For better or worse

I am very discouraged and unmotivated right now and feel like I could cry. There is nothing major wrong, but life is disorganized and I don't see it getting more organized anytime soon. I have so much to do but I am lacking both time and energy. Whatever energy I had a month ago when I was getting a lot accomplished outside is GONE. So I am searching for inspiration, but halfheartedly. I really would just like to sleep. Yet I keep staying up late working on the computer (some on valid projects, some just wasting time). It goes back to the problem of knowing what I need to do, yet still not doing it.

So anyway, I am essentially feeling sorry for myself today. Then I find out about a friend with a sick child and remember problems other people are dealing with and feel like I should be happy things are not worse. But you know what? I am realizing that telling yourself things could be worse doesn't always make things better. At least, it is not making me feel better today. It just makes me feel selfish and whiny for being sorry for my small problems, not grateful I don't have bigger problems.

How to fix this? I don't know, but I damn well better figure it out soon.

Just breathe

Today my baby girl had her first day of kindergarten. Her first day of school (not counting the 3 years of preschool, mind you). The first day of the rest of her life. Or at least her life for the next 13 years. She was excited and I knew she would do well. I wasn't sure if I would do well, however.

When we got to school I could see cars parked all the way out to the street, in the grass and pretty much everywhere I looked. Fortunately, at the time we got there cars were beginning to leave and we were able to find a spot right away. Unfortunately, right at that time began a total downpour. I happened to have an umbrella in the trunk for Hayden to hold and the stroller has a sunshade and I had a hooded jacket in the car, so we made it inside fairly dry, including the card Hayden made (all on her own this morning) for her teacher and the flowers I'd picked the night before. I hadn't realized how long and slow the line of cars to drop off kids would be, though I figured there would be more cars in the parking lot than usual, so we really had to hurry in to make it on time. We were so rushed I didn't have time to think, much less cry when I dropped her off. I was sure I'd be a wreck so this surprised me. Maybe it is good we were running late!

The next couple hours went by fairly fast, having coffee with friends and then puttering around the house while I waited for it to be time to walk down the street to wait for Hayden. The bus was due to arrive at 12:40 so we left at 12:30, just to be safe. Bryce and I waited near the end of the street, me keeping my eye out for the big yellow bus to turn the corner below. He occupied himself throwing rocks and leaves and pine cones into the bushes in the empty lot across the street. I occupied myself by panicking a tiny bit more with each passing minute. I thought, oh no. What if there is a problem and the school called me but I didn't get the message because we were already outside? I also was sure if I ran back (hauling 31.5 pounds of toddler) to grab my cell phone that the bus would come at that exact moment and we'd miss it. So we waited. Finally about 10 minutes late the bus pulled up. I gave the bus driver the flowers I'd picked for her and almost cried out of sheer relief. I was SO GLAD to see my best girl coming down the bus stairs. She was happy, had enjoyed school and the bus ride, and we walked home holding hands.

Later on, after Hayden was seated and having lunch I looked at her cute little self sitting there eating, completely unaware of the momentous step she had just taken, and I was overcome with emotion. I went up behind her to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek and tell her again how glad I was to have her home. As I was leaning in, I let out a huge breath of air. It was like I had forgotten to breathe until that very moment. I keep taking deep breaths and reminding myself that we survived, did quite well even. I just need to remember to breathe.

All or nothing

I almost set myself up to fail. Or I do nothing because the task at hand overwhelms me. I know how to set a goal, take a big project and break it up into smaller, more manageable tasks. But it is still my instinct to try and do everything at once. Right now a big goal for me is to get back into shape. This means eating less, drinking more water, walking and getting more sleep. I could start with any one of those things. But instead I try to diet, drink extra water, and workout all at the same time. And I get discouraged because it is hard to change so many habits at once and I back slide. Even though I know I am more likely to have success if I go slowly, I try to speed up the process. Why? WHY?? It frustrates me yet I haven't figured out a way around myself.

So it occurs to me the biggest obstacle to progress is not my lack of time, my excess of chores, cupcakes, or anything else I could blame. It is me. Damn.

Whatever happened?

The other day, an old friend brought back memories of my childhood. I was never very athletic, but I was really into bar routines on the playground. I could do all sorts of tricks. The backs of my knees were always bruised and my hands were so calloused I wondered if they'd ever be smooth again. Sometimes we'd make up routines to do side-by-side on the big bar, but I was a little late to this because I couldn't do cherry drops, or the more risky death drop, as soon as my friends could. But there was usually someone to help me do a lemon drop (a cherry drop where someone holds your hands as you land) and my more talented friends inspired me to learn to do it on my own. I remember practicing and practicing in my own backyard, until it was dark outside. It took a lot of guts to let go, to unhook my knees and fly through the air to land on my feet. There were plenty of times I didn't land on my feet, as I recall! But I kept trying. I remember at first I didn't quite get both legs off at the same time, but I was able to land properly. And before long I could do the perfect cherry drop--hang by your knees, swing 1, 2, 3, dismount. I can't remember if I did death drops or not. I am cautious by nature and those are scarier. I am sure I tried, but I think I stuck to cherry drops most of the time.

A few times in adulthood I have climbed onto the bar to see if I could still do any tricks. But now that I am older and out of practice, it hurts! My hip bones painfully grate the bar, the backs of my knees burn and my hands no longer have the protective callouses that allowed me to swing and twirl for hours. And I don't have the same strength I used to. It's hard just to jump up! I was trying to think what, if anything, I could teach my daughter. I don't think I would be brave enough to try a cherry drop, sure I'd land on my face or break something. But why not? What happened to the little girl that tried and tried, bruises and all, until she got it right? Is she still inside of me somewhere? I don't know for sure, but I am afraid she is gone. I hope to see her again--instead through my own daughter's strength, my son's perseverance. Maybe she isn't gone so much as passed on to my children. We all need to have courage and determination, but my kids will need it more in the coming years than me. I hope I can inspire them to be brave like I once was. Like I still can be, when I need to.

Missing out

I keep telling myself that if Bryce does not feel like he is missing out, I shouldn't feel sorry either. I was looking at another friend's blog, one who has a baby who is younger but far more physically able, and I was sad that Bryce couldn't walk by himself and hold his own trick-or-treat bucket tonight. According to his dad, he was not allowed to trick-or-treat at all because he couldn't walk. At first we towed him in a wagon, where he looked small and sad. Then he started to get angry about the whole deal. I think he realized the older kids were getting something good and he clearly was not. So I took him out and carried him to the door of the next house, where he hollered until I let him at the candy bowl. Then he acted afraid of the lady who tried to give him a piece and didn't really want to take the thing, acted like it was being forced upon him. Ugh. So much for being grateful. One of my pet peeves is people who dress up their babies and get candy those same kids can't even eat, and I am sure that is what we looked like. Or I wondered if people were wondering why that toddler wasn't walking by himself. Most likely no one really cared that much.

I tried to hang around in the back while the older kids got their candy and only go to the door if Bryce demanded it. He went to a few other places and the same sorry scene repeated, save one house at the end where they were very sweetly passing out boxes of animal crackers to the ones too little to eat candy. He did look very cute in his borrowed cow costume and that family was so charmed by him that they took a photo of the wife (a nice grandmotherly type) giving Bryce the cookies. That is the part of the night I want to remember, not him screaming to be put down on the wet pavement, where I was not going to let him just sit or crawl around in the dark, which is what he seemed to want to do, or squawking and refusing the candy he had just demanded. I got him to walk a little bit holding my hands, but he is still so unsteady and it hurts my back to hobble along over him that we couldn't keep it up for too long.

It did not help matters that our other child was whining loudly, saying she was too tired to go on and that her candy bucket was too heavy. Can you believe that? A kid complaining she has too much candy. What is wrong with my children?! At one point they were both in the wagon, and Bryce was NOT happy to be sharing it with his sister and her horse costume, pardon me, pegasus-unicorn costume. So they were both whining. Evidently neither one believes in that old adage about children being seen but not heard. Meanwhile our friends' children were skipping ahead, literally running to each house. The only thing they were scolded for was running too far ahead of us, unlike our whiny lumps who wanted to be carried to the next house, or to just sit in the wagon and eat candy.

I think part of the problem is that I have in my head what things should be like (for instance Halloween should be like our friends' kids, who were full of energy and excitement and just so happy to be a part of everything). And then when the reality doesn't match it disappoints me. I think that is part of being a planner (and also a worrier). I try to anticipate the outcome. Sometimes things turn out better than I expect, and sometimes not. But that doesn't mean I want to change the experience or don't appreciate it. I have been doing a pretty good job of focusing on all of the things my kids can do and not dwelling on their shortcomings. This has been really important for me to do as Bryce is being left in the dust by every single baby in our playgroup, even the one who isn't even a year old. No, Bryce can't walk yet. But he can build a Lego tower nearly as tall as he is! And so much more. He is happy (most of the time) with all that he can do and that is what matters.

 

If I just move the coffeemaker...

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, my attempts to reorganize the kitchen have been fairly insane. Three or maybe four times I have moved the coffeemaker from the right side of the sink to the left, with the sincere belief that this would make the kitchen function better. There is really only one small prep area in the whole kitchen, and the coffeemaker was taking up part of it. So I moved it to the other side of the sink near the phone. But then that cluttered up a swath of counter that I need to remain clear for my sanity. The rest of the kitchen can be a disaster, but if at least that one area is clear I feel a tiny bit better. (I need to point out that quite often that area is not clear because certain family members are incapable of going the extra three feet to the recycling bin outside and pile up bottles, cans, etc. there on the counter despite my pleas for one clear area. But that is another post.) So I moved the coffeemaker back to the right. After a year or so, I once again thought it would improve the flow of the kitchen if the coffeemaker was out of the prep area and I repeated the whole unsuccessful experiment. Insane.

I have been trying to move excess stuff off the counter and I had a sort of hole where the cat cookie jar (which holds tea bags) used to be. The cat is now on the windowsill. You've heard 40 is the new 30, well, the windowsill is the new counter: a place to display things, mostly gifts, which I can't seem to put in a closet somewhere. They have sentimental value, and also we have limited storage space. But I digress. So last weekend I had the brilliant idea to put the coffeemaker where the cat jar was. (Cat jar sounds sort of bad, like a jar full of cats.) This would free up my prep area and keep the area by the phone clear and still be near enough the sink and coffee cups. What more could I ask for?

Suddenly my insanity has turned into logic. The kitchen works better. I know this because I have managed to keep the counter tops clean for a miraculous five days in a row. Despite my husband. As I type this I see he has ditched a catalog, in my one little food prep area no less. Glad he is trying to keep my streak going.

The catalyst of burning rubber

I strongly dislike this house. I can't say I hate it, because it is our home, after all. But it drives me nuts on a daily basis. One of the keys to getting out of here is to finish what we've started, the biggest project being the basement. I got an estimate for the work a month or so ago and was stunned when it was more than double what we were told just a couple years ago. So I became temporarily paralyzed and just stopped thinking about it for a while. I got another number to call for a bid, but still did nothing. And then I smelled something burning.

I was preheating the oven to bake birthday cake for my husband and soon realized something was in the oven that shouldn't be. I have no idea how the little rubber stopper (for which we do not know the origin) ended up in the oven but it probably stuck to one of the pots and pans we store in there and fell to the bottom, which is where I found it, melting away. We have to store pots and pans in the oven because there is nowhere else to put them in the poorly designed kitchen. The poorly designed kitchen in which it is difficult to get anything done in the poorly designed house next to the annoying neighbors. A house in which we are stuck until it is finished (and the market goes up, ideally). Suddenly I was inspired. I scraped out the melting black thing and immediately looked up the phone number for the contractor a friend recommended. Amazing what a little burning rubber can do.