Friends are Friends Forever: Part Deux

There are a few things about adulthood that I don't like. Some things on that list include some things you probably don't like either: wrinkle cream, cellulite, taxes, housework, antacids, etc. Ranking pretty high up there is the fact that making friends just isn't what it used to be. In a word, it's kind of HARD.

In the old days (as in, my youth), making friends included sleepovers, passing notes in class, dishing about the eighth grade boys (read: older men) we liked and sharing clothes. Fast forward ten years and making friends looked pretty much the same, only transportation was easier and fashion had improved. Essentially, friendship was simple. You hung out, doing somewhat unmemorable things for hours upon hours and before you knew it, you were best friends who finished each other's sentences and shared each other's closets.

Fast forward ten more years and marriage, husbands, babies, bills, etc. have filled up every square inch of your life so that there isn't much room for much else. You meet potential friends at church or at the park, but because there isn't time for essential friend-building experiences like random, late night Wal Mart runs followed by scattered, smothered and covered at Waffle House until 2 am or anything remotely close to the loads of empty time you used to be able to spend getting to know someone inside out, now it seems to require months and more likely years to really get to know someone and to be known by them at the level you hope for.

I've been thinking about this lately because it seems that so many women I talk to have similar feelings. Creating friendships that reach the depth that came so naturally before there were so many distractions can feel almost impossible now. Maybe it's not this way for men, but I find that it's almost always the case for the women I know.

Recently, I got to see two of my best friends together for the first time in over a year. I have to admit that it was bittersweet. It was so good to see friends who have known me long before Matt was ever in the picture and long before I was a thirty-something stay-at-home mom. I'd forgotten how affirming it is to spend time with friends who are so incredibly familiar and who know things about me that even I have forgotten.

But, driving away from that visit, I couldn't help but feel some sadness knowing that sort of reunion will probably be a rare occurrence. I also found myself wondering why it's so hard to forge friendships as dear as those anymore. I know it has so much to do with the time (or lack thereof) factor, and despite the desire and the need for deep friendships, it's just stinkin' hard to create those relationships in this present stage of life.

I'll admit to not being sure what the solution is here. I doubt it's more social media and it probably isn't going to be something easy like potluck dinners. But, there's got to be some way to enable friendships with the depth and the familiarity that we were created to experience with each other. Currently, I'm thinking a commune is the answer, but there's probably something that requires less moving and isn't so cult-ish.

Until I figure this out, I'm sure as heck glad I've got some girlfriends around the country who've known me long enough to expect my voicemail box to always be full, my hugs to possibly break their ribs, and my cookies to most likely contain nutmeg.

Here's to you, old friends. I wish you lived next door.



Side Note: If case you were wondering, here's what Sam's been doing lately...

I Want to Shoot the Sleeping Bunnies

It's Friday, one day after National Chocolate Day and I'm still celebrating with my trusty bag o' chocolate chips. Well, to be honest, I'm not really celebrating, I'm self-medicating. It's been one of those days and it's barely the afternoon. You know the kind of day (er, morning) I mean. I could sum it up for you but you really don't need me to because you've most likely had a similar morning if you have someone under the age of two in your house. OK, well, since I've got a little time, I'll fill you in on my day thus far and we can compare notes later.

For starters, the brain-numbing chorus of "Sleeping Bunnies" has been the background soundtrack in my head all morning, which I think registers as a twenty-five on the chocolate chip prescription scale. *wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies* That may or may not have just been a subtle cry for help.

To continue, there's been a lot of somewhat troubling snacking taking place this morning: i.e. fuzz from a q-tip (just to clarify, it was an unused q-tip), hair from my hairbrush, pages of children's books, stale Cheerios from the carpet, toilet paper (also, unused), rusted pieces of an old tag stapled under our fifty year old dining room table (why?), etc. You get the picture. You'd think I was keeping a very untidy house, but if you'll remember, I'm borderline obsessive compulsive, so our house is pretty neat by most standards. This means, as you may have surmised, that my sweet baby is having to be uber-creative in his acquisition of these unusual snack choices.

Moving on. This may in fact be the straw that eventually breaks the mama's back, whatever that may entail. Thomas the Train is considered the stuff of legend in our home and all things somehow come back around to this great beacon of railroading glory. We have toy trains that sound like Thomas and toy trains that can float in your bathtub and trains that can fit in your pocket for convenient portability on that quick trip to the Starbucks for a cup of sanity. We also have access to all sorts of Thomas footage on our streaming Netflix which means that at any given moment, someone is standing in front of the television pointing insistently while also repeating the two words that I hear in my deepest of deep sleeps: "CHOO CHOO." I estimate that I have heard those two words atleast 435 times this morning. It has almost pushed me to the edge. Luckily, naptime stepped in and saved us both.

Lastly, there is the insistence on doing every single thing that is NOT allowed rather than doing the plethora of things that ARE allowed. A list of what is allowed includes: playing with one's many, many toys; reading one's many, many books; eating the relatively nutritious snacks that have been set out for you; etc. A quick list of what is not allowed but is apparently loads more fun: climbing onto the toilet in order to reach daddy's razor, throwing mama's toiletries down the stairs just to see them bounce off of each step, eating the somewhat unclassifiable items one discovers mashed into the carpet, dumping out anything and everything that can be dumped out, turning over laundry baskets in order to stand on them and give dramatic oratories on "choo choos," attempting to skydive off the edge of the sofa into a small basket, digging through the bathroom wastebasket for treasures, ETC. And, this, my friends, is merely an abbreviated list of the limitless possibilities of "fun" as defined by Sam.

So, here I sit while the boy sleeps, typing this little post and wondering if I will survive the afternoon. It's possible I won't. But, if I do, it will only be by the grace of God and this bag of chocolate chips I have slowly but surely finished off.

Breaking News: Husband Escapes Wife's Obvious Trap

A recent conversation in the Rieger household before heading to a 4th of July cookout:

Me: I think this skirt is a little tighter than usual. Maybe I dried it too long. What do you think? (turning around to give husband a better view from which to give an "honest" opinion, while not actually wanting an honest opinion.)

Matt: (no comment)

Me: I think that maybe I've gained a few pounds in the last few weeks. Probably those enchiladas I made and then those chocolate chip cookies. And we've been traveling the last few weekends, eating out and stuff. (pause) Do you think I've gained a little?

Matt: (no comment, continues doing whatever it was he was doing without making eye contact)

Me: So, what do you think? I need a second opinion. Have I gained a few pounds?

Matt: I think I hear Sam waking up from his nap. I should go get him.

Me: Oh. Yeah. But, wait, I need to know if you think my skirt's too tight. And if you think I've gained a few pounds.

Matt: (heading upstairs) I'm going to go get Sam.

Me: Wait, does this mean you think I have gained a few pounds? Do you think I look fat?

Matt: (about to disappear upstairs) I can't hear you.

Me: So, what you're saying is that I HAVE gained a few pounds and I DO look fat in this skirt? Why didn't you tell me that I was gaining weight?!?

Matt: (laughing as he disappears upstairs, also shaking his head). Are you kidding me?

Me: (realizing that was probably a bit of an unrealistic expectation) Well, who else is going to tell me? I just needed to know.

Matt: (no longer within hearing distance)

Me: (changing skirts) What about this one? Does this one make me look fat?

Matt: (locking himself in the upstairs bathroom in self-defense)


Next week's edition of Breaking News: Husband Critiques Wife's Meatloaf and Lives to Tell About It.

Wednesday Confessions

I have approximately twelve or so minutes to write this post before the little person upstairs decides naptime is over. So, I thought I'd confess a few things on this Wednesday seeing how a blog is really just a modern diary for technologically hip adults. And, as everyone knows, diaries are for confessing.

Here goes.

(spoiler alert) Last evening, while being forced to watch the last installment of "Lonesome Dove," I cried a little when Augustus McCrae died. I also dreamed about cowboys and the open range all night.

I just ate strawberries with real (as in, I made it with whipping cream and confectioner's sugar in my Kitchenaid) whipped cream (in honor of Wimbledon, of course) AND then proceeded to eat Nutella from the jar. I estimate that I will need to run thirty-five miles to burn off those calories.

I read an article this morning on People.com about who in Hollywood has the best beach body and I am now determined to never wear a bathing suit in public, and perhaps not even in private, ever again.

My Jeep turned itself off earlier today for a minute while I was stopped behind a road work truck. I freaked out a little and then...called my dad. Apparently, thirty-three is not too old to call one's father when one gets a little scared. Luckily for Sam, who was en route to the park, it started right back up.

I am currently waiting for my husband to come home and take out the stinky trash (all the while knowing that I could just take it out myself).

I've been daydreaming lately about living somewhere above the Mason/Dixon line. I have yet to analyze this, but whatever the reason, I won't be mentioning this to my uber-southern mama.

I just spent the last hour watching the Nadal/Fish Wimbledon quarterfinal match when I probably should have been doing laundry/washing dishes/calling my grandmother/cleaning the bathroom/etc.

I've been perusing your Facebook photo albums this afternoon and living vicariously through your recent beach vacation.

I still have fourteen voicemails in my inbox leftover from April.

I added Justin Bieber's "Never Say Never" to our Netflix queue. I think Matt may be unaware of this as of yet.

There are atleast 421 other things I should be doing right now.

Whew. I feel better already. However, I may regret this rash confessional later.

Awkward Dating: A Look Back

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.

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.

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.