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 |  Crazy things my kids, husband and pets do, workplace nonsense and exhusband skewering |
| Events from the everyday life of a working mother of three, business analyst at a major company who tries to exist in a world of corporate bureaucracy, and prevent her children from turning out like her pathologically lazy and underemployed ex-husband. Enter at your own risk. |
| Hope everyone's having a great weekend. This is my weekend without the kids, and I really need some rest. This past week has been very hectic, with lots of drama at work and at home. Even my pets have been confrontational. In fact, the cats are hissing and growling at each other right now, and Laddie, the intrepid Husky/Collie mix is standing at full alert waiting to bark at them if they don't cut it out. Molly was SUPPOSED to have softball practice today, but her dad would not drive her to practice. He said if I wanted her to go, then I'd have to drive an hour to where he lives to get her, then an hour back after her practice. He used to live 15 minutes from here, and could come to all the boys' soccer games and baseball games, but chose to move an hour away from his children. But now it's my fault if she doesn't get to practice because I won't spend two hours on the road. I only take her everywhere else every day of the week, but he can't do it every other Saturday. G is also on call this weekend, and has to carry the stupid Blackberry everywhere. It went off several times today while we were trying to play tennis. Thankfully, nothing urgent that couldn't wait. But many of the calls are just stupid stuff that could really wait until Monday during business hours. I'm hoping to get some work done tomorrow on another novel I'm working on, Broken Dream. It's the sequel to Barely a Trace, and I'm concerned that it can't stand on it's own if you hadn't read the first book. But I'm also not wanting to spend too much time explaining everything from the first book. I've kind of hit a snag in the chapter I'm working on now, and have to resolve it to keep moving. I feel like I've gotten a bit morose and whiny lately, and have been trying to be more positive. So I was thinking about things that lift my spirits and make me smile. Here's a list: Dirty jokes - Not sure I should admit it but they are a guilty pleasure. I like to hear them but I CANNOT tell them. Clean sheets - what a wonderful, sensuous feeling to crawl into a cool bed with fresh clean sheets when you're really tired. Dog whiskers - when you're napping and the dog comes up and sniffs at your face, and his whiskers tickle you. Silly, but nice. Cantaloupe - ice cold, and so ripe it's about ten minutes from rotten. Clean baby smell - not to be confused with dirty baby smell. I mean the smell of a baby after a bath, with the baby lotion and baby powder, before they crap or spit up. When you hold them in your lap, your chin justs rests right about at the top of their head and their smell comes right up into your nose. Seeing someone trip - Sorry, but this is another guilty pleasure. Of course it's not funny if they get hurt, but if they just stumble a bit, it's funny how they look around to see if anyone else saw it. Sean and Ryan giggling - This is my favorite sound on Earth. When they're giggling over the same silly joke, enjoying a shared laugh, I have to laugh too even if I don't know what they're laughing at. Just the sound of their uncontrollable laughter reminds me how much fun can be had by children, without all the crap we 'grown-ups' allow to crush us, suffocate us and steal our joy. So those are some of the things in life that make me smile. Hope they made you smile, too. |
| The title of my blog is rants, observations, and embarrassing events. I've certainly ranted a lot lately, and have shared several observations, but I almost forgot the absolutely most embarrassing event ever. It was a couple of years ago. G and I had taken the kids to a Parents Night Out at the local gymnastics center. They loved to go, and we didn't mind a 'date night' now and then. So we dropped the kids off, and headed home for some 'adult time.' Nudge nudge, wink wink, if you know what I mean. After the 'adult time,' we fell asleep, and woke up just a few minutes before we had to leave to pick up the kids by 10:30. We both dressed hurriedly, just pulling back on the clothes we'd been wearing earlier. Except I couldn't find my panties, and grabbed a clean pair from the drawer before I pulled my jeans back on. We made it with a few minutes to spare, and as I was walking over to the sign out sheet, I felt something slide down my leg under my jeans, and looked down in horror to see my tiny white panties from earlier fall out of my jeans and onto the floor beside my foot. I don't know if anyone saw them, but I grabbed them with the speed of an NFL running back, and shoved them in my coat pocket. Then I proceeded to collect the kids and sign them out, get their shoes and coats on and head to the car, like nothing had happened! When I got to the car, I was laughing so hard it was several minutes before I could relate what had happened to G. And it was several months before the kids went back to Parents Night Out. |
| Today was a very important day at work - the first large scale implementation of the system I've been working on. Before today, we'd only brought up seven facilities at a time. Today, or rather tonight, we turned on 28 facilities. The process is to disable the old system first, make masterfile changes to enable the new system, then turn on the new system with as little downtime as possible. We took down the old system at 7:45PM, and were up and ready on the new system at 9PM. Very successful cutover, with no system or user issues. Sometimes I hate this job, but times like this are when it's all worth it. It's a real testimony for planning, organization and teamwork. All those things have to be present for this to work as planned. I couldn't sleep last night for worrying, and I can't wind down to sleep tonight because I'm just too wired. G was Mr. Mom tonight - getting Molly to and from softball practice, getting everyone to shower and get to bed. G is the kind of guy who makes you realize what you were missing all those years. All men are not 'holes surrounded by ass,' to quote a WDC friend. Granted, most are, but all are not. I was lucky enough to find a good one, and recognize him when I found him. And smart enough to snag him! It's funny, but he actually thinks he got the prize - middle aged broad with three kids and a busload of baggage. I'm tired but pretty happy with the way things went today. Kids are asleep, house is quiet, dog is resting right at my feet while I finish up my blog for today, trying to just clear my head and relax. Nice to end the day on a good note. |
| In my grandfather's day, all men smoked, and most drank. He tended to do both to excess, and by the age of forty, had been a barely functioning alcoholic for most of his life, and had radical surgery for throat cancer. I remember my grandfather as Papa. Papa was a very large man. My earliest memory of him is when he came back from the hospital after surgery. He'd had a laryngectomy and, although I did not understand what that meant, I was very aware of the hole in his throat, and the fact that he could not talk. A large section of the left side of his neck had been resected, and had also undergone radiation treatments which burned his skin a bright red. In those days, there were no electronic devices which simulated speech. He had to learn to speak by swallowing air and burping it back. It was called esophageal speech, and only his family members were ever able to understand what he was saying. If anyone ever had a reason to drink to excess, it was my Papa, but Papa had never needed a reason. Even after surviving advanced throat cancer, he continued smoking and drank more than ever before because he was no longer able to work. He'd worked as a welder all his adult life, but with a tracheostomy, couldn't handle the smoke and dust, and not many other jobs were available for people who couldn't talk, so he collected disability payments for the rest of his life. At least since he was unable to work, he took on all sorts of home improvement projects. Unfortunately, power tools and alcohol don't mix. Luckily most of the accidents were fairly minor. Except for the ceiling fan. My grandfather decided one day to install a ceiling fan to help cool his workshop. In those days, ceiling fans had metal blades and powerful motors. He had been drinking while installing the ceiling fan, and after completing the task, walked out the door of the workshop to admire his work. When he came back into the workshop, with me following close behind, he discovered the hard way that the fan was too low. The blade hit him in the forehead and peeled the skin back like the skin of a peach, half way to his crown. Thankfully I was young when this happened, maybe six, and just have faint memories of this event. I do remember lots of blood. Papa had wrecked the car several months before, and they had no phone, so my grandmother wrapped a towel around his head and he walked a half mile to the doctor's office, who drove him to the hospital. He recovered from the concussion and had a nice jagged scar the width of his forehead. Combined with the burned and scarred neck and the tracheostomy hole, he was quite a sight to behold. The hospital physician didn't take much care sewing him up, and I guess it wouldn't matter much how nice the scar looked. I remember another instance in which the workshop got the best of him. My uncle, who was just a teenager at the time, was walking out the glass storm door from the kitchen into the workshop, with my Papa right behind him. Papa had been drinking most of the day, and didn't catch the glass door as my uncle let go of it, and the door crashed into Papa's face, severely cutting his nose. Even though my uncle was able to drive him to the hospital immediately, the skin of his nose could not be reattached. To repair the wound, the surgeon took a skin graft from the back of his leg. If you know much about alcoholics you'll know that after all the years of drinking, Papa's face was permanently red, especially his nose. And the skin taken from his leg was shockingly white. And hairy. When Papa came home, the hideous scars on his neck and the jagged scar on his forehead could not compare with the poorly sutured patch of white skin on his nose, sporting several black, curly hairs. As frightening as he may have looked to other kids, he was my Papa. Despite his drinking problem and mostly minor accidents, I have mostly fond memories of him. I could understand everthing he said, and remember him calling me his baby, and telling me how pretty I was. I do remember some of his darker moments, and wonder what my mother's childhood must have been like, the oldest of five children with an alcoholic father and a mother who had no way out. I know it profoundly damaged her, and try to remember this when she behaves in ways that defy any sort of explanation. Physical scars are often so much less significant than the scars we carry inside. |
| Ten thirty in the morning, and 98 degrees in the shade. I felt so sorry for those girls out on the field, and resolved to sit on the bleachers in solidarity,instead of the car with the air conditioner running. Within ten minutes my clothes and hair were soaked. Rivulets of sweat were running down my back into my ass crack, and semicircles of perspiration had stained my shirt under my boobs. And I was sitting still! Imagine how miserable the girls had to be. But they were such troopers about it all, still going through their drills, practicing hitting and running the bases this time. The coaches encouraged many water breaks and made sure the girls knew that anytime they felt too hot to go to the dugout to cool off. Molly again surprised me with her unexpected skill with the bat. She hit the first pitch toward first base, and with a little coaching hit the next ball past second. After a few more, she was hitting consistently and perfecting her form. I was very proud of her concentration and lack of complaints. She was definitely hot - you could see it in her face. We are of Irish descent, and our faces glow red like hot coals of fire after any physical exertion. Add heat, and we look like we've been burned in a horrible accident. Our weather here has been so hot and dry that there's an unusual amount of dust in the air. Today on the red clay diamond, a 'dust devil' whirled around close to first base for almost a minute, picking up dirt and spinning it around in a vortex about ten feet tall and four feet wide. It was a rather unusual sight here in Tennessee. G took the boys to their soccer practice, and then for haircuts. It's about time - they looked like the sheepdog in the Loony Tunes cartoon with Sam the sheepdog and Ralph the coyote - hair covering their eyes, barely able to see. They look so much better now, and probably cooler. Our trip to Granny's was fairly uneventful. Long drive, but my mom and dad both seemed happy to see us, and when the conversation started to turn down a negative path, I gently but firmly steered it back to more pleasant things. Subjects to avoid with my mother involve my brother and his kids, his wife and ex wives, and my mother's sister. Any mention of these subjects will usually result in long, rambling rants about how my brother never calls, and when he does he just wants something, and how his youngest is just wild and obnoxious, and how my brother's wife is a fat slob who is lazy and never cleans house. It goes on and on. What bothers me is not so much what she says, because it is generally true, but it's all been said before at least a thousand times, and he is still our family and we all have to take the good with the bad. It serves no purpose to cover those subjects again and again when we could be having a pleasant visit, talking about pleasant things. What REALLY bothers me is that I know when she gets together with my brother, she probably gripes about me to the same extent! And he is so much less likely to steer her on to another topic, content to jump right in with both feet, and encourage her to new lows. My brother and I are not close, and have never been. Only two years apart, I'm the oldest and was a far better student. He was the athlete, excelling in all physical endeavors while I exercised my brain. He was the jock and I was the nerd. You'd think we would have been content to enjoy our individual talents, but he delighted in ridiculing my clumsiness, my lack of friends, my bookishness, and I retaliated by ... hiding in my room. The only thing we had in common was that neither of us could please our mother. He stopped trying and I just tried harder. So which of us was actually smarter? Whenever I come back to my home base after being with my family, I am not quite 'right' for a few days. I feel like I'm struggling to breathe freely again, to shake off a spider web or get over a hangover. For those few days it's harder to feel joy, to sleep peacefully, and to be myself. The real me - not the me from those old tapes. The me who knows how to feel and show love, and who is grateful for every day. |
| I promised Molly that I would endeavor periodically to embarrass her in my blog. She would not be happy for me to announce that she came home this evening after playing in the woods with her friends, and found a tick in a rather unfortunate place while preparing to take a shower. Upon closer examination, a couple more were found and quickly maimed beyond recognition. While examining her for additional ticks, we were discussing how nasty they were, and I said, "Yeah, ticks suck!" Then we both laughed at the unintentional pun, which is, by far the best kind. |
| The weekend is here, finally. Saturday will be full of activity, now that soccer and softball practice has begun. It's so incredibly hot here that school sports activities have been called off, but we still have soccer at 9AM and softball at 10AM. And after practice, I'm planning to load the kids into the car and drive 45 minutes to see my mom and dad, or as the kids call them, Granny and Papa. We don't go very often, even though it's reasonably close by, for a variety of reasons. We usually have so much to cram into a weekend that it just can't fit. Almost an hour there, and another hour back, and you have to stay a couple of hours or it's not worth the trip. You're talking four hours, and that's a half a day. That's the official reason, but the unofficial, unspoken reason is that I am utterly exhausted after spending time with my mother. It feels like my worst day at work, where I must endure torture for hours on end, until I can finally escape and return to my relatively peaceful haven. But I get paid for work. I don't get anything from spending time with my mother, except the feeling of meeting an obligation. Obviously there's a long, sad story behind this situation which I don't care to bore you with now. Maybe later when I need a pity party. And I'm just now at a time in my life where I can stand up for myself and limit these visits, allocating my time more on my terms than hers. To be clear, I love my parents dearly. I would love for things to be different with us, for us to be that Hallmark card family, for those greeting card platitudes to be true for us. But it's not that way, and I suspect we are not the exception so much as the general rule. So much happens in the family relationship that is never forgotten but hopefully is forgiven. But those things often define who you are and how you relate to everyone else you know or will encounter in your entire life. Who and how we love is often determined by how we are loved from our earliest memories. We spend the rest of our lives trying to find the love we missed as children, or passing on the abundance we received. Some of us make a conscious decision to do things better and break the cycle with our children, and then agonize and second guess every decision we make and worry that any mistake with our children will damage them forever. We forget that the love a child has for their parent is one of the strongest forces on Earth, strong enough to endure neglect and horrific abuse. So off we go to Granny's house. |
| Not sure what to say about today at work except that if I were given a choice between eating a bowl of warm crap with a spoon and doing this day over again, I'd take the crap. Meetings in which people just talk, mostly about stuff we already talked about several times with no resolution, and when we talk about it again, no one can even remember that we talked about it before. It's killing me. I don't think I can stand it much more. I sit there thinking about what I'd love to say, turning it over and over in my mind, secretly playing it over in my head. Telling people to just shut their stupid clap traps and let me get back to work. I sit there for the better part of an hour when the part of the meeting that is relevant to me or which needs any sort of input from me is probably five minutes. The project manager, Broomhilda, insists on scheduling these meetings instead of just soliciting a status from us and posting a status report because during meetings, she is Queen. She sits at the head of the conference table, and her subjects sit patiently waiting for their turn to blab blab blab on and on about their petty tasks they've completed. While I sit there thinking about everything I need to get done that I can't do while I'm trapped in the glass walled prison cell called a conference room. Project managers, in my mind, are a scourge on the corporate landscape. They create project plans and tasks and add their tasks to everyone's timesheets, in what appears to be a very scientific methodology which uses modern technology to carefully hide the fact that some people are extremely overallocated, and others spend their day doing nothing but tracking other people's tasks. Before project managers, we amazingly started work and finished it. We built enterprise wide systems, implemented them, and supported them. How did we do that without the army of project managers we have now and without the soul smothering never ending series of meetings? I don't know, but the notion of productive days and teamwork is still a fond memory. |
| Today was not my best. I'm feeling a lot of stress from my job because several things are piling up. Once again I was roped into volunteering for team leader duties for our annual corporate giving/volunteering effort, and the first task involves setting up a team meeting in which I explain the goals for this year, the incentives for giving, and stress the importance of participation in a community service project. I've done this for so many years that I know it's easier for me to do, but it still takes time I do not have. I'm also working in a new group this year, and don't know these people like I knew my old crew, so I'll have to be more hands on. And my team is in two locations, so I'll have to schedule two meetings and go over the same stuff twice. And I have to provide refreshments as a bribe to get everyone to come. All this while preparing to implement a new web based payment system at 26 facilities next Monday night. Had to switch the guitar lessons from Thursday night to Wednesday night because of soccer practice, so we have softball on Monday, guitar on Wednesday and soccer on Thursday. Crazy! I guess we'll be eating a lot of Mac and Cheese for dinner. We did have time to watch TV together tonight, and that made up for some of the stress. Just relaxing with the kids, watching Last Comic Standing. I'm not a big fan of reality shows, but I love this one. I'm also hooked on XM Satellite Comedy, especially the National Lampoon channel. A guy at work said he saw me driving to work a couple of months ago, and I was laughing hysterically about something in the car. I can only imagine what kind of raunchy joke I had just heard. Some of the comedy can even embarrass me! My little junior comic, Molly, came home after the first day of school, telling about her friend Jayden, who is in Mr. Shipman's class. Molly kept saying, "Shitman?" and Jayden would say "Shipman," then Molly would ask "Shitman?" again, and Jayden would yell "Shipman!" Another kid walked by and said, "What did you say?" I laughed so hard my eyes watered. Now she can't stop saying things like "That's a load of Shitman!" and "Are you going to go take a Shitman?" Not exactly appropriate, but it's very hard not to laugh. Anyway, I feel better now that I'm home, with my family, away from the corporate jungle where I feel like I could be eaten alive at any moment. Molly says the corporate jungle is a load of Shitman! |
| The long awaited Converse All-Stars finally arrived today. The boys were so excited, you'd think I'd bought them a pony! I ordered them last week during our 'Sales Tax Free' holiday in honor of the annual back to school shopping frenzy, and got free shipping to boot! The boys have grown inches taller over the summer and, though still small for their age, they are finally looking like nine year olds. And they've outgrown all their clothes and shoes. They ripped the shoeboxes open, pulled the wadded paper out of the toes and hastily laced the shoes and put them on. Then they walked, jumped, ran, and hopped around the house in their new, classic All-Stars, black canvas with white rubber soles and toes, and white laces. Clean, classic shoes, unchanged since my childhood, reminding me of simpler times when there weren't hundreds of styles and brands of athletic shoes, and none of them cost a fortune. And reminding me of how excited my brother and I always felt when we got our new clothes and shoes for school. We'd try on our new clothes, and beg to wear our new shoes before school actually started, but were always made to wait until the first day. We'd show up for school on the first day, and everyone else would have on their new clothes and shoes, too. For most of us, we only got new things for special occasions, like birthdays, Christmas, Easter, and the beginning of school. We didn't go shopping every weekend, and if we needed something, we had to earn it. But I didn't intend to rant on that. My point was the pleasure I experience in seeing the boys so excited about something as simple as a new pair of shoes. Molly is standing over my shoulder wanting to know why I haven't mentioned her new clothes and shoes. Well, I've probably talked too much about Molly lately, but I will say that she was also very excited about her new things, and tried them all on, modeling them around the house and pairing up the new shirts with pants, and is currently wearing a very sweet pair of new Sesame Street pajamas. It's wonderful to be able to provide for my kids, but to see them express their gratitude for what I provide instead of criticizing and always expecting more and better is very heartwarming indeed. |
| Molly, my first child who is the least 'sporty' girl on Earth, had her first softball practice tonight. While walking from the car to the field, she desparately attempted to strike a deal with me to change her fate, reduce her sentence, exchange some other unpleasant activity of my choice for her coveted voice lessons. But the die was cast. She was there already, cleats on, mitt in hand. She walked onto the field like a convict walking to the gallows. Ten minutes later, she was on out there with other girls who've played ball since they were four years old, throwing, not tossing the ball, catching hard throws with a mitt she had never touched before tonight. I was amazed. Maybe I've been comparing her to myself at her age - clumsy, uncoordinated, awkward and completely hopeless when it came to sports, and most everything else, or so it seemed at the time. Since she'd never been interested in sports, I just assumed she would be like me. Wow, was I wrong. Let me fill in the backstory for this softball adventure... Molly asked to take guitar lessons a couple of months ago,so we signed her up for lessons, and before the check cleared, she was tired of guitar. So when she asked to take voice lessons, I made sure she really wanted it badly enough to stick with it. Before she could take any other lessons, I made her sign up for a sport. She chose softball because there's less running than soccer (that's my girl!) She whined, and bartered, and griped, but that was my price. So tonight when she bravely ran out on the field, I was so proud of her, even while expecting her to really suck at softball. But she didn't. She didn't suck at all. She was good. And she'll get better. She won't be a star because it's not her thing. But she'll earn her voice lessons. |
| The kids came home this evening from their weekend with He who shall not be named, just in time for dinner. It's so good to have them home, complete with the chaos and noise. As soon as dinner was over, my oldest, Molly, twelve going on twenty, headed to her room to choose her first day of school outfit. And paint her nails. What a difference a year makes. This time last year, she hadn't discovered nail polish, or earrings, or makeup. Now she eagerly shops for these things, with her own money. She sets her alarm, and gets up early enough to dress, do her hair and makeup, eat her breakfast and get her backback ready for school. She is growing up so fast, but can still be brought to tears by the slightest embarrassment. Her twin brothers, Sean and Ryan, are excited about school starting, but don't give a rat's ass about their hair or clothes. They can't wait to see who's in their class, and who will be at after-school camp from last year. Unlike the stay-at-home mom's all over my neighborhood, I am not so excited about school starting. I don't wish them back at school so I have have most of the day to myself. Instead, I'm thinking instead about the advancing of the calendar one more year. Instead of sixth grade, Molly is in seventh grade. The boys are entering fourth grade. All one more year closer to the time they leave our home and go out on their own. I have them just a few more years, and there's so little time left to prepare them, and me, for their eventual departure. Of course I don't want them still living over the garage when they're thirty. That would mean I failed miserably at my parental responsibility. I guess what I really want is for them to learn to make their way in the world, and to be unafraid to pursue their passions, whatever they may be. And to WANT to come home and visit with G and me, not out of a sense of obligation, but a desire to come back to the warm and safe place they remember from their childhood, where they were loved and cherished. Where they are always welcomed and embraced. I look at them now, and can barely remember how they looked as infants. In ten years, I'll barely remember how they look now. I try sometimes to imagine how they'll look as adults, and can't create a picture in my head. It's very difficult for me to understand how some mothers abuse and neglect their kids. How when they look at their children, they see burden, inconvenience, expense, instead of a wonderful blessing. They channel their anger for every missed opportunity or supposed slight at their children, punishing them for the sins of the world by the worst fate of all - withholding affection. Children grow with affection into loving caring adults, much like trees grow strong and sturdy on sunshine, soil and water. Withholding affection from children is as damaging as withholding food. It stunts their emotional growth, rendering them unable to trust, feel compassion, experience empathy, to be fully human. I'd like to think someday my writings will be well received, and I'll have an opportunity to touch lives and make a difference. But if this 'writing thing' doesn't work out, that's okay. I've already been given the opportunity to change the world. |
| I hope you weren't expecting some raunchy jokes or tales of debauchery. Although I do have some jokes that would make a sailor blush! Not what I'm talking about today, though. I just read an article in our hometown paper called Big-spending teens are retailers' dream. In this article, a fourteen year old incoming high school freshman named Chelsea is followed while 'bargain' shopping.' To quote the article, 'Her favorite find of late was a $500 Jill Stuart dress that was on sale."I'll find a dance for this dress," she says.' Her mother laments that she 'can't believe how much Chelsea and her friends spend at the malls.' What am I missing here? A fourteen year old can't work, and can't drive. So how does she get to the mall, and where does she get the money? Is she selling crack or turning tricks? Or is mommy giving her money and driving her to the mall? Duh! Not that I want to blame all the ills of our society on the culture of conspicuous consumption, but just look at all the Lexus', BMW's, Jaguars and Escalades driving around, and think about what that says to our kids. Money is not just to be spent, it is to be wasted. Take all you want - we'll make more. |
| I never thought I would blog - just didn't think I would have anything to say that anyone else would care to read that wasn't fiction. Except for the occasional spells of drama related to aforementioned vile ex-husband, my life if exceedingly mundane. I'm certainly not complaining. I'm blessed with a great husband, great kids, a good job, and (knock on wood) good health. I live the life that so many people on Earth could only dream about. But I have my demons... Last Sunday in his opening prayer, our minister asked forgiveness for the fact that we often spend more time worrying about the few who have more than us, instead of caring for the many who have so very little. That admonishment hit me and stuck. Guilty! Even though I have everything, I am jealous not so much of those who have more but those who don't have to work so hard or worry so much. I am one of very few moms in my neighborhood who work outside the home. I don't call the other moms stay-at-home moms because they don't stay at home. They shop. They pile their four or five offspring into the Escalade and take them to the mall. Of course they have to be out of the house when the maid service comes, right? Their job is to carefully spend the money their husbands make. And they are good at it. Off to the gym as soon as the school bus has pulled away, dressed in the most fashionable exercise attire, to work with their personal trainers, then a massage, or maybe a pedicure - oohh, what day is it anyway? Sorry, I'm sure I sound horrible, but it's hard to understand how their 'staying at home' is benefitting their children. They don't get better grades than mine, and they're certainly not more well-mannered or respectful than my kids, who have spent their entire lives in day care of one sort or another, when they were babies and now before and after school. I went back to work seven weeks after both C-section deliveries because I had no choice, and can't honestly say that my children suffered in any way. They all started talking early, and learned to read before they started kindergarten. They slept in their own beds at night, and were potty trained at two years old. I know it's wrong for me to be jealous or resentful of these women. They've done nothing to me. But it's clear I'm not part of their crowd. I'm forever in a different class. I 'm not sure if they are looking down at me because I have to work, or feel I'm looking down at them because they don't. I have a job in a professional field, and have options should I need to support myself and children on my own. I receive more than monetary rewards from my job - respect of my colleagues, the confidence of my superiors, and a sense of accomplishment that comes from collaborating with a team and designing solutions to business problems. I do that in addition to keeping a clean house, cooking nutritious meals, and nurturing my children. I know I shouldn't feel such resentment - there's certainly room for everyone. I just don't think I'll ever be part of one of their bridge clubs. It would probably be during working hours anyway! Oh well... |
| I noticed I had a missed call on my phone Thursday from my Mom. Some of you would understand why I immediately had a sense of dread or that feeling like your stomach just contracted into a knot the size of a golfball. Some of you may have mothers just like mine, but I DOUBT IT!! Ha Ha - if we're lucky, they broke the mold after they made her. Don't get me wrong - I love my mother. I love her so much that even after all the rotten stuff she's said and done to me, I call her to tell her important stuff that happens with the kids, remember important dates, and even to ask how she and Dad are for no other reason. So I'm not a mother -hater. But I don't call her just to chat, or share my feelings, or ask for parenting advice. Not to make myself sound like a saint, but I even pay the mortgage and taxes on the house they live in. It's not a palace, but it's certainly better than anything they could afford on their social security income. They never saved a penny during their entire lives and now I, the responsible offspring (I'll rant on my brother at some later date,) feel obligated to help, and bought a house in a safe neighborhood so I would not worry so much that they would be killed in a home invasion or a drive by shooting, or burned to death in an apartment fire. And selfishly, I felt that my investment in their home could eventually be liquidated when they don't need it anymore and applied to either college costs for the kids or retirement for G and me. So I'm not a saint, but I am practical. That's definitely one of my better traits. But back to my Mom, or Granny, as the kids call her. Granny was not a warm and fuzzy parent. She never once told me she loved me or that I was pretty (granted, a debatable point) or that I was smart (not so debatable, based on statistical evidence.) I suppose her generation was rather different than ours. Our parents didn't read parenting books, or ponder the right or wrong of their actions in terms of long term impact on their children. But I'd like to think there was the 'how will this affect the kids' moment when contemplating a major decision like moving, or changing jobs. Not with my mother. We moved every year, for no good reason. Not because of a job change, or because the house was too small, or the neighborhood wasn't good. Just because that's what my mother wanted. I changed school eleven times in twelve years, and they were all in the same general vicinity. And even though changing schools is difficult for children because of the adjustment to new teachers, different curriculum, I was always expected to do well and shamed if I didn't. I can look back at how I reacted to those challenges and say it's helped me as an adult, and I'm able to handle new enviroments and make new friends, but it has also made me more cynical, less trusting, and much more of a loner than perhaps I would have been had I ever had the opportunity to be part of a group for more than a year at a time. I am so much more in tune with how my actions affect my children, and aware of the awesome responsibility that I have assumed for their care. I tell them how wonderful they are and will never, ever, make them feel their best is not enough. |
| Having trouble winding down tonight. G and I played tennis tonight, and after my bad day, I needed to hit the ball very hard. Because I despise him so much, I picture my ex's face on the ball and it helps me focus. We played for 2 hours, and I wasn't even tired. Just edgy. My twelve year old, Molly, called and left me a message that they made it to Kentucky okay. I called her back when we were finished playing, and felt much better about today just from hearing her voice. Spoke with the boys also, and told them to have a great time with their nana. Thank God for my children! I miss them already and they only left today and will be back Sunday. I wonder sometimes what God was thinking when He gave them to me. I'm such a spaz and an emotional mess, but they keep me focused. I do more in a day than I did in a week before I had them. I can't believe how much stronger and smarter I am now, how creative and inventive I have to be to keep everything together. How much more my life means. How much they have changed me and made me better. I am so grateful for them and never hesitate to tell them how wonderful they are. While I'm sitting here typing, our tabby, Paris, is hissing and growling at our blue cat, Bella. There is no love lost there! Paris and Bella are like Linda Evans and Joan Collins on Dynasty. There's a cat fight at least once a day. And our huge collie/huskie mix, Laddie, get's all worked up when they fight, and wants to get right in the middle of it all. Chaos reigns! Laddie is a big, furry ball of pure love. He wants nothing in life but our attention. We found him at a wonderful rescue organization called Happy Tails, and learned that he'd been given up by his owner who suffered from Multiple Sclerosis, and couldn't handle his exuberance. Since our kids were older (not toddlers) we brought him home for a trial run, not worried that he would hurt anyone or knock the kids down. He immediately became a member of our family, His only bad habit is raiding trash cans. Whenever he's been left alone for even a few minutes, he'll snag a paper towel from a wastebasket (or from the kitchen counter) and shred it on the rug. Certainly could be worse! He'd die before he'd drop a loaf on the carpet or take a piss on the rug. World's best dog! Anyway, even though my blog started with me spewing venom and vitriol, I want you all to know that I'm not hateful or mean-spirited. When I'm pushed beyond normal human limits, I have to vent, and I greatly appreciate the forum. Thanks for letting me get it off my chest and move on. If you'd like to see my very first writing, which started as a rant and eventually turned into a novel, check out Barely a Trace ID 1303763 - I've posted the first three chapters. Let me know what you think. |
| Every time I wear a skirt now, I have an unreasonable fear that this will happen. One day at work, I went to the public restroom to take care of some business. No one else was in the restroom, and I was almost late for a meeting. I took care of the task, quickly washed my hands, and bolted out the door of the restroom into the third floor lobby. At that exact moment, I felt a slight breeze across my behind, and YOU GUESSED IT, reached the horrifying realization that the tail of my skirt was tucked into the top of my panty hose. Of course I was already in the lobby when I noticed this, surrounded by all the others waiting to enter the same meeting room. Twenty people , at least. I jerked the skirt back down and ran back into the restroom, trying to maintain a tiny shred of dignity. I looked in the mirror and saw that my face was the color of a very ripe tomato. How could I ever go into that meeting room? I splashed some water on my face, smoothed my clothes, and steeled myself. As I walked into the room, trying to slink into the back and blend into the wallpaper, I saw four of my closest male friends smirking, holding up cards with large black numbers - 9.0, 9.0, 9.5, 9.0 |
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The kicker is they have seen my pic on my blog...but I have no idea how they look. 
I've missed you!
