1. Don't try to fit into one week: school the kids, write the newsletter article, work on the novel, feed the family, attend special services at church, stay up till 11 with the baby, and get a migraine from lack of sleep at the children's weekly learning co-op. (Yes, AT the co-op. I spent the morning lying on the nursery floor, because it was carpeted, wishing I had something more than ibuprofen to take. Like morphine, for instance.)
How does this type of week negatively impact your social life? Because not only will you not have time to call or email anyone other than your husband ("Could I get you to email me that address? And did I remember to send my library books with you? Oh, and can you make the day go faster? Because I've decided that I just don't feel like going through today.")... you won't have time to even think about any blog posts you may have said you'll do.
2. If you DO manage to get to the computer to compose prose, don't do it within sight of the 17-month-old. She will spend the entire computer session hanging on your leg saying, "Ut! Ut! UT!" When you refuse to pick her "ut," she will grab the mouse. When you move the mouse, she will reach the k00..ey...
00board. When you firmly move her way from the keyboard, she will be overcome by despair and sink her head onto your lap, and bite you.
3. Keep coming to Mairzy's blog. It probably doesn't do a whole lot for your social life, but it certainly helps hers.
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Saturday, February 2, 2008
The Dating Game, Round Two
You expect to outgrow it.
Throughout junior high and high school, it's the only thing that matters: I like him, does he like me, will he actually ask me to go with him, blah blah blah. Where I grew up, we didn't call it "going out," we called it "going with." Every single adult who heard us use the term would ask, "Going with him WHERE?" and chortle over how young and dumb we were. This from the generation that invented "going steady." (*grumble grumble Baby Boomers grumble grumble*) Of course we didn't actually go anywhere; once we were old enough to Go On Dates, there just weren't many places to go in a one-stoplight Southern town. But that didn't stop us from talking about the possibility virtually all the time.
As often happens, though, we grew up. I got married, moved away from my hometown, and had a baby all within about a year. That's when I found out that I hadn't put the dating game behind me. Now that it was easy as anything to get a date, get a kiss, get laid -- now I discovered that the playing field was still open. Only I wasn't a young single on the lookout for a boyfriend: I was a young mom on the lookout for friends.
It all felt strangely familiar. I'd catch sight of an interesting mom at the playground and strike up a conversation while our kids played. Maybe, just maybe, the chat would result in an exchange of phone numbers. If I was lucky, she'd be home when I called. We'd meet at the mall, or the library, a few times before venturing to suggest that we could have a playdate at one of our houses. All the while, we were testing the waters, figuring out if we clicked or not. We were always hoping to stumble on that one great friendship story, the one that said, "We met at this random place, started talking, and we haven't stopped for fifteen years!"
But good heavens was it hard to find that kind of friend! I wanted someone I could call up for no reason, or email seven times in one day without apology. Most of all, someone I could "go with": go with to get coffee, go with to browse shops, go with to a movie. I didn't think I was asking for much, but apparently I was asking for the moon. I did spend about a year getting together with one friend, plus exchanging frequent emails and weekly phone conversations... but it never really worked. In the end we tacitly agreed to be just acquaintances. It was pretty frustrating for someone who met, dated, and married the same guy. I thought romance was supposed to be the hard part.
When all else fails, be patient. One friend I particularly liked was Laura, who lived nearby and whose daughter is the same age as Ladybug. We instantly hit it off, but I learned -- painfully slowly -- that those fifteen-year conversations don't really happen instantaneously. It's one thing to spend an afternoon in pleasant chitchat while our children played. It took much longer for her to confide in me that she suffers from anxiety attacks, or for me to admit how lonely it could be as a stay-at-home mom. It's taken five years, in fact.
But finally. She asked me to go with her! For my birthday, no less. We left the kids with our respective husbands, and went out for lunch and coffee. Then we browsed shops together. When we headed home, Laura said, "We finally actually got away! Now that we've done it once, we'll have to do it again!"
It's only one coffee outing, I know. It's really too soon to say. But I think... I think it might be forever.
Throughout junior high and high school, it's the only thing that matters: I like him, does he like me, will he actually ask me to go with him, blah blah blah. Where I grew up, we didn't call it "going out," we called it "going with." Every single adult who heard us use the term would ask, "Going with him WHERE?" and chortle over how young and dumb we were. This from the generation that invented "going steady." (*grumble grumble Baby Boomers grumble grumble*) Of course we didn't actually go anywhere; once we were old enough to Go On Dates, there just weren't many places to go in a one-stoplight Southern town. But that didn't stop us from talking about the possibility virtually all the time.
As often happens, though, we grew up. I got married, moved away from my hometown, and had a baby all within about a year. That's when I found out that I hadn't put the dating game behind me. Now that it was easy as anything to get a date, get a kiss, get laid -- now I discovered that the playing field was still open. Only I wasn't a young single on the lookout for a boyfriend: I was a young mom on the lookout for friends.
It all felt strangely familiar. I'd catch sight of an interesting mom at the playground and strike up a conversation while our kids played. Maybe, just maybe, the chat would result in an exchange of phone numbers. If I was lucky, she'd be home when I called. We'd meet at the mall, or the library, a few times before venturing to suggest that we could have a playdate at one of our houses. All the while, we were testing the waters, figuring out if we clicked or not. We were always hoping to stumble on that one great friendship story, the one that said, "We met at this random place, started talking, and we haven't stopped for fifteen years!"
But good heavens was it hard to find that kind of friend! I wanted someone I could call up for no reason, or email seven times in one day without apology. Most of all, someone I could "go with": go with to get coffee, go with to browse shops, go with to a movie. I didn't think I was asking for much, but apparently I was asking for the moon. I did spend about a year getting together with one friend, plus exchanging frequent emails and weekly phone conversations... but it never really worked. In the end we tacitly agreed to be just acquaintances. It was pretty frustrating for someone who met, dated, and married the same guy. I thought romance was supposed to be the hard part.
When all else fails, be patient. One friend I particularly liked was Laura, who lived nearby and whose daughter is the same age as Ladybug. We instantly hit it off, but I learned -- painfully slowly -- that those fifteen-year conversations don't really happen instantaneously. It's one thing to spend an afternoon in pleasant chitchat while our children played. It took much longer for her to confide in me that she suffers from anxiety attacks, or for me to admit how lonely it could be as a stay-at-home mom. It's taken five years, in fact.
But finally. She asked me to go with her! For my birthday, no less. We left the kids with our respective husbands, and went out for lunch and coffee. Then we browsed shops together. When we headed home, Laura said, "We finally actually got away! Now that we've done it once, we'll have to do it again!"
It's only one coffee outing, I know. It's really too soon to say. But I think... I think it might be forever.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Weekend Frolics (or Not)
It was a jolly weekend here at Chez Mairzy. First Dilly, then Titan, and finally Ladybug got a 24-hour virus. Ladybug was actually very concerned that she wouldn't get it, despite languishing on the couch and asking in a broken voice, "Am I pale, Mama?" When she did get sick, I called August on his cell phone: "Rejoice with Ladybug, for she has finally thrown up and is as special as Dilly and Titan now."
Note that I called August on his cell phone: a business trip cropped up Friday, so on Sunday afternoon he was flying across the country. Fortunately the worst of the upchucking party was over by then, so I didn't have to heap dark thoughts upon every one of the three thousand miles he traveled away from us.
(Completely random side note: Isn't it absolutely astounding that we can talk about traveling three thousand miles... no, six thousand miles... in a single weekend? Occasionally I realize that even if I don't have a flying car and automated housecleaning staff, we really do live in a science-fiction world.)
All three children are fine now, and so far I haven't fallen prey to the bug. I'm also ignoring the hulking, menacing monster of laundry that is lurking in my laundry closet. Whew, after weathering all that, I'm all for collapsing on the couch and taking a couple of days off.
Please don't tell me it's only Monday night.
Note that I called August on his cell phone: a business trip cropped up Friday, so on Sunday afternoon he was flying across the country. Fortunately the worst of the upchucking party was over by then, so I didn't have to heap dark thoughts upon every one of the three thousand miles he traveled away from us.
(Completely random side note: Isn't it absolutely astounding that we can talk about traveling three thousand miles... no, six thousand miles... in a single weekend? Occasionally I realize that even if I don't have a flying car and automated housecleaning staff, we really do live in a science-fiction world.)
All three children are fine now, and so far I haven't fallen prey to the bug. I'm also ignoring the hulking, menacing monster of laundry that is lurking in my laundry closet. Whew, after weathering all that, I'm all for collapsing on the couch and taking a couple of days off.
Please don't tell me it's only Monday night.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Food Fights
I thoroughly enjoy cooking, but I'm not a "foodie." When I get in the kitchen to create, I make good, familiar food: Italian, barbecue, and close enough to authentic Southern to taste good but not actually kill you. I don't often branch out into exotic dishes that involve, say, eggplant and saffron.
The other day, I was feeling bold and creative. I found a bottle of red cooking wine in our pantry. (Surely this gives you an idea of how unsurprising my cooking is, if red wine is a daring choice.) I made up a red-wine-honey-rosemary sauce, poured it over chicken breasts, and let it simmer. August, I knew, would be most impressed.
My children were not. Ladybug wandered into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose. "What do I SMELL?" I am still training my children that criticizing Mama's cooking is walking really close to the death penalty. I snapped, "It's not for you. I'm cooking broccoli for you and Titan." They love broccoli (bragging here) with butter and dill weed.
Not deflected, Ladybug wailed, "It smells like mud soup!"
"Get out of the kitchen."
A few minutes later, as the savory aroma and red wine and rosemary filled the kitchen, Titan ran through.
A word about Titan. He's lucky that he isn't known on this blog as "Upchucky." This child has always had a massive gag reflex. Before Titan was born, I had a horror of vomit. Thanks to him, that's a fear I've confronted and conquered. It's getting better as he gets older, but I'm looking forward to turning the care and cleaning of him over to his wife.
So, Titan ran through the kitchen. "Something smells bad!" he wailed.
"Go out of the kitchen!"
Titan clapped a hand over his nose, ran into the back room with the new carpet, and... threw up.
So the chicken almost burned while I desperately scrubbed regurgitated goldfish crackers from the new carpet (vinegar and water does the trick). I saved supper in time for August to come home and say, "Mm, something smells good!"
I banged a few pans around. Meanwhile, Ladybug strolled in. "Do you smell that, Daddy? What we're having for supper is broccoli and something that won't taste very good."
August made Ladybug apologize to me. The next night I made pizza.
The other day, I was feeling bold and creative. I found a bottle of red cooking wine in our pantry. (Surely this gives you an idea of how unsurprising my cooking is, if red wine is a daring choice.) I made up a red-wine-honey-rosemary sauce, poured it over chicken breasts, and let it simmer. August, I knew, would be most impressed.
My children were not. Ladybug wandered into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose. "What do I SMELL?" I am still training my children that criticizing Mama's cooking is walking really close to the death penalty. I snapped, "It's not for you. I'm cooking broccoli for you and Titan." They love broccoli (bragging here) with butter and dill weed.
Not deflected, Ladybug wailed, "It smells like mud soup!"
"Get out of the kitchen."
A few minutes later, as the savory aroma and red wine and rosemary filled the kitchen, Titan ran through.
A word about Titan. He's lucky that he isn't known on this blog as "Upchucky." This child has always had a massive gag reflex. Before Titan was born, I had a horror of vomit. Thanks to him, that's a fear I've confronted and conquered. It's getting better as he gets older, but I'm looking forward to turning the care and cleaning of him over to his wife.
So, Titan ran through the kitchen. "Something smells bad!" he wailed.
"Go out of the kitchen!"
Titan clapped a hand over his nose, ran into the back room with the new carpet, and... threw up.
So the chicken almost burned while I desperately scrubbed regurgitated goldfish crackers from the new carpet (vinegar and water does the trick). I saved supper in time for August to come home and say, "Mm, something smells good!"
I banged a few pans around. Meanwhile, Ladybug strolled in. "Do you smell that, Daddy? What we're having for supper is broccoli and something that won't taste very good."
August made Ladybug apologize to me. The next night I made pizza.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Unmade Bed
I once was grounded for three days for not making up my bed. I guess I’d been told to do it, the week or month or year before. The fact that I couldn’t remember to do it indicated how low a priority my parents’ rules were to me. I think that was my stepfather’s reasoning, anyway, as he shouted, “FROM NOW ON YOU WILL MAKE UP YOUR BED EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIFE!”
Well, news for you, Gary: I’ve been married, oh, roughly 2550 days and I have not made my bed every single one of them. Even though my husband likes a neat bed, and I like making my husband happy – regardless, I won’t make my bed if I don’t want to.
Back in the day, I went along with you on lots of things, mostly without active resistance. I don’t know what kind of daughter you wanted me to be – more spiritual? more sweet-tempered? more logical and calculating? Whatever it was, I wasn’t. Even now: I’ve held to the faith that was your lifeblood and is now mine. But I don’t know if you’d think I’m really holding to it, because I don’t do things exactly the way you said they should be done. And really, I don’t care what you think. Sometimes I drive myself crazy not caring what you think.
I didn’t say goodbye when you left, even though I knew you were leaving. You left, and I said good riddance. For a long time – a couple of years – your absence was a relief, like a toothache that has stopped hurting. The years passed, and I married, and I had children, and – most significantly – I grew up. Half-remembered conversations with you, vivid memories of fights with you, suddenly made more sense as I saw things from an adult’s point of view. You shouldn’t have shouted so much, you know.
You still don’t have a headstone. At first Mom couldn’t afford one, and later... well, I think Mom has her own vivid memories to deal with. You’re buried right beside my father, who does have a headstone. That’s not very fair for you, I suppose. You always had it hard, marrying a widow whose husband died young, inheriting a household of unruly children. Even after ten years, our conversations of you are bittersweet, and nobody talks about you at great length. As for me, who knew you from a very young age, there is much I’d like to say and apologize for – and be apologized to. Thanks to the faith we both held to, I can hope to see you hereafter, and finally put to rest my restless memories.
And, actually, I do sometimes make up my bed, just because I want to.
Well, news for you, Gary: I’ve been married, oh, roughly 2550 days and I have not made my bed every single one of them. Even though my husband likes a neat bed, and I like making my husband happy – regardless, I won’t make my bed if I don’t want to.
Back in the day, I went along with you on lots of things, mostly without active resistance. I don’t know what kind of daughter you wanted me to be – more spiritual? more sweet-tempered? more logical and calculating? Whatever it was, I wasn’t. Even now: I’ve held to the faith that was your lifeblood and is now mine. But I don’t know if you’d think I’m really holding to it, because I don’t do things exactly the way you said they should be done. And really, I don’t care what you think. Sometimes I drive myself crazy not caring what you think.
I didn’t say goodbye when you left, even though I knew you were leaving. You left, and I said good riddance. For a long time – a couple of years – your absence was a relief, like a toothache that has stopped hurting. The years passed, and I married, and I had children, and – most significantly – I grew up. Half-remembered conversations with you, vivid memories of fights with you, suddenly made more sense as I saw things from an adult’s point of view. You shouldn’t have shouted so much, you know.
You still don’t have a headstone. At first Mom couldn’t afford one, and later... well, I think Mom has her own vivid memories to deal with. You’re buried right beside my father, who does have a headstone. That’s not very fair for you, I suppose. You always had it hard, marrying a widow whose husband died young, inheriting a household of unruly children. Even after ten years, our conversations of you are bittersweet, and nobody talks about you at great length. As for me, who knew you from a very young age, there is much I’d like to say and apologize for – and be apologized to. Thanks to the faith we both held to, I can hope to see you hereafter, and finally put to rest my restless memories.
And, actually, I do sometimes make up my bed, just because I want to.
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