I’m going back to work.
I know! That is about how I feel too, Alice. Surprised, anxious, off kilter, but mostly excited. I put the feelers out to a former boss over a month ago to keep me in mind for part time evening work, and she called me today with a full time offer that it would be stupid to turn down. I will be making more a month then Tom does right now, so, instead of juggling our schedules, hiring childcare, and worrying that our kids are suffering, he’s going to quit his job and be the stay at home parent, working occasional evenings at his catering job. We can roll our current benefits over to this job, I will have paid vacation days, and since it is at the university, in six months I will be eligible for the tuition waver, and can work on my Masters degree for $5 a credit. Ive done the job before, it’s with the group that put me through school (so I know the program), my boss is wonderful….
But I won’t be home with my girls.
This is the right thing to do - for our family, for our finances, for my education and career, for so many reasons.
But I won’t be home with my girls.
And that is already breaking my heart.
You know how sometimes, when you are on the fence about a decision, if you just quit thinking about it something will come along and make the decision for you?
I think God/fate/the cosmos want me to homeschool. Otherwise, when I pulled up to the yardsale of thousands of books about homeschooling, God wouldn’t have made everything FREE. I told myself I would only come home with one small bin of books, but somehow ended up with 4 stacks of books, two carts of children’s craft supplies, a box of paints, and another box (still out in the car) full of math puzzles. I pushed $10 into the woman’s hand as we were leaving, but she made me promise to come back tomorrow and pick up everything else, when I have more room in my van. She even offered to pack it up and save it for me, but I told her that it was okay, I would take my chances.
But of all the treasures I came home with today, the most important is this little Disney Princess dinner set. Not because they are expensive, or rare, but because of who they used to belong to. My friend N handed them to me as we were leaving her house today, knowing that Ella would love them, and I cried as I drove away. They belonged to a little girl I never got to meet, but who I think about a lot. Their story is not mine to tell, but we miss her, and her little brother, and even those of us who never got to hear their laughter know were are poorer for not having them in our lives. A part of me wants to put these little plates up on a high shelf where no one can touch them, but no. N could have done that, and no one would have blamed her, but she wanted Ella to enjoy them. And based on how hard it was to get a picture of all three pieces without Ella swiping one and yelling “MY PRINCESS PLATE! I NEED IT!” I think she will.
On our taxes this year, my occupation was listed as “Housewife” which made Tom and I both laugh. Perhaps if you could see my house, you would laugh too. I… am not a housekeeper. I was upfront with Tom about this when we first met - I am clear in my priorities, and dusting is not anywhere near the top. Heck, laundry only creeps into the top 10 when I am out of undies. I like making messes - with food, with crafts, with blocks and crayons and books. I like cluttered bookshelves, and I can ignore oatmeal streaks on a window like you wouldn’t believe.
It’s a talent, really, living in muck with a smile. I am strict about things that smell or could make us sick - I am the sponge watchdog, and never let food sit on a plate on the counter overnight because, eww. But the sprayed off plate? It will sit there until I am either out of plates/lids/cutting boards to eat off, or Tom gets home and (shaking his head at the chaos) loads the dishwasher. In fact, Tom does a lot of the cleaning around here, and with him starting his new and improved job, I am determined to take that load off of him. When I was pregnant out-to-there, and then had a newborn & toddler, I think my excuses were pretty valid. Besides, Tom was only working part time the last few months, and if he is here to help make the messes, it’s fair that he helps clean them up. But for him to have to come home from1.5 jobs to clean up after me and the girls? Smacks a bit of princess, doesn’t it?
So, I made a schedule, and we are sticking to it. There are set times every day to wake up, start laundry, do dishes, have snacks, take naps. There are days for changing sheets, for cleaning bathrooms, and for (gasp) dusting (we live on a busy street, so it really does build up in the summer when we have the windows open). It’s been two weeks, and little by little it’s starting too feel more like “our day” and less like a job. There is a lot of room for wiggles and play, but it has also really helped the mood of the house to know what is coming next. Ella has started sleeping on a schedule (finally) and I’ve only had to run out of the shower naked, yelling “WHERE ARE ALL THE CLEAN TOWELS” once, and it was because they were in the dryer, not a wet mess in the closet. They say it takes 6 weeks for a routine to stick, so we’re a third of the way there.
All that said, my house is trashed right now. Ella has her ears turned off today, which makes keeping up with the messes hard. Right now she is sleeping, which would be an ideal time to catch up on dishes from yesterday and maybe fold a load of laundry without her godzillaing it, but instead I am drinking rewarmed coffee from this morning and googling “Meal Planning”.
Do any of you meal plan? I’m sure you do, because you are a smarter, more attractive, funnier person than I am. Of course you meal plan - you don’t run to the store 4 times a week for “just one thing” and come home with $60 worth of “groceries”. You don’t overbuy produce and then eat cheese sandwiches all week. You don’t even buy (more) crackers because the box is pretty, do you? I knew you didn’t.
The thing is, I don’t want to be that kind of consumer. I want to be a thoughtful consumer, a smart consumer. I want to know that what I am feeding my family is not only nutritious to them, but also not too costly to the earth. I believe in buying local, in knowing the grower, and in voting with my dollar. All of which are hard to do at Safeway. There is a local organic market that has a great grocery delivery service that I really want to support (not only for my own sanity, but also because I am so excited that Podunk City has this option and I want it to stick around) but to order groceries I really need to know what I am ordering and why. Thus, meal planning.
Advice? Links? If you have weekly menus you want to throw my way (especially ones that take leftovers into account) I would love to look at them. I know once I get my feet under me (and all the toys out from under my feet) it will be easy, but have you googled “meal planning” lately? There is a lot of information out there, and it’s a lot to sift through when you are 2 days behind on the diaper laundry. Any shove in the right direction would be great.
Filed under: Adulthood, Cricket, Ella, Everyone's family is insane, Motherhood
Today has been one of those up and down days. We spent the morning with friends, and (despite the normal toddler drama) it was both relaxing and energizing to just stand in my backyard and chat. It isn’t very often that I find people who make it easy for me to be myself around, but I’ve lucked out on the last year or so. I’ve written here before about how bad I am at friendship, (and all the lousy excuses I can think of why) but there comes a point where you just have to realize that you don’t meet many authentically good people in the world, and that it is nice to have friends. Imagine that.
So, the morning was a nice cushion for the call we got not long after everyone left. It’s a subject that I’m not sure how to approach on a public blog, how far to go. It’s not my story, it’s not my place to share, even though it affects our lives every single day. I guess the vague and undramatic way to say it is that someone close to us has a long history of mental illness, and chose to be recommitted last night. And instead of putting their mother and father’s name as their next of kin, they put my two, tiny girl’s names.
And it just breaks my heart (that they thought that was a logical thing to do, that my girls will bear the weight of this love, that my girls share these genes. That my callous heart jumps straight to how this effects me, instead of thinking about their struggle.)
So, now both the girls are sleeping, and instead of celebrating and drinking a cup of coffee while it is still hot for once, I am staring at my hands, amazed at how fragile it all is. The two friends I spent the morning with have seen more than their share of sorrow. So much more. But here they are, standing with me, nursing babies, planning futures, telling their story with a steady voice.
Knowing them gives me hope that it will be okay - we will just have to redefine ‘okay’.
(ETA, just for clarities sake: The person who is struggling with mental illness is not Tom. I forget that sometimes vagueness leads to confusion, so I thought I’d just throw that one out there. Tom is as sane as any man who lives with 3 girls who all use whining as a major form of communication can be.)
I was that kid. You know the one. The one who, at every single opportunity, asked “Why?” “How?” “Can I?” My poor mom, I realize now how frustrating I must have been. Add to my constant questioning the fact that I did not speak clearly until I was 8 or 9 (which you wouldn’t know by how chatty I am now), and I understand why I spent so much time outdoors (aka: out of my mom’s way).
The crux of many of Tom and I’s arguments is that I am still curious to a fault, and he is resoundingly not. We decided to buy a house, and I went into research mode - interest rates and insurance policies and loan applications. He picked up a glossy minimagazine and dog eared houses with big yards. We found out we were having a baby, and I read 28 books about birth. Tom showed up to the classes I picked, and drew babies riding dragons in the margins of the handouts. I bought all the cloth diapers, figured out the washing routine, showed Tom how to use them. He likes the wool pants that have pockets, because “baby pants with pockets! Ha!” We decided to have a wedding, and I spent 6 months losing my goddamnedmind, and he agreed to climb a 20 ft ladder and hang up poof balls.
I over think, over plan, over manage. I enjoy knowing every angle of a decision before I pin down my opinion, where Tom likes to chose based on gut and ease.
I don’t want to make it sound like Tom does not care about these things - he does. Not many men would climb into a birth tub, not once but twice, when they grew up thinking a man’s hand in labor was handing out cigars. He’s went along with all my crazy ideas, not because he doesn’t care about them, but because he trusts me to have researched the issue to death, and chosen the right course for our family.
But tonight we both let the chili burn, while I researched whether white or yellow cornmeal was best for cornbread, and Tom waited for me to tell him when to stir it (after years of me jumping on him for lifting the lid to stir every 4 minutes).
End result of our polar opposite approach to life: Soup from a can, warmed in the microwave. Let that be a lesson.
No, that’s not a rat.
The other day on the question post (which I am slowly working on answers to), my friend Jodie asked “ In a post on a message board you and I are both on, you mentioned wanting to knit something and having your hair cut like the person in the picture…Why? You have such pretty hair.
Oh and being a donut fan, curious what is your favorite donut?”
Don’t you all wish YOU knew Jodie? She’s one of the local women who I’ve really come to think of as friends, and not only because she is generous with compliments (and donuts). The picture she is referring to is this one, and while the final haircut is a bit different, I think if I could stand in shoes that rocking, I would be allllmost as cute. Which isn’t something I’ve felt in a while.
I don’t like to complain about my body, because I know it is ridiculous - Oh noes, poor me, no longer in the single digit pants sizes, I’s sooo fat. I kind of want to smack myself for being so obsessed about my body lately, so I’ve tried to spare you all the whining, and the inevitable compulsion to smack me too. I’m just.. not happy with my body. My flub, my skin, my smell (for reals), my teeth. My hair. This is the longest my hair had been since before I was in high school, and while it was not horrid when I had time to put some effort into it, more often than not I would just put it up in a lazy bun and forget about it until it fell out, or Alice ripped it out. There was just so much of it that straightening it took 30+ minutes and wearing it curly meant a full shower and 65 different hair products. It was just too.much.work.
So? Bye bye hair.
And I love it. I feel lighter, which I technically am. My pants still don’t fit, but hey, I weigh less! Heh. I’m sure in a week I will be looking for the next ‘quick change’ (maybe fix this toast hair color) but for now, I feel pretty, for the first time in a while.
Oh, and maple bars. And scones. And bear claws. And glazed with sprinkles. And cinnamon twists. Mmmmmmmm.
It’s rather telling about my cooking skills that tonight I looked at the dinner I had made Ella and I, and realized “Wow, this is just glorified Ramen noodles.” Sure, the pasta is whole wheat, the broccoli and butter are organic, the egg is free range and the parmesan cheese is actual cheese, but really, this is the exact meal I ate every other night in college. On the other nights? Cheese sandwiches. (I’ll give you one guess what we have for lunch most days.)
We had our last ‘official’ meeting with Cathy the midwife the other day, and she brought by the sweetest little book for Alice.
It’s this book from WA paper-cut artist Nikki McClure, and in a quick google search of her art, I found this baby book, which I am buying for Alice (and considering buying for Ella, and just going back and filling things in).
Cathy did Alice’s footprints at our first postpartum visit, and then wrote a sweet little birth story and blessing on the inside cover. It reminded me that I have still not posted Alice’s birth story here, and to tell you the truth it feels silly posting it now. She will be three months old on the 8th (how did that happen?) - is anyone still interested in reading about this? If anyone wants to pick my brain about it, I love talking about it, but it just feels weird to post the story on some arbitrary day, like “Hey, how’s it going, here’s a story about my vagina! one of the most important events in my life!”
Perhaps I will wait until her first birthday to post it.
During our visit with Cathy, I realized again how glad I am that we hired her, and that I took the time to get to know her. I’ve certainly never walked away from another medical relationship feeling like I’ve gained a friend and mentor, and I feel blessed that I stumbled on someone who is willing to be both. She inspires me to listen to that little voice in my gut that believes that women deserve the option to trust themselves. No, not everyone wants the kind of birth we had, and no, not everyone would be safe birthing at home. But why is it not an option- a real, attainable, accepted option - for those of us who do? Over the last year, I have been given the kind of care that women deserve, and seeing this kind of midwifery in practice makes me giddy about the prospect of offering this kind of care to other mothers.
So, I am doing research. I am comparing midwifery schools, trying to decide if being a CNM (and the years of nursing school) would be worth it, trying to envision how I could start this process in the next five years, with the end goal being finished in ten. So much (everything!) can change in the next few years, but right now this feels like the path I need to be on. Tom is behind me onebazillion percent, and kind of laughs every few months when I bring this up as if it is a new idea (”You know what I think I should do, once the girls are not so tiny?” “Look at ladies hoohas?” “Yup. “) but agreeing that it would be great, and actually finding a way to make it happen are two very different things. I can’t get serious about attending births until the girls are older, and financially, Tom should be the one to go back to school first to be able to use his degrees as more than wall hangings. But eventually, the girls are going to be able to wipe their own bums, Tom is going to be working in a career he loves, and I am going to be looking in the mirror asking “What’s next?”
Right now it’s either this, or writing that bestselling book of poetry.(Quick, how many of these do you own?)
Which is to say: it’s this.
Filed under: Adulthood
For the first time in my life, I have nothing on the horizon.
Wait, that sounds fatalistic, or depressed - let me reword that. For the first time, I have nothing to plan, to worry about, to anticipate, to schedule around. I realized today that I can’t remember the last time, if ever, that the future looked wide open - no wedding to plan, no school projects, no impending births, no plays, no moves, no summer jobs, no.. anything. My schedule for the next year looks like this: Yoga on Fridays, Knit Club every other Sunday, a Well-Baby check in February, my sister coming out in August, the girls’ birthdays in December. That is my foreseeable life in a nutshell. Has there ever been a time in my life where the day to day plans actually carry more weight than some far off project that is sitting on my shoulders? I can’t decide if it is freeing, or boring.
Then, of course, there is the question of when Tom and I will go back to school, because as perpetual college students, there is always a ‘going back’. When Cricket first announced her impending arrival, I said that I would apply for the MFA program this spring and (hopefully) start in the fall, when Cricket would be 10 months old. I’m…not. To swing it financially I will need to get a teaching/internship position, which in addition to classes, focusing on my writing, AND having two kids under 3, would just be too much. In a past life (i.e. three years ago) I would have basked in the chaos and jumped in feet first. Now, I think I would go insane, and not slowly. So? Maybe next spring I will feel more confident. Regardless, if I want to have a portfolio to send in at all, I need to get over this “I can only write when I am in classes” thing. Maybe once Alice is to the point where I can leave her for an hour or so I can start a writing group so that I actually, you know, WRITE, but until then I need to just get motivated and stop making excuses.
Seriously, for everyone’s sake, I shouldn’t make any more of these any time soon. But look how cute my excuses are! (Ella building with very heavy blocks (1/6/08) ; Alice is a big fan of the sling, and I am a big fan of her smiles (1/7/08))
So, no school, no work, no plans. Just me, my girls and Tom, making it through each day. And on that note, in the middle of writing this post, we went to the sledding hill and I BROKE MY BUTT. Seriously ya’ll, I think I broke my tail-bone. Ouch ouch ouch ouch. Thank goodness for multiple boppies in the house so I can sit on one. Plans for this year: try not to fall multiple times on your butt while holding a baby and screaming your head off. Good plan, too bad I already FAILED. Ouchhhhhh.
A year ago yesterday, my aunt Ruth died. I tried to write about it all day yesterday, and somehow never got past that sentence, which says something about how much I’ve managed to process her death. It’s just.. too much. A part of me feels like the balance of the world was thrown off with her death - it was the final proof that I needed that the daily struggle isn’t worth what we get in the end. (As soon as I write that, I know how disapointed she, the eternal optimist, would be. Not to mention that her faith was what carried her through the pain…) A year on, I realize that my mind is shielding my soul from this reality, not letting me feel it. It’s so easy, 3000 miles away, to pretend …
Well, crap, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?
*Blank stare*
In the last year, the number of times I have talked to my grandmother (who lost both of her daughters in the span of 5 years, both before they were 45) and my cousin (who is one of the few people in the world who may actually understand how angry and sad I am) is in the single digits. It’s not that I talked to them that often before my mother and aunt’s death, but any conversation now is admitting that we have lost links in the chain..
I just can’t write myself into the post. I’m not finding a way in, a point of catharsis. I can’t make this interesting or moving, because when I get close, my stomach knots, my hands tingle, I realize my breath is shallow and I have to back away.
In the last year, so much good has come into my life that you would think the balance would be restored - just my tiny daughter, who was named in part for her great aunt (Ruth Alice), should be enough.
But it is still not fair. I deserved to have one of them. My girls deserved to have a Nana, or a Momo. A Nana AND a Momo. They deserve both, and it’s not fair that they have neither. My mother and aunt deserved to know these beautiful little girls. We all deserved so much more. Someday I’ll find a poetic way to say all of this, but today it is just not fair. At all at all.
