Showing posts with label Quirks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Quirks. Show all posts
Mini-Me.
How's the baby? She's great, thanks for asking!
Seriously. She's an awesome baby. She's pretty easy-going (gets that from me), is super smiley (again, from me), and is cute as hell (well, obviously).
See for yourself:
Seriously. She's an awesome baby. She's pretty easy-going (gets that from me), is super smiley (again, from me), and is cute as hell (well, obviously).
See for yourself:
Sweet Pea, 3 mos.
Thankfully, the big kids have a good sense of humor (which they totally get from me too).
This Just In...
A few weeks ago as we were getting ready for school, Crowbar asked if he could wear a suit.
Seeing as this was an odd fashion choice for a five-year old, I asked why he wanted to get so dressed up.
"It's my turn to do the weather," he said. "During Circle Time, a kid gets to give the weather report and it's my turn."
Wanting to dress like the weathermen on TV, Crowbar asked if we had a suit and tie he could wear. Thankfully, I had some hand-me downs that'd do just the trick.
The result was a three-day span where Crowbar was the epitome of high fashion. The first day was his actual weather report day. The second and third... he just wanted to look good.
Seeing as this was an odd fashion choice for a five-year old, I asked why he wanted to get so dressed up.
"It's my turn to do the weather," he said. "During Circle Time, a kid gets to give the weather report and it's my turn."
Wanting to dress like the weathermen on TV, Crowbar asked if we had a suit and tie he could wear. Thankfully, I had some hand-me downs that'd do just the trick.
The result was a three-day span where Crowbar was the epitome of high fashion. The first day was his actual weather report day. The second and third... he just wanted to look good.
Day 1: Lookin' good in that sport coat. 
Day 2: Reviewing his notes before heading out for the day.
(We're in the midst of a kitchen remodel, hence the crazy cabinets and mismatched drawer fronts.)
Day 3: Stay classy! When Crowbar came home the first day, I asked what his teacher thought of his fancy duds. He said:
"My teacher didn't say anything, but the lunch ladies all said I looked great!"
A big ass sign from above.
I'm pleased to report that since Sweet Pea was born I've dropped 25 of my 45 pregnancy pounds gained. The weight has literally fallen off as I've done nothing since delivery -- other than cut out the daily mocha frappes -- to lose a thing.
I attribute most of this weight loss to my decision to nurse the baby. Everyone told me that breastfeeding does wonders for your metabolism and frankly, in these early weeks, it's the main thing that keeps me going. (The sore boobs and hours spent glued to my recliner watching the big kids trash the house aren't helping the cause.)
If you know me well, you know I've got a bad sweet tooth. I can't go through the day without a cookie or three -- and I sure as hell can't eat at a Culver's without having some custard for dessert...
...which brings me to how God spoke to me the other day.
Seriously. He did.
I didn't hear a thunderous voice from above or see a vision, but He made his presence known. And it knocked me square on my ass. Literally.
Here"s how it went down: Mark and I stopped at Culver's after visiting a local daycare center. We discussed the pros and cons of the center over a couple of burgers, during which I lamented over the need to #1 pay so much for daycare, #2 not be able to become a stay-home mom and #3 schemed over various half-baked, home business ideas that'd enable me to make money while staying home full time.
Seeing how none of these options were remotely feasible, feeling stressed out, I announced that a small turtle sundae would help clear my mind. So I marched up to the counter to order one.
As I turned, sundae in hand to head back to my table, I slipped on the freshly mopped floor and fell squarely on my tail bone. My precious sundae went flying. I never got a bite.
Having cracked my tail bone once in a grade school sledding accident, I immediately knew I'd hurt myself badly. Mark and the manager came running and after an accident report and trip to urgent care, I learned I hadn't broken my tail bone, but had, in fact, seriously bruised it.
And so, I've been hobbling around the house, barely able to bend over or sit down -- all fairly important when caring for a newborn.
The irony of the situation has not been lost on me.
My attempt to eat a delicious, yet horribly unhealthy sundae -- and act that'd surely add a few inches to my backside -- had been thwarted by a most severe blow to said backside.
I see it as sign, or rather a spanking, from God Himself.
Message received.
I attribute most of this weight loss to my decision to nurse the baby. Everyone told me that breastfeeding does wonders for your metabolism and frankly, in these early weeks, it's the main thing that keeps me going. (The sore boobs and hours spent glued to my recliner watching the big kids trash the house aren't helping the cause.)
If you know me well, you know I've got a bad sweet tooth. I can't go through the day without a cookie or three -- and I sure as hell can't eat at a Culver's without having some custard for dessert...
...which brings me to how God spoke to me the other day.
Seriously. He did.
I didn't hear a thunderous voice from above or see a vision, but He made his presence known. And it knocked me square on my ass. Literally.
Here"s how it went down: Mark and I stopped at Culver's after visiting a local daycare center. We discussed the pros and cons of the center over a couple of burgers, during which I lamented over the need to #1 pay so much for daycare, #2 not be able to become a stay-home mom and #3 schemed over various half-baked, home business ideas that'd enable me to make money while staying home full time.
Seeing how none of these options were remotely feasible, feeling stressed out, I announced that a small turtle sundae would help clear my mind. So I marched up to the counter to order one.
As I turned, sundae in hand to head back to my table, I slipped on the freshly mopped floor and fell squarely on my tail bone. My precious sundae went flying. I never got a bite.
Having cracked my tail bone once in a grade school sledding accident, I immediately knew I'd hurt myself badly. Mark and the manager came running and after an accident report and trip to urgent care, I learned I hadn't broken my tail bone, but had, in fact, seriously bruised it.
And so, I've been hobbling around the house, barely able to bend over or sit down -- all fairly important when caring for a newborn.
The irony of the situation has not been lost on me.
My attempt to eat a delicious, yet horribly unhealthy sundae -- and act that'd surely add a few inches to my backside -- had been thwarted by a most severe blow to said backside.
I see it as sign, or rather a spanking, from God Himself.
Message received.
Yeah, I'm gonna pass on the DIY home birth. And I don't care how many YouTube videos make it look easy.
Mark and I are do-it-yourselfers.
We're the type of people who would prefer to NOT pay someone else to do a job that we're capable of doing ourselves. And the list of jobs we're willing to tackle, aided by eHow, YouTube and the DIY Network, is pretty long.
However, we're in solemn agreement on one job we absolutely refuse to attempt or delegate to anyone who's not a professional and that is to deliver this baby.
I'm reading a lot about people who prefer home births and doulas over hospitals and doctors and, while thank God we have choices, I can't wrap my head around why anyone would avoid a hospital when it comes to having a kid.
Seriously.
I'm willing to fumble around and tinker my way through a home-improvement project, but when it comes to babies, blood and pain, I'm willing to spend the extra cash to involve medical professionals.
Meds free. Under water. Hypnobirthing. To me, this is insanity. Give me drugs and a board-certified OB-GYN in a hospital equipped with a state-of-the-art NICU, please.
I'm 1,000% sure a hospital birth with a team of trained professionals beats trying to do it at home, in my bathtub. (Have you seen the soap-scum ring in there?!?)
And while Mark's a very handy guy, I just can't thrust that kind of responsibility on his shoulders. He's totally capable of watching This Old House and then installing new replacement windows, but to force him through a marathon of A Baby Story and then expect him to deliver our own kid is a bit of a stretch.
Plus, we've got home-improvement projects that are a little, shall we say, stalled out (hello, parts of my kitchen have no counter tops!). Do I really want him to leave while the baby's crowning to run out to Walgreens (or God forbid, Menards) to get something we need for the delivery but don't have on hand?
Uh, that'd be a big negatory.
Yeah, we're handy, resourceful -- and quite thrifty, but we're not stupid. We know our limitations.
Hospital = good.
Pain meds = good.
Birth handled by trained medical professionals = good.
I'd like this baby to come into the world in a cold, sterile hospital vs. my warm, cozy bed. I prefer it. This is less about my comfort and more about the baby's safety.
And the fact that there's enough dog hair on my comforter to knit another dog.
Cleaning the house when the contractions begin = not good.
We're the type of people who would prefer to NOT pay someone else to do a job that we're capable of doing ourselves. And the list of jobs we're willing to tackle, aided by eHow, YouTube and the DIY Network, is pretty long.
However, we're in solemn agreement on one job we absolutely refuse to attempt or delegate to anyone who's not a professional and that is to deliver this baby.
I'm reading a lot about people who prefer home births and doulas over hospitals and doctors and, while thank God we have choices, I can't wrap my head around why anyone would avoid a hospital when it comes to having a kid.
Seriously.
I'm willing to fumble around and tinker my way through a home-improvement project, but when it comes to babies, blood and pain, I'm willing to spend the extra cash to involve medical professionals.
Meds free. Under water. Hypnobirthing. To me, this is insanity. Give me drugs and a board-certified OB-GYN in a hospital equipped with a state-of-the-art NICU, please.
I'm 1,000% sure a hospital birth with a team of trained professionals beats trying to do it at home, in my bathtub. (Have you seen the soap-scum ring in there?!?)
And while Mark's a very handy guy, I just can't thrust that kind of responsibility on his shoulders. He's totally capable of watching This Old House and then installing new replacement windows, but to force him through a marathon of A Baby Story and then expect him to deliver our own kid is a bit of a stretch.
Plus, we've got home-improvement projects that are a little, shall we say, stalled out (hello, parts of my kitchen have no counter tops!). Do I really want him to leave while the baby's crowning to run out to Walgreens (or God forbid, Menards) to get something we need for the delivery but don't have on hand?
Uh, that'd be a big negatory.
Yeah, we're handy, resourceful -- and quite thrifty, but we're not stupid. We know our limitations.
Hospital = good.
Pain meds = good.
Birth handled by trained medical professionals = good.
I'd like this baby to come into the world in a cold, sterile hospital vs. my warm, cozy bed. I prefer it. This is less about my comfort and more about the baby's safety.
And the fact that there's enough dog hair on my comforter to knit another dog.
Cleaning the house when the contractions begin = not good.
WTF
I've never worked in advertising, but I know a thing or two about marketing and I was surprised to see this in the cereal aisle at the grocery store:
How on earth would any ad agency even think of pitching the name Muffing Tops for a high-fat, high-sugar breakfast food. I mean, what self-respecting mom would buy that?
As a mom who's always trying to cram healthy foods (sometimes in sneaky ways) down my kids' gullets, I cannot fathom how anyone thinks naming cereal after this would actually increase sales. It's a wonder the pitch made it out of the creative department, really it is.
Unless, of course...
...they're banking on the fact that moms like me will find this product name totally hilarious and buy it simply for the photo op and to blog about it.
Mission accomplished, ad agency.
Bravo.
A Guy You Can Depend On.
Mark works in HR, managing employee benefits.
I work at the same company in Corporate Communications, writing employee benefits communications.
Together, we're a match made in heaven.
One would think that being married to a co-worker would have its pitfalls and drama, but we've found this isn't the case--at least not for us. We don't mind the fact that our dinner-table conversations often include discussions surrounding benefit plan summaries, print deadlines and whether more people take a lump-sum payment or prefer to receive annuities for their pension benefits.
Really. We don't.
So as you can imagine, the fall's a pretty busy time for us, being that it's benefits open enrollment season.
Oh, and by "pretty busy" I mean totally effing insane.
From August to November, we're working our hardest. And, oddly enough, with nothing but benefits open enrollment on the brains, somehow, SOMEHOW, we always almost forget to enroll ourselves.
Well, not this year. And Sweet Pea, our impending bundle of joy, is why. This year, we will switch out of single coverage and roll into a family plan--which leads me to a topic that's become a source of some tension:
Who will be whose dependent?
This came up a few weeks ago at dinner when I offered to enroll in the family plan and add Mark and the baby as dependents. I thought I was being a considerate wife, offering to do the ugly paperwork. I had no idea that the sheer mention of ME adding HIM as MY dependent would cause such a stir.
"Me? Your dependent? Not hardly," he scoffed. "I'm NOBODY'S dependent."
I sat, dumbstruck for a moment.
"Do you think that being someone's dependent for medical insurance implies that they're somehow inferior to the other person?"
I wanted him to openly admit this ridiculous insinuation.
He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
"I'm nobody's dependent," he repeated with a sly smile.
Personally, I could care less who is whose dependent. I just want to make sure we don't miss the deadline to enroll.
But it just goes to show, no matter how advanced you think your guy is, deep down, they're all part neanderthal.
I work at the same company in Corporate Communications, writing employee benefits communications.
Together, we're a match made in heaven.
One would think that being married to a co-worker would have its pitfalls and drama, but we've found this isn't the case--at least not for us. We don't mind the fact that our dinner-table conversations often include discussions surrounding benefit plan summaries, print deadlines and whether more people take a lump-sum payment or prefer to receive annuities for their pension benefits.
Really. We don't.
So as you can imagine, the fall's a pretty busy time for us, being that it's benefits open enrollment season.
Oh, and by "pretty busy" I mean totally effing insane.
From August to November, we're working our hardest. And, oddly enough, with nothing but benefits open enrollment on the brains, somehow, SOMEHOW, we always almost forget to enroll ourselves.
Well, not this year. And Sweet Pea, our impending bundle of joy, is why. This year, we will switch out of single coverage and roll into a family plan--which leads me to a topic that's become a source of some tension:
Who will be whose dependent?
This came up a few weeks ago at dinner when I offered to enroll in the family plan and add Mark and the baby as dependents. I thought I was being a considerate wife, offering to do the ugly paperwork. I had no idea that the sheer mention of ME adding HIM as MY dependent would cause such a stir.
"Me? Your dependent? Not hardly," he scoffed. "I'm NOBODY'S dependent."
I sat, dumbstruck for a moment.
"Do you think that being someone's dependent for medical insurance implies that they're somehow inferior to the other person?"
I wanted him to openly admit this ridiculous insinuation.
He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
"I'm nobody's dependent," he repeated with a sly smile.
Personally, I could care less who is whose dependent. I just want to make sure we don't miss the deadline to enroll.
But it just goes to show, no matter how advanced you think your guy is, deep down, they're all part neanderthal.
Five Things I Will Never Attempt
I consider myself to be a resourceful person.
I've successfully completed an armful of home-improvement projects -- even one involving electricity in which I did not get even the tiniest shock. I'm pretty creative and can draw fairly well. I've dabbled in sewing, knitting and other crafty ventures.
But there are a number of things that I simply will not do. Things I think are best left to experts -- people with degrees and years of life experience. And yet these are things that people seem to insist on doing themselves.
Things I will never attempt:
I've successfully completed an armful of home-improvement projects -- even one involving electricity in which I did not get even the tiniest shock. I'm pretty creative and can draw fairly well. I've dabbled in sewing, knitting and other crafty ventures.
But there are a number of things that I simply will not do. Things I think are best left to experts -- people with degrees and years of life experience. And yet these are things that people seem to insist on doing themselves.
Things I will never attempt:
- Delivering my own babies. (This includes letting anyone else who lacks an M.D. designation coming anywhere near me when it's go time.)
- Major automotive repair. (I've changed a tire and checked oil, but that's it. I'm certain if I tried anything more, I'd be left with extra parts, a huge repair bill, and a lecture from Johnny Lugnut, telling me I made things worse by tinkering around.)
- Home schooling my kids. (Frankly, I am just not smart enough.)
- Taking apart a drain pipe to clear a clog. (Too gross. Let someone else handle it.)
- Make clothes for my kids. (For one, it takes me FOREVER to complete a project and I'm certain they'd outgrow it before I've even completed the last stitch. Plus, Wal-Mart is sooo close.)
There are others, but these are the biggies, with "delivering my own babies" being right at the top.
Some things are best left to the experts.
- - -
Okay, on the way to work, I thought of another. I will never attempt to cut and/or color my own hair. Again.
PreggoQuest 2010: Cheesy crackers
Warning: Yet another preggo-inspired post. And this one's fairly lame.
- - -
This afternoon I had an overwhelming craving for cheese crackers. Goldfish, Tid-Bits, Cheese-Its -- whatever. All I knew is that I wanted those crackers and had to have them.
Mark called to ask me a question about a letter I was working on for him. (We work together.)
"Hi, I was wondering if--"
"Don't Goldfish Crackers sound good right now?" I asked, interrupting him. I continued on, barely taking a breath:
"I mean REALLY good and I could totally go for some right now but all I have in my desk are gummy bears and I really want something salty and cheesy and crunchy couldn't you because I know there are some pretzels in the vending machine but they're not cheesy so that won't work and the only other thing remotely close are the animal crackers but they're not salty or cheesy and won't cut it either so I suppose I could run across the street to the store and get some cheese crackers but I really shouldn't because I've gotta finish your letter but I just can't get those crackers out of my mind and I think I'm going to go crazy unless I get some really I am."
Silence on the other end. I continued:
"Isn't it funny how just the other day all I could think about were these gummy bears but now I don't want them because they're too sweet and will just stick in my teeth which is why I want those crunchy crackers but they have to be cheesy. And salty."
I took a breath and rambled on:
"I'm going to go and check the vending machine again you know just in case it recently got stocked see you later."
I hung up on him and made a break for the elevator.
I ran into a co-worker and asked if she knew where I could score some cheesy crackers. She glanced around to see if anyone was nearby and, in a hushed voice, told me about a vending machine in the other building on our campus that had all sorts of exotic goodies. She explained that because the machine is near the 24/7 call center, it was well-stocked with junk food and was way better than the machines in our building -- machines full of heart-healthy options like pretzels, sunflower seeds and low-fat wafers.
Just then, the light bulb above my head lit up. Mark works in that building and was probably sitting less than 400 feet from cheesy crackers.
I excused myself and darted back to my desk (darting as quickly as a preggo can dart) and dialed Mark. Before I could say a word, he told me he'd checked the vending machine, found some Cheese-Its and successfully procured them. Just for me.
By this time, it was nearly time to go, so I grabbed my keys and sprinted (sprinting as quickly as a preggo can sprint) to the van where Mark met me, cheesy crackers in hand. He opened the package and took a step back to avoid losing a digit or getting sprayed by flying crumbs, I'd imagine.
I devoured the bag in .3 seconds.
I love that man. Even more than cheesy crackers -- and that's a lot.
- - -
This afternoon I had an overwhelming craving for cheese crackers. Goldfish, Tid-Bits, Cheese-Its -- whatever. All I knew is that I wanted those crackers and had to have them.
Mark called to ask me a question about a letter I was working on for him. (We work together.)
"Hi, I was wondering if--"
"Don't Goldfish Crackers sound good right now?" I asked, interrupting him. I continued on, barely taking a breath:
"I mean REALLY good and I could totally go for some right now but all I have in my desk are gummy bears and I really want something salty and cheesy and crunchy couldn't you because I know there are some pretzels in the vending machine but they're not cheesy so that won't work and the only other thing remotely close are the animal crackers but they're not salty or cheesy and won't cut it either so I suppose I could run across the street to the store and get some cheese crackers but I really shouldn't because I've gotta finish your letter but I just can't get those crackers out of my mind and I think I'm going to go crazy unless I get some really I am."
Silence on the other end. I continued:
"Isn't it funny how just the other day all I could think about were these gummy bears but now I don't want them because they're too sweet and will just stick in my teeth which is why I want those crunchy crackers but they have to be cheesy. And salty."
I took a breath and rambled on:
"I'm going to go and check the vending machine again you know just in case it recently got stocked see you later."
I hung up on him and made a break for the elevator.
I ran into a co-worker and asked if she knew where I could score some cheesy crackers. She glanced around to see if anyone was nearby and, in a hushed voice, told me about a vending machine in the other building on our campus that had all sorts of exotic goodies. She explained that because the machine is near the 24/7 call center, it was well-stocked with junk food and was way better than the machines in our building -- machines full of heart-healthy options like pretzels, sunflower seeds and low-fat wafers.
Just then, the light bulb above my head lit up. Mark works in that building and was probably sitting less than 400 feet from cheesy crackers.
I excused myself and darted back to my desk (darting as quickly as a preggo can dart) and dialed Mark. Before I could say a word, he told me he'd checked the vending machine, found some Cheese-Its and successfully procured them. Just for me.
By this time, it was nearly time to go, so I grabbed my keys and sprinted (sprinting as quickly as a preggo can sprint) to the van where Mark met me, cheesy crackers in hand. He opened the package and took a step back to avoid losing a digit or getting sprayed by flying crumbs, I'd imagine.
I devoured the bag in .3 seconds.
I love that man. Even more than cheesy crackers -- and that's a lot.
Overheard
Believe it or not, I teach Sunday School at my church. Last year was my first year and I taught the first and second graders, which I enjoyed tremendously. My kids were in different classes down the hall.
This year, I've been asked to switch it up and teach the older kids -- a class of fifth and sixth graders.
Mad Dog and The Deuce are fifth graders. And this all led to this interesting exchange:
Scene opens: Mad Dog and I are sitting side by side, each eating a bowl of cold cereal.
"Hey, guess what? I'm going to be your Sunday School teacher next year. Cool huh?"
"You'll be my teacher?"
"Yep, the Director of Christian Education asked me to last night. Isn't that great?"
"It's freaky, Mom."
"Does 'freaky' mean 'awesome?'"
"Yeah, let's say, 'awesome.'"
And... end scene.
This year, I've been asked to switch it up and teach the older kids -- a class of fifth and sixth graders.
Mad Dog and The Deuce are fifth graders. And this all led to this interesting exchange:
Scene opens: Mad Dog and I are sitting side by side, each eating a bowl of cold cereal.
"Hey, guess what? I'm going to be your Sunday School teacher next year. Cool huh?"
"You'll be my teacher?"
"Yep, the Director of Christian Education asked me to last night. Isn't that great?"
"It's freaky, Mom."
"Does 'freaky' mean 'awesome?'"
"Yeah, let's say, 'awesome.'"
And... end scene.
Here's what's cookin'.
Meal planning, shopping and preparation stress me out.
It's not the high-anxiety kind, like making-a-presentation-to-a-room-full-of-grumpy-VPs stress or the oh-crap-I'm-late-for-an-important-appointment-and-stuck-in-traffic stress. Rather, it's this sort of low-frequency, nagging kind of stress that just never seems to go away.
The family's gotta eat and I've gotta feed them. It's as simple as that.
I try to be organized and I try to be realistic, but inevitably I come home from a long day at work and don't look forward to spending the next 3 hours+ in the kitchen, cooking and then cleaning up.
But, more often than not, I do it. I manage to make home-cooked meals -- complete with a protein, starch and veggie -- on a regular basis. And, more often than not, I'm stuck in the kitchen until well past 7, cleaning up and thinking about all the laundry and other housework that still needs to get done.
If coming up with manageable, semi-interesting menus wasn't enough, there's also the whole cost-containment aspect. I try to be economical. I choose recipes that don't cost an arm and a leg per serving and I shop at our local Aldi, a store that often gets a bad rap, but that saves me a bundle on our weekly grocery bill.
I'm not dumb. I know what to do: I always go with meals in mind and a complete list in hand. I buy versatile ingredients, those that can be used in more than one dish. Plus, I try to buy only what we really need -- not impulse purchases that'll die slow painful deaths, expiring in the back of my pantry.
But from time to time, and most often on weekends, I throw in the towel. I've put in my time during the work week.
I'm done. Finished. Ka-put.
So when everyone looks to me Saturday night and asks, what's for dinner? -- especially when I need to sit down and plan meals for the week ahead, my response is: "We're eating out."
The whole thing is exhausting.
So surely you can understand why I got a little defensive when Mark asked me why our family food costs are so high and did I think we could, say, cut them in half?
He asked me this in a perfectly non-threatening way, but, weary from the day-in-day-out challenge of feeding our family, I took it as a you're-spending-WAY-too-much-on-groceries accusation.
I'm not proud of how I reacted.
My first instinct was to tell him to go f--- himself. (I did not.) My second instinct was better, but not by much. I barely managed to hold back pregnancy-induced, hormonally charged tears and confessed to feeling overwhelmed by bearing the brunt of this major household chore solely on my shoulders. I told him how I work really hard to feed all of us, but doing so is thankless, exhausting and expensive.
And so I asked if he would he be willing to share the load a little.
I was hoping for him to volunteer to pick up one meal a week, tops, but what I didn't expect was Mark's offer to plan and prepare meals for an entire week.
He proposed we alternate meal planning responsibilities week by week. He rationalized that the arrangement would help him improve his own cooking skills and repertoire (which he genuinely wants), to understand where our food budget was going and, as a bonus, it would ease my workload.
I eagerly accepted his offer.
So, we're nearing the end of Chef Mark's first week.
He planned seven day's worth of meals, shopped for groceries and has made something every night. His meals are tasty and, despite a few setbacks, like realizing he'd forgotten key ingredients, has gained confidence by going off-recipe and improvising to still-delicious results.
While Mark never made me feel my meal-prep efforts were unappreciated, I think he has a new appreciation for how challenging it can be -- especially after putting in a full day at work. But it remains to be seen if he's been able to cut our grocery bill in half.
I'll admit that having some free time to do other household chores and, in one case, take a nap after work, thrills me to no end. But I don't want to simply shift the stress of dinner prep from one of us to the other. I'm happy that he's understanding that it's not a simple (or cheap) chore, but I don't delight in seeing him get frustrated. That's not what this should be about. That's not good for our marriage.
I'm not sure if this week-on, week-off thing will continue or not, but for now, I'm happy to approach meal prep more equitably. I'm happy to even things out a little.
And I'm certain I'll learn a few things along the way. I'll expand my own mental recipe index, pick up a few cooking tips and use my off-weeks to better manage other household chores -- the ones that often get neglected.
And if I can get a nap or two in there somehow...it's even better.
It's not the high-anxiety kind, like making-a-presentation-to-a-room-full-of-grumpy-VPs stress or the oh-crap-I'm-late-for-an-important-appointment-and-stuck-in-traffic stress. Rather, it's this sort of low-frequency, nagging kind of stress that just never seems to go away.
The family's gotta eat and I've gotta feed them. It's as simple as that.
I try to be organized and I try to be realistic, but inevitably I come home from a long day at work and don't look forward to spending the next 3 hours+ in the kitchen, cooking and then cleaning up.
But, more often than not, I do it. I manage to make home-cooked meals -- complete with a protein, starch and veggie -- on a regular basis. And, more often than not, I'm stuck in the kitchen until well past 7, cleaning up and thinking about all the laundry and other housework that still needs to get done.
If coming up with manageable, semi-interesting menus wasn't enough, there's also the whole cost-containment aspect. I try to be economical. I choose recipes that don't cost an arm and a leg per serving and I shop at our local Aldi, a store that often gets a bad rap, but that saves me a bundle on our weekly grocery bill.
I'm not dumb. I know what to do: I always go with meals in mind and a complete list in hand. I buy versatile ingredients, those that can be used in more than one dish. Plus, I try to buy only what we really need -- not impulse purchases that'll die slow painful deaths, expiring in the back of my pantry.
But from time to time, and most often on weekends, I throw in the towel. I've put in my time during the work week.
I'm done. Finished. Ka-put.
So when everyone looks to me Saturday night and asks, what's for dinner? -- especially when I need to sit down and plan meals for the week ahead, my response is: "We're eating out."
The whole thing is exhausting.
So surely you can understand why I got a little defensive when Mark asked me why our family food costs are so high and did I think we could, say, cut them in half?
He asked me this in a perfectly non-threatening way, but, weary from the day-in-day-out challenge of feeding our family, I took it as a you're-spending-WAY-too-much-on-groceries accusation.
I'm not proud of how I reacted.
My first instinct was to tell him to go f--- himself. (I did not.) My second instinct was better, but not by much. I barely managed to hold back pregnancy-induced, hormonally charged tears and confessed to feeling overwhelmed by bearing the brunt of this major household chore solely on my shoulders. I told him how I work really hard to feed all of us, but doing so is thankless, exhausting and expensive.
And so I asked if he would he be willing to share the load a little.
I was hoping for him to volunteer to pick up one meal a week, tops, but what I didn't expect was Mark's offer to plan and prepare meals for an entire week.
He proposed we alternate meal planning responsibilities week by week. He rationalized that the arrangement would help him improve his own cooking skills and repertoire (which he genuinely wants), to understand where our food budget was going and, as a bonus, it would ease my workload.
I eagerly accepted his offer.
So, we're nearing the end of Chef Mark's first week.
He planned seven day's worth of meals, shopped for groceries and has made something every night. His meals are tasty and, despite a few setbacks, like realizing he'd forgotten key ingredients, has gained confidence by going off-recipe and improvising to still-delicious results.
While Mark never made me feel my meal-prep efforts were unappreciated, I think he has a new appreciation for how challenging it can be -- especially after putting in a full day at work. But it remains to be seen if he's been able to cut our grocery bill in half.
I'll admit that having some free time to do other household chores and, in one case, take a nap after work, thrills me to no end. But I don't want to simply shift the stress of dinner prep from one of us to the other. I'm happy that he's understanding that it's not a simple (or cheap) chore, but I don't delight in seeing him get frustrated. That's not what this should be about. That's not good for our marriage.
I'm not sure if this week-on, week-off thing will continue or not, but for now, I'm happy to approach meal prep more equitably. I'm happy to even things out a little.
And I'm certain I'll learn a few things along the way. I'll expand my own mental recipe index, pick up a few cooking tips and use my off-weeks to better manage other household chores -- the ones that often get neglected.
And if I can get a nap or two in there somehow...it's even better.
Who are you? A cop?
The art of conversation is completely lost on my kids.
They don't understand that proper communication is an exchange of thoughts and experiences by one or more equally engaged parties.
Instead, I get 20 questions. No, make that 200 questions.
From the minute I pick Crowbar up from daycare it starts:
What's for dinner?
Where are the girls?
Can I sit in the front?
Can I watch TV when I get home?
Did you bring me a snack?
Can Freddy come over?
Can I play with my Bakugans tonight?
Can we go to the library now?
What's for dinner?
Is today Tuesday?
Do we have to stop at the store?
Can I watch a movie?
Why are we going this way?
What's for dinner?
Yeah, did you catch that? Dinner? THREE TIMES? Throughout the barrage of questions, he doesn't even register my answers.
The girls are no better. I think they ask questions just to ask questions. And they for things way far out in the future. It goes beyond asking what's for dinner while they're eating breakfast. They'll ask if they can play video games next week, Thursday.
I don't know exactly how or when this all started. I don't mind being asked questions or permission to do things. In fact, in many cases, I prefer it. I like that they ask permission to play video games and before raiding the pantry.
But this relentless barrage is getting to be too much. I've gotten to the point where, if they repeat a question I've already answered (which is, like, ALL THE TIME) I tell them that I've already answered that one and to find the answer from someone who was listening.
I think tonight I'm going to turn the tables. I'm going to hit those kids with a few questions of my own as soon as I see them.
How was school?
Do you have homework?
What did you play at recess?
Did you eat your lunch?
All of it?
What did you eat?
Is your teacher nice?
Did you have a good day?
What did you eat for lunch?
Who are the kids in your reading group?
What did you learn about today?
Is your seat belt buckled?
Do have all your things?
Did you play outside today?
What did they give you for snack?
Who were you playing with just now?
What did you eat for lunch?
We'll see if turning the tables has any effect. But if this is what my kids think conversation is, I seriously doubt it.
They don't understand that proper communication is an exchange of thoughts and experiences by one or more equally engaged parties.
Instead, I get 20 questions. No, make that 200 questions.
From the minute I pick Crowbar up from daycare it starts:
What's for dinner?
Where are the girls?
Can I sit in the front?
Can I watch TV when I get home?
Did you bring me a snack?
Can Freddy come over?
Can I play with my Bakugans tonight?
Can we go to the library now?
What's for dinner?
Is today Tuesday?
Do we have to stop at the store?
Can I watch a movie?
Why are we going this way?
What's for dinner?
Yeah, did you catch that? Dinner? THREE TIMES? Throughout the barrage of questions, he doesn't even register my answers.
The girls are no better. I think they ask questions just to ask questions. And they for things way far out in the future. It goes beyond asking what's for dinner while they're eating breakfast. They'll ask if they can play video games next week, Thursday.
I don't know exactly how or when this all started. I don't mind being asked questions or permission to do things. In fact, in many cases, I prefer it. I like that they ask permission to play video games and before raiding the pantry.
But this relentless barrage is getting to be too much. I've gotten to the point where, if they repeat a question I've already answered (which is, like, ALL THE TIME) I tell them that I've already answered that one and to find the answer from someone who was listening.
I think tonight I'm going to turn the tables. I'm going to hit those kids with a few questions of my own as soon as I see them.
How was school?
Do you have homework?
What did you play at recess?
Did you eat your lunch?
All of it?
What did you eat?
Is your teacher nice?
Did you have a good day?
What did you eat for lunch?
Who are the kids in your reading group?
What did you learn about today?
Is your seat belt buckled?
Do have all your things?
Did you play outside today?
What did they give you for snack?
Who were you playing with just now?
What did you eat for lunch?
We'll see if turning the tables has any effect. But if this is what my kids think conversation is, I seriously doubt it.
Got wood?
We recently made a major purchase -- a table saw for Mark.
When he first broached the subject of getting one, he was fully prepared to make a passionate appeal. Me, eyeing a kitchen renovation in my future, did not need convincing. My ugly laminate cabinets have got to go and if a shiny new Craftsman will make this happen faster, then God speed to the nearest Sears, my love.
And so we have another new addition to the family: A 300 lb. table saw.
Even though I gave my blessing on this acquisition, on one level, I can't help but feel like my husband's taken a mistress. He sneaks off for numerous quiet encounters with the saw. Sometimes they just talk, and other times they grind away.
Last weekend, they spent a long lazy Sunday together while I stayed behind, tending to children and laundry. When he came upstairs to bed with saw dust on his collar, I felt a twinge of jealousy.
And then I found this:
When he first broached the subject of getting one, he was fully prepared to make a passionate appeal. Me, eyeing a kitchen renovation in my future, did not need convincing. My ugly laminate cabinets have got to go and if a shiny new Craftsman will make this happen faster, then God speed to the nearest Sears, my love.
And so we have another new addition to the family: A 300 lb. table saw.
Even though I gave my blessing on this acquisition, on one level, I can't help but feel like my husband's taken a mistress. He sneaks off for numerous quiet encounters with the saw. Sometimes they just talk, and other times they grind away.
Last weekend, they spent a long lazy Sunday together while I stayed behind, tending to children and laundry. When he came upstairs to bed with saw dust on his collar, I felt a twinge of jealousy.
And then I found this:
Handyman porn. This may as well read: Tools and Jugs.
I don't know, maybe I'm being naive. He keeps promising me new cabinets, bookshelves and furniture, but I haven't seen anything but a pile of sliced-up plywood so far.
Every time I see this picture I laugh my ass off.
Our dog, Bandit, in her Snuggie.The only thing more embarrassing for this dog (than wearing a Snuggie in the first place) is the fact that her tag is showing.
Still... it makes me smile.
Alas, poor Ronald. I knew him well.
Yesterday, Crowbar and I had McDonald's for lunch. As we ate our cheeseburgers, Crowbar looked at the picture of Ronald McDonald on his Happy Meal box and asked,
"Where's Ronald? I never see him here."
"What do you mean? His picture's everywhere."
"I mean the guy. Ronald the guy."
"He's not a real guy, honey. He's just a cartoon character."
"No he's not. I saw him on TV once. He's a real guy."
Then Crowbar furled his brow and got serious.
"Yeah, he was a real guy, but he died a few years ago."
"He died?" I asked.
"Yeah, that's why the made a statue of him," he reasoned, nodding toward the shiny Ronald McDonald statue out the window, greeting drive-thru patrons.
"They make statues of people when they die. Like the Statue of Liberty. She died a few years ago too," he said.
Crowbar shoved the last bite of his burger into his mouth and shrugged his shoulders in a 'yeah-what-are-ya-gonna-do gesture'.
I considered correcting him and quickly weighed the pros and cons of arguing over Ronald McDonald's death with a four-year old. I decided to drop it and change the subject to something less grim.
But now -- a day later, I worry that some day, Crowbar will be sitting in a fifth-grade classroom, looking at his history test and wondering why he got the question about the origins of the Statue of Liberty wrong.
Hopefully this time, Crowbar's short attention span will save him.
"Where's Ronald? I never see him here."
"What do you mean? His picture's everywhere."
"I mean the guy. Ronald the guy."
"He's not a real guy, honey. He's just a cartoon character."
"No he's not. I saw him on TV once. He's a real guy."
Then Crowbar furled his brow and got serious.
"Yeah, he was a real guy, but he died a few years ago."
"He died?" I asked.
"Yeah, that's why the made a statue of him," he reasoned, nodding toward the shiny Ronald McDonald statue out the window, greeting drive-thru patrons.
"They make statues of people when they die. Like the Statue of Liberty. She died a few years ago too," he said.
Crowbar shoved the last bite of his burger into his mouth and shrugged his shoulders in a 'yeah-what-are-ya-gonna-do gesture'.
I considered correcting him and quickly weighed the pros and cons of arguing over Ronald McDonald's death with a four-year old. I decided to drop it and change the subject to something less grim.
But now -- a day later, I worry that some day, Crowbar will be sitting in a fifth-grade classroom, looking at his history test and wondering why he got the question about the origins of the Statue of Liberty wrong.
Hopefully this time, Crowbar's short attention span will save him.
The Guy Likes Pie.
What can I say? My baby likes pie.
It's been a standard joke at our house that unless you have a pocket full of bacon or better yet -- a slice of pie -- Mark ain't gonna listen. So it should be no surprise that my goal-oriented husband has set out on a quest -- Pie Quest.
You can read about it here, where his journey begins.
Being the ever-supportive wife, I'm happy to help him fulfill Pie Quest in any way possible. I'll forgo cooking one night a week so he can add another notch to his Pie Quest bedpost. I'll even be the designated driver should he choose to indulge in several slices in one sitting. I'm just that kind of gal.
I guess we're just a couple of go-getters and goal setters.
So as I sit here and watch him whip up spreadsheets to determine an equitable Pie Quest Ranking System, I smile and offer encouragement.
It's good to have goals.
It's been a standard joke at our house that unless you have a pocket full of bacon or better yet -- a slice of pie -- Mark ain't gonna listen. So it should be no surprise that my goal-oriented husband has set out on a quest -- Pie Quest.
You can read about it here, where his journey begins.
Being the ever-supportive wife, I'm happy to help him fulfill Pie Quest in any way possible. I'll forgo cooking one night a week so he can add another notch to his Pie Quest bedpost. I'll even be the designated driver should he choose to indulge in several slices in one sitting. I'm just that kind of gal.
I guess we're just a couple of go-getters and goal setters.
So as I sit here and watch him whip up spreadsheets to determine an equitable Pie Quest Ranking System, I smile and offer encouragement.
It's good to have goals.
Now that's ambitious.
This week I bought a sewing machine that I haven't the slightest idea how to use.
I decided I need it to make curtains. We have a lot of windows in this house and hardly any of them had curtains, blinds or any sort of window treatments whatsoever. And after pricing curtains in stores and online, I think I can save some serious dough by making them myself.
Up until now, I've never needed a sewing machine. I've gotten by with my little mending kit, stitch witchery and duct tape.
Yeah, I duct taped a hem on a pair of pants once. I was running out the door, late as usual, when my hem tore loose. I happened to have a roll of duct tape in my purse - what self-respecting girl doesn't? - and proceeded to repair my pants at a stop light. The tape held all day and I don't think anyone could tell -- though I was careful to not cross my legs in a way to reveal the shiny, silver miracle tape.
But alas, I don't think duct tape will work for the new curtains -- especially not for sheers -- so I posted a wanted ad on our company classifieds. Within the day I was offered a nearly new, portable Singer for $50. And hallelujah, it still had the instruction manual.
The machine seems fairly straight forward, though I'm still not quite sure how to feed the thread in it. I flipped open the instruction manual for guidance and was pretty intimidated. I skimmed it (in English and in Spanish), but didn't really sit down to figure it out quite yet. If I can't get it up and running with the book, my next stop will be YouTube. There's gotta be a clip of someone threading a machine and starting to sew. There's everything else on there.
And, if after all that, I still can't figure it out, I'm calling in the big guns -- Mom.
I'll figure it out soon, really, I will. I've vowed to myself to get sewing before the end of the month and gosh darn it, I will. Though...
I might have one slight distraction.
You see, Mark's parents are giving us their old upright piano. When they asked if we wanted it, I jumped on their offer, despite the fact I have no idea how to play.
Really.
I can't read music, let alone play any instrument. But I'm determined to get the kids into lessons and see what I can learn from watching over their shoulders.
I'm just ambitious, I guess.
I decided I need it to make curtains. We have a lot of windows in this house and hardly any of them had curtains, blinds or any sort of window treatments whatsoever. And after pricing curtains in stores and online, I think I can save some serious dough by making them myself.
Up until now, I've never needed a sewing machine. I've gotten by with my little mending kit, stitch witchery and duct tape.
Yeah, I duct taped a hem on a pair of pants once. I was running out the door, late as usual, when my hem tore loose. I happened to have a roll of duct tape in my purse - what self-respecting girl doesn't? - and proceeded to repair my pants at a stop light. The tape held all day and I don't think anyone could tell -- though I was careful to not cross my legs in a way to reveal the shiny, silver miracle tape.
But alas, I don't think duct tape will work for the new curtains -- especially not for sheers -- so I posted a wanted ad on our company classifieds. Within the day I was offered a nearly new, portable Singer for $50. And hallelujah, it still had the instruction manual.
The machine seems fairly straight forward, though I'm still not quite sure how to feed the thread in it. I flipped open the instruction manual for guidance and was pretty intimidated. I skimmed it (in English and in Spanish), but didn't really sit down to figure it out quite yet. If I can't get it up and running with the book, my next stop will be YouTube. There's gotta be a clip of someone threading a machine and starting to sew. There's everything else on there.
And, if after all that, I still can't figure it out, I'm calling in the big guns -- Mom.
I'll figure it out soon, really, I will. I've vowed to myself to get sewing before the end of the month and gosh darn it, I will. Though...
I might have one slight distraction.
You see, Mark's parents are giving us their old upright piano. When they asked if we wanted it, I jumped on their offer, despite the fact I have no idea how to play.
Really.
I can't read music, let alone play any instrument. But I'm determined to get the kids into lessons and see what I can learn from watching over their shoulders.
I'm just ambitious, I guess.
Me-Time Mornings.
It's 6:30 a.m. on Sunday morning. I've been up for a half hour and have switched out a load of laundry, unloaded and then reloaded the dishwasher and fed and took out the dog -- all before my first cup of coffee.
I feel a sense of accomplishment knowing I've gotten a jump on the day. I feel good being industrious as the rest of my family sleeps. I like the tranquil promise early morning brings. The day ahead is full of endless possibility.
Early mornings are my Me Time. And it's been a while since I had a good Me-Time morning.
Before we moved, I had plenty of them. I used to wake up at 4 a.m. to begin my day uninterrupted and alone with my thoughts. I'd sit at my empty dining table with a pen and paper, sometimes writing posts for this blog, but mostly hammering out to-do lists and meal plans for the week. I used my Me-Time mornings to do chores, catch up on the news and to pay bills. I never minded waking up so early. It was just nice to take care of things alone and without the kids underfoot.
Immediately after the move, I got sick and spent most of my quiet morning hours in the hospital. By habit, I'd wake up early, comb my hair and watch the sunrise. But instead of my typical routine, if I felt well, I'd push my IV cart down the halls and walk the figure-eight layout of the 8th floor over and over. I'd walk and wonder if the laundry room was overflowing. I'd do lap after lap, trying to imagine what was in the pantry and wondering if Mark and the kids were surviving on more than cold cereal and peanut butter. (They were.)
When I came home it took me a while to find my quiet Me-Time morning groove.
Despite the fact we'd owned the house for a full month and a half, I could count the number of hours of time spent alone in my kitchen on just one hand. I was unfamiliar with the layout and would walk around in circles, opening several cabinets before locating a desired item. Even loading the dishwasher was awkward. I'd arrange and rearrange dirty dishes over and over, trying to get every last item in, trying to maximize space.
For a while, I felt more like a house guest than the woman of the house.
But this past week, I've managed to get my groove back. Instead of feeling awkward and out of the loop, that familiar and comforting sense of calm control has returned.
It feels good to be back in the groove. And I appreciate my Me-Time mornings now more than ever.
I feel a sense of accomplishment knowing I've gotten a jump on the day. I feel good being industrious as the rest of my family sleeps. I like the tranquil promise early morning brings. The day ahead is full of endless possibility.
Early mornings are my Me Time. And it's been a while since I had a good Me-Time morning.
Before we moved, I had plenty of them. I used to wake up at 4 a.m. to begin my day uninterrupted and alone with my thoughts. I'd sit at my empty dining table with a pen and paper, sometimes writing posts for this blog, but mostly hammering out to-do lists and meal plans for the week. I used my Me-Time mornings to do chores, catch up on the news and to pay bills. I never minded waking up so early. It was just nice to take care of things alone and without the kids underfoot.
Immediately after the move, I got sick and spent most of my quiet morning hours in the hospital. By habit, I'd wake up early, comb my hair and watch the sunrise. But instead of my typical routine, if I felt well, I'd push my IV cart down the halls and walk the figure-eight layout of the 8th floor over and over. I'd walk and wonder if the laundry room was overflowing. I'd do lap after lap, trying to imagine what was in the pantry and wondering if Mark and the kids were surviving on more than cold cereal and peanut butter. (They were.)
When I came home it took me a while to find my quiet Me-Time morning groove.
Despite the fact we'd owned the house for a full month and a half, I could count the number of hours of time spent alone in my kitchen on just one hand. I was unfamiliar with the layout and would walk around in circles, opening several cabinets before locating a desired item. Even loading the dishwasher was awkward. I'd arrange and rearrange dirty dishes over and over, trying to get every last item in, trying to maximize space.
For a while, I felt more like a house guest than the woman of the house.
But this past week, I've managed to get my groove back. Instead of feeling awkward and out of the loop, that familiar and comforting sense of calm control has returned.
It feels good to be back in the groove. And I appreciate my Me-Time mornings now more than ever.
Who knew?
I never knew my kids were so deep until a recent trip to Target.
Crowbar, meditating on the big red ball.
Mad Dog, channeling her inner shopper.
The Deuce, getting in touch with her bargain hunting side.
Crowbar, meditating on the big red ball.Mad Dog, channeling her inner shopper.The Deuce, getting in touch with her bargain hunting side.These kids never cease to amaze me.
Moving on.
I have a love-hate relationship with this townhouse.
After my ex left, the kids and I had to move in with my parents for nearly a year as I waited for my divorce to get finalized and child support to start coming regularly. At the time, I made too much to qualify for any assistance (daycare or otherwise), but not enough to afford to support the four of us. While I worked full time at a decent-paying job, I just couldn't afford living expenses plus full-time daycare costs for three kids.
It was demoralizing to say the least.
There is no worse feeling in the whole world than knowing that you can't provide for your children. It's a precarious place - wanting to work and be self-sufficient, but being unable to do so.
I could've quit my job and pulled the kids from daycare. It would've been easy to chuck what little I had left to stay home with my kids and collect support from the state. But for me, working full time never was optional. I needed it to hold onto a sense of purpose - to maintain my dignity. So, instead, I kept working, swallowed my pride and moved back home. And I will forever be grateful to my parents for lending me a hand during that awful year.
After the divorce papers were filed, it took a good while for the child support direct deposit to kick in. Somehow a payroll department error resulted in my ex's wages being garnished for a few months, but there was no wire transfer to the state's child support clearing house. The result was that he paid, but for weeks and weeks, I never saw a dime.
When the mess was finally resolved, the child support money finally put me back in the black, albeit barely. I was finally not operating at a deficit. I managed to scrape up enough to get a place of my own and began pouring over the rental ads. As I read the listings, I wondered if I'd find something big enough that I could afford.
And then I found it.
I loved this townhouse the first time I saw it. Three bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, big yard on a cul-de-sac. Even though a major highway ran through the back yard, I couldn't see it past the big, flowering crab apple tree or the kick-ass sledding hill just out my back door. Finding a place I could afford in a great school district on a quiet street was a dream come true.
I regained my freedom here. I established a stable home for my kids here. And I began to write here.
While I was (and still am) immensely proud of getting here, I'll admit that there are times when being here doesn't feel so great.
Whenever I visit my family and friends in their single family homes and watch their kids play in long driveways and gorgeous rec rooms, I feel a little painful twinge, wishing I could provide the same setting for my crew. Walking in their yards among various plantings and vegetable gardens, I'm green with envy. How I'd love to plant flowers in dirt that wasn't borrowed and weed flowerbeds that I planted, rather than inherited!
But the hardest part of living here has been knowing that some of my own neighbors look down at me and my kids because of this place. We are one of just two families who rent on a street lined with single-family homes. I know what they're thinking when they refuse my friendly wave: low income, low life.
My townhouse neighbors do nothing to dispel the perception of transient, low-income renters who don't give a shit. While they're nice people, they let their cars leak oil all over the street, allow their kids to run around the yard with dirty faces and Spaghetti-O-stained clothes, and leave their pizza delivery sign attached to their truck - often illuminated - all night long in the driveway.
I'm painfully aware that I'm often painted with the same brush.
I imagine the chatter, "Harumph, a single mom with all those kids. Wonder if they even have the same father." I can deal with it, but I don't want the kids to have to. Someday soon, they're going to become aware of life's haves and have nots. And I don't want them to be treated differently because of someone else's perception. I don't want their friends' parents to refuse play dates because I can't afford my own white picket fence - or have to share my driveway with a broken down Chevy Cavalier.
So, while I'm still grateful and proud of rebuilding my life here in this townhouse, I'm eager to move on. I'm thrilled that together Mark and I were able to save up enough for a much bigger house on an even quieter street, where my kids can roller skate in a long driveway and sleep in rooms they can call their own. I'm eager to dig my hands in my own dirt and plant flowers I know I'll enjoy for years and years. And I'm hopeful to have a neighborhood where I fit in instead of stick out.
Sometimes when I think of moving, I get a little emotional. I'm full of excitement and anticipation for this new chapter. And I'm relieved - and a little amazed - that I've survived the one I'm wrapping up.
I know I won't miss sharing a house, but I will miss the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment I got writing that rent check each month.
I did it. I survived. Hallelujah.
~ ~ ~
Beginning Thursday, I'll be without Internet access for nearly a week due to the move. If I can figure out how to Tweet from my phone, I'll try to give a few play-by-play updates. Until then, I'm signing off and will return sometime late next week. Take care!
After my ex left, the kids and I had to move in with my parents for nearly a year as I waited for my divorce to get finalized and child support to start coming regularly. At the time, I made too much to qualify for any assistance (daycare or otherwise), but not enough to afford to support the four of us. While I worked full time at a decent-paying job, I just couldn't afford living expenses plus full-time daycare costs for three kids.
It was demoralizing to say the least.
There is no worse feeling in the whole world than knowing that you can't provide for your children. It's a precarious place - wanting to work and be self-sufficient, but being unable to do so.
I could've quit my job and pulled the kids from daycare. It would've been easy to chuck what little I had left to stay home with my kids and collect support from the state. But for me, working full time never was optional. I needed it to hold onto a sense of purpose - to maintain my dignity. So, instead, I kept working, swallowed my pride and moved back home. And I will forever be grateful to my parents for lending me a hand during that awful year.
After the divorce papers were filed, it took a good while for the child support direct deposit to kick in. Somehow a payroll department error resulted in my ex's wages being garnished for a few months, but there was no wire transfer to the state's child support clearing house. The result was that he paid, but for weeks and weeks, I never saw a dime.
When the mess was finally resolved, the child support money finally put me back in the black, albeit barely. I was finally not operating at a deficit. I managed to scrape up enough to get a place of my own and began pouring over the rental ads. As I read the listings, I wondered if I'd find something big enough that I could afford.
And then I found it.
I loved this townhouse the first time I saw it. Three bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, big yard on a cul-de-sac. Even though a major highway ran through the back yard, I couldn't see it past the big, flowering crab apple tree or the kick-ass sledding hill just out my back door. Finding a place I could afford in a great school district on a quiet street was a dream come true.
I regained my freedom here. I established a stable home for my kids here. And I began to write here.
While I was (and still am) immensely proud of getting here, I'll admit that there are times when being here doesn't feel so great.
Whenever I visit my family and friends in their single family homes and watch their kids play in long driveways and gorgeous rec rooms, I feel a little painful twinge, wishing I could provide the same setting for my crew. Walking in their yards among various plantings and vegetable gardens, I'm green with envy. How I'd love to plant flowers in dirt that wasn't borrowed and weed flowerbeds that I planted, rather than inherited!
But the hardest part of living here has been knowing that some of my own neighbors look down at me and my kids because of this place. We are one of just two families who rent on a street lined with single-family homes. I know what they're thinking when they refuse my friendly wave: low income, low life.
My townhouse neighbors do nothing to dispel the perception of transient, low-income renters who don't give a shit. While they're nice people, they let their cars leak oil all over the street, allow their kids to run around the yard with dirty faces and Spaghetti-O-stained clothes, and leave their pizza delivery sign attached to their truck - often illuminated - all night long in the driveway.
I'm painfully aware that I'm often painted with the same brush.
I imagine the chatter, "Harumph, a single mom with all those kids. Wonder if they even have the same father." I can deal with it, but I don't want the kids to have to. Someday soon, they're going to become aware of life's haves and have nots. And I don't want them to be treated differently because of someone else's perception. I don't want their friends' parents to refuse play dates because I can't afford my own white picket fence - or have to share my driveway with a broken down Chevy Cavalier.
So, while I'm still grateful and proud of rebuilding my life here in this townhouse, I'm eager to move on. I'm thrilled that together Mark and I were able to save up enough for a much bigger house on an even quieter street, where my kids can roller skate in a long driveway and sleep in rooms they can call their own. I'm eager to dig my hands in my own dirt and plant flowers I know I'll enjoy for years and years. And I'm hopeful to have a neighborhood where I fit in instead of stick out.
Sometimes when I think of moving, I get a little emotional. I'm full of excitement and anticipation for this new chapter. And I'm relieved - and a little amazed - that I've survived the one I'm wrapping up.
I know I won't miss sharing a house, but I will miss the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment I got writing that rent check each month.
I did it. I survived. Hallelujah.
~ ~ ~
Beginning Thursday, I'll be without Internet access for nearly a week due to the move. If I can figure out how to Tweet from my phone, I'll try to give a few play-by-play updates. Until then, I'm signing off and will return sometime late next week. Take care!
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