The truth is, I never thought much about growing up and being married, having kids or "keeping a house." First, I just wasn't that kind of gal. I was never the Barbie doll, toe-nail polish, start planning my wedding at the age of six type. Nope, I was more the get muddy, find a boy to beat up, make my five step plan for becoming an astronaut type. Funny how things turn out, isn't it? I ended up getting married to man who sells Barbies for a living and having a daughter who wants desperately to paint her toe nails while she is planning her future wedding. I love them both more than I can put into words, but I do sometimes feel as if I've fallen down the rabbit hole! My point here is simply this, upon getting married and having my first daughter I immediately felt horribly unprepared to do what every other woman seemed to have such a firm handle on. Even more simply put: I suck at being a housewife. Don't bother trying to convince me otherwise because the facts back me up on this one.
1. I can't cook.
I mean really, really, can't cook. And I don't just mean that I cook things and they taste bad, although that is certainly true as well. I mean that when I try to cook, things catch on fire. A lot. Fact: for our first wedding anniversary J bought me a kitchen fire extinguisher. Fact: I have used it. Twice. The first time was during my only attempt to make a Thanksgiving dinner. Somehow, the stuffing (Stovetop...who can mess that up, right?) burst into flames and to this day I have no idea how or why. And that's the real problem. Things start out okay in the kitchen, under control. Then I blink or look out the window and get distracted wondering if being a rodent, which is already vile and disgusting, makes rats immune to viruses that might cause the Zombie Apocalypse and all of sudden all hell breaks loose, there is egg on the ceiling and something is burning. At least the fire extinguisher still works well.
2. I am disorganized.
Now, I know a lot of you are thinking, "Well, that's allright. As long as you know where things are." And you would be right! The only problem is, I don't know where things are! I don't remember where I put anything away or even if I did put it away. I am fighting a losing war on all fronts. Entropy is winning in a very big way. It's like carrying a bucket of water up a hill only to get to the top and realize it has been leaking the whole way and is almost empty. So you trudge back down the hill, refill it and head back up, forgetting once again that it has a hole in it. To me, being able to keep things organized seems like some sort of voodoo magic. I see a tidy and well organized household and think, "Wow, this person has sold their soul to the devil, only instead of riches and fame they got an electronic label gun and the know how to use it effectively."
3. I can clean well but have no real interest in ever doing so. Ever.
That's not to say I won't clean, but when your motivation level to do so is so low to begin with it's not like it ever gets done all that effectively. In my household there is a lot of halfhearted sweeping at surfaces with a dustcloth and picking blankets up off the floor and tossing them onto the mattress, thereby "making the bed." I have convinced myself that the simple act of sweeping the floor of one room actually makes the rest of your house look sparkly clean. Just last week I beat my own record by spinning the same load of laundry over and over in the dryer for two and half days because I didn't want it to get wrinkled but I certainly didn't want to fold it!
That's just the tip of a very large iceburg! But, before I go any further, I want to let any young ladies who might be reading in on a secret I have just recently discovered:
It's okay not to be a great housewife!
After years of stressing about it, chasing my own tail and feeling more than a little inadequate, I have finally realized that the world is not going to end if my refrigerator has a few things in it that are slightly past their expiration dates. I love my family, care for and feed them (albeit often with burnt food!), keep our house danger proof and sometimes semi-clean and you know what? They love me right back! No one is dissapointed in me, and going a little easier on myself has allowed me to enjoy being with them more, as well as allowed for more time to ponder weighty issues like what I would say if NASA offered me the chance to be one of the first settlers on Mars. No, right? I mean, I have kids so it would be wrong to just up and leave. But what if they could almost guarantee my safety and I could just stay for a while? Then it would be okay....right??
Friday, March 25, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
A Tale of Two Mustangs
I would like to take this opportunity to officially apologize to anyone I have mocked in the past for claiming to suffer from "jetlag". I am sorry for sneering at you and accusing you of attempting to prolong your vacation by faking extreme fatigue caused by something as simple as air travel. I am also just now emerging from my own fog of exhaustion and the feeling that the whole world and everything in it is just a little bit...off. After my recent trip, sans kids, to Hawaii (thanks again J!) it has taken me three days to even think about sharing my thoughts on what had to be one of the coolest weeks of my life. Following of course, the week I got married, the two weeks my girls were born and the week that The X-Files first premiered on televison. Now that I am finally feeling more myself, or rather a more tanned, relaxed version of myself, I have been trying to decide where to begin. After going around and around, it eventually hit me that there is really only one place to start. The Mustang.
White, shiny, new....fast....The Mustang (can you hear the caps? When I say it you can always hear the capital letters) was the car J upgraded to for our trip. His work was springing for a car (no caps there!) but this was Hawaii and what's the point of being in a tropical paradise if you can't feel the wind in your hair and really get sunburned while driving down the coast? So he spent the $300 dollars and The Mustang was ours for six glorious days. And the minute I saw it my heart thumped in my chest as I flashed back to the first time J drove up in a Mustang.
He had finally got the nerve up to ask me on an actual "date", or maybe I asked him, I can't really remember. What I do remember is my heart going so fast I thought it might actually crawl up my throat and run away. I remember the jingle the car made as he drove up, a leftover from some problem with one of the wheels that I never really understood but which made it easy to hear him coming from a mile away. And there he was, getting out of the oldest, reddest, coolest car I had ever seen. I wouldn't have even been able to tell you it was called a Mustang back then, only that it fit him to a tee. I didn't know wether I was going to laugh or throw up; I was so nervous. Which is funny really, when you have been friends with someone for a while, playing scrabble until all hours of the night and talking about nothing for hours at a time. But there is something about a date. A real date. Something official, scary, something that shouts out, "Here we are world! Together!" And it scared me to death as he strolled (oh, he was so amazingly handsome and the epitome of absolute cool...still is!) up the walk, took me by the hand and opened the door of that first Mustang for me. It's not like I had never been in his car before, but this felt different somehow. As if by getting in and going on this date it was becoming not his Mustang, but ours. And it did.
Oh, I know the red Mustang wasn't all sunny days and romance. It had more than its' share of problems - no seatbelt on my side (sorry mom!), no heat or a/c, a leaky top, a tendancy to just stop going. Honestly, it was a wreck. But J loved, and still loves, that car in the way that men have which, while I will never understand, I don't begrudge him. When it died for good he spent weeks trying to move the engine, which still worked somewhat, over into the body of another mustang he had found. Of course he knows very little about how cars actually work, so, while he did get the engine in and started once, it ultimately died and was put to rest in that second mustang. And if God was an author he would have been using a bit of subtle foreshadowing. That mustang was white.
Which brings us full circle to Hawaii and J opening the door for me in the Hertz parking lot. Only this time, 20 years later, I wasn't afraid. Oh, my heart was thumping, but it was thumping to the beat of all the good memories rushing back and the thrill of knowing that there were so many more to come. When he came around and got in, J grinned at me just as he had back then and I thought to myself, "This feels like coming home."
I know, I know, you're thinking I didn't actually tell you anything about our trip to Hawaii. Sorry. The rest of the trip was awesome, beautiful, exciting. There were expensive meals (again on the company, thank you Mattel!), glorious sunsets, dolphins and whales, shopping, everything you want in a tropical vacation. There was even the heart pounding excitement of an impending Tsunami and the resulting rush up into the mountains and night spent sleeping in the car. But, for me, it was really all about The Mustang and the man driving it...again.
White, shiny, new....fast....The Mustang (can you hear the caps? When I say it you can always hear the capital letters) was the car J upgraded to for our trip. His work was springing for a car (no caps there!) but this was Hawaii and what's the point of being in a tropical paradise if you can't feel the wind in your hair and really get sunburned while driving down the coast? So he spent the $300 dollars and The Mustang was ours for six glorious days. And the minute I saw it my heart thumped in my chest as I flashed back to the first time J drove up in a Mustang.
He had finally got the nerve up to ask me on an actual "date", or maybe I asked him, I can't really remember. What I do remember is my heart going so fast I thought it might actually crawl up my throat and run away. I remember the jingle the car made as he drove up, a leftover from some problem with one of the wheels that I never really understood but which made it easy to hear him coming from a mile away. And there he was, getting out of the oldest, reddest, coolest car I had ever seen. I wouldn't have even been able to tell you it was called a Mustang back then, only that it fit him to a tee. I didn't know wether I was going to laugh or throw up; I was so nervous. Which is funny really, when you have been friends with someone for a while, playing scrabble until all hours of the night and talking about nothing for hours at a time. But there is something about a date. A real date. Something official, scary, something that shouts out, "Here we are world! Together!" And it scared me to death as he strolled (oh, he was so amazingly handsome and the epitome of absolute cool...still is!) up the walk, took me by the hand and opened the door of that first Mustang for me. It's not like I had never been in his car before, but this felt different somehow. As if by getting in and going on this date it was becoming not his Mustang, but ours. And it did.
Oh, I know the red Mustang wasn't all sunny days and romance. It had more than its' share of problems - no seatbelt on my side (sorry mom!), no heat or a/c, a leaky top, a tendancy to just stop going. Honestly, it was a wreck. But J loved, and still loves, that car in the way that men have which, while I will never understand, I don't begrudge him. When it died for good he spent weeks trying to move the engine, which still worked somewhat, over into the body of another mustang he had found. Of course he knows very little about how cars actually work, so, while he did get the engine in and started once, it ultimately died and was put to rest in that second mustang. And if God was an author he would have been using a bit of subtle foreshadowing. That mustang was white.
Which brings us full circle to Hawaii and J opening the door for me in the Hertz parking lot. Only this time, 20 years later, I wasn't afraid. Oh, my heart was thumping, but it was thumping to the beat of all the good memories rushing back and the thrill of knowing that there were so many more to come. When he came around and got in, J grinned at me just as he had back then and I thought to myself, "This feels like coming home."
I know, I know, you're thinking I didn't actually tell you anything about our trip to Hawaii. Sorry. The rest of the trip was awesome, beautiful, exciting. There were expensive meals (again on the company, thank you Mattel!), glorious sunsets, dolphins and whales, shopping, everything you want in a tropical vacation. There was even the heart pounding excitement of an impending Tsunami and the resulting rush up into the mountains and night spent sleeping in the car. But, for me, it was really all about The Mustang and the man driving it...again.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Introductions Are In Order
If you are old enough you probably remember the days of AOL and those words we all waited, breathless, to hear. "You've got mail." Of course, this was back before most correspondence was done via email and it was all still very new and exciting. Mention this to any teen and he will look at you as if you're legitimately crazy. After all, why wouldn't you have email? These days, the same breathless excitement fills our chest as we pore over our faceook pages. Looking, of course, to see who and how many "liked" our latest status update or comment. It's as if we believe that someone "liking" our status means that they like us. But reading someones status gives us even less insight into who she is than reading a blog. Writing this blog, one of my hopes is that I will be able to communicate, to some small degree at least, who I really am. Of course, I do hope you'll like me. No need to tell me if you don't!
Getting to know me means getting to know my family. If I was stranded on a deserted island there aren't three other people I would rather be with! Of course, Jeff and I would probably waste time joking about whose fault it was that the boat crashed, while Q bemoaned the lack of any art supplies and Z began happily deciding how to hurt herself first. But we would be together. And the first thing to know about me is that I find the most happiness in the moments I spend with each of these people - the hectic moments, the joyful moments, the angry moments and the (rare) quiet moments that weave all the others together. They are both the ship I sail in and its' anchor, the storm and the shelter from it. So, let me introduce you to my favorite people and, in getting to know them, you'll learn a little bit about me along the way.
My husband, Jeff, is by far the kindest, most honest, compassionate and selfless person I have ever met. I know, you're rolling your eyes right now, thinking, "Well, of course she thinks so!" Well, I do, but keep in mind that living with a saint isn't always easy. Take, for example, his penchant for truthful answers in every situation. While admirable, it does lead to conversations like one we had about 12 years ago:
Me: "Honey, I got my haircut! What do you think?"
Jeff: "Ummm...I'll get used to it."
Now, we have both learned a lot in the years of marriage since then. Me, not to ask questions I don't necessarily want completely honest answers to and, him, that not every question has to be answered at all. Here is how today's version of that same conversation might play out:
Me: "Honey, I got my haircut! It looks great!"
Jeff: "That's wonderful, I'm glad you're happy with it!"
Z & Q: "Mommy, what happened to your hair?"
Which brings me to the real reason I married him. Not because he is so wonderful, although that is true. But because he makes me want to be a better person. He makes me want to be more kind, honest, selfless and compassionate. He brings out the best in me and loves me despite the worst.
About five years after I married this paragon of virtue, we decided that despite some very serious health problems on my part we wanted to have children. We assumed that conceiving a child would be as easy as deciding to have one. After three years of trying, one cycle of IUI at the office of a "reproductive specialist" and 10,000 dollars later we had our oldest daughter, Q. She is seven now and, although I love her with a passion and ferocity that only another mother can understand, she seems far more her father's daughter than mine. She shares with him a love and talent for creating things, for music and for shopping (which I hate). Like him she is honest and generous almost to a fault. There isn't a visitor that comes into our house that leaves without a gift of some sort and she never has any money because she always finds reasons to give it to her sister. What she did get from me was the same quickfire temper that I had as a child, a tendency to wake up more than a little cranky and a love for peanut butter. She will tell you that her greatest disappointment in life is having a mom that is not at all "fashionable" and that she dreams of growing up to be a ballerina, a paramedic and a winning contestant on American Idol.
After Q joined our family, Jeff and I didn't think a whole lot about having more children. We figured that, since the doctor told us we would probably not be able to conceive on our own, we would just worry about it if and when we decided to have another. Three years later, and two days before I was scheduled to have a much needed and serious back surgery, we discovered I was pregnant with our second daughter, Z. She hasn't stopped surprising us since! Z is the reason all of our furniture is bolted to the walls (not safety latched, bolted!), she is the reason why silence in my house scares me and she is the reason why, more often than not, our family is laughing. She is so smart it sometimes frightens me, but has no common sense at all. Parenting Z is like what I imagine riding a bull in a rodeo would be; fast, terrifying, exhilarating, dangerous, amazing and exhausting. She is 4 now and will tell you that her dream is to grow up and be a pastry chef with her own little booth by the side of the road, selling donuts, cakes and pies to people passing by. Also, a submarine pilot.
Well, those are my people and altogether they make me into so much more than I would have ever been on my own!
Getting to know me means getting to know my family. If I was stranded on a deserted island there aren't three other people I would rather be with! Of course, Jeff and I would probably waste time joking about whose fault it was that the boat crashed, while Q bemoaned the lack of any art supplies and Z began happily deciding how to hurt herself first. But we would be together. And the first thing to know about me is that I find the most happiness in the moments I spend with each of these people - the hectic moments, the joyful moments, the angry moments and the (rare) quiet moments that weave all the others together. They are both the ship I sail in and its' anchor, the storm and the shelter from it. So, let me introduce you to my favorite people and, in getting to know them, you'll learn a little bit about me along the way.
My husband, Jeff, is by far the kindest, most honest, compassionate and selfless person I have ever met. I know, you're rolling your eyes right now, thinking, "Well, of course she thinks so!" Well, I do, but keep in mind that living with a saint isn't always easy. Take, for example, his penchant for truthful answers in every situation. While admirable, it does lead to conversations like one we had about 12 years ago:
Me: "Honey, I got my haircut! What do you think?"
Jeff: "Ummm...I'll get used to it."
Now, we have both learned a lot in the years of marriage since then. Me, not to ask questions I don't necessarily want completely honest answers to and, him, that not every question has to be answered at all. Here is how today's version of that same conversation might play out:
Me: "Honey, I got my haircut! It looks great!"
Jeff: "That's wonderful, I'm glad you're happy with it!"
Z & Q: "Mommy, what happened to your hair?"
Which brings me to the real reason I married him. Not because he is so wonderful, although that is true. But because he makes me want to be a better person. He makes me want to be more kind, honest, selfless and compassionate. He brings out the best in me and loves me despite the worst.
About five years after I married this paragon of virtue, we decided that despite some very serious health problems on my part we wanted to have children. We assumed that conceiving a child would be as easy as deciding to have one. After three years of trying, one cycle of IUI at the office of a "reproductive specialist" and 10,000 dollars later we had our oldest daughter, Q. She is seven now and, although I love her with a passion and ferocity that only another mother can understand, she seems far more her father's daughter than mine. She shares with him a love and talent for creating things, for music and for shopping (which I hate). Like him she is honest and generous almost to a fault. There isn't a visitor that comes into our house that leaves without a gift of some sort and she never has any money because she always finds reasons to give it to her sister. What she did get from me was the same quickfire temper that I had as a child, a tendency to wake up more than a little cranky and a love for peanut butter. She will tell you that her greatest disappointment in life is having a mom that is not at all "fashionable" and that she dreams of growing up to be a ballerina, a paramedic and a winning contestant on American Idol.
After Q joined our family, Jeff and I didn't think a whole lot about having more children. We figured that, since the doctor told us we would probably not be able to conceive on our own, we would just worry about it if and when we decided to have another. Three years later, and two days before I was scheduled to have a much needed and serious back surgery, we discovered I was pregnant with our second daughter, Z. She hasn't stopped surprising us since! Z is the reason all of our furniture is bolted to the walls (not safety latched, bolted!), she is the reason why silence in my house scares me and she is the reason why, more often than not, our family is laughing. She is so smart it sometimes frightens me, but has no common sense at all. Parenting Z is like what I imagine riding a bull in a rodeo would be; fast, terrifying, exhilarating, dangerous, amazing and exhausting. She is 4 now and will tell you that her dream is to grow up and be a pastry chef with her own little booth by the side of the road, selling donuts, cakes and pies to people passing by. Also, a submarine pilot.
Well, those are my people and altogether they make me into so much more than I would have ever been on my own!
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Me? A Blog?
I love blogs. Not blogging (this being my first, I don’t know about that yet) but blogs written by other people. You know when you are driving at night and you see light pouring out of one window in a house, perhaps with a person or two framed in it as they go about the end of their day? To me, that is what a blog is like. One tiny, lit window looking in on someone’s life. It’s only one window, and very small as it only gives you a peek at a single aspect, one sometimes enigmatic picture of who the blogger is. And therein lies the danger in consistently reading a person’s blog. The reader, having loyally followed the writer, sometimes from the blog’s very creation, can easily become convinced that she actually knows and understands who the writer is.
But seeing one painting does not give you all that much insight into an artist’s whole body of work, and reading one blog does not mean that you have your finger on the heartbeat of who someone is. Sure, maybe you have a really clear picture of what they like to read, what recipes they have mastered or the latest thing their husband did that sent him to the doghouse. But their dreams? Their fears? All of the little bits and pieces that come together to make up a whole, wonderful, neurotic person? Not a chance. That would take more than one written blog. That takes time and energy put into a relationship. That takes more.
So, why a blog? I’ve asked myself why I think other people might want to peek into my lit window. The truth is, if I were you, I would probably pass this one by. Maybe that’s just insecurity. Not about my writing skills which, while nothing special, aren’t embarrassing either, but about how interesting what I have to say about my life might be. How interesting my life is. So, given that, why a blog? A combination of things I think. First, I like to write but haven’t done a lot of it since my kids were born - just no time or energy! My sister is always telling me I need to do something for myself and writing, even a tiny blog, gives me the satisfied feeling that I have. Also, friends keep telling me that I need to write down the crazy, often hilarious and sometimes infuriating things my youngest daughter Z says and does. Since I don’t scrapbook anymore and don’t keep any kind of journal, this seems like a good way to remember these things so I can share them with her later. Also, when she has stripped off her clothes for the fourth time in one day, unlocked the ‘child proof’ front door and gone outside so she can “feel the bee-u-tee-full wind on her booty,” writing out my frustration may prove therapeutic! Finally, now that I have a laptop I can write while engaging in my favorite activity - lazing around on anything soft and flat. With all that in mind, why not a blog?
So here it is. I don’t really have a plan for it. It’s probably won’t be about anything in particular. Just a grab bag of what I am doing, reading, feeling, watching, listening to and learning. Feel free to drive by and take a peek in…I promise to keep at least one light on!
But seeing one painting does not give you all that much insight into an artist’s whole body of work, and reading one blog does not mean that you have your finger on the heartbeat of who someone is. Sure, maybe you have a really clear picture of what they like to read, what recipes they have mastered or the latest thing their husband did that sent him to the doghouse. But their dreams? Their fears? All of the little bits and pieces that come together to make up a whole, wonderful, neurotic person? Not a chance. That would take more than one written blog. That takes time and energy put into a relationship. That takes more.
So, why a blog? I’ve asked myself why I think other people might want to peek into my lit window. The truth is, if I were you, I would probably pass this one by. Maybe that’s just insecurity. Not about my writing skills which, while nothing special, aren’t embarrassing either, but about how interesting what I have to say about my life might be. How interesting my life is. So, given that, why a blog? A combination of things I think. First, I like to write but haven’t done a lot of it since my kids were born - just no time or energy! My sister is always telling me I need to do something for myself and writing, even a tiny blog, gives me the satisfied feeling that I have. Also, friends keep telling me that I need to write down the crazy, often hilarious and sometimes infuriating things my youngest daughter Z says and does. Since I don’t scrapbook anymore and don’t keep any kind of journal, this seems like a good way to remember these things so I can share them with her later. Also, when she has stripped off her clothes for the fourth time in one day, unlocked the ‘child proof’ front door and gone outside so she can “feel the bee-u-tee-full wind on her booty,” writing out my frustration may prove therapeutic! Finally, now that I have a laptop I can write while engaging in my favorite activity - lazing around on anything soft and flat. With all that in mind, why not a blog?
So here it is. I don’t really have a plan for it. It’s probably won’t be about anything in particular. Just a grab bag of what I am doing, reading, feeling, watching, listening to and learning. Feel free to drive by and take a peek in…I promise to keep at least one light on!
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