I have emerged from the protective cocoon of maternity leave and have jumped right back into the fray of full time work. Crimini! We are presently consumed with trying to figure out school schedules, work schedules, nursing visits and more. Sleeping and eating are important, too, I guess, if you like that sort of thing.
Jay is enjoying school. Ella is enjoying life without Jay to boss her around during the day. She misses him from time to time, but not enough to actually, like, vocalize it or anything. But, I know that when she gleefully declares, “When Jay goes to school today I am going to play with his toys!” that what she really means is that she misses him. Or something.
Also, did anyone else know that we actually have a daughter? Like a whole middle child, who is not her older brother Jay or younger brother Jack, but an entirely different, and wonderful little person who says funny things and likes to dance around wearing pink sparkly ballerina slippers? Huh. Once Jay started school, Ella came into her own and I realized just how much she had been relegated to the role of middle child. Let the guilt trip begin.
Speaking of guilt, I find myself feeling a lot of guilt lately, especially now that work has started. I realized recently how hard I had been trying to meet my own and others’ expectations. Read to your children at least 30 minutes a day. Eat organic, locally sourced food. Exercise an hour a day. Floss. Write thank you notes, on time. Spend quality time with your family. Keep a clean house. Meditate daily. Work at least 8, but preferably 10, hours a day to make an impact on the world. Read the newspaper. Follow local politics. Get involved. Volunteer. Walk, don’t drive, it’s better for the environment. Always do what’s right. Tell the truth. Be happy- no one likes a sad noodle. Be calm. Women who aren’t are called bitches. Bake cookies for your neighbors. Vote. Donate.
The list in my head keeps going.
On any given day I am giving it my all to do all of these things, and do them well. I had it in my head that women everywhere were doing all of these things simultaneously and that I was just behind the ball. Then it struck me that no one person I knew was doing all of these things at the same time. The women who were fit and physically active and highly involved with their kids didn’t have full time jobs. The women who had high powered jobs didn’t have kids at home. The women who were calm didn’t have spotless homes or a fulltime job/small children one-two punch.
After realizing that I was striving for the impossible, I exhaled deeply. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to keep a clean house, cook all of your meals from scratch, take public transportation, exercise for a full hour, volunteer, work a full day, eat dinner together, read to your kids and still get the prescribed eight hours of sleep a night. I still feel guilty much of the time, but I am now conscious that I was pushing myself into the realm of near insanity, and now I can allow myself to scale back on my expectations. And, just like that, Ack! I am late for heading home! Guilt again!
Showing posts with label things I can't do. Show all posts
Showing posts with label things I can't do. Show all posts
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Sunday, October 24, 2010
All in favor of chickens. say "Aye"
Aye!!
Is it bad that I sent the entire family out of the condo on a rainy Sunday morning? Dressed them up in rain slickers and snow pants and sent them on their way, ignoring their protests and cries of , “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! We want to stay with Mama!” and smiled sweetly as I pulled on their rain boots and told them to have fun catching frogs and newts or whatever else might be out there that would be sort of slimy and intriguing to the toddler/preschooler set.
Chris is always up for a walk outside, so I felt no guilt there. I felt a mild pang of guilt in shooing Ella and Jay out the door as the weather oscillates from a cold drizzly pitter-patter to a strong, gusty full-on downpour. But as I sip my coffee and sidle up to the computer for a good session of journaling, my guilt melts away. Or at least I can’t hear it ringing in my ears over Ella Fitzgerald on Pandora. Eh, we’ll put them in a warm shower when they get home and follow it up with a cup of chamomile tea. They probably won’t remember this experience in thirty years, anyway. And if they do, it might be because they are doing the exact same thing to their kids so that they can reclaim the tiniest schnibblit of sanity.
But hopefully they won’t remember it in fifty years when they are choosing my nursing home, and I’m all, “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo! I want to stay with YOU!” and they just smile sweetly and zip up my granny hoodie and orthopedic shoes as they shoo me and my walker out the door...
But who knows? Maybe they’ll actually have fun stomping in the rain puddles and catching frogs. And who knows? I might like Bingo and creamed corn.
So, really, I sat down to write about chickens. I want chickens. I have wanted to chickens for years. Egg providers, composters, entertainers, pets. Chickens are the overachievers of the animal world. And I want a flock of chickens so bad I can taste the fresh brown eggs.
When we bought the condo four years ago, it was understood that it was a starter home. Only a starter home. Something to earn us equity while we finished school and planned for our real home. A house. With a yard. Maybe even a small farm. With enough room for a huge, overflowing vegetable garden, berry bushes and some fruit trees. A bee hive and chickens would round it out. When Chris and I were both still in school, the condo made perfect sense. Who has time to mow the lawn or shovel snow when there are term papers to write and midterms to study for? And we’ve enjoyed being able to take off for an impromptu camping trip or day long road trip without worry about who will shut the hen house at night or collect eggs in the morning. We also haven’t had to worry about upkeep of the siding or replacing the furnace.
But lately our 1000 square feet on the third floor has seemed stifling. Incredibly limiting. Suffocating, almost. We crave more space, more room outside. The ability to fling open the back door and march the kids outside on a sunny day to play in the sandbox while we cook dinner or talk. The ability to step outside and pluck a fresh tomato from the vine or harvest kale or potatoes for dinner. And of course, the ability to collect fresh eggs for breakfast.
We have done the best we could with what we have. We have had a plot in the community garden a mile away every year that we have lived here. Our garden plot is bigger than our condo, at 1200 square feet. We spend as much time there as we can, but there is just something very different about having a mile in between your stove and your tomatoes. Sometimes that mile really makes a big difference. Plus, keeping bees and chickens there are against the rules.
We garden on our deck, the best we can too. We struggle since we have a very urban downstairs neighbor who abhors anything natural. She once called the condo association and complained because we had a hummingbird feeder. “ All birds poop,” she explained matter-of-factly to Chris.
We’ve had to take down our bird feeders, our bird houses and even limit what we plant on the deck because she has called the condo association more than once to report dirt falling between the cracks onto her patio from our upstairs deck.
Wonder what she would think about chickens roosting on our banister.
Wistfully, I pick up urban homesteading and simple living books from the library. “Get a set of chickens!” They advise. “They are cheap! Provide wonderful eggs! Easy to care for!” Urban chicken farming has really taken off the last several years. In many cities, it is quite common to see chickens picking their way through suburban lawns and roosting in backyard coops. Madison, Chicago, Seattle… urban chicks are chic. But trust me, I am not doing it because they are trendy (hey, don’t make fun of me. Trendy is relative, o.k?).
I want chickens because they just make sense. They eat your kitchen scraps and produce wonderful compost for the garden. They produce luscious, rich, colorful eggs. They are entertaining to watch strut around and peck at potato bugs. (Entertaining is also relative. We don’t have a T.V., ok.?) Did I mention the bit about the eggs? While Madison is chicken friendly, my condo is not. So, until the housing market picks up and we can sell this condo, I’ll have to continue to buy my eggs from the food co-op and longingly look though dreamy poultry catalogs (Hey don’t make fun of me. Dreamy is relative, o.k.?).
Is it bad that I sent the entire family out of the condo on a rainy Sunday morning? Dressed them up in rain slickers and snow pants and sent them on their way, ignoring their protests and cries of , “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! We want to stay with Mama!” and smiled sweetly as I pulled on their rain boots and told them to have fun catching frogs and newts or whatever else might be out there that would be sort of slimy and intriguing to the toddler/preschooler set.
Chris is always up for a walk outside, so I felt no guilt there. I felt a mild pang of guilt in shooing Ella and Jay out the door as the weather oscillates from a cold drizzly pitter-patter to a strong, gusty full-on downpour. But as I sip my coffee and sidle up to the computer for a good session of journaling, my guilt melts away. Or at least I can’t hear it ringing in my ears over Ella Fitzgerald on Pandora. Eh, we’ll put them in a warm shower when they get home and follow it up with a cup of chamomile tea. They probably won’t remember this experience in thirty years, anyway. And if they do, it might be because they are doing the exact same thing to their kids so that they can reclaim the tiniest schnibblit of sanity.
But hopefully they won’t remember it in fifty years when they are choosing my nursing home, and I’m all, “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo! I want to stay with YOU!” and they just smile sweetly and zip up my granny hoodie and orthopedic shoes as they shoo me and my walker out the door...
But who knows? Maybe they’ll actually have fun stomping in the rain puddles and catching frogs. And who knows? I might like Bingo and creamed corn.
So, really, I sat down to write about chickens. I want chickens. I have wanted to chickens for years. Egg providers, composters, entertainers, pets. Chickens are the overachievers of the animal world. And I want a flock of chickens so bad I can taste the fresh brown eggs.
When we bought the condo four years ago, it was understood that it was a starter home. Only a starter home. Something to earn us equity while we finished school and planned for our real home. A house. With a yard. Maybe even a small farm. With enough room for a huge, overflowing vegetable garden, berry bushes and some fruit trees. A bee hive and chickens would round it out. When Chris and I were both still in school, the condo made perfect sense. Who has time to mow the lawn or shovel snow when there are term papers to write and midterms to study for? And we’ve enjoyed being able to take off for an impromptu camping trip or day long road trip without worry about who will shut the hen house at night or collect eggs in the morning. We also haven’t had to worry about upkeep of the siding or replacing the furnace.
But lately our 1000 square feet on the third floor has seemed stifling. Incredibly limiting. Suffocating, almost. We crave more space, more room outside. The ability to fling open the back door and march the kids outside on a sunny day to play in the sandbox while we cook dinner or talk. The ability to step outside and pluck a fresh tomato from the vine or harvest kale or potatoes for dinner. And of course, the ability to collect fresh eggs for breakfast.
We have done the best we could with what we have. We have had a plot in the community garden a mile away every year that we have lived here. Our garden plot is bigger than our condo, at 1200 square feet. We spend as much time there as we can, but there is just something very different about having a mile in between your stove and your tomatoes. Sometimes that mile really makes a big difference. Plus, keeping bees and chickens there are against the rules.
We garden on our deck, the best we can too. We struggle since we have a very urban downstairs neighbor who abhors anything natural. She once called the condo association and complained because we had a hummingbird feeder. “ All birds poop,” she explained matter-of-factly to Chris.
We’ve had to take down our bird feeders, our bird houses and even limit what we plant on the deck because she has called the condo association more than once to report dirt falling between the cracks onto her patio from our upstairs deck.
Wonder what she would think about chickens roosting on our banister.
Wistfully, I pick up urban homesteading and simple living books from the library. “Get a set of chickens!” They advise. “They are cheap! Provide wonderful eggs! Easy to care for!” Urban chicken farming has really taken off the last several years. In many cities, it is quite common to see chickens picking their way through suburban lawns and roosting in backyard coops. Madison, Chicago, Seattle… urban chicks are chic. But trust me, I am not doing it because they are trendy (hey, don’t make fun of me. Trendy is relative, o.k?).
I want chickens because they just make sense. They eat your kitchen scraps and produce wonderful compost for the garden. They produce luscious, rich, colorful eggs. They are entertaining to watch strut around and peck at potato bugs. (Entertaining is also relative. We don’t have a T.V., ok.?) Did I mention the bit about the eggs? While Madison is chicken friendly, my condo is not. So, until the housing market picks up and we can sell this condo, I’ll have to continue to buy my eggs from the food co-op and longingly look though dreamy poultry catalogs (Hey don’t make fun of me. Dreamy is relative, o.k.?).
Friday, March 05, 2010
I speak the language, but I don’t understand.
I went for a run today with a friend who works in the office across the hall. It was her second outside run of the year, having spent the winter running on a treadmill in the gym. During the non-icy parts of the year we often go for lunchtime runs together, as we both do about the same distance and speed.
Before setting out on the run today, she cautioned me that she wasn’t quite up to our usual distance because she is transitioning to outside running, which can be a little more challenging (Take note. That was hint number one). We were about ten or fifteen minutes out when we got to a decision point in the route. Straight would take us over to the lake shore where we could run with Kodi off leash and have an enjoyable crushed rock path to run on. Right would take us back through the city on asphalt but would get us back much sooner.
I asked which direction she wanted to go.
Runner friend: “I’d prefer to go to the right… but it’s up to you” (hint number two)
Me: “Well great! Cause I’d like to go straight and hit that nice crushed rock trail!”
Straight we went. We crossed the street and got to the other side. Here she said, “Well, we could still turn right and head back through the city… but it’s up to you.”
That’s when I realized that we were speaking the same language, but profoundly different dialects.
When someone says, “I’d like to do (insert verb here), but it’s up to you,” I take that as, “Whatever your idea is, it’s great and we should TOTALLY go for it, oh mighty wise one.” Mostly, once I hear, “It’s up to you” the decision is made. I have already forgotten the first part of the statement, which is usually, “I’d prefer to do this, but…”
After countless misunderstandings with Chris, I finally realized that in the Midwest when people say, “I’d like to do (insert verb here)”, that means, “I really, really, really, really, REALLY, OMFG really, want to do this, and if we don’t, I will know that you are a selfish jerk. But I won’t say anything because I am too nice. Probably I will bake you one less cookie next time I bake a batch for you and THAT will demonstrate the severity of my wrath.”
At the risk of oversimplification and coming off as extremely culturally insensitive, I want to share what I have learned over the many years of being married to a Midwesterner: They have opinions.
Really.
I know this may come as a shock, and it certainly shocked me too, but it is the truth. Here is more wisdom I have learned from Chris over the course of our marriage:
When Midwesterners TRULY don’t care about something, they don’t even bother expressing an opinion. When they have a mild preference, they don’t bother expressing an opinion, either. When they have a pretty strong preference you might hear (or might not) hear a vagueish opinion-like statement expressing a kind-of-ish preference. To East Coasters, this may sound like an expression of neutrality
(or *cough, cough*- sissiness)
It is often only when they have a VERY strong preference that you may hear it verbalized. For example, “I’d prefer to go to the right… but it’s up to you.”
After her second comment, the light bulb flashed on and I understood that she was not really saying it was up to me. I finally got that she was too nice to tell me that she wanted to head back to the office and that if we went any further she would be forced to take out my knees with the hard chunks of gray ice piled along the road. I corrected with a, “Great idea! I never run this route, anyway, it’ll be good for me.” We headed back to the office and have a date to run again next week, so I think my last minute Midwest-East Coast translation must have been successful.
Still, I could use one of those real-time translators like they have in the UN. It’d sure keep me out of trouble from time to time.
Before setting out on the run today, she cautioned me that she wasn’t quite up to our usual distance because she is transitioning to outside running, which can be a little more challenging (Take note. That was hint number one). We were about ten or fifteen minutes out when we got to a decision point in the route. Straight would take us over to the lake shore where we could run with Kodi off leash and have an enjoyable crushed rock path to run on. Right would take us back through the city on asphalt but would get us back much sooner.
I asked which direction she wanted to go.
Runner friend: “I’d prefer to go to the right… but it’s up to you” (hint number two)
Me: “Well great! Cause I’d like to go straight and hit that nice crushed rock trail!”
Straight we went. We crossed the street and got to the other side. Here she said, “Well, we could still turn right and head back through the city… but it’s up to you.”
That’s when I realized that we were speaking the same language, but profoundly different dialects.
When someone says, “I’d like to do (insert verb here), but it’s up to you,” I take that as, “Whatever your idea is, it’s great and we should TOTALLY go for it, oh mighty wise one.” Mostly, once I hear, “It’s up to you” the decision is made. I have already forgotten the first part of the statement, which is usually, “I’d prefer to do this, but…”
After countless misunderstandings with Chris, I finally realized that in the Midwest when people say, “I’d like to do (insert verb here)”, that means, “I really, really, really, really, REALLY, OMFG really, want to do this, and if we don’t, I will know that you are a selfish jerk. But I won’t say anything because I am too nice. Probably I will bake you one less cookie next time I bake a batch for you and THAT will demonstrate the severity of my wrath.”
At the risk of oversimplification and coming off as extremely culturally insensitive, I want to share what I have learned over the many years of being married to a Midwesterner: They have opinions.
Really.
I know this may come as a shock, and it certainly shocked me too, but it is the truth. Here is more wisdom I have learned from Chris over the course of our marriage:
When Midwesterners TRULY don’t care about something, they don’t even bother expressing an opinion. When they have a mild preference, they don’t bother expressing an opinion, either. When they have a pretty strong preference you might hear (or might not) hear a vagueish opinion-like statement expressing a kind-of-ish preference. To East Coasters, this may sound like an expression of neutrality
(or *cough, cough*- sissiness)
It is often only when they have a VERY strong preference that you may hear it verbalized. For example, “I’d prefer to go to the right… but it’s up to you.”
After her second comment, the light bulb flashed on and I understood that she was not really saying it was up to me. I finally got that she was too nice to tell me that she wanted to head back to the office and that if we went any further she would be forced to take out my knees with the hard chunks of gray ice piled along the road. I corrected with a, “Great idea! I never run this route, anyway, it’ll be good for me.” We headed back to the office and have a date to run again next week, so I think my last minute Midwest-East Coast translation must have been successful.
Still, I could use one of those real-time translators like they have in the UN. It’d sure keep me out of trouble from time to time.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Confessions of a Real Life Slob
Something occurred to me the other day, which will be no surprise to those who know me. In an BFO (Blinding Flash of Obviousness), I realized this: I am a slob.
For years I have had this nasty, creeping feeling, but I was too repulsed to acknowledge it. Instead, I have simply been “too busy” to clean up after myself. Too busy to put away my coffee mugs, to make my bed, to put away the clothes that I shed at the foot of my bed at the end of each day. I told myself that between work, school and the kids, life was just too hectic to stay neat and organized. Later, when I graduated, it was the garden and work and the kids. Then the holidays, then taking on the survival of my organization.
I would love to put the blame at someone else’s feet. I would desperately, dearly love to do this. I could try to reach back and put it on my parents, or on the unattainable standards set by the media, or some other farcical explanation, but what it really comes down to is this: I left that dirty plate on the table, sprayed like scatter shot with jelly and toast crumbs. I made that pile of half clean/ but also somewhat dirty clothes at the foot of the bed that is now threatening to take over the bed and push us all out. I have strewn half-full coffee mugs throughout the condo and it was me who left a pile of shoe castoffs by the front door.
This realization came into even sharper focus recently when I announced to Jay that he MUST clean his room. His toys were everywhere, veritable trip hazards interspersed with little sharp and pointy things just waiting to get implanted in the bottom of our feet. His clothes were in big piles near his dresser, castoffs from indecision and three year old capriciousness. His books were in large piles and spilling over. As I surveyed the mess and shook my head disapprovingly, I said, “Jay, you need to clean this room right now.” Jay looked me squarely in the eye and said, “And then we’ll clean YOUR room, Mama?”
It was a moment a truth.
I reeled and sputtered as I tried to figure out how to respond. I am sure whatever I said it came out as defensive and lame. Then I did what any closeted slob would do: I told him my room was not his concern and that he needed work on his room, thank you VERY much.
...Then I skulked off to clean my room.
I have a long way to go, and probably a few more moments of truth lay ahead, but I guess acknowledgement is the first step on this road to less slobbishness. The next step is not leaving a trail of socks, wet towels and apple cores behind me.
For years I have had this nasty, creeping feeling, but I was too repulsed to acknowledge it. Instead, I have simply been “too busy” to clean up after myself. Too busy to put away my coffee mugs, to make my bed, to put away the clothes that I shed at the foot of my bed at the end of each day. I told myself that between work, school and the kids, life was just too hectic to stay neat and organized. Later, when I graduated, it was the garden and work and the kids. Then the holidays, then taking on the survival of my organization.
I would love to put the blame at someone else’s feet. I would desperately, dearly love to do this. I could try to reach back and put it on my parents, or on the unattainable standards set by the media, or some other farcical explanation, but what it really comes down to is this: I left that dirty plate on the table, sprayed like scatter shot with jelly and toast crumbs. I made that pile of half clean/ but also somewhat dirty clothes at the foot of the bed that is now threatening to take over the bed and push us all out. I have strewn half-full coffee mugs throughout the condo and it was me who left a pile of shoe castoffs by the front door.
This realization came into even sharper focus recently when I announced to Jay that he MUST clean his room. His toys were everywhere, veritable trip hazards interspersed with little sharp and pointy things just waiting to get implanted in the bottom of our feet. His clothes were in big piles near his dresser, castoffs from indecision and three year old capriciousness. His books were in large piles and spilling over. As I surveyed the mess and shook my head disapprovingly, I said, “Jay, you need to clean this room right now.” Jay looked me squarely in the eye and said, “And then we’ll clean YOUR room, Mama?”
It was a moment a truth.
I reeled and sputtered as I tried to figure out how to respond. I am sure whatever I said it came out as defensive and lame. Then I did what any closeted slob would do: I told him my room was not his concern and that he needed work on his room, thank you VERY much.
...Then I skulked off to clean my room.
I have a long way to go, and probably a few more moments of truth lay ahead, but I guess acknowledgement is the first step on this road to less slobbishness. The next step is not leaving a trail of socks, wet towels and apple cores behind me.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Ten things I can’t do
Dear Anonymous,
Thanks for asking. Indeed, there are many things I can't do. Here is a list of ten things that I can not do:
1. I can not do anything requiring hand-eye coordination
2. I can not ever remember that word that means that Judgement Day has come and God took all the good people to heaven and left me behind to knit water bottle cozies. Resomething? Recaputure? Renouncement day? R… I don’t know.
3. I can not say a single foreign word without butchering it to little, tiny, incomprehensible pieces
4. I can not play a single music instrument (well)
5. I can not drive stick shift
6. I can not keep ferns alive
7. I can not pee standing up
8. I can not tell a joke without laughing so hard before I get to the punch line that I ruin the joke
9. I can not read a map
10. I can not raise one eyebrow suggestively like people do in the movies when they’re all, “Really?”
If you’d like more, call Chris. I’m betting his list for me will be much longer and will probably include things like:
1. Does not know how to take out the garbage
2. Can not recognize a full garbage can
3. Can not be convinced that its time to take out the garbage when you have to start piling things outside of the garbage can because nothing else can be jammed inside
4. Can not ever get us anywhere on time
5. Can not understand that getting somewhere on time involves leaving before it starts
6. Can not ever, ever, jesuschristhavemercy, pick up her wet towels
7. Can not stand being told what to do
8. Can not stand being hinted at what to do
9. Can not stand the approximate thought of someone telling her what to do
10. Can not stand the thought of someone thinking about telling her what to do
11. Can not finish a full cup of coffee, tea, bottle of soda or beer
12. Can not load half cups of coffee, tea, soda or beer into dishwasher.
13. Or even put them in the sink
14. Or even in the kitchen
15. Argh! OMFG this woman! Why? WHY??
Also, I can not do a cartwheel and I can not listen to Kenny G without retching.
There.
Thanks for asking. Indeed, there are many things I can't do. Here is a list of ten things that I can not do:
1. I can not do anything requiring hand-eye coordination
2. I can not ever remember that word that means that Judgement Day has come and God took all the good people to heaven and left me behind to knit water bottle cozies. Resomething? Recaputure? Renouncement day? R… I don’t know.
3. I can not say a single foreign word without butchering it to little, tiny, incomprehensible pieces
4. I can not play a single music instrument (well)
5. I can not drive stick shift
6. I can not keep ferns alive
7. I can not pee standing up
8. I can not tell a joke without laughing so hard before I get to the punch line that I ruin the joke
9. I can not read a map
10. I can not raise one eyebrow suggestively like people do in the movies when they’re all, “Really?”
If you’d like more, call Chris. I’m betting his list for me will be much longer and will probably include things like:
1. Does not know how to take out the garbage
2. Can not recognize a full garbage can
3. Can not be convinced that its time to take out the garbage when you have to start piling things outside of the garbage can because nothing else can be jammed inside
4. Can not ever get us anywhere on time
5. Can not understand that getting somewhere on time involves leaving before it starts
6. Can not ever, ever, jesuschristhavemercy, pick up her wet towels
7. Can not stand being told what to do
8. Can not stand being hinted at what to do
9. Can not stand the approximate thought of someone telling her what to do
10. Can not stand the thought of someone thinking about telling her what to do
11. Can not finish a full cup of coffee, tea, bottle of soda or beer
12. Can not load half cups of coffee, tea, soda or beer into dishwasher.
13. Or even put them in the sink
14. Or even in the kitchen
15. Argh! OMFG this woman! Why? WHY??
Also, I can not do a cartwheel and I can not listen to Kenny G without retching.
There.
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