Fresh air
Warning: I’m about to talk about my job. Please come tell me that I will lose my job for talking about my job. Because you would totally be the first person to tell me that, and I reveal so much about my job and so flagrantly discuss in detail so many identifying characteristics of my job and also accuse my employers of eating babies. While sodomizing goats. All the time. So please come tell me I’m about to get fired. I like it.
Ahem.
Anyway. What was I talking about? Oh, right! My job. (Shhhhhhh.) Gosh, I love my job. I do. (Don’t forget to tell me that I can still be fired even though all I ever do is talk about how much I love my job.)
So this morning, school had a snow delay (OH MY GOD it’s almost April SO ENOUGH WITH THE SNOW, ALREADY), and I was a few minutes later than usual to the office (extra time was required to explain to the children ELEVENTY BILLION TIMES that school being delayed didn’t mean they didn’t have to go to daycare, because I still had to go to work). Not a big deal, since my normal arrival time is about two minutes after the crack of dawn. So there I was, a mere twelve minute after dawn, drinking my tea and reading my email.
And then a colleague stuck her head in my office and said, “The movers will be here around noon.”
“Uh… okay?” was what I said, I think. I mean, in my head, I said “WHAT THE HELL?” but I don’t think I said that out loud. Today.
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Flip a coin…
… to correctly select either horror or amusement.
* An email arrived, addressed to a handful of people, saying that THIS IS BROKEN AND NEEDS TO BE ADDRESSED RIGHT NOW. Ah, the satisfaction of being able to mail back within 10 minutes “All fixed.” And it didn’t hurt to receive back, “Hey, we may just have to keep you around here after all!”
* After correctly reciting her phone number, address, and birthday, and spelling all of our names, and generally responding to this barrage of questions with grace and prodigy aplomb, imagine the look on my face when the doctor said, “Now, Chickadee, do you have any brothers or sisters?” and Chickadee fixed her gaze upon the inquisitor and in her most bored tone replied, “Nope.”
* After a long phone call about the trials and travails of single motherhood: “Listen,” I told her, “just get through today. That’s all you have to do.” It seemed logical… right up until she said, “And tomorrow?” I had to think about it. “Well, tomorrow isn’t gonna be here for like half a day, yet!” I declared so brightly that we both dissolved into giggles. (Reminds me of one of my favorite sayings: I try to take it one day at a time, but sometimes several days attack me at once.)
* Upon his arrival in my room this morning: “Hey, Monkey, are you dry today??” *crickets chirp* “Well, I’m CUTE!” Alrighty, then.
* “MAMA! I don’t know why, I just CAN’T brush my hair today! You need to do it!” And in another bid for Mother of the Year, I replied, “Well, I could probably brush your hair for you, but you know, I don’t know WHY, but I just CAN’T plan your birthday party. Oh well.” Guess what? She regained her long-lost hair-brushing skills INSTANTLY!
*POP*
Yeah… that was the sound of my bubble bursting.
Oh well. Up and down and round and round. Tomorrow will be better.
In the meantime, my son is inching towards something huge. I almost missed it, in the midst of everything that’s been going on with Chickadee. Also, I have to confess that I haven’t been entirely receptive to his progress. Because that’s the sort of rotten mother that I am!
Anyway, I have a perfectly logical excuse for failing to recognize what’s going on with Monkey, right away: how the hell was I supposed to know?
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New week, new plan
The thing about reaching the end of the rope is that then you have to find something else to hold onto.
I had gotten into the habit of treating my daughter like she’s a problem. She’s a problem, so I treat her as such. I treat her that way, she stops trying, she shows up in the dictionary next to the definition of “self-fulfilling prophecy.” Not good.
So I decided to take a leap of faith. Sunday night we discussed the New Regime.
1) Later bedtime. We’re not having enough family time, now that I’m back to work. But mornings have been so atrocious, I’ve been putting the kids to bed earlier and earlier on the assumption that they need more sleep. The solution? Later bedtime = more time to spend together. BUT. Screaming mornings = back to the old bedtime. It’s up to them.
2) Even later bedtime after a week. Half an hour later, to start. They get another half an hour if they show me this works. Same deal on mornings determining how late they get to stay up.
3) Immediate snack when we get home, while I get a few minutes to myself. Our evenings were suffering from two main problems: the kids were hungry and therefore cranky when we got home–and I felt it was too late for a snack, but I have not yet mastered snapping my fingers to make dinner voila! appear on the table at a moment’s notice–and I needed just a few minutes to look at the mail, listen to phone messages, etc. No more “you’ll ruin your dinner.” So what. They get a snack, the crankies are assuaged, and I get a little decompression window in return.
4) Dinner like civilized humans. We’re not going to get into how often I succumbed to “Okay, we’re all tired, you can eat in front of the TV.” Dinner at the table. The “best/worst part of my day” game. When I finish eating before them (I always finish before them), I can do dishes and tidy the kitchen but I must stay in there with them and give them my attention.
God, I love it when I’m brilliant.
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Woulda Coulda Shoulda Gonna
Someone dear to me recently told me that they’re an “instant gratification” kind of person, and that I am the polar opposite.
I think the Girl Scout cookies might disagree.
But it got me thinking (oh, no! not the thinking, again!) about why that is. I’m a planner. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? Pfft. If you wait long enough, that bush will be swarming with birds, ya know. Just wait. Besides, I might lunge and miss altogether, and then I’ll have no bird in hand plus all the other birds will get spooked and then I won’t even be able to pretend to believe I might have them later.
(Please, someone take this metaphor away from me before I hurt myself. Yes, bird spooking, a regular part of my day! Um. I’m so sorry you had to see that.)
I’m waiting. You’re going, and doing, and enjoying. And most of the time? I’m just waiting. I mean, sure, yes, I’m busy, absolutely. Always busy. But forgetting to experience as I go along. Carefully laying the foundation for what comes later, maybe. And when it doesn’t come, I woulda-coulda-shoulda my choices for a while and then start planning for the next thing.
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One more year!
I think it’s important to celebrate milestones.
I think it’s particularly important to sit back and reflect on the past and be able to pat oneself on the back and say, “Wow, I made it a WHOLE YEAR without killing anyone, ending up in a padded room, or falling down dead, myself!” And if there is growth that happened in that time, yeah, so much the better.
Please go wish my dear friend Kira a very happy birthday, today. She complains a lot less than I do, even though no one would blame her one bit if she did. And she’s an awesome mom and an inspiring writer.
But most importantly: she’s a friend worth her weight in gold, and she made it through another year. Happy birthday, Kira! (I’m still totally up for ditching the menfolk and taking you as my soulmate, babe… just say the word.)
Nothing fits
After three (long) days, I appear to have shaken my migraine. This is A Very Good Thing. The Less Good Thing is that in its wake—no longer left trying to focus around searing pain and/or wavering vision—I’m left with this feeling of restlessness in my own skin. I should feel good and if nothing else, the twelve hours of sleep I got today should render me well-rested. Instead, I skulked around the house feeling uncomfortable and itchy and wishing I was anywhere but here. No; that’s not quite right. I was wishing I was anyone but me.
I think I’d rather have a migraine.
But hey, I’m tough. And I haven’t had a kid-free weekend at home in almost a month. So I slept and slept and then I got up, and then I went back to bed and slept some more, and I got up (again) and cranked up the music and started cleaning. Because it turns out that even when I hate everything, there is only so long I can tolerate the gritty *crunch, crunch* under my socks as I roam around the house. (I have heard it said that the seasons around here are Winter, Still Winter, Construction, and Almost Winter. I beg to differ. From a mom’s perspective, the seasons are more like Ice Puddles, Sand, Dirt, and Leaves. We’ll be in Sand for a couple more months.)
Naturally, after cleaning I wanted to reward myself with some Girl Scout cookies. But then I thought, Hey, why don’t I go really wild and go shopping! I need some pants, so it’d be a good thing to do! This is how you know that my brain is suffering extended damage from the migraine.
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Perceptual ambiguity
If you’ve ever taken Psych 101, you’ve seen this image. What do you see? An old woman, or a young girl?
Today–a “one step forward, three steps back” kind of day–I feel like I’m sizing up a picture like this. First I see the old hag; the things in my life that turn my hair grey, all of the sadness and frustration and dissatisfaction with various things. Then I blink, and it’s the maiden; all of the abundant blessings that have come to roost in my life, some hard-won and some simply grace in action. With each blink the picture shifts.
The part that forces me to look away entirely is when the two blur together and the whole falls out of focus and ceases to make any sense. Today too many of my blessings are covered in sharp edges and dilemmas and doubts. It makes me weary, but also gives me the feeling of being on the cusp of something important.
If only I can figure it out.
If my head explodes, I get cookies
When I buy Girl Scout Cookies (and I always buy Girl Scout Cookies, only because it’s a good cause… shut up) I put them in my deep freeze in the basement. I suffer from the delusion that 1) freezing them and 2) making them slightly harder to access will stop me from inhaling them all within the first week.
Being the logical person that I am, I make deals with myself. If I do the dishes, I can have some shortbread. If I fold the laundry and put it away, I deserve some thin mints. And tonight I want to do nothing more than vegetate in front of the television, or perhaps just go straight to bed… but I need to pay bills. So I promised my grumpy self some samoas if I took care of the bills. I gathered everything up, sat down at the computer, and got the “Sorry! We’re cheerful! But the site’s down! Bummer! Come back soon!” message from my bank.
I think I still deserve the samoas. It’s not my fault I couldn’t pay the bills. I was gonna.
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The best-laid breakfasts
I had an entire post planned about The Great Pop Tart Debacle. It happened this morning and it was… majestic. In the worst possible (yet quite amusing) way. I wanted to share it and the utter JOY that is the thought process of a child that renders one foil packet SUPERIOR to another–identical!–foil packet by virtue of… ummm… well, I hadn’t really worked that part out. But there was a fabulous insight in there, I’m sure.
But screw that. No quirky uplifting breakfast stories, today. Nope. Warm-n-fuzzy exasperation at 7:15 can turn to a not-altogether-unexpected but still heart-wrenching downward spiral by 7:45. Because when you’re a parent, the only things more intense than the highs of the Good Stuff are the feelings of failure and helplessness with the Bad Stuff.
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