As I may have mentioned in earlier posts, being a stay-at-home mom includes the perk of having too much time to think (note: this is not real time that might enable one to go to the mall or read a book, rather it's the space in my head that's not being used during the Thomas the Train episodes I find myself watching with Sam and all the dishwashing I do while staring down at the drain).
A lot of this "free" time is spent pondering what to make for dinner. Some of it gets used up wondering where Sam has hidden the remote control. A very little of it is spent considering world peace. And the rest of it is spent daydreaming.
This post is the result of some mild reminiscing of my life before Matt, when date nights were rare (which is not so different than now, but I'm not blaming anyone) and frequently awkward. I thought I'd type up a quick synopsis of some of the more unusual of these evenings. I included the first date spent with my last first date (also known as Matt) as well as the one that concluded my dating life (also known as a proposal).
For your amusement, here are a list of my more noteworthy dates:
There was...
-The one that included an additional girl (who apologized to me in the ladies' room for being on my date).
-The one that included dinner, a drive back to my house, and my being dumped in my driveway.
-The one that very nearly included me being literally eaten by an alligator. (I cried a little on this one.)
-The one that included dinner and an animated movie in the theater (I thought I'd finished out my animated movie phase with "The Little Mermaid" in 1992).
-The one that found me sitting in the dark at an empty park watching a car full of possibly illegal immigrants surround me as I waited for my date to pick me up (this probably needs more explanation than I'm giving here).
-The one that included dinner and then an awkward family movie viewing.
-The one that included my date realizing he'd forgotten his wallet after ordering dinner and a rather pricey selection of beverages (for himself).
-The one that included my reading a list of expectations for the impending relationship which really should have ended with my being dumped right then and there. That came later.
-The blind date that included a swanky dessert and then a honky tonk bar until 2 am.
-The one that included Steve Earle.
-The half-date (as so described by my half-date) that included paparazzi.
-The one that was cut short so that my date could attend a party afterwards. Without me.
-Another blind date that included my (12 years my senior) date showing up in blinding-ly white tennis shoes.
-The one that included a "Potential Wife" interview.
-The one that included my date discovering that he had graduated from high school the year I got out of college. (This information seemed to throw him off his game considerably.)
-The one with the handsome computer enthusiast whom I may or may not have accidentally met on Myspace (feel free to judge).
-The one when my date was awkwardly vulnerable while I told jokes.
-The one with the actual genius who had lived in a commune of geniuses in
California. What?
-The one that included a European castle, an engagement ring, and reindeer for dinner.
Disclaimer: This post was written under the assumption that anyone I have ever dated doesn't read my blog. So, if you found yourself on this list, it probably wasn't you I was talking about.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
How To Know if You Have an 18-Month Old: A Checklist of Sorts
1. Thomas the Train's theme song is the soundtrack of your dreams and occasionally your nightmares. ("They're two, they're four, they're six, they're eight/shunting trucks and pulling freight..."). Does anyone even know what "shunting" means?
2. You frequently find old boogers on your sofa cushions (wiped there by someone attempting to climb up face-first.)
3. You have phone conversations punctuated by shouts of "no, No, NO!" throughout (usually regarding someone attempting to "use" your computer by banging a plastic truck on the keyboard).
4. You wonder if you will ever again be able to take a shower/change clothes/use the restroom without being observed by someone with a toy duck in one hand and a handful of cheerios in the other.
5. You think of a visit to the grocery store without your child as "getting out" and "time to yourself."
6. Your belief that you could never spank your sweet baby went out the window after the third incidence of a sippy cup full of grape juice pressed upside down into the carpet.
7. Pages of the magazine you just received in the mail have partial pages missing (which you discover later were actually eaten by your child/farm animal).
8. Things go missing with no explanation until you find them in your sock drawer along with an old piece of cheese.
9. You find a bottle of vitamins, a plastic Easter egg, and half a cookie stuffed in the side compartment of your vacuum cleaner, which explains why it hasn't been running as efficiently as it used to.
10. You discover that after a whole day of having your house ransacked, your energy depleted, and your patience worn thin as a Hollywood actress, that an end of the day, squeeze-the-air-out-of you, chokehold hug from your little guy makes up for it all.
2. You frequently find old boogers on your sofa cushions (wiped there by someone attempting to climb up face-first.)
3. You have phone conversations punctuated by shouts of "no, No, NO!" throughout (usually regarding someone attempting to "use" your computer by banging a plastic truck on the keyboard).
4. You wonder if you will ever again be able to take a shower/change clothes/use the restroom without being observed by someone with a toy duck in one hand and a handful of cheerios in the other.
5. You think of a visit to the grocery store without your child as "getting out" and "time to yourself."
6. Your belief that you could never spank your sweet baby went out the window after the third incidence of a sippy cup full of grape juice pressed upside down into the carpet.
7. Pages of the magazine you just received in the mail have partial pages missing (which you discover later were actually eaten by your child/farm animal).
8. Things go missing with no explanation until you find them in your sock drawer along with an old piece of cheese.
9. You find a bottle of vitamins, a plastic Easter egg, and half a cookie stuffed in the side compartment of your vacuum cleaner, which explains why it hasn't been running as efficiently as it used to.
10. You discover that after a whole day of having your house ransacked, your energy depleted, and your patience worn thin as a Hollywood actress, that an end of the day, squeeze-the-air-out-of you, chokehold hug from your little guy makes up for it all.
Friday, June 3, 2011
More Sam Please
It's the middle of the afternoon and the Samster is asleep and I'm wishing I was asleep too but instead I'm trying to use this tiny little window of "free" time to check my email and maybe write a little here to keep my brain from atrophying (which seems to be a side-effect of stay at home parenting). I'm probably a little too tired to be responding to emails and definitely too tired to be attempting to blog. But, this is the time I've got and I feel the need to redeem myself after my mild ranting about nature and it's creepy, crawly progeny in yesterday's post. I may have overstepped there and I'm planning to make nice with the outdoors as soon as the temperature has lowered itself to less than 97 degrees fahrenheit.
Sam and I are a bit weary from a day of gawking at slinky jellyfish, toothy sharks and baby alligators behind thick glass walls. We were tourists in our own town this morning with Matt's mom and stepdad and cousins Nicholas and Braden at the Chattanooga Aquarium. It was a good time but something about winding our way through all those other visitors with strollers and motorized chairs and excited small people pressing themselves up against the glass of every exhibit was enough to make those of who stay at home by ourselves (and our non-talking small people) most of the time a wee bit tired. Sam was pushed beyond his limit of 2.5 hours past his naptime and was weaving and wobbling like a little sailor just off his recently harboured boat.
So, he and I made our way back up the mountain to get a nap in before we'd passed the point of no return (i.e. no nap = super grumpy baby monster). Heaving his nearly 25 pound little frame out of the warm car and feeling the dead weight of his sleeping self against my shoulder as I carried him into the house reminded me again of how much I adore this sweet fella. Sometimes I find myself stunned by the weight of my heart's affection for this boy who makes us a family instead of merely a couple. And, in light of these emotions, all the thoughts of my toy-full house and the mounds of laundry and the recently emerging self-will of a soon to be toddler all fade into the background and I think quietly to myself, there should be another one of these in my small house.
Perhaps one shouldn't admit this sort of thing out loud and especially not on a blog for crying out loud. And yet, despite my fears and hesitations about what may or may not happen, I can't help but acknowledge that one little person in our family is not enough. To be honest, lately I've wondered if that's such a brilliant idea considering my slight tendency to be neurotic, anxious and mildly particular (read: OCD). But, all those bents aside, something about it feels necessary, imperative and right.
I say all this with a hopeful heart and yet there's such a huge part of me that's afraid that it won't be possible for some reason without an explanation. It's hard not to hope for something without letting fear creep in from some corner or another.
For now, the thought of another little someone being crafted by the Creator to expand our family's borders is something I can't get out of my head. A little butterfly of excitement twinges in my middle when I let myself imagine who that someone might be. Despite my fears, the hope keeps pushing through and I can't help but wonder who may be around the next bend of our family's road.
Basically, to sum up, all those posts I've written over the last year about the crazy, laundry-heavy, mom-brain, memory-loss-inducing, food-on-the-wall, yoga pant-wearing angst of motherhood: it's all been worth it.
Sam and I are a bit weary from a day of gawking at slinky jellyfish, toothy sharks and baby alligators behind thick glass walls. We were tourists in our own town this morning with Matt's mom and stepdad and cousins Nicholas and Braden at the Chattanooga Aquarium. It was a good time but something about winding our way through all those other visitors with strollers and motorized chairs and excited small people pressing themselves up against the glass of every exhibit was enough to make those of who stay at home by ourselves (and our non-talking small people) most of the time a wee bit tired. Sam was pushed beyond his limit of 2.5 hours past his naptime and was weaving and wobbling like a little sailor just off his recently harboured boat.
So, he and I made our way back up the mountain to get a nap in before we'd passed the point of no return (i.e. no nap = super grumpy baby monster). Heaving his nearly 25 pound little frame out of the warm car and feeling the dead weight of his sleeping self against my shoulder as I carried him into the house reminded me again of how much I adore this sweet fella. Sometimes I find myself stunned by the weight of my heart's affection for this boy who makes us a family instead of merely a couple. And, in light of these emotions, all the thoughts of my toy-full house and the mounds of laundry and the recently emerging self-will of a soon to be toddler all fade into the background and I think quietly to myself, there should be another one of these in my small house.
Perhaps one shouldn't admit this sort of thing out loud and especially not on a blog for crying out loud. And yet, despite my fears and hesitations about what may or may not happen, I can't help but acknowledge that one little person in our family is not enough. To be honest, lately I've wondered if that's such a brilliant idea considering my slight tendency to be neurotic, anxious and mildly particular (read: OCD). But, all those bents aside, something about it feels necessary, imperative and right.
I say all this with a hopeful heart and yet there's such a huge part of me that's afraid that it won't be possible for some reason without an explanation. It's hard not to hope for something without letting fear creep in from some corner or another.
For now, the thought of another little someone being crafted by the Creator to expand our family's borders is something I can't get out of my head. A little butterfly of excitement twinges in my middle when I let myself imagine who that someone might be. Despite my fears, the hope keeps pushing through and I can't help but wonder who may be around the next bend of our family's road.
Basically, to sum up, all those posts I've written over the last year about the crazy, laundry-heavy, mom-brain, memory-loss-inducing, food-on-the-wall, yoga pant-wearing angst of motherhood: it's all been worth it.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Nature VS. Me
Nature and I are in a fight. I haven't admitted this situation to anyone until this moment, but it needs to be said out loud and so I'm saying it. I'm more than a little hesitant to acknowledge the present rift in my relationship with the natural world, but there's currently a spider in my bathroom and no else is here to kill it and it's only the twentieth insect/arachnid I've spied in my house in the last two days, so I'm a little on edge and nature is to blame. There, I said it.
Cicadas have descended on our house this summer like a plague of Moses-era proportions and I'm starting to wonder when they're planning to take over the world and eat all of our belongings. (In related news, I keep reading that Nashvillians are eating them as pizza toppings and dunking them in chocolate. This makes my skin crawl and gives me bad dreams at night.) And yet, those red-eyed, winged monsters are small potatoes compared to the freakishly large wolf spiders Matt so cavalierly dismisses when I point one out and subsequently run away shrieking as he shakes his head and maybe even rolls his eyes a little. He doesn't understand this response of mine to eight-legged creatures, but it's as instinctive a reaction as a knee jerk at the doctor's office. However, he has yet to see it as normal or acceptable.
Speaking of my nature-loving husband, I should tell you that he's overly fond of sleeping on the ground and tasting leaves of edible trees and buying three-day underwear (really?) at the local outdoor store. Before we fell in love, I unwittingly caused him to assume that I, too, was of the sort who loves subzero sleeping bags and climbing things in my spare time and would choose a hike through the woods over a trip to the mall 500 times to zero. And, I'll admit that I do have a soft place in my heart for a good hike through the woods that ends with a nice view on a crisp fall day full of pretty leaves and no mosquitos. BUT, let it be known that although I can strap on a pair of Chacos with the best of them, I love air conditioning and the smell of Starbucks in my hair and the feel of legs that have been shaved within the last 24 hours. So sue me.
But, I'm getting off track. These little differences between my husband and I regarding our hobbies and interests doesn't really have anything to do with the fact that nature and I are in a fight.
I am the proud parent of an 18 month old son who loves dirt under his fingernails and the taste of sand and the feel of bugs and rocks and anything else that has to do with what's outside my air-conditioned house, I am under contract as a mother to a son to be outside more than I would choose to be under normal circumstances. I've noticed of late that I've become increasingly and inconveniently nervous about spending time in the Great Outdoors (i.e. my yard). I find myself scanning our little grassy space for possible lurking reptiles or hairy spiders or kamikaze cicadas. It's nervewracking and I realize that confessing this to you will likely relegate me to the "Lame" category in your slam book. I know that loving nature is cool and relevant and fashionable and "in." And, yet, with each spider in my bathroom and every empty cicada shell on my front stoop, I dream of fumigating this little quarter of an acre we live on.
Perhaps I'm exaggerating here. A little. A very little bit. I fear I am becoming less appealing as a human being as I type this post and so I should wrap this up before I fall off the edge of your list of people you want to hang out with. To sum up, yes, I love God's creation. But, I could really do with a few less cicadas and I'm also considering commissioning a task force to kill all the spiders within a 5 mile vicinity of my house. Is that so wrong?
Don't tell Matt I said that.
Cicadas have descended on our house this summer like a plague of Moses-era proportions and I'm starting to wonder when they're planning to take over the world and eat all of our belongings. (In related news, I keep reading that Nashvillians are eating them as pizza toppings and dunking them in chocolate. This makes my skin crawl and gives me bad dreams at night.) And yet, those red-eyed, winged monsters are small potatoes compared to the freakishly large wolf spiders Matt so cavalierly dismisses when I point one out and subsequently run away shrieking as he shakes his head and maybe even rolls his eyes a little. He doesn't understand this response of mine to eight-legged creatures, but it's as instinctive a reaction as a knee jerk at the doctor's office. However, he has yet to see it as normal or acceptable.
Speaking of my nature-loving husband, I should tell you that he's overly fond of sleeping on the ground and tasting leaves of edible trees and buying three-day underwear (really?) at the local outdoor store. Before we fell in love, I unwittingly caused him to assume that I, too, was of the sort who loves subzero sleeping bags and climbing things in my spare time and would choose a hike through the woods over a trip to the mall 500 times to zero. And, I'll admit that I do have a soft place in my heart for a good hike through the woods that ends with a nice view on a crisp fall day full of pretty leaves and no mosquitos. BUT, let it be known that although I can strap on a pair of Chacos with the best of them, I love air conditioning and the smell of Starbucks in my hair and the feel of legs that have been shaved within the last 24 hours. So sue me.
But, I'm getting off track. These little differences between my husband and I regarding our hobbies and interests doesn't really have anything to do with the fact that nature and I are in a fight.
I am the proud parent of an 18 month old son who loves dirt under his fingernails and the taste of sand and the feel of bugs and rocks and anything else that has to do with what's outside my air-conditioned house, I am under contract as a mother to a son to be outside more than I would choose to be under normal circumstances. I've noticed of late that I've become increasingly and inconveniently nervous about spending time in the Great Outdoors (i.e. my yard). I find myself scanning our little grassy space for possible lurking reptiles or hairy spiders or kamikaze cicadas. It's nervewracking and I realize that confessing this to you will likely relegate me to the "Lame" category in your slam book. I know that loving nature is cool and relevant and fashionable and "in." And, yet, with each spider in my bathroom and every empty cicada shell on my front stoop, I dream of fumigating this little quarter of an acre we live on.
Perhaps I'm exaggerating here. A little. A very little bit. I fear I am becoming less appealing as a human being as I type this post and so I should wrap this up before I fall off the edge of your list of people you want to hang out with. To sum up, yes, I love God's creation. But, I could really do with a few less cicadas and I'm also considering commissioning a task force to kill all the spiders within a 5 mile vicinity of my house. Is that so wrong?
Don't tell Matt I said that.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Miscommunication 101
It's Tuesday and I'm currently pondering Lady Gaga's ubiquitous pantlessness, envying Obama's visit to the UK and wondering if I am too old to be wearing the shorts I'm wearing right now. In other news, I thought I'd share a little about marital bliss here in the Rieger household these days. Translation: I thought I'd share a few thoughts on how to miscommunicate with your spouse.
Last night between episodes of Modern Family on Hulu, Matt and I had a conversation of sorts about how he enjoys staying home on Saturdays to watch Sam, allowing me to venture out into the wide, wide world for a couple hours by my lonesome. I said that I appreciated that and then added that I also enjoyed letting him stay at home with Sam while I ran errands (which occasionally includes the mall) on Saturdays because I know that he doesn't get to be at home as much as I do AND he doesn't really enjoy errands or the mall. And then something happened that I don't understand. Somehow we got a little testy with one another and weren't really sure why. I think it had something to do with both of us thinking the other was undermining our sacrifices or perhaps we thought the other was inflating their sacrifices on our behalf. Hm. I'm still not sure that we have fully sorted out our miscommunication. There were apologies made, but I think there's still some lingering mild confusion.
In light of this conversation, I've realized that I've been a little jealous of Matt's freedom to trot off to the office where no one needs him to change their diaper or reprimand them for grinding cheerios into the carpet on a regular basis. I've had to be reminded lately that he's not heading off to Oz or Candyland or Target everyday. He's going to a desk where he answers phones and stares at a computer screen and deals with customers who, on occasion, are not as reasonable as one might expect.
Similarly to my misconceptions of his daily adventures at work, I think that he might be a little (or a lot) under-aware of what a day in the life of a stay-at-home mom entails. Sure, he's watched Sam for a few hours without me, but there's nothing like a full ten hour day of todder-watching to make you dream of sitting at a desk from 9 to 5.
So, in light of a situation that's ripe for miscommunication, I give you this list of questions for husbands to help them gauge (and perchance revere) the stress level of a stay-at-home mom on any given day. Thanks to my friend Glenn for sharing this with me, and now with you:
Stay-At-Home vs. Working Parents
Questions to help spouses bridge the communication gap
By Heather Rigby | May 19, 2011
-www.babble.com-
When you decide to become a stay-at-home parent, you enter into a different realm — one ruled by illogical two-year-old dictators, school schedules, and choosing the correct color yogurt. As much as I can explain this to my husband, I don’t know that I’m getting through. Now I’ve done the next best thing: creating a list of questions that will help him and other office-bound parents gauge how (cough, cough) similar their days are to ours.
1.When you walked into work this morning and pleasantly greeted your co-worker Jim, was his first reaction to scream “NO! WANT JASON!" followed by an office supply being thrown at you?
2.Has a colleague ever climbed up on your lap while you were using your computer and slammed the keyboard with both fists until the up arrow no longer worked?
3.Do you have to lock yourself in the supply closet or bathroom on a regular basis in order to make phone calls?
4.Did you finish a complete thought at any time during the day?
5.When you went out to lunch with your fellow workers, did you have to pack a diaper/juice/extra outfit for them? Did you have to wipe their faces? Smile an apology and leave an extra tip for the waiter on their behalf?
6.When a co-worker needed you for something, did she sit at her desk with her head tilted back toward the ceiling and repeatedly scream “SEAN! SEEEEANNNN! SEAAAAAAN!” until you came to find him?
7.When you needed a specific colleague, did you search all over for him, only to finally find him giggling in the cabinet under the sink? Did you also find six pairs of your church shoes under there with him?
8.Have you had to come to an associate’s aid because she fell off her desk after trying to climb on top of it using a rolling chair?
9.When you reached for the report a co-worker was handing you, did he snatch them away at the last second and scream “MINE!” while shoving you backwards?
10.Does your colleague lift up her shirt and pick things out of her belly button every time she comes over to ask a question?
11.While you are using the restroom, do various co-workers come in the stall and ask you to settle a disagreement or open a packet of fruit snacks?
12.During a board meeting when everyone is present, do you notice a smell and then have to check all your colleagues’ pants to locate it? In fact, at ANY point in your day do you have to deal with another person's feces?
If the answer to most of these questions is no, it’s a safe bet to assume you’re in an office. That said, if your answer to most of these questions is yes, and you know you’re in an office, it’s safe to assume you might need a new job.
Last night between episodes of Modern Family on Hulu, Matt and I had a conversation of sorts about how he enjoys staying home on Saturdays to watch Sam, allowing me to venture out into the wide, wide world for a couple hours by my lonesome. I said that I appreciated that and then added that I also enjoyed letting him stay at home with Sam while I ran errands (which occasionally includes the mall) on Saturdays because I know that he doesn't get to be at home as much as I do AND he doesn't really enjoy errands or the mall. And then something happened that I don't understand. Somehow we got a little testy with one another and weren't really sure why. I think it had something to do with both of us thinking the other was undermining our sacrifices or perhaps we thought the other was inflating their sacrifices on our behalf. Hm. I'm still not sure that we have fully sorted out our miscommunication. There were apologies made, but I think there's still some lingering mild confusion.
In light of this conversation, I've realized that I've been a little jealous of Matt's freedom to trot off to the office where no one needs him to change their diaper or reprimand them for grinding cheerios into the carpet on a regular basis. I've had to be reminded lately that he's not heading off to Oz or Candyland or Target everyday. He's going to a desk where he answers phones and stares at a computer screen and deals with customers who, on occasion, are not as reasonable as one might expect.
Similarly to my misconceptions of his daily adventures at work, I think that he might be a little (or a lot) under-aware of what a day in the life of a stay-at-home mom entails. Sure, he's watched Sam for a few hours without me, but there's nothing like a full ten hour day of todder-watching to make you dream of sitting at a desk from 9 to 5.
So, in light of a situation that's ripe for miscommunication, I give you this list of questions for husbands to help them gauge (and perchance revere) the stress level of a stay-at-home mom on any given day. Thanks to my friend Glenn for sharing this with me, and now with you:
Stay-At-Home vs. Working Parents
Questions to help spouses bridge the communication gap
By Heather Rigby | May 19, 2011
-www.babble.com-
When you decide to become a stay-at-home parent, you enter into a different realm — one ruled by illogical two-year-old dictators, school schedules, and choosing the correct color yogurt. As much as I can explain this to my husband, I don’t know that I’m getting through. Now I’ve done the next best thing: creating a list of questions that will help him and other office-bound parents gauge how (cough, cough) similar their days are to ours.
1.When you walked into work this morning and pleasantly greeted your co-worker Jim, was his first reaction to scream “NO! WANT JASON!" followed by an office supply being thrown at you?
2.Has a colleague ever climbed up on your lap while you were using your computer and slammed the keyboard with both fists until the up arrow no longer worked?
3.Do you have to lock yourself in the supply closet or bathroom on a regular basis in order to make phone calls?
4.Did you finish a complete thought at any time during the day?
5.When you went out to lunch with your fellow workers, did you have to pack a diaper/juice/extra outfit for them? Did you have to wipe their faces? Smile an apology and leave an extra tip for the waiter on their behalf?
6.When a co-worker needed you for something, did she sit at her desk with her head tilted back toward the ceiling and repeatedly scream “SEAN! SEEEEANNNN! SEAAAAAAN!” until you came to find him?
7.When you needed a specific colleague, did you search all over for him, only to finally find him giggling in the cabinet under the sink? Did you also find six pairs of your church shoes under there with him?
8.Have you had to come to an associate’s aid because she fell off her desk after trying to climb on top of it using a rolling chair?
9.When you reached for the report a co-worker was handing you, did he snatch them away at the last second and scream “MINE!” while shoving you backwards?
10.Does your colleague lift up her shirt and pick things out of her belly button every time she comes over to ask a question?
11.While you are using the restroom, do various co-workers come in the stall and ask you to settle a disagreement or open a packet of fruit snacks?
12.During a board meeting when everyone is present, do you notice a smell and then have to check all your colleagues’ pants to locate it? In fact, at ANY point in your day do you have to deal with another person's feces?
If the answer to most of these questions is no, it’s a safe bet to assume you’re in an office. That said, if your answer to most of these questions is yes, and you know you’re in an office, it’s safe to assume you might need a new job.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Old Days (i.e. May): A Lost Post
I'm a little light-headed due to the inconsistent eating schedule/menu that is motherhood. So, I hope you'll pardon me if this post rambles and if I perchance wander down a rabbit trail. It's also possible that I could say something awkward and if so, pardon me.
It's another Monday and I'm still trying to figure out how to spend this day productively. It's 1:30 in the afternoon, which means I'm a little behind in the productive department. Sam's been asleep for approximately one hour. I'm hoping for one more. I realized today that these two or so hours a day that he naps find me feeling pressured to make them count. I mean, they're the only two hours of the day that kind of belong to me and only me. However, I'm also discovering that the pressure to accomplish something (i.e. read a book, write a book, catch up with a friend, learn something, wash 8 loads of laundry, write a manifesto, etc.)usually backfires on me and I end up doing something completely the opposite of productive. Like reading People magazine. Or painting my toenails. Or looking up unnecessary information on Wikipedia.
Sigh.
I love motherhood, but I find myself a little uncomfortable in it's confines and boundaries of sorts. And by uncomfortable, I just mean that it's against my nature to be at home for long periods of the day, to occasionally not have a real conversation for more than two days in a row, to accomplish so little in so much time. I feel myself straining against the time constraints of a small person's schedule. I'd also like to confess that I'm not very good at playing. I get bored with blocks and trains sometimes and wish that I was at Barnes and Noble. Isn't that terrible?
But, in light of all these ways that I am so obviously wrestling with the colorful realities of mothering, I want to do this. I want to do this with Sam and with any other little people God decides to entrust to us. It's so hard, but in the very same breath, so good.
Sam and I were reading Sandra Boynton's book Opposites this morning and when we got to the "short" and "tall" page, Sam pointed at the tall giraffe and said "towl," which if you don't have your baby translator handy, is "tall." He said it a couple more times until it sounded like "tow" and then as if a lightbulb had gone off in his little head, he pointed to his toe and said "toe." Seriously, people. He's a genius. He got a big squeeze for that accomplishment, which he quickly wrestled his way out of.
I love that kid. Things like that happen all day long and if I'm being honest with myself, I know that those moments are worth a billion trips to Barnes and Noble.
It's another Monday and I'm still trying to figure out how to spend this day productively. It's 1:30 in the afternoon, which means I'm a little behind in the productive department. Sam's been asleep for approximately one hour. I'm hoping for one more. I realized today that these two or so hours a day that he naps find me feeling pressured to make them count. I mean, they're the only two hours of the day that kind of belong to me and only me. However, I'm also discovering that the pressure to accomplish something (i.e. read a book, write a book, catch up with a friend, learn something, wash 8 loads of laundry, write a manifesto, etc.)usually backfires on me and I end up doing something completely the opposite of productive. Like reading People magazine. Or painting my toenails. Or looking up unnecessary information on Wikipedia.
Sigh.
I love motherhood, but I find myself a little uncomfortable in it's confines and boundaries of sorts. And by uncomfortable, I just mean that it's against my nature to be at home for long periods of the day, to occasionally not have a real conversation for more than two days in a row, to accomplish so little in so much time. I feel myself straining against the time constraints of a small person's schedule. I'd also like to confess that I'm not very good at playing. I get bored with blocks and trains sometimes and wish that I was at Barnes and Noble. Isn't that terrible?
But, in light of all these ways that I am so obviously wrestling with the colorful realities of mothering, I want to do this. I want to do this with Sam and with any other little people God decides to entrust to us. It's so hard, but in the very same breath, so good.
Sam and I were reading Sandra Boynton's book Opposites this morning and when we got to the "short" and "tall" page, Sam pointed at the tall giraffe and said "towl," which if you don't have your baby translator handy, is "tall." He said it a couple more times until it sounded like "tow" and then as if a lightbulb had gone off in his little head, he pointed to his toe and said "toe." Seriously, people. He's a genius. He got a big squeeze for that accomplishment, which he quickly wrestled his way out of.
I love that kid. Things like that happen all day long and if I'm being honest with myself, I know that those moments are worth a billion trips to Barnes and Noble.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
This Quiet Life
It's Thursday, which I just figured out this morning. I've been a day behind all week for some reason, so if I was supposed to meet you somewhere in the last 24 hours, this is why I wasn't there. Additionally, I'm also unsure as to what the actual date is today. But, what I do know is that it's naptime for the little guy and so I'm sitting by the kitchen window letting the spring air in, after a few days of having the house shut up for a brief stint of blackberry winter.
Maybe I should explain that I'm unaware of dates and times and such because I'm at home a lot, away from memos and newsflashes and watercooler conversations. In light of the somewhat hermit-ish season that I've entered into, I've found myself pondering this life at home that Sam and I spend together these days, how quiet it is (in a larger sense, not to mislead you into thinking that there aren't pots and pans being beaten with spoons at various times during the day). I don't realize how small our little world is until I turn on the television or rev up the computer and find that there are all sorts of things going on out there that I am completely out of touch with. Some days, this really bothers me. Today, however, I can't help but look around at the overturned trucks in the den and the errant cheerios under the table and think that this quiet life with Sam is good. Hard, but good.
While I was putting on my make-up yesterday, which I economically wore again today, Sam entertained himself by tossing various items into our bathtub. He also found time to unload a shelf, dump out a large container of blocks and sort through some envelopes I had tucked away, presumably out of his reach. I couldn't help but think that raising this little guy feels a bit like a three-ring circus going on around me at all times. I haven't decided yet if I'm the ringmaster, or if Sam is. It's moments like those when I can't help but shake my head and laugh. And then Sam laughs with me.
I think that I've spent more time complaining about this season that I'm in than being thankful for it. If my younger self could see me now, I would sit myself down and remind me how much I wanted to be here ten years ago, married and raising children at home. I would probably kick myself in the shins for my forgetfulness and ingratitude. I have exactly what I wanted all those years of singleness and still I pine for some of that somewhat lonely freedom I had in spades and didn't want at all.
So, this is me confessing to being a selfish woman whose dreams of having children are currently coming true in the little person of Sam. The mall and the movie theater and the restaurants without high chairs can wait until I'm fifty. This season belongs to Sam, and I want to embrace with joy all the trucks and sandboxes and stuffed farm animals it has to offer.
*If you could remind me of this next time I tell you about the tantrum he threw at the grocery store, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks.
Maybe I should explain that I'm unaware of dates and times and such because I'm at home a lot, away from memos and newsflashes and watercooler conversations. In light of the somewhat hermit-ish season that I've entered into, I've found myself pondering this life at home that Sam and I spend together these days, how quiet it is (in a larger sense, not to mislead you into thinking that there aren't pots and pans being beaten with spoons at various times during the day). I don't realize how small our little world is until I turn on the television or rev up the computer and find that there are all sorts of things going on out there that I am completely out of touch with. Some days, this really bothers me. Today, however, I can't help but look around at the overturned trucks in the den and the errant cheerios under the table and think that this quiet life with Sam is good. Hard, but good.
While I was putting on my make-up yesterday, which I economically wore again today, Sam entertained himself by tossing various items into our bathtub. He also found time to unload a shelf, dump out a large container of blocks and sort through some envelopes I had tucked away, presumably out of his reach. I couldn't help but think that raising this little guy feels a bit like a three-ring circus going on around me at all times. I haven't decided yet if I'm the ringmaster, or if Sam is. It's moments like those when I can't help but shake my head and laugh. And then Sam laughs with me.
I think that I've spent more time complaining about this season that I'm in than being thankful for it. If my younger self could see me now, I would sit myself down and remind me how much I wanted to be here ten years ago, married and raising children at home. I would probably kick myself in the shins for my forgetfulness and ingratitude. I have exactly what I wanted all those years of singleness and still I pine for some of that somewhat lonely freedom I had in spades and didn't want at all.
So, this is me confessing to being a selfish woman whose dreams of having children are currently coming true in the little person of Sam. The mall and the movie theater and the restaurants without high chairs can wait until I'm fifty. This season belongs to Sam, and I want to embrace with joy all the trucks and sandboxes and stuffed farm animals it has to offer.
*If you could remind me of this next time I tell you about the tantrum he threw at the grocery store, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks.
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