I've had a crazy morning. It was not bad, per se, just crazy. Loud. Even as I write this, Alex is standing in the living room screaming "ALL GOOOOOONE ALL GOOOOOONE!" because I took away her means of climbing into the baby's bed, where all she does is jump up and down and try to kill it. Oh wait, now she's on top of the changing table. One moment, please.
Ok. Where were we?
Crazy morning. It's usually in these moments that certain instances in my own childhood coming roaring to life from some part of my brain that I didn't know existed. The part that's gone all cob-webby and dusty, storing memories that are tapped into so rarely that it's not really worth it for that particular part to spend the energy cleaning house.
Mostly, these memories leave me in a state of nostalgia for the past, the ease of being a child, being the one that's not in control (or, not appearing to be in control). Not to say that I am not wholly and completely content in the life that I lead now; I am. I have a white-knuckled grip on my husband and my children that no amounts of barbie birthday cakes and awesome big wheelies from my past can loosen.
But today, it's not nostalgia that's beating at the doors of my head. It's appreciation. Granted, the memories I have of my own childhood are not from when I was one, or even two. But I see the same workings in my own children of the times when I looked to my parents for help, whether that be saving me from a mutt gone wild who was chasing me down the street, or to make my bagel just right, so it's kind of burnt, but not in an overpowering way, and the cream cheese is spread on juuuuuuuuust so. And now I look at these crazy little people that have taken over this house, and I see the needs that need to be met, and the food that needs to be made, and the boo-boo's that need to be kissed, and even the random dog that needs to be shooed away. Except now, I'm the big one. And for the most part, it's easy to do these things. Well, maybe easy isn't the right word. It's not an issue. Of course I would take care of them. I would die for them if need be. But there are certain little things in my day-to-day that are giving me a certain clarity when it comes to my relationship with my parents. Because I am not a perfect parent (and I am going to fall back on Original Sin and say that my parents weren't perfect either). There are times when I sit down with my breakfast and my coffee (which is usually lukewarm at best at this point), and even though the both have already eaten, the kids come crawling or running from whatever toy they were playing with and claw their way up onto my lap with their mouths hanging open, waiting for their share. And of course I share. Or I just get up and make a new piece of toast of whatever it is that I'm eating. But I don't want to. What I want is to just sit down for a little and have a warm (or cold) breakfast without little hands snatching it away right before I pop it into my mouth. Not perfect. Not entirely self-sacrificial. But out of the depths of my dusty brain, memories of me seeing my mother eat something, and then asking (without really expecting a no) for a bite, or a piece, or the whole thing. And she would give it to me (mom, if you are remembering times when you ran into the other room and locked the door and didn't share, don't the feel the need to tell me... I'm having an epiphany here!). Or she would set her breakfast/lunch/snack down and make me one too.
So, for those little things, I appreciate you, mom. Because now I understand that (ALEX DO NOT STEP ON THE DOG!) your brain doesn't rewire itself when you pop some kids out, and it's still just as hard not to have some time to yourself. Selfish tendencies don't just fly out the window and leave you be. They are still there, and you still need to continuously work, beating them back with a stick. So, thanks for that.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Yes, I DID forget about you.
I suppose I should update, huh? I gave you all the suspense, the sadness, the climax, and didn't even hand the 'happily ever after'. How rude of me.
Paul is HOME.
Am I done? Can I get away with just typing that?
*sigh*
Paul is HOME, and it is WONDERFUL.
We were worried for a little bit there because of the copious amounts of volcanic ash that was lazily floating over the Atlantic. His flight out of Paris was delayed three hours because of it, causing him to miss his connection in Minneapolis. I was attached to my computer that entire day, refreshing the Delta airlines page again and again, checking on his flight, checking for other flights that he could jump on when he got there. When he called at 4:30 to tell me that he missed his connection and that he didn't know if he would make it home that night, I told him to hang up and RUN to the desk and get on the 5:15 flight. He laughed, hung up, and got a seat on that flight. (I failed to tell him that if he waited until the 6:50 flight, he would be put in first class... NOT WORTH IT.) When it was time, I packed the kids up, went to the airport, and made use of my fantastic double stroller. He was already there, waiting in the baggage claim (having arrived about 30 minutes early), and it was one those moments that was kind of dream-like. I saw him there, well, I should say that I saw HALF of him there, due to the massive amounts of weight that he lost (which I promptly told him 'I found it!). We met in the middle everything and everyone, and we both knelt down right there on the floor in front of the stroller and hugged. A big, long, teary-on-my-end, family hug. Alex had this look on her face that I will never forget. A huge smile, but one that was unsure of what was happening. Was he home? Why isn't he on a big TV screen? Is he really HOME? Then she raised her hand, said, "DADDY!" and refused to be set down from that point on. Even Eli was looking back and forth from Paul to me, wondering what was going on. It was clear when we finally made it home and were all sprawled out on our living room floor that he knew who is daddy was. Finally another man in the house!
It's been two weeks, and things are pretty much back to normal. There was an adjustment period, where we got used to each other again, got used to these new routines. The hardest part was on my end, having to relinquish some of the household and child-raising duties that I have had on autopilot for the last four months. You would think it would be easy to just let it go and have some help, but it was hard. I had to stop myself from butting him out of the way in the kitchen, and taking over when one of the kids cries. But I've learned. I have remembered how nice it is just to sit and not have to jump up at the first sign of something needing to get done. Just to relax. And it's been so nice.
I am happy. I feel like the part of me that I had to shut down when he left has been revived, like I regained a limb that I had lost the use of a while ago.
So now, we jump right into our transition to England. We have about a month and a half before we are set to leave, and in that time we have... alot of stuff to do. But I have my partner back. It will get done. Eventually....
Paul is HOME.
Am I done? Can I get away with just typing that?
*sigh*
Paul is HOME, and it is WONDERFUL.
We were worried for a little bit there because of the copious amounts of volcanic ash that was lazily floating over the Atlantic. His flight out of Paris was delayed three hours because of it, causing him to miss his connection in Minneapolis. I was attached to my computer that entire day, refreshing the Delta airlines page again and again, checking on his flight, checking for other flights that he could jump on when he got there. When he called at 4:30 to tell me that he missed his connection and that he didn't know if he would make it home that night, I told him to hang up and RUN to the desk and get on the 5:15 flight. He laughed, hung up, and got a seat on that flight. (I failed to tell him that if he waited until the 6:50 flight, he would be put in first class... NOT WORTH IT.) When it was time, I packed the kids up, went to the airport, and made use of my fantastic double stroller. He was already there, waiting in the baggage claim (having arrived about 30 minutes early), and it was one those moments that was kind of dream-like. I saw him there, well, I should say that I saw HALF of him there, due to the massive amounts of weight that he lost (which I promptly told him 'I found it!). We met in the middle everything and everyone, and we both knelt down right there on the floor in front of the stroller and hugged. A big, long, teary-on-my-end, family hug. Alex had this look on her face that I will never forget. A huge smile, but one that was unsure of what was happening. Was he home? Why isn't he on a big TV screen? Is he really HOME? Then she raised her hand, said, "DADDY!" and refused to be set down from that point on. Even Eli was looking back and forth from Paul to me, wondering what was going on. It was clear when we finally made it home and were all sprawled out on our living room floor that he knew who is daddy was. Finally another man in the house!
It's been two weeks, and things are pretty much back to normal. There was an adjustment period, where we got used to each other again, got used to these new routines. The hardest part was on my end, having to relinquish some of the household and child-raising duties that I have had on autopilot for the last four months. You would think it would be easy to just let it go and have some help, but it was hard. I had to stop myself from butting him out of the way in the kitchen, and taking over when one of the kids cries. But I've learned. I have remembered how nice it is just to sit and not have to jump up at the first sign of something needing to get done. Just to relax. And it's been so nice.
I am happy. I feel like the part of me that I had to shut down when he left has been revived, like I regained a limb that I had lost the use of a while ago.
So now, we jump right into our transition to England. We have about a month and a half before we are set to leave, and in that time we have... alot of stuff to do. But I have my partner back. It will get done. Eventually....
Saturday, May 8, 2010
OHMYGOSH
ohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh.
I'm excited and I can't sleep.
ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh.
I'm excited and I can't sleep.
ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Home Stretch.
I'm not a runner. I wish I was. I think the freedom of the open road underneath your feet would be exhilarating. I think the quietness except for the slap of your feet on the pavement would be refreshing. If only the numbness of my legs, the burn of my lungs, and that nasty dry mouth I get which makes me want to spit except that when I do I get a dribble of saliva that doesn't quite want to part with my mouth, making it necessary for me to stop and do my best to get it off first with multiple attempts at spitting again, then finally resorting to pulling it off of my face and then trying to shake it vigorously off of my hand, only to look up and see the woman who was having a nice quiet afternoon on her front porch wondering why she was so lucky to have just witnessed this all. Been there? No? Well. Anyway. I wish I were a runner. It's one of my goals for my life... be a runner. Right up there with Play the Piano. Oh and most recently added, I want to be able to do this at least once without falling off of the bar... though if you see in the fine print there at the bottom, not even the model for the picture was able to pull it off. So maybe I will put that one at the bottom of the list.
I think the problem is, aside from the problems listed above, that I don't like the Home Stretch. I know alot of people really like the last part of a marathon, race, game, whatever. But I don't. I don't get that thrill of "JUST A BIT FURTHER!" I get more like, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! THERE'S STILL THAT MUCH MORE!?!" I don't Push It or Tough It Out. I get depressed. I give up. (Character Flaw! I wish I could sit here and type about how I finish everything I start and am always the most dependable one to get the job done... but I know I'm not. And I figure the first step to change something about yourself has to be the acceptance that it isn't so in the first place.) This is all kind of hitting me in the face right now. I have FOUR DAYS left before Paul gets home. FOUR DAYS. I started this with FOUR MONTHS. But right now? I'm not excited that it's ONLY FOUR DAYS. I am depressed and overwhelmed because I still have FOUR DAYS LEFT. Ack. I try to turn these thoughts right back around and send them back into nothing-land before they leave a lasting imprint, but it's hard. I have crazy moments where the kids are being perfectly normal and driving me nuts, and I just want to run out of the house and hide for the next week. I WANT to give up. I want to quit. But I can't.
I don't want to come off like I am whining or feeling like the World just has it against me, bla bla bla. That's not what this is (though I won't deny having whined on maybe one occassion prior to this... well, maybe more than one, whatever. I understand that I have been so incredibly blessed in my life that I have absolutely nothing to look back on with regret or pain, and I try my best to give back as much as I can. This is just facing the dents in myself, and trying to hash them out so I can fix them. I am glad that I have no choice but to finish. The things I have given up on in my life were much easier than this. Walking away was never hard (though looking back, I think I was just very good at convincing myself that 'it wasn't a big deal'). And now it's impossible (though even if it weren't, I wouldn't make it two steps out of the door before running back in and begging for forgiveness from my little ones, both of whom would just assume I was playing a really involved game of peek-a-boo).
Four Days. Just Four Days. I suppose I should take the time to look back on these past few months and see the growth that has happened within myself, within the kids. I should be thankful that Paul is coming home now, instead of 11 months from now. Everything is a choice. Do you let life happen the way it's going to happen, letting the tide drag you along the bottom? You are still going forward, yes, but you are hitting every rock and wall and hard place along the way. Or you do you decide to kick, the put one arm in, then other, again and again? You are going in the same direction, but this time you deciding to go, deciding to swim. The second option is alot harder. Much more effort on my part. But I would much rather float than get dragged.
I think the problem is, aside from the problems listed above, that I don't like the Home Stretch. I know alot of people really like the last part of a marathon, race, game, whatever. But I don't. I don't get that thrill of "JUST A BIT FURTHER!" I get more like, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! THERE'S STILL THAT MUCH MORE!?!" I don't Push It or Tough It Out. I get depressed. I give up. (Character Flaw! I wish I could sit here and type about how I finish everything I start and am always the most dependable one to get the job done... but I know I'm not. And I figure the first step to change something about yourself has to be the acceptance that it isn't so in the first place.) This is all kind of hitting me in the face right now. I have FOUR DAYS left before Paul gets home. FOUR DAYS. I started this with FOUR MONTHS. But right now? I'm not excited that it's ONLY FOUR DAYS. I am depressed and overwhelmed because I still have FOUR DAYS LEFT. Ack. I try to turn these thoughts right back around and send them back into nothing-land before they leave a lasting imprint, but it's hard. I have crazy moments where the kids are being perfectly normal and driving me nuts, and I just want to run out of the house and hide for the next week. I WANT to give up. I want to quit. But I can't.
I don't want to come off like I am whining or feeling like the World just has it against me, bla bla bla. That's not what this is (though I won't deny having whined on maybe one occassion prior to this... well, maybe more than one, whatever. I understand that I have been so incredibly blessed in my life that I have absolutely nothing to look back on with regret or pain, and I try my best to give back as much as I can. This is just facing the dents in myself, and trying to hash them out so I can fix them. I am glad that I have no choice but to finish. The things I have given up on in my life were much easier than this. Walking away was never hard (though looking back, I think I was just very good at convincing myself that 'it wasn't a big deal'). And now it's impossible (though even if it weren't, I wouldn't make it two steps out of the door before running back in and begging for forgiveness from my little ones, both of whom would just assume I was playing a really involved game of peek-a-boo).
Four Days. Just Four Days. I suppose I should take the time to look back on these past few months and see the growth that has happened within myself, within the kids. I should be thankful that Paul is coming home now, instead of 11 months from now. Everything is a choice. Do you let life happen the way it's going to happen, letting the tide drag you along the bottom? You are still going forward, yes, but you are hitting every rock and wall and hard place along the way. Or you do you decide to kick, the put one arm in, then other, again and again? You are going in the same direction, but this time you deciding to go, deciding to swim. The second option is alot harder. Much more effort on my part. But I would much rather float than get dragged.
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