Mission Control, Mom Has a Problem
So I'm a control freak. You might not know it by my messy car and easy going attitude with friends, family, and the random stinky public at large. But I am. Why? Because it's my dirty car. It's my funny joke lobbied just at the right time at a tense P.T.A. meeting. It's my decision that day to give, or not give, a quarter to the fat bum on the freeway offramp with the sign, "Will work for A Starbuck's Nonfat Half Cap Cappucino."
Newsflash: With children, they don't do what you want all the time. Hence the fact that I have no control. Hence the other fact that this lack of control gets me really ticked off. Hence thirdly I'm ticked that I can't control my internal anger (and occasional outbursts) at not being able to control my kids.
I mean, really, I've got to let it go sometimes. Does Stink need to go to bed when I say? Yes. But in the morning, when I ask him to put on his socks, and he spends 5 minutes bunny hopping down the stairs with both feet in one socks squealing, "Mommy, I'm a little lost rabbit who can't find my second sock"... well... that I have to chuck up to "He's got a good sense of humor."
But sadly, I don't. And whose fault is that? Certainly not his. I am the one who is forever running behind because I have "one more email" or "one more blog post to publish."
I am the one who is frustrated that Rex is still in Germany due to that volcano DIE VOLCANO DIE!
I am the one who has unrealistic expectations of what seven year olds are capable of and what they are not.
'm going to talk this week about strategies for discipline. For those of you who have read some great parenting books on the subject, I'd love it.
For those of you who pray, I'm asking for patience.
For those of you without kids or who have survived this insanely frustrating period, a hearty congratulations go out to you. Have some wine on me. But if you're going to drive, like my flaw, CONTROL YOURSELF.
* Pic of my son making "butt prints" from a puddle. During free time in summer? Awesome. When I want to go to Trader Jo's and my house smells like fish oil? Not so much.
So you know that scene in Titantic where Rose is swimming through the boat trying to find her way to safety? I kind of feel like that today. Only I don't look like Kate Winslet. And I don't have the fancy ball gown. Though I'm kind of wearing a period piece since I'm PMSING really bad, but not sure if that counts.
Rex left last Sunday for Germany. Not a big deal normally. He'd be back on Friday and all would be well. Except A VOLCANO ERRUPTED IN ICELAND.
Yeah, that puts a little kink in ye old travel plans.
So now my husband is half a world away. He'll be back Wednesday if he's lucky, but most likely he'll be here in a week or two.
I certainly know that this is not a life threatening emergency. Many women have husbands off fighting wars. Many of you are single mamas trying to stay afloat like Rose. Some of you are don't have husbands at all.
I suppose my point of this post is that with Rex out of town, I've once again realized how much he does around here. His quiet presence is an anchor to the often back and forth rocking of my crazy boat. Our days are marked by his quiet routines: Switch over the laundry before work, go to work, come home, switch over the laundry again, change into Ward Cleaver ensemble (plaid pjs and green robe) give kids toe hangings, go to bed.
I'm sure that I am missing a lot of other details. This is because his slow and steady, just do it and be done with it attitude, makes it all appear effortlessly.
And yet, the grass... it's so green. And the bills... they are always paid. And the roof over our head that doesn't leak or the toilets that get magically fixed? All this happens without a gardener, an accountant, or a plumber. (Hint: It's not me who does it.)
And so , this post is dedicated to Rex. Get home safely. Bring me some German chocolates. And do me a favor. Next time you plan on getting sidetracked by a volcano, show me how to recharge those frigging camera batteries that take an engineering degree to plug in.
Happy weekend, all.
PS: No one said I would get a Webby Award for my graphics.
I've been socializing a bit less these days and it's felt nice. Spending more time with the kids... more time with the hubby (when he's not in Germany.) I've been a bit busy with school stuff, but that, too, will pass.
I look at my kids who are so unafraid of change. "Hey, look, Mom, my head now touches the window sill !" Growing a few inches in one month is as easy breezy as it is for me to brew a cup of coffee. (And both of us are equally as hyper afterwards.)
Me? I'm a mixed bag. I write a column for the world to see. I can chat with the street bum. I love parties and dancing. A last minute invite to a play? I'm there.
But I'm also that ten year old girl who just wants her quiet. I miss my dad. My mom is getting older. My kids are needing me less and less. And while things in my marriage have never felt more peaceful, I'm also standing on this precipice of new beginnings. Of change. Of, like my son's overgrown mop hair, growth.
I often wish I could go back to the times my kids were babies. When I'd rock them in my arms and hear Elmo chattering in the background. Things were simpler then. Slower.
I try to remind myself of that. "Andrea, slow down. It's okay."
And so I am trying. More than trying. I am doing it. I need it.
So tonight, while my husband sleeps a whole world away, and my babies are resting comfortably in their beds, I will turn off my brain and rest. Ebay can wait. My work can wait. Hell, my dishes can wait.
The only thing that can't wait? Growth.
Anyone else know what I mean?
I've been on Facebook about a year now. In the past few months, I've checked in more frequently. Once/day... once every other day. And without a doubt, it's been stressing me out.
I shouldn't be stressed out. After all, it's simply a bunch of my friends telling me what they are eating for lunch, what they are wearing to work, and why they are voting for a particular political party.
But there's really so much more than that. There's writers I've met, some actors, old bosses and some really earth shattering farm games.
Plus it's a superhighway of information. It's where I launched my first artist salon. It's where I can be pinged about my ex-husband's birthday, my ex-boyfriend's party and my sister's current relationship status. (For the record, she's in a relationship. There's even a heart next to her name. Ahhh...)
The issue I have with it is that I feel this pressure to keep up with everyone. If I forget someone's important day, or simply ignore it because it's someone I know but I don't really know, it still weighs on my mind. After all, they are a "friend". And "friends" don't forget other "friends" birthdays.
I'M OVERLOADED WITH INFO! Yeah yeah... I know it's the future of the world! How will I ever launch a book without a platform of fans to "like" what I wore to the gym that day? And yet,how will I ever write that book if I'm so caught up in everyone's brain farts that I'm depleted at the end of the day? Perhaps no one will even care to read my book because it's so much quicker to read someone's wall than a 400 page novel by an author they aren't even "friends" with on their social networking platform.
For those of you who love it, I wish I had it in me. But I don't. I already share enough of my life with strangers on my blog. And lately, not enough. Why? Because FACEBOOK IS SUCKING THE LIFE OUT OF ME.
I know, I'm a wimp. I'm just letting you know. Give me a year and I'll be living in a cave with battery operated Tiffani lamps and a year's supply of spam. Yup, that's how I'm going to roll.
Wish me luck. Tonight... I'm going AWOL.
Adios, Facebook. It was nice knowing you. You've been a good "friend".
Here's someone else's take on deleting her account - stated much better than my post!