Commuting Complaints

I am so grateful that I generally work from home!  I am writing this from a recently-renovated (though still covered in plastic . . .?) hotel in New Hampshire for a training for one of my several part-time jobs. 

Before I could get here, I had a few things to deal with.  First, of course, there were my kids.  Grammy and Pop were more than happy to have an extended pajama party sleepover (as were my munchkins!).  Check. 

Dogs?  Grammy and Pop were willing to take them, too.  Check.

Fish.  My neighbor agreed to feed them.  Check. 


The difficulties started when my mother-in-law and I introduced my dogs to her newly-adopted dog who "likes dogs bigger than herself."  Apparently that does not yet include our dogs!  At one point she went after both of my dogs and got banned to the upstairs bedroom.  Not a good start!  (Although I have complete confidence that they will be getting along famously by the time I get back!)

Then there is the drive.  I know there are people who drive from Rhode Island to Boston (or New Hampshire) every day for work.  I cannot for the life of me figure out why. 

I don't usually mind driving.  In fact, after I stopped teaching I actually considered becoming an over-the-road truck driver.  (I blame it on too many viewings of Smokey and the Bandit as a kid!) 

Boy would that have been a bad career decision!

After 2-1/2 hours on the highway (at rush hour), I managed to get stuck in backups from 3 different accidents. 

Again, I don't usually get hung up on highway traffic, especially when I have plenty of time to get where I'm going.  I just find a good radio station, crank up the volume, sing at the top of my lungs, and life is good. 

But my radio still doesn't work.  And the portable one I have plugged into my cigarette would only get one station: a hip-hoppy thing that just wasn't working for me.  What about my CD collection?  Oh, yeah.  I left that in the hatchback . . . couldn't reach it.  All I had was The Bellamy Brothers CD already in the player. 

I like the Bellamys . . . well, I liked them more before psychotherapy, before I realized that a disproportionate number of their songs actually represented highly dysfunctional relationships . . . but by the second time through I was most definitely rejoicing to find the hotel and turn off the car! 

At least I have another day before I have to battle the commute again! 

Coming to Grips With Not Going Along

When my ex arrived to pick up the kids for Daddy Day today, I was ready to be cheerful and happy.  I was coming off the best week I've had in I can't remember when, I have been just loving being Mom to my kids, and I wanted to really put that forgiveness thing into practice. 

He looks at the kids and says, "Hey, guys!  Do you want to go to Edaville Railroad today?  Grammy and Pop want to take you there." 

Happy feelings gone like last winter's snow. 

I love Edaville.  I love the trains and the rides and the food . . . but most of all I love watching my kids enjoying every second of it.  I hated the thought that they were going to make a trainload of delightful memories . . . and I wasn't going to be a part of them. 

As my ex drove away with my kids, I signed "I love you" to them and sobbed hysterically.  I thought very unforgiving thoughts.  I raged anew at how he gets to be the "fun" dad, doing all kinds of once-in-a-lifetime stuff with them while I am the Mom who takes them to doctor appointments and corrects table manners and enforces time-outs for hitting and washes laundry and cooks meals and ... (I think you get the idea.) 

Let me admit here and now: my children probably did not miss me one iota.  They had a fabulous time, as I could tell as they prattled on about their adventures when they called me on the way home.  My sorrow was not that they were missing out.  It was sorrow because I was missing out. 

After my initial crying fit and two episodes of Zoo, I was able to take a deep breath and get some perspective.  No, I will not be able to take them to all the cool things their dad will.  For one thing, there is a very real time issue.  (While they went to Edaville, I mowed the lawn, cleaned the pool, and wrote an article, all of which needed to be done.) 

There is also a money issue.  I can't drop $90 just on admission to a theme park for one day. 

But there are lots of things that I get to do with them that are building more than a single memory, they are creating an ethos of childhood.  I want that to be an ethos of love, of safety, of reliability, of laughter, of God, of joy ... and also of godly discipline and responsibility and fortitude. 

What are those things?  Our pool times, our spontaneous picnics in the backyard, movie suppers, post-dentist ice creams, bad-day visits to the playground . . . and the 20 timeouts in the first 90 minutes of the day, the loss of a toy after leaving a bruise on a sibling, and the question, "Is that how you speak to your Mother?" 

I think it's working, too.  Because when my munchkins called me tonight and told me about the princesses and dinosaurs and roller coasters (about which my son was very "brave"), they asked me to read them their Bible story . . . and to pray with them . . . and to sing to them.  

It was beautiful. 

So I'm no longer angry with my ex.  I am at peace with the loss.  And I am so thankful for all I have . . . especially those two precious little ones asleep in the next room. 

Coffee's On

I am in the process of learning to take care of myself.  By that, I mean I am trying to take a step back and observe what my physical, spiritual, and emotional needs are and then fill them. 

Some people are good at that.  My mother recounts a story of her best friend sitting down to eat lunch while her kids were clamoring for her attention.  Rather than jumping up to wait on their every need, she calmly finished eating and then addressed their needs. 

At one time I would have thought that selfish of Mom.  Now I see that it was most likely very wise of Mom.  Providing for others requires that you have something of your own to give.  When we are overly hungry, tired, emotionally drained, we have nothing good to give.  Rather than giving bread to our children (spouses, friends, etc.), we are more likely to give a stone. 

Today I was blessed to have a day that met my need for girl time.  Two of my friends--one planned, one impromptu--shared a cup of coffee with me . . . as well as some delightful conversation. 

I don't know what it is about a coffee klatch that gives me a little extra "oomph."  There is, of course, the caffeine . . . although I usually brew decaf, so that doesn't really apply.  Maybe there's just something in the flavor of coffee that tricks my brain into thinking it's been given a shot of energy!

There's also the fact that I'm sitting.  We moms don't do that very often.  Laundry, dishes, meals, playtime . . . we do it all on our feet.  And the few things we do sit down for--eating, paying bills--end up feeling more like work as we train our youngsters in appropriate table manners and juggle the dollars and cents. 

Coffee break with the gals is a different kind of sitting--the restful kind!  Today we sat outside in the lawn chairs, watching the kids drive their dune buggy all over the yard (and occasionally each other!), lazing in the shade, watching the sun creep across the sky.  Talk about bliss!  I can't remember the last time I just sat in my yard visiting!  No wonder my great-grandparents' generation made it a regular part of their routine! 

What I think I enjoyed the most was the intimacy.  I learned things about both my friends that I hadn't known before.  Their backstories, their current struggles, their ups and downs were opened up to me, and I was honored by the gift. 

Social media can be a wonderful thing.  We can keep in touch with friends all over the world at little to no cost in either time or money.  If used judiciously, it can even help maintain friendships that were developed in person decades in the past. 

The danger with social media, as many have noted before I, is that it can create a false sense of intimacy.  You may know many personal details about a person, but you never actually communicate one on one with that individual. 

Not so over coffee.  Sharing done over java is as personal as can be.  You not only tell your story, you are at the mercy of the raised eyebrows, puzzled frowns, or unbidden laughter of the individual across the table. 

On the other hand, you are also blessed by the accepting nods, the empathetic giggles, and somber sympathy of that same person. 

I was so blessed today.  Twice.  I hope they were, too. 

Pearly Whites

Every Mom can admit that there are times when motherhood is just plain hard.  You know, the nights you sit up with a sick kid getting puked on and changing sheets three times and doing a load of laundry at 2am because you've changed your last set and the kid's still sick.

Or there's the trip to the grocery store with one kid screaming to see the lobsters, another screaming for a drink, and your head screaming for an Advil.

Those are the days when you earn your mother stripes. 

Every once in a while, however, there's another kind of day, a pat-on-the-back-from-God day, a day when being a mom is just plain fun.  

Today was the latter for me.  Like so many of those gift days, it was pretty ordinary.  The kids played with their cousins while I went to counseling.  We went to the dentist.  Kids had Daddy Day.  (I went to the family counselor to assist with the kids' emotional security during this time of tumult!) 

Bright spot #1:  We are eating lunch with my brother, sister-in-law, and my cousins.  My kids eat beautifully, even getting seconds and thirds of vegetables.  They become the example, "Your cousins are eating their vegetables . . ."  Mommy smiles.  

Bright spot #2:  The kids walk into Arrowhead Dental with their charm meter zipping through the roof despite having fallen into sound sleep in the car and being awakened at the dentist's office.  

Bright spot #3:  Ranita sits very bravely for his cleaning, exam, and fluoride treatment, inspiring his reluctant sister to do the same.  Both receive ample praise from the hygienist.  Chinchita also receives props from her brother: "That's my girl!" 

Bright spot #4: While I get my cleaning, my son chats up the pretty hygienist.  He says to her, "So, what are you doing after this?"  She almost drops the pick in my mouth and says, "That is the first time I've ever been asked that!  You are so sweet!"  Mom beams again, as well as possible with someone else's hands in her mouth.  

Bright spot #5:  While I settle up the bill (a much more expensive affair now that I no longer have dental insurance . . . thank goodness the kids are covered under their dad!), the kids unwrap their "sticky toys" from the treasure chest.  Ranita begins to disappear around the corner.  I say, "Where are you going?" in a very MOM voice.  

He responds, with a little edge in his tone, "There's a trash can over there; I'm throwing it away."  

I say, "Excuse me.  Is that how you speak to your mother?  Adjust your tone, please."  

He replies, "May I please throw the wrapper in the trash?"  

"Most certainly.  Thank you."  

The receptionist's eyes are bugging out: "They are so good!"  Mommy again brushes it off, but again shows off her newly-buffed smile.  

Bright spot #6:  Mommy has a stroke of genius and decides to treat her little angels to ice cream across the street at Holy Cow.  Lemon for Ranita, Rainbow Sherbet for Chinchita, and The Breakup for Mommy.  (I couldn't resist--chocolate ice cream with nuts and brownie chunks . . . and the name couldn't be more fitting!)  The kids eat nicely; the weather iss perfect; and the ice cream is delicious.  Ranita runs along the fence near the pond while Chinchita nurses her sherbet.  

I am happy. 

Guilty Pleasures

Have you ever been in one of those times of life when it seems like "it's nothing but work, work, work all the time," to quote Wesley in The Princess Bride?  I'm in one of those now.  While I don't mind the work per se, I do mind the sense of guilt I get when I take a break from work to  . . . take a break. 

I am learning to live with a bit of guilt, however, as I am prone to feeling guilty for things over which I ought not to feel guilty.  Here are a few of the things that I'm starting to enjoy, guilty feelings or no:

1. Naps.  Actually, naps were never high on my list of things to do until about 6 months ago.  I still don't indulge often, but the desire is there quite frequently!
2. Dunkin' Donuts Lattes.  Okay, not really a break from work, since I usually get them when driving to some form of work, but they're yummy anyway!
3. Sudokus.  I came to the party a little late on these, but I admit I'm a bit hooked.  I try to limit myself to one a day, chosen from http://www.websudoku.com/.  I tell myself I'm exercising my brain . . . !
4. Reading.  I really do love to read.  I really do wish I had time to do more of it.  And I admit to being a bathroom reader . . . it's the only time I have to myself!  
5. Music.  My church is celebrating its 150th anniversary this Sunday, and for the event our pastor's wife wrote a choral piece and arranged a fanfare for brass quartet.  I'm singing alto and playing 2nd trumpet, and it's so fun!  We are not the Wheaton College Concert Choir or the College Church Choir or anything remotely comparable, but that's okay.  I've missed making music and am delighted to be dabbling once again.  Having my kids at rehearsals on the other hand . . .
6.  Streaming TV Shows Online.  I am such a junkie for mindless entertainment.  Zoo is my current favorite.  It is always just on the edge of getting too scary/gory, but it never quite crosses the line for me.  
7. Fast Food.  This one is a comfort measure, I know it, and I indulge anyway.  I am limiting the amount I visit the drive-thru, because I am trying to lose weight and all, but I figure if a little Mickey Dee's is the worst vice I have right now, I'm doing okay!  
8. Home Improvements.  Okay, so this one strictly doesn't belong on the list because it falls into the work category more than the play category, but I am taking guilty pleasure in successfully tackling jobs that used to belong to my ex.  Today's was very silly, but it made me feel good anyway.  My tenant has needed a new mailbox for a while.  It fell off the post, and she ingeniously reattached it with duct tape, that magical product that can resolve almost any emergency.  My ex, before he was my ex, was going to replace it.  He didn't.  Since it was stable, it wasn't high on my priority list either.  The other day I received some of her mail and went to put it in her box only to realize the nasty thing was rusted shut!  Boy, did I feel like a bad landlord!  My last attempt to put up a mailbox ended with my ex (before he was my ex) and I having a verbal spat in the driveway, so I was not eager to try again.  (Trying to drill into pressure-treated lumber without pilot holes in the dark and an oak grove in my horse pasture were all contributing factors in that fight . . . one of the few real arguments we ever had!)  Anyway, because I try to be a good landlord, I bought a new mailbox, went out with my trust drill, three choices of screws (one of which guaranteed "no pre-drilling required), and my new set of drills and bits.  Ten minutes later, literally, the new mailbox was securely in place, and I felt proud as a peacock.  

Perhaps I'll take it to the next level and attempt gutters this fall . . . !
 

Celebrating Sisterhood

My sister is my best friend. 

If you call me at 8am and can't get me to pick up, chances are it's because I'm yakking with her.  Better not wait for me to call back; I could be tied up for an hour or more.  We can talk all day about everything and nothing.  Politics, religion, make-up, hairstyles, kitchen appliances, child rearing, herbal tea . . . nothing is off the table with us. 

Since my immersion into the texting world, we also send each other periodic updates on all kinds of things.  Example:

Me: "Water in basement.  (Frown face.  Wave imoji.)

Her: "Yuck!! (Bigger frown face with tongue sticking out.)  Need a hand?"  

Note: Sister lives 45 minutes away and has 3 kids on school vacation . . . and she's offering to help me?!  What a gal!

We were not always this tight.  When I was in middle school and she was in elementary, we shared a bedroom.  It was rarely a peaceful cohabitation.  I don't care what it was, we could turn it into a fight, but bedtime was the worst.

My sister and I shared different philosophies on sleeping environments.  I liked background noise; she wanted quiet.  I liked the dark; she wanted a light on.

Every night it would begin.  I'd put the country music station on. (Or worse, my tape recording of me reading my history notes so I could ace my weekly quizzes--what a nerd!)  She'd tell me to turn it off.  I'd refuse.  It seems to me I usually won that battle. 

(I have to say I finally see her perspective on this one.  My ex used to listen to sports radio EVERY NIGHT without fail.  I was okay with it falling asleep, but if I woke up in the middle of the night I COULD NOT fall asleep again.  Baseball season wasn't too bad, but football?!  I have not fallen asleep with the radio on ONCE since he moved out of the house 7-1/2 months ago!  I feel very bad for what I put my poor sister through!) 

After we'd fussed over sound, we'd start in on illumination.  She wanted the hall light on.  I wanted it off.  My bed was right by the door; hers was in the back corner.  I can't help but wonder why we didn't just swap our beds around . . . maybe we just needed to squabble over something. 

I don't know why we fought so much as kids.  What I do know is that our warring days started diminishing when I went to college.  Maturity?  Distance?  Don't know.  But by the time she got married and had my first delightful nephew, we were very close. 

Now, I count her one of the most important people in my life.  It's not just the free babysitting or the coupon apps she suggests or the way she listens to me say the same boring things over and over.  It's not just the unique and beautiful perspective she lends to every subject or her artistic nature or her sarcastic sense of humor. 

It's all of that.  Plus it's knowing that we have this shared lifetime of jokes and stories and dysfunctions and successes that nobody else (outside of our brother!) can touch. 

I look at my kids sometimes and hope that when they are older they also call each other far too often and text far too frequently and appreciate each other far more than any words can ever say. 

Top 6 Signs You are Beginning to Heal

So, I am NOT over my divorce.  Not by a long shot.  This weekend, however, I got some definite signs that the healing process has begun.  I find that awareness a little frightening, to be honest.  I am not a fickle person, and I take my commitments very seriously, so it seems too early to begin finding peace. 

On the other hand, I am seeing that this moment has actually been 8-1/2 years in the making, which takes much of the unfounded guilt away!  I suspect the healing process will be much like it is with any other wound.  It starts to heal and scab, then it starts to itch, then you scratch, then it oozes, then it scabs over, etc. 

This list is the equivalent of my first emotional scabbing over.  (Sounds kinda gross, doesn't it?!?)

1. You attend a family function and get an hour in before you realize you have not once thought, "I can't believe I'm doing this solo."
2. You get home late with two sleeping kids in the car and bring them in without once thinking, "This was so much easier when there were two of us."  
3. Your basement floods.  As you begin cleaning up the mess you think, "I am so glad he left the wet/dry vac!"  You do not think, "(!%*&&^ ex!  This was supposed to be his job!"  
4. You notice that your tenant's mailbox has rusted to the point it is virtually inoperable.  You do not call your ex who said he'd fix it before he moved out.  Instead, you buy a new box and smile thinking, "I am so glad I bought that new set of drill bits!"  
5. Your son has an emotional outburst on you, and you have no inclination to call your ex for backup. 
6. You hear about all the things your ex is doing with his girlfriend--all those things he once did with you--and, instead of wanting to throw up, you just laugh and think, "Déjà vu all over again!"  And you suddenly realize that you're glad it's not you.