Smalltalk Warfare

There is a question, a common question, that I detest.

It's an innocent question, asked by people I've just met at a dinner party, a playgroup or committee meeting. I meet someone, we engage in the perfunctory and polite introductions, there is that awkward lull, and then I'm asked The Question:

"What do you do?"

I shuffle my feet uncomfortably, my mind casting around for an answer.

"Umm, er, I'm a Mom?" I say, shrugging apologetically.

Why do I feel so apologetic about saying I'm a Mom - like I should have a better, more interesting response? For some reason it feels wrong to answer that question with lively bits of information about myself - how I have a little jewelry business or I love to write - because that doesn't feel like I'm answering the question properly. Once I say I'm a mother, though, the conversation is always about the kids. Always. I feel like I slip into a kind of invisibility, like I'm an anecdote or an afterthought.

When someone asks me what I do, my subconscious starts screaming: I do everything and nothing! Why, what's it to you?

For some reason, that question feels like a challenge hurled at my feet. I'm defensive about it.

I'm learning, in recovery, to pay attention to things that make me defensive, because behind the defensiveness lurks something I'm not paying attention to, something I'm not owning.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why it's a mine field for me, this innocent question. It's because I spent most of my adult life, my pre-kid life, answering that question without giving it a second thought. "Me? Oh, I'm an Executive Recruiter for a Global Firm," or "I'm a District Manager for an Insurance Company." Easy peasy. I didn't get all shuffley and apologetic.

I get prickly because I feel like I should be all chest-thumpy about being a mother, that I should want to wear it like a badge of honor. I can't say the truth: Oh, Jeez. You had to ask. Well, I'm raising two beautiful kids and that should be enough, right? But it doesn't always feel like enough, but I feel like it SHOULD be enough and I feel a little lost some days. I think I'm having an identity crisis. I'm trying to strike that balance between being a Mom and Having A Life. I have a right to both, right? Don't you think so?

So I just talk about the kids. It's simpler, really.

What we do doesn't define who we are, it doesn't paint the full picture, and yet we wrap our identities around it, measure our own worth around it. When I worked in Corporate America this didn't bother me, because I could shed what I did like a cloak and do something else anytime I wanted to.

Becoming a mother has changed the game on me. It comes naturally to wrap my identity up in what I do, but motherhood isn't something I can ever shed like a cloak. Nor would I want to. But it's a journey to learn how to be a Mom and not lose myself in the process. I drank over this for years, feeling stuck and resentful, like I wasn't allowed to be anything but a Mom. Even when I worked, I was the Mom Who Worked. I mourned the loss of my free, independent and ever-changing identity.

Now I'm a Mom Who Makes Jewelry and Writes. The only difference is I have acceptance that I'm a Mom first. I embrace it, now. It doesn't define me, it's just the Most Important Thing.

If it were up to me, though, I'd eliminate that question - what do you do? - entirely. From now on, I wish everyone would ask: "What are you becoming?"

Because that's what really matters.

I'm So Not The Boss Of Me

Sometimes, when I'm feeling wistful, I'll wish that I could get addicted to things that are good for me. I seem to be developing a little problem with Everlasting Gobstoppers, for instance. How come I can't become obsessed with something like hugging trees or exercise?

Speaking of exercise, you may all throw me a little parade because I got up at 5:30am - 5:30am!!! - this morning to go work out. Turns out there is this whole little universe of people who get up early to do healthy things. Who knew?

It began when my friend Jackie sent me a Facebook message a few days ago asking if I'd meet her at the gym this morning at 6am. After nearly choking on my Everlasting Gobstopper, I thought about it. Why not? Why can't I be one of those people who gets up early to go do things? I could think of it like a cultural experiment - who ARE those people and what do they look like? Before I could stop myself I sent her a message back, saying I would meet her. There. Now I was committed. I don't mind letting myself down, but other people are a different story. Jackie was counting on me. Her whole world would crumble if I wasn't there, right?

For the past year Steve has been asking me, with varying degrees of politeness and subtlety, to work out. He can find an opening for this topic in any conversation:

Me: "How bout those Red Sox, huh?"

Steve: "Yeah. They must work out a lot."

Me: "Are you calling me fat?"

Or this:

Steve: "I've got this situation with a client I really need to work out."

Me: "Are you calling me fat?"

Or this:

Steve: "I wonder if we'll ever work out the situation in the Middle East and no-I'm-not-calling-you-fat."

I'm a little touchy about the topic of exercise. I know it's good for me. I know it gives me more energy, I'm nicer and more in balance when I'm working out. If sitting around wishing you felt like working out burned calories, I'd be a super model.

I've learned something about myself in the past couple of years, though. If I pressure myself to do something out of obligation, or because I feel like I have to, I simply won't do it. I can make a quiet rebellion out of anything.

Steve figured out a while ago that asking me if I'm going to the gym is a dead end. With him off my back, I started arguing with myself about it: I don't have time, I don't need pressure to do one more thing, nobody tells me what to do, dammit! Not even me!

So I waited. I let myself off the hook completely, told myself I don't have to work out if I don't want to, that I'm fine just the way I am. Pressure's off. Sure enough, the next day I get Jackie's message and I think, "Sure? Why not?"

It was Steve who sealed the deal, though. Last night I nonchalantly asked him to set the alarm clock for 5:30am, like it was no big thing.

"WHAT?!?" he gaped. "5:30am? YOU?"

"Sure, why not?" I replied. "I told Jackie I'd meet her."

"You didn't leave yourself a little trapdoor? A little way out?" he asked.

"Well, I did mention that Greta isn't feeling well, and that if she is worse tomorrow morning I may not be able to go."

"You are SO not going."

"Yes I am."

"I will eat my left eyeball if you go. Seriously."

"Get out the knife and fork, baby, because I'm going."

Nobody tells me what I can't do, either.

Well played, Steve. Well played.

Nano-Nano Technology

I'm sitting here trying to watch the Super Bowl. I so do not care about the Super Bowl. I just don't want to be left out of the buzz about the commercials, like I was last year. Everywhere I went people were laughing knowingly with each other, like the world had experienced one big inside joke and I missed out. So I'm watching the commercials, dammit. I want to fit in. I really do.

I have to come clean, though, and admit that I don't understand half of what is going on on any given day. I'm not hip. Do they still say hip?

Confession #1: I don't know how to text. I've never texted (okay, once I did, under duress, and it took me half an hour to type one sentence). Occasionally one of my friends will forget I live in the dark ages and will send me a text. My phone makes this strange beeping sound, and words - WORDS! - appear on the screen. I run around a lot flapping my arms in excitement, but I don't know how to text them back. Even if I did know how to text, I don't know the 'code', or the 'jargon' or whatever the hell it's called. Until about three months ago I honestly thought BFF meant something really, really dirty. And I thought FML meant something sweet and nice. See? I'm a lost cause. If you had to Google FML to figure out what it means - call me. We can start a support group.

Confession #2: I don't know what Bluetooth means. I know it's something cool, important people have which makes me want some Bluetooth, just on principle, but I have no idea what it is.

Confession #3: While we're on the topic of technology, please don't make me talk about computers, ever. I went out to research laptops recently. A kid literally one-third my age was asking me how many 'gigs' I wanted, and if I was interested in 'hyperweave' technology. "Gigs, yeah, gigs. Cool. Yeah, get me some of those," I stammered. "I basically just need it for typing," I admitted. "Do people still call it typing?" He looked at me like I had lost my mind, so I tried to cover with a little humor. "Can I listen to albums on it?" "Is it compatible with my hearing aid?" He didn't laugh, but he did speak a little louder.

Confession #4: I don't watch LOST. I've never seen it, because it's premise is based on a plane crash, and that is all I need to know about it. I don't do plane crashes. Speaking of television, I've never seen 'Glee', or 'Heroes', or '30 Rock'. Since we're being honest, here - want to know my favorite show that isn't Celebrity Rehab? Dancing With The Stars. Go ahead - de-friend me or unfollow or do whatever it is you have to do. I just can't pretend anymore.

Confession #5: Twitter makes me nervous. I feel such pressure. 140 characters or less? Seriously? Also, I don't get enough validation on Twitter. I put some little 140-character-or-less message out into Twitterdom, and then I refresh over and over like a junkie wondering if anyone will reply. Did I do it right? Is anyone out there? At least on Facebook people freaking answer me. I am way too needy for Twitter. I'm Tweedy. If you want to keep me from the depths of humiliation and despair give a little shout-out (do they still say shout-out?) to @onecraftyellie. Who knows, the life you save may be mine.

But all is not lost. I can rock Facebook like nobody's business. I finally know what people are talking about when they say "there's an app for that". I will occasionally say "FAIL" or "WIN". Besides, I read somewhere that Mood Rings and Lava Lamps are making a comeback. So I just need to sit tight. I was way cool in the seventies.

Nano-nano.

7 Quick Takes Friday - Heavy on the Potty Mouth

I saw '7 Quick Takes' at The Mom Job ; it is an idea hosted by The Conversion Diary . All you bloggers out there can click here to go to the Conversion Diary and do your own! So here goes:

~1~

Finn is getting creative about ways to avoid going to school. Monday I heard him moaning in the next room, saying "Momma, I can't go to school. I willy sick. I got da spots." I came around the corner to find this:

Yes, that is permanent marker. And it's on the other side of his face, too. My little Einstein.

~2~

Greta said she wanted to draw a picture of me the other day. She said she was going to draw me, on a mountain top, with snow falling all around. She forgot to mention that she would be including one other little detail: what I am apparently thinking about when I'm standing on this mountain:

~3~

After a week of sickness, I ended up with the world's largest cold sore on my lip. Seriously, it's big. It has been kind of amusing to talk to people this week and watch them studiously avoid trying to stare at it. Last night I was lecturing Greta about one thing or another, when she put her hand up, and said "Stop, Mom. I just can't take you seriously with that THING on your face."

~4~

Parenting question I couldn't answer #435, from Greta: "Mom, who decides which words are bad words? Can I make up my own bad word and say it when I'm mad? Like, why can't 'glap' be a bad word?"

~5~

Sunday after church Greta is giggling to herself. I ask her why, and she says "Sometimes? When I'm in church? And it's quiet? I want to yell out "pooooooooop!"

~6~

Me to Greta: "Sometimes? When I'm in church? And it's quiet? I want to do that, too..."

~7~

It is 10pm, and I poke my head in the kids' room to check on them before heading to bed. Greta is wide awake, staring at the ceiling. "What's wrong?" I ask. "Can't sleep?" She looks at me and rolls her eyes. "No, I can't," she says. "It feels like my brain is doing the Cha-Cha."

It makes me so glapping mad when that happens to me.

Behold the Angry Squirrel, For He Brings Great Wisdom

"A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, and always with the same person." - Mignon McLaughlin

When Steve and I were newly married, we took a trip; a long weekend getaway to a beautiful fishing camp in Maine. It was one of those all-inclusive-yet-rustic establishments - complete with three meals a day, fishing guides, and a romantic log cabin on a lake.

Each night we went to the communal dining hall, sat at the same table and gazed fondly into each other's eyes. We were tired but content, and bubbling with conversation about the day. A much older couple sat at the table next to us three nights in a row. Steve and I surreptitiously watched them out of the corner of our eyes, taking in how they just sat there quietly, looking around room, sipping their wine, silently chewing their food. At the end of the meal he would look at her and say "Done?" She would nod, and they left to retire for the evening. For three nights running, they exchanged a total of three words between them.

"That will never be us," I whispered to Steve conspiratorially. "We will never run out of things to say to each other. How sad."

Fast forward ten years. Steve and I are out to dinner on one of our twice monthly date nights. It is not until we're enjoying our dinner that I realize we haven't spoken in about five minutes, and I hadn't even noticed. We're sitting together in a comfortable, companionable silence, grateful for an hour's relief from the chaos of home. I smile quietly to myself, thinking about that night long ago, full of expectations of what life, marriage, would be like. How easily expectations can set you up to be let down, when real beauty is right in front of you.

Case in point: backtrack eleven years. Steve and I have been dating six years, and we're heading away for the weekend. I'm beside myself with excitement, absolutely certain that he will propose on this trip. We've been talking about marriage a lot recently, he knows I'm ready, and he has been dropping all sorts of hints that he has something special in store for me. I have it all mapped out in my head - the romantic getaway, the roaring fire, Steve down on one knee, the soft velvet box containing a sparkling diamond. I can hardly wait.

We arrive at the cabin, settle in and light a fire. The moment comes, he gulps and looks at me nervously. "I have something for you," he says, fidgeting. "I hid it so you wouldn't find it until I was ready. Why don't you have a look in the Backgammon game?"

I am shaking, I'm so excited. I open the Backgammon game and sure enough, there is the soft velvet box. Steve isn't down on one knee, but what the heck - I'm a modern woman. Everything else is perfect - just as I expected. I draw a deep breath and open the box, preparing to squeal with happiness. In the box is a pretty gold band with a little sapphire on it.

I look at him incredulously. "What is this?" I stammer.

"It's a promise ring," he says happily. "It is my promise to you that we'll get married some day, that I will always love you."

I'm furious. I cry and cry, so angry that things haven't turned out as I expected - as I practically demanded. But sure enough, one year later he proposes at Fenway Park, and a year after that we're married. It all worked out as it was meant to, not as I wanted it to.

Fast forward another five years - it is the Christmas following our fifth anniversary. Steve has been hinting, again, that he has a special gift for me. My mind goes into overdrive - is it a five year anniversary ring? A sparkling diamond band? I ask him if it is jewelry, and he smiles knowingly. I can't wait for Christmas morning when, sure enough, at the bottom of my stocking is a little velvet box. My heart leaps. I open the box slowly, wallowing in the anticipation. I find this:

"Isn't it great?" he asks, smiling.

I won't get in to my reaction - suffice it to say it wasn't graceful and it wasn't pretty. I ruined a beautiful Christmas morning because things didn't turn out like I expected.

I now think of this pin as the Angry Squirrel of Expectations. It's a reminder not to get too caught up in what I want life to bring me. That life will bring me what I need, even if it is in the form of one pissed-off-silver-plated-acorn-carrying squirrel pin.

This year at Christmas, when Steve handed me a little velvet box, I simply smiled. I didn't know what to expect, and it didn't matter. Greta and Finn knew what was in there, and were standing next to Steve looking at me expectantly as I opened it.

Inside was my wedding ring, the same one I had worn since we were married, but it was polished to perfection, gleaming and beautiful. Ten years of wear and tear had damaged it, made it scratched, bent, dull looking and chipped. A few weeks before Steve had asked me if he could borrow it to size something for me, and instead of letting my mind go into overdrive - a new band? a bigger diamond? a sparkling guard ring? I simply handed it over to him and forgot about it.

The irony wasn't lost on me: it was what I always had, only better.

Just like him.

What It's Like

It is 6:15pm on a Saturday night. I'm stirring noodles in a steaming pot, and I'm angry. Finn streaks by naked, screeching at the top of his lungs. Greta is whining: Moooooom, I'm hungry, I don't want nooooooodles, over and over. Dishes are piled in the sink, the dog is barking, and my husband is in his workshop, tinkering away at God-knows-what. My head is in overdrive, a low roar forming in the back of my brain.

"FINN HIT ME!" Greta wails, and I cringe. Her hair is a mess, the kids need a bath, there is a huge pile of laundry to be folded. And the dishes need to be washed. Again. God, I'm so angry.

I want to run away, I want to scream. I want a drink.

Just one. I just want that warm glow, that peaceful, relaxed feeling that creeps into my limbs after the first few sips. I want to quiet that roar in my head; I just want to care a little less for an hour, or two.

"STOP IT, GRETA!" Finn screams. "MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

Shutupshutupshutupshutupshup, I think. God, just please shut up and leave me be.

Now both kids are crying. The dog barks louder. I snap.

"THAT. IS. IT!" I yell, and the kids' eyes go wide. I slam the spoon down on the counter and march out of the kitchen.

I storm upstairs into my room and throw myself on the bed. I'm too angry to cry. Images swirl in my head: happy, normal couples sitting down to dinner with a glass of wine in hand, laughing contentedly. I hate that I can't drink. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

It has gone quiet downstairs - no barking dog, no screaming kids. I hear my husband come up from his workshop. I hear murmuring, and the television comes on at a low volume.

I sigh. I try to think of all the things I've learned. I search for gratitude, for acceptance. All I can find is mean, red anger. I don't want to let go of my anger, I want to hug it to my chest until I explode.

I close my eyes, and lose myself in thoughts of a drink. I picture the weight of the wine glass in my hand, the sweet buttery smell of a good Chardonnay. I let myself drink it, in my head. I feel my body relax. I smile. I paint a mental picture of what I wish drinking was like for me, and I mourn it for a few minutes.

Then, finally, I do what I was told to do. I think through the drink. I mentally fast forward an hour, or two. I picture myself crouched in my bathroom, grabbing in the back of the cabinet for my stashed bottle, because my husband is done with his nightly drink and I don't want to stop. I can't stop. I've never been able to stop.

There is nothing in a drink for me.

I go back downstairs. My husband is stirring the noodles, Finn is dressed and the kids are happily watching a show.

"Okay now?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

And I am okay. It is going to be okay.

Twice Monthly Giveaway - New Item!

Congratulations to Abby, who won the Firelight Ring! Thanks to everyone who entered!

The next giveaway is the cleverly named Square Swarovski Ring. Made from a sparkling 8mm square swarovski crystal and a sterling silver bead frame, this ring is available in three different colors:

Click on any picture to see the ring listed in my Etsy shop. To enter, please comment below indicating you would like to enter, and please provide an email address and which color you prefer (amethyst, aquamarine or sage green). If you are more comfortable emailing me directly, please do so at: ellieandsteve@verizon.net.

The winner will be chosen at random on February 15th; my daughter draws a name from a hat. I will email you if you win!

Thanks!