We are having our second snowstorm in as many days. I have to admit, though, there is something delicious about a snowstorm when you have nowhere to go. Lighting a fire in the fireplace, eating junk food and staying in our pajamas all day long is not a horrible way to spend a day.
On days like this, I don't miss working outside. Directing traffic in the middle of a snowstorm was not kick-ass, I have to say. Although, sometimes it was fun working a snowstorm. Sometimes, people drove just as you are supposed to drive in a snowstorm. No accident reports to take, and I could just sit in the temperature-controlled warmth of my squad car and watch the snow fall ever so softly.
The snow must sometimes have a calming effect because for some reason, we didn't get a lot of domestic calls during snowstorms. Which was a good thing, considering that it took forever to get anywhere, even with your lights and sirens on.
And on the subject of domestic disturbances, a little bit of trivia. Allegedly, Super Bowl Sunday is the day on which the most domestic batteries occur. Think about it.
Sadly, it makes perfect sense, doesn't it?
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Do We Really Become Our Parents?
When I was little, I absolutely hated to be yelled at. It was the worst. I always cried. I couldn't help it. Both of my parents were yellers, moreso my father. So you would think that now, as a mother, I wouldn't be a big yeller. I wish that were true.
Somedays it feels like my only interaction with these two is me yelling at them.
I try not to. I give them warnings, such as, "Mom's about to yell" or "If you don't stop, I'm going to yell". Being the precocious little angels that they are, most of the time, they don't stop doing whatever it was they were doing that caused the warning to be issued. So, I yell.
And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for it when I'm doing it, and I hate myself for it after I'm done. And yet, I keep doing it. And sometimes, I feel better. I am ashamed to admit that. Rarely do I feel better. But sometimes, when they have been mean little biznatches all day long, I have a freak-out. Every once in awhile, it catches their attention. They behave for the rest of the day. Most of the time, though, they just look at me.
My older one, T, I can tell, does not like to be yelled at. I don't blame her. I hated it, too. Her thing is, she gets defensive and even more ill-behaved. I guess she is thinking, "I'll show her she didn't hurt me. I'll be even meaner than I was before!"
She is famous for running to her room and slamming the door. Moments later, I hear the door open.
"Mom, you better come in here and have a talk with me!"
This is her way of telling me that it is time for me to go in her room, say I'm sorry, and calmly discuss whatever issue we all were yelling about a minute before.
I don't want these girls to look back and think, "Mom yelled a lot. Bitch." I want them to look back and remember all of the fun things we do together.
I guess I can add to my ever-growing list of New Year's resolutions: Throttle back on the yelling.
Somedays it feels like my only interaction with these two is me yelling at them.
I try not to. I give them warnings, such as, "Mom's about to yell" or "If you don't stop, I'm going to yell". Being the precocious little angels that they are, most of the time, they don't stop doing whatever it was they were doing that caused the warning to be issued. So, I yell.
And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for it when I'm doing it, and I hate myself for it after I'm done. And yet, I keep doing it. And sometimes, I feel better. I am ashamed to admit that. Rarely do I feel better. But sometimes, when they have been mean little biznatches all day long, I have a freak-out. Every once in awhile, it catches their attention. They behave for the rest of the day. Most of the time, though, they just look at me.
My older one, T, I can tell, does not like to be yelled at. I don't blame her. I hated it, too. Her thing is, she gets defensive and even more ill-behaved. I guess she is thinking, "I'll show her she didn't hurt me. I'll be even meaner than I was before!"
She is famous for running to her room and slamming the door. Moments later, I hear the door open.
"Mom, you better come in here and have a talk with me!"
This is her way of telling me that it is time for me to go in her room, say I'm sorry, and calmly discuss whatever issue we all were yelling about a minute before.
I don't want these girls to look back and think, "Mom yelled a lot. Bitch." I want them to look back and remember all of the fun things we do together.
I guess I can add to my ever-growing list of New Year's resolutions: Throttle back on the yelling.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Table for One
Last night, the girls went to Grandma's and the husband was working late. I had an enormous jones for Thai food, and I needed to be satiated.
For a brief time, about a year and a half, we lived with my in-laws. We were building our house, and it took quite some time. And when I say we were building it, I mean that my husband dug the foundation, poured the foundation, put up every board and nail, etc. It was, and has been, a labor of love for us.
In any case, during that time, I discovered this excellent, hole-in-the-wall Thai place. I got carry-out from there about three times a week. Those were the good old days when we both were employed and had nothing else to spend our money on. Sigh.
So I had a dilemma last night. The in-laws live about twenty minutes from my house. I thought about the fact that my beloved pad thai would most likely be cold by the time I got it home if I went the carryout route. The veggie egg rolls would be a sad, flaccid mess. So I thought, why not grab myself a People magazine and order up a table for one?
And that's precisely what I did.
From talking to people, eating alone appears to be an issue of some controversy. People are either totally for it, or vehemently against it. I fall into the former category. I don't feel a bit insecure about eating alone. For me, it is all about the food. And if I have to have it, I have to have it, whatever the cost.
Here's the weird part.
When I see others eating alone, I feel an intense sadness for them. There is an extraordinary vulnerability about people when they are eating. And when they are eating alone, it intensifies. I know this sounds weird. But I find it so endearing to watch people eat. To observe their preferences. To see a person appear so delighted and, excited (?) to be tucking into whatever is on the plate. I feel sorry for them, like I feel that they need someone to share it with. I have had to stop myself several times from walking over and inviting a person to sit with me.
When I was on the street, we frequently were assigned to do walk-throughs at the homeless shelter. How it worked was, the shelter was held at a different church, in different towns, each night. My husband used to make fun of me because, not only would I walk through, I would load up a plate with fried chicken and mac and cheese (or whatever they were serving that night), sit down and eat. I'll tell you what, though. They always had the best mac and cheese there. And brownies. I don't know why. But, really, I just liked to sit and watch people. There is something about the simple pleasure of a good meal. For me it was that. Something I undoubtedly have taken for granted. For the homeless people, it was just lucky that they had that to look forward to that night. Because who knew what the next night would bring? I felt grateful for them that, at least for that night, they had somewhere to stay and something good to eat. And I felt fortunate that I didn't have those worries.
The people working the shelter liked it when we would go in there and have something to eat. I think it made the residents feel more at ease, too. Like, we weren't just in there checking up on them to make sure they were behaving themselves.
But, I digress.
My benchmark, or gauge, for how sorry I should feel for someone is whether or not they are wearing a wedding ring. I know, it's wrong to use that as a benchmark. Especially because of the fact that, just because someone is wearing a wedding band does not mean they aren't still lonely. But still, I feel a little lighter in my heart when I see that the solo eater is sporting one. I guess that it's easier for me to reconcile. As in, "Okay. He's eating alone, but he's wearing a wedding ring. So he has someone to go home and talk to, even though there is nobody here with him now."
Why do I feel sad for them? I eat by myself frequently. I go to movies by myself. I don't feel sad. Sometimes I actually feel a little bit liberated, not having any pressure to carry on a conversation if I don't feel like it.
I guess you could say I have a double standard about eating solo.
When I went to the Thai place, I could feel the eyes on me as I responded, "One, please" when the waitress asked me how many were in my party. I wondered if they felt sorry for me the way I have felt sorry for others, at times. I'm sure they wondered, "What's her story?" The way I have wondered that, countless times, about people in restaurants.
It almost makes you feel like you want to wear a T-shirt with a disclaimer every time you go to eat by yourself. It would go something like this, "I am happily married and not lonely. However. I REALLY needed Thai food tonight, and well, my husband isn't home and hates Thai, anyway. So here I am. Please, don't feel sorry for me."
Sort of like when my husband was working afternoons and had the girls during the day. He would take them to Gymboree, the park, etc. He told me he always felt the other mothers looking at him, like, "Doesn't he have a job, or is he some pervert weirdo?" I told him I would make him a button that he could pin on his shirt. It would say, "I am gainfully employed, I just work at night. I'm not a pervert."
Hey, maybe I'm on to something there!
For a brief time, about a year and a half, we lived with my in-laws. We were building our house, and it took quite some time. And when I say we were building it, I mean that my husband dug the foundation, poured the foundation, put up every board and nail, etc. It was, and has been, a labor of love for us.
In any case, during that time, I discovered this excellent, hole-in-the-wall Thai place. I got carry-out from there about three times a week. Those were the good old days when we both were employed and had nothing else to spend our money on. Sigh.
So I had a dilemma last night. The in-laws live about twenty minutes from my house. I thought about the fact that my beloved pad thai would most likely be cold by the time I got it home if I went the carryout route. The veggie egg rolls would be a sad, flaccid mess. So I thought, why not grab myself a People magazine and order up a table for one?
And that's precisely what I did.
From talking to people, eating alone appears to be an issue of some controversy. People are either totally for it, or vehemently against it. I fall into the former category. I don't feel a bit insecure about eating alone. For me, it is all about the food. And if I have to have it, I have to have it, whatever the cost.
Here's the weird part.
When I see others eating alone, I feel an intense sadness for them. There is an extraordinary vulnerability about people when they are eating. And when they are eating alone, it intensifies. I know this sounds weird. But I find it so endearing to watch people eat. To observe their preferences. To see a person appear so delighted and, excited (?) to be tucking into whatever is on the plate. I feel sorry for them, like I feel that they need someone to share it with. I have had to stop myself several times from walking over and inviting a person to sit with me.
When I was on the street, we frequently were assigned to do walk-throughs at the homeless shelter. How it worked was, the shelter was held at a different church, in different towns, each night. My husband used to make fun of me because, not only would I walk through, I would load up a plate with fried chicken and mac and cheese (or whatever they were serving that night), sit down and eat. I'll tell you what, though. They always had the best mac and cheese there. And brownies. I don't know why. But, really, I just liked to sit and watch people. There is something about the simple pleasure of a good meal. For me it was that. Something I undoubtedly have taken for granted. For the homeless people, it was just lucky that they had that to look forward to that night. Because who knew what the next night would bring? I felt grateful for them that, at least for that night, they had somewhere to stay and something good to eat. And I felt fortunate that I didn't have those worries.
The people working the shelter liked it when we would go in there and have something to eat. I think it made the residents feel more at ease, too. Like, we weren't just in there checking up on them to make sure they were behaving themselves.
But, I digress.
My benchmark, or gauge, for how sorry I should feel for someone is whether or not they are wearing a wedding ring. I know, it's wrong to use that as a benchmark. Especially because of the fact that, just because someone is wearing a wedding band does not mean they aren't still lonely. But still, I feel a little lighter in my heart when I see that the solo eater is sporting one. I guess that it's easier for me to reconcile. As in, "Okay. He's eating alone, but he's wearing a wedding ring. So he has someone to go home and talk to, even though there is nobody here with him now."
Why do I feel sad for them? I eat by myself frequently. I go to movies by myself. I don't feel sad. Sometimes I actually feel a little bit liberated, not having any pressure to carry on a conversation if I don't feel like it.
I guess you could say I have a double standard about eating solo.
When I went to the Thai place, I could feel the eyes on me as I responded, "One, please" when the waitress asked me how many were in my party. I wondered if they felt sorry for me the way I have felt sorry for others, at times. I'm sure they wondered, "What's her story?" The way I have wondered that, countless times, about people in restaurants.
It almost makes you feel like you want to wear a T-shirt with a disclaimer every time you go to eat by yourself. It would go something like this, "I am happily married and not lonely. However. I REALLY needed Thai food tonight, and well, my husband isn't home and hates Thai, anyway. So here I am. Please, don't feel sorry for me."
Sort of like when my husband was working afternoons and had the girls during the day. He would take them to Gymboree, the park, etc. He told me he always felt the other mothers looking at him, like, "Doesn't he have a job, or is he some pervert weirdo?" I told him I would make him a button that he could pin on his shirt. It would say, "I am gainfully employed, I just work at night. I'm not a pervert."
Hey, maybe I'm on to something there!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
I promise I'll be jovial again. But not today.
Winter. Sucks. Although I am feeling a little bit more normal, I still have days where I just feel like I am in a fog. I have had some tests done, but my doctor never calls me to tell me the results. And I am tired of making an ass out of myself calling there to ask. I guess no news is good news.
I need a jolt of goodness. Or happiness. Or something lucky. Something. Anything.
At times, marriage and parenthood seem so much bigger than me. My girls love to watch our wedding video. I love to watch it, too. It reminds me of a time when my husband and I were wrapped up in how much we loved each other. We truly were a team. Partners in crime. Intertwined. All of the sappy stuff you see in movies and read about in books. Fiction books.
Now, you would think that having children would make us even more of a team. Even more partners in crime.
And, see, that's the strange part of marriage and parenthood. At least in my experience. It has driven us further and further apart. Sometimes I think that the only thread that holds us together is that, in our hearts, we know that we still love each other deeply. Somewhere in there.
Sometimes I look at him across the room and think, "Who are you?" And then sometimes I look at him and feel an inexplicable surge of just...love.
I have struggled at times with the question, "Do I still love this person?" Because sometimes I feel nothing. Then again, sometimes I feel nothing about anything. I know that he is feeling the same thing, although it is unspoken between us. It is as though uttering it would make it real, and definite. And irrevocable. Sometimes I think that all of the love we had for each other, we gave to the girls. And there are no leftovers to share with each other.
I think what it is, parenthood is so difficult at times that you need to unload all of the stress and unpleasantness of the day. So who else to unload on? The one you love the most. We say hurtful things to each other. We damage each other, sometimes, I believe, beyond repair.
My sister often tells me, "Just wait until the girls are older. It will get better."
But I have to wonder. At what point is the damage too great?
But then again, he truly is the love of my life.
I need a jolt of goodness. Or happiness. Or something lucky. Something. Anything.
At times, marriage and parenthood seem so much bigger than me. My girls love to watch our wedding video. I love to watch it, too. It reminds me of a time when my husband and I were wrapped up in how much we loved each other. We truly were a team. Partners in crime. Intertwined. All of the sappy stuff you see in movies and read about in books. Fiction books.
Now, you would think that having children would make us even more of a team. Even more partners in crime.
And, see, that's the strange part of marriage and parenthood. At least in my experience. It has driven us further and further apart. Sometimes I think that the only thread that holds us together is that, in our hearts, we know that we still love each other deeply. Somewhere in there.
Sometimes I look at him across the room and think, "Who are you?" And then sometimes I look at him and feel an inexplicable surge of just...love.
I have struggled at times with the question, "Do I still love this person?" Because sometimes I feel nothing. Then again, sometimes I feel nothing about anything. I know that he is feeling the same thing, although it is unspoken between us. It is as though uttering it would make it real, and definite. And irrevocable. Sometimes I think that all of the love we had for each other, we gave to the girls. And there are no leftovers to share with each other.
I think what it is, parenthood is so difficult at times that you need to unload all of the stress and unpleasantness of the day. So who else to unload on? The one you love the most. We say hurtful things to each other. We damage each other, sometimes, I believe, beyond repair.
My sister often tells me, "Just wait until the girls are older. It will get better."
But I have to wonder. At what point is the damage too great?
But then again, he truly is the love of my life.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Dizzy
I don't know what is going on with me. I have been dizzy for pretty much the past two weeks or so. One day I was just driving along with my girls, going to meet my sis and her kids to go sledding. And then, BAM! I was hit with a wave of dizziness so bad that I thought I was going to pass out. I didn't, and was able to pull my car over to the side of the road. But it scared the shi$ out of me just the same.
My heart was pounding and racing, my hands shaking like crazy.
I went to the doctor about two days after that. He took blood and ordered some other tests. That was two weeks ago and I haven't heard anything. Annoying. I know that no news is probably good news. I would be okay with believing that, if I weren't still dizzy and now starting to have a little nausea on top of it.
I don't know if I am just really stressed out and not fully aware of that fact, or if there really is something going on. My symptoms are not severe, but they are just enough to let me know that they are there. Enough to annoy me and make me crabby with the girls. Which I hate.
I have no energy to do anything. I'm nervous every time I drive. I'm crabby(er than usual).
Maybe it is possible that staying at home really is slowly killing me!
My heart was pounding and racing, my hands shaking like crazy.
I went to the doctor about two days after that. He took blood and ordered some other tests. That was two weeks ago and I haven't heard anything. Annoying. I know that no news is probably good news. I would be okay with believing that, if I weren't still dizzy and now starting to have a little nausea on top of it.
I don't know if I am just really stressed out and not fully aware of that fact, or if there really is something going on. My symptoms are not severe, but they are just enough to let me know that they are there. Enough to annoy me and make me crabby with the girls. Which I hate.
I have no energy to do anything. I'm nervous every time I drive. I'm crabby(er than usual).
Maybe it is possible that staying at home really is slowly killing me!
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Money, Schmoney!
Well, I did it. I took the plunge and booked myself a trip to Vegas. Actually, my sister booked it for the both of us and I paid her for my half.
I had to do it. I'm a much better person when I have a vacation to look forward to, and when I have had a vacation. It's for the children, don't you see? I do it for them.
So, just two short weeks after we return from Disney, I leave for Vegas. May I just say, I can't freakin' wait. Uninterrupted meals. Endless, finished conversations. Hot showers that will last longer than two minutes. Nobody appearing at the shower door just after I've stepped in, saying, "Mom, I have to poop!" Nobody standing near the back of the toilet, closely inspecting whatever I have just voided (and offering running commentary). Nowhere to be, nothing that I MUST do.
A drink! A blessed, mind-numbing martini! Or two. Or four. I always say that I'm going to get drunk and stay drunk while I'm out there, but it never happens. I have one and then I stumble around looking for a bed in which to sleep. I need to macho up before this next time and give it my best effort.
I do feel slightly guilty about the money aspect. But, before I quit my job, I cut my own deal. I made it very clear that I was still going to get my daily fix of Starbucks. I also held strong to the conviction that I was still going to Vegas twice a year. The husband was in no position to argue at that point, since I was giving up my ENTIRE life for him and the girls.
By the way, I don't mean to sound like a bitch. I did it for the girls, mostly. I really did, and still do, want what is best for them. It just stings every now and again that I gave up my career (you know, the job I loved and wanted to do since I was 10).
I gave up the Starbucks but, by God, I am not giving up the Vegas.
I had to do it. I'm a much better person when I have a vacation to look forward to, and when I have had a vacation. It's for the children, don't you see? I do it for them.
So, just two short weeks after we return from Disney, I leave for Vegas. May I just say, I can't freakin' wait. Uninterrupted meals. Endless, finished conversations. Hot showers that will last longer than two minutes. Nobody appearing at the shower door just after I've stepped in, saying, "Mom, I have to poop!" Nobody standing near the back of the toilet, closely inspecting whatever I have just voided (and offering running commentary). Nowhere to be, nothing that I MUST do.
A drink! A blessed, mind-numbing martini! Or two. Or four. I always say that I'm going to get drunk and stay drunk while I'm out there, but it never happens. I have one and then I stumble around looking for a bed in which to sleep. I need to macho up before this next time and give it my best effort.
I do feel slightly guilty about the money aspect. But, before I quit my job, I cut my own deal. I made it very clear that I was still going to get my daily fix of Starbucks. I also held strong to the conviction that I was still going to Vegas twice a year. The husband was in no position to argue at that point, since I was giving up my ENTIRE life for him and the girls.
By the way, I don't mean to sound like a bitch. I did it for the girls, mostly. I really did, and still do, want what is best for them. It just stings every now and again that I gave up my career (you know, the job I loved and wanted to do since I was 10).
I gave up the Starbucks but, by God, I am not giving up the Vegas.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
My Children Stole My Beauty
I have been studying myself in the mirror lately, and I discovered a strange phenomenon. Ever since I quit work to stay home, my face has aged about 10 years. Okay, maybe not 10. But, definitely 5. I even went and bought "firming" moisturizer for my face. I'm 32. I thought I had until at least 40 to start spending money on that stuff.
I have wrinkles around my eyes, and dark circles, where none existed before. My hair, once shiny and luxurious, is coarse and lackluster. I've gained about six pounds. I know it doesn't sound like a lot, but it feels like a lot.
Maybe it is that I rarely dress in anything other than jeans and a random long-sleeved shirt anymore. Maybe I just looked better when I was wearing "work clothes".
A strange, random thought. I think I was hotter when I was employed. I wonder if there are any university studies on this subject. If there aren't, there should be.
I know, I know. Life is not about being hot, and I shouldn't let vanity rule my universe. The sad thing is, I don't even have the mental mojo (or funds) right now to go out and find some new clothes that might actually flatter my body. The closest I got was buying a purse yesterday on clearance at Macy's. And some facial cleanser by Origins, which I am delighted with, by the way.
The good thing is, my two girls are absolutely gorgeous (of course they are). Maybe I transferred my good looks over to them.
Bitches.
I have wrinkles around my eyes, and dark circles, where none existed before. My hair, once shiny and luxurious, is coarse and lackluster. I've gained about six pounds. I know it doesn't sound like a lot, but it feels like a lot.
Maybe it is that I rarely dress in anything other than jeans and a random long-sleeved shirt anymore. Maybe I just looked better when I was wearing "work clothes".
A strange, random thought. I think I was hotter when I was employed. I wonder if there are any university studies on this subject. If there aren't, there should be.
I know, I know. Life is not about being hot, and I shouldn't let vanity rule my universe. The sad thing is, I don't even have the mental mojo (or funds) right now to go out and find some new clothes that might actually flatter my body. The closest I got was buying a purse yesterday on clearance at Macy's. And some facial cleanser by Origins, which I am delighted with, by the way.
The good thing is, my two girls are absolutely gorgeous (of course they are). Maybe I transferred my good looks over to them.
Bitches.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
No Vegas, Baby?
I have been desperately searching for reasonable airfare so that my sisters (2) and I can get away and go to Vegas at the end of March. We go every year about this time, and then again in the fall. When I quit work, I vowed that I, or rather my husband, would find a way for me to keep this extremely important schedule. What I didn't count on was airfares skyrocketing. I mean, what's up with that anyway? I can't blame it on the price of gas because wasn't gas this expensive this time last year?
I don't know WHAT I am going to do if I don't get to go. We are taking the girls to Disney at the beginning of March, so I am going to need a vacation after that "vacation". Everyone knows that vacation is never truly vacation for the mother. I know you are thinking, "Hmmm, this girl is crying poor but she's taking her kids to Disney?"
I'm only going because my sis hooked me up with a free room and free park-hopper passes. I couldn't pass it up, even though at 4 and 3, I think the girls are still too young to go.
I have to go to Vegas. I have to. It is my goddamned oasis in the desert, literally and figuratively.
I'm going to go cry now.
I don't know WHAT I am going to do if I don't get to go. We are taking the girls to Disney at the beginning of March, so I am going to need a vacation after that "vacation". Everyone knows that vacation is never truly vacation for the mother. I know you are thinking, "Hmmm, this girl is crying poor but she's taking her kids to Disney?"
I'm only going because my sis hooked me up with a free room and free park-hopper passes. I couldn't pass it up, even though at 4 and 3, I think the girls are still too young to go.
I have to go to Vegas. I have to. It is my goddamned oasis in the desert, literally and figuratively.
I'm going to go cry now.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Is It Possible That I'm a Nutcase After All?
Wasn't it just last Wednesday that I wrote that morose, depressed post about how much my life sucks and I hate being at home?
It's funny how when my kids behave themselves for an entire day, I'm thinking, "Hmm, should I have another one?" The subject came up the other morning at breakfast. My husband and I were enjoying a (rare) quiet moment because the girls spent the night at his mom's house. They have a sleepover with her every Friday. Yes, I know. I have absolutely NO right to ever bitch about any of this mothering business because I get an overnight break once a week. I'm an ungrateful wench. I know this. By the way, when was the last time you heard that ever-popular, derogatory term "wench" that belonged exclusively to the 80's? By the way I f'ing love the 80's.
Okay, so, back to the subject of a third child. Whoa. When I typed that phrase, "third child", a chill ran down my spine. And not in a good way. In a "Halloween"-type horror movie way. You know, like during the part right before Annie got strangled to death by Michael Myers while she was innocently attempting to go pick up her boyfriend so they could knock boots all night long?
My husband disclosed to me, during this quiet moment, that he has secretly been longing for a boy. Mind you, he has long publicly held that he is perfectly happy with two girls. But I suspected otherwise. He told me he has been listening to "the guys" at work talk about all the manly-man stuff they do with their boys. And now he may want a little manly-man of his own.
GTFO, brother. That was my first gut-response. Then I thought, "Awwww, a baby!" Then I thought, "Even less sleep than I am getting now. Shitty idea."
Seriously, though, sometimes I want to do it again. But, why? I bitch incessantly about how hard it is right now, with two. Then again, I truly enjoyed being fat and pregnant both times. Well, maybe I just liked going balls-to-the-wall and eating everything in sight. I certainly enjoyed that. But it was more. I adored my soft belly, even though it eventually was marred by stretch marks which exist, in all their shining glory, still today. In spite of the gallons of cocoa butter I rubbed on my stomach. The warm feeling I would get when I felt a kick.
One thing I know. Enjoying pregnancy is not reason enough to have another baby. My girls are just getting to the point where they are semi-manageable. I want to go back to work as soon as possible. Having a baby would set me back about, well, five more years. So why would I even let this insane notion invade my mind?
Well, because I'm a nutcase, obviously. Ever since I found my first gray hair (and the second, third and fourth), I have been feeling like my mortality is imminent. I know, it's not logical. I'm 32. Long life ahead, right?
Problem is, I can't believe that T is already going to be five. G is already three. I feel as though time is just rocketing past me and, if I blink, they are both going to be gone. Grown up and living with ungrateful husbands and children of their own.
So it could be said that my thought process is as follows: if I keep popping out kids, I can stop time. I will always remain young because mothers are young, right? Life is so fleeting, shouldn't I have as many children as I want and have as much fun with them as I can because, once you're dead, that's it?
See, I told you I was a nutcase.
It's funny how when my kids behave themselves for an entire day, I'm thinking, "Hmm, should I have another one?" The subject came up the other morning at breakfast. My husband and I were enjoying a (rare) quiet moment because the girls spent the night at his mom's house. They have a sleepover with her every Friday. Yes, I know. I have absolutely NO right to ever bitch about any of this mothering business because I get an overnight break once a week. I'm an ungrateful wench. I know this. By the way, when was the last time you heard that ever-popular, derogatory term "wench" that belonged exclusively to the 80's? By the way I f'ing love the 80's.
Okay, so, back to the subject of a third child. Whoa. When I typed that phrase, "third child", a chill ran down my spine. And not in a good way. In a "Halloween"-type horror movie way. You know, like during the part right before Annie got strangled to death by Michael Myers while she was innocently attempting to go pick up her boyfriend so they could knock boots all night long?
My husband disclosed to me, during this quiet moment, that he has secretly been longing for a boy. Mind you, he has long publicly held that he is perfectly happy with two girls. But I suspected otherwise. He told me he has been listening to "the guys" at work talk about all the manly-man stuff they do with their boys. And now he may want a little manly-man of his own.
GTFO, brother. That was my first gut-response. Then I thought, "Awwww, a baby!" Then I thought, "Even less sleep than I am getting now. Shitty idea."
Seriously, though, sometimes I want to do it again. But, why? I bitch incessantly about how hard it is right now, with two. Then again, I truly enjoyed being fat and pregnant both times. Well, maybe I just liked going balls-to-the-wall and eating everything in sight. I certainly enjoyed that. But it was more. I adored my soft belly, even though it eventually was marred by stretch marks which exist, in all their shining glory, still today. In spite of the gallons of cocoa butter I rubbed on my stomach. The warm feeling I would get when I felt a kick.
One thing I know. Enjoying pregnancy is not reason enough to have another baby. My girls are just getting to the point where they are semi-manageable. I want to go back to work as soon as possible. Having a baby would set me back about, well, five more years. So why would I even let this insane notion invade my mind?
Well, because I'm a nutcase, obviously. Ever since I found my first gray hair (and the second, third and fourth), I have been feeling like my mortality is imminent. I know, it's not logical. I'm 32. Long life ahead, right?
Problem is, I can't believe that T is already going to be five. G is already three. I feel as though time is just rocketing past me and, if I blink, they are both going to be gone. Grown up and living with ungrateful husbands and children of their own.
So it could be said that my thought process is as follows: if I keep popping out kids, I can stop time. I will always remain young because mothers are young, right? Life is so fleeting, shouldn't I have as many children as I want and have as much fun with them as I can because, once you're dead, that's it?
See, I told you I was a nutcase.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Insane Jealousy and a Note About My Bum
So here it is, Saturday night. The girls and I were elbow-deep in flour, making homemade pizza. I heard my husband's work phone ring in the other room. I knew what that meant. He would not be participating in our raucous pizza party, because he would have to go in to work.
Sure enough, several minutes later, he came strolling into the kitchen. Barely able to suppress a squeal, he announced that he had to go in to work. This meant for him that he would not have to help with bathtime, bedtime, etc. And he was going to make overtime. Which was good news for both of us.
A drive-by shooting happened earlier in the day and was just now being reported. I'm guessing because the victims had to clean all of the contraband out of their own house before the cops came over to take the report. Call me a cynic, but that's usually the case. Most times when you make a habit of minding your own business, people don't come and spray your house with bullets. This is not say that I don't have compassion. I feel compassion for the poor little kids who live in the house, have done absolutely nothing to anyone, and yet have to endure the terror of having someone shoot at your house. Hubby told me about one shooting he worked where a baby actually had drywall dust on him because the bullet went through his bedroom wall and came THAT close to hitting him. But I digress. Again. I do that quite a bit, I know.
Anyway! I'm insanely jealous that my bastard husband (he's not really a bastard) gets to not only get out of the house, but go and work a drive-by shooting. Did I mention that I miss my job?
I remember the days when I would get stuck late on a juicy call. I lamented the fact that I would not see the girls (sometimes I didn't see them for a day or so), but it was so goddamn FUN to work a good case! Ahhhh, the good old days. Are over.
I'm going to take a page out of Katie Couric's book here for a moment. Remember when she televised her colonoscopy? Well, I had a colonoscopy on Friday. And, while I did not have my camera crew accompany me, and I am NOT going to post pictures of my colon on this blog (although I'm sure it's a perfectly lovely colon), let me just say, hats off to the nurses who work in the GI Lab.
I'll tell you why.
I woke up from the anesthetic to the sound of mortar rounds going off all around me. Okay, they weren't mortar rounds. Those sounds were emanating from the colons of my fellow colonoscopeers. I just made that word up, but it sounds good, doesn't it?
Because I have a ridiculously juvenile sense of humor and because I was groggy from the sedative (but mostly because of my juvenile sense of humor), I began to laugh. A nurse saw me and said, brightly, "That's just how it is around here!"
Then I had the horrifying realization that I probably squeezed off a few rounds of my own before waking up.
The prep for this unpleasant little Roto-rooting was the worst part. I had to down two Fleet bombs in four hours. Which meant that I spent the next four hours committing pooicide. I had to lock the girls out of the bathroom because they were insistent on holding my hand. It was a sweet sentiment, but I was thinking of them, really. I didn't want any casualties.
By about 11 at night, my rear-end was so battered that I actually dug out some stuff they gave me after I had G that basically numbs your rear.
Be honest, are you sorry that you read this whole post? I just wanted to educate y'all in case you ever have to have one.
Sure enough, several minutes later, he came strolling into the kitchen. Barely able to suppress a squeal, he announced that he had to go in to work. This meant for him that he would not have to help with bathtime, bedtime, etc. And he was going to make overtime. Which was good news for both of us.
A drive-by shooting happened earlier in the day and was just now being reported. I'm guessing because the victims had to clean all of the contraband out of their own house before the cops came over to take the report. Call me a cynic, but that's usually the case. Most times when you make a habit of minding your own business, people don't come and spray your house with bullets. This is not say that I don't have compassion. I feel compassion for the poor little kids who live in the house, have done absolutely nothing to anyone, and yet have to endure the terror of having someone shoot at your house. Hubby told me about one shooting he worked where a baby actually had drywall dust on him because the bullet went through his bedroom wall and came THAT close to hitting him. But I digress. Again. I do that quite a bit, I know.
Anyway! I'm insanely jealous that my bastard husband (he's not really a bastard) gets to not only get out of the house, but go and work a drive-by shooting. Did I mention that I miss my job?
I remember the days when I would get stuck late on a juicy call. I lamented the fact that I would not see the girls (sometimes I didn't see them for a day or so), but it was so goddamn FUN to work a good case! Ahhhh, the good old days. Are over.
I'm going to take a page out of Katie Couric's book here for a moment. Remember when she televised her colonoscopy? Well, I had a colonoscopy on Friday. And, while I did not have my camera crew accompany me, and I am NOT going to post pictures of my colon on this blog (although I'm sure it's a perfectly lovely colon), let me just say, hats off to the nurses who work in the GI Lab.
I'll tell you why.
I woke up from the anesthetic to the sound of mortar rounds going off all around me. Okay, they weren't mortar rounds. Those sounds were emanating from the colons of my fellow colonoscopeers. I just made that word up, but it sounds good, doesn't it?
Because I have a ridiculously juvenile sense of humor and because I was groggy from the sedative (but mostly because of my juvenile sense of humor), I began to laugh. A nurse saw me and said, brightly, "That's just how it is around here!"
Then I had the horrifying realization that I probably squeezed off a few rounds of my own before waking up.
The prep for this unpleasant little Roto-rooting was the worst part. I had to down two Fleet bombs in four hours. Which meant that I spent the next four hours committing pooicide. I had to lock the girls out of the bathroom because they were insistent on holding my hand. It was a sweet sentiment, but I was thinking of them, really. I didn't want any casualties.
By about 11 at night, my rear-end was so battered that I actually dug out some stuff they gave me after I had G that basically numbs your rear.
Be honest, are you sorry that you read this whole post? I just wanted to educate y'all in case you ever have to have one.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Ramble On
Some days I feel like I am just going through the motions with these girls, and I desperately hope that they don't notice it. But I'm confident they do. I try not to let my face or tone betray my thoughts, but it is exhausting after awhile.
You see, staying home full-time was never on the radar for me. I never considered it. People tell me, "Oh, they'll be so much the better for it." I want to believe that. But I'm not sure that I'm any less crabby now that I'm home with them all of the time than I was when I was working. At least then I was getting a break. Work was the break. I think I'm probably crabbier now. And that can't be good for the girls.
I try not to be a bitch. Sometimes I catch myself, and I'm able to rein it in somewhat. But some days the filter between by brain and my mouth gets taxed and doesn't function at its maximum . I know I've said things that I should not have said. Things that probably hurt the girls' feelings. And I always immediately feel terrible and apologize. But I wonder if the damage is already done.
What I don't want is for the girls to look back and think, "Man, Mom was a dick most of the time!" I so so so don't want that. But sometimes this just seems so damn impossible to pull off.
I feel like there is nothing left of the old me, and that I am merely functional now. No thoughts, hopes, dreams, what have you, for myself. I feel like I have been stripped of all of that. Mind you, I was voluntarily stripped. I wanted to have children, and entered into this adventure willingly. And I still wouldn't trade this experience for anything in the world. That sounded a little bit like a disclaimer. But I'm sorting through all of these feelings, some that I wish were not floating around in my head and heart. Some that I can't even speak of aloud.
So I guess the question is, are they really better off with me at home? I'm not sure anymore.
You see, staying home full-time was never on the radar for me. I never considered it. People tell me, "Oh, they'll be so much the better for it." I want to believe that. But I'm not sure that I'm any less crabby now that I'm home with them all of the time than I was when I was working. At least then I was getting a break. Work was the break. I think I'm probably crabbier now. And that can't be good for the girls.
I try not to be a bitch. Sometimes I catch myself, and I'm able to rein it in somewhat. But some days the filter between by brain and my mouth gets taxed and doesn't function at its maximum . I know I've said things that I should not have said. Things that probably hurt the girls' feelings. And I always immediately feel terrible and apologize. But I wonder if the damage is already done.
What I don't want is for the girls to look back and think, "Man, Mom was a dick most of the time!" I so so so don't want that. But sometimes this just seems so damn impossible to pull off.
I feel like there is nothing left of the old me, and that I am merely functional now. No thoughts, hopes, dreams, what have you, for myself. I feel like I have been stripped of all of that. Mind you, I was voluntarily stripped. I wanted to have children, and entered into this adventure willingly. And I still wouldn't trade this experience for anything in the world. That sounded a little bit like a disclaimer. But I'm sorting through all of these feelings, some that I wish were not floating around in my head and heart. Some that I can't even speak of aloud.
So I guess the question is, are they really better off with me at home? I'm not sure anymore.
If It Ain't Broke, Don't Make It Sugar-Free
As some of you may know, I am addicted to Starbucks. Grande, nonfat, two-pump, no-whip iced mochas to be more precise. For a brief, yet glorious, period of time, I had freed myself from the cracky clutches of Starbucks. I started making pedestrian coffee in the confines of my own kitchen. I didn't mind it so much, and I didn't miss the 'Bucks like I thought I would.
Then came Christmas, and about 150 bucks in 'Bucks cards. Off the wagon. Always looking for ways to cut pesky calories from my diet, I listened with great interest to two morning disc jockeys who were talking about the new sugar-free mocha syrup now available at your local, friendly Starbucks. I regret to admit that, at this point in my sorry-ass existence, I was super excited about this development.
I went this morning and ordered up a grande for myself. Two pumps of the sugar-free stuff. I drove away from the window, salivating in anticipation of that first gratifying sip. I lifted the straw to my lips, took a deep, cleansing breath and then...
Burnt plastic, holy hell! I think I just swallowed an incinerated Tupperware container. That's what it tasted like, anyway. The best way I can describe it is that it had a manufactured taste. Quite unnatural and sort of, I'll say it, disgusting. Extremely disappointing.
It's my own fault. What is the point of getting chocolate in your drink if it's going to be sugar-free chocolate?
This self-deprivation thing I've got going on here needs to stop. And I appreciate Starbucks' nod to better nutrition, but ya gotta draw the line somewhere, right?
Then came Christmas, and about 150 bucks in 'Bucks cards. Off the wagon. Always looking for ways to cut pesky calories from my diet, I listened with great interest to two morning disc jockeys who were talking about the new sugar-free mocha syrup now available at your local, friendly Starbucks. I regret to admit that, at this point in my sorry-ass existence, I was super excited about this development.
I went this morning and ordered up a grande for myself. Two pumps of the sugar-free stuff. I drove away from the window, salivating in anticipation of that first gratifying sip. I lifted the straw to my lips, took a deep, cleansing breath and then...
Burnt plastic, holy hell! I think I just swallowed an incinerated Tupperware container. That's what it tasted like, anyway. The best way I can describe it is that it had a manufactured taste. Quite unnatural and sort of, I'll say it, disgusting. Extremely disappointing.
It's my own fault. What is the point of getting chocolate in your drink if it's going to be sugar-free chocolate?
This self-deprivation thing I've got going on here needs to stop. And I appreciate Starbucks' nod to better nutrition, but ya gotta draw the line somewhere, right?
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Things That Annoy Me
I will readily admit, I am horrible at socializing. I just...suck at it. Unless I already know you. Maybe I'm shy, reserved, or just a plain old-fashioned bitch. Depending on how you look at it.
Today, the girls had their first day of ballet/gymnastics. I didn't want to put them in the same class, thinking that they would be distracted by each other. So, while T was in gymnastics, G was in ballet. Then they switched.
During the first session, I sat in the lobby of the park district. I read Family Circle and watched "The View" until I couldn't stand it anymore. For the second session, I decided to sit in the hallway with all of the other mommies.
One of them had a brand-new baby with her. Another was two weeks from delivering. Another mother wandered over and sat down next to the pregnant woman. I noticed her eyeballing the woman's belly. She then asked the woman when she was due. The woman told her she was due in two weeks.
"Do you know what you're having?" the woman asked.
"No," replied the pregnant woman.
"It's a boy," said the other woman.
Here we go, I thought. Sure enough, the woman launched into an explanation of why the baby was going to be a boy. Then she plunged on ahead with a diatribe about how horrible her second labor was, and how much pain she was in. How they stuck her five times with the needle for the epidural, trying to get it in correctly. How the pregnant woman should avoid drugs as much as possible during the birth.
Seriously, did this poor, pregnant lady really need to hear this two weeks from her due date? I think not.
I'm always fascinated by people like this woman. What compels her to share her life story? And why does she so obviously believe that other people want to hear it?
There may very well be something wrong with me. I rarely share stories about my kids unless I am asked to do so. It's not that I am not ridiculously in love with or proud of my girls. I own both of those emotions. It's that I don't want to bore other people. Or act like my children are better or smarter than someone else's children. Especially that, because it irritates me when other people do that.
I know that, at times, I outsmart myself by not socializing with other mothers. I am sure that many of the things that my girls do that I think are "out there" are really not. It's just that I have nothing to compare it to because I never share my stories with others.
I don't have any New Year's resolutions, but maybe this will be one. Overcome my anti-social behavior and start talking to more mothers.
Today, the girls had their first day of ballet/gymnastics. I didn't want to put them in the same class, thinking that they would be distracted by each other. So, while T was in gymnastics, G was in ballet. Then they switched.
During the first session, I sat in the lobby of the park district. I read Family Circle and watched "The View" until I couldn't stand it anymore. For the second session, I decided to sit in the hallway with all of the other mommies.
One of them had a brand-new baby with her. Another was two weeks from delivering. Another mother wandered over and sat down next to the pregnant woman. I noticed her eyeballing the woman's belly. She then asked the woman when she was due. The woman told her she was due in two weeks.
"Do you know what you're having?" the woman asked.
"No," replied the pregnant woman.
"It's a boy," said the other woman.
Here we go, I thought. Sure enough, the woman launched into an explanation of why the baby was going to be a boy. Then she plunged on ahead with a diatribe about how horrible her second labor was, and how much pain she was in. How they stuck her five times with the needle for the epidural, trying to get it in correctly. How the pregnant woman should avoid drugs as much as possible during the birth.
Seriously, did this poor, pregnant lady really need to hear this two weeks from her due date? I think not.
I'm always fascinated by people like this woman. What compels her to share her life story? And why does she so obviously believe that other people want to hear it?
There may very well be something wrong with me. I rarely share stories about my kids unless I am asked to do so. It's not that I am not ridiculously in love with or proud of my girls. I own both of those emotions. It's that I don't want to bore other people. Or act like my children are better or smarter than someone else's children. Especially that, because it irritates me when other people do that.
I know that, at times, I outsmart myself by not socializing with other mothers. I am sure that many of the things that my girls do that I think are "out there" are really not. It's just that I have nothing to compare it to because I never share my stories with others.
I don't have any New Year's resolutions, but maybe this will be one. Overcome my anti-social behavior and start talking to more mothers.
I've Moved!
Well, it's come to this. I'm too poor to pay the $8.95 a month for a TypePad account, so I switched to Blogger! I am one sorry son of a bitch. Or daughter of a bitch. Except my mom's not a bitch...not at all, actually. Actually I love my mom. A lot.
As you can tell from my rambling, I am glad that preschool is back in session and we are back to some semblance of routine. I was starting to go a little batty(-er than I normally am).
I had to pick a new URL, too, because the one I had was taken on Blogger. I picked onechancemama because, as much as I bitch about staying at home, this is the only chance I will get to spend this much time with these little bee-atches. I am going to make the most of it, in spite of myself. If it kills me. Which I am convinced that, slowly, it is.
In my weaker moments in which I wonder why I got married and had kids, it came to me (while shopping at Macy's) that there are various benefits to having children that may not be readily apparent. And that brings me to...
The first list of 2008. Here it goes!
As you can tell from my rambling, I am glad that preschool is back in session and we are back to some semblance of routine. I was starting to go a little batty(-er than I normally am).
I had to pick a new URL, too, because the one I had was taken on Blogger. I picked onechancemama because, as much as I bitch about staying at home, this is the only chance I will get to spend this much time with these little bee-atches. I am going to make the most of it, in spite of myself. If it kills me. Which I am convinced that, slowly, it is.
In my weaker moments in which I wonder why I got married and had kids, it came to me (while shopping at Macy's) that there are various benefits to having children that may not be readily apparent. And that brings me to...
The first list of 2008. Here it goes!
TOP FIVE SIDE-BENEFITS OF HAVING KIDS
5. While browsing in Macy's, you may find that you need to, ahem, pass a little gas. No problem. Pass away, because others will assume that it was your child. (Disclaimer: this works best when your children are toddlers, but not older. Only do it if others could safely assume that your child may still be wearing a diaper, and a poopy one at that.) If you are getting the vibe that others are not automatically assuming that your toddler did it, loudly announce, "(Insert child's name here)! You tooted!"
4. When one of those pesky solicitors comes to your door, it is that much easier to shoo them away. "I'm sorry, I have to get back to my kids." Usually mine are screaming and scratching each other's eyes out, so salespeople usually flee .
3. Ditto for telemarketers. My kids wait until I am on the phone to showcase their loudest, and worst, behavior. And in this particular situation, I encourage them to be as obnoxious as possible.
2. Actually, now that I think about it, the above works for any time you are on the phone and don't want to be.
1. "Not right now, honey, what if the kids wake up?" 'Nuff said.
By the way, this was supposed to be a top-ten list but these kids would not give me any peace. Don't they know I'm trying to blog?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)