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.
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