Saying Goodbye

We just returned home from a trip to honor the passing of my husband's grandfather.  It was important that we go, that we be there with our family and remember- together- all of the wonderful things about this man.  That we grieve- together- and say goodbye.

I am so glad we went and it turned out to be an incredible opportunity to spend time with family members we love but rarely see.  But it also brought up a lot of things I wasn't prepared to talk about with my young children.  We had to explain to our 3 year old, for the first time, what death is.

It was a startlingly daunting task- one I knew we'd have to tackle soon, but I didn't expect to have to explain it in reference to us- to one of our own.  Explaining to a 3 year old that one of their family members has died is strange moment in the life of a parent.

I sought out the help of the parent educator at my son's co-op preschool, and I'm incredibly thankful for all of her advice.  She guided me through how to speak about death to a preschool aged child (use clear, simple language- avoid phrasing like "passed away") and how to explain what happens ("when we get old, our bodies stop working, so we die").  When we discovered that there was to be an open casket viewing, both my husband and I worried about how the Big One would react.  The Little One wouldn't really understand what was happening, but the Big One has frequent nightmares and scares relatively easily.  I worried about how he would handle seeing a dead body for the first time and the trauma it could cause him.  Our parent educator was so reassuring and gave wonderful advice about allowing the child to lead the way and choose what they want to do.  As a result of her guidance, I felt much more comfortable as we left for our trip.

In the end, both kids handled it SO much better than I ever could have expected.  They spent long hours in the car and in the funeral home, behaved very well for exhausted kids at both the viewing and the funeral, and, in their own ways, said goodbye.  The Big One understood that something serious was going on and that people were feeling sad.  He sat quietly through the funeral as his family members cried softly next to him.  He climbed into the lap of his grandfather as we said our final goodbye at the cemetery.  As we drove away he said, "I'm going to miss my old Grandpa."

I often forget how much we underestimate our children.  We don't realize how much they really understand.  How much they see and hear.  How closely they listen and how much they get it.  We may have had to explain what death is, but we didn't have to explain the sense of loss that comes along with it.  We didn't have to explain that the people around him needed a little extra quiet and little extra love.  We didn't have to explain that family is important.

This experience gave us the opportunity to show our children how we rally together when we need to.  How, through death, we can celebrate life.

As worried as I was about the entire experience and as sad as I knew it would be, I could not be more grateful for wonderful things that came out of it.  We were able to honor and celebrate a wonderful man- a leader in our family- and to show our children what love and support look like.  We were able to be together, as a family, and say goodbye.

Upside, Downside

I am looking for balance.  Life has felt perpetually off kilter for quite some time now, and I'm attempting to give it a kickstand.  In an effort to temper my incessant whining (you guys, I know... I'm sorry!), I've decided to look at the glass as half-empty AND half-full.  Both sides of the coin.  Cloud with silver lining.  Yin and yang.  Luke and Darth.

You get the drift.

We all know I can't stop whining all together.  It's in my DNA people - I couldn't make it stop if I wanted to.  I grew up in a house where sour moods spread like wildfire.  But I also grew up singing "Shiny, Happy People" and Ren & Stimpy's "Happy Happy Joy Joy" with my dad whenever anyone (usually my mom- sorry, Mom!) got a little pouty.  So if I can buffer the whining with a little sunshine and lollipops... well, that doesn't sound so bad.

Accordingly, I'm playing a little game of Upside, Downside with myself.  Every time I want to wallow in self-pity or complain or be a generally hellish human to be around, I'm going to attempt to find the positive side of the situation.  Because I don't want people to stop talking to me.

Anyhoo, I don't know how long this happy-happy-joy-joy will last, so fair warning.

Upside, Downside: Episode 1. Going Back to Work

Upside: While I was working at "that store," I learned to relish the time I have with my kids.  As in, the book-it-as-fast-as-I-could-out-of-the-mall, leap-into-the-car, and speed-my-way-home kind of cherish.  Leaving "that store" and just doing tutoring now has not lessened the effect, despite the fact that I ADORE tutoring.  (OOH!  Upside!  I HEART TUTORING!!!)  I've always loved my time with my babes, but now I genuinely treasure my time with them (as barf-tastic as that sounds), because I've experienced having that time taken away.  The time I took for granted is limited, and that's a tangible concept to me now.  Even amidst all the screaming.

I have come to realize that I do want to teach- in some form- and to be involved with everything I have always loved: kids, literature, writing, and learning.  Tutoring has been absolutely awesome.  It's helped me readjust my view of who I am and who I want to be... something I was struggling with as a full-time stay-at-home parent.

Downside: Holy adjustment, Batman.  My kids struggled BIG TIME with my going back to work.  They were totally pissed off at me and misbehaved WAY more than they did before.  The Big One cried when I left for "that store" (not in the dramatic way, but in the quivering lip, slight whimper, ask for a hug and try to be brave, but totally break your heart kind of way) and told me daily that he was sad/scared when I left to go to "that store."  We didn't get family time or weekends at all for a couple months.  My husband had a hard time getting all of his school work done and we were all exhausted.   We realized that working for $10 an hour, getting a stress fracture in my foot, and having stressed out kids and no time together was not worth it.

Upside: I quit "that store" a few weeks ago.  It was awesome.  I've never felt so good quitting a job.  And it's not that the job was all that bad, it was just a bad fit for me and my family.  Nonetheless, I'm delighted that I no longer have to take bullshit from people who feel, apparently, that anyone working in a clothing store deserves to be treated like vermin.  I'm tickled frickin' pink that I will never again have to experience the heartache of looking in newly vacated dressing rooms to find giant piles of inside-out clothes next to giant piles of hangers.  Oh, the horror.

Now, I get to help people- little people and their families who are authentically thankful (wha?) and students who want, want to learn (WHA?!?).  IT. IS. SO. GOOD.  And on top of all the goodness, the money is significantly better than retail, so I can work fewer hours for the same piddly money I was making at "that store."  We have weekends and family time again.  My kids are happier.  And my family is happier.  And I am happier.  Happy, happy, joy, joy.

Hello. Welcome to the Winter of My Discontent.

When the goin' gets tough... you still have to take care of your kids.  So you go out and get a job at the mall.  Like you did 10 years ago.  Because every other option is exhausted and you have to suck up your pride, stop acting like Winona Ryder in Reality Bites and STOP WHINING ALREADY.  Gah.

Sometimes it really sucks to be the grown-up.

I'm realizing just how- righteous?  Proud?  Insistent?  Hopeful?- I've become, and taking a job at the mall is stupidly humbling to say the least.  It feels like a step backward.  It's literally something I was doing 10 years ago.  It's a 60% pay cut from my previous career as a teacher.  And it's probably ultimately good for me.  But I can't say I love the idea of it.  Not yet.

The truth is, it's probably going to be awesome once I adjust to the idea of working with former students. (No literally, I am WORKING WITH A FORMER STUDENT.)  But the thing is, there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with getting a job at the mall.  Or working with a former student.  And retail can be totally bomb, yo.  I'm only pissed off because I feel like I was forced into a corner and I didn't get the jobs that I really wanted.  You know, the jobs that I'm actually completely unqualified for.  But I'm going to be working at a store that I actually really like.  I get a kick-ass discount.  I'll get to talk to other adults (!!!) about things other than poop or sleep (!!!) AND I'll get something that is all mine.  Something separate from "Mommy"... and that is something I've been craving.  And I'll probably get some new clothes out of the deal... once I get a few paychecks.

But.  But.  I can't get over the fact that I'm doing was I doing 10 years ago.  It feels... stagnant.  It feels out of place.  It feels anti-progressive.  But it's also necessary.  We're struggling.  My husband is a student at a private college and financial aid is getting harder and harder to come by.  I believe in what he's doing- what we're doing- and I believe in my choice to stay home rather than work exclusively to pay for day care.  Even if I'd never stopped teaching, we'd still be in the same position.  My salary wouldn't even have covered daycare for two little ones.  And I've always valued time with my children and my husband above money.  But.  But.  I'm tired of people telling me to deliver pizzas.  I'm tired of people thinking I'm slacking.  And I'm tired of being scared all the time.

So.  A job at the mall.

And also, as of yesterday, a job tutoring.  Which feels a little more my speed.  I'm attempting to do both for a while.  Which means I won't actually see my husband.  Ever.  We'll be communicating entirely through post-its.  Which sucks.  But... when the going gets tough... you still have to take care of your kids.  So, here goes.

IDIOTS

There is something special about parenthood that makes even the most confident among us feel like complete idiots.  That unique something: kids.

There you are, minding your own business, thinking you've got it all figured out.  You've read all the books and poured over all the research.  OR you've worked with kids your entire life.  OR you've known you were cut out for parenthood your whole life.  OR everyone has always told you you'd make a wonderful mother one day.  OR you're simply a genius who excels at everything she does.  You got this.  You're ready.  You will definitely not be the kind of mother who does that.  Or that.  Your kids will never behave that way.  You know you need to be consistent and loving and you have it ALL PLANNED OUT.

And then you have kids.

The other day, I became the mother I always swore I wouldn't become.  I had seen such things and my children would never,  ever behave that way in public.  Until they did, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

All of a sudden, I was the mother pleading with her whiny, crying toddler splayed across the floor of the Nordstrom women's bathroom TO GET UP while her 14 month old screamed and tried to claw his way out of the Ergo.  I was attempting to remain calm while negotiating with a tiny terrorist.  I was pulling on his limp arms and doing that horrible whisper growl while random women stared and smiled judgingly.  One grandmotherly woman even asked my son to pull her finger (thinking it would make him laugh I guess?) and then offered to pick my toddler up off the floor.  Yes, woman I've never met.  Man-handling my tantruming son will absolutely improve this situation.  As will teaching him fart jokes.  Thank you.

Ugh.  It was completely humiliating.  And probably an appropriate rite of passage for a formerly self-righteous-not-yet-mother who just knew she would never let that happen.  What I did not know then is that sometimes you can't stop it from happening.  I was caught completely off-guard.  We had had a lovely morning playdate and were just running into the bathroom to change an ill-timed diaper on my 14 month old.  Everything had been fine.  Then my toddler's internal lunch bell must have gone off, because he totally lost his shit for no reason at all.  And then he laid down in front of the door in the Nordstrom women's bathroom.

As I was pleading and begging and threatening and negotiating, I overheard a conversation between two new moms who were in the lounge breastfeeding.  They were discussing the horror stories they'd heard about 3 year olds (anxious glance at my son) and how they simply couldn't believe that it was really that bad (second wary glance at melty puddle of toddler getting smacked in the head by women's room door).  I managed to drag my son up off the floor, pointed down at him and said, "This is three."  And then I smiled a great big giant smile.  Good luck, ladies!

Because I knew I couldn't warn them.  They wouldn't believe me!  Not their kids.  Seriously, I don't how every single one of us marches into parenthood filled with such moronic aplomb and certainty.  Admit it: it all goes to hell as soon as the kid arrives and throws a little humanity in our best laid plans.  What's worse is that we continue to announce what we will and will not do until our kids grow up and move out.  Or until we die.  Why do we not learn?  It is impossible to anticipate how you're going to react in any given situation.  You may swear up and down that you will never, ever, ever let your baby sleep in bed with you, but then one day you haven't slept in a week and she's sleeping so peacefully on your chest and... eh.  Plans, schmans.  You might vow that you will NEVER be the parent who allows your child to cause a ruckus in a restaurant, but then you find yourself with a warm plate of delicious food sitting right in front of you (something you have not experienced in, oh, however long your child has been out of the womb) and you hand him the spoon.  Because it's not that loud and they can just deal.

Parenthood causes you to eat your words faster and more often than any other experience on the planet.  Perhaps because we are all stubborn idiots who insist we are right all the time.  The Mommy Wars need to be done, my friends.  None of us are right.  We all try to be right and we all try to do what is best for our kids.  We HAVE to believe that we are right because this shit is hard.  But believe this: you ARE going to do that thing you swore you would never do (cheddar bunnies for dinner?  sure.)... and it's all going to be okay.

My kids had a ginormous tantrum in public, and I survived.  I was that mother.  Whatever.

Those Days

You know how sometimes you look around and you're like, "Is this my life?" and then you realize, "Yes, this is my life," and then you want to crawl in a hole for 2 months?  Yeah.  That.

The past few days have been those kinds of days.  They have required the kind of heroic patience, perspective, and fortitude that I currently lack.  Shockingly, things are not going well.

Yesterday:  Nothing went smoothly.  Changing diapers, pull-ups, and clothing became epic battles.  All forms of even beloved food were rejected (and thrown onto the freshly vacuumed carpet).  Mommies were screamed at and requests were denied.  Time outs were had.  Much whining occurred.  This was the kind of day where Mama used overly loud and harsh tones with the kids because HOLY SHIT MAMA CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE... and then burst into tears in front of them.  Because then there's the guilt.  Why can't I handle this?  And then as a final infernal straw, my toddler screamed about needing water after going to bed (right after I brought him water) until he woke up his baby brother.  Who then also screamed.  And this is the one weekday my husband doesn't get home until after 10pm.  Ah yes, THAT'S why I can't handle this.

Today:  A lot more screaming and a lot of ignoring Mama.  Four time outs before 10:30 a.m.  And then there were two more before lunch.  My toddler said the words, "I don't like you," for the first time.  To his baby brother.  While said brother was gazing adoringly at him and grinning.  I worried all morning about money (or our lack thereof).  I spent lunch begging the toddler to stop sticking his hands in the bowl full of buttery corn and trying to convince the baby to eat anything resembling a vegetable.  Lost on both counts.  And then my husband called just as I was about to get everyone all dressed and ready to go pick him up (which sometimes is a blessed 30 minutes of strapped down-ed-ness) in order to tell me he needed to work late. And then I burst into tears (again) in front of my children (again) and couldn't stop for an hour.  This totally freaked my toddler out, so I had to turn on the T.V. and hide in the kitchen where the baby toddled adorably over from time to time grinning and bringing lovies and soggy cheerios in an attempt to cheer me up.

People, I am experiencing a slow, but steady panic attack.

(Hold on... don't tell me you don't have days like this.  You better have 'em, people.  YOU BETTER.  I'm holding on to that hope like a menstruating non-swimmer to a leaky, inflatable life vest in shark-infested waters.)

Pffffttt.  I don't know if this is a special brand of insanity reserved for stay-at-home parents, or a special brand of insanity reserved for me.  All I know is that I am not a fan.  NOT.

I know that every little thing is getting to me much more than it otherwise would because life is handing me flatbed upon flatbed of lemons.  AND I DON'T HAVE ANY SUGAR TO MAKE LEMONADE.  I know that eventually- if for no other reason than ODDS, for the love of all things holy- things are going to turn around and start to get better.  I know that all of this is temporary and that I have the things that really matter in life.  I have a supportive, loving husband that I adore.  I have two beautiful little boys who make me laugh every day.  I have amazing friends who are willing to listen to me bitch and support me in any way I'll let them.  But sometimes I just wish life could be a little easier.  I wish there were just a few things to worry about instead of everything.  I wish I could say one thing was going smoothly so that I could focus on the other parts that are not.  But there are too many parts and nothing is going smoothly right now.  I'm tired.

Sometimes, I wish I had some sort of escape.  Last night, the best escape I could conjure was Simpler Times and watching trashy T.V.   Tonight it will likely be more Simpler Times and a shower that lasts until the hot water runs out.

Ahhh.... simpler times.  I'd like those.

Please tell me you have days like these.

Power Struggle

First, some bad poetry by yours truly:

Once a teacher of literature,
Purveyor of words and ideas,

I now disseminate Cheerios,
Teach nose-blowing, please and thank you.

Some days I am lost
In a sea of trains and tiny socks.


While there are a great many things to love about being a mother (and I assure you, there is a lot that I do love), I have found that becoming a stay-at-home parent has created a serious power struggle within me.  And honestly, I did not expect this.

As I and many of my fellow at-home mamas stand on the precipice of sanity, I'm left wondering how it is that we- the stay-at-home parents- can maintain a sense of self.  This isn't to say that I don't have a sense of purpose.  I do.  I believe wholeheartedly in what I do.  At the risk of sounding saccharine and cliche, I will say that staying home with my children has been an absolute gift.  I know the time I've been able to spend with my children is irreplaceable and I am so thankful I've been there for the first steps, first words, and the little bumps and bruises.  Nonetheless, I can't help but think that parts of me have begun to disappear along the way.

I used to be a teacher.  I used to teach and discuss literature all day, every day.  (Or almost every day... there were, of course, the obligatory days of discussing why it is not okay to steal or to yell or to sleep through every class.  Or take your pants off in the middle of a Socratic Seminar.)  I used to create curriculum, discuss ideas and teaching strategies with colleagues, immerse myself in piles and piles of poetry.  I used to meet with friends under the guise of planning, and end up discussing the glories of Walt Whitman or the intensities Heart of Darkness.  

Now, I spend my days playing trucks and cleaning sticky little hands and faces.  I change diapers and fetch tiny pairs of underwear covered in trains or Sesame Street characters.  Instead of reading Emerson, I read Dr. Seuss.  Rather than grading papers, I do laundry and make baby food.

I'm not complaining, exactly.  I like reading Dr. Seuss.  I love getting down on the floor and playing with my boys.  I feel good about making healthy food for the kids.  I do NOT miss grading papers or the politics that are ever-present in public education.  But it's a strange transition from individual to stay-at-home mother.  An individual's decisions are based entirely on the individual.  She may take her partner into account and may even put her partner's needs ahead of hers at times, but she is still her own person.

As a stay-at-home mom (especially of children under 3), my childrens' needs always come first.  This doesn't necessarily sound significant, but it means that everything I do must ensure that the kids are taken care of first.  On the small scale, it means I can't even pee until I'm sure that both kids are safe and aren't going to climb atop a table or pull a pot down onto their heads.  Even then, one or both of them usually follows me into the bathroom.  On the large scale, it means that my needs are sometimes not met at all.  I can't sit down and write when inspiration strikes.  I can't go to yoga or sit and read with a good cup of coffee.  I can't unload the dishwasher when I want to because the baby tries to crawl inside and yank all the dishes out.  It means I can barely complete a sentence without interruption.

And again, I'm not complaining in the way that it sounds like I'm complaining.  I've chosen this life and, as frustrating as it can be, I feel good about it.  I know that despite difficulties, it's the right choice for my family and I feel lucky to be at home with my children.  I know that being a working mother has its own giant set of problems that I can't begin to understand.  I can only speak to my own experiences and for me, it is hard to feel like I'm disappearing under all this mothering.  I love identifying as a mother, but it's getting to the point where that's ALL I identify with.  Most of the time I am no longer Shannon; I am only Mommy.  And this leaves me feeling sad and confused.

Recently, I've had a few opportunities to spend quality time with some wonderful friends and some wonderful drinks sans kids.  (Thank you, Husband o' mine!)  What I find is that I revert quickly to my old self.  I am relaxed, listening intently, laughing and swearing like a sailor.  It's awesome.  This is not to say that I don't like myself as a mother, but I like other parts of myself, too.  Having a few hours of uninterrupted conversation with a friend feels so indulgent now, and I find that I crave it like mad.  I am clamoring to get out and find more opportunities to be me.  To figure out who me is now.  Not separate from Mommy, but in addition to.

And this, in great part, is why I started this blog.  I wanted to have an outlet, a way to nurture the part of me that gets buried under all the diapers and laundry and milk cups.  I still want to be Mommy- it's my most treasured role- but I think it's important that it not be my only role.

I am more than diapers, damn it.  Sometimes I can write words in a row.  Hopefully those words sometimes manage to sound nice and make sense and possibly even cause a person to think or laugh or smile in empathy.

Morning Parenting

I have come to the conclusion that my parenting before coffee is sub par at best.  I am not a morning person, and attempting to even speak is sometimes taxing the first hour I'm awake.  Handling two cranky, hungry children the second I exit the warmth of my bed at 6:30am makes me want to burst into flames.

And yes, I know, 6:30am is significantly later than many children wake up.  I know many of you are up at 5am every single day.  I used to get up at 5am and it's a hideous, ungodly hour.  I know it could be worse.  But as previously established, I'm a whiny little bitch.  And this morning hustle pisses me off.

I've had this problem for as long as I can remember.  As a teenager, I used to sit in the corner on the kitchen floor nursing my silent contempt for the world while my dad made coffee.  My mom avoided me altogether.  No one spoke to me or looked me directly in the eye.  When the coffee was ready, my dad would hand a cup down to me- without speaking- and I would sit and drink.  Once I'd finished, I could face humans (kind of).  My freshman year in high school, I completely ruined a friendship because my friend of 4 years who generously gave me a ride to school every morning was incredibly bubbly in the morning.  She wanted to talk... a lot.  So my solution was to be a super-duper bitch until I stopped talking to her at all.  Brilliant plan, no?

I'm telling you, morning time before coffee is my kryptonite.

So now it comes to bite me in the ass again.  Kids are morning people.  They enjoy getting up early and demanding breakfast.  They want to run and jump and play LOUDLY at 6:30am.  They want me IMMEDIATELY upon opening their eyes.  All I want to do is sit in the corner of the kitchen floor until I finish my coffee, but now I don't even have time to make my coffee until they have breakfast in front of them.

I get up, pee if I'm lucky (and the piercing screams haven't started yet), get one kid out of bed, get the other kid out of bed, get the big one on the potty and into underwear (which are usually buried at the bottom of the basket of laundry I CANNOT SEEM TO FOLD), then get the little one into a new diaper.  Then we enter the kitchen and I plop the little one on the floor where he beelines for the drawer o' kid dishes and proceeds, for the 80 billionth time, to pull everything out onto the floor (where I trip on it).  The big one starts asking to watch TV and continues to ask every 5 seconds until breakfast is ready.  I begin to make the oatmeal the big one loves while he whines that he doesn't want "opameal" and then step on a tiny plastic fork.  I get milk cups out for both kids and the little one chugs half, then immediately starts to slam his on the floor until I take it away.  The big one returns to ask for TV again and proclaims, again, that he doesn't want "opameal."  The oatmeal is ready so I portion it out, then put the two little bowls in the freezer to cool off.  At this point, I attempt coffee making while trying to herd both kids over to the table where I can strap them down.  Bibs, cups, "opameal" and oh-my-god why can't all of this happen at a more reasonable hour?!?

Yes, it has been pointed out to me that I could get one of those fancy-schmancy coffee makers with a timer so that I can wake up to pre-fab coffee.  Or that I could get up before the little darlings so I could caffeinate myself and be a reasonable human being when they get up.  And those are both probably good ideas.

But then how could I WHINE like this?

Morning parenting blows.

Chaos Personified (aka: "Mommy").

Holy shit, Internet (and by "Internet" I obviously mean "Eight friends who read my blather and kindly pretend to find it interesting"... Hi Guys!!!).  Why can I not get it together?  Why can I not leave my house in under 40 minutes?  Why can I not unload the dishwasher (which was run 24 hours ago) before 10pm?  Why can I not clean up the toys scattered hither and yon throughout the house?  Why can't I do/fold the laundry fast enough for it to NOT resemble Mt. Vesuvius every 2 days?  Why can I not pull a decent meal together while both kids are awake without one beating the other one up?  Why, why, why?  (And, p.s., why can't I stop WHINING?  OR E-YELLING?)

This shit is getting out of control.  I would like to blame this often unfathomable craziness on my kids (because I'm an awesome mother like that), but it's not their fault.  I would also like to blame it on my husband (Hi Honey!!), but it's not his fault either.  All these boys in my life do their fair share o' dirtying, certainly, but I do my part, too.  And it's supposed to be my job to clean it all up.  I am the stay-at-home parent.

This is where I feel like somehow feminism has backfired on me.  What began as, "You can have it all!" turned into, "If you don't have it all, you are an utter failure."  And p.s. look awesome and keep the house clean and cook nutritious, delicious food while reading Tolstoy and writing that brief for your client in Norway.  I am a failure (at life and at properly encapsulating feminism.... damn it!).  I realize this is not technically true (if what my peeps tell me is actually correct) nor a logical thought to have.  Nonetheless,  I feel like a failure a shockingly large portion of the time.

I know this is reality a lot of stay-at-home parents struggle with.  There's no way to actually do it all and maintain your sanity or stamina.  One can certainly keep the house clean, the laundry done, and make breakfast, lunch and dinner daily... but that requires plopping one's children in front of the T.V. and/or ignoring them for the majority of the day.  One can also take the children out on exciting playdates, spend quality time playing on the floor with each child, and maintain a healthy nap schedule... but that means that one's house quickly begins to look like an episode of Hoarders.  Toys are spread in an even foot-severing layer across the entire floor, dishes accumulate on the counters and in the sink, and laundry piles begin to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa.  So we have to choose: parenting, or housekeeping.

You'd think this would be an easy choice.  Kids should always trump dishes, yes?  DUH.  But eventually, I start to look around and the messiness in the house starts to make me insane.  And then I start to feel like I'm not doing my job, because my job is to take care of the entire homefront, right?  No, actually.  This is where we get it wrong, peeps.  My job is to take care of the children and do what's best for them.  I am not a housewife or homemaker- I actively reject that title for a reason.  I am a stay-at-home-PARENT.  My priority is my children.  If I were working a paying job outside the home, I would expect my partner to pull his weight and help with household duties.  Though my job is unpaid and happens to occur inside the home, I don't really feel like this should change things.  Perhaps I am delusional, but thankfully I have a partner who is willing to pitch in.

When he's here, that is.  When he's not here... well, therein lies the rub.  Try as I might, I still cannot find a way to do it all.  I'd like to (especially as I prepare to- hopefully- take on a little side job), but I just can't figure it out.  Maybe it's just me.  There are people out there who appear to have it all: their houses are always clean, the TV is never on, their kids are always happy and well dressed with healthy snacks filling their go-bags, and inexplicably, they look put together and seem to thoroughly enjoy life.  I don't know how those people do it.  It seems impossible to me.

So... I like to think that those people have a big ole Monica Gellar-style closet.  A closet full of the mess that would otherwise occupy their homes and minds.  It's filled to the brim with dirty dishes, blocks, broken crayons and half-used Swiffers.  It smells of two weeks worth of dirty diapers and sour milk and sweat stained clothes.  There are Cheerios plastering the floor.  Attached to the inside of the door is a giant hidden flat screen with Finding Nemo playing on a 24 hour loop.  And the reason she can keep that smile plastered to her face despite her three children under 4?  She keeps several flasks of vodka strapped to her body at all times.  SEVERAL.

Universe: 742; Me: 0

Clearly I have done something bad.  Very, very bad.  The Universe does not like me very much right now, and its wrath is wreaking havoc on my life.  So, I'm doing my best to make up with it.  I'm sending it flowers.  Telling it how nice it looks in those new pants.  Offering to walk its dog when it has to stay late at work.
Alas, none of this is working.  It's STILL pissed off at me.  I've tried everything else, so now it's time to grovel.  I'm talking no pride, on your knees, begging for forgiveness here.  Whatever it takes.  Here goes:

Dear Universe,
I am sorry.  I know I have upset you/broken your heart/slept with your boyfriend/borrowed and ruined your favorite boots/hurt your feelings/pissed you off and I am sorry.  So, so incredibly sorry.  You have no idea.  I understand that you are angry.  You don't hide it well.  But I'd like us to make up now.  Let's take a walk and discuss it over a latte.
Universe, I am so sorry that I upset you.  I never meant to do it.  I have only had the best of intentions, but apparently I got lost along the way.  I hurt you, and that was wrong.  So wrong.  Universe, I want you to know that I care about you and I know that you were right.  I was wrong.  Do you hear me?  I. WAS. WRONG.
I'm ready to change my ways and I'm really hoping you'll forgive me.  I'm not perfect, Universe, and I don't pretend to be.  I just want us to be the way we were.  I want us to be able to spend the day by the water, enjoying the day unfolding before us.  I want to share a doughnut with you.  I just want us to be happy again.  And Universe, I know you want that, too.  You may not know it, may even believe that you're enjoying watching me fumble around, but deep down we both know that you're not that heartless.  Not even when you're this angry.
I understand that you wanted to me to pay for the way I made you feel.  I get that, and I've felt it.  I have felt sad, felt low, felt hopeless, felt like an idiot.  You win.  I am humbled.
So, Universe, I stand here before you, humbly asking if please, pretty please, could you please, please, please forgive me?  Can we play nice?  Can't we all just get along?
I'll totally pick up your mail and water your plants for you next time you're out of town.
Are we okay?
Hoping for reconciliation...
Love,
Me

The Bitch is Back

Ever have one of those days (eh em... weeks) when you KNOW you're being a raging bitch, but you can't seem to stop?  Yeah.  I'm having one of those.

Life is kicking my ass a bit and apparently, my response is to ruin the lives of the people around me (read: my husband).  Oh, the irony.  The Universe is mean to me, so I'm mean to the one person who loves and supports me no matter what.  Interesting choice, lady.

I have strange methods of coping with stress in my life, though I'm only recently starting to notice them.  My first response is to sit on my ass and brood.  Generally speaking, this doesn't get me very far.  Shocking, I know.  After that, I clean the kitchen.  Why?  I have no idea.  I'd like to trace it back to my childhood when my biggest problems- like not being able to go out with my friends- were generally solved by a thorough cleaning of the kitchen, but that isn't particularly logical now.  I no longer live with my parents, so I can't be grounded, and my problems are now significantly more complex.  A full dishwasher and clean counters will not solve anything, but somehow I feel more in control when I've scrubbed grout.  When that doesn't eliminate my stress (which it almost never does), I pretend like everything is fine to almost everyone, though I'm a fairly horrific liar, and then I take my anger out on my husband.  Because, as we all know, the fact that he has put the glass in the sink instead of the dishwasher IS THE REASON FOR ALL SUFFERING.

Oh wait, no it's not.  That's just me being mean and irrational.  Shit.

Anyway, I'm hoping by writing this and admitting that I know I'm being intolerable, I can find the strength to KNOCK IT OFF.  Jesus.

Honey, this is me saying, "Um, sorry I'm being a total bitch.  I don't really mean to, but I can't seem to quit it.  I'll work on that."

No really, I will.  Swear.  Seriously.