On the long ride back from Chicago on Sunday, Mark and I got to talking about New Year's resolutions. Per an article I had read in Good Housekeeping, we decided to make resolutions for each other. The ones Mark assigned to me were pretty tame: make more time for myself and lower my expectations, i.e. when things don't go exactly as I had envisioned, try to relax. These were good ideas, I thought, but I want to go even further.
Many of the resolutions I came up with for myself involve the boys, all revolving around one central theme: be the mom I want to be. I need to yell less, be more consistent in my discipline, try hard to remain calm and patient, and, most importantly, enjoy my kids more. I have resolved to do these things many times before. I hope I find it in myself to follow through.
Some of my resolutions address my previously mentioned organizational deficiencies. If I could get my kitchen more organized, I think it could improve my whole mood. Maybe this will be the year we tackle the messy side of the basement. Or maybe not. If not, I guess that invokes Mark's resolution for me about my expectations.
More than any other area of my life, I want to focus on bettering myself. Sadly, myself could use a lot of bettering. Sure I want to eat healthier and exercise more. Those I can do. But the real change I want to achieve is tougher. I want to give more, consume less, be a more positive person, be more joyful, be a better wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, live in the moment. How do I achieve this? Focus on it every day, I guess.
Will 2009 be the year I become the person I want to be? I hope to have some success. (See, Mark, I'm keeping my expectations realistic.) The holidays are nearly through and the long winter looms ahead. I like to think I can use that time to work toward becoming a new me. Happy 2009! I hope you become the person you wish to be in the new year.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Our 15 minutes of fame
The time when Gus was born was filled with lots of strange happenings. Mark fell ill with a stomach bug and barely made it through the delivery. My mom was a floor below us recovering from her surgery. But the strangest of all happened the day after he was born.
Ben and Paulie had come up for a visit. We were watching a DVD in the room when our nurse popped in and asked us if we wanted to be photographed. "Okaaaaaay ... for what?" we said. For the newspaper, she thought but would get clarification. Why would the newspaper want to take a photo of us? we wondered. A few minutes later, Mark's old boss, who now manages the birth center, popped in. "Mark!" she cried. It turns out she was looking for a family to appear in a photo for some marketing. It looked like we were in now; no turning back. We agreed, not knowing exactly what to expect.
Ben and Paulie had come up for a visit. We were watching a DVD in the room when our nurse popped in and asked us if we wanted to be photographed. "Okaaaaaay ... for what?" we said. For the newspaper, she thought but would get clarification. Why would the newspaper want to take a photo of us? we wondered. A few minutes later, Mark's old boss, who now manages the birth center, popped in. "Mark!" she cried. It turns out she was looking for a family to appear in a photo for some marketing. It looked like we were in now; no turning back. We agreed, not knowing exactly what to expect.
They wanted a picture of the family resting comfortably in one of the beautiful new rooms the hospital had recently completed for a renovation. In came the manager, a woman from marketing and two photographers. "Do you want me to be your beauty adviser?" the woman from marketing asked me. "Do I ... need one?" I asked. "Well, you could brush your hair," she replied. You know, she's right, I thought. It has been 27 hours since I gave birth, I really should be investing more time in my appearance. No matter. I went into the bathroom and dutifully dragged a comb through my hair and even applied some makeup.
I knew getting a decent picture could prove quite a challenge. Ben tends to plaster on this big, fake smile, while Paulie simply can't sit still. The photographer, trying to get a natural smile out of the boys, made a funny face. Paul immediately emulated it, pulling out the sides of his mouth and sticking his tongue out. An hour later, the crew packed up and left, hoping they got something usable.
Fast-forward a couple months. The picture was used in posters in the hospital and a ThedaCare newsletter. People still come up to Mark and ask, "Are you the guy from the posters?" I like to joke about the experience, but I'm glad we did it. We now have a funny memory, a great story and some good material for Gus's scrapbook.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Have yourself an obscene little Christmas
Warning: for mature readers only. :)
I've done it again, folks. I've gone and embarrassed myself. In this year's Christmas letter, I decided to tell a charming little story about an exchange I'd had with a friend from Spain. Some of you may have read it already. Carlos had written on my Facebook page that I looked so happy and that he was happy for me. I told him yes, I was happy - and exhausted, but in a good way. He responded, "I guess you are tired and happy. We say, 'jodido pero contento.'" That sounds lovely, I thought. I will include it in this year's Christmas letter.
As someone who fancies herself a writer and good editor, I should have done my research and looked up the phrase. I found this out when my mom read the letter I had sent in my presence. I was sitting in the living room when suddenly I heard her laugh uproariously. "What is it?" I asked. "Don't you remember Carlos saying this all the time?" she asked. Panic. Oh my God. What had I done? My friends, please don't be offended. I don't talk like this ordinarily, really. "Jodido means f*cked up," she said, laughing hysterically. So the phrase I had written - in my Christmas letter (!) - translates to "f*cked up but happy." My flight or fight response kicked in. What could I do? The letters were mailed already. There was no going back. "Don't worry," my mom said, getting her Spanish dictionary. "It says it means 'copulate,'" she said. "But it can also mean 'for heaven's sake."
Here's the last line of the letter I wrote: "We wish you a peaceful 2009. If, like us, peaceful isn't realistic for you, we hope you will be jodido pero contento." I was mortified. I had told my nearest and dearest that I hoped in 2009 they would be f*cked up but happy. The more I thought about it, however, the more I thought it was perfect. At least for my life right now. I never, NEVER would have written it knowingly. I had meant to sound all smart and cultured and it backfired on me in a major way. Oh well, like I said, the phrase is me through and through right about now.
Go ahead, have a laugh at your unintentionally potty-mouthed friend/loved one. I can take it. I think.
I've done it again, folks. I've gone and embarrassed myself. In this year's Christmas letter, I decided to tell a charming little story about an exchange I'd had with a friend from Spain. Some of you may have read it already. Carlos had written on my Facebook page that I looked so happy and that he was happy for me. I told him yes, I was happy - and exhausted, but in a good way. He responded, "I guess you are tired and happy. We say, 'jodido pero contento.'" That sounds lovely, I thought. I will include it in this year's Christmas letter.
As someone who fancies herself a writer and good editor, I should have done my research and looked up the phrase. I found this out when my mom read the letter I had sent in my presence. I was sitting in the living room when suddenly I heard her laugh uproariously. "What is it?" I asked. "Don't you remember Carlos saying this all the time?" she asked. Panic. Oh my God. What had I done? My friends, please don't be offended. I don't talk like this ordinarily, really. "Jodido means f*cked up," she said, laughing hysterically. So the phrase I had written - in my Christmas letter (!) - translates to "f*cked up but happy." My flight or fight response kicked in. What could I do? The letters were mailed already. There was no going back. "Don't worry," my mom said, getting her Spanish dictionary. "It says it means 'copulate,'" she said. "But it can also mean 'for heaven's sake."
Here's the last line of the letter I wrote: "We wish you a peaceful 2009. If, like us, peaceful isn't realistic for you, we hope you will be jodido pero contento." I was mortified. I had told my nearest and dearest that I hoped in 2009 they would be f*cked up but happy. The more I thought about it, however, the more I thought it was perfect. At least for my life right now. I never, NEVER would have written it knowingly. I had meant to sound all smart and cultured and it backfired on me in a major way. Oh well, like I said, the phrase is me through and through right about now.
Go ahead, have a laugh at your unintentionally potty-mouthed friend/loved one. I can take it. I think.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
A week for the books
Last week is one that I will remember forever. It began with Paulie vomiting - on Mark - in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. Unfortunately, my kids getting sick is a fairly ordinary occurrence in our household. It turned out this was no ordinary sick, however. By Wednesday morning, the vomiting hadn't let up, and Paul was looking awful. Mark brought him to the clinic, and the nurse immediately recommended that he go to the hospital. So I headed off to Children's Hospital to see my boy. Whether your child is in the hospital for something relatively mild like dehydration or something much more serious, it is hard to take in the sight of him in a tiny hospital gown. Paul had an IV put in for fluids, a process made easier by the numbing patch the nurse applied. He spent most of the day listless and in and out of sleep. Since he still had not perked up by night, the doctor recommended he spend the night, another first. By Thursday morning he was much better. The entire staff at Children's is wonderful, and I feel lucky to have it so close. Paulie received the star treatment, coming home with a fleece blanket, pillowcase and stuffed puppy, all items donated to Children's Hospital.
The story doesn't end there. Thursday morning Mark began to feel sick. Then my mom, who had been helping us, fell ill. I wasn't surprised, then, when I got the call that Ben was sick and needed to be picked up from school. And it wasn't long before I began to feel ill. So there we all were, feeling awful. Except Paul, who was hyper. It was a long, hard day, fighting our various nausea, vomiting, fevers and chills. My mom still talks about the time when she and my dad both fell ill when Sean and I were little. Let's hope this is the only time it ever happens for us.
Lucky for us, that is the end of the story. We all felt significantly better by Saturday. So though those days were tough, this Christmas I'm giving thanks for our health. We are blessed.
The story doesn't end there. Thursday morning Mark began to feel sick. Then my mom, who had been helping us, fell ill. I wasn't surprised, then, when I got the call that Ben was sick and needed to be picked up from school. And it wasn't long before I began to feel ill. So there we all were, feeling awful. Except Paul, who was hyper. It was a long, hard day, fighting our various nausea, vomiting, fevers and chills. My mom still talks about the time when she and my dad both fell ill when Sean and I were little. Let's hope this is the only time it ever happens for us.
Lucky for us, that is the end of the story. We all felt significantly better by Saturday. So though those days were tough, this Christmas I'm giving thanks for our health. We are blessed.
Friday, November 28, 2008
The dirty truth
On the tidiness spectrum, I've always been somewhere near the middle. Unfortunately, living with two little people who couldn't care less whether we have a clean house has seemed to nudge me toward the slovenly side. I've said to Mark time again that I don't know how people do it, have young kids and maintain a clean house. It's all I can do to stay on top of the big three: clean bathrooms, clean kitchen and laundry. Even at that, I seem to be coming up short on the kitchen especially. My countertops alone can send me into a funk. I try not to even look at the floor, which cannot stay clean for more than a few hours.
It doesn't help that on the organization spectrum, I lean toward the dis side. I find myself drowning in piles of kindergarten artwork and handouts. Each day Ben brings home another stack. I have my system of putting special artwork in a binder, important handouts in a folder and tossing the rest. Despite my best intentions, I always fall behind. Usually Ben's papers find their way to the piles that litter the countertops for at least a few days before being filed.
"But Jess," you may politely assert, "we all have a hard time keeping our houses clean." Why, just the other day my friend Julie confessed to me that she hadn't dusted in a month and it was driving her crazy. Ha! I don't remember the last time I actually dusted. Dusting for me typically consists of looking at a surface and thinking, gee that looks dusty, and then swiping at the dust with my hand sending particles flying into the air. No, really.
"But Jess," you may press on, "I've been to your house and it looks perfectly fine." To that I will mentally pat you on the head in a patronizing way and think, "Oh good, you fell for it." If you come over and my house looks tidy, it's most likely because I knew you were coming and scrambled around like a crazy woman to get the house looking decent. If you had come over unannounced, here's what you would see. Various socks, shoes, and books littering the living room floor. And toys, lots of toys. Most likely you would step on a car, probably Chick Hicks from the movie Cars. I do at least once a day. ("Dinoco is all mine!" "Chachooga, chachooga, chica, chica," he shouts.)
And if you really think I'm the slightest bit organized you haven't seen the pièce de résistance of the house, the room that my kids, unaided, have coined "the messy side." This would be the unfinished storage half of our basement. There beats the ugly and cluttered heart of the house. Much like the Wizard of Oz, when kids come with their parents and approach the messy side, I think, "Don't look over there kids, there's nothing to see." I know it doesn't have to be with this way, but right now taming the mess seems an impossible task.
In my doctor's office I read this saying: "The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow, for children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow. So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep. I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep." I've always thought this was apt, and right now it describes pretty well the philosophy to which I ascribe. So if you come to my house, go easy on me. And whatever you do, don't look at the messy side.
It doesn't help that on the organization spectrum, I lean toward the dis side. I find myself drowning in piles of kindergarten artwork and handouts. Each day Ben brings home another stack. I have my system of putting special artwork in a binder, important handouts in a folder and tossing the rest. Despite my best intentions, I always fall behind. Usually Ben's papers find their way to the piles that litter the countertops for at least a few days before being filed.
"But Jess," you may politely assert, "we all have a hard time keeping our houses clean." Why, just the other day my friend Julie confessed to me that she hadn't dusted in a month and it was driving her crazy. Ha! I don't remember the last time I actually dusted. Dusting for me typically consists of looking at a surface and thinking, gee that looks dusty, and then swiping at the dust with my hand sending particles flying into the air. No, really.
"But Jess," you may press on, "I've been to your house and it looks perfectly fine." To that I will mentally pat you on the head in a patronizing way and think, "Oh good, you fell for it." If you come over and my house looks tidy, it's most likely because I knew you were coming and scrambled around like a crazy woman to get the house looking decent. If you had come over unannounced, here's what you would see. Various socks, shoes, and books littering the living room floor. And toys, lots of toys. Most likely you would step on a car, probably Chick Hicks from the movie Cars. I do at least once a day. ("Dinoco is all mine!" "Chachooga, chachooga, chica, chica," he shouts.)
And if you really think I'm the slightest bit organized you haven't seen the pièce de résistance of the house, the room that my kids, unaided, have coined "the messy side." This would be the unfinished storage half of our basement. There beats the ugly and cluttered heart of the house. Much like the Wizard of Oz, when kids come with their parents and approach the messy side, I think, "Don't look over there kids, there's nothing to see." I know it doesn't have to be with this way, but right now taming the mess seems an impossible task.
In my doctor's office I read this saying: "The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow, for children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow. So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep. I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep." I've always thought this was apt, and right now it describes pretty well the philosophy to which I ascribe. So if you come to my house, go easy on me. And whatever you do, don't look at the messy side.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Paulo Picasso
For a long time I have been surprised that we have been able to avoid many of the typical kid disasters. We have yet to end up in the ER as a result of an accident, and while the boys had committed some minor infractions with crayons, pencils or markers, they had never launched a large-scale attack on the house. Until last week.
I might have known that if one of my kids were to make the foray into more serious damage it would be Paul, he of the maniacal laugh and sh*t-eating grin. The child delights in being naughty. I had left him downstairs for a few minutes while I changed Gus upstairs. "Mommy!" he called. "I want to paint." By the time I got to the top of the stairs, I saw it. Pinkish-red paint smeared all over the wall. As I descended the steps, I took in the full scene. Paint all over his pants, creating the impression that he had maimed himself; blobs decorated a chair, the floor and a few toys. "Paul, what did you do?" I gasped.
I was surprised and slightly bemused. But the damage was done. The paint, left out from a school project Ben had worked on the day before, came out fairly easily. The wall will, however, need to be touched up. Faded pink streaks remain. Paul and I have talked at length about the proper place to apply paint. "On paper!" he shouts with glee. Somehow I don't think we're out of the danger zone, though.
I might have known that if one of my kids were to make the foray into more serious damage it would be Paul, he of the maniacal laugh and sh*t-eating grin. The child delights in being naughty. I had left him downstairs for a few minutes while I changed Gus upstairs. "Mommy!" he called. "I want to paint." By the time I got to the top of the stairs, I saw it. Pinkish-red paint smeared all over the wall. As I descended the steps, I took in the full scene. Paint all over his pants, creating the impression that he had maimed himself; blobs decorated a chair, the floor and a few toys. "Paul, what did you do?" I gasped.
I was surprised and slightly bemused. But the damage was done. The paint, left out from a school project Ben had worked on the day before, came out fairly easily. The wall will, however, need to be touched up. Faded pink streaks remain. Paul and I have talked at length about the proper place to apply paint. "On paper!" he shouts with glee. Somehow I don't think we're out of the danger zone, though.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
I'm that mom
It's official. I've become that mom, the kind of mom I swore I'd never be. It dawned on me as I was dragging my kids through a store at the mall. "Don't touch that, Ben," I said. "Keep your hands to yourself." I used to look at these kinds of moms with disdain and think, "Your child clearly doesn't want to be here, so why are you dragging him to the mall with you." I told myself no way would I ever make my kids suffer through an unwanted shopping trip. Oh, how the mighty has fallen.
Whenever I catch myself cajoling, bribing and threatening my kids, I cringe inside. Even now when I hear other moms doing these same things, I scoff - until I remember that I do these things on a daily basis. Why, just the other day I was giving Ben a lecture about how he reaps what he sows when it comes to his behavior. This was a lengthy and complex talk, and I know all too well how futile this tack is.
I'm also that mom who brings my obnoxious kids to restaurants and bothers fellow patrons. I remember about 10 years back eating at TGI Friday's one night. A family with two or three kids was dining a few tables over. The parents were trying in vain to get the children to behave. After they had gotten up to leave, some young men at another table applauded (i.e. Thank God they're gone). We didn't join in, but we laughed smugly. Now that family probably has well-behaved teen-age children (or if not well-behaved, at least able to sit quietly in a restaurant). That family probably gives me and my loud kids the evil eye when they encounter us at a restaurant.
One virtue motherhood has given me is empathy. I understand that parents aren't always the kind of parent they had hoped to be. Sometimes they need to just get out of the house and try to shop or eat out (family-friendly restaurants only, of course), tired and crabby kids in tow. So 10 years from now, I hope I remember this and give those moms a break.
Whenever I catch myself cajoling, bribing and threatening my kids, I cringe inside. Even now when I hear other moms doing these same things, I scoff - until I remember that I do these things on a daily basis. Why, just the other day I was giving Ben a lecture about how he reaps what he sows when it comes to his behavior. This was a lengthy and complex talk, and I know all too well how futile this tack is.
I'm also that mom who brings my obnoxious kids to restaurants and bothers fellow patrons. I remember about 10 years back eating at TGI Friday's one night. A family with two or three kids was dining a few tables over. The parents were trying in vain to get the children to behave. After they had gotten up to leave, some young men at another table applauded (i.e. Thank God they're gone). We didn't join in, but we laughed smugly. Now that family probably has well-behaved teen-age children (or if not well-behaved, at least able to sit quietly in a restaurant). That family probably gives me and my loud kids the evil eye when they encounter us at a restaurant.
One virtue motherhood has given me is empathy. I understand that parents aren't always the kind of parent they had hoped to be. Sometimes they need to just get out of the house and try to shop or eat out (family-friendly restaurants only, of course), tired and crabby kids in tow. So 10 years from now, I hope I remember this and give those moms a break.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
How did I get here?
It's amazing how your whole life can come into sharp focus in one short trip to the grocery store. I'll explain. Last Sunday Ben and Paul were at each other yet again, so I asked Paul if he wanted to come to the grocery store with me. He could pick out a Lunchable, I said. "No!" he said. "I'll go," Ben said. "I'll go!" Paul said. And that's how I stupidly fell into the trap of bringing my two eldest to the store with me.
"All right you two, I need your best behavior if you want to get a Lunchable," I said. "We will, Mommy," they promised.
Soon I had loaded them into the car cart and we made our way into the produce department where they immediately began screeching, giggling, fighting and elbowing each other. "Oh, they're having so much fun in there," said a few elderly folks we encountered. "They're just great," I thought, smiling through gritted teeth. Soon we had reached the Lunchables. I let them choose one, but "your behavior had better improve or I'm putting them back," I threatened.
The bad behavior continued through the frozen foods. There I was yanking Paul from behind his steering wheel and placing him in the front of the cart to separate him from Ben. That's when I encountered a guy who said, "You've got your hands full, lady," in a sing-songy voice. Lady? Really? Did you just call me lady? How can I be "lady"? I'm not that old, am I?
Maybe I am. As the checker and bagger flirted all through processing my order, I glared at my kids and sternly told them to sit on the bench. "I'm older than you, I'm 17 already," said the girl checker. "Well I'm almost 17, I'm 16 and a half" said the boy bagger. I haven't been 16 for, well, almost 16 years. Wow. Who should appear behind me then but sing-songy guy telling the flirting teens that he was twice as old as them. So there. Where do you get off calling me lady, buddy? You're right there with me in the over-30 set.
"Goodbye, Mama," said my sing-songy friend as I was leaving with my naughty boys in tow. I guess it's all downhill from here.
By the way, after sending them to their rooms for 15 minutes when we got home, I caved on letting the boys have their Lunchables. I'm a pushover to boot. This was a sad, sad day.
"All right you two, I need your best behavior if you want to get a Lunchable," I said. "We will, Mommy," they promised.
Soon I had loaded them into the car cart and we made our way into the produce department where they immediately began screeching, giggling, fighting and elbowing each other. "Oh, they're having so much fun in there," said a few elderly folks we encountered. "They're just great," I thought, smiling through gritted teeth. Soon we had reached the Lunchables. I let them choose one, but "your behavior had better improve or I'm putting them back," I threatened.
The bad behavior continued through the frozen foods. There I was yanking Paul from behind his steering wheel and placing him in the front of the cart to separate him from Ben. That's when I encountered a guy who said, "You've got your hands full, lady," in a sing-songy voice. Lady? Really? Did you just call me lady? How can I be "lady"? I'm not that old, am I?
Maybe I am. As the checker and bagger flirted all through processing my order, I glared at my kids and sternly told them to sit on the bench. "I'm older than you, I'm 17 already," said the girl checker. "Well I'm almost 17, I'm 16 and a half" said the boy bagger. I haven't been 16 for, well, almost 16 years. Wow. Who should appear behind me then but sing-songy guy telling the flirting teens that he was twice as old as them. So there. Where do you get off calling me lady, buddy? You're right there with me in the over-30 set.
"Goodbye, Mama," said my sing-songy friend as I was leaving with my naughty boys in tow. I guess it's all downhill from here.
By the way, after sending them to their rooms for 15 minutes when we got home, I caved on letting the boys have their Lunchables. I'm a pushover to boot. This was a sad, sad day.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sweet solitude
Being the mom to three kids involves a lot of sacrifice. Any mom can attest to that. What do I miss most right now? No, it's not a good night's sleep. Though I do sorely miss that too. It's good old peace and quiet. Unless I can escape my kids for a couple hours, it's nearly impossible to come by. Whether I'm hearing Ben shouting, "Mom!" from the basement, Paulie laughing maniacally as he engages in some mischievous behavior or Gus's insistent cries, the noise pretty much is omnipresent.
Last Tuesday night my book group met. Tuesday nights are crazy to begin with because Mark has class. This particular day, my kids were in fine form. As is typical come 4:30 p.m., Gus was fussy and Ben and Paulie were just plain naughty. Mark got home around 5:00 and then left again at 5:30 for class. I had pumped a bottle for Gus, so though he was screaming and Paulie was having a meltdown: "I want to go with you, Mommy!" I shamelessly left the house. Early. Sorry, Mom and Dad. I will guiltily admit to feeling the slightest bit of pleasure (OK maybe a lot of pleasure) as I closed the door on the noise.
I headed to Target to pick up some items, including a Milky Way Midnight to help calm my frayed nerves (even though I was headed to dinner). As I sat down in the car and tore into my candy bar I thought of how nice it would be to go and eat dinner by myself. I imagined myself in a restaurant doing nothing but having my own quiet thoughts. Not even an evening of adult conversation sounded more appealing. But alas I had a commitment. After all it had been my turn to choose the book and restaurant, so off I went. I guess me time will just have to wait.
Last Tuesday night my book group met. Tuesday nights are crazy to begin with because Mark has class. This particular day, my kids were in fine form. As is typical come 4:30 p.m., Gus was fussy and Ben and Paulie were just plain naughty. Mark got home around 5:00 and then left again at 5:30 for class. I had pumped a bottle for Gus, so though he was screaming and Paulie was having a meltdown: "I want to go with you, Mommy!" I shamelessly left the house. Early. Sorry, Mom and Dad. I will guiltily admit to feeling the slightest bit of pleasure (OK maybe a lot of pleasure) as I closed the door on the noise.
I headed to Target to pick up some items, including a Milky Way Midnight to help calm my frayed nerves (even though I was headed to dinner). As I sat down in the car and tore into my candy bar I thought of how nice it would be to go and eat dinner by myself. I imagined myself in a restaurant doing nothing but having my own quiet thoughts. Not even an evening of adult conversation sounded more appealing. But alas I had a commitment. After all it had been my turn to choose the book and restaurant, so off I went. I guess me time will just have to wait.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
I'm OK, you're OK
I'm officially suffering from political campaign overload. The negative ads, the near-daily messages left on my answering machine maligning one candidate or the other - heck, it's even coming in the mail now. It's inescapable.
It all came to a head yesterday. Now, I'm a proud Democrat who likely couldn't ever be swayed to vote the other way. I attend a moms' group at my church and it's no secret to me that most of my fellow moms there do not share my political beliefs. When it comes to confrontation, typically I'm a shrinking violet. When my comrades express viewpoints contrary to my own, usually I keep my mouth shut. Right or wrong, it's my way. I simply feel that they won't change my mind and I won't change theirs, so why go there?
I was surprised, then, when suddenly I felt the urge to speak up. "Does everyone know how they're going to vote," my mom friend Beth asked. "Yes," we all answered emphatically. Then the comments started to fly. Two of the other moms are not fans of my man, Obama. The other is on the fence. The two, it turns out, are big Sarah Palin fans. That did it. "I really don't like her," I said. "Why," they asked, sounding a little surprised. I went on to say that Palin was a gun-toting nut who espoused extreme religious views. Uh-oh. My mouth worked faster than my brain. I had not maintained the respectful demeanor that I try to uphold. I think I managed to surprise them. I've been attending this group for more than two years now and had up until that point not made any kind of strong statement.
After my friends (politely) refuted my points, we went on to talk about how unfortunate it is that politics divide people. I couldn't agree more. The truth is, though I don't agree with some of my fellow moms' viewpoints, I respect them and understand where they're coming from. I long ago reconciled myself to the fact that on some issues, we never will agree. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy their company and even forge some lasting friendships. So maybe I'll chalk up my outburst to negative politics overload, or maybe it was a good thing that I spoke up. (After making some the comments that came out harsher than I had wished, I did manage to make some important points, I believe.) I haven't decided yet. Whatever the case, I've made a decision. I'm OK, they're OK.
It all came to a head yesterday. Now, I'm a proud Democrat who likely couldn't ever be swayed to vote the other way. I attend a moms' group at my church and it's no secret to me that most of my fellow moms there do not share my political beliefs. When it comes to confrontation, typically I'm a shrinking violet. When my comrades express viewpoints contrary to my own, usually I keep my mouth shut. Right or wrong, it's my way. I simply feel that they won't change my mind and I won't change theirs, so why go there?
I was surprised, then, when suddenly I felt the urge to speak up. "Does everyone know how they're going to vote," my mom friend Beth asked. "Yes," we all answered emphatically. Then the comments started to fly. Two of the other moms are not fans of my man, Obama. The other is on the fence. The two, it turns out, are big Sarah Palin fans. That did it. "I really don't like her," I said. "Why," they asked, sounding a little surprised. I went on to say that Palin was a gun-toting nut who espoused extreme religious views. Uh-oh. My mouth worked faster than my brain. I had not maintained the respectful demeanor that I try to uphold. I think I managed to surprise them. I've been attending this group for more than two years now and had up until that point not made any kind of strong statement.
After my friends (politely) refuted my points, we went on to talk about how unfortunate it is that politics divide people. I couldn't agree more. The truth is, though I don't agree with some of my fellow moms' viewpoints, I respect them and understand where they're coming from. I long ago reconciled myself to the fact that on some issues, we never will agree. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy their company and even forge some lasting friendships. So maybe I'll chalk up my outburst to negative politics overload, or maybe it was a good thing that I spoke up. (After making some the comments that came out harsher than I had wished, I did manage to make some important points, I believe.) I haven't decided yet. Whatever the case, I've made a decision. I'm OK, they're OK.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
I don't eat, I inhale
I have heard that part of an overall good attitude toward food includes sitting down while you eat and chewing slowly. Ha! That's not going to happen for at least another year for me, the chewing slowly part anyway. Somebody always needs something. The someone needing something most urgently usually is Gus. His cries never fail to motivate me to eat as quickly as I can.
In the morning you will find me scarfing down my cereal so I can take Gus before Mark leaves for work. At lunchtime, after making Paulie's lunch, I usually stand at the counter and devour my lunch so I can sit down and feed Gus his. Supper sometimes is a little better since there are extra hands around, but the hurry up and eat mentality still is in my head.
Mark and I were supposed to go out for dinner the Saturday before our anniversary in September. We had baby sitting all lined up, my parents taking Ben and Paulie and Mike and Kelly watching Gus. Unfortunately, I came down with mastitis, so instead Mark and I kept Gus with us and ordered in. Forget the quiet, romantic dinner. With Gus's cries making up the background music, we both shoveled in our food as quickly as possible.
Like everything else when it comes to children, this brief detour into speed eating is worth it. I have the rest of my life to chew slowly.
In the morning you will find me scarfing down my cereal so I can take Gus before Mark leaves for work. At lunchtime, after making Paulie's lunch, I usually stand at the counter and devour my lunch so I can sit down and feed Gus his. Supper sometimes is a little better since there are extra hands around, but the hurry up and eat mentality still is in my head.
Mark and I were supposed to go out for dinner the Saturday before our anniversary in September. We had baby sitting all lined up, my parents taking Ben and Paulie and Mike and Kelly watching Gus. Unfortunately, I came down with mastitis, so instead Mark and I kept Gus with us and ordered in. Forget the quiet, romantic dinner. With Gus's cries making up the background music, we both shoveled in our food as quickly as possible.
Like everything else when it comes to children, this brief detour into speed eating is worth it. I have the rest of my life to chew slowly.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
A new home
Dear Friends and Family,
Wismoms introduced me to blogging, but unfortunately when the site became affiliated with the national Moms Like Me site,the powers that be decided to do away with the blogs. Since I love blogging, it helps me stay sane and it's a great way to help me stay connected to you all, I decided to start my own. Look for my blogs here, and I'll try to update often with stories and pictures of Ben, Paulie and Gus.
Jess
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