Archive for the ‘Me Myself’ Category
May 12 2010
I am participating in Momalom‘s Five for Ten. Today’s topic is about Happiness.
As a little kid, there seemed like so much I couldn’t do. I’d watch in awe as my brother, who is 6 years older, went on teenage adventures that I wasn’t a part of. When you’re young you can’t help but believe those older share a secret that makes them happier.
Then I got to high school and was miserable. I was quiet, too afraid of what everyone else thought yet trying too hard to be different. I spent the majority of my days blending into a desk, willing the clock to tick faster. I couldn’t wait to graduate. To get out. Happiness has to be waiting somewhere else.
Mere months after graduating high school I met J. A few months later, we moved in together. Away. We didn’t have much at the time. It was a small apartment with creaky wood floors. There were respites of happiness, but it was exhausted by a dead-end job that I abhorred. And so began a search for a better career to make me happy.
Eventually I was awarded my own desk, where I twiddled my thumbs for hours on end. It wasn’t the best job, but it was good. I liked having someplace to go, a reason to dress up. Yet it was so quiet when I came home at the end of the day, even with J in an adjacent room. I needed whatever was missing to make me happy.
And along came my son, my first born. Eventually, my world shifted focus to bottles and diapers. When Abby and Buzz arrived, my days turned from quiet and steady to hectic and onerous. It’s not easy. Having children in and of itself did not make me happy.
But there are flashes. Like lightening cutting through the night sky. When my 4 year old, who is speech delayed, tries to sing along with a song or says “Mommy, I love you”. When my daughter cusps my face in her hands and squeals “Hi!” or peek-a-boos around a corner. The ridiculous stories my oldest shares and how he’s always trying to make me laugh. In finding them, I found true moments of happiness.
April 30 2010
My parents live in a secluded area. It’s not the country, exactly, but they have a huge yard with an area of overgrown woods we used to explore as kids. Naturally, there were all kinds of bugs and animals hiding in its midst. And spiders.
We came upon one of these spiders when hiking through with my brother. It was a tarantula, I’m pretty sure. Though we didn’t stick around long enough for a personal examination. We quickly darted off as fast as we could run and never looked back. If my nightmares serve correctly, I actually think it jumped at us.
Not long after, I was busy listening to music in my room when I hear a rustling. My wall was covered with posters and I thought maybe one had fallen down. I look around, though, and nothing. So I turn the radio back on, but I hear it again. At this point, my interest is peaked. What in the world…?
When a tarantula crawls down my wall. From behind one of my posters.
I screamed. Like a girl. And ran. Like a bat out of hell. Leaving my bumbling parents to take care of it.
I’ve never felt the same about spiders since.
So even though the spider that Jedi pointed to as it crawled across my bedroom was small and black and probably harmless, they all resemble a hairy tarantula poised to attack now. I had to take care of it, though, when I would have preferred to run and scream. Because being a parent means doing things you really don’t want to do. Even when it involves giant (tiny) hairy (or not) arachnids.
April 28 2010
I come from a long line of morning people, my mother jumpstarts her day at 3 a.m. and my grandmother used to do the same. I am about as opposite of this as you can get. In fact, I would usually be better to skip morning altogether. I’m cranky and irritable and I beg in a futile effort for just 10 more infinite minutes. As you can guess, this doesn’t work well with kids running amok.
My kids, being normal kids, usually wake bright-eyed sometime before 8. While I realize in actuality that it could be worse, it doesn’t seem possible as I’m trudging myself out of bed. Awhile back, both of my youngest were ready to go at 6:45 and I thought I would just about die. That day seemed to last forever.
It’s crossed my mind that if I could just get even an hour more sleep, the world would be my proverbial oyster.
So imagine my surprise when my kids let me sleep in. Until 9:15.
Birds were singing! The sun was shining! The angels rejoiced!
It’s a Christmas miracle!
Glory, glory hallelujah!
If only I could find some way to bottle that morning.
I really did feel like I could conquer the world. Or at least the giant pile of laundry. Of course Abby refused to nap later and Buzz pooped in his underwear which didn’t have anything to do with sleep, exactly, but my jubilance dissipated by the afternoon and it hasn’t returned since. That brief glimpse of what could be gave me hope, though.
April 13 2010
A number of years back, before our own children were a burning ember in our eye, J and I were at the home of a distant friend and her family. Their daughter of around 6 was happily playing with a toy when the toddler boy decided that he wanted it, as toddlers are prone to do. After a few minutes of incessant whining, the mother made the girl hand the toy over to her brother. Her small face dropped as his lit up, smirking in the cast of injustice.
As we left their house, both J and I agreed in our judgmental best that the mother was wrong. She’s obviously playing favorites and raising a monster, we snarked. Just tell the boy tough luck and let the girl keep on playing, how hard is that? We’ll be much better parents when we have kids, we assured. The coolest parents ever, most likely.
Then we had kids. And every grand way we thought we’d be different flew out the window like a bee to honey.
I hush when I should listen. I repeat obtuse mom-isms, such as “because I said so”. I am not any better than any other mom on the block, and most days I can only hope to not be any worse. And while it doesn’t seem fair, I still find myself giving in when I know I shouldn’t. Not all the time, but some. Because I get now that it’s not about playing favorites. It’s about maintaining a shred of equanimity.
Equanimity: it’s my 5 star word of the day, people.
April 12 2010
I turned for a quick second as Abby grabbed the remote control and ran for the couch. Climbing up, she quickly found the button to change the station off of the Celebrity Fit Club I had been watching. Apparently, my daughter has a thing against VH1 reality show programming. It’s like sometimes I don’t even know where she came from.
Further flabbergasting, she turned it to a channel with Justin Bieber and his side-swoopy bangs.
She sat there enthralled, pillow on her lap. When the audience clapped and screamed in tween adoration, she clapped, too. If I didn’t know better, I would swear she turned it to that channel specifically to swoon over this 16 year old kid. Maybe it’s because I’m not in his demographic, but I honestly don’t get the appeal. Then again, back in my day it was New Kids On the Block and I didn’t understand their appeal, either. Not that I’m claiming my taste is any better. Since apparently I like guys who look like girls.
This is where I admit my very, very, VERY longstanding crush on Sebastian Bach, the main reason I bothered watching this season of Celebrity Fit Club. Also, while we’re at it, almost any long-haired rock singer of the late 80′s. I didn’t care for Tiger Beat, I had Metal Edge. What can I say, I had a type.
Even though I’m certain (and thankful) that this time with my 20 month old daughter was just a ridiculous fluke, I still had a flash of how my mother must have felt when I first sat dreamy-eyed at MTV. Well played, karma. Well played.
