Being a mom is hard work, no matter who you are or your life circumstances. Sometimes I get so bogged down by the challenges that I forget to enjoy the good things that motherhood has brought to my life. So in the interest of transparency and a desire to make you all feel better about your Crappy Mom moments, I will share with you my confessions.
I have been a rotten mom for the last three-ish weeks. Really rotten. The kind of rotten that is eating away at my conscience and I'm pretty sure is giving me an ulcer. And I can't find a way to get out of this pattern. My kids have been gross and I've been even worse. My home has become a cacaphony of screaming, crying and non-stop arguing and most surfaces are covered in some manner of nose slime and bitter, angry tears. I can't seem to shut off my snap-response reaction; someone acts out, I yell and the cycle continues until I can hardly even look at them. The anger I feel is blinding and makes me feel so incredibly guilty. I love them, more than anything in the world, so why am I being so immature in the way I'm handling things?
My daughter is just now starting to implement some classic passive-aggressive revenge. For example: T is potty trained and completely capable of informing her caregivers when she needs to use the bathroom. But for the past few weeks she's been punishing me for sending her back to daycare after a lovely three weeks at home with her momma. She is pooping and peeing her pants all the time, informing me after the accident that she needs to go potty. She does it at home, at school and everywhere in between. I've been good about not yelling at her when the incidents occur but I do express my wishes that she inform me Prior to peeing all over the stairs. What makes me crazy is the little look that she casts my way - the one that says "Ha-ha, I win and there's nothing you can do about it." And heaven help me, she's right. She's also at that lovely stage where she cannot be brought out in public. You know what I'm talking about, every child goes through this stage, some more than once.
And my big boy has entered a phase of constant arguing. Everything I say is wrong. My driving is wrong. The way I'm pouring the milk is wrong. I'm doing the laundry wrong. I can't tell time correctly. I know nothing. In fact, it's amazing I survive each day with my complete lack of knowledge. If he keeps this up, he just may be ready for law school by the third grade. And I will certainly be driven to an early grave. Of course, I know better than to engage in an argument with a four-year-old. While he is capable of understanding bits of rationale, he still lives in the wonderfully narcissitic world of childhood. And while he enjoys knowing that he is always right, I can't stop myself from arguing and I can't figure out how to tune out the constant barrage of his version of You Suck.
Because I'm a reasonably intelligent woman, I've been trying to change the tone in our home by making more time for stories, snuggling, family fun and otherwise enjoyable activities. But no matter what I do, the big ones end up arguing and try as I might, my lap simply isn't big enough for three kids. I end up exasperated and give up easily. That's not the mom I want to be; it's not the mom I want my children to recall from their childhood. I find myself having to apologize almost nightly for my nastiness and it breaks my heart when G's response is simply a smile and "It's ok, mom." T will look at me with her sweet, open smile and tell me I'm beautiful. So what the hell is wrong with me?! Why can't I remember what lies beneath when T starts to channel Linda Blair in The Exorcist? And when G feeds me nothing but the four-year-old version of the middle finger all day?
I know that my actions and responses set the mood for my family and that the responsibility lies with me and only me. That's a heavy burden to carry and though I may be broad-shouldered in a literal sense, lately I haven't been strong enough to get out of my own way. What discourages me most is that I can be a really great mom. In fact, sometimes I even feel a little superior. Sometimes I impress myself with my ability to maintain a cool demeanor and refrain from internalizing the situation, or diffusing the uglies before they get out of hand. It makes me so sad when I lose that part of me, when I fail to live up to my own potential.
Last night I worked really hard to keep myself in check. I was silly and happy with the kids and exercised patience during the few moments it was needed. Not surprisingly, we had a great night. The best night I've had with my kids in months. I enjoyed every moment of our night together and found myself not wanting them to go to bed quite yet because I wanted a few more snuggles. There were no tantrums, no accidents, lots of giggling and some snuggling and I never had to raise my voice. They got through the bedtime routine without incident and said goodnight happily as I sang our Goodnight Song on my way down the stairs. All three of them slept late today; I'd hit the snooze button twice and was up reading my email before G came barreling into my room for a little snuggle before our day started. The kids woke up on their own, every one of them cheerful and sweet. The only incident came when it was time to get our jackets on G was arguing about shoes v. boots. He got it together and while I explained that I wasn't happy with his behavior I refrained from yelling and didn't escalate the tension further.
So, I did it. I got it together and my sweet kids came back. We had a great night, a great morning and all is well in the Schroeder house. But how do I keep it this way? How can I keep myself on this track and what do I do when I find myself veering off into Crappy Mom territory?
Friday, January 20, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
I'm Just Lucky Like That
My kids went to bed beautifully on Friday night; they took baths, ate a yummy dinner and then slipped into a lovely slumber with no fussing of any sort. Or at least not until 11:30 when G woke up to go potty. But still, armed with amoxicillin for my sinus infection and bracing for a weekend with three kids and no plans, it was a good night.
Until 1:30, when I woke up to someone knocking on my door. Hard. And then with the doorbell, over and over. You should know that this isn't the first time this has happened. The teen mom who lives next door with her son and absentee mother often has late-night company that confuses my door with hers. I know, I know, my friends do it all the time too, at 3:00 in the morning. So while I was tempted to chalk it up to the skank-around-Sally next door and ignore it, the incessant ringing and pounding was bound to wake my sleeping lovelies and then I'd have a hot mess on my hands.
I crept over to the window to peek outside and my breath caught in my throat because outside my house is a police cruiser. All I can think of is that my kids are safe with me inside and the only reason the police could possibly be at my house in the middle of the night is because the neighbors finally set the place on fire with their constant pizza burning and they were coming to get us out of the house safely. Now, I know this is almost the least rational explanation that I could have come up with, but it was late and I was disoriented, braless and now full of fear, running down the stairs to meet up with the police.
When I open the door the officer apologizes for waking me and asks if I'm Lindsay. It takes me a minute to convince him that I am not, indeed, Lindsay and he takes another tactic. "Do you know Rena Lilly*?" gesturing next door. Ahhh, yes, the absentee mother. While not friends with Ms. Lilly, I have had numerous polite, overly-personal-on-her-part conversations in the eight months that we've been in this house. One would think by now, she'd know my name isn't Lindsay. But that's the least of my worries because by now the cop is regaling me with the story of Rena's Night Out.
Apparently, she got in a fight with her boyfriend while driving from one bar to the next so he pulled over, shoved her out of the car, threw her keys at her and drove away, leaving her to roll down into the ditch in her drunken stupor and lay there in the freezing cold until someone equally as drunk called the police and then ran, lest they get picked up for DUI. The office looked high and low for Rena's keys to no avail and dirtbag boyfriend wouldn't answer her calls and eventually shut his phone off so he could enjoy his night out without all the pestering from his drunken, assaulted girlfriend.
The officer explained to Rena that her only option was to be taken to detox, as she had nowhere to go. Her response? She'd rather go to jail. OR LINDSAY'S HOUSE. And that brings us back to the present: he asks me if she can sleep on my couch and it's clear that No isn't an option. He warns me that she's "pretty drunk" and heads to the cruiser to help her out of the backseat. She weaves and wobbles her way up the sidewalk, bumming a cigarette from the officer on her way. Once inside my house, I guide her to put her things down and kindly go outside to smoke with the officer. I think it was a bonding moment for the two of them. A way to debrief after the trauma of the night, if you will.
I ran upstairs to grab some blankets and a pillow, looking at everything I own and thinking "what do I not mind getting full of puke/snot/blood/urine tonight?" I rustle up some old linens and get downstairs just in time to see her stripping her pants off with the door still wide open. She hands me her pants, then looks at me tearfully and says, "Do you have some clothes I can wear, 'cause I peed my pants." Wow. I'm now at a loss for words. And my hands are full of a grown woman's urine. After a few attempts at conversation and lots of crying, I get her tucked in on my couch (making a mental note to schedule a steam-cleaning) and head up to lay awake for the rest of the night.
In the morning, I ask her where her daughter is and find that she hasn't seen her, nor the grandson, in two days and that's what started the Fight last night. A moment later I mention that there's a strange car parked outside and I think I can hear music coming from her house. She jumps off the couch and races to her front door. Knocking, ringing the bell and kicking the door, no one will answer. She comes back in my house and runs out my back door, ten seconds later she's flying back to her front door and throws up her hands, yelling "They fuckin' left!" As luck would have it, my four-year-old was awake to witness the spectacle.
Rena goes outside again and runs around the back of the house and after a minute or so, comes back in. She grabs her stuff and sputters "I gotta go quick before they lock the door again" and just like that, she's gone. I haven't heard a word from her since, but when I went to bed on Saturday night, dirtbag boyfriend's car was out front, nestled in for a sleepover.
*Names have been changed to protect those with questionable judgment and situational incontinence.
Until 1:30, when I woke up to someone knocking on my door. Hard. And then with the doorbell, over and over. You should know that this isn't the first time this has happened. The teen mom who lives next door with her son and absentee mother often has late-night company that confuses my door with hers. I know, I know, my friends do it all the time too, at 3:00 in the morning. So while I was tempted to chalk it up to the skank-around-Sally next door and ignore it, the incessant ringing and pounding was bound to wake my sleeping lovelies and then I'd have a hot mess on my hands.
I crept over to the window to peek outside and my breath caught in my throat because outside my house is a police cruiser. All I can think of is that my kids are safe with me inside and the only reason the police could possibly be at my house in the middle of the night is because the neighbors finally set the place on fire with their constant pizza burning and they were coming to get us out of the house safely. Now, I know this is almost the least rational explanation that I could have come up with, but it was late and I was disoriented, braless and now full of fear, running down the stairs to meet up with the police.
When I open the door the officer apologizes for waking me and asks if I'm Lindsay. It takes me a minute to convince him that I am not, indeed, Lindsay and he takes another tactic. "Do you know Rena Lilly*?" gesturing next door. Ahhh, yes, the absentee mother. While not friends with Ms. Lilly, I have had numerous polite, overly-personal-on-her-part conversations in the eight months that we've been in this house. One would think by now, she'd know my name isn't Lindsay. But that's the least of my worries because by now the cop is regaling me with the story of Rena's Night Out.
Apparently, she got in a fight with her boyfriend while driving from one bar to the next so he pulled over, shoved her out of the car, threw her keys at her and drove away, leaving her to roll down into the ditch in her drunken stupor and lay there in the freezing cold until someone equally as drunk called the police and then ran, lest they get picked up for DUI. The office looked high and low for Rena's keys to no avail and dirtbag boyfriend wouldn't answer her calls and eventually shut his phone off so he could enjoy his night out without all the pestering from his drunken, assaulted girlfriend.
The officer explained to Rena that her only option was to be taken to detox, as she had nowhere to go. Her response? She'd rather go to jail. OR LINDSAY'S HOUSE. And that brings us back to the present: he asks me if she can sleep on my couch and it's clear that No isn't an option. He warns me that she's "pretty drunk" and heads to the cruiser to help her out of the backseat. She weaves and wobbles her way up the sidewalk, bumming a cigarette from the officer on her way. Once inside my house, I guide her to put her things down and kindly go outside to smoke with the officer. I think it was a bonding moment for the two of them. A way to debrief after the trauma of the night, if you will.
I ran upstairs to grab some blankets and a pillow, looking at everything I own and thinking "what do I not mind getting full of puke/snot/blood/urine tonight?" I rustle up some old linens and get downstairs just in time to see her stripping her pants off with the door still wide open. She hands me her pants, then looks at me tearfully and says, "Do you have some clothes I can wear, 'cause I peed my pants." Wow. I'm now at a loss for words. And my hands are full of a grown woman's urine. After a few attempts at conversation and lots of crying, I get her tucked in on my couch (making a mental note to schedule a steam-cleaning) and head up to lay awake for the rest of the night.
In the morning, I ask her where her daughter is and find that she hasn't seen her, nor the grandson, in two days and that's what started the Fight last night. A moment later I mention that there's a strange car parked outside and I think I can hear music coming from her house. She jumps off the couch and races to her front door. Knocking, ringing the bell and kicking the door, no one will answer. She comes back in my house and runs out my back door, ten seconds later she's flying back to her front door and throws up her hands, yelling "They fuckin' left!" As luck would have it, my four-year-old was awake to witness the spectacle.
Rena goes outside again and runs around the back of the house and after a minute or so, comes back in. She grabs her stuff and sputters "I gotta go quick before they lock the door again" and just like that, she's gone. I haven't heard a word from her since, but when I went to bed on Saturday night, dirtbag boyfriend's car was out front, nestled in for a sleepover.
*Names have been changed to protect those with questionable judgment and situational incontinence.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Dear Santa,
Thanks so much for another wonderful Christmas! Greyson loves his Transformer and has only shot his eye out once with his Buzz Lightyear disc shooter. Tuesday is in love with her dress-up clothes and accessories and so far we've only had one casualty (a skirt) due to an insistence that she did not, in fact, have to go potty. And don't worry, she totally forgave the absence of a Girl Transformer under the tree. And between you and I, a girl transformer? Something you might want to think of in the future, but no hurry. Fynn is the happiest little bug and can really haul on his race car with the extra-loud Ready, Set, RAAAAAACCCCCEEEEEEE horn. All chaos aside, it really was a lovely Christmas and I'm sending the warmest of thanks your way.
Now that the season is over, for you anyway, I've been doing a little thinking. Being as you work so hard in the last quarter of the year, I'm sure you take a much-deserved vacation, probably even for the whole month of January. And really, I applaud that; if anyone deserves it, it's you, Big Guy. But I'm wondering, what do all of those formerly-busy little elves do? I mean, they've had a few days now to breathe and center themselves but I'd be willing to put a bet on boredom setting in right quick. I know I, for one, would just lose my mind if I had work, work, worked my way through the better part of a year and then had absolutely nothing to do, come December 26.
So that's where my itty bitty, teeny tiny little request comes in. You see, Santa, I didn't ask for anything this year, not a single thing. I've had a great year and I'm in a really great place; life is good, great even, and I'm not in need of anything. But after all was said and done, I realized that there is one little thing that I would like. We're heading home tomorrow after having been gone for two weeks, and prior to the two weeks I'd been convalescing in my home post-surgery with a host of familial caregivers coming and going. With all this upheaval in our normally well-regimented life, you might imagine the state of my typically spotless home. You guessed it: it's a pit and a half. An absolute disgusting mess of food particulate, dust, grime of unknown origin and untold amounts of grit and salt from the roads - although with the sad attempt at winter that we're in the midst of, I'm having a hard time finding a reason for all the de-icing materials.
Anyway, what I'm thinking is that with all those under-employed elves, you might be willing to spare one or five and hire them out to come and clean my house, Merry Maids-style. It'd be great if they could just swoop in this evening and tackle all the business that I'm not going to want to encounter when I arrive home tomorrow afternoon. I think 24 hours lead time should be sufficient. And I'm not asking for much, just a little vacuuming, dusting (don't forget the baseboards), sweeping/mopping, scouring of the bathrooms, a once-over of the kitchen and a quick glance at any windows with lick marks warranting a little wipe-down. Time left could be spent washing all the bedding and remaking the beds, tidying up any toys or clothes that aren't in their rightful place, cleaning out the fridge/freezer, opening the curtains and fluffing the pillows - you know, just make the place look nice and inviting. Oh, and if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I've got a mess of a storage shed that could really use some organizing. I think that should do it, but I'll let you know if I think of anything in the meantime.
Again, thanks for a really lovely Christmas. No one could do it as well as you, Mr. Claus; you were made to do this job. Warmest wishes for a great vacation - I hear Bora Bora is simply breathtaking, this time of year. I bet Mrs. Claus is a real looker in a two-piece!
XOXOXO,
Leah
Now that the season is over, for you anyway, I've been doing a little thinking. Being as you work so hard in the last quarter of the year, I'm sure you take a much-deserved vacation, probably even for the whole month of January. And really, I applaud that; if anyone deserves it, it's you, Big Guy. But I'm wondering, what do all of those formerly-busy little elves do? I mean, they've had a few days now to breathe and center themselves but I'd be willing to put a bet on boredom setting in right quick. I know I, for one, would just lose my mind if I had work, work, worked my way through the better part of a year and then had absolutely nothing to do, come December 26.
So that's where my itty bitty, teeny tiny little request comes in. You see, Santa, I didn't ask for anything this year, not a single thing. I've had a great year and I'm in a really great place; life is good, great even, and I'm not in need of anything. But after all was said and done, I realized that there is one little thing that I would like. We're heading home tomorrow after having been gone for two weeks, and prior to the two weeks I'd been convalescing in my home post-surgery with a host of familial caregivers coming and going. With all this upheaval in our normally well-regimented life, you might imagine the state of my typically spotless home. You guessed it: it's a pit and a half. An absolute disgusting mess of food particulate, dust, grime of unknown origin and untold amounts of grit and salt from the roads - although with the sad attempt at winter that we're in the midst of, I'm having a hard time finding a reason for all the de-icing materials.
Anyway, what I'm thinking is that with all those under-employed elves, you might be willing to spare one or five and hire them out to come and clean my house, Merry Maids-style. It'd be great if they could just swoop in this evening and tackle all the business that I'm not going to want to encounter when I arrive home tomorrow afternoon. I think 24 hours lead time should be sufficient. And I'm not asking for much, just a little vacuuming, dusting (don't forget the baseboards), sweeping/mopping, scouring of the bathrooms, a once-over of the kitchen and a quick glance at any windows with lick marks warranting a little wipe-down. Time left could be spent washing all the bedding and remaking the beds, tidying up any toys or clothes that aren't in their rightful place, cleaning out the fridge/freezer, opening the curtains and fluffing the pillows - you know, just make the place look nice and inviting. Oh, and if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I've got a mess of a storage shed that could really use some organizing. I think that should do it, but I'll let you know if I think of anything in the meantime.
Again, thanks for a really lovely Christmas. No one could do it as well as you, Mr. Claus; you were made to do this job. Warmest wishes for a great vacation - I hear Bora Bora is simply breathtaking, this time of year. I bet Mrs. Claus is a real looker in a two-piece!
XOXOXO,
Leah
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Educate Me
I'm not a teacher nor could I ever be a teacher, and for many reasons. Not the least of which are my dislike of children and a hyper-sensitive sense of smell. I also find it unendingly irritating to have to explain myself more than once. Like I said, many good reasons for not pursuing a career in education.
So while I in no way consider myself any sort of educator, I do feel that there are a few areas in which those in the field should excel. Perhaps it's a bit bold of me to set my own standards for educators, but I think you may agree with me. For example, I personally feel that educators should have to prove spelling and grammar proficiency prior to being trusted with the growing minds of children. Crazy, I know, but my standards are high. I feel so passionately about this that I've taken the liberty to list a few specific examples:
*working knowledge and implementation of rules governing they're/their/there; to/too/two; you're/your
*ability to distinguish the difference betweens nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs
*knowledge of the parts of a sentence and the "job" of each part of the whole ie: how to put a fricking sentence together so it reads as it should
*a reading/comprehension level that exceeds that of your students, seriously
If you're nodding your head along with me, I'd hazard a guess that you've met a teacher or two who struggle with these challenging concepts. One of my favorite examples is the wide and wonderously tragic world of Facebook posts. Here's a tip to all of those Facebooking, blogging teachers: I read your posts. All of them. And then I know exactly where NOT to send my children for school. I'm a big advocate of alternative education settings and curriculums, but if you cannot read, nor spell, you have no business teaching anyone. Not even your own children. Especially not your own children. Mommy does NOT know best, in this instance.
I would love to say that I plan to homeschool my children but let's be real: I haven't the desire nor the capability to take their education into my own hands. I'm simply not equipped to provide them with what they need to move into life with the proper tools. I'm thankful for the two years that remain before I have to make the tough decision as to where and how my children will be educated. While I have no idea what "school" will mean for my children, you can bet your ass my first interview question will be: How would you use the word "your" in a sentence?
So while I in no way consider myself any sort of educator, I do feel that there are a few areas in which those in the field should excel. Perhaps it's a bit bold of me to set my own standards for educators, but I think you may agree with me. For example, I personally feel that educators should have to prove spelling and grammar proficiency prior to being trusted with the growing minds of children. Crazy, I know, but my standards are high. I feel so passionately about this that I've taken the liberty to list a few specific examples:
*working knowledge and implementation of rules governing they're/their/there; to/too/two; you're/your
*ability to distinguish the difference betweens nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs
*knowledge of the parts of a sentence and the "job" of each part of the whole ie: how to put a fricking sentence together so it reads as it should
*a reading/comprehension level that exceeds that of your students, seriously
If you're nodding your head along with me, I'd hazard a guess that you've met a teacher or two who struggle with these challenging concepts. One of my favorite examples is the wide and wonderously tragic world of Facebook posts. Here's a tip to all of those Facebooking, blogging teachers: I read your posts. All of them. And then I know exactly where NOT to send my children for school. I'm a big advocate of alternative education settings and curriculums, but if you cannot read, nor spell, you have no business teaching anyone. Not even your own children. Especially not your own children. Mommy does NOT know best, in this instance.
I would love to say that I plan to homeschool my children but let's be real: I haven't the desire nor the capability to take their education into my own hands. I'm simply not equipped to provide them with what they need to move into life with the proper tools. I'm thankful for the two years that remain before I have to make the tough decision as to where and how my children will be educated. While I have no idea what "school" will mean for my children, you can bet your ass my first interview question will be: How would you use the word "your" in a sentence?
Nice to meet you?
At what point does a somewhat awkward social situation go from uncomfortable to ridiculous? Let me explain: I have met a particular women in my community on no less than 25 separate occasions over the past four years. We've been introduced and chatted multiple times, she is a Facebook "friend" and she pretends she doesn't know me every time we are introduced. Again. For the umpteenth time. I mean, really. When, exactly, will this no longer be embarrassing for me and turn into embarrassment for her? Because four years in, we haven't reached that threshold and I'm getting real tired of pretending I've never met this bitch before. Particularly because I end up "meeting" her several times a year.
I know who her husband is and I've seen him on a few occasions, but he doesn't know my name (how could he? his wife has no idea who I am) and though we've never been introduced, he always greets me with the politeness reserved for the token Hello when passing someone you recognize. Perfectly acceptable; he doesn't know me but does recognize my earthly presence and treats me in kind. Not so much for his Very Busy and Important wife.
While I may be a passive-aggressive person by nature, I am usually good at controlling my natural instincts in public. That said, I'm sick of this shit and I've no doubt that I will once again be forced to "meet" this woman over the holiday season - if I'm lucky, maybe even more than once. Wheeee! I'm marinating some ideas for taking care of this situation once and for all. No final plans, but right now I'm leaning towards carrying a 3x5 index card with a list cataloging all of the times we've met and names of the organizations we've both been involved with. At the same time. Together. And feel free to brainstorm with me; I'm always taking suggestions.
I know who her husband is and I've seen him on a few occasions, but he doesn't know my name (how could he? his wife has no idea who I am) and though we've never been introduced, he always greets me with the politeness reserved for the token Hello when passing someone you recognize. Perfectly acceptable; he doesn't know me but does recognize my earthly presence and treats me in kind. Not so much for his Very Busy and Important wife.
While I may be a passive-aggressive person by nature, I am usually good at controlling my natural instincts in public. That said, I'm sick of this shit and I've no doubt that I will once again be forced to "meet" this woman over the holiday season - if I'm lucky, maybe even more than once. Wheeee! I'm marinating some ideas for taking care of this situation once and for all. No final plans, but right now I'm leaning towards carrying a 3x5 index card with a list cataloging all of the times we've met and names of the organizations we've both been involved with. At the same time. Together. And feel free to brainstorm with me; I'm always taking suggestions.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Seriously?
I'm going to a networking event in a few weeks and after I registered I realized that one of the men speaking at the event happens to be someone I was "matched" with online. I vaguely recall drooling over his pictures and fantasizing about our perfect future as a family of travelling foodies. And because I'm really, really bad at meeting men in general, let alone dating, I've blocked out what was certainly an embarrassing fail in the form of an online greeting that received no response. Awesome.
This event is important for my career and future and I really want to attend. But my pride (what little still remains) is almost certain to be completely shot afterwards. It would be good for me if he didn't recognize me, (or remember my terrible attempt to meet him online) and that's very possible, because I have a generic face. I'm not asking for pity, folks, I just have a really common face. Every single day at least one perfect stranger tells me I look familiar and they're sure they know me from somewhere. Every day. And if I had a nickel for every time someone waved furiously and wondered why I didn't wave back? Well, I'd probably have a couple of dollars by now. But back to the upcoming humiliation. It would be less embarassing if he didn't recognize or remember me. It would also reaffirm my deeply-rooted conviction that I am utterly forgettable. Although, that may serve me well in this case.
I could take another track and dream up ways that I could win him over in person. Perhaps I'll charm my way through the room and he'll seek me out and beg to buy me a drink after we discuss Very Important Things and network with lots of Very Important People. And if by some lightning strike of luck this were to actually happen, I'm pretty sure I'd have spinach in my teeth and I'd trip over the leg of a table after inadvertently offending a cause that he's dedicated his lifes' work to. Maybe I could even knock over a beautiful centerpiece full of glass marbles and hundreds of dollars of rare flowers while I'm at it. Oh, the possibilities are endless.
I'll be back with a full report in November. Because it wouldn't be fun if I took the safe road and just didn't attend. Plus, I already registered and you can bet your ass I'm going to get my mediocre hotel-fare lunch out of the deal. And who knows, maybe they'll have good pens in the swag. I really like a great pen.
This event is important for my career and future and I really want to attend. But my pride (what little still remains) is almost certain to be completely shot afterwards. It would be good for me if he didn't recognize me, (or remember my terrible attempt to meet him online) and that's very possible, because I have a generic face. I'm not asking for pity, folks, I just have a really common face. Every single day at least one perfect stranger tells me I look familiar and they're sure they know me from somewhere. Every day. And if I had a nickel for every time someone waved furiously and wondered why I didn't wave back? Well, I'd probably have a couple of dollars by now. But back to the upcoming humiliation. It would be less embarassing if he didn't recognize or remember me. It would also reaffirm my deeply-rooted conviction that I am utterly forgettable. Although, that may serve me well in this case.
I could take another track and dream up ways that I could win him over in person. Perhaps I'll charm my way through the room and he'll seek me out and beg to buy me a drink after we discuss Very Important Things and network with lots of Very Important People. And if by some lightning strike of luck this were to actually happen, I'm pretty sure I'd have spinach in my teeth and I'd trip over the leg of a table after inadvertently offending a cause that he's dedicated his lifes' work to. Maybe I could even knock over a beautiful centerpiece full of glass marbles and hundreds of dollars of rare flowers while I'm at it. Oh, the possibilities are endless.
I'll be back with a full report in November. Because it wouldn't be fun if I took the safe road and just didn't attend. Plus, I already registered and you can bet your ass I'm going to get my mediocre hotel-fare lunch out of the deal. And who knows, maybe they'll have good pens in the swag. I really like a great pen.
Letting Go: The Real-Life Dangers of Preschool
As a woman who has been a stay-at-home-mom since the birth of my first child, I found it both liberating and devastating to send my children to daycare/preschool for the first time. After having gone back to school it became clear immediately that I would need some quiet time in my home in order to get my work accomplished in a (rarely) timely fashion.
It was bittersweet to drop my two-year-old son off and watch him run to play with his new friends and learn from a new environment. I was so excited for him to experience new people, places and things while also struggling with my lack of control. For his first childcare experience I was lucky to have found a lovely, brilliant woman with the patience of a saint and the like-mindedness I needed in regards to food, education and life in general. It was everything I could have asked for; in a word, Perfect. She was truly wonderful. The other kids? Not so much...
I've learned that you can choose your preschool setting with the utmost caution and only after hours upon hours of research, only to be introduced to Nasty Child whom your Perfect Child immediately connects with. And Nasty Child will have an undue amount of influence on your child, and thus your entire life. Seriously, he will leak into every waking moment of your life. Probably even your dreams. He's a soul-sucker, that one.
(it would be wise for you to prepare yourself for the coming onslaught of highly judgemental criticism of other parenting styles, and no, I won't be apologizing)
You see, Nasty Child lives in a world that my children can only dream about. One with unlimited and unsupervised time in front of the television, a host of video games violent enough to offend even me (notoriously non-offendable me), a bevy of scrumptious snack options whose only identifiable ingredient is sugar, no bedtimes, a complete lack of parental coaching on such trivial subjects as manners and respect, and a house full of furniture whose sole purpose is to function as an indoor trampoline and a place to spill their red Kool-Aid.
Among his other lovely quirks, Nasty Child has learned some spectacular vocabulary from home and he won't hesitate, not even for a moment, to share this delightful new language with your child. For while he may not be capable of sharing in the context of polite society, he's more than happy to share his oodles of life experience and impress upon your child the ways of a Cool Kid.
Save for hermetically sealing my home and rejecting society as a whole, pretty sure I can't find a way out of this unpleasant situation. In fact, I'm expecting that it will only get worse as time goes by. Awesome. So for now, I'll leave you with a few of my favorite phrases that my son has brought home from preschool. Enjoy, knowing that you aren't alone.
"Mom, go take a shower. I see some dirt on you. And you have a stinking butt."
"I'm going to kill you."
"The cops will come and blow your head off if you don't get off my bike."
"I'm going to kick your stinking butt." ("stinking butt" is the phrase of choice for October)
"The cops are gonna come and take your mom away forever if you don't give me all the train tracks." (cops: current favorite threat)
Believe it or not, my child isn't actually violent nor evil. Quite the contrary, actually. He's normally a sweet, empathetic child. I figure by first grade the son that I carefully molded and guided will be lost to me forever, in his place a sarcastic, unimpressed potty-mouth.
Wait, that sounds like someone I know... A little close to home, eh?
It was bittersweet to drop my two-year-old son off and watch him run to play with his new friends and learn from a new environment. I was so excited for him to experience new people, places and things while also struggling with my lack of control. For his first childcare experience I was lucky to have found a lovely, brilliant woman with the patience of a saint and the like-mindedness I needed in regards to food, education and life in general. It was everything I could have asked for; in a word, Perfect. She was truly wonderful. The other kids? Not so much...
I've learned that you can choose your preschool setting with the utmost caution and only after hours upon hours of research, only to be introduced to Nasty Child whom your Perfect Child immediately connects with. And Nasty Child will have an undue amount of influence on your child, and thus your entire life. Seriously, he will leak into every waking moment of your life. Probably even your dreams. He's a soul-sucker, that one.
(it would be wise for you to prepare yourself for the coming onslaught of highly judgemental criticism of other parenting styles, and no, I won't be apologizing)
You see, Nasty Child lives in a world that my children can only dream about. One with unlimited and unsupervised time in front of the television, a host of video games violent enough to offend even me (notoriously non-offendable me), a bevy of scrumptious snack options whose only identifiable ingredient is sugar, no bedtimes, a complete lack of parental coaching on such trivial subjects as manners and respect, and a house full of furniture whose sole purpose is to function as an indoor trampoline and a place to spill their red Kool-Aid.
Among his other lovely quirks, Nasty Child has learned some spectacular vocabulary from home and he won't hesitate, not even for a moment, to share this delightful new language with your child. For while he may not be capable of sharing in the context of polite society, he's more than happy to share his oodles of life experience and impress upon your child the ways of a Cool Kid.
Save for hermetically sealing my home and rejecting society as a whole, pretty sure I can't find a way out of this unpleasant situation. In fact, I'm expecting that it will only get worse as time goes by. Awesome. So for now, I'll leave you with a few of my favorite phrases that my son has brought home from preschool. Enjoy, knowing that you aren't alone.
"Mom, go take a shower. I see some dirt on you. And you have a stinking butt."
"I'm going to kill you."
"The cops will come and blow your head off if you don't get off my bike."
"I'm going to kick your stinking butt." ("stinking butt" is the phrase of choice for October)
"The cops are gonna come and take your mom away forever if you don't give me all the train tracks." (cops: current favorite threat)
Believe it or not, my child isn't actually violent nor evil. Quite the contrary, actually. He's normally a sweet, empathetic child. I figure by first grade the son that I carefully molded and guided will be lost to me forever, in his place a sarcastic, unimpressed potty-mouth.
Wait, that sounds like someone I know... A little close to home, eh?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter, I presume?
I got up early today. Like, 30 minutes early. And I didn't hit the snooze button, not even once. In fact, I bounced up out of bed to the strumming of an obnoxious guitar solo that serves as the alarm tone on my phone and raced to the shower. You might be thinking, why do I use my phone as an alarm clock, when as a bonafide adult I should have graduated to genuine alarm clock ownership? Well, funny you should mention it. As a matter of fact, I am the proud owner of a bright green, LED color-changing alarm clock. And being such a lovely, and apparently juvenile, addition to my bedroom made it automatically the property of my scared-of-everything almost-four-year-old. Why do I even bother?
But back to my early-rising adventure. Today was a big day. A really big day. A day so full of potential that I was already daydreaming about the three C's (cut, color and carat) and where we'd honeymoon. That's right, ladies, today was the day I was going to meet my future husband. The man who would make me reconsider hyphenating my name and would insist on rubbing my feet every evening and playing with my hair until I fell asleep every night. And I only had a few hours to prepare; he was to arrive promptly at 9:00 am.
I took my time in the shower and my children, clearly having sensed the magnitude of the day, slept late allowing me to throughly scrub all my bits and pieces until I was as fresh as the morning dew. I even managed to make it all the way through makeup application and dressing my top half before I heard the first mumurings of my babes. I waltzed in to greet them with air in my step and kisses aplenty, for who could be blue on a day so full of promise? After I'd dropped the babes off at daycare I raced home to prepare my house for The Visit.
While squealing excitedly through a conversation with D I pleated my curtains perfectly, artfully arranged my magazines on the coffee table, (Time on top, Cosmo on the bottom) tidied up the kitchen and generally raced around making sure everything looked effortlessly casual and inviting. The coffee was on and I'd lit a vanilla-scented candle because I read somewhere that vanilla makes men want stability and committment. Hell, if vanilla makes him like it so much he wants to put a ring on it, I'll start bathing in Vanilla Fields. I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? Nevermind the fact that vanilla-scented anything makes me want to die - life is all about compromise. You don't have to say it; I know, I'm brilliant.
Back to The Visit and more importantly, The Visitor. You see, ladies, I was expecting a Firefighter. A real, live, in-the-flesh Firefighter and an off-duty one at that. And we all know that off-duty is code for single-gorgeous-deep-sense-of-moral-obligations-and-seeking-a-committment-with-a-witty-single-mom-of-three. He was coming to my home to inspect my fire extinguisher. I mean, is that caring and kind or what? I felt a deep connection with him already, being as he was looking out for the safety of my family. And on his day off? Seriously, be jealous - I would be if I weren't me.
As 9:00 approaches I start to tingle with anticipation. I'm going to be so charming and interesting that he'll fall all over himself in his efforts to secure a date with me and my dashing wit. And if all goes according to plan, I'll ring in the new year as Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter with a giant Tiffany sparkler on my left hand. The doorbell rings, the sound a perfect trill that only adds to my excitement and certainty that Mr. Right Firefighter stands waiting for me on the other side of the door.
I wait a few seconds - I'm not desperate you know - and slowly open the door with my eyes cast down and casually toss my hair over my shoulder as I look up expectantly. Turns out that's not my best move. In all the excitement I've forgotten that my hair is pinned back and the "casual toss" ends up making me look like I have a stiff neck. But I recover quickly and look into the eyes of my dashing hero: a gruff gentleman not a day younger than 70. He pushes past me, rushing into the kitchen and grumbling about needing to check the fire extinguisher. Before I've even had time to catch my breath he is on the way back through my front door, calling over his shoulder that he'll be back next year.
What? You must be joking. That's it? That's IT? No gorgeous, muscular, environmentally concious hunk? Apparently off-duty is actually code for off-duty-for-life-because-he's-too-damn-old-to-light-a-fire-let-alone-fight-one.
So this one didn't work out, but that won't stop me from dreaming. And hell, I have two sons and a very competitive daughter, there's bound to be an incident or five in their childhood that requires the assistance of men in uniform. A mom can hope, right?
But back to my early-rising adventure. Today was a big day. A really big day. A day so full of potential that I was already daydreaming about the three C's (cut, color and carat) and where we'd honeymoon. That's right, ladies, today was the day I was going to meet my future husband. The man who would make me reconsider hyphenating my name and would insist on rubbing my feet every evening and playing with my hair until I fell asleep every night. And I only had a few hours to prepare; he was to arrive promptly at 9:00 am.
I took my time in the shower and my children, clearly having sensed the magnitude of the day, slept late allowing me to throughly scrub all my bits and pieces until I was as fresh as the morning dew. I even managed to make it all the way through makeup application and dressing my top half before I heard the first mumurings of my babes. I waltzed in to greet them with air in my step and kisses aplenty, for who could be blue on a day so full of promise? After I'd dropped the babes off at daycare I raced home to prepare my house for The Visit.
While squealing excitedly through a conversation with D I pleated my curtains perfectly, artfully arranged my magazines on the coffee table, (Time on top, Cosmo on the bottom) tidied up the kitchen and generally raced around making sure everything looked effortlessly casual and inviting. The coffee was on and I'd lit a vanilla-scented candle because I read somewhere that vanilla makes men want stability and committment. Hell, if vanilla makes him like it so much he wants to put a ring on it, I'll start bathing in Vanilla Fields. I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? Nevermind the fact that vanilla-scented anything makes me want to die - life is all about compromise. You don't have to say it; I know, I'm brilliant.
Back to The Visit and more importantly, The Visitor. You see, ladies, I was expecting a Firefighter. A real, live, in-the-flesh Firefighter and an off-duty one at that. And we all know that off-duty is code for single-gorgeous-deep-sense-of-moral-obligations-and-seeking-a-committment-with-a-witty-single-mom-of-three. He was coming to my home to inspect my fire extinguisher. I mean, is that caring and kind or what? I felt a deep connection with him already, being as he was looking out for the safety of my family. And on his day off? Seriously, be jealous - I would be if I weren't me.
As 9:00 approaches I start to tingle with anticipation. I'm going to be so charming and interesting that he'll fall all over himself in his efforts to secure a date with me and my dashing wit. And if all goes according to plan, I'll ring in the new year as Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter with a giant Tiffany sparkler on my left hand. The doorbell rings, the sound a perfect trill that only adds to my excitement and certainty that Mr. Right Firefighter stands waiting for me on the other side of the door.
I wait a few seconds - I'm not desperate you know - and slowly open the door with my eyes cast down and casually toss my hair over my shoulder as I look up expectantly. Turns out that's not my best move. In all the excitement I've forgotten that my hair is pinned back and the "casual toss" ends up making me look like I have a stiff neck. But I recover quickly and look into the eyes of my dashing hero: a gruff gentleman not a day younger than 70. He pushes past me, rushing into the kitchen and grumbling about needing to check the fire extinguisher. Before I've even had time to catch my breath he is on the way back through my front door, calling over his shoulder that he'll be back next year.
What? You must be joking. That's it? That's IT? No gorgeous, muscular, environmentally concious hunk? Apparently off-duty is actually code for off-duty-for-life-because-he's-too-damn-old-to-light-a-fire-let-alone-fight-one.
So this one didn't work out, but that won't stop me from dreaming. And hell, I have two sons and a very competitive daughter, there's bound to be an incident or five in their childhood that requires the assistance of men in uniform. A mom can hope, right?
Monday, September 26, 2011
Rage - the new fragrance by 28 Days
I don't recall if I suffered much from PMS as a teenager or in my early twenties. Perhaps because I wasn't as self-aware - going through a divorce can change that part of you forever, like it or not - or maybe because I hadn't yet had children and the entire contents of my abdominal region were still in the position that God intended. I have a few memories of days where my fuse was a "little short", if you will. But during that time I was also married to an asshole, so really, it's a wash.
Because I had all three of my children inside of 34 months, I had my period exactly four times in four years. And because of that, I was spared the reality of the post-partum, pre-menstrual hell that was to be my new reality. It's another one of those awful truths that sneak up on you - right in line with how no one tells you that three-year-olds are rotten and your breasts will be so very, very sad after you stop breastfeeding.
Beyond the cramps that feel like someone is driving a stake through my belly button and out through the tattoo on my lower back and the "fatigue" that does a great job of convincing me that I might actually die if I don't take a nap, I've come to realize that for a solid ten days of the month, I am going to be SuperBitch. As in, raging, extremely irritable, where-the-hell-is-the-saltshaker SuperBitch. And it's not like I'm unaware that I'm a bit out-of-sorts. By the morning of day three I'm past thinking my kids are out to get me and I've moved on to, Oh yeah, I'm supposed to get my period here pretty quick and that segues nicely into Well, it better come real damn soon because I can't even stand to be around myself right now.
Right around this time, I've acquired what I affectionately refer to as my "18 week bloat." You know, I look like I'm 18 weeks pregnant and not a damn thing in my closet fits - not that I've even attempted anything other than yoga pants because doing so would just hammer another nail in the coffin of I'm so fat and ugly right now, I just need to cry it out with this jar of Nutella and an afternoon of Sandra Bullock movies. And all this before the main event even arrives.
So let's see here; irrationally irritable? check; ridiculously hormonal? check; ravenously hungry? check; migraine? check; bloated? check; insomnia? check; looks like the gang's all here! Oh, and don't forget about that last-minute panicked race to Target because even though you were sure you bought enough to last for six months, you've run out. Again. The laws of nature also clearly state that this maniacal run through Target will be done with unwashed hair, mascara smeared under your eyes and you will run into no less than three people that you know but would never explain to, why you look the way you do right now. So by my calculations, I should be making this trip sometime this weekend. I can't wait!
I thought I'd end the day by yelling at my kids for reasons not good enough and an attempt to quell said rage with a salty binge. You know where I'm going with this, right? You guessed it: Ramen. And because the 1580 mg of sodium in ONE PACKET is not enough to tamp down the beast within, I made sure to make it a two-pack night.
Now I'm off to throw back a few Benadryl and a sedative with the hopes that I have a more successful nights' sleep than last. So wish me luck, ladies. And remember, if you think you're having a shitty day, feel free to give me a call towards the end of the month; we can rage together. But mostly, you'll just have to listen to me rage. Because it's All About Me.
Because I had all three of my children inside of 34 months, I had my period exactly four times in four years. And because of that, I was spared the reality of the post-partum, pre-menstrual hell that was to be my new reality. It's another one of those awful truths that sneak up on you - right in line with how no one tells you that three-year-olds are rotten and your breasts will be so very, very sad after you stop breastfeeding.
Beyond the cramps that feel like someone is driving a stake through my belly button and out through the tattoo on my lower back and the "fatigue" that does a great job of convincing me that I might actually die if I don't take a nap, I've come to realize that for a solid ten days of the month, I am going to be SuperBitch. As in, raging, extremely irritable, where-the-hell-is-the-saltshaker SuperBitch. And it's not like I'm unaware that I'm a bit out-of-sorts. By the morning of day three I'm past thinking my kids are out to get me and I've moved on to, Oh yeah, I'm supposed to get my period here pretty quick and that segues nicely into Well, it better come real damn soon because I can't even stand to be around myself right now.
Right around this time, I've acquired what I affectionately refer to as my "18 week bloat." You know, I look like I'm 18 weeks pregnant and not a damn thing in my closet fits - not that I've even attempted anything other than yoga pants because doing so would just hammer another nail in the coffin of I'm so fat and ugly right now, I just need to cry it out with this jar of Nutella and an afternoon of Sandra Bullock movies. And all this before the main event even arrives.
So let's see here; irrationally irritable? check; ridiculously hormonal? check; ravenously hungry? check; migraine? check; bloated? check; insomnia? check; looks like the gang's all here! Oh, and don't forget about that last-minute panicked race to Target because even though you were sure you bought enough to last for six months, you've run out. Again. The laws of nature also clearly state that this maniacal run through Target will be done with unwashed hair, mascara smeared under your eyes and you will run into no less than three people that you know but would never explain to, why you look the way you do right now. So by my calculations, I should be making this trip sometime this weekend. I can't wait!
I thought I'd end the day by yelling at my kids for reasons not good enough and an attempt to quell said rage with a salty binge. You know where I'm going with this, right? You guessed it: Ramen. And because the 1580 mg of sodium in ONE PACKET is not enough to tamp down the beast within, I made sure to make it a two-pack night.
Now I'm off to throw back a few Benadryl and a sedative with the hopes that I have a more successful nights' sleep than last. So wish me luck, ladies. And remember, if you think you're having a shitty day, feel free to give me a call towards the end of the month; we can rage together. But mostly, you'll just have to listen to me rage. Because it's All About Me.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Dinner's Here!
I'd like to preface this story with a little tidbit of information about myself: I don't embarass easily. I'm pretty adept at finding the humor in uncomfortable situations and I have no problem laughing at myself. Plus, humiliation makes for great story-telling. But while I don't embarass easily, I do, on occasion, find myself without words.
I'm self-employed and run my business from my home and I often receive packages relating to said business. Also, because I'm rich. Last week was a banner week for deliveries - I was expecting the UPS and FedEx guys to be by with no less than eight separate shipments. Things were going swimmingly until early evening on Thursday. A package that I needed for the next day had yet to arrive so I had my kids glued to the front window, keeping watch for me. I was also expecting the delivery guy to stop by with our Chinese takeout.
The doorbell rang, and not seeing a delivery truck, I assumed it must be the food. I open the door to see a guy holding out a cardboard box, wearing a striped polo shirt and khaki shorts. Since when did FedEx go casual?
"I have a special delivery," he says, all kinds of gorgeous and making me wish Fynn didn't have his hand down my shirt.
"You're not my dinner." It's a statement, not a question. He smiles and holds up his other hand, with the bag of food.
"Oh, you are my dinner." Buhhhhhhhhhh... Instantly red, I dig through my wallet and pull out an extra $5, pushing it towards him as he starts to laugh and walk back to his car.
I shut the door, wishing my filter worked better on days like today. I sigh and mentally add Beijing to the list of places that I can no longer order from.
Two days later, I'm following up on some work leads and see an unfamiliar number in my phone with a 612 area code. I call the number, expecting it to be one of my leads in the metro area and imagine my horror when the CHINESE TAKEOUT GUY answers. I'd forgotten he'd called to get directions to my house. I start stammering out some incoherent explanation about how I thought he was someone from work and blerb flub glank plugf... He sounds confused and then suddenly, "You're the lady from Thursday, aren't you?"
"Ummm, yeah. Sorry. I'll just, uh, take your number out of my phone." I hung up before I could further convince him that I was a stalker who wanted to have him for dinner. Oh. My. Goodness.
I'm self-employed and run my business from my home and I often receive packages relating to said business. Also, because I'm rich. Last week was a banner week for deliveries - I was expecting the UPS and FedEx guys to be by with no less than eight separate shipments. Things were going swimmingly until early evening on Thursday. A package that I needed for the next day had yet to arrive so I had my kids glued to the front window, keeping watch for me. I was also expecting the delivery guy to stop by with our Chinese takeout.
The doorbell rang, and not seeing a delivery truck, I assumed it must be the food. I open the door to see a guy holding out a cardboard box, wearing a striped polo shirt and khaki shorts. Since when did FedEx go casual?
"I have a special delivery," he says, all kinds of gorgeous and making me wish Fynn didn't have his hand down my shirt.
"You're not my dinner." It's a statement, not a question. He smiles and holds up his other hand, with the bag of food.
"Oh, you are my dinner." Buhhhhhhhhhh... Instantly red, I dig through my wallet and pull out an extra $5, pushing it towards him as he starts to laugh and walk back to his car.
I shut the door, wishing my filter worked better on days like today. I sigh and mentally add Beijing to the list of places that I can no longer order from.
Two days later, I'm following up on some work leads and see an unfamiliar number in my phone with a 612 area code. I call the number, expecting it to be one of my leads in the metro area and imagine my horror when the CHINESE TAKEOUT GUY answers. I'd forgotten he'd called to get directions to my house. I start stammering out some incoherent explanation about how I thought he was someone from work and blerb flub glank plugf... He sounds confused and then suddenly, "You're the lady from Thursday, aren't you?"
"Ummm, yeah. Sorry. I'll just, uh, take your number out of my phone." I hung up before I could further convince him that I was a stalker who wanted to have him for dinner. Oh. My. Goodness.
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