A Bike, With A Baguette In The Basket

Ever see that used to be sorta pretty woman walking through a store at 6somethingPM, obviously still in her sort of decent if you don't look close enough work clothes, dragging two squabbling and bedraggled children along behind her, all the while looking like she could lay on the dirty floor and go to sleep? Well, if you do, please be sure to say hi. Yes, to me. I'm friendly, most of the time anyway.

There have been a zillion words written about the balance of work and mothering, so I'm pretty sure nothing I can come up with will be all that original, but y'all, sometimes it is just so damn hard. I know being a stay at home mom has its share of challenges too, but this is my blog, and I feel like doing some serious whining about being a working out of the home mom. The never ending to-do list never ends for anyone, but I swear, having an extra seven hours a day to work on it seems like it sure would help.

Currently there is the endless housework, three dentist appointments, two dermatology appointments, two vet visits, purchasing softball cleats, play dates, dry cleaning, grocery shopping, softball practice, pharmacy pick up, pediatrician, dinner to make and bills to pay, just to get us started. Not to mention actually parenting and connecting with the kids, helping them with homework, signing all the different papers, project checklists, writing endless checks, chasing them through their bedtime routines and preparing for the next day. And somehow there is also supposed to be an hour a day spent on fitness, some "me" time and "romantic time" with my husband. All in a measly 24 hours which is also supposed to include 8-10 hours of sleep and 8 hours of work.

                                                            I. Cannot. Do. It. I just...can't.

The constant juggling makes me insane. So much just doesn't get done, or gets put off because oh, I don't know, I've already missed work for half a day this week already doing something else and that's probably enough for now. And for someone whose standards are pretty high, this does not happy times make. What happens when I can't do something well is that I will not do it at all. Right now I'm sitting in my plaid chair, writing this post and totally ignoring the fact that there are piles of laundry everywhere, that my kitchen is rocking a mystery odor and that Lawton and the kids will be home in 30, no, 10 minutes and I have not even thought about dinner.

I know lots of people deal with this challenge and much worse, so I'm not saying I'm special, but in the words of a close friend, sometimes "I just want to ride a bicycle around all day. You know, the old cute one with a basket on the front holding a baguette." Don't even pretend you couldn't instantly relate. I know exactly what she means. Cruising along, looking adorable, not a care in the world other than deciding where to park your firm and perky butt to enjoy your fresh baked bread that wouldn't dream of going straight to your hips. Choosing the best scenic vista would be your only worry, and it wouldn't hang around long enough to add to those lines between your eyebrows.

What really scares me is that the women who I think have it somewhat together say the same thing. I look at them and think that they must be giants of organization, energy, patience and stamina, and then they tell me they feel the same way.  Which I cannot decide if I find encouraging or discouraging. Sometimes it just seems like such a losing battle and in the throws of my worst pity parties I wonder how long it takes before you just don't care anymore.

It's not always like this, and there are tons of good things, good times, and loving/supportive people in my life. Which is great, because even though I have a blue Trek complete with basket, it's not doing anything other than sitting in my garage at the moment and there is not a baguette in sight.

Okay, enough whining. Back to the list before it gets any longer...

That Farm Gene Might Have Skipped A Generation. Or Two.

 When I was little, probably about 8 or 9, we made the long trip from Charleston, SC to my grandparents house in Ardmore, TN. What? Never heard of it? I'm shocked.

From Wikipedia: "Ardmore is a city in Giles and Lincoln counties in the U.S. state of Tennessee. The population was 1,213 at the 2010 census.^"  This farming community is where my grandparents retired to after having lived near Augusta, GA for most of my grandfather's career in the auto industry, and it is also where he was from originally. As an interesting aside, the state line between Tennessee and Alabama runs right through the center of town, which is why there is an Ardmore, Alabama as well.

My grandparents always had an enormous garden and that is no exaggeration. It was huge. I remember vividly how surprised I was by the difference in their soil compared to the sandy loom of where I came from on the coast of South Carolina. Black as night, rich with nutrients and gorgeous. You could look out past the garden and see crops planted as far as the eye could see. The green fields just seemed to evaporate into the blue sky somewhere near the edge of the earth. There was a dairy farm not far down the road as well.

When I think about how far removed I am from this kind of life, it really is odd in some ways. My grandfather came from a line of Tennessee farmers that goes back at least a couple of hundred years. Yet here I sit, only two generations later, living in the suburbs, driving the eight miles into downtown Charleston to wander around the farmer's market on the occasional Saturday morning. I try to buy local food and support local agriculture but I find the effort to do so frustrating.

Two summers ago, I tried to grow tomatoes and bell peppers. Total, complete failure. Everything died. And by everything, I mean all of it. We got nothing. Last summer I didn't even bother. This summer I'm going to try again. Just being able to enjoy my own homegrown tomatoes would make me really happy and is something I'd like for my children to do also.

Interestingly enough, just last week I got an email asking me to participate in a panel about blogging and food. The hosts are a group of professionals who promote agriculture and farming. Honestly, I'm so excited. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love to talk about food, especially from a local perspective. Where it comes from, how we get it, what makes it good, what makes it bad, how it affects us, and so on, are subjects of great interest to me. As ridiculous as it sounds, I swear my DNA is largely responsible for this obsession.

I wish I knew more. I wish I had a huge garden like my grandfather did. I wish that it was easier to buy from the local farmers around Charleston. But all I can do is try to learn, make a little extra effort regarding food purchases and try my little garden again. Wish me luck...

Trouble Don't Know The Day

Recently, my extremely healthy and capable father in law fell seriously ill. I'm thrilled to report that after a week in the hospital, he appears to be making a complete recovery and is not expected to suffer any long term effects. While this has been trying and stressful for everyone involved, it has also been a good experience in a lot of ways as well.

I've come up with a random collection of observations from the past week and thought they might be relevant to pretty much, well, everyone.

Trouble don't know the day - my husband's grandfather always had a saying for everything, as all good southern gentlemen do, and this one serves as a reminder that life has a way of sneaking up on us when we least expect it. No one had a clue that a little over a week ago from today, this healthy, fit and whip-smart guy would be sick as a dog and no idea where he was. This setback has reminded me once again not to take life and health for granted, and as trite as it sounds, to live in the moment, and not for the future or past. A reality check, if you will.

Laughter really is good medicine - there have been lots of hours logged at the hospital this week by all of us, but especially by Lawton, Scott and their mom. Visitors have come in regularly. Yes, there have been tears, but more than that there has been laughter. Stories, jokes, and just plain silly behavior has been the constant thread through the whole ordeal. I'm so thankful for that - having moments that lift the mood goes such a long way for morale. I am not sure what kind of effect that may have had on my FIL, but I can promise you that it did all of us a world of good.

There's no man like a family man - when I looked around the room at all the people who care for this man, I was reminded how not everyone has that kind of love and support. That there are people who linger in hospitals with no one to come sit with them and hold their hands. That having those kinds of people in your life is an amazing blessing, and those people should be always loved and appreciated accordingly. My father in law has set such an outstanding example for his sons, and I can honestly say that I have been so impressed with my own husband as he looked out for his dad, and mom as well. He and his brother have truly been amazing, and I'm so proud of them both.

This week has been scary. And hard. But to be honest, I am so thankful for it. Being reminded of some of the most important things in life was good for me, and while I know this is taking liberty with the thoughts of others, probably good for everyone involved. The overwhelming amount of love and devotion is amazing, and I am blessed to call these guys my family.

You're the best, Pops. Glad to have you back.

Hell, Thy Name Is School Project

There are several words that strike fear into the hearts of parents everywhere. 

Puberty.

Lice.

Chuck E. Cheese.

 Or, in my case, the school project.

At first I thought it was just me grousing about the school projects that my children are assigned. Then I quickly realized that I am not alone. Almost every parent I chat with brings them up in casual conversation which obviously means only one thing: they are assigned for the sole purpose of making us crazy. Or for the children to have a deeper understanding of the subject matter, but for my purposes it will be the former. 

Enter my daughter, who, through some cruel twist of DNA, has apparently inherited the procrastination gene from her both her parents. Up until recently, my answer to the lollygagging has been to just drag the process along until it's completed. But you know, that crap gets real old, real quick, plus it doesn't encourage her to change her habits. My new approach has been to remind her to get going on it and reiterate that it's her responsibility to get them done. After that, the chips can fall where they may. 

Here is how the conversation usually goes: (if I could do sound effects here, there would be a lot of almost choking sobs and snotty nose sounds)

Me:  have you started on your project yet?

Celi: (crumpling to the floor, face screwed up in emotional agony, tears welling, and wielding the body language of a whipped puppy) noooooooo...

Me: Cecilia. You have to get going on this. We can't take this up the last minute and I am not doing it for you.

Celi: (sobbing) I know Mommy, I'm sorry.

Me: Why are you crying?

Celi: I just don't knoooooowww. You're mad at meeeeeeeeeee....

Me: honey, I am not mad at you and there is no reason to cry about this. Just get started and we'll help you. 

Celi: (still boohooing) I'm just not perfect like Amber!

Me: (Siiigghhh) I love puberty. Anyone want to go for a lice check?

While entertaining, the problem with the conversation is that it doesn't just happen once. Know why? Because she still continues to do nothing, all the while bemoaning her existence as NotAmber.

And then a day or so later, we have the Exact. Same. Conversation.

And again, a day or so later. And so forth, until eventually, the switch flips on until lo and behold, the magic starts happening, and she squeaks it in just under the wire, which makes me totally crazy.

This is why the school project makes me insane. It's not the little plastic animals, or the endless power point slides, or even the white tri-fold boards. In hindsight, it really isn't the project itself. The problem, it would seem, is a young girl named NotAmber. Chuck E Cheese, party of one, your table is ready.

Those Long Dead Relatives Don't Just Find Themselves You Know

I am a major people watcher. This is why I like Facebook so much - to me it's virtual people watching, not in a creepy way, of course, but just as you might in person. I like to know what people think, why they do the things they do, what they think about what I do, what they think about what I think about why they do things. Sometimes this is known as being nosy, but I like to think of it as sociological information gathering through observation - sounds better, you know? Throw in my affinity for a good freak show and it is ON.

It's harmless, really. I don't have any interest in utilizing any information I may gather, I just like to know stuff. The same applies to useless trivia - need a garbage disposal for useless information? Look no further, yours truly is on the job!

However. There are times when this drive for omniscience goes too far. Like now, when I have basically blinded myself with my newly acquired Ancestry.com membership. Here is what happens when nosy garbage disposal gene blends with history nerd gene: nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero. See where I'm going with this?

Time stops. Finding out where my great great great grandmother's burial plot is becomes a matter of SIGNIFICANT IMPORTANCE!  AND WHY CAN'T I JUST HAVE A MOMENT IN PEACE?!?! Don't you know what's going on here?! Gah! (yes, I'm rolling my eyes too, okay?)

And then I look at the clock and realize that it is almost midnight. And that everything more than two feet away is looking a little jumpy and hazy, all at the same time. And that my head hurts, and I am thirsty, hungry and in need of a restroom break, not to mention a decent night's sleep.

In short, I have realized that this may be extreme, and probably need to get a grip. And I will say that one of my favorite things about Facebook is that it has allowed me and my far-flung cousins (who are all quite smart and witty people, I must say) to get to know each other a little better. And I also recognize that part of this curiosity about my ancestry is from being a fairly rootless individual, so I cut myself a little slack there.

But then I remind myself that there are so many things to know but the stuff that count the most is right in front of me. Every day. And surely, they want to know what their ancestral roots are too, right? Right! Mom's on it guys, don't you worry.

God Told Her That I Was A Bad Person. Seriously. I Could NOT Make This Crap Up.

Several years ago, I was in a group of women that was pretty tight knit. We spent a lot of time together, all being in the same stage of life - that of being newly-ish married and raising young children. This group meant a lot to me, as I had been so excited about having a group of girlfriends, something that had been missing for a while. I was not from the area, and my own long term friends were scattered all over the state, so this group was a great fit. Or so I thought.

This went on for a year or so, but the over the course of about three or four months, I realized I was being edged out of it. At first I thought I really must be just imagining things, but eventually asked someone else involved if they had any idea as to what was going on. She had no insight at the time and the edging out continued until I finally gave up on all of them. I'm pretty proud, and have zero desire to beg anyone for anything, especially friendship, so I just "walked". And honestly, I think the part that hurt the most was that they all just let me go without a fight or even a whimper, which I took to mean that no one cared, or had ever really cared at all.

Eventually it came to light that the perpetrator was involved in a Christain sect/borderline cult, and that God had told her that I wasn't one of the right people to be involved with. She then managed to manipulate and weasel her way in between existing relationships, as well as started letting her real colors show. By the time I was told about any of this, she had made her own bed, because nobody wanted to hang out with her anymore anyway. I felt so relieved on some level, because even though it was crazy, it actually made sense - it was something I could understand. The hurt with those who did not even care remained though, and I have not seen or spoken to any of those women in quite some time, not out of anger, but resignation.

A lot of good came out of this, believe it or not. The women in this group are wonderful people, but I think they were never really my people. I'm brash, irreverent, loud and direct. I also tend to use bad words sometimes, and most of these chicks are penultimate small town southern belles, in every sense of the word. Plus, red lipstick is the name of the game, and I just really cannot stand the stuff. The point is that while I was friends with and extremely fond of them, the bond just obviously wasn't there.

However, I emerged from this extremely painful experience with some truly valuable insight. The whole time the extraction process was happening, I beat myself up. What was wrong with me? What had I done? Why did no one care? and such. This became slightly obsessive, to be honest. I like to know WHY things go the way they do, and not having any answers just made me crazy. I cried, I lost weight, I lost sleep, and I moped. A lot.

But. One morning, I woke up feeling like myself again. The first thing that came into my head was, "I don't care." Not in a flip way, but in a way that I knew I was free of the whole thing emotionally. It occurred to me that I don't care what they think. This has nothing to do with me. The change in my thinking was like being let out of prison. I felt so free. And so, that chapter in my life closed.

I actually consider this to be my best day ever. It opened my eyes to how false an image I had constructed for myself to try to be accepted. Ever since then, my confidence has grown, my self esteem has grown and well, my "give-a-damn" is busted. While I am far from perfect, I know that I'm pretty darn okay. I'm kind, generous, funny, honest, loyal and am an excellent friend. In hindsight, being pushed out of that group was one of the very best things to ever happen to me.

What about you? What good has come out of your tough times? Or have you had a similar friendship experience?

Locked In The Bathroom And I Blame Bill O'Reilly.

In my house, there is one rule about TV for the kids which is basically if I don't like it, they can't watch it. This works fine for them 99% of the time, and the 1% that it doesn't, I don't care about.  That's right, Mommy is a cruel and ruthless dictator y'all.

However, since I can't exactly tell my husband what to watch, we have had to do some negotiating. Here are the terms: he does not have to watch sappy shows with predictable tear-jerking/medical tragedy and I do not have to watch Hunt for Bigfoot on Syfy with him. There are exceptions to these unwritten rules, but the hard and fast law is in regards to the "yelling shows", as I call them. They are not allowed, ever. Period. Thankfully, my spouse agrees with me about the format, even if we don't see eye to eye on the subject matter. (see this post: Newt Gingrich Is Not An Orthopedist)

This rule includes basically all cable news talk shows regardless of their points of view. I don't like any of those shows because a. I don't think that they promote a genuine dialog of various positions on an given issue and b. listening to the shouting and talking all over people is just really chaps my ass and c. I do enough yelling for everyone. We're all full up in the yelling department, so to speak.  (Don't judge me - I have Scotch-Irish roots so my crazy is genetic. My British DNA is the only thing keeping me sort of level.)

Anyway, here is how Bill O'Reilly got involved. Every morning, we watch the Today Show on our bedroom TV. Also every morning, the kids come into our bathroom for me to make sure their hair is reasonable. This morning, I was working on Cecilia's rat's nest while Matt Lauer was interviewing Bill, who as you may have guessed, I'm not a fan of. However, everything was cool until they started discussing Whitney Houston and the "yelling" started.

Me: I am not listening to this garbage! Bill has turned the Today Show into a yelling show!

Then I firmly closed the bathroom door for emphasis. It was not a slam. Mostly.

Me, a few minutes later when I tried to exit: Hey - the door knob won't turn! Hey! Oh my gosh, we're locked in. Lawton? Lawton! Honey?

Honey has already gone to the garage to select the various implements of destruction needed to break into one's own bathroom. Hence the no answer. He came back and began getting us sprung.

Cecilia: We're doooooomed! and all other manner of ten year old silly girl jibberish plus sound effects.

This went on for about ten minutes until my husband got the doorknob off and we got out of the bathroom, thank goodness. I really was not looking forward to climbing out the window and was even less excited about getting my daughter out of it. And, in all fairness, the doorknob has been acting up for several weeks, so we should have considered ourselves already warned.

However. The long and short of it is this: the way I see it, Bill O'Reilly locked me in the bathroom with his yelling on my beloved Today Show. When Ann gets back from whatever secretive mission she's on, I am soooo telling on him.