I am thirty-seven. I have a husband, two children, too many pets, a house, a car and a job. I also feel like I am pretending to be an adult, and that at some point, the entire world will realize that I’m flying by the seat of my pants and would really rather be serving frozen libations from a thatched hut somewhere tropical and homeschooling my happy albeit sunburned children whilst Rob fishes for dinner in an impossibly blue ocean.
I don’t really want a mortgage, and rather than feel proud that I Am Part Of The American Dream, I feel trapped by the grasping claws of a not terribly ethical financial institution. As far as what goes into the home… Combining digital readouts and water is the most counterintuitive thing ever – so I do not feel the urge for the latest and greatest dishwasher, washing machine or refrigerator. I’ve read review after review explaining how front loading washer/dryer combos have to be carefully cared for so as to not develop mold and suspicious odors in the seals. Really? I want to put dirty clothing in there to get rid of yucky things and would rather not be fostering the growth of more yucky things. So despite the red gorgeousness of the LGs, I’ll have to take a pass there as well. Dyson similarly fails to enthrall. Yes, the Australian accent draws me in, as does the thought of a purple vacuum. Purple is fun, ergo vacuuming would also become fun. Plus – that ball! It’s like a big toy that sucks up dirt. The baglessness of it all stops me cold; I do not want to re-see that which I just removed from my carpeting.
Home improvements. I have a new fence and am about to get a new roof. (crickets) No tingle of excitement down my spine.
PTA. I just don’t know what to say. I’ve joined, but have yet to attend a single meeting – I fear what I have to say regarding fundraising would make my children the “spawn of that woman” for the remainder of their school years. Would it really be so difficult to just write a check? I do not need cookie dough, gift wrap, cheap kitchen goods made in China, cheese logs or cases of Coca Cola. Side note – seriously? We all happily hop aboard the Jamie Oliver bandwagon, demand that this be removed from our schools, and then have our children sell it in bulk to bring home? The fact that this fundraiser information came home with the Jump Rope for Heart paperwork was just delicious. Back to the issue at hand. It is my understanding that schools receive approximately 40% of the revenue from fundraising sales. I would happily write a check, see the entire amount benefit the school, and keep my home free of junk food and clutter.
Smart phones. I know I’m supposed to want one, and Rob’s is fun to play with. Mostly because he has not replaced the broken screen on my adorable pink netbook and I need to do the social when he’s upstairs with the real computer. My position was solidified last night as I watched a mother clear three chairs and two children at Chuy’s to squeal “Did I just get a text?” and snatch Angry Birds away from her two year old. I could understand it if she was waiting for verification of a Supreme Court appointment, but somehow I doubt that was the case.
Office politics. I do not care who said what to whom or why. Someone should commission a study on the seemingly positive correlation between neutral walls, cubicles and human capacity for drama.
Please do understand that the surfeit of snipe and “I” statements is well fueled by a lack of sleep and the fact that I’m starving and yet do not feel like expending the energy necessary to make a sandwich. But I will have that thatched hut someday.
Oh yes, I will.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
February!
First of all, I need to report that someone did color on the cat again last week – her front legs were striped with an engaging hue of yellow only found within a Crayola box. Judging from Ashton’s unholy giggles when I asked, I believe I took her denials with an appropriate amount of salt.
Next, I’m happy to report that it’s that time of year during which those of us in south central Texas experience the season I believe the rest of the English-speaking world calls winter. I love the cold snaps, but Rob has assured me that being Michigan-borne, I am in fact abnormal and it is fit for neither man nor beast out there. He may have a point. I revel in a twenty degree morning and yet will complain from May – October that a thermostat setting of 65 degrees is simply intolerably cold. That said, we can both agree upon the following list of recommendations for our fellow citizens.
1. Buy a nice coat. The wool ones will be on sale soon at 75% off and next winter you won’t look homeless and miserable in your two hoodies and the mittens from the display stand that Wal-Mart threw up near the registers Sunday night.
2. Smile. Really. It’s 3 days out of 365, and there’s no need to look bleary eyed and miserable. Embrace the change.
3. Take off the hoodies and baseball cap, put down the coffee, unwrap the scarf from the steering wheel and drive. You’re scaring me.
4. Where are you? The 14 minute commute was nice, but it might snow tonight. Later. After work. Little bits of frozen fluff. Not ice, not three feet of water, not tornados, not high winds, not herds of galloping camels. You look either lazy or silly (Rob used a different adjective). Or both.
5. Your children look ridiculous. The Spiderman hat/mask combo, scarf, waterproof mittens and puffy jacket to walk from the parking lot into the school is probably not necessary.
All that aside, Sage confided this morning that she and Ashton are very excited about the possibility of snow “furleys” later today, and to be honest, so are their parents.
Next, I’m happy to report that it’s that time of year during which those of us in south central Texas experience the season I believe the rest of the English-speaking world calls winter. I love the cold snaps, but Rob has assured me that being Michigan-borne, I am in fact abnormal and it is fit for neither man nor beast out there. He may have a point. I revel in a twenty degree morning and yet will complain from May – October that a thermostat setting of 65 degrees is simply intolerably cold. That said, we can both agree upon the following list of recommendations for our fellow citizens.
1. Buy a nice coat. The wool ones will be on sale soon at 75% off and next winter you won’t look homeless and miserable in your two hoodies and the mittens from the display stand that Wal-Mart threw up near the registers Sunday night.
2. Smile. Really. It’s 3 days out of 365, and there’s no need to look bleary eyed and miserable. Embrace the change.
3. Take off the hoodies and baseball cap, put down the coffee, unwrap the scarf from the steering wheel and drive. You’re scaring me.
4. Where are you? The 14 minute commute was nice, but it might snow tonight. Later. After work. Little bits of frozen fluff. Not ice, not three feet of water, not tornados, not high winds, not herds of galloping camels. You look either lazy or silly (Rob used a different adjective). Or both.
5. Your children look ridiculous. The Spiderman hat/mask combo, scarf, waterproof mittens and puffy jacket to walk from the parking lot into the school is probably not necessary.
All that aside, Sage confided this morning that she and Ashton are very excited about the possibility of snow “furleys” later today, and to be honest, so are their parents.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Thanks Gwyn. I'll take it from here.
The interwebs is simply aflame and aflutter with Ms. Paltrow et al's ruminations and advice for the esprit de corps of working mothers.
So with a few apologies and without further ado...
When I got downstairs this morning at the crack of whenever, the tile floor was ice cold, three dogs needed to be let out, the pressure in my sinuses was beyond awful, I was out of Coke Zero, and I couldn’t think clearly enough to do anything but shuffle back upstairs, inform Rob that breakfast was now his problem and try to use Facebook as an ad hoc stimulator. It didn’t work. This begs the question: why did I even both getting vertical? Not a good beginning. Stumbled into the shower while Rob got Ashton and Sage all Cheerio’d. Wandered back downstairs and found Sage bright eyed, fed and ready to start her day. Ashton was huddled in front of the fan heater, still eating and refusing to move. She eventually tipped over her glass of milk and went bananas when asked to clean it up. That woke her up. Hustled her upstairs for teeth, hair and clothing. It was now 7 am and we have to be out of the house by 7:30. Things are looking grim. There is no flax seed oil at our house, lemon flavored or otherwise.
Getting Ashton into the car on time was a challenge; she’s in the middle of a ten year phase where she never seems to be responding to me (“Time to put on your shoes, Time to put on your shoes, Time to put on your shoes, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET THOSE SHOES ON YOUR FEET BEFORE I NAIL THEM TO YOUR TOES ” … No response.) It is the last day of the week and I need to collect various bits of dry cleaning for drop off. Once the kids really understand that I cannot go anywhere without those clothes, they start to yell for Daddy to come help Mommy. Daddy tries, but… Let’s just leave it at that.
Somehow managed to get to school just as the old-fashioned bell rang – by parking a block away, across the street and up a hill on a drizzly 36 degree morning and running in work pumps with Ashton’s pack and lunch whilst she happily ran ahead and yelled for me to go faster Momma, FASTER! She became highly irritated when I admonished her to not run so close to the car line (growing her took nine long uncomfortable months and I have a vested interest in keeping all those bits together) and she snapped at me to leave her alone. We (not so) happily stomped along while I whisper under my breath that she was disrespectful and I am not above having a Wal-Mart moment in front of her friends - just missing the tardy slip lady, and I delivered her to her room in nick of time. Was informed that she passed the 4 minute subtraction test with a 100 – fabulous! Refrained from letting teacher know that timed subtraction tests for seven year olds are archaic and the superintendent needs a good talking-to while I smiled, thanked her, and resolved to be more patient with my little Einstein tomorrow morning. Ashton wasn’t a bit teary today even though I hung around and watched her through the window. In fact, she never even looks back. She’s either incredibly well adjusted, or I am a craptastically crabby mother. I’ll ask her therapist in 20 years.
When all was well I ran down the hill, across the street and another block back to the car as fast as possible but was still late to work – missed the market open by 9 minutes. Did my makeup in the car and slipped my still damp hair into a low ponytail. Rushed through the parking garage, down a flight of stairs, across the windy walk (oops, left wool coat in the car) and took the elevator up another flour flights. On a less manic day – never mind. All of my days are manic. This is my seven hours in the office to work on compliance, place trades, serve as escalated customer service, respond to regulatory inquiries, answer phone calls, answer any and all manner of questions, train the assistant and whatever else I have going on. Like the FlyLady schedule at home, planning my weekly menu, making a grocery list, looking at vacation options we cannot afford, and calling Rob until he wakes up to remind him to put dinner in the slow cooker.
When I am given the all clear I rush out the door, stop by the bank, the grocery store, the dry cleaner and Target to purchase a gift for the birthday party Ashton was invited to at 8 pm last night. If I am lucky and the commute is easy, I tornado myself into the house 45 minutes later with various assorted bags and packages, preheat the oven to 425 degrees, put away groceries, start a load of wash, unload the dishwasher, pop the tater tots in (classy, I know) wrap the gift and then take off my coat. It is to be noted that I’m still in 3” heels and it’s been 10 hours. The family may or may not notice that I am home, but they do eventually hear noises in the kitchen and wander in my direction. What up, Pavlovians.
Dinner is OK. Homemade barbeque sauce, while undeniably healthier, doesn’t have as much going for it as KC Masterpiece. This could be in part because I used a dusty bottle of Old Crow for my bourbon and substituted red wine vinegar for apple cider vinegar. I’m a working mother. We improvise. Finally had a fitting with super stylist Clothing Still in the Dryer for my upcoming trip to the couch. I sifted through a myriad of wee little socks and t’s until I located no fewer than three looks – red plaid pajama bottoms, hunter plaid pajama bottoms, and white and blue plaid pajama bottoms. I had headache by the end of it from bending over at the waist and having all that blood rush to my head while I searched. I managed to finalize the look with a not terribly stained white t-shirt and sank gratefully into the couch to drill spelling words with Ashton and assure Sage that her belief system of God, Santa and Ghosts is perfectly valid.
At 7:30 pm I sent the girls upstairs with clean pajamas and strict instructions to brush their teeth. There was a fair amount of giggling, squealing and blustering (from Rob), but I dozed off sitting bolt upright on the couch without ascertaining the thoroughness of the bedtime routine. I meant to bathe them, but exhaustion prevailed. At 8:30 I head into my office (the kitchen) with a nice 20 ounces of Coke Zero for an hour or two of cleaning and prepping for tomorrow night’s dinner. I am doing this every evening, but today’s session is extra special – I have no idea what to make, and no deliveries from a fishmonger, or any other kind of monger, are forthcoming. I indulge in a huge bowl of oil (not flaxseed) popped popcorn and a recorded episode of the new Hawaii Five-O before bed, but I don’t feel too bad because I am so over my Weight Watchers points that nothing can save my dietary day. It’s all about justification!
My night to lay with Sage so I kiss Ashton’s sleeping cheek, say a prayer and go into my room with a Sookie Stackhouse novel for some quiet time with my book and a snoring and loudly thumb-sucking four year old. At least she’s drooling on Rob’s pillow. As soon as all was quiet, I flung myself into bed. 11:29 pm, exhausted and have to do it all again tomorrow!
Getting Ashton into the car on time was a challenge; she’s in the middle of a ten year phase where she never seems to be responding to me (“Time to put on your shoes, Time to put on your shoes, Time to put on your shoes, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET THOSE SHOES ON YOUR FEET BEFORE I NAIL THEM TO YOUR TOES ” … No response.) It is the last day of the week and I need to collect various bits of dry cleaning for drop off. Once the kids really understand that I cannot go anywhere without those clothes, they start to yell for Daddy to come help Mommy. Daddy tries, but… Let’s just leave it at that.
Somehow managed to get to school just as the old-fashioned bell rang – by parking a block away, across the street and up a hill on a drizzly 36 degree morning and running in work pumps with Ashton’s pack and lunch whilst she happily ran ahead and yelled for me to go faster Momma, FASTER! She became highly irritated when I admonished her to not run so close to the car line (growing her took nine long uncomfortable months and I have a vested interest in keeping all those bits together) and she snapped at me to leave her alone. We (not so) happily stomped along while I whisper under my breath that she was disrespectful and I am not above having a Wal-Mart moment in front of her friends - just missing the tardy slip lady, and I delivered her to her room in nick of time. Was informed that she passed the 4 minute subtraction test with a 100 – fabulous! Refrained from letting teacher know that timed subtraction tests for seven year olds are archaic and the superintendent needs a good talking-to while I smiled, thanked her, and resolved to be more patient with my little Einstein tomorrow morning. Ashton wasn’t a bit teary today even though I hung around and watched her through the window. In fact, she never even looks back. She’s either incredibly well adjusted, or I am a craptastically crabby mother. I’ll ask her therapist in 20 years.
When all was well I ran down the hill, across the street and another block back to the car as fast as possible but was still late to work – missed the market open by 9 minutes. Did my makeup in the car and slipped my still damp hair into a low ponytail. Rushed through the parking garage, down a flight of stairs, across the windy walk (oops, left wool coat in the car) and took the elevator up another flour flights. On a less manic day – never mind. All of my days are manic. This is my seven hours in the office to work on compliance, place trades, serve as escalated customer service, respond to regulatory inquiries, answer phone calls, answer any and all manner of questions, train the assistant and whatever else I have going on. Like the FlyLady schedule at home, planning my weekly menu, making a grocery list, looking at vacation options we cannot afford, and calling Rob until he wakes up to remind him to put dinner in the slow cooker.
When I am given the all clear I rush out the door, stop by the bank, the grocery store, the dry cleaner and Target to purchase a gift for the birthday party Ashton was invited to at 8 pm last night. If I am lucky and the commute is easy, I tornado myself into the house 45 minutes later with various assorted bags and packages, preheat the oven to 425 degrees, put away groceries, start a load of wash, unload the dishwasher, pop the tater tots in (classy, I know) wrap the gift and then take off my coat. It is to be noted that I’m still in 3” heels and it’s been 10 hours. The family may or may not notice that I am home, but they do eventually hear noises in the kitchen and wander in my direction. What up, Pavlovians.
Dinner is OK. Homemade barbeque sauce, while undeniably healthier, doesn’t have as much going for it as KC Masterpiece. This could be in part because I used a dusty bottle of Old Crow for my bourbon and substituted red wine vinegar for apple cider vinegar. I’m a working mother. We improvise. Finally had a fitting with super stylist Clothing Still in the Dryer for my upcoming trip to the couch. I sifted through a myriad of wee little socks and t’s until I located no fewer than three looks – red plaid pajama bottoms, hunter plaid pajama bottoms, and white and blue plaid pajama bottoms. I had headache by the end of it from bending over at the waist and having all that blood rush to my head while I searched. I managed to finalize the look with a not terribly stained white t-shirt and sank gratefully into the couch to drill spelling words with Ashton and assure Sage that her belief system of God, Santa and Ghosts is perfectly valid.
At 7:30 pm I sent the girls upstairs with clean pajamas and strict instructions to brush their teeth. There was a fair amount of giggling, squealing and blustering (from Rob), but I dozed off sitting bolt upright on the couch without ascertaining the thoroughness of the bedtime routine. I meant to bathe them, but exhaustion prevailed. At 8:30 I head into my office (the kitchen) with a nice 20 ounces of Coke Zero for an hour or two of cleaning and prepping for tomorrow night’s dinner. I am doing this every evening, but today’s session is extra special – I have no idea what to make, and no deliveries from a fishmonger, or any other kind of monger, are forthcoming. I indulge in a huge bowl of oil (not flaxseed) popped popcorn and a recorded episode of the new Hawaii Five-O before bed, but I don’t feel too bad because I am so over my Weight Watchers points that nothing can save my dietary day. It’s all about justification!
My night to lay with Sage so I kiss Ashton’s sleeping cheek, say a prayer and go into my room with a Sookie Stackhouse novel for some quiet time with my book and a snoring and loudly thumb-sucking four year old. At least she’s drooling on Rob’s pillow. As soon as all was quiet, I flung myself into bed. 11:29 pm, exhausted and have to do it all again tomorrow!
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