Mr. Mom

I need a new post.  I just got home from work.  If that’s what I’m calling it.  I’m doing a two week orientation which somehow includes an afternoon of bowling, frequent trips to Walmart, and a show on the History Channel about lightspeed travel. 

The kids start school on Monday so this week I asked Nick to stay home while I do this orientation thing.  He’s been great!  I leave him a list of the things I would be doing all day so he can get a feel for what it’s like.  School errands, grocery shopping, recycling, dinner menu.  I could really start to like this.  Maybe I should take a $50,000 job and let him stay home.

Nah.  I’ll do a half time job, he can work on and off, and while the kids are in school we can PLAY.

But the difficult thing is that while I’m not home there’s nothing to write about and I can’t write about work.   Hmmmmmm.

I am extremely happy in my new life.  Happy with everything.  Okay, except for the HUGE spiders.  I’m not happy with that.  Or the laptops every students gets from 6-12th grade, to carry around all day to classes and home.  Or all the people who drive right through 4 way stops. 

But in a minute here I’ll have a frozen margarita in my hand and Ahhhhhhhh, that makes everything awesome.  And in three weeks I’ll be married.  🙂

When it is okay to choose not to talk to a parent

This is the ongoing discussion in my family right now.  The girls don’t want to talk to their father, but have yet to be able to convincingly say why.  No one wants to completely cut off a parent, except in the most dire and unchangable circumstances.

I look at it as a question of toxicity.  In a long term relationship with anyone, there are good times and bad times, mistakes, and miscommunications.  A relationship lasts if there is enough good to outweigh the times when you just don’t want to speak to that person.  When a relationship becomes toxic, then there is a choice to be made, whether or not that person is related by blood.  Blood doesn’t mean a whole lot to me.  I’ve created my own family from the people I love, whether they are related or not.

By toxic, for me, I mean constant negative interactions whether they are phone calls, visits, or interactions with my children that leave them crying and angry.  Toxic is ignoring the boundary lines that I have clearly stated that someone crosses and refuses to acknowledge.  Toxic is hitting my child.  When I have to report someone to family services for walking into my apartment after I’ve asked them not to, when I’ve left to shop and there’s no way they knew I wasn’t home unless they were watching my every move, and they take it upon themselves AFTER I’ve said not to show up unless the place was on fire, and they “wrestle my child” when they had no right to come in–that’s toxic.  Toxic is accusing me of being a bad mother, telling me I’m not making a home for my girls, and calling my daughter a bitch.  And not even spelling that word out.  Toxic is being so depressed and then refusing to go get any kind of help, and instead taking it out on me and my family.

Yeah, I feel a little, hmmmmm, embarrassed at times for having to explain why I don’t ever want to have a relationship with a certain member of the family.  But it’s embarrassment that this person acts this way, and not embarrassment because I’m made a choice that I feel protects my family.  And I realize that other members of my family don’t understand, but that’s because I didn’t call everyone up to gossip about these things.

I should have known the pattern would continue and this person would hit my child.  I guess I thought they would somehow be treated differently.  I will always protect my children.  I wish someone had protected me.

I am a Ghost in my own Life.

I feel transparent.  People can see right through me because I’m not really here anymore.   I’m already somewhere else and being here is just putting in my time.  But my head isn’t in it anymore.  I don’t see any sense in having conversations with people.  I only say my goodbyes.  I’m terrible at goodbyes.  Everything is tinged with sadness and last times. 

I’m not good at long, drawn-out plans.  Patience is not my virtue.  When I want something I usually just jump on it. 

I will miss Autumn at Shear Sensations in Lyndonville who does such an awesome job with my hair.

And the library that never charges me late fees.

And South Main Auto who usually gets my last name completely wrong on the tag they hang from my keys.

And red curry paste, because it’s impossible to find in Cody.

And long lonely days of working too hard for no pay.  Wait, I won’t miss that!  What am I talking about?  I’m not leaving much behind.  I’m just so excited to go on a big adventure that it bubbles up inside me and has nowhere to go because I’ve got 2 months left. 

So I’ll put Autumn in my trunk with a case of Red Curry paste and find someone else to change my tires!

How a Roundabout is Like a Giant Sit-and-Spin for Adults

There is a new roundabout outside Montpelier, not to be confused with a rotary.  A roundabout is slower, has less traffic lanes, and drivers yield to those already circling. 

Today was the first time I traveled more than just to the other side of this particular roundabout.  I circled about 3/4 of the way and then felt ILL.  I mean, like sit-and-spin ILL.  A few years ago I tried a sit-and-spin that I had bought my kids.  It was the COOL toy when I was a kid and I never had one.  I had rocks and sticks and bits of string, but never anything as awesome as a sit-and-spin.  So I squeezed my butt in on one side and wrapped my legs around the middle and used my hands to wedge my feet in.  I spun around TWICE and that was enough for me!  Stop the ride.  I want to get off.

Who enjoys getting nauseous by spinning around?  NOT ME!!!!  I can’t even handle the spinny rides at Santa’s Village!  The Merry-Go-Round is an ordeal to get through.  Maybe the kid who spun on the tire swing at the park and then puked in my friend Jason’s driveway would enjoy this.  She seemed to enjoy spinning.  At least until the puking started. 

I don’t swing dance, iceskate, or circle with my head on a bat.  I barely hoola-hoop, and only because I can do that without watching it go around.  I don’t own tops and spinning optical illusions have the same effect on me  as having a stomach virus. 

When I was circling the roundabout at a high speed of 15, I felt as though I would slingshot out of my roundabout exit.  I would never make a good speed skater, race car driver, or astronaut. 

Straight lines only please.

And that’s why I’m moving to Wyoming, the land of regular intersections and cattleguards.  I can handle the cattleguards.

(And Jelly Beans are the only known cure for Roundabout Illness.  Just thought you should know.)

My Fear of Committing to Pretty Much Anything except talking about gassiness.

Before this turns into another post about gas I’d like to commit to talking about commitment.  But first I must say that on Rachel Ray today which I left on the tv to keep me company as I got ready for work, they talked about gas and foods that cause gas that a person should stay away from like OATS, BANANAS, and WINE.

The main staples of my diet.

So let’s talk about commitment now.  I have an issue committing to anything.

I never thought I would admit to that.  But it’s true.  I like to remain vague and slightly slippery.  I hate to be boxed in.  There must always be an escape back up plan, just like sitting near the door whenever I’m in a room with other people.  If I ever feel the need to suddenly run for it, I can make it out before anyone even notices.

Even though I may want something and I may have already made that decision and told everyone about it, including my entire family and my work, all my friends and blog readers, I still feel like it’s not done till it’s done.

This isn’t being indecisive on my part.  I knew when I emailed him and asked him why he didn’t just ask me to come back that something like this could happen if he did in fact love me as much as I thought he had at one time.  And I already knew I would say yes.  There’s no doubt I’d say yes to anything he would ask me.

And now what?  Now I’m going to pack everything up and just leave on June 12th at 6 a.m. and head across the country.  I’m going to leave my financially stable albeit ghetto-style life, and my independence from relying on anyone other than myself (well, and Abrah and my father), and my little tiny job, and I’m going to throw myself feet first into something with the hope that the rest of my life will be filled with days of blissful Nickness.

There’s no back up plan there! 

And no, now that I’ve spent days thinking about my fear of committing I know that it’s not because of my poor decision making skills in the past.  I make excellent decisions now.  Look what I’ve done since I left Cody!  I got a master’s degree.  I have my own little ghetto apartment.  I have picked excellent friends.  I love my job. 

It’s a memory of being trapped.  TRAPPED.  I have been working for years on the panic that comes with that memory.  The residual aversion to commitment is something that I can understand and find my way through.  It would be too easy to stay all nice and comfortable, in control at all times, free, and alone.

What is it that they say?  In order to act bravely you first have to be afraid.

I walk into my new life afraid and hopeful.  And each day I will feel a little less afraid and a little more alive.

(In rereading this to edit my horrifying grammar mistakes I have discovered that it sounds similar to post made by my forever-talking-about-change-but-never-actually-doing-it-stalker.  The difference here is that I’m a person of action and of talk.)

ANYTHING to make Abrah happy (see comment on previous post)

I was looking through books in my room to see what I want to keep and what I should sell.  I came upon David Sedaris’ Naked which really doesn’t have anything to do with this post except that yes, I will be keeping that book.  Inside I found a page ripped out of a Prevention magazine.  I am using the word jellybeans as code for what it was really taking about.

Apparently, just 7 to 13 minutes of jellybeans is considered “desirable” by both men and women, shows new research . . . and it turns out that few gender differences exist on expectation of how long jellybeans should ideally last.  In fact most adults deem even shorter jellybeans of 3 to 7 minutes are “adequate” . . . .

I’m obviously missing something here.  Is this a matter of time-management?  What are all these people doing with their time when they could be having jellybeans?  And adequate.  That sounds like it’s all about a function, a specific event that starts and ends in a short time with a given result and then there are no more jellybeans.  I have just enough time to say “Hey Baby” and smile.  I’d be better off just taking an advil for the discomfort and a quick nap. 

I think perhaps it’s a 24 hour thing, whether we’re together or not.  All of life is just foreplay.  There are jellybeanss everywhere.  It’s like Easter Eggs.  There is no definite beginning or ending or finished product.  There is no rush to get things done or path to follow to any specific jellybeans factory.  And if my life is ever just adequate on any survey, I have failed in my mission to fill it with whatever-jelly-beans-are-made-of goodness.

Are we really missing the point of living in a world with jellybeans with all of our bills and jobs and kids and sports and Facebook and television and expectations and shoulds and guilt?  All I want is a home full of a neverending  supply of jellybeans.  My love includes ALL the different colors of jellybeans and  is the first thing on my to-do list, not a 3-7 minute adequate activity.

Another post using CODE WORDS

I was looking through books in my room to see what I want to keep and what I should sell.  I came upon David Sedaris’ Naked which really doesn’t have anything to do with this post except that yes, I will be keeping that book.  Inside I found a page ripped out of a Prevention magazine.  I am using the word M&Ms as code for what it was really taking about.

Apparently, just 7 to 13 minutes of M&Ms is considered “desirable” by both men and women, shows new research . . . and it turns out that few gender differences exist on expectation of how long M&Ms should ideally last.  In fact most adults deem even shorter M&Ms of 3 to 7 minutes are “adequate” . . . .

I’m obviously missing something here.  Is this a matter of time-management?  What are all these people doing with their time when they could be having M&Ms?  And adequate.  That sounds like it’s all about a function, a specific event that starts and ends in a short time with a given result and then there are no more M&Ms.  I have just enough time to say “Hey Baby” and smile.  I’d be better off just taking an advil for the discomfort and a quick nap. 

I think perhaps it’s a 24 hour thing, whether we’re together or not.  All of life is just foreplay.  There are M&Ms everywhere.  It’s like Easter Eggs.  There is no definite beginning or ending or finished product.  There is no rush to get things done or path to follow to any specific M&Ms factory.  And if my life is ever just adequate on any survey, I have failed in my mission to fill it with chocolatey goodness.

Are we really missing the point of living in a world with M&Ms with all of our bills and jobs and kids and sports and Facebook and television and expectations and shoulds and guilt?  All I want is a home full of a neverending  supply of M&Ms.  My love includes ALL the different colors of M&Ms and  is the first thing on my to-do list, not a 3-7 minute adequate activity.