Friday
I can't escape the fires
Without even looking for it, I stumbled across a particularly sickening news item today. I don't know how I've missed the story until now, I guess it just hasn't received much play in the local, southeastern Michigan news media because it happened on the west side of the state. I can't even put words to the upset feeling I got when I read the news story about "16 year old Calista Springer who died Feb. 27 in a fire in her family's Centreville home while she was chained to her bed." Apparently, Miss. Springer was a "special needs child" who needed to be "chained" for her own "safety" according to her father. Again, I can't find the article I read originally, but this. makes. me. sick!
They grow up so fast
I know it's such a cliche, but it is a milestone worth documenting. Today, I dropped off the registration packet to enroll R in kindergarten for next year. It was not without its own little drama, because, honestly, it wouldn't be my life if there wasn't a problem. Fortunately, it was easily resolved with 2 phone calls.
So many posts, so little time
My goal when I vowed last month to revive my blog was to try to post something, anything, every day. Honestly, I have written a post just about every day, but I have not published them, yet. I have found that my posts start out pretty strong, but are weak at the end. I know that this is just a personal journal that noone else is reading, but in case anyone every stumbles upon this blog, I would like to at least have a point at the end of my posts. I also know that I don't need to make profound pronouncements in each and every post, but still, I'm having trouble tying everything together at the end of my posts. I guess I just need to get over it, and start publishing.
Thursday
What exactly am I afraid of?
The odd thing about my fear is that for years it was never really related to a fear of actually dying in a fire. Back when I was keeping my worldly possessions in a laundry basket under my bedroom window, I never really doubted that I would be able to get out of the house. I had convinced myself that of the four bedrooms in our two-story colonial, mine was probably the easiest one from which to escape.
No, the selfish child I was was afraid that I wouldn't be able to save my "things." For the life of me, I can't name for you all of the "things" that I needed to save. I know that the laundry basket was not static, its contents changed almost daily as I prioritized and re-prioritized my belongings. I know that I always kept some clothes and a pair of shoes in the laundry basket because if nothing else, I was practical. Too many times I had read about people escaping a house fire "with just the clothes on their back." I wanted to make sure that I had more than just my Holly Hobbie nightgown to wear. I also recall that my favorite yellow blanket made its way into the basket on a regular basis, and I'm pretty certain that my piggy bank which contained about $117 in small bills and change was a mainstay in the laundry basket because how else would I be able to buy new things?
Now that I am a wife and mother and my fear has come back with a vengeance, my fear has slowly morphed into a fear of actually dying in a fire and/or a fear that I won't be able to save my family and one, some or all of us will perish. This is the fear I am trying to work through by writing these posts.
No, the selfish child I was was afraid that I wouldn't be able to save my "things." For the life of me, I can't name for you all of the "things" that I needed to save. I know that the laundry basket was not static, its contents changed almost daily as I prioritized and re-prioritized my belongings. I know that I always kept some clothes and a pair of shoes in the laundry basket because if nothing else, I was practical. Too many times I had read about people escaping a house fire "with just the clothes on their back." I wanted to make sure that I had more than just my Holly Hobbie nightgown to wear. I also recall that my favorite yellow blanket made its way into the basket on a regular basis, and I'm pretty certain that my piggy bank which contained about $117 in small bills and change was a mainstay in the laundry basket because how else would I be able to buy new things?
Now that I am a wife and mother and my fear has come back with a vengeance, my fear has slowly morphed into a fear of actually dying in a fire and/or a fear that I won't be able to save my family and one, some or all of us will perish. This is the fear I am trying to work through by writing these posts.
Irrational Fear
Since I was about seven years old, I have had an irrational fear of fire. To clarify, I am not afraid of a warm, cozy fire in a fireplace or a controlled, crackling campfire, but for as long as I can remember, I have always been afraid that my house was going to burn down in a fire. I don’t honestly know where my fear originated. I suspect it was from an elementary school presentation given by “Smokey the Bear,” but I don’t know for sure. When I was in the fifth grade, my fear was exacerbated when a house in our neighborhood where I had once played with the kids actually did burn to the ground while the family of four was shopping at Meijer. Fortunately, no one was hurt in the fire that started in their dishwasher, but for a few nights after that house fire, I slept on the floor directly underneath my bedroom window so that I could escape quickly.
Even before that neighborhood house fire, for a portion of my childhood, from about age seven to eleven, each night before bed, I collected and stashed my most prized possessions in a laundry basket that I kept underneath my bedroom window so that in case of a fire, I could just grab my things and jump out the window. My parents knew about my laundry basket of goodies. I often made a big deal about not being able to find this item or that item before going to bed, and they participated in the search so that I would just go to bed already. While I don’t have a specific recollection of any conversations with them about my fear, I’m sure they attempted to dissuade me and allay my fears about perishing in a fire, but to their credit, they let me deal with my fear in my own way, and eventually I grew out of it… sort of.
I’ve long since stopped stashing my things in a laundry basket. But, around the time when I finally realized that most tangible items, with a few exceptions, can be replaced, I got married. And the fear came back worse than before, because now the "thing" that mattered most to me couldn't be kept in a laundry basket. Over the last few years, since the births of my two children, the fear has become even more intense.
Stories about house fires always make me cry huge crocodile tears. Like this one about the mom of a family of six who was the only survivor of a house fire. Her agonizing tale of trying to coax her fifteen year old daughter to jump from a bedroom window still makes me tear up. Then today, there was this story of an eight year old boy who perished in a house fire. For awhile, the news was reporting that he was “missing” as if there was a chance that he made it out of the house with his mom and sister, but had wandered off in the confusion.
Given my irrational fear that someday, my house will burn to the ground, I know I should not read these tragic news stories. But, I have to read them. I have to read the accounts of the survivors who maybe, just maybe can offer me a clue as to what I should do in such a situation. If I file these nuggets of survival in my brain somewhere, maybe, God forbid, I can draw upon them to get my own family safely out of a burning house. I also need to read about those who don't survive, so I can anaylze what they did wrong, why they couldn't get out in time, and hopefully learn from those mistakes to get my family to safety.
Even before that neighborhood house fire, for a portion of my childhood, from about age seven to eleven, each night before bed, I collected and stashed my most prized possessions in a laundry basket that I kept underneath my bedroom window so that in case of a fire, I could just grab my things and jump out the window. My parents knew about my laundry basket of goodies. I often made a big deal about not being able to find this item or that item before going to bed, and they participated in the search so that I would just go to bed already. While I don’t have a specific recollection of any conversations with them about my fear, I’m sure they attempted to dissuade me and allay my fears about perishing in a fire, but to their credit, they let me deal with my fear in my own way, and eventually I grew out of it… sort of.
I’ve long since stopped stashing my things in a laundry basket. But, around the time when I finally realized that most tangible items, with a few exceptions, can be replaced, I got married. And the fear came back worse than before, because now the "thing" that mattered most to me couldn't be kept in a laundry basket. Over the last few years, since the births of my two children, the fear has become even more intense.
Stories about house fires always make me cry huge crocodile tears. Like this one about the mom of a family of six who was the only survivor of a house fire. Her agonizing tale of trying to coax her fifteen year old daughter to jump from a bedroom window still makes me tear up. Then today, there was this story of an eight year old boy who perished in a house fire. For awhile, the news was reporting that he was “missing” as if there was a chance that he made it out of the house with his mom and sister, but had wandered off in the confusion.
Given my irrational fear that someday, my house will burn to the ground, I know I should not read these tragic news stories. But, I have to read them. I have to read the accounts of the survivors who maybe, just maybe can offer me a clue as to what I should do in such a situation. If I file these nuggets of survival in my brain somewhere, maybe, God forbid, I can draw upon them to get my own family safely out of a burning house. I also need to read about those who don't survive, so I can anaylze what they did wrong, why they couldn't get out in time, and hopefully learn from those mistakes to get my family to safety.
Wednesday
Laser Hair Removal: Did I expect too much?
Lured by promises of being able to "throw away my razor," I surrendered over $1800 of hard-earned money to a certain laser hair removal company (we'll call them "Certain Laser Company" or "CLC," for now). I signed up for 2 packages: one to have my underarm hair removed, and the other to have the hair along my bikini line removed. These are the two areas that I absolutely hate shaving. I also chose these areas because I am prone to razor burn. No matter what combination of razor and shaving lotion/gel/cream I used, I was honestly at a point where I'd rather not shave those areas than be seen in public in a bathing suit with all the red bumps.
The packages I purchased included six (6) laser treatment sessions every ten (10) weeks. This particular company offers a "guarantee" that if hair "ever grows back in the treated areas," then I can come back for more sessions, "free of charge."
I did not notice any difference after the first treatment. When I went back for my second treatment, the technician assured me that I would notice a reduction in hair, but not until after my second or even third treatment. It turns out, she was right. I started noticing a difference in the amount of hair in my underarm area after the third treatment.
Each time I go for a treatment, the tech asks me to estimate my overall hair reduction. Since the fourth visit, I have estimated that my bikini line hair has been reduced about 70%, and my underarms are in the area of 50%.
I finished my sessions in February 2007, without ever realizing my "hair free" dream. Even with the reduction, I'm still shaving those areas as often as I was before, and I'm still getting those nasty bumps. I will say that my underarm hair is "finer" and slightly "lighter," but as I said, it still needs to be shaved on a regular basis. The hair along my bikini line is exactly the same as it was when I started the treatments.
Recently, I spoke at length to a woman who owns a medical spa here in town where they also do laser hair removal. She told me that in her opinion, no one in the laser hair removal industry should be talking in terms of "throwing away razors." She said she goes out of her way to tell her clients that they will not necessarily be "hair free for the rest of their lives." She knows for a fact that she has lost sales because she won't tell people what they want to hear. But, for her, it's all about expectations. She understands the limits of laser hair removal and knows that if she speaks to her clients in terms of "hair reduction," instead of being "hair free," her clients will be much more satisfied with the results, and some, the lucky ones, will actually be hair free for the rest of their lives.
Honestly, I would not have signed up for laser hair removal with CLC if they spoke to me in terms of "hair reduction." That's not what I wanted, and they know that. I didn't want to have to shave my underarms or bikini areas ever again, and now, I realize, that was an unreasonable expectation.
So, what's my recourse? What am I going to do about it? I'm not sure yet. I'm still receiving treatments "free of charge." I'm pretty sure it's in vain, though, because as I said, I have now received 10 treatments, and I have not noticed a difference since after my third visit. I've been told that the hair that's left, especially in my underarm area, is "too fine" and the laser can't "find it" to "zap" it.
The packages I purchased included six (6) laser treatment sessions every ten (10) weeks. This particular company offers a "guarantee" that if hair "ever grows back in the treated areas," then I can come back for more sessions, "free of charge."
I did not notice any difference after the first treatment. When I went back for my second treatment, the technician assured me that I would notice a reduction in hair, but not until after my second or even third treatment. It turns out, she was right. I started noticing a difference in the amount of hair in my underarm area after the third treatment.
Each time I go for a treatment, the tech asks me to estimate my overall hair reduction. Since the fourth visit, I have estimated that my bikini line hair has been reduced about 70%, and my underarms are in the area of 50%.
I finished my sessions in February 2007, without ever realizing my "hair free" dream. Even with the reduction, I'm still shaving those areas as often as I was before, and I'm still getting those nasty bumps. I will say that my underarm hair is "finer" and slightly "lighter," but as I said, it still needs to be shaved on a regular basis. The hair along my bikini line is exactly the same as it was when I started the treatments.
Recently, I spoke at length to a woman who owns a medical spa here in town where they also do laser hair removal. She told me that in her opinion, no one in the laser hair removal industry should be talking in terms of "throwing away razors." She said she goes out of her way to tell her clients that they will not necessarily be "hair free for the rest of their lives." She knows for a fact that she has lost sales because she won't tell people what they want to hear. But, for her, it's all about expectations. She understands the limits of laser hair removal and knows that if she speaks to her clients in terms of "hair reduction," instead of being "hair free," her clients will be much more satisfied with the results, and some, the lucky ones, will actually be hair free for the rest of their lives.
Honestly, I would not have signed up for laser hair removal with CLC if they spoke to me in terms of "hair reduction." That's not what I wanted, and they know that. I didn't want to have to shave my underarms or bikini areas ever again, and now, I realize, that was an unreasonable expectation.
So, what's my recourse? What am I going to do about it? I'm not sure yet. I'm still receiving treatments "free of charge." I'm pretty sure it's in vain, though, because as I said, I have now received 10 treatments, and I have not noticed a difference since after my third visit. I've been told that the hair that's left, especially in my underarm area, is "too fine" and the laser can't "find it" to "zap" it.
Monday
"Fun" is relative term
Friday night, against my better judgment, we took the kids to a funeral home to pay our respects to the mother of my husband's aunt. She was 94 years old. I did not know her well; I probably only met her 2 or 3 times. But, because funerals, in my opinion, are more for the people who are left behind, we went to support the family which includes my husband's aunt's family who we do know very well.
We had to take the kids because there was no one available to watch them for us. As I said, I did not know the deceased well, but I do know her daughter, granddaughter, great-grandaughter and great-great granddaughter well, so it was not a situation where I would have been excused from attending the viewing. We probably should have gone to the funeral on Saturday, but we had other plans.
Anyway, the long and short of this entry is that R made some "friends" at the funeral home. He was a bit shy, at first, but he loves to color, and the new friends invited him to color. And then coloring turned into hide-and-seek, and then a game of "walk" chase (b/c there's no running in funeral homes!) As a quick aside, I feel really disrespectful writing about my kids "playing" at the funeral home, but at the time there were only a few family members present, and it really did not bother anyone... so that's my justification.
At the end of the evening when he was leaving, R said to my husband (but within earshot of all of the funeral home visitors), "That was fun, daddy! When can we come back again?"
We had to take the kids because there was no one available to watch them for us. As I said, I did not know the deceased well, but I do know her daughter, granddaughter, great-grandaughter and great-great granddaughter well, so it was not a situation where I would have been excused from attending the viewing. We probably should have gone to the funeral on Saturday, but we had other plans.
Anyway, the long and short of this entry is that R made some "friends" at the funeral home. He was a bit shy, at first, but he loves to color, and the new friends invited him to color. And then coloring turned into hide-and-seek, and then a game of "walk" chase (b/c there's no running in funeral homes!) As a quick aside, I feel really disrespectful writing about my kids "playing" at the funeral home, but at the time there were only a few family members present, and it really did not bother anyone... so that's my justification.
At the end of the evening when he was leaving, R said to my husband (but within earshot of all of the funeral home visitors), "That was fun, daddy! When can we come back again?"
Friday
WOHM vs. SAHM: The 2007 Pew Survey
Like clock-work, every few months or so, the issue of "moms working (or not working) outside of the home" surfaces in some way, shape or form. I took out the word "new" before "way, shape or form" because usually the information presented is not "new." Personally, I dislike the way the issue is framed. Whether it's framed as the media-dubbed "mommy wars" or as "WOHM v SAHM" or as a "debate" about whether moms should/could/would work outside of the home, one thing that gets lost in framing the issue is that some women do not have a choice of whether to work or stay home. I have to admit, however, that I've been sitting here for quite a while trying to come up with an acceptable (to me) way of framing the issue, and I have been unsuccessful.
The "working mom" issue now presents itself to us in the form of a poll published by the Pew Research Center. I first heard about the poll as a "teaser" on my local newscast. The newsreader said, "a new poll shows that working mothers prefer to work part-time." To which my response was, "DUH!" But then I decided to take a look at the poll for myself.
The first thing that struck me was that the actual title of the report is: "From 1997 to 2007: Fewer Mothers Prefer Full-time Work." "Hmmm," I immediately thought, "there goes the media, again, slanting the issue and framing it for it's own purpose." While it's true, the results of the poll show that "working mothers prefer to work part-time," there are a number of other aspects of the poll that I find interesting.
One thing that makes this poll interesting to me is that the questions were framed as "what is the ideal situation for you." I wish the issue would be framed this way more often. Most likely, my "ideal" and your "ideal" are going to be completely different. So, all "ideals" being equal, I find it interesting that only 19% of working mothers think that "not working" would be "ideal" for them. Purely based on the working moms I know, I would have been certain that the percentage of working moms who think their "ideal" is to not work outside of the home would have been higher.
A year ago, when I was a full-time working mother, I would have been firmly entrenched in the "not working is my ideal situation" camp. Now that I've gone back to work part-time, I realize that for me, things are better for me and my family when I work outside of the home. Eight months of staying home has made me realize that I do not make a very good full-time stay-at-home mom.
There's more I'd like to say about this poll, I really think this poll lends some insight into why the issue of being a "working mother" can be so divisive. I'm hoping to organize my thoughts for a separate entry.
But before I go, I just wanted to point out that I wish the poll had a place for the work-at-home mom (WAHM). Because for me, working at home (even just one day a week) would be my own personal ideal. (Of course, we're talking ideals here, where the work actually gets done during normal hours.)
The "working mom" issue now presents itself to us in the form of a poll published by the Pew Research Center. I first heard about the poll as a "teaser" on my local newscast. The newsreader said, "a new poll shows that working mothers prefer to work part-time." To which my response was, "DUH!" But then I decided to take a look at the poll for myself.
The first thing that struck me was that the actual title of the report is: "From 1997 to 2007: Fewer Mothers Prefer Full-time Work." "Hmmm," I immediately thought, "there goes the media, again, slanting the issue and framing it for it's own purpose." While it's true, the results of the poll show that "working mothers prefer to work part-time," there are a number of other aspects of the poll that I find interesting.
One thing that makes this poll interesting to me is that the questions were framed as "what is the ideal situation for you." I wish the issue would be framed this way more often. Most likely, my "ideal" and your "ideal" are going to be completely different. So, all "ideals" being equal, I find it interesting that only 19% of working mothers think that "not working" would be "ideal" for them. Purely based on the working moms I know, I would have been certain that the percentage of working moms who think their "ideal" is to not work outside of the home would have been higher.
A year ago, when I was a full-time working mother, I would have been firmly entrenched in the "not working is my ideal situation" camp. Now that I've gone back to work part-time, I realize that for me, things are better for me and my family when I work outside of the home. Eight months of staying home has made me realize that I do not make a very good full-time stay-at-home mom.
There's more I'd like to say about this poll, I really think this poll lends some insight into why the issue of being a "working mother" can be so divisive. I'm hoping to organize my thoughts for a separate entry.
But before I go, I just wanted to point out that I wish the poll had a place for the work-at-home mom (WAHM). Because for me, working at home (even just one day a week) would be my own personal ideal. (Of course, we're talking ideals here, where the work actually gets done during normal hours.)
Wednesday
IH8KIDS
This was a bumper sticker that I saw today on the way to work.
I don't know why, but it absolutely SHOCKED me. When I rolled up next to the person driving the late model, beat up, silver Pontiac Bonneville, I was stunned to see that the person driving was a late 20s maybe early 30s male. He had thick, black rimmed glasses, but that's about all I could see of his face because he kept turning his head away from me as I tried to (inconspicuoulsy) stare at him. I just had to see what kind of person would go to the Secretary of State's Office to request a license plate that announces to the world that he "H8KIDS"!
I'm also kind of surprised that the Secretary of State's Office would allow him to have such a plate, but I guess there's really no basis to deny it.
I don't know why, but it absolutely SHOCKED me. When I rolled up next to the person driving the late model, beat up, silver Pontiac Bonneville, I was stunned to see that the person driving was a late 20s maybe early 30s male. He had thick, black rimmed glasses, but that's about all I could see of his face because he kept turning his head away from me as I tried to (inconspicuoulsy) stare at him. I just had to see what kind of person would go to the Secretary of State's Office to request a license plate that announces to the world that he "H8KIDS"!
I'm also kind of surprised that the Secretary of State's Office would allow him to have such a plate, but I guess there's really no basis to deny it.
Tuesday
Happy Anniversary!
Eight years and counting.
He gave me one of the best surprise presents I've received in a long time... tickets to the POLICE concert. I am so excited!!
I gave him a grill... one that he: (1) picked out, (2) purchased, (3) had to find a friend to loan him a truck to transport, (3) had to ask his brother-in-law to help load and unload from the truck, and then (4) had to put together! I'm AWESOME!
At least he gets to come to the POLICE concert with me.
He gave me one of the best surprise presents I've received in a long time... tickets to the POLICE concert. I am so excited!!
I gave him a grill... one that he: (1) picked out, (2) purchased, (3) had to find a friend to loan him a truck to transport, (3) had to ask his brother-in-law to help load and unload from the truck, and then (4) had to put together! I'm AWESOME!
At least he gets to come to the POLICE concert with me.
Friday
Back to Work
The silence around this blog has been deafening.
I could make up all sorts of excuses, but when it comes down to it, I've been in a funk... a deep, deep, horrible funk that lasted all winter long. In the past, journaling helped me emerge from my funks, but this time, I didn't even have the strength to write about what I was going through.
So, I've decided to go back to work... I found a part-time job with a small firm in RO. It's only temporary, but there's always a chance that I'll be so valuable that they'll just have to keep me on board long-term. (If it works on both ends, I can hope, right!)
Maybe as I emerge from my funk (which hopefully I will continue to do), I can post a few thoughts on what was bothering me.
I could make up all sorts of excuses, but when it comes down to it, I've been in a funk... a deep, deep, horrible funk that lasted all winter long. In the past, journaling helped me emerge from my funks, but this time, I didn't even have the strength to write about what I was going through.
So, I've decided to go back to work... I found a part-time job with a small firm in RO. It's only temporary, but there's always a chance that I'll be so valuable that they'll just have to keep me on board long-term. (If it works on both ends, I can hope, right!)
Maybe as I emerge from my funk (which hopefully I will continue to do), I can post a few thoughts on what was bothering me.
Can I have Thursdays off?
I quit my job so I can spend more time with my kids, but I'm not sure I'm up to the task on a full-time basis. So, I've asked the powers that be if I can take off alternating Thursdays. Managment is mulling over my request, and will get back to me soon. I have a feeling the answer will be the same one that my former employer gave me when I requested part-time status, "No, eff'en way!" But, a mom can dream.
Thursday
Separation Anxiety
Eventually, I will stop writing entries that are along the theme of "oh, whoa is me, I just quit my job, now what am I going to do." But for now, this journal is my therapy. It is my release. It is my way to excise the demons. Thus far, it has been cathartic. I have 5 posts saved as drafts that I will edit and post later. I have so much I need/want to write. Most of what I need/want to write is for my benefit only and probably not very interesting to anyone but me.
Wednesday
Connect to you, R!
Last month, my husband, my son and I went on a cruise with my husband's entire family to celebrate my in-law's 50th Wedding Anniversary. As it turned out, the vacation coincided with our seventh Wedding Anniversary and my husband's brother-in-law's birthday as well. So, every night of the cruise we seemed to be celebrating something different, usually we'd have a toast at the dinner table. My then-two-year old son raised his glass of milk right along with everyone else.
A few days ago it was R's third birthday. We kicked off the festivities last Friday night by going out to dinner at a pizza place with the neighbors across the street and their two kids. While we were sitting around the table waiting for the pizza, my son and his playmate, M, were coloring quietly. At one point, R sat up, grabbed his juice box, turned to M, and said, "M, let's connect."
No one at the table knew what R was trying to convey. Then, he raised his juice box higher for everyone to see and said, "Connect with me, mommy." I finally figured out that he wanted us to raise our glasses and toast his birthday.
So, we all obliged with a hearty, "Connect to you R!"
A few days ago it was R's third birthday. We kicked off the festivities last Friday night by going out to dinner at a pizza place with the neighbors across the street and their two kids. While we were sitting around the table waiting for the pizza, my son and his playmate, M, were coloring quietly. At one point, R sat up, grabbed his juice box, turned to M, and said, "M, let's connect."
No one at the table knew what R was trying to convey. Then, he raised his juice box higher for everyone to see and said, "Connect with me, mommy." I finally figured out that he wanted us to raise our glasses and toast his birthday.
So, we all obliged with a hearty, "Connect to you R!"
Tuesday
Say Something
I only have a quick moment, but I've been totally remiss in writing entries, so I wanted to get something posted before too many more days go by. I can't believe how fast every day goes. I sat down to write this post at 9:59 pm, and it was the first time all day that I actually sat down.
I was up at 6:30 doing my Yoga. The baby woke up as I was getting out of the shower. I quickly dressed and went to go get her so she wouldn't wake up my toddler/pre-schooler. From that moment on, the day progessed in fast forward. I did three loads of laundry before we left the house to run a few morning errands (CVS and Randazzo's) and then went to the library for an hour or so. We came back just in time to host an impromtu playdate so the kids could use the new water slide.
I know that is typical, and I'm not surprised by it... when I was working, I never had any time for myself, but at least I got to sit down for large portions of the day, albeit at my desk, working.
I was up at 6:30 doing my Yoga. The baby woke up as I was getting out of the shower. I quickly dressed and went to go get her so she wouldn't wake up my toddler/pre-schooler. From that moment on, the day progessed in fast forward. I did three loads of laundry before we left the house to run a few morning errands (CVS and Randazzo's) and then went to the library for an hour or so. We came back just in time to host an impromtu playdate so the kids could use the new water slide.
I know that is typical, and I'm not surprised by it... when I was working, I never had any time for myself, but at least I got to sit down for large portions of the day, albeit at my desk, working.
I can't believe it, but it's true...
For years, I always said, "It's easier to go to work than stay home all day." And, even though I'm only 1.75 days into this experience, it's true. And, I'm exhausted.
While I was at work, I'd think about all the things that need to be done around the house. But, I was at work, so they never got done. Now that I'm home, I can't just sit around and "think" about what has to be done, I need to do those things. There's really no time to actually get anything done... (why is it that nap time seems so short all of a sudden?!?)... but, I've started a few organizational-type projects like organizing my closet, cleaning out the garage, etc, hopefully little, by little they'll get done.
While I was at work, I'd think about all the things that need to be done around the house. But, I was at work, so they never got done. Now that I'm home, I can't just sit around and "think" about what has to be done, I need to do those things. There's really no time to actually get anything done... (why is it that nap time seems so short all of a sudden?!?)... but, I've started a few organizational-type projects like organizing my closet, cleaning out the garage, etc, hopefully little, by little they'll get done.
Sunday
Lists, Lists Everywhere
I am a list maker. I make lists for everything. No, really, I mean everything. Detailed lists. I even have a list of lists that I need to make. I take my list making seriously... no post-it notes on the computer monitor for me.
When I was working, the first thing I'd do every Monday morning was to make a list of things I'd like to accomplish for the entire work week. My work lists had categories and sub-categories of things I needed to do... priorities, follow-up items, phone calls to make and return, everyday action items, etc. I included everything I could think of on my lists, even the most mundane things like, "update list everyday" and "enter time in prolaw."
This list making practice was a fluid practice because new matters came up all the time and priorties changed almost hourly. Having an action item that was a priority at 8:00 on Monday moring relegated to "future project" by 10:00 am on Tuesday was not an infrequent occurrence. Always the change in status was dictated by the clients, not me.
As action items were completed, I'd tick them off one by one by drawing a thick black line through it. I did this because at the end of the week, I had a visual image reflecting all of the things I had accomplished.
Starting tomorrow, I won't be making a list of things that need to be accomplished by Friday at 5:00 pm. The things that need to get done and need to be accomplished related to raising my kids can't really be measured in weeks. The rewards for the new and different efforts that I will start putting forth tomorrow won't be seen for several years to come.
When I was working, the first thing I'd do every Monday morning was to make a list of things I'd like to accomplish for the entire work week. My work lists had categories and sub-categories of things I needed to do... priorities, follow-up items, phone calls to make and return, everyday action items, etc. I included everything I could think of on my lists, even the most mundane things like, "update list everyday" and "enter time in prolaw."
This list making practice was a fluid practice because new matters came up all the time and priorties changed almost hourly. Having an action item that was a priority at 8:00 on Monday moring relegated to "future project" by 10:00 am on Tuesday was not an infrequent occurrence. Always the change in status was dictated by the clients, not me.
As action items were completed, I'd tick them off one by one by drawing a thick black line through it. I did this because at the end of the week, I had a visual image reflecting all of the things I had accomplished.
Starting tomorrow, I won't be making a list of things that need to be accomplished by Friday at 5:00 pm. The things that need to get done and need to be accomplished related to raising my kids can't really be measured in weeks. The rewards for the new and different efforts that I will start putting forth tomorrow won't be seen for several years to come.
SAHM v WOHM: an observation
On Friday, one of the last things I did was send an email to family and friends asking them to delete my work email address from their address books. Some of the people who received my email entitled "Job News" didn't know that I had quit my job.
I just got done reading the responses that I received from my friends, and the reception I received was split exactly down the middle.
Every single working mom friend said something along the lines of "Congratulations, I wish it was me!"
Every single stay-at-home mom said something along the lines of "Good luck, you'll need it. Call me when you start losing your sanity!"
I'm not quite sure what it means, but I think I'm about to find out.
I just got done reading the responses that I received from my friends, and the reception I received was split exactly down the middle.
Every single working mom friend said something along the lines of "Congratulations, I wish it was me!"
Every single stay-at-home mom said something along the lines of "Good luck, you'll need it. Call me when you start losing your sanity!"
I'm not quite sure what it means, but I think I'm about to find out.
Friday
Last Commute
File under: "Things I'm not going to miss about working''
The commute.
My husband and I drove together to work this morning. Not because it's my last day of work or anything... he's going to the Tiger's game with the guys from the investment club and will get a ride home from one of them later tonight. Anyway, that's not really the point of this entry.
Our commute started out like a typical summer, Friday morning commute, lighter than normal traffic. But, somewhere around city airport we came to a halt. I was in the far left lane (as usual), and it was too late for me to get off the freeway at Connor. We inched along for the next 3.5 miles without getting the speedometer over 15-20 mph. Everyone had the same idea to get off at Gratiot or Van Dyke, so that didn't seem like a viable solution to me. Besides, none of the traffic reports on 760 or 950 gave any indication of an accident or any other type of slow down ahead.
"I bet you're not going to miss this," my husband said.
"That's for sure," I responded.
"There MUST be an accident, this is bad," said husband.
Just then, I saw them...
"Don't tell me that's what's backing up traffic!?!" I said.
"What, what is it?" my husband asked, straining to see what I saw.
"Look up, on the pedestrian over pass, " I told him.
And there they were, a small posse of abortion protestors. They had already hung up two huge pictures of aborted, late-term fetuses, and now they were in the process of hanging up a bright yellow sign with black wording which read, "Abortion is Murder."
Traffic broke free as soon as we went under the overpass.
"There should be a law," I said, but I didn't finish my thought out loud. I understand the protestors have a right to protest, but their chosen time and place, in my opinion, was not appropriate.
My husband and I drove in silence for the next few moments. I shed a little tear for the two lost lives depicted on the pictures hanging on the overpass, not so much because I'm anti-abortion,* but more because of the exploitation of those lost potential lives. (They were not pretty pictures, and they were certainly hard to look at, but I've seen worse.) Who, I wonder, gave consent to let those pictures be used like that? And how do abortion protestors in general get their hands on those pictures in the first place? From the woman who had the abortion or the doctor or nurse from the clinic where the abortion was performed? I just don't get it.
A mile or so down the freeway, we came upon another set of pictures and another sign on another overpass, but there were no protestors in sight. The images and words alone did not have the same impact on traffic. My fellow commuters were speeding along, seemingly unaware of the images above. Perhaps many were as annoyed as I was that the activity on the previous overpass had slowed us down the way it did and didn't bother to look.
"So much for their protest," I thought to myself, "I guess people were more intersted in looking at the people on the bridge and trying to determine whether they were going to jump." Suicide, murder, abortion, these were things that I did not want to think about on the morning of my last commute. But starting Monday, these are things that I won't be thinking about, hopefully, while I'm home taking care of my kids.
*I don't really have anything new to add to the abortion discourse, and when I started writing this entry I didn't intend for it to be about whether I label myself pro-life or pro-choice because I don't align myself with either side. I've probably pissed off people on both sides of the issue with this entry. When asked, I say that "I am not anti-abortion," but for me, that doesn't equate to "I am for abortion." I can't support a woman's choice to end an unwanted pregnancy when the abortion is being used as a means of birth control. I understand that condoms break and that the pill is not 100% effective, but it's about taking personal responsibility for your actions.
The commute.
My husband and I drove together to work this morning. Not because it's my last day of work or anything... he's going to the Tiger's game with the guys from the investment club and will get a ride home from one of them later tonight. Anyway, that's not really the point of this entry.
Our commute started out like a typical summer, Friday morning commute, lighter than normal traffic. But, somewhere around city airport we came to a halt. I was in the far left lane (as usual), and it was too late for me to get off the freeway at Connor. We inched along for the next 3.5 miles without getting the speedometer over 15-20 mph. Everyone had the same idea to get off at Gratiot or Van Dyke, so that didn't seem like a viable solution to me. Besides, none of the traffic reports on 760 or 950 gave any indication of an accident or any other type of slow down ahead.
"I bet you're not going to miss this," my husband said.
"That's for sure," I responded.
"There MUST be an accident, this is bad," said husband.
Just then, I saw them...
"Don't tell me that's what's backing up traffic!?!" I said.
"What, what is it?" my husband asked, straining to see what I saw.
"Look up, on the pedestrian over pass, " I told him.
And there they were, a small posse of abortion protestors. They had already hung up two huge pictures of aborted, late-term fetuses, and now they were in the process of hanging up a bright yellow sign with black wording which read, "Abortion is Murder."
Traffic broke free as soon as we went under the overpass.
"There should be a law," I said, but I didn't finish my thought out loud. I understand the protestors have a right to protest, but their chosen time and place, in my opinion, was not appropriate.
My husband and I drove in silence for the next few moments. I shed a little tear for the two lost lives depicted on the pictures hanging on the overpass, not so much because I'm anti-abortion,* but more because of the exploitation of those lost potential lives. (They were not pretty pictures, and they were certainly hard to look at, but I've seen worse.) Who, I wonder, gave consent to let those pictures be used like that? And how do abortion protestors in general get their hands on those pictures in the first place? From the woman who had the abortion or the doctor or nurse from the clinic where the abortion was performed? I just don't get it.
A mile or so down the freeway, we came upon another set of pictures and another sign on another overpass, but there were no protestors in sight. The images and words alone did not have the same impact on traffic. My fellow commuters were speeding along, seemingly unaware of the images above. Perhaps many were as annoyed as I was that the activity on the previous overpass had slowed us down the way it did and didn't bother to look.
"So much for their protest," I thought to myself, "I guess people were more intersted in looking at the people on the bridge and trying to determine whether they were going to jump." Suicide, murder, abortion, these were things that I did not want to think about on the morning of my last commute. But starting Monday, these are things that I won't be thinking about, hopefully, while I'm home taking care of my kids.
*I don't really have anything new to add to the abortion discourse, and when I started writing this entry I didn't intend for it to be about whether I label myself pro-life or pro-choice because I don't align myself with either side. I've probably pissed off people on both sides of the issue with this entry. When asked, I say that "I am not anti-abortion," but for me, that doesn't equate to "I am for abortion." I can't support a woman's choice to end an unwanted pregnancy when the abortion is being used as a means of birth control. I understand that condoms break and that the pill is not 100% effective, but it's about taking personal responsibility for your actions.
Thursday
My journaling journey
I was introduced to the art of journaling by my third grade teacher. Miss C gave us time each morning to write in our "journals." The medium we used was a spiral bound notebook with wide lines. We could write about whatever we wanted, if we didn't feel like writing, we could draw pictures. The only ground rule that I can recall was that we had to make an attempt to fill the pages of the notebook. We could write as much or as little as we wanted for any given entry. We weren't graded on our efforts. Our reward was having Miss C read our journals and respond to our entries with thoughtful and caring words of encouragement.
For eight year old me, the third grade journaling exercise came at just the right time. Even then I needed a place to sort through my thoughts. I was dealing with some significant issues (for an 8 year old) at the time. My parents were having marital issues that I didn't understand or know how to deal with. In addition, my mother had just given birth to my youngest sister (because everyone knows that having a baby will fix whatever is wrong in your marriage), and I was feeling ignored. And, to make matters worse, (for an 8 year old), my best friend moved to Ohio in the middle of the school year which left me without a "best friend forever."
I have kept a journal of some sort on and off ever since the third grade. I write usually when I have so many thoughts in my head that I can't keep them all straight. I write so that I can put my thoughts down on paper so I can review them and reflect on them. My journals are also a guage for where I have been and where I think I'm going. I use the experience as a way to help me transition through difficult times. Most of the time my entries end up being a bit scattered and sometimes even a bit incoherent, I find that no matter what I start off intending to write about, some thought will cause me to veer off in a whole new direction. But for me, it is all part of the process of dealing with whatever it is that needs to be dealt with.
I still have most of my old journals, even the ones from 3rd grade. However, I erased most of my 4th grade journal. You see, the year was 1981, and I wrote many of the entries in my "Judy Blume Daily Diary" in pencil (don't ask me why, I have no idea.) When the new year started, I erased the old entries and started new ones.
My favorite journal is the one I started keepin on the day my husband and I got engaged. I wrote in that journal just about every night, and I gave it to him to read the night before our wedding. It was full of all my hopes and dreams for our future. It documents silly conversations we had and even sillier fights we had about wedding details that he couldn't be bothered with. To this day, my husband thinks it is the greatest gift I have ever given him.
This latest incarnation of my journal is obviously my way of dealing with my latest transition. Kind of like with my 3rd grade journal, I'm hoping to get some honest, yet thoughtful and encouraging words from all of the "Miss C's" out there.
For eight year old me, the third grade journaling exercise came at just the right time. Even then I needed a place to sort through my thoughts. I was dealing with some significant issues (for an 8 year old) at the time. My parents were having marital issues that I didn't understand or know how to deal with. In addition, my mother had just given birth to my youngest sister (because everyone knows that having a baby will fix whatever is wrong in your marriage), and I was feeling ignored. And, to make matters worse, (for an 8 year old), my best friend moved to Ohio in the middle of the school year which left me without a "best friend forever."
I have kept a journal of some sort on and off ever since the third grade. I write usually when I have so many thoughts in my head that I can't keep them all straight. I write so that I can put my thoughts down on paper so I can review them and reflect on them. My journals are also a guage for where I have been and where I think I'm going. I use the experience as a way to help me transition through difficult times. Most of the time my entries end up being a bit scattered and sometimes even a bit incoherent, I find that no matter what I start off intending to write about, some thought will cause me to veer off in a whole new direction. But for me, it is all part of the process of dealing with whatever it is that needs to be dealt with.
I still have most of my old journals, even the ones from 3rd grade. However, I erased most of my 4th grade journal. You see, the year was 1981, and I wrote many of the entries in my "Judy Blume Daily Diary" in pencil (don't ask me why, I have no idea.) When the new year started, I erased the old entries and started new ones.
My favorite journal is the one I started keepin on the day my husband and I got engaged. I wrote in that journal just about every night, and I gave it to him to read the night before our wedding. It was full of all my hopes and dreams for our future. It documents silly conversations we had and even sillier fights we had about wedding details that he couldn't be bothered with. To this day, my husband thinks it is the greatest gift I have ever given him.
This latest incarnation of my journal is obviously my way of dealing with my latest transition. Kind of like with my 3rd grade journal, I'm hoping to get some honest, yet thoughtful and encouraging words from all of the "Miss C's" out there.
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