Mental Health Mornings

We are on our second week of Late Start Wednesdays and I have had an epiphany of sorts.

Our school district rolled out this new plan just before the school year started, as we were all happily buying items on the school supply lists, counting the days until out little angels were back in class.  The idea is to add extra time to the rest of the school week and leave Wednesday mornings for teacher collaboration. Can I just say, parents don't enjoy having the school schedule tampered with.  When you have everything planned out so you can just get everyone where they need to go on time, it's hard to appreciate any need for change. Since I work from the home this wouldn't mean more than a slight adjustment to my schedule, though I will admit I wasn't thrilled with my kids hanging around the house any longer than necessary.

The first Wednesday on our new schedule I figured I'd get up at regular time and get stuff done while the kids slept--kind of like summer vacation, without the summer or the vacation.  I must mention that I get up at the crack of the crack of dawn--usually by 5:30am--as that's what time my crazy, hard-working, business-owning husband gets up.  Something about birds and early worms, I don't know, it's too darn early.  I don't drag my sorry carcass out of bed because of any sense of wifely duty, but because he is just too darn loud in the morning.  If I'm going to be annoyed anyway, I might as well be up and ready to take a swing at him.

So that first Wednesday I got up with the best of intentions--kitchens would be cleaned, laundry would be washed, my inbox would become my outbox.  The reality?  I lost all five lives on Candy Crush (what human could clear all that jelly?!), checked out Facebook and flipped through TV channels.  Nothing got accomplished, zip, zero, zilch.

So this week I was determined to make better use of my time.  I would exercise before the kids got up!  I would be all done and ready to move on with my day before the school bus pulled out of the neighborhood.  Hard working husband got up and left the house at 4:30am, however, and I have a strict policy that feet do not hit the bedroom floor before 5am.  No exceptions, no way (unless, of course, it involves me hopping on a jet to an exotic location).  So I figured, as I sleepily said good bye, that I'd just stay in bed till 6am. 


Once again, no was body parts were exercised and no work was completed.  I was still too sleepy for coherent thought and it was too dark out for my morning walk.  Instead I sat on the couch and was amazed at the sheer number of infomercials.  (Did you know that Chuck Norris is still alive?)   I might as well have staid in bed.

And that's went it hit me, like a light bulb above my head, a message from God, a voice of sanity in the wilderness:

I should have just staid in bed.

All this time I have felt guilty if I didn't get up with my husband and get something done.  He works so hard and I feel lazy if I don't put forth the same effort.  If I'm not doing work for our company (which I've learned  should not be attempted before 9am when the caffeine has had a chance to kick in), I should be doing something that seems worth trading a paycheck for.

But you know what I realized?  I do work really hard.  Even if everything I do doesn't create any income, it's not like I'm sitting home all day eating bonbons and watching soap operas.  Okay, I'm on Facebook way too much, but the rest of the time I'm doing something essential--invoicing customers, paying bills, taking dogs to the vet and kids to the dentist, grocery shopping, arguing with grumpy teenagers, writing, looking fabulous--all day long.

And you know what's important for good health?  Sleep!  Actual studies by actual scientists show that people who don't get enough sleep have a harder time regulating their body weight. Sleep could practically be considered a type of exercise.

So next Wednesday I will be doing something beneficial for both my physical and mental health.  I am going to sleep in.  And if my husband complains, I will suggest he do something for his health and let me sleep.

You Don't Have To Go To School, But You Can't Stay Here

"The Most Wonderful Time of the Year", Staples commercial

It's happening--my kids are going back to school!  I have been looking forward to this for the past several weeks, posting funny pictures on Facebook and sharing the fabulous Staples commercial.  I'm worried, however, that some of my friends and family might misunderstand my joy at losing my kids to the system (the school system, that is--my children are not being taken by CPS, though I have threatened it a time or two over the summer).  It's not that I don't love my kids or enjoy spending time with them, but honestly, eleven weeks is a bit much family together time for even the most sane parents.  And most days my sanity is sketchy at best.


Consider it this way:  it's summer and your three best friends are coming for an extended visit--let's say eleven weeks.  You're super excited!  These are your three favorite people in the whole world--they're like family! ;)  You clean the guest rooms and stock the fridge, thinking of all the fun you'll have.

The first week or so of their visit is great.  You laugh, you eat, you remember what great people these are. But then you realize that while they are on vacation, with no worries or responsibilities, you still have stuff to do:  cooking, cleaning, walking the dog, paying the bills, etc and so forth, ad nauseum.  Maybe you couldn't get time off work, so while your house guests stay up late and sleep in every morning, you must drag your tired self to work.  Or perhaps you work from home, trying to fill out confusing government documents and taking important customer calls in the dining room while your friends play Xbox in the living room or chase the dog through the house.  Or insist on giving you a detailed  plot outline of every Harry Potter book they've ever read when you have shit to do.

Sigh.  Suddenly having care-free friends in your house all summer is starting to wear on you.

Sure there are the good times, a weekend camp out or a trip to Pike Place Market's gum wall, but these are sandwiched by endless days of "The cable's out!", "When's dinner?" and "How do you get permanent marker off the dog?"

Your house guests, of course, are having a great time.  They eat whatever they want (Fruit Loops for lunch, anyone?), sleep till noon and shower only if they smell worse than the dog.  Occasionally they invite other friends over (who must also be fed) or ask that you take them to other people's houses (and then come get them up at the drop of a hat).  They don't worry about picking up or pitching in--they're on vacation, after all  You witness their leisurely, sun-soaked days while you're going about the business of real life and you start to feel that maybe it's time your friends went home.  Or anywhere else, really.

You don't have to go back to school, but you can't stay here.

Luckily, the government says all children must attend school and so today I thank the educational system, the teachers and the United States government for evicting my summer guests from their beds and getting them out of my hair for six hours straight. 

As I finish this post, my children are all in school and my house is blissfully quiet.  I think I even had a complete thought.



The most beautiful sight you'll see:  school bus picking kids up in our neighborhood today.





White Water Parenting

Traveling with children always presents a certain set of challenges, but vacationing with two teenagers and a tween has occasionally pushed my husband and I to our limits of the "Fun Family Memories" parents, turning us into "Just Get in the Car and Be Quiet" parents.  While planning this summer's trip,  I tried to find something that we'd all enjoy, but didn't have to drive eight hours to get to, or fork over money we don't have to wait in long lines for over-priced activities.  Or that wouldn't  lead my husband and I to AA.

When I hit upon going to Leavenworth, a Bavarian-themed town in Eastern Washington (a mere 2.5 hours away), I was sure I had a winner.  My husband was excited to go white water rafting, we could invite his mother along, and with the hotel serving up putt-putt golf, a swimming pool and a game arcade, there was something for everyone.  Our oldest quickly voiced his disapproval--he had "plans" for that weekend, complaining loudly and often about the injustices of a family vacation.  Our middle child was unimpressed and the youngest had some serious misgivings about bouncing around on a raging river in a glorified floaty.

I don't care, just get in the car and be quiet.

Our journey started off smoothly enough--having Grandma in the car with us damped down some of the outbursts of teenage irritation.  (Note to self:  bring mother-in-law along on all trips.)  When we got to our rafting trip, however, I started to feeling some doubt.  I looked around at the other participants and noted the lack of children in the group.  I worried they all knew something about this adventure that I had somehow missed in the fine print.  Was this not appropriate for the under 20 set?  Were they all judging me for exposing my children to danger?  It didn't help that our guide, in giving the training speech, was talking about what to do should you fall out of the raft.  Or as he specified, were "forcibly ejected" from the raft.  Um, wait...What?!

Once we went through the first set of rapids (class IV, huge wall of water in my face, felt like I was about to be forcibly ejected), our two younger children began to have a few doubts of their own--younger daughter was clinging to my arm and asking when it would be over--but nothing says family togetherness like fighting a wall of water in a glorified floaty.  We paddled on.

As the trip continued some amazing things took place.  After we passed the roughest of the rapids,  our guide let a few members of our rafting team try out the kayaks.  Our oldest teen got in one and was immediately transformed into a smiling, confident young man who seemed to be a natural on the river.  Our middle child went in a two person kayak with her father and they ended up tipping themselves into some lesser rapids. Once they managed to right themselves, she was no longer so blasé.  This river was the real deal and she'd have to work to get to the end--and she enjoyed the challenge.  By the last leg of our trip, our youngest, the one who had to be talked into this whole thing, was sitting on the edge of our raft, paddling along with everyone else and hardly flinching when splashed or bumped.

I sat in that raft in the middle of the Wenatchee River and was amazed at the confidence of our children and their ability to adjust.  I was proud of each of them for finding their way in this adventure I'd forced on them,  And then I gave myself a small little pat on the back for coming up with this idea (and for having such wonderful children).

Parenting, if you will, is like white water rafting.  You head out on your adventure with excitement and energy, but when you get a look at what you're in for you start to wonder if you're up for it (but by then it's too late).  You hit those first big bumps and you learn you'd better hold on tight and paddle for all you're worth.  Once you reach a patch of calmer water and get a chance to look back at where you've been,  you realize you're a little tougher than you thought.  And you just keep going.

Or parenting is like white water rafting because you do a lot of yelling and praying, praying that you're going to make it out of this alive.

While this is an actual photo of our trip, identities have been changed to protect the innocent (and so you can't tell how much I was screaming).

Thanks to Osprey Rafting Company for a fine afternoon of adventurous parenting.

Serious Business Stuff vs. Important Life Stuff

It is a fact that I have a slightly above average head size, a family trait I have passed on to two of my three children (sorry kids!).  I like to tell people this makes more room for all my brains, but I suspect my husband sees it as a sign of my hard-headedness.  However you look at it, there is one thing of which I am convinced:  there is a finite amount of space in my head and I am guarding access to it like a shotgun-toting father of a teen girl on prom night.

There are some things I choose not to let into my consciousness on principle, like the name of Kim Kardashian's baby, the minute details of Lindsay Lohan's time in rehab or anything to do with the "Real Housewives" of anywhere.  None of these people are allowed anywhere near my synapses.  As Gandhi once said "I will not let anyone walk through my mind with their dirty feet.”

I am not generally a facts and figures kind of gal ("gal" is a word my husband uses in everyday conversation--it always makes me think of one of the female cast members of Oklahoma).  Any seminar titled "How Algorithms Can Improve Your Life" would be a sure sign to me of the coming apocalypse.  I was a liberal arts major; I'm more about ideas, different view points and no wrong answers.

Unfortunately, there are all sorts of situations in adult life where there are very wrong answers.  My husband owns his own business and I, as Empress of the Office (his Gal Friday, if you will) am in charge of accounts payable/accounts receivable/payroll/taxes/insurance/etc./ad nauseum.  Here, there are wrong answers up the ying-yang and if you slip up some government-type person will come audit you, hanging out in your office/dining room for three days straight, looking disapprovingly at your filing system.  (Or so I've heard.) In this instance I must put my large noggin to work and store all sorts of tax code, procedures and accounting software. 

For the most part I am okay with this--we have a CPA who oversees the important stuff (and doesn't laugh at me when I screw up)--but other times I feel the facts and figures encroaching on my brain cells.  Today I received an email from our payroll company that made me want to pull up the drawbridge and call for the hounds:  "Are you compliant with these employment regulations?"  Huh?  What regulations?  Where?!  I don't want to know about any regulations!!!!

In order to protect myself from this evil, I immediately called upon the Angel Gabriel Garcia Marquez, flipped open my thesaurus (safe, unmolested, impervious) and quoted the first line from Pride and Prejudice ("It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.")  I quickly deleted the message.  Crisis adverted...this time.

What if the minutiae of Serious Business Stuff knocks out of my head something I think is really important?  What if the tax rate in Moclips bumps out the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody?  What if the method to run corporate credit cards through QuickBooks replaces the spot where I kept the plot summary of Jane Eyre??  Could my ability to twirl Double Dutch jump ropes be taken over by my supreme skill in billing air compressors to third party leasing corporations that are being dropped shipped out of state?!?

So I put up my walls, I listen to my music loudly as I work, maybe dance a little, and I refuse to open any email that contains the words "permit", "policy" or "accreditation".  Occasionally I allow my husband to talk business to me, but only if he buys me dinner first and has my mind back by 11pm.

Not-So-Super Mom

Today I realized I'd thrown out my youngest child's important school paper, complained about having to attend my middle child's track meet and turned my grumpy teenager into angry teenager by not agreeing right away to his request.

Sigh...Maybe I wasn't meant to have children.

We all have those days where nothing seems to go right.  The oven breaks before a big dinner party, you stain your favorite shirt before an important meeting, the dog needs to go to the a vet when the check book is empty.  When you're a parent, however, particularly a mother, it always seems to be your fault.  No more juice in the fridge? Mom... Can't find your favorite shirt?  Mom!  Late getting up for school?  MOMMM!!!  (I've often threatened to change my name to something they can't drag out in that whiny tone.  Maybe Bob.)

I realize some of this is my own fault by doing too much for them.  If I never washed their clothes, they couldn't blame me when they were out of clean socks.  If I never made dinner, they wouldn't notice it was late.  If I didn't love them unconditionally, their complaints wouldn't even bother me.

Ah, there lies the rub. 

Who doesn't want to be Super Mom?  Faster than a puking baby, more powerful than a two-year-old's will, able to leap a pile of laundry in a single bound.    But I am normal, everyday mom who wants what's best for my kids, but some days I'm just too human to pull it off.  Or too tired, or "Do you really need sequin shoes to go with your Dorothy costume?"

So I spent a half hour digging through the recycling bin and located the important school paper.  It may be a little wrinkled and slightly damp (and it just may smell like beer), but it'll be signed and turned in tomorrow.  Middle Child agreed that track meets aren't all that fun, even though she likes the practices.  We decided that maybe next year I could just come watch one of her events and then go home to make dinner.  Grumpy Teenager is still grumpy that the decision he thought was a simple yes or no question needs to weighed in by his dad.  This one, at least, will be blamed partially on my husband (and, no that doesn't make it any easier, but it gives me something to hold onto as I face the wrath of our son).

It's a bird, it's a plane...Oh never mind, it's just my mom.



Today's motherly misdeeds were brought to you by Not Enough Sleep, Too Many Details in One Middle Aged Brain and ARGH, You Need What When?!

Swimsuit Season: Terror in the Dressing Room

I did it, I tried on the first swimsuit of the season.  Men cannot understand how traumatizing this is, they who spend their summers in baggy, elastic waist swim trunks. Most women, however, know that feeling of dread as you walk to the dressing room, a variety of choices in your hand--something colorful, something black; something teeny something tent-like.  None of them will fit right, you tell yourself, let's just get it over with. Or maybe you're optimistic:  They're all so cute, it'll be hard to  pick just one!  (Note:  If that's your internal monologue, you are obviously under the age of 21 and your actual weight matches that listed on your driver's license.  You may stop reading this now, as it doesn't pertain to you.  Or better yet, bookmark this post and come back to it ten years and two kids from now.)

My husband and I are getting ready to go on our annual anniversary trip to Las Vegas (read:  No Kids!!!) and I realized all my swimsuits make me look very matronly.  While some may consider me to be a matron--mid 40's, three kids, minivan and the prerequisite wedding ring--that doesn't mean I want to dress like one. I am hardly obese, but with age comes not only great wisdom, but a slower metabolism.  A few parts of me may be a little rounder, and squishier, than they once were, but that doesn't mean I want to dress like my grandmother.

A few years back I read an article about choosing swimsuits which claimed less is more.  The idea is that if you wear the skirted, cover-up type suit you will look heavier than if you have more skin showing.  The article suggested a string bikini, since the fit is adjustable and therefore will not cut into your flesh, causing...spillage.  In theory this made sense and, feeling adventurous, I went to the local Walmart (first mistake) and choose a couple mix-and-match pieces from the Juniors section (mistake #2) and took them home without trying them on (and three's a charm!).  Let's just say these so-called swimsuit pieces didn't quite cover all my pieces.  I then got to experience the joy of waiting in Walmart's "customer service" line to return them.  The next two summers were very matronly.

This year I planned to get into better shape before our trip through better diet (lots of fruits and vegetables!) and exercise (gym workout every day, maybe running).  As happens all too often, life got in the way.  While I am eating healthier and exercising three times a week, this has not budged a single fat cell.  Apparently my body thinks my family is going to set me adrift on an ice flow, so it is guarding those fat reserves as if my life depended on it.  Let's just say I am not what any self help magazine or lingerie catalog would consider swimsuit shape.

 

So I walked into Target thinking I'd just get a boy-short style swimsuit bottom and maybe a tankini top.  I looked at the choices, which weren't that different from what I had at home, and felt defeated already.  The bikini styles were so much cuter, with more variety and more colors.  And then I remembered that article.  Well, what the H-E-double toothpicks, I thought. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Which is how I ended up in a dressing room in a bikini--black bottoms with tie sides and green and white polka-dotted top.  And it wasn't horrible.  It's unlikely that the pool boys will be throwing themselves at my feet, but it wasn't horrible.  I will probably not even frighten any small children, though I may provide a cautionary tale to those hard bodied 20-somethings.  The way I figure, most of those at the pool will be drunk anyway, who'll notice if I brought my muffin top with me ?  I myself may partake in a blended drink with an umbrella and fresh fruit garnish (for my diet regimen, of course.) so perhaps I might not notice either. 

And there it hangs, on the back of my bedroom door, reminding me every day for the next three weeks that fruits, vegetables and exercise are the holy trifecta of swimsuit season.
 

If Loving You Is Wrong

Sometimes it's a guilty pleasure, maybe the desire for the unattainable, or just an obsession with a bad boy.  Many of us have had at least one love that we know is wrong, but just can't seem to quit.  I have three.  The objects of my affection may never reciprocate my feelings, and while I know it's wrong for me to care for them so, I just can't--no won't--live without them. And my husband isn't even jealous.


First I will come clean and admit that I love my dishwasher.  Before you start googling "human/dishwasher love", let me state emphatically that this is a spiritual love and not anything base or, ahem, dirty.   Most of the places I've lived as an adult had either no dishwasher or the cheapest model available, possibly purchased on a street corner in the dead of night and very likely from a third world country (whose inhabitants had no idea why we crazy Westerners couldn't just wash our dishes by hand).  One of these could barely even be called a dishwasher--dish rinser would have been a more accurate term.  It absolutely would not wash off peanut butter--this had to be hand washed first and then put in the dishwasher, thereby negating the purpose of this appliance.  The model we have now, a Bosch (which those of you in the know will recognize as the Cadillac of dishwashers) will clean pretty much anything.  I like to test it every once in a while to see its devotion to me and my dirty dishes.  Lasagna pan?  Sure.  Old moldy coffee cup that's been sitting in the back of my husband's work truck for a month?  Clean.  Knife with peanut butter on it?  Hallelujah!  I believe!!  My dishwasher is that love that gives you everything you ask for and never lets you down.

My next love is as big of a shock to me as it was to my teenage daughter.  Who would think that a middle-aged mother of three would fall so hard for the rap song  "Thrift Shop" by Macklemore?  The first time I heard it I was just flipping through radio stations, went past it, then had to go back.  But then I knew:  we were meant to be.  It has a catchy beat, quirky lyrics and will get stuck in your head before you can say "I'm gonna pop some tags." By a Seattle-based rapper, the song and video do not talk about drugs or contain half naked women (which seem to be the staple of the rap world), although I'm sure "your grammy, you aunty, your momma, your mammy" would not approve of some of his language. But that's part of the fun of this song--I get to remember the me that could use swear words with impunity. Now my kids looked scandalized when I sing along with "I'm in this big ass coat."  Thrift Shop is that bad boy we've all fallen for--sure he's fun, but you can't take him home to meet the parents.  Or you kids.

This last love has left me so conflicted, I can barely say it here.  I love Amazon.  While this local company lets me purchase everything from rain boots to MP3 downloads from the comfort of my own laptop, delivered to my door in two business days, I am wracked with guilt every time I log in.  In my former life I was a bookseller at Elliott Bay Book Company a well-respected, independently owned bookstore.  Many independent bookstores are slowly being forced out of business by competition with huge companies, who can bargain for higher discounts and therefore offer lower prices.  This sounds all well and good to the consumer (competition is good, right?), but when you consider these smaller bookstores are staffed by real live people who actually have a say in what appears on their shelves (as opposed to say Costco, who has a corporate book buyer determining their stock), Amazon is the devil.  But I love Amazon!  It all started when I got a Kindle for Christmas a couple years ago--I was hooked after the first ebook download. I can read, play games, stream movies, search the internet and then toss it in my purse and take it with me.  The Kindle was my gateway drug.  Soon I discovered all the wonders that Amazon.com had to offer.  Not just Kindle books (which I download for free from the library), but clothes and shoes and toys and and ipod cases and movies and...Oh, I was hooked big time.  But what about my bookseller friends?  Was I being disloyal?  Was I shopping them out of a job?  It doesn't count if I don't order my books there, right?  I'm very likely going to bookseller's purgatory, where the none of the books have spines and you receive 20 cases of  Donald Trump's rewrite of "Pride and Prejudice."  Amazon is that boyfriend that showers you with attention, but treats your friends like shit.

Barbara Mandrell, that country songstress who rose to fame in the 1980's, knew the turmoil a heart goes through when your love is forbidden. 

Your mama and daddy say it's a shame

It's a downright disgrace

Long as I got you by my side

I don't care what your people say

If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right.