A Resolution

Right now I am drinking coffee, cozied in my completely pilled-up grandma-ish type sweater, and in my office! Or computer room, or the room where everything has gone that doesn’t yet have a place (hence a frightening mound of blinds that seems sort of dangerous to walk around). This room has a giant window that looks out towards farmland and right now it shows a world covered with snow. Here in the south, snow is quite infrequent so its arrival is A Very Big Deal. There is non-stop news footage of flurries, announcements of school closings before anything is even sticking, but I’m all for it. I missed work yesterday for the snow and ended up spending half of the day in my pajamas getting caught up with my television habits and apparently that was exhausting enough a task to warrant a two hour nap with James later. I am ashamed of my laziness.

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So, nine days into the new year and I’m finally going to write a few words about it. I am not a resolutions type of person really. I make wide generalizations that leave much room for interpretation or error, things like “be a better person” which, really, is rather silly. Does that mean to give to the homeless or not yell as much or do twenty more sit-ups? I don’t know. So I got a little more specific this year.

You see, there are things about my life that I don’t really like, even though I love my life. I don’t like having to work, obviously, and I don’t like the struggles with money and the predictable pitfalls of having both cars suddenly give out or some other technical difficulty that really screws with day-to-day life. However, I can deal with all that. I can make the best of it. What really bothers me at those moments where I get all mopey and melancholy is how I’ve spent my time. I see other people (or read about them) who have work and kids also but also spend time devoted to fitness, or some other hobby. Women who actually make real dinners and go shopping for bargains and read books and throw parties. Women who take their kids to the park, museum, restaurants, home to make crafts. Women who take the time to WRITE.

I suppose my resolution is this – take the time, or make the time, for the things I love. Stop doing just enough to muddle through the day, stop doing just enough to keep up with the house, keep the kids fed and clean and then the day is over. Do more, or do it better, or whatever it may be.

Instead of here . . .

What I've been doing besides updating my blawg:

* Celebrated my daughter's fourth birthday. Faith is amazing. I know she's mine so I may be a bit biased, but I think she's pretty damn smart, that one. She's such a character, she's physically endearing and her heart is big and sweet enough to make up a little for her short and hot temper. She loved her birthday, the attention, the presents, the cake, the poofy dresses she wore for days.


* Celebrated my thirtieth birthday. 30. I AM 30. It is hard to believe. I didn't do much, just . . . turned older.


* Decided to go back to school, more specifically nursing school, started going through the motions and realized the school I am applying at is very good and very competitive. So I stressed out, lurked on forums about the process of applying to said school, stressed some more, took tests, submitted all sorts of senseless yet expensive forms and now I wait until April to know their decision. In the meantime, I'll be taking more pre-requisite classes starting next week. I am not yet registered. I have no idea what classes I will take or when. It's exciting to not know! (Not)


* Decided that, you know what? I kind of don't like my job. Also, I heard that a really good job may be opening up where my cousin-in-law works. I sent my resume and now am waiting on pins and needles. Pray for me.


* Finished the house and moved in it. And am still moving. Every day. We had a lot of stuff. It's beautiful and spacious and wonderful and awesome and I love it and I rolled around on the floors and galloped down the hallways and put out my arms and twirled because I had room! So much space! Fun fact about larger houses - you might get yourself worked up at night at all the places a creepy murderer stalker could hide. There is a lot of them. Besides that, I love having a home again.


* Christmas, duh. It was sweet and fun setting up the Christmas scene for the morning when the kids would come downstairs. They had appropriate looks of joy and delight at their presents (a ride-able train for James, bike for Faith) that were waiting unwrapped under the tree. It was a day of happiness and wrapping paper littering every inch of the ground and broken ornaments and loud toys and not so loud toys that lethally waited for a tender foot to step on them and also some strange monk-type of Christmas music that Jeff just turned on for background noise and I think it was starting to brainwash me.


* Catching up on all my bloggy world obsessions since I've been without internet for way too long. Missed you all!

On Your Son's Second Birthday

On your son’s second birthday you wake up when the alarm goes off, too early as always. Your head is still fighting for rapidly diminishing dreams, not enough rest absorbed. You remember being awake at midnight, with your book in your hand, waiting for the melatonin to kick in and knock you out. You hit snooze 1 or 4 times before forcing yourself out of bed, shuffling to the kitchen where you say a silent thank you to your husband for brewing coffee before he went to bed only an hour before.

You sit on the couch and sip, waiting for reality to set in, for your senses to catch up to your motions. Your daughter walks in, crawls onto your lap and falls back asleep. Your son, the birthday boy, soon follows, and by this time you are percolated enough to make breakfast for them and start sing-songy verses about birthdays and all sorts of wonderful things.

It’s time for clothes and makeup. Well, hell, just twist your hair up into a low bun because it really should have been washed this morning, but you didn’t get out of bed early enough, did you?

Off to work, the place you so lovingly named “Dysfunction Junction”. Your boss cries, you awkwardly try to continue doing your work. You light out of there two minutes early without guilt. Buy paper plates, a scented candle, and some lip gloss that turns out to be disappointingly orange.

Then off to see the concrete being poured for your driveway and some strange men as well as relatives working already several hours into hard labor. Look just long enough and then tuck your glossily most pointedly un-sweaty and orange-lipped self back into your vehicle and go to pick up your daughter from pre-school.

They tell you that she was flushed and warm earlier, keep an eye on her. Off to the supermarket because you just spoke to your mother-in-law who told you to pick up some ice cream and a prescription for your husband’s grandmother. Your daughter throws a fit over Oreos, sits down in the middle of the grocery store. Try to maintain proper balance of patience as well as discipline. Go home, wrap presents, change clothes, go next door where the future party waits.

Small talk, laughter, obligatory complaining about jobs-health problems-family members that are not present. Pizza arrives, chow down. Call husband, when will he be home? Wait. Wait. Wait. Son starts throwing self on ground, making highly unpleasant screeching sounds. Call husband, “when will you be here? Cake needs to be cut!”

Husband, weary, “Go ahead without me”.

So you go ahead, wishing your husband were here to see his son blow out the two candles on his birthday cake, to see the smile that can’t stay hidden when all the attention is on him, to see him tear open his presents and greet each one with unrestricted enthusiasm.

But it happens, and you smile, because you can’t restrain it, and everyone is laughing, and everyone is glad to be there on a Wednesday night, eating cake and celebrating life.

What Dreams are Made of

One of the things I find myself constantly repeating stupidly when talking about trailer life is “It’s not that bad,” which, when I think about it, is a really lame comment. Not that bad compared to what exactly? A third world prison? A mansion? The falling down house in town which seems to somehow magically hold an entire family? My point of reference for this comment is somewhat hazy, so it usually just slides by, but for some reason I feel the need to throw that out there. Yes, I am staying in this trailer on my husband’s land, yes it is temporary, yes it sucks, yes most of the doorknobs are plastic. But! It’s not THAT bad!

Well, truth be told, I must have some uppity snob somewhere inside of me because, yeah, sometimes it kind of is that bad. Thankfully, we’ve had a house to look forward to moving into despite the building process inching along. If we didn’t have a light at the end of the tunnel, I would probably be a lot more morose about this whole temporary tub of tin situation.

So that’s a reason I haven’t written too much lately because my mind is on two channels, one being HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE and the other being WHY WON’T THE KIDS STOP TALKING/WHINING/FIGHTING FOR FIVE SECONDS SO I CAN READ A BOOK OR EAT A MEAL OR TAKE A SHOWER OR JUST STARE OFF INTO THE DISTANCE AND THINK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

It’s true. I’ve a one track mind lately. The house is so near to completion that I can almost taste the joy of living there, of bounding on my new carpet with bare feet, of being on a whole different floor than the kids, of opening a cabinet without a shower of Tupperware falling on my head.

And, in a completely shocking twist of feeling, I am going to miss this little pile of crap that is currently our home. I’ll miss being next door to my in-laws, of seeing cows and horses meandering up to our fence, of walking down to our garden when I want to make okra for dinner.

Ha! Who am I kidding? There is a mouse family under the cabinet in the kids bathroom and a strange and mysterious odor coming from the access door to the plumbing. I am DONE with this place!

On pins and needles waiting for the house, the house, the house . . .

Stuck

We bought this house in January. It was framed, had a roof on it, windows and two exterior doors and that was it. We bought it awful cheap, but we had to finish it. I thought we would be moved in by now.

Instead flooring is just going in this week. We still have to do grading in the yard, pour a driveway, add gutters, cabinets and countertops. The painting is finished, as my aching back can attest to, and it is starting to resemble something of a home.

And yet, we have run out of money. I hate being without money. I don’t even care to have LOTS of money, I just want SOME money. Right when I started making more at Workplace the kids both became enrolled at daycare and whoosh, all that extra money flew out the window at a startlingly fast speed.

Jeff and I were talking today about it, and we were reaching into the financially dim recesses of our brains, fishing for change, wondering where we could scrounge enough money together to finish the house. When we both were at a loss for words I suggested that we just go ahead and do what felt natural. “Let’s panic!”

I’m really not quite there yet. I don’t see the point in worrying over things that won’t get better by just focusing negative energy on it. At the same time, I do NOT want to turn thirty in this tin box! I know, pride and vanity and all that, but really . . . is that too much to ask for?

Besides working on the house, we’ve been battling the plague, some nasty head cold mess that infected our entire family and didn’t go away until the past couple of days. Vacation is now behind us and I’m in that mode of wanting something to look forward to, maybe a camping trip or a new haircut, or maybe, just maybe, a moving day.

Beachbound

As of this moment we were supposed to have three whole minutes before we started the car and pulled down the long driveway to begin our journey to the beach. Instead, I am sitting her at the computer in my soft blue bathrobe, finishing up bills and uploading some baby photos onto Google's server. Just in case our place catches fire while we're gone. I have fears like that. More and more often.

The kids are still asleep, Jeff is crankily changing oil in the cars somewhere, next door at my in-laws' I think. He was the one chanting the “we leave at 8:00!” mantra, I was more like, eh, we leave when we leave. It is the beginning of a RELAXING vacation, right? RIGHT?

I packed up the kids clothes, and haven't even began on ours yet. I am hesitant about what to pack, Jeff's sister and cousin are tiny, petite, and in the summer time always bikini-clad with such a nonchalant attitude that it surpasses confidence. I, however, am the one who cares more about my cover-up than my swim suit since that's what I'll have on all the time. I worry about being compared to others, even though every one else thinks that is just so silly and foolish. My silly and foolish mind gets concerned though, imagining sitting beside Jeff's cousin and chatting and laughing and then picturing us: her small, blond, tan, sitting at ease in her bikini, and me, pale, awkward, cellulite-clad, uncomfortable. Hopefully I will get over that mess and just BE, be there, in the moment, in the sunshine, playing with the kids without a care to the world.

So, shortly, we'll be off, headed to the Gulf of Mexico for a week of massive family fun, sun-soaking, sand-coated, and hopefully, blissfully unaware of the outside world.

Adventures In Daycare

Friday morning started off badly, with Faith writhing and going all limp bodied as I tried to get her dressed, to her slowly leaking big tears out of bright and pleading eyes on the way to school. I stopped and got her a big cookie to eat on the way, hoping that bribery and chocolate would take the sting out of me forcing her to go to school, but no, once we pulled up she started crying and begging me not to leave her. I had one of those moments standing outside of the car when I was half-expecting a REAL adult to walk up and take over the situation, instructing me gently how to handle life and other things. In the end I had to pry her from the car and carry her inside, handing her off to her teacher who was sweetly consoling her and promising her big fun and I had to rush quickly out the door before anyone could see me do my crumple cry face. I saved that for the ride to work, fanning myself before walking in and swallowing the big lump of failure, disappointment, and reality before settling into the day.

The real treat of the day, however, came when I went to pick her up at the end of the day. She was in somewhat high spirits and her teacher started telling me what she had done all day and we were making small talk when in bursts a young woman from the playground hollering about who was driving the Honda. “I am,” I started, staring at her, when she then told me that it was rolling away. I turned towards the door and the teacher had to tell me to, you know, put my daughter down before I went running outside, so down I put her and hauled out the front door, alarming all the teachers in the main area, and I saw the white Honda slowly crossing the large field next door to the daycare, almost to the cross road. I ran harder than I have, oh, lets see, EVER, simultaneously praying that the car would stop before it got to the road or that I would get there first, thanking myself for choosing to wear flats that day, hearing a car honk and sure it is that girl I work with watching me race across a field after a runaway car, and wondering if I really did have to walk back inside after this or could I just call Jeff and have him go get Faith now, and always in the future.

I walked back inside, sheepishly but trying to laugh at myself, like oh isn't it so funny? I let my car roll away! In a parking lot of the day care at the end of the day when kids are walking outside! I cried this morning and then caused a big scene in the afternoon! In the end I just mustered as much dignity as one can and gathered up my daughter and paid the administrator for the week and walked out, both of us wishing we didn't ever have to go back.