playgroupsarenoplaceforchildren

Whenever we go out to eat with the kids, I usually check out the kids menu and offer them two of the choices.   I purposely don’t tell them if there is peanut butter and jelly on the menu because 1) they can eat that at home and do nearly everyday, 2) I know that if I mention peanut butter and jelly, the kids will not want ANYTHING ELSE offered and 3) restaurant peanut butter and jelly is 450 times messier* than what I serve at home. (*in a non-clinical study, 3 out of 4 parents agree!)

I guess I’ve slacked in this area of husband training because somehow Tate didn’t realize that I had such strong feelings against restaurant peanut butter and jelly.  As he was reading the menu choices to the kids, I was trying to get his attention with lots of throat clearing, adamantly nodding my head “NOOOOO!”, and I was shooting lasers out of my eyes into his forehead.

Sadly, the children had peanut butter and jelly for dinner and I went home covered with little jelly handprints.

Oh hi there!  I know, I know, it’s been days since I last wrote anything.  I attended Blissdom in Nashville and didn’t have a chance to write before leaving.  Normally this wouldn’t matter even one, tiny bit, but this time I left up such an angsty post!  I had every intention of writing something funny or a posting a cute picture of a kid or ANYTHING ELSE BUT THAT before the conference, but I just didn’t get a chance.

As always, from the very bottom of my heart, THANK YOU for your kind words and for your own personal stories regarding my State of our Marriage and rotten parenting worries.   Each of your comments meant such a great deal to me.  One in particular, from Rima, ended with a quote that I ADORE and want framed or tattooed somewhere on my body. I’m leaning towards framed rather than tattooed.

“Let everything happen to you – the beauty, the terror. Just keep going, no feeling is final.” ~Rilke

Is that not perfect?!  Thank you, Rima, truly.

I took your words and heart felt advice and talked to Tate before leaving for Nashville.  I knew that leaving with such a heavy burden on my heart and on my mind would have furthered the rift in our marriage.  In my mind, I planned to sit Tate down and have our much needed talk, but only after I had completely gotten ready for the next day’s departure.  Tate, however, decided to confront ME while I was in the middle of preparations.

Unfortunately I was completing a VERY IMPORTANT pre-conference beauty ritual when he decided it was time to talk.  I had just put whitening strips on my teeth.   How sherioush a convershation can you reary have when you’re wearing whitening shtripsh?  Yeah, I don’t know.  We might need to have a do-over very serious conversation since it was hard for both of us not to laugh with spit and speech impediments flying out of my mouth.

At least it was a start.

I am a rule follower.

One time, in 5th grade, I got kicked out of Spencer’s in the mall for shoplifting.  It’s been a few years, so I feel safe in admitting that I DID NOT SHOPLIFT FROM SPENCER’S!  I was wrongly accused.

In college, on my 22nd birthday, I got accused of smoking pot in the bathroom of the Burgundy Room (anyone remember that place in Springfield?  Art Bentley?  *dreamily reminiscing*).  Again, since it’s been awhile, I could confess.  BUT I WAS NOT SMOKING POT IN THE BATHROOM OR ANYWHERE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER.

Since I’m all about honesty today, I will admit to stealing a very large, green thumbtack from the grocery store bulletin board when I was maybe eight years old.  That is the extent of my criminal past.

Every time I leave a store that has those anti-theft sensors at the front door, I get a case of nervous tummy.  This is not because I’ve stolen anything, but because I go through spurts where I set off alarms.  Those alarms are SO ANNOYING.  I never know exactly what to do in this situation.  There’s never a soul around, well except for the priest, rabbi, and Sunday school teacher who just by happenstance are standing at the exit staring at me when I’m seeminginly leaving the store with stolen merchandise.

Usually what I do is keep on walking, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, other than quickening my pace just a skosh.  I try to do my best impression of a person who’s completely unable to hear the alarm saying “Please return to the nearest cashier, we have failed to remove the merchandise control tag from your purchase.”  (Which on an aside, I like how their alarm likes to pretend that it’s all THEIR fault, not mine.  Well played.  But I’m not falling for it.)

The entire walk/sprint to my car I’m usually braced for the come-behind attack from store security guards.

“DOWN, LADY!  ON THE GROUND!  WE KNOW YOU STOLE MERCHANDISE!”  I wait and wait for the inevitable, that inevitably doesn’t come.

So what should I do when I set off store alarms, track down a store clerk to proclaim my innocence?

“We really prefer Miss Helen’s Dance over Jamison’s Dance Academy.  Allison gets a lot more individual attention there.”  A group of my mom friends were trading tips on their kids’ activities.

Another mom added, “Well we finally got Hunter and Taylor registered for swim lessons with that private instructor you told me about,”  she pointed at the mom sitting next to me who nodded with fervent agreement.  “It was hard to work around their soccer and t-ball practices.”

I sat and listened, trying not to let the panic stricken look show on my face that I’d strategically concealed with a Stepword wife smile and glazed look.  Silently I interrogated myself.  “Why haven’t I gotten Carson and Ella involved in anything!  Have I totally crippled them as potential athletes because they are going to be way behind all of their peers in sports and dance and swimming???  How was I even supposed to know this stuff??”

My mind suddenly relived every sports related horror of my childhood.

…the time I fell in a hole on the soccer field my first day of practice when I was seven years old and the only kid who had never played before.  (I never played soccer again.)

…when I was about nine, I decided I wanted to try gymnastics and learn how to do back handsprings and was placed in a beginner’s class with preschoolers.  “MOM!  I’m with the BABIES, learning how to do somersaults!!”  (I didn’t go back, but it was the first time I was the tallest kid in class.  So there was that.)

…I was always one of the last picked for teams in kickball, softball, basketball, volleyball, and EVERY OTHER PLAYGROUND SPORT IMAGINABLE during elementary school.  (Please note I was ONE of the last, not THE last.  This is an important distinction.)

…I didn’t make cheerleading in 7th grade because I was awful.  I couldn’t do herkies or pikes or toe touches, or even remember two lines of a cheer, but whatever.

…For one season I was on my high school’s swim team, but the stress of the competition resulted in my wishing the school bus would break down on the way to the meets and/or praying for raging diarrhea so I wouldn’t have to compete.

The discussion amongst the moms continued.  “We started Chloe in soccer when she was about two and a half up at that indoor sports complex off Water Road.  It was a daddy-daughter thing and she LOVED it!”

“It’s so funny to hear you all talk about your little ones!  I remember when Chase was that young and starting to play!  It was so cute to watch all the kids chase after the balls.  Now that he’s fifteen, it’s so competitive and I have to spend nearly every waking moment on the baseball field once spring comes.”

PANIC!  My children are going to be behind and they aren’t even in elementary school!

Tate was always involved in sports, but I’m not particularly athletic.  Coordination and game rules don’t come naturally to me.  I don’t know if I would have started playing sports earlier if it would have made a difference or helped my confidence, but I do know that I don’t want my kids to be like me when it comes to sports.  Even if they aren’t the best athletes, I want them to enjoy some sort of athletic activity and I don’t want them to give up without ever giving it a chance.

My fear is that if I don’t get off my non-athletic butt and start getting them involved, they are going to be very behind their peers in sports and dance.   If most kids are starting soccer/dance/gymnastics/t-ball at two or three years old, then if I wait any longer to get them involved, they are going to be the worst players, the ones always picked almost last (or God forbid, LAST), or they are going to be the nine year olds put in the beginner groups with BABIES.

I guess now the thing I need to do is get over my phone phobia and actually call around to some places to try and register each of them for whatever it is you register kids for in the spring.

“Don’t touch the books, guys!”  I said in my best sing-songy voice.

We were deep into the bowels of Borders, wandering aimlessly, which is a BAD, BAD, BAD idea when your two companions are ages four and under.  I hardly ever venture into bookstores, I usually just buy my books off of Amazon.com, but I needed a particular book for my book club that was meeting, um, in three days.

I practically shrieked, but totally in a good mom sort of way,  “Let’s try over here!”  I was kicking myself for having forgotten the author’s name of the book I was searching for.  Also I was silently cursing Borders for not having any employees conveniently placed around the store for my own personal convenience.

That’s when I saw the little computer kiosk/desk thingy where a lovely Border’s employee was typing at the computer.  This was such a relief to finally find someone to help me, but I knew that I had mere seconds before my troops ran in opposite directions.

I approached the desk and waited for the woman to look around the computer screen and assist me.  Calmly I smiled, trying to act like I was in NO HURRY WHATSOEVER, while my children nearly knocked over carefully stacked displays of books.  Through gritted teeth I chirped, “Kids!  Please wait patiently for mommy!” I inched closer to the kiosk, completely nonchalantly, like…oh I love standing and waiting for you to acknowledge me while my children run amok!  This is totally what I wish I could do every moment of everyday!  Yet the woman at the computer was paying zero attention to me.

I really didn’t want to get my feathers ruffled.  Of course she must be researching very important information for another customer!  Yes!  That MUST be it, because surely she wouldn’t be purposely ignoring a frazzled mom with two small children who are getting dangerously close to destroying her store…AND she wouldn’t just be blatantly ignoring a paying customer!

A few minutes pass and it’s more of the same.  Me acting like la-la-la, this is a day in the park!, my children acting like juiced up apes, and the lady at the computer ignoring me.  Only now, the lady has gotten more squinty and is staring even more intently at the computer screen, but is still completely acting as if we are not standing right there.

I turned around, ready to pick up Ella who had decided to throw herself on the ground at my feet because I wouldn’t let her eat the crumb she found on the floor OH MY GAH, and when I turned back around the lady at the computer was WALKING AWAY.

I stood there, watched as she went to a nearly bookshelf, chose a book, then walked to the front of the store.  There were definitely quite a few curse words that passed through my brain that she hadn’t said something like, “I’ll be right with you” or something!  Anything!  I (sort of) calmly gathered Carson and Ella and decided to just walk to the front of the store and ask someone up there.  HUFF.  HUFF.

That’s when I noticed several of those computer desk/kiosk thingys all around the store as we made our way to the front.   Dim realization began to set in.  Some of them had people standing at them, people that were obviously not employees of the store.   I tried to ignore what I suddenly knew to be true.  I saw the Borders employee who had just ignored me standing at the front of the store, where she was suddenly not a Borders employee at all, but a customer waiting in line to pay.

Oh don’t mind me!  I’m just the idiot with the wild children, standing too close to an unsuspecting stranger at a computer when there are a plethora of OTHER computers placed conveniently around the store that I could have used, but somehow hadn’t noticed!

She must have thought that I was a complete wacko.  She would be right.

(Hey!  Let’s practice walking backwards while mom’s head spins off!)

Life had been going really well for me.

Then one morning last week, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.   It’s not that odd to have a bad day, it happens occasionally.  I spent the day giving myself little pep talks.  “Just relax! Tomorrow will be better!!!”  I’d said to my myself, exclamation points and all.

Then the next day came and it wasn’t better.  It has now been over a week and this terrible mood has yet to lift.  The children’s voices have seemed more shrieky each day.  I’m barely able to deal with their typical preschool-age behavior, everything they do seems like they are out to personally assault my sanity.  Carson is going through a difficult “stage” (four years and still going strong!) and Ella vascillates between being the sweetest child on the planet and one that I’ve considered locking in the basement.

Then there’s Tate and well, Tate has been completely unable to do anything right in my eyes.  He says all the wrong things, tries too hard to make me happy, and he isn’t like the pictures of my Facebook friends’ smiling husbands who I just know, surprise their wives with completely planned nights away and worship the grounds their wives walk on.

I feel sorry for him right now because it cannot be easy to be married to me.

My daily pep talks are sounding less like “tomorrow will be better” and more like “don’t hurt anyone today” and “screaming is bad for your vocal cords.”   I’ve been doing things I love, like making delicious meals, taking hot baths while reading a book, taking pictures.  Nothing has brought me joy, though.  Tate’s even let me be in control of the remote control in the evenings (probably because he fears for his life if he doesn’t, but whatever).

I hate to complain about my life.  I mean, SERIOUSLY.  There are people out there with REAL issues.  Other than some cold weather keeping us indoors and life’s typical up and downs, I should have nothing to complain about.  My life?  It’s charmed.  It’s good.

“My life.  It’s charmed.  It’s good,” I said to myself, over and over…

Oh dear, you guys.  Your comments on my last post about laundry really kinda stressed me out.  I need to reply to several of your comments and I need to address one very important issue.

YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT SOME OF YOU DON’T LIVE YOUR LIFE BY A SCHEDULE BUT INSTEAD LIVE ON THE EDGE, WITH THE POSSIBILITY THAT ON A RANDOM WEDNESDAY MORNING YOU COULD FIND YOURSELF WITH NO CLEAN UNDERWEAR?????????

I apologize for the ALL CAPS, OMG! but seriously, you don’t have a laundry day?  I…I…I just couldn’t exist.

This need to have a schedule truly says a lot about the way my brain functions and what’s necessary to keep me sane.  For me, if I don’t have a schedule (and I’ve tried to live my life all willy nilly), I feel incredibly overwhelmed.  Laundry piles up, the bathrooms become hazardous waste areas, and I start imagining burrowed creatures living in my carpet.

I schedule my days’ chores around our weekly outings.  On “off days” when we have no place to go, I do the most chores, on “busy days” I just do piddly, easy things.  I used to do ALL of my chores on one day, but that became too stressful for my already fragile psyche and made me grumpy for three days.  Day one of grumpiness would occur the day before “chore day” because I knew that the next day would be filled with doing stupid chores.  Day two of grumpiness was on “chore day” because, well it was “chore day.”  The third day of grumpiness would occur the day after “chore day” because I never got EVERYTHING on my to do list done, so there’d be much fretting and gnashing of teeth over my inability to live up to my own expectations.

(Wow.  That Jennifer has some issues.)

Here’s a peek at my current weekly schedule.   Sometimes I’m really wild and zany and do Friday things on Thursday or Monday things on Wednesday.

Prepare to be awed or disgusted.

Daily:

Straighten house
Keep kitchen clean by wiping down counters and cleaning out sink, load and unload dishwasher.  (Sidenote:  the dishwasher MUST be unloaded and it’s contents put away before any new meal can be prepared or I get a nasty eye twitch.)
Sort mail
Reduce piles (I wish I could eliminate piles, but that is ridiculously impossible.)

Monday:

Kids laundry (if their hamper is full)
Pay bills

Tuesday:

Main laundry day (towels, clothes; sheets every other week)  (Honestly, sometimes the sheets only get washed every 3 or even 4 weeks.)
Bathrooms and sweep tile floors
Sweep hardwoods (mop kitchen floor once a month) (Or really, only when company is coming. So, uh, rarely.)
Vacuum upstairs

Wednesday:

Vacuum downstairs
Vacuum stairs (hardly ever happens because of it’s pain in the ass factor)
Dust

Thursday:

Kids laundry (if their hamper is full)

Friday:

Wash towels
Windows and baseboards, but only if they are really, really, really, really, really, really bad.
Sweep hardwoods

So, um, please tell me there are others of you out there like me.  I mean, I can’t be the only person who enjoys knowing that every Wednesday, my favorite underwear will be clean and my jeans won’t be crusty anymore.

As for the cleaning, I think it’s pretty obvious from my list that I’m not exactly an ace housekeeper.  I *should* sweep and mop everyday, living with two messy children, but I don’t.  I like to think of my house as “clean enough.”  I believe there are far more important things than a spot-free home.  Things like Twitter and kicking Carson’s ass in Mario Kart certainly rank above crumb removal.