot of friends (also my fault for not getting them out in the community enough). But I think the truth is I'm terrified. When I had to talk to her in person yesterday about this problem, I realized when she left that I was shaking. At what age do you have to suck it up and become a grown-up, and how do you start when you've really had no practice?
I'm the oldest of three children, and I'm very close to both my siblings, a brother and sister. And to this day, I resist telling them things because I'm afraid of what they're going to think of me. I'm having a problem with one of my day care families, and I've been trying to sort through things with the mom. We've been emailing and we've spoken (just barely) a couple of times. And through this, I really need all the insight I can get--this is both a business and a personal relationship, and I'm trying to sort out how to balance them and how to stand up for myself in both aspects of the relationship. But it all started with some time off that I took, which may have been a misttep on my part (I've apologized repeatedly for the "inconvenience"). And as I'm talking to my husband, to another day care provider who has answered questions and helped me out in the past, and trying to sort through things in my head, I'm still not telling my siblings about this, mostly because I'm afraid of what they're going to think. I'm afraid that they will both come at me with a list of reasons that all this is my fault.
I've had the same problem in any area I can think of. In my old job, before I started day care, I remember standing in the parking lot and crying one afternoon because I hated it there so much--and I later realized that this was 5 years (!) before I finally left that place. What kind of person stays with a job for 5 years after they realize they're deeply unhappy there? Either a person with no other options (thankfully not my problem) or a person who is secretly convinced that they deserve every bad thing that happens to them. I'm not for jumping on the "we're all clinically depressed because of the breakdown of society" bandwagon. I don't go for the romance, that was so appealing when I was 14, of wallowing in self-pity until I eventually die a very beautiful death. But it is frustrating that this many years later, I still find myself in the same position of being walked on because I can't find the guts in myself to tell people that's not okay.
I come up with lots of reasons not to confront this parent directly: I'm afraid I'm actually wrong; I think if I back off, she'll calm down and we can move on; her son is E's best friend and he doesn't have a lot of friends (also my fault for not getting them out in the community enough). But I think the truth is I'm terrified. When I had to talk to her in person yesterday about this problem, I realized when she left that I was shaking. At what age do you have to suck it up and become a grown-up, and how do you start when you've really had no practice?
Monday, September 29, 2008
Welcome to the Blog, My Dear
The time has come to join the technology generation. Now that I'm the mother of three kids who will all grow up with cell phones, PDAs, mp3 players, and other technology that I haven't heard of yet but which they will all positivly die without, I guess it's time for me to try to keep up.
A little about me: I'm 32 and grew up in Minnesota. I met my husband the day after Christmas 1999, and we were married in Itasca State Park in September 2002. Our oldest son, Z, was born the following August. In December 2005, our second boy, E, was born. And this past March, we had our daughter, M. Until E was born, I worked outside the home, but since March 2006, I've been doing day care. It's been a phenomenal way for me to stay home with my kids, though I do get a little nuts for grown-up talk sometimes. I crave adult conversation and have recently joined a book club and the PTA mostly to get to talk to grown-ups. I swear I used to have actual friends, but between the kids and staying home and my old friends sort of disappearing, I'm pretty much down to my sister and a few "virtual" friends. Not that I object to "virtual" friends--they're a damn sight better than nothing. But I would love some more actual people in my life--you know, people who are potty trained.
Things get stressful and you start looking around wondering if this is where you really expected your life to end up. That's when you start blogging, I guess, sending your thoughts out into the universe to see if anyone else out there has any insight, or whether your thoughts are even worth anyone's time. We'll see.
A little about me: I'm 32 and grew up in Minnesota. I met my husband the day after Christmas 1999, and we were married in Itasca State Park in September 2002. Our oldest son, Z, was born the following August. In December 2005, our second boy, E, was born. And this past March, we had our daughter, M. Until E was born, I worked outside the home, but since March 2006, I've been doing day care. It's been a phenomenal way for me to stay home with my kids, though I do get a little nuts for grown-up talk sometimes. I crave adult conversation and have recently joined a book club and the PTA mostly to get to talk to grown-ups. I swear I used to have actual friends, but between the kids and staying home and my old friends sort of disappearing, I'm pretty much down to my sister and a few "virtual" friends. Not that I object to "virtual" friends--they're a damn sight better than nothing. But I would love some more actual people in my life--you know, people who are potty trained.
Things get stressful and you start looking around wondering if this is where you really expected your life to end up. That's when you start blogging, I guess, sending your thoughts out into the universe to see if anyone else out there has any insight, or whether your thoughts are even worth anyone's time. We'll see.
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