It's the Little Things

I'm deeply asleep, and the alarm goes off.   It's still dark out; Steve has an early meeting today. 

Please, please, may the kids not wake up, I think, scrunching my eyes tightly shut.    Steve tiptoes quietly around, but it's too late.  Greta's panicked voice comes from her bedroom:  "MOM!  How much time do we have?"   She is obsessed about missing the bus, even though that has never happened.

"Greta, it's 5:45am," I mumble, "go back to sleep."

"I can't," she says.  "I'm going downstairs."  

"Okay, but please don't wake up your brother."

"I awake Momma!"  Finn cries, and follows Greta downstairs.

I sigh, roll over, and try to go back to sleep.   Steve is cursing because he doesn't have any clean undershirts, the dog starts barking to go out, and the kids start fighting over the computer.   

I'm not getting up, I think.   I just can't.   

I hear Steve's car pull down the driveway, and look at the clock:   6:15am.     "MOM!   How much time do we have now?"   Greta screams.   The dog is still barking.   I curl up in a ball; I can't face the day.   I start to drift back to sleep, safe in the knowledge that my alarm will wake me by 7:15am, plenty of time to get Greta on the bus.    It is quiet-ish downstairs, and I sink back into blackness.

"WOMAN!  WOOOOOMAN!  WOOMANNNN!"   I jerk awake.   The kids are on the computer, giggling over the Muppets.   "WOMANN!!"    It is Animal, the crazy muppet drummer, and he has ruined any chance of catching another hour of sleep.

I hear a SMACK, followed by "MOOOOM!   Finn hit me!   How much time do we have NOW?"

The dog is still barking, and irritation settles over me like a black cloud.   Go away, all of you, I think.  Go away and leave me alone.

I lie in my bed, bitter and tired, and then I realize:   I don't hear it.   For the past two days rain has pounded on our roof, relentlessly, filling our yard and our basement with muddy, stinking water.     But this morning, there is no rain.

The dog barks, more urgently now,  and Greta and Finn are arguing.    I sigh, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.   "MOM!!  How much time NOW??"

I pull on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, as the kids' arguing gains momentum.    "MOM!"   "MOM!"  It is Finn.  "Gweta won't turn off the computah, she's wasting electwicity and wuining da earf!!!"

I bury my face in my hands.  I am cranky, fed-up, tired.    Every day feels just like the last day, an endless stretch of menial chores, breaking up fights, picking up after the kids who have been stuck inside for days.   I can't face it.

Find your gratitude, I think.   Change your perspective.   Stop feeling sorry for yourself.   I don't do this every morning, but this morning I slide down onto my knees.  If you're up there, I think, help a girl out, please?    Help me find enthusiasm.   Help me find gratitude.   How about a sign, some kind of sign, that I can do this?

And then I hear it, a muffled song:  Hallelujah!  Hallelujah!   Halllleluuuuuuuuujah!

It takes me a moment to orient myself, to realize the sound is coming from outside.   I shuffle downstairs and peek out the door.    Greta and Finn are in the front yard, in their pajamas and barefoot.   They are smiling from ear to ear, pointing to a bushel of daffodils that were only buds yesterday, but this morning are bright yellow blooms.    "Hallelujah!"  Greta yells.  "Spring is HERE!"

I smile, and look skyward.

Thank you.

Diary of a Wimpy Mother. Maybe.

I'm not very uptight.  

Maybe a better way of putting it is that I tend to be fairly relaxed about a lot of stuff (except, of course, for the things I'm not at all relaxed about). 

I wonder about this when it comes to certain things, though.  Like movies.  This weekend I took the kids (ages 7 1/2 and 4 1/2) to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid.   Greta has been reading the first book of this series - often out loud to Finn - and both of them were clamoring to see the movie.   I had seen the trailers, read some of the book, and had a vague idea of what the movie was about.     It is rated PG, which according to filmratings.com means: 

PARENTS ARE URGED TO USE "PARENTAL GUIDANCE", AS THE MOTION PICTURE MAY CONTAIN SOME MATERIAL PARENTS MIGHT NOT LIKE FOR THEIR YOUNGER CHILDREN TO VIEW.

Not particularly helpful, really.   There is a lot of stuff I "might not like" for them to see, of course.   You can look up specific movies, and it says Diary of a Wimpy Kid contains "rude humor and language".     Hmmmm.     If you consider word like "moron" and "booger" rude, then yes, it does.     I don't want my kids thinking it is okay to go around calling people morons, any more than I want them to think it's okay to run after people with a booger on your finger (both of which happen in the movie).   

But where is the line?   How much do I have to censor them from what is happening all around them in real life anyway?   A good percentage of Greta's classmates will see this movie (we saw three of them at the theater, in fact) and they'll be running around saying 'moron', so she is going to hear it.   

The movie's plot (the book's plot, actually) is centered on popularity, or lack thereof.    Greg is trying to find a way to increase his social status, and differentiate himself from Rowley, his best friend, who he perceives as dragging him down.     Do I want Greta thinking about this stuff now?   No.   But she is thinking about it.    She has been for the past two years.

I would rather be proactive than reactive when it comes to this type of thing.    The movie was cute, and funny, and chock full of bodily function humor.     There was one scene that involved Greg and Rowley finding a girly magazine under the big brother's bed - the girl on the cover is clad in a bikini and sitting on a motorcycle.    I flinched.    Then Rowley says, "I didn't know your brother was into motorcycles!"   Neither Greta nor Finn had any clue about the adult undertones of this scene.

It is such a balancing act, figuring out appropriateness.    Finn is already much more worldly than Greta, because he's a second child, and he doesn't seem any worse for wear.   He may be growing up a little faster than I would prefer (he thought Dora was a "baby show" when he was barely three - Greta didn't even know the term "baby show" until she got to Pre-Kindergarten) but he seems to roll with it, for the most part.

I never know what is going to impact them negatively, and I can't seem to guess well, either.   I thought the first Harry Potter movie would be scary to them.   Wrong.    But an innocent scene that involved fire in a cartoon aimed at 4 and 5 year olds kept them up for three nights straight.

When we sat down in the theater, I cast my eyes around desperately, hoping to see other younger kids there, seeking that acceptance that I wasn't the only Mom who would bring a 4 1/2 year old to a PG movie.   I wasn't the only one, not by a long shot.    But another friend wouldn't bring her 7 year old to a PG movie, no matter what the topic.     It's confusing.

We used the movie to have an interesting discussion about popularity at the dinner table that night.   And I, of course, had to go into Lecture Mode about why we don't chase people with boogers or call people morons.   I was especially clear with Finn - I don't need him showing up at preschool calling another kid a moron and thinking it's okay because I let him watch it in a movie.   He rolled his eyes at me, and said "It's just a movie, Mom.   I'm a nice kid.  I wouldn't call anyone a bad name." 

At 4 1/2, Finn completely understands that the things he sees in movies aren't real.   When something scares him, or upsets him, we talk about it.     He has a good sense of self; he doesn't think that just because he sees something on TV or in the movies that it is a green light to go out into the world and do those things.   I like that he is figuring this out now.   I like that we have platforms to discuss certain topics.    I feel like if I simply tell them they "aren't old enough" to see a movie like Diary of a Wimpy Kid it will create a mystique around it that would simply make it more compelling and alluring.   

But, like I said, I tend to be more relaxed about things like this.  I have no idea if it will come back to bite me, or not.   

I would love to hear your thoughts on this, too.   I think.

Bringing Back Rubenesque

"Well," I say to my husband, throwing a few shopping bags on the floor, "I have a shape, just not the shape I'd like to have."

He raises his eyebrow at me; we're going to a charity dinner tonight, virtually the only annual occasion where we have to get sort of dressed up, and I spent a stressful afternoon shopping for something to wear.

"I'm going a little daring tonight," I say, and he raises the other eyebrow.

I took Greta with me as a fashion consultant, trying on and discarding countless dresses, flowing skirts and ruffled shirts (when did ruffles come in again?  And, for God's sake, WHY?) until settling on two options:   the Safe Bet and the Boob Shirt.     I still don't know if I'm going to be courageous enough to wear Option #2.

I used to be proud of my, er, top section, considering it one of my best features.   But two kids, turning 40 and gravity, and, well, you get the idea.  I have spent the past four wintry months in stretchy black pants and an oversized polar fleece pullover.  I don't think I have even seen my arms in months.   

The Safe Bet is a pretty coral tank top with a black cape-like wrap.   Shapeless, but still slightly stylish.   

This particular event can be tough for me, drinking wise (or not-drinking wise, as the case may be).    We've been going for over five years, and I used to look forward to it, because of the emphasis on drinking.     My first year sober I skipped it; I wasn't ready.    Last year I went, but felt itchy and frumpy all night.   I'm looking for a change.

I step out of the shower, wrap up in a towel, and glare at the two outfits lying on my bed.    With a sigh, I reach for the Safe Bet and put it on.   It doesn't look bad.   It doesn't look like anything, really.    I did find a pair of sexy black shoes on sale, and some form fitting black pants that fit me well.    But when I wrap the cape-like shawl around my shoulders, I look like a woman who is hiding.   I don't want to hide anymore.

I grit my teeth and put on Option #2: the Boob Shirt.   Don't get me wrong, it's hardly racy - it has a form fitting black stretchy shell with a three-quarter sleeve crepe-like (see?  I don't even know what the material is called) shirt that ties in the front.    Right under, ahem, The Girls.      Along with the black pants and spiky shoes, it is a look that feels alien to me.   Something a confident person would wear.   Something a size zero woman could pull off no problem.   I've got curves, and they make me nervous.    I throw back my shoulders, stick out my chin and say to my reflection:   "I will not wimp out."

When my husband sees the outfit, he blinks twice and says, "Wow," in a neutral way.   My resolve crumbles.    He back pedals, and says "I don't mean that it doesn't look good, it's just, so, different for you."   I spin for him, a questioning look on my face.   He breaks into a huge grin.   "Go for it," he says.   "You look really good."

On my spiky heels I tower at just over six feet tall.    I picture all the curvy, voluptuous women I've seen who don't hide their femininity.   Nothing makes a woman look frumpier than when she is ashamed of her own shape.

Tonight, I'm gonna bring it, I think.

And I do.


P.S. - Sorry about the bad picture quality, and the lack of a smile.  I'm not coordinated enough to hold a camera and smile and take a self-portrait at the same time.   I had to re-create the outfit, with nobody else available to take the pic.   But at least you get the idea....  :)

Back In The Day

One interesting side effect of going through hell is that is changes how you define success forever.

In the throes of active alcoholism, I worried about success a lot, in a really backwards and messed up sort of way.   Back then my definition of success involved getting from one end of the day to the other without getting too drunk, or too sober, and without anyone discovering my terrible secret.     I considered it a banner day if I navigated the waters of guilt and fear, leap frogging over bad or inadequate feelings with a drink, or the anticipation of a drink.    The object of the game was not to feel too much, ever.

Measuring success in early sobriety was simple:  get from one end of the day to the other without a drink.   Simple, but not easy.    Life in early sobriety, for me, was measured out it the smallest increments of time, sometimes just a minute or two.   Without my anesthesia and chock full of bad feelings, I considered it a victory to get up, get dressed, and wait for the next minute to pass.   I couldn't think about a whole day, not yet.    By cautiously stepping from minute to minute I set an achievable goal, with the focus on reward and not punishment.

A few months into sobriety I could picture hours without a drink and not succumb to crippling terror.    A year into it a day was an achievable goal, and that is how I take it now:   one day at a time.

Usually.

Lately, as I've been writing about, I've been feeling overwhelmed.    There are practical reasons for this, of course, with practical solutions.     But there is a deeper sentiment here, one I have to pay attention to or I could be in trouble.   I've been getting hung up on the big picture, asking myself broad existential questions, like is this what my life is really all about?  Is this what I want?   Who do I want to be?  Am I getting all I can out of life? 

Sounds admirable, to a degree, pondering existence in the interest of living your best possible life, doesn't it?

As an alcoholic in recovery, though, I have to be careful.   Big picture thinking gets tricky for me.  Having a great day?   I start to get unrealistic expectations:   I've got this down, I'll never feel badly again.    Having a bad day?  I begin to think that I'm terrible at everything, that I'll never feel good again.    It is my disease knocking at the door, waiting for me to lose sight of the little victories, letting me roll the little failures into insurmountable obstacles.

I have been taught to keep it in the day.   To keep my head where my feet are.   That wasn't so hard to do in early recovery, when each sober moment felt like a victory.    Overall, now, I feel good.   I feel capable.   When I get a little of something, I want more, more, more.    But there isn't any such thing as more sober.

The other day I was all twisted up, angry, resentful, bored, stressed.  My head was full of lofty ideas - what I wanted to do, all the dreams I have - and my feet felt tangled in the wires of everyday life.   That night I went to a meeting.    It is a meeting I love, the place where I first got sober, and I had a moment, a flash of insight:  I remembered how I felt when I first dragged myself into this room.

It changed everything, immediately, and I thought: today is a good day.   It doesn't matter what tomorrow brings, today is good.

I am an alcoholic who doesn't want to drink today.   That is a successful day.

Unsticking the Stuck

Today is a new day, and an opportunity for a fresh start.  

Yesterday was baaaad.   I feel odd complaining about the drudgery of life, because I know - I do, truly know - that things could be so much worse.     But sometimes it all catches up to me, and if I don't vent it out, talk about it, I get into trouble.    I went to be early last night just be done with the day.    It was one of those days - and thankfully they don't happen often - when I thought about drinking.   Just one.  Just one to take the edge off.    I didn't come close to drinking, but I hate it when my mind goes there.   HATE it.

Today the sun is shining, I'm rested, and I'm trying to look at things with a new perspective.   

It is so easy to get hung up in the way things are - at least it is for me.    I can wallow in misery, in being stuck.   Lately, I have felt really stuck.    It's hard to pull up and out, and look at the overall balance in life, but it became clear to me yesterday:  something isn't working, and I need to make some changes.     Finn needs more than I can give him - he's very active, very attached, and he knows exactly how to play my heart strings (and, of course, I let him).    

After a day of negotiating, whining, lots of tears and constant needing, I was at the end of my rope.   He did something bad - again - something he knows is a big hot button for me, something that always elicits punishment:   he spit on Greta.     As I'm sending him to the time-out room (no toys, sparsely furnished, nothing to destroy) I realized he just wants my attention, and he is going to get it any way he can.    Even when I'm punishing him, it puts him at the center of things, which is where he wants to be.   All the time.  

While he was crying and screaming in the time-out room ("MOM!  MOM!  I have a cold and you're not even taking CARE of me!    I hate you and I hate everyone in da whole WORLD!") I flopped down on my bed and had myself a good cry, too.     Greta came in and said, "Is there anything I can do to help you, Mom?"   This, of course, made me cry harder.   

We all fell asleep early (Steve was working late).    Today, as I'm driving him to school, I realized I had to make some kind of change.   Finn and I are miserable on the days we're together all day.   I'm tired of feeling guilty about that, as much as I'm sure he's tired of being in trouble a lot.

I'm going to look into sending him to school another half day per week, so he would go three half days instead of four.   I don't know that I can afford it, but I'm going to try.     I have resisted this idea, thinking that I should be able to handle it, four full days home with a 4 year old kid.   But I can't.    And it's okay. 

I'm trying to stop looking at parenting like something I should want to do all the time.   I simply don't.  I'm not equipped for it, and there are too many other things I'm interested in.   I need and want to make more money.    I want to pursue my dreams of writing, too.      I'm tired of having too many things at the top of the list.   My  kids will always come first, of course they will.    But in order for them to come first, successfully, I have to take care of myself.  

I'm stuck.  And when I'm stuck I'm trying to try a new tactic:  change something.   Move a piece on the gameboard of life around and see what happens.    I can always move another piece if I need to, down the road.  

So we'll see.   Thanks again to everyone for all the support - through comments and emails.    It really helps to know I'm not alone.

Working on Acceptance: In Which I Simply Vent

I get resentful sometimes.

I'm learning, slowly, how to handle feeling this way, but it is a work in progress. Without a doubt, the thing that is hardest for me is the fact that my entire schedule relies on other people, big and small.    I have 15 hours a week, when Finn is in preschool, of unfettered freedom.   I simply can't pack everything I need to do into those 15 hours, but my expectations of this free time are always lofty:  I'll go to the gym, make all the jewelry orders, get writing done for the book, clean the house, grocery shop.     If I get one or two of those things done in that time period, it's a lot.

The rest of my week is spent in fits of stops and starts.   Errands with a 4 1/2 year old are torture - one step forward and two steps back the entire time.   Getting him out the door takes 10 mins of negotiating.   Thinking clearly while in a store is next to impossible.   He is either getting into trouble or peppering me with unanswerable questions.   He is like a little dictator - if his needs aren't met immediately he pitches a fit.    Errands that should take half an hour take an hour.

When I'm home, if I can get ten minutes of uninterrupted time it's an accomplishment.   And I can't watch him every minute of every day, so the messes that wait for me if he does actually leave me alone for a bit are staggering.    Greta was different at this age, more able to play independently and not destroy the house, and getting accustomed to the differences between a boy and a girl is taking time.

Sometimes I think I should just chuck out the idea that I can pursue the things that are meaningful to me, postpone my dreams until he's in school full time.   Two years from now.   But I know in my heart that these things that keep my sane - jewelry, writing - make me a better mother overall.     Even though in our day to day lives it doesn't feel like it.   If I had a nickel for every time I said, "IN A MINUTE!" to Finn I would be a rich woman indeed.

And then there are the evening and weekend activities.    I rely on my husband to be home to attend meetings, go to social events, go to the gym, or go do some writing.     We have sitters we use, but we can't afford use them very often.    So I feel like a child asking for permission to go out and do the simplest of things.  And then, of course, his work trumps my needs.  He is the breadwinner in the family, so if he needs to work late my plans have to be put on the back burner,or cancelled.  It gets really frustrating.

In recovery I'm learning about acceptance.    Acceptance of people, places and things.   I know, and accept, that this is just my life stage at the moment, that it won't always be this way.     On my good days I cherish the fact that I can be home with my kids, that I'm there to get Greta off the bus, that I can play with Finn.   On my bad days I just want to speed up time and have more freedom.   I get frustrated with myself when I'm wishing away the way things are at the moment, because I know better, now.    I'm learning to sit in my frustrations, wait out the bad feelings, tolerate boredom, resentment and frustration as simply feelings that will pass.   And they always do.   

But today is one of the bad days.    I have a list a mile long that involves going to three stores, and then making a bunch of jewelry orders that have to be done today.    And Finn isn't in school.    He has already asked me several times when we're going to the playground, when we're going to play a game, and can we have friends over?    The guilt stabs me in my heart.   Who am I to put my needs before his?   I know how today will go:  putting him off for periods of time, forcing myself to stop and play for a bit, and then putting him off for more periods of time.    It is a juggling act that is extremely tiring.

So I decided to write about it.   Vent a little, here, to work through how I'm feeling.   To own my emotions instead of stuffing them, which never works, it only makes me erupt in other more irrational ways. 

I'm trying to name it and claim it.   To set my expectations of today realistically.   I'll do the best I can.  

That's all I can do.

Just A Moment

I had a moment today.

Time is flying by.  Or perhaps I have reached that age where time has become more precious.   I never thought time was flying by when I was younger.   Time couldn't go fast enough for me when I still had all the major milestones ahead of me:   a first job, my first apartment, marriage, a house, kids.  

Most of the time I don't think about time, not consciously anyway.   In our daily lives time warps and contorts into little bits and pieces, and there never seems to be enough of it.   We're always rushing:  to get out the door, to get to various activities and errands.   We live in an era that moves at warp speed, where instant gratification takes too long.  I found myself cursing at my computer yesterday because it was slow to load.   I was tapping my fingers impatiently, muttering away, trying to order my groceries online - online! - and things just weren't moving fast enough for me.    I was cramming my virtual shopping in between dropping Greta off somewhere and getting to the post office before it closed.    I spend my day with an unconscious mantra running through my head:  hurry, hurry, hurry.

We hardly ever just stop.  When I wake up and I don't have every inch of the day planned, I get itchy.    Today is a cold, dark, rainy day.   A perfect day to snuggle in and play with Finn.    Instead, I found myself pacing about my kitchen, thinking through all the things I just had to get done:   the gym, the bead store, the bank, make jewelry, the post office.   I can't get it all done, I thought.   

And then Finn padded up to me in his little footie pajamas, his blanket trailing behind him like Linus.    "What special thing are we going to do today, Momma?"  he asked.   And time just stopped.    I had one of those moments, where he suddenly appeared to me, this real boy, my son, and I thought:  how did he get so big?   

It is as if I don't know how to operate if I'm not under pressure.   Somehow I associate being chronically busy with importance, relevance.    There is plenty of time.   Plenty of time to snuggle and play, plenty of time to get the errands done.    And the world won't stop revolving if I don't get to everything, I would just like to think it would, because in some bizarre way that makes me think I matter. 

I plunked down on the floor and hugged him.  "What special thing would you like to do today?"  I asked.

"I want to play a game wif you,"  he said.  "When you're done wif your work."   

"How about now?"  I said.  "How about playing a game now?"   

He beamed, and ran to get Ned's Head, his favorite game.     I watched him run, soaking in the very boyness of him, trying to preserve the moment in my mind.    I never take time to just see him.    It is as if his image slips and slides in front of me, morphing from the baby he was to the grown man he will become.  

But right now?   He's four and a half and he loves me without question and it is incredible.    

Right now is pretty incredible.