I read an article a few years ago about women having crushes on men they see in their everyday lives. You know... UPS men (who doesn't love a man in brown?!), soccer coaches, cable guys, etc. Since then, I haven't met a single woman who will admit to having one of these crushes. Why?
Everyone will admit to the fantasy ones, even the men. And, I promise that if Salma Hayek actually shows up at my door to claim my husband - I won't be hurt at all when he rushes out to greet her. I'll even help him pack! Of course, I expect him to do the same if James Harrison (my current oh-don't-you-worry-he'll-be-here-right-after-he-wins-the-Superbowl man) arrives on my doorstep.
But, I'm talking about innocent never-going-to-happen crushes. Alright... I'll go first. Mine is the Coke guy at the grocery store. I've checked my UPS guy, and no thank you very much. The soccer coaches, yuck. The cable guys, no thanks - I like my men with their front teeth. So, the coke guy it is. What's his name? I dunno. For my purposes, he's Sexy Guy At The Store. And, anyone who'll flirt with the tired mama in sweats with three daughters following her around isn't all there anyway. He's either half-blind or half-stupid, but it doesn't matter. I don't want to take him home... I just want to imagine it. For the thirty minutes I'm at the store. Then, I'll leave him there until the next week.
This guy is my "grass is greener" guy. He's sexy, he's sequestered, he's employed. He's my perfect other side of the fence. And, I don't have to mow or weed or sod that side. I've done the foundation work on my side. My grass is taken care of and maintained. Of course, if some other woman's crush is the guy pouring concrete on her street, she better stay off my grass!!
Ponytails and pancakes
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
I am not raising friends.
These three girls are smart, funny, challenging, and inspiring. They make me laugh. They make me cry. They make me want to pull my hair out. I am trying to raise them in a loving, supportive manner. However, I am not their friend. It is my responsibility to be their mother.
I know a lot of mothers look at their roles differently, and I respect that. I am certainly no expert on your children. If hanging out with them and letting them run the show works in your house, more power to you. In my house, things run a little differently.
Maybe it's the way I grew up. As a child, my grandmother took on the bulk of the "parenting". She wasn't one of these new, modern grandmas who are spoiling their grandkids rotten every time they see them. She was tough. She loved me, and I knew it. But, she didn't play. I was the kid, she was the adult. The end.
Once I moved to Virginia, I was on my own with my mother. Let's just say she didn't do a lot of child-rearing. I took on the adult role quite a bit earlier than I was supposed to, which meant missing out on the innocence of childhood. I won't do that to my children.
It is my opinion that, being your children's friend also means that you're making your children your friends. This puts them in adult situations where they have no business being. I want my girls to be innocent and naive for as long as they can. They don't need to know every little thing about my life. They don't need to know the drama that comes with being a grown up. So, they don't need to be my friends.
I have walked the path my girls will walk (though, hopefully, I have put them in a better lane than the one I traveled). I cannot be their friend and still guide them through these tricky years. I want them to take my advice more seriously than what they will hear from their peers. How can I do that if I'm trying to be one of those peers?
This doesn't mean I don't enjoy spending time with them. I play the Wii, indulge in the constant dress-up parties, sit down and color with them. They are, absolutely, my favorite people in the world. But, they are children. If I want to have an adult conversation, I look elsewhere. If I want to complain or vent or gossip, I don't point any of that in their direction. Their job is not to be my sounding board.
I look forward to the days when my daughters will invite me out to lunch. Of course, they'll be wildly successful, so they'll pay. We'll talk about their careers, their loves, their crazy college days. We'll laugh about how hard I was on them when they were little. I'll say "I told you so" at least twice before the entrees arrive. And, we'll be friends.
It's my job to get them to that lunch twenty years from now as strong, confident, independent women. To be their friend then, I need to be their mama now.
I know a lot of mothers look at their roles differently, and I respect that. I am certainly no expert on your children. If hanging out with them and letting them run the show works in your house, more power to you. In my house, things run a little differently.
Maybe it's the way I grew up. As a child, my grandmother took on the bulk of the "parenting". She wasn't one of these new, modern grandmas who are spoiling their grandkids rotten every time they see them. She was tough. She loved me, and I knew it. But, she didn't play. I was the kid, she was the adult. The end.
Once I moved to Virginia, I was on my own with my mother. Let's just say she didn't do a lot of child-rearing. I took on the adult role quite a bit earlier than I was supposed to, which meant missing out on the innocence of childhood. I won't do that to my children.
It is my opinion that, being your children's friend also means that you're making your children your friends. This puts them in adult situations where they have no business being. I want my girls to be innocent and naive for as long as they can. They don't need to know every little thing about my life. They don't need to know the drama that comes with being a grown up. So, they don't need to be my friends.
I have walked the path my girls will walk (though, hopefully, I have put them in a better lane than the one I traveled). I cannot be their friend and still guide them through these tricky years. I want them to take my advice more seriously than what they will hear from their peers. How can I do that if I'm trying to be one of those peers?
This doesn't mean I don't enjoy spending time with them. I play the Wii, indulge in the constant dress-up parties, sit down and color with them. They are, absolutely, my favorite people in the world. But, they are children. If I want to have an adult conversation, I look elsewhere. If I want to complain or vent or gossip, I don't point any of that in their direction. Their job is not to be my sounding board.
I look forward to the days when my daughters will invite me out to lunch. Of course, they'll be wildly successful, so they'll pay. We'll talk about their careers, their loves, their crazy college days. We'll laugh about how hard I was on them when they were little. I'll say "I told you so" at least twice before the entrees arrive. And, we'll be friends.
It's my job to get them to that lunch twenty years from now as strong, confident, independent women. To be their friend then, I need to be their mama now.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Wow, time drags on when it isn't rushing by!
Eleven years ago this evening, I went on a first date with the man who would become my husband. No one would've suspected we'd be here more than a decade later.
We didn't meet online, in a chat room, on match.com, or on Facebook. That's right, kiddos, before there was online networking, we had to meet our future spouses the old-fashioned way. IN A BAR. Well, actually, the sign outside said "Bar & Grill". Although, a plastic container of soggy microwaved french fries does not a "grill" make. But, for the sake of our children, I always throw the grill part in there. Anyway, he stalked me several times before getting up the nerve to come over. He admits it too. Really. And, when he did come over, it was while I was in the restroom. He approached my aunt first. HEY! Maybe he was really after her!? So, he finally introduced himself to the hottest chick in the "grill", then promptly lost a game of pool to some itty bitty girl. A fact I will never let him forget.
He called me the next day at work, and we made plans to go out that night. Not thirty seconds after I hung up the phone, I wanted to cancel the date. He wasn't my type, and I knew that my best friend from Virginia would be calling that night. I would've rather stayed home and talked to him than go out with the stalker from the "grill". So, when Arturo called later that night, I tried to get out of it. But, he wouldn't take the hint, so I had to go.
That night, he held my hand for the first time. And, that was all he got for quite awhile. HAHAHAHAHA. I guess we've come full-circle!
A year and a half later, Sofia was born. A year and a half after that, we got married. A year and a half after that, Eva was born. Three years later, Maya arrived. And, now, three years later, we're still here.
This hasn't been a relationship others would envy. He's not the greatest husband. I imagine I have my faults too. However small they may be. *ahem* But eleven years is a long time to spend with someone. Some days longer than others. It is, I believe, an accomplishment though.
I've often wondered about whether or not we made the right decision the night I gave my number to that stalker guy at the "grill". The answer, like the past eleven years, isn't always pretty. But, I did give him my number. We did go out the next night. We did take every one of those steps that followed. And, we are here. Still together. With three extra passengers on our journey. So what if it all started with a shot of tequila and a really bad pool game?!
We didn't meet online, in a chat room, on match.com, or on Facebook. That's right, kiddos, before there was online networking, we had to meet our future spouses the old-fashioned way. IN A BAR. Well, actually, the sign outside said "Bar & Grill". Although, a plastic container of soggy microwaved french fries does not a "grill" make. But, for the sake of our children, I always throw the grill part in there. Anyway, he stalked me several times before getting up the nerve to come over. He admits it too. Really. And, when he did come over, it was while I was in the restroom. He approached my aunt first. HEY! Maybe he was really after her!? So, he finally introduced himself to the hottest chick in the "grill", then promptly lost a game of pool to some itty bitty girl. A fact I will never let him forget.
He called me the next day at work, and we made plans to go out that night. Not thirty seconds after I hung up the phone, I wanted to cancel the date. He wasn't my type, and I knew that my best friend from Virginia would be calling that night. I would've rather stayed home and talked to him than go out with the stalker from the "grill". So, when Arturo called later that night, I tried to get out of it. But, he wouldn't take the hint, so I had to go.
That night, he held my hand for the first time. And, that was all he got for quite awhile. HAHAHAHAHA. I guess we've come full-circle!
A year and a half later, Sofia was born. A year and a half after that, we got married. A year and a half after that, Eva was born. Three years later, Maya arrived. And, now, three years later, we're still here.
This hasn't been a relationship others would envy. He's not the greatest husband. I imagine I have my faults too. However small they may be. *ahem* But eleven years is a long time to spend with someone. Some days longer than others. It is, I believe, an accomplishment though.
I've often wondered about whether or not we made the right decision the night I gave my number to that stalker guy at the "grill". The answer, like the past eleven years, isn't always pretty. But, I did give him my number. We did go out the next night. We did take every one of those steps that followed. And, we are here. Still together. With three extra passengers on our journey. So what if it all started with a shot of tequila and a really bad pool game?!
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Like I don't have enough names to remember
This is Maya's bed. I wish I could say it's a random collection of stuffed animals that were just casually thrown here during playtime. Alas, I cannot. These are fifteen of the most important beings in my house. They each have a name, a personality, and an assigned role. Let me just say this, I often have to go through at least two names before I get the right one FOR MY CHILDREN. But, let me call out the wrong name of a "friend" and I may as well have slapped Maya in the face.
There's Betty, the brown rabbit. She's often a good girl, but has been known to be quite rude to Bobo.
Bobo is the brown monkey and a very good boy.
Rita is the darker brown rabbit who mostly keeps to herself.
Lizzie the snow leopard is simply a trouble maker who often finds herself in the corner. (Who knows where that comes from... I'm not a corner-user.)
Little Lamb is the black sheep *ahem* of the family... often ignored and thrown behind the bed.
Baby is the sole human-form, she's the oldest of the group and has been used as a pillow by the young'uns on more than one occasion.
Brandon is the only boy bear, and he's quite the player. He's worked his way through all the girls, marrying them and leaving them for the next hot new thing. (typical)
Tito, the sea turtle, is my personal favorite. However, despite his name, he apparently had a baby...
Tito Too, or "too" for short is the current favorite. He gets to sleep in the bed almost every night.
Pinky, the pink bear, is a quiet girl who gets picked on quite a bit.
Lumpy, the elephant, doesn't seem to mind being dragged around by her trunk everywhere she goes.
Pete, the brown dog, is often beaten up by the others.
Quackers, the duck, is quite bossy to the big animals. (size doesn't matter much in this house)
Doggie, the white dog is the one Maya always turns to when she's really having a bad day.
Finally, Mama Moose, stays on the floor, guarding against strays.
Why do I feel the need to introduce these friends? Well, partly to memorialize the one time I actually remembered all of the names. And, partly to show that mothers are an unending source of information. Ask any real mother what her child's favorite thing in the world is - they'll know it.
My girls favorite colors? Silver, Purple, Pink
Favorite food? Nachos, Flautas, Chicken Enchiladas
Favorite thing to do? Draw, Play outside, Sing & Dance
Favorite song? Anything by Taylor Swift for Sofia & Eva, "Cooler than Me" for Maya
That's what mothers do. We take note. So, when Maya begs me to go to the Build-A-Bear store, I know we're leaving with a new friend. And, a new personality I have to memorize. Because it matters to her. And, nothing matters more to this mama than showing my girls how much they matter.
Friday, January 14, 2011
I went out last night with some moms from Sofia's Girl Scouts troop. Just a movie, but it was on a SCHOOL NIGHT!! *gasp*
I never go out. Ever. And, even if I do, it's in the middle of the day with at least one of my girls. Try not to be jealous of my crazy partying social life.
Anyway, mama went out last night!! So, Papi was left with the girls. Seriously, for a little over an hour before bedtime. He called twice and texted once. He was completely lost. Mind you, dinner was served, eaten, and cleaned up. All he had to do was have them put on pajamas and brush their teeth. But, to do this, he would've had to stray from his normal position. This, of course, didn't happen smoothly. Apparently, a tornado hit my house while I was gone. And, he says Maya was "out of control" and had to be spanked before he put her to bed. He says I should've been here to handle the situation. I say, "You should've called me." He says, "You should've been here." I can't win.
Arturo likes to say that he's a parent too. I mean, he really likes to say it. All the time. Usually only when I'm saying "no" to something that he thinks they should get a "yes" to. But still, he's a big fan of asserting his authority. What he's not big into, however, is parenting. He is what I like to call "Old School Latino". This is to say that he wants to be the "MAN" of the family in all the ways he sees fit. He goes to work. He makes the money. He controls the remote. He plays the hero in all things fun. The end. Of course, this leaves me to be the "woman". I take care of the house. I fix every morsel of food that goes into their mouths. I raise the children. What I do not do, is leave the house. Arturo prefers that I stay home at all times. This is where he's comfortable.
I don't know what era you're living in, but we're all 1950's all the time over here.
I never go out. Ever. And, even if I do, it's in the middle of the day with at least one of my girls. Try not to be jealous of my crazy partying social life.
Anyway, mama went out last night!! So, Papi was left with the girls. Seriously, for a little over an hour before bedtime. He called twice and texted once. He was completely lost. Mind you, dinner was served, eaten, and cleaned up. All he had to do was have them put on pajamas and brush their teeth. But, to do this, he would've had to stray from his normal position. This, of course, didn't happen smoothly. Apparently, a tornado hit my house while I was gone. And, he says Maya was "out of control" and had to be spanked before he put her to bed. He says I should've been here to handle the situation. I say, "You should've called me." He says, "You should've been here." I can't win.
Arturo likes to say that he's a parent too. I mean, he really likes to say it. All the time. Usually only when I'm saying "no" to something that he thinks they should get a "yes" to. But still, he's a big fan of asserting his authority. What he's not big into, however, is parenting. He is what I like to call "Old School Latino". This is to say that he wants to be the "MAN" of the family in all the ways he sees fit. He goes to work. He makes the money. He controls the remote. He plays the hero in all things fun. The end. Of course, this leaves me to be the "woman". I take care of the house. I fix every morsel of food that goes into their mouths. I raise the children. What I do not do, is leave the house. Arturo prefers that I stay home at all times. This is where he's comfortable.
I don't know what era you're living in, but we're all 1950's all the time over here.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Snow Day
This was Snow Day 2. Sofia didn't go outside, but the other two had a BLAST! I love hearing their laughter, even if it's followed by a cold, wet mess all over my house!
Hi, my name is Sarah, and I'm a bake-aholic.
It sounds silly, but it's true. I cannot stop baking. I like to cook too, but baking is an obsession. I bake two or three times a week. Fresh whole wheat bread at least once and one or two desserts. Every week. I put the ipod in my ears and lose myself in the recipe. Sometimes I make up my own, but it's usually a recipe I found somewhere.
My poor girls have never known the pleasure of store bought pastries or cakes. Eva asked for a Beauty & the Beast cake for years, but she never got one. I don't do "character cakes" because I can't make them look the way they're supposed to. I know my limits.
And, I don't do all of this because I'm fantastic at baking. I'm pedestrian at best. But I pour every ounce of my emotion into everything. So, some cakes are steaming angry while some cookies are blissful. But they're all straight from the heart.
This year, I bought myself "bon appetit Desserts" for Christmas. I've decided to make every single thing in the book... even the things that I know no one in my house will eat. Kumquat-Cardamom Tea Bread anyone?? I'm going in order of difficulty, so I can ease my way through. So far, I've done the Banana-Oatmeal bars with chocolate chunks, Apple-Spice cake with brown sugar glaze, and Chocolate Panforte candies. With any luck, I'll make it to the White Chocolate and Lemon Wedding cake sometime before my baby gets married (in 40 years). I plan on enjoying every moment of it.
There are worse things to be addicted to, and I know that first-hand. At least this one will only hurt my waistline.
It sounds silly, but it's true. I cannot stop baking. I like to cook too, but baking is an obsession. I bake two or three times a week. Fresh whole wheat bread at least once and one or two desserts. Every week. I put the ipod in my ears and lose myself in the recipe. Sometimes I make up my own, but it's usually a recipe I found somewhere.
My poor girls have never known the pleasure of store bought pastries or cakes. Eva asked for a Beauty & the Beast cake for years, but she never got one. I don't do "character cakes" because I can't make them look the way they're supposed to. I know my limits.
And, I don't do all of this because I'm fantastic at baking. I'm pedestrian at best. But I pour every ounce of my emotion into everything. So, some cakes are steaming angry while some cookies are blissful. But they're all straight from the heart.
This year, I bought myself "bon appetit Desserts" for Christmas. I've decided to make every single thing in the book... even the things that I know no one in my house will eat. Kumquat-Cardamom Tea Bread anyone?? I'm going in order of difficulty, so I can ease my way through. So far, I've done the Banana-Oatmeal bars with chocolate chunks, Apple-Spice cake with brown sugar glaze, and Chocolate Panforte candies. With any luck, I'll make it to the White Chocolate and Lemon Wedding cake sometime before my baby gets married (in 40 years). I plan on enjoying every moment of it.
There are worse things to be addicted to, and I know that first-hand. At least this one will only hurt my waistline.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Average
I adore my family. I am proud of each and every one of my girls' accomplishments. This being said, I have a confession... my children are average.
Yes, you heard that right. The three people I gave birth to aren't the absolute best at anything. They are the best daughters I have, but they won't be knocking anyone's socks off but mine.
Here's why I feel the need to announce this: almost everyone else seems to have extraordinary children. Every time I tell anyone about something my girls have done, someone's child did it better/faster/sooner than we did. Why can't I just be proud of my kid? Alright... your child is prettier (ahem), smarter (cough), more athletic (sniffle), just all-around better than mine. Does that make you feel better? Every test doesn't come home with a 100% stamped at the top. Every goal isn't scored by the Romero on the field. None of my children is on the MENSA watch-list.
I don't see what's wrong with small accomplishments. I truly don't know what's wrong with average. There are worse things. Hell, BY DEFINITION there are worse things than average.
Sofia is a smart girl who is pretty good at art, but I'm not having her tested to measure her genius. Eva was born to be outside playing sports, but she's not being recruited by any elite teams. Maya, well, all I can say about Maya is that she thinks she's the greatest at everything. And, if you don't agree, she'd be happy to stomp on your toe and pull your eyelashes out until you see the light.
I think your kid is great too. Really, I do. If I were the parent of a genius sports star, maybe I'd rub it in the faces of all I meet. But, alas, I am not. So let me have my moment.
Yes, you heard that right. The three people I gave birth to aren't the absolute best at anything. They are the best daughters I have, but they won't be knocking anyone's socks off but mine.
Here's why I feel the need to announce this: almost everyone else seems to have extraordinary children. Every time I tell anyone about something my girls have done, someone's child did it better/faster/sooner than we did. Why can't I just be proud of my kid? Alright... your child is prettier (ahem), smarter (cough), more athletic (sniffle), just all-around better than mine. Does that make you feel better? Every test doesn't come home with a 100% stamped at the top. Every goal isn't scored by the Romero on the field. None of my children is on the MENSA watch-list.
I don't see what's wrong with small accomplishments. I truly don't know what's wrong with average. There are worse things. Hell, BY DEFINITION there are worse things than average.
Sofia is a smart girl who is pretty good at art, but I'm not having her tested to measure her genius. Eva was born to be outside playing sports, but she's not being recruited by any elite teams. Maya, well, all I can say about Maya is that she thinks she's the greatest at everything. And, if you don't agree, she'd be happy to stomp on your toe and pull your eyelashes out until you see the light.
I think your kid is great too. Really, I do. If I were the parent of a genius sports star, maybe I'd rub it in the faces of all I meet. But, alas, I am not. So let me have my moment.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Lost and Found
I have someone to put in the lost and found. It's my Maya. Well, someone's Maya. There's not a single chance she's mine. See, Maya is practically made of tulle. She will only wear dresses... the frillier the better. And, I don't know where it came from. Yesterday, she and I went back and forth about her lunch. I wanted her to eat it, she wanted me to shove it. I threatened to not allow a snack, "So?" she replied. I threatened no dessert after dinner, "So?" she replied. I threatened to remove the dress she was wearing and replace it with jeans... mad dash to the table. Now, before you call DFS on me, these were brand new jeans Santa brought her. Mama, of course, would never give her jeans. Mama knows better... stupid Santa!
Mama doesn't wear dresses. Mama counted her collection today, and she has FOURTEEN pairs of sweatpants. Fourteen. Granted, these are the fabulous Victoria's Secret Pink sweatpants. If you don't have a pair, you are clearly missing out. They are not your mother's shabby sweats. I could go on and on about how much I love them. But, if you've seen me out in the last four years, you've seen them. They are my uniform. You know those mothers who are always put together? The women who always look like they just stepped out for a lunch with their equally well put together friends? The women who wouldn't dream of leaving their homes without a face full of makeup and their hair looking perfect? Yeah, I hate those witches. I know a few myself. It's a lot of pressure to be seen with them, and I often feel bad that they have to be seen with me. But, I'm not going anywhere that I need to dress up for. The cashier at the grocery store doesn't care if I come in heels or tennis shoes, just as long as I don't fold up my coupons. I am simply not a high maintenance woman.
This brings me back to Maya. Somewhere in the world (though hopefully not in Tonganoxie, KS) there's a little boy who has no idea what's heading his way. I almost feel for him. Almost. This little girl is a handful and a half. We went out the other day, appropriately dressed in a frilly dress from Santa and a flower in her hair, and she was sweating. Why was my angel sweating? Because she refused to even unzip her coat. Why would this sweet child refuse to unzip her coat (let alone remove it) while indoors? Because she decided the dress wasn't cute enough to be seen in. Sigh. Maya is a three year old diva. And, I am simply her pawn. Somewhere in this world there is also a woman. A really well put together woman walking around in nice clothes with her hair done and her nails manicured. And that woman is walking around with a 3 year old in sweatpants and a pony tail. That lady probably wonders where she went wrong.
She should look in the lost and found.
Mama doesn't wear dresses. Mama counted her collection today, and she has FOURTEEN pairs of sweatpants. Fourteen. Granted, these are the fabulous Victoria's Secret Pink sweatpants. If you don't have a pair, you are clearly missing out. They are not your mother's shabby sweats. I could go on and on about how much I love them. But, if you've seen me out in the last four years, you've seen them. They are my uniform. You know those mothers who are always put together? The women who always look like they just stepped out for a lunch with their equally well put together friends? The women who wouldn't dream of leaving their homes without a face full of makeup and their hair looking perfect? Yeah, I hate those witches. I know a few myself. It's a lot of pressure to be seen with them, and I often feel bad that they have to be seen with me. But, I'm not going anywhere that I need to dress up for. The cashier at the grocery store doesn't care if I come in heels or tennis shoes, just as long as I don't fold up my coupons. I am simply not a high maintenance woman.
This brings me back to Maya. Somewhere in the world (though hopefully not in Tonganoxie, KS) there's a little boy who has no idea what's heading his way. I almost feel for him. Almost. This little girl is a handful and a half. We went out the other day, appropriately dressed in a frilly dress from Santa and a flower in her hair, and she was sweating. Why was my angel sweating? Because she refused to even unzip her coat. Why would this sweet child refuse to unzip her coat (let alone remove it) while indoors? Because she decided the dress wasn't cute enough to be seen in. Sigh. Maya is a three year old diva. And, I am simply her pawn. Somewhere in this world there is also a woman. A really well put together woman walking around in nice clothes with her hair done and her nails manicured. And that woman is walking around with a 3 year old in sweatpants and a pony tail. That lady probably wonders where she went wrong.
She should look in the lost and found.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Full of possibilities
The other day, on a long car ride, Sofia and Eva were talking about the future. First of all, let me point two things out:
1. Every ride is long when you live in the middle of nowhere.
2. The conversation was stuck in between two rounds of screaming at each other for no discernable reason.
Anyway, they were making decisions about what they were going to do when they grow up. Important stuff here. Sofia says she's either going to be an artist or a teacher. Admirable. Eva says, "I'm gonna be an astronaut!". Sofia replies, "No, you should be a gym teacher!". "OK!" says Eva. I wanted to yell, "UM... NO!". Instead I just smiled.
When I was their age, I was going to go to Yale. I didn't know where it was, and I don't know how I ever heard of Yale. But I had no doubt that I was going there. Once I made it to high school, I was going to be a writer. Write what? I dunno. But it was my destiny.
Of course, after years of being reminded that I wasn't actually going to be anything of importance, I gave up all my ideas of success and got into the business of life. It occurs to me in this moment, that "life" is actually the business I'm in. I gave life three times, now I have to keep it going for at least the next 15 years.
The point is when you're a kid, the possibilities are endless. Of course you can choose between astronaut or gym teacher. Why not? Of course it's all going to work out the way you want it to. Why not? Of course we can sell your sister for a new Wii game. Why not?
I can only hope that once they actually become an astrophysicist, a Supreme Court Justice, and a Brain Surgeon/diva (here's looking at you Maya), they'll be as fulfilled inside as they will be respected outside.
1. Every ride is long when you live in the middle of nowhere.
2. The conversation was stuck in between two rounds of screaming at each other for no discernable reason.
Anyway, they were making decisions about what they were going to do when they grow up. Important stuff here. Sofia says she's either going to be an artist or a teacher. Admirable. Eva says, "I'm gonna be an astronaut!". Sofia replies, "No, you should be a gym teacher!". "OK!" says Eva. I wanted to yell, "UM... NO!". Instead I just smiled.
When I was their age, I was going to go to Yale. I didn't know where it was, and I don't know how I ever heard of Yale. But I had no doubt that I was going there. Once I made it to high school, I was going to be a writer. Write what? I dunno. But it was my destiny.
Of course, after years of being reminded that I wasn't actually going to be anything of importance, I gave up all my ideas of success and got into the business of life. It occurs to me in this moment, that "life" is actually the business I'm in. I gave life three times, now I have to keep it going for at least the next 15 years.
The point is when you're a kid, the possibilities are endless. Of course you can choose between astronaut or gym teacher. Why not? Of course it's all going to work out the way you want it to. Why not? Of course we can sell your sister for a new Wii game. Why not?
I can only hope that once they actually become an astrophysicist, a Supreme Court Justice, and a Brain Surgeon/diva (here's looking at you Maya), they'll be as fulfilled inside as they will be respected outside.
Monday, January 3, 2011
First Blog
So I made a resolution this year. I've never really done that before, so we'll see how it goes. I resolved to do something completely for myself. Nothing that will improve the daily lives of my children or my husband. Nothing that will change what the future holds for anyone. Just a simple thing that makes me feel more fulfilled. I've decided to complete a thought!
Before I had children, I used to be a person. At least, that's the way I remember it. Now I'm "just a mama". Don't get me wrong... I adore my girls. They are the reason I get up every morning (at an ungodly hour, no less). But, they are the ONLY reason. I am a stay at home mom. My days are filled to the brim with the work that no one sees or appreciates. And, that's the way it should be. This absolutely is a job. I've never worked so hard at anything. Anyone who's never done it has no idea what goes into giving everything of yourself to little people who believe that's what a mother is supposed to do. So, over the last 9 years, 8 months, 28 days (plus 10 months of pregnancy) I lost any sense of being a seperate person. This blog is going to be my first step at retaking myself.
I haven't had a real conversation in months. I haven't written a sentence in years. Other than my name on the bottom of endless school papers, I haven't written ANYTHING in years. Writing used to be my outlet. However, once the teenage angst faded away, I stopped putting pen to paper. So, here goes.
Maybe no one will ever read my ramblings, but I'll finally get them out of my head. Making room in my head, of course, for more to-do lists and craft ideas for the girls.
Let's see how long it lasts before I feel guilty for taking these few minutes away from my real job.
Before I had children, I used to be a person. At least, that's the way I remember it. Now I'm "just a mama". Don't get me wrong... I adore my girls. They are the reason I get up every morning (at an ungodly hour, no less). But, they are the ONLY reason. I am a stay at home mom. My days are filled to the brim with the work that no one sees or appreciates. And, that's the way it should be. This absolutely is a job. I've never worked so hard at anything. Anyone who's never done it has no idea what goes into giving everything of yourself to little people who believe that's what a mother is supposed to do. So, over the last 9 years, 8 months, 28 days (plus 10 months of pregnancy) I lost any sense of being a seperate person. This blog is going to be my first step at retaking myself.
I haven't had a real conversation in months. I haven't written a sentence in years. Other than my name on the bottom of endless school papers, I haven't written ANYTHING in years. Writing used to be my outlet. However, once the teenage angst faded away, I stopped putting pen to paper. So, here goes.
Maybe no one will ever read my ramblings, but I'll finally get them out of my head. Making room in my head, of course, for more to-do lists and craft ideas for the girls.
Let's see how long it lasts before I feel guilty for taking these few minutes away from my real job.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)