Work Space Confessions

Mrs. Taggart told my mom that my desk was messy.  She showed her all the incomplete worksheets, and complete worksheets, crammed into my pocket school desk.  I don’t remember or not if she dug out the love notes from Christopher or not, but they were in there, too.  I remember.  That was first grade.

Today, for the umpteenth time, I reassured a concerned and embarrassed parent that their child - guilty of cramming study guides and other such paperwork in the bottom of backpacks, leaving them strewn and tucked about in a classroom, or “accidentally” throwing them away before they had a chance to make it home - would be OK.  Once again today, I confessed my own history of congested administrative arteries.  My own paperwork circulatory system has long been crippled.

This is not the first time I’ve confessed these office sins here.  But, yet again, I feel the need to bare my truths. 

Truths, like this…

 

Go ahead. Click on it to dig deeper.  It’s quite revealing.

Just outside of this photo you might find other random items, such as: a used ink cartridge waiting for me to take to school for our corporate contributions drive, a spool of pink grosgrain ribbon, a bottle of nail polish, two bobby pins, two pen caps from the remaining MIA writing utensils after BabyGirl’s weekend round of oh-so-NOT-cute game of “Pen Bandit” (i.e. hiding uncapped pens all over the house, sending me into a mad panic as I franticly envisioning large pools of black ink on my upholstered furniture), a scratched pair of sunglasses I need to throw away (Never mind. Just checked that one off the list.), and – le pièce de résistance – a 3/4-inch plastic dog tail.  Not the dog…just the tail.

 

While I am an extremely cyclic person and tend to have bouts of neat & tidy organization followed by stretches of “I’ll deal with this later – bigger fish to fry today,” disarray, I have come to accept my piles.  It is a love-hate relationship I have with them.  I hate the actual piles and feelings of dissatisfaction and frustration I get from them, but I love the processes from which they result. 

1. Good intentions.  Look – I buy a book about organizing my space and my life…I read some of it…I get overwhelmed by the first week checklist telling me to get a minimum of 7 hours of sleep per night (I wish), jot a To Do list each morning (Have you met my daughters?), start a journal (check), limit television (check), schedule 2-minute breaks two to three times a day to “just be” (whaaa???), practice meditating (I’d love to…), schedule time to exercise (I try), schedule more “me time” (more than the six minutes per day???), eliminate energy drains on your life (You want me to retire and move away?), and “take control” of your time (This lady’s an idiot.)…ALL IN THE FIRST WEEK!!!  If I could do that in a week, why the heck did I need to buy this freaking 52-week guide to organizing my life???

2. Creative endeavors.  Cooking, sewing, writing, photography…This is the good stuff. I love these things. If those parts of my life leave evidence on my surroundings, so be it.  I will leave my mark happily.

3.  Thrift. On second thought, perhaps this should go in the “good intentions” category. 

4. Motherhood.  Ask me why I have pink grosgrain ribbon, a crumpled-up-no-longer-sticky post-it note with a butterfly drawn on it, random pen caps floating, a funky popsicle stick flower stuck in a wooden pot, a Lois Lowry chapter book, a sea green crayon and a Hello Kitty digital camera on my desk.  My babies.  I love my babies.  This is my life and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

One of my favorite quotes comes from an unlikely source.   

“Homes are for free expression, not first impressions.”

My piles are not a problem, they are a side effect of an alive and wonderfully diverse mind.

 

 

Now, my desk at work is a whole different story…but that’s another post entirely.

This post was submitted as a part of the {W}rite-of-Passage: Challenge #9. 

Table Talk

“So, tell me about your day,” I usually begin. 

Inevitably, my initial maneuvers do not produce much chatter, leaving me to follow up with one of the many other questions I keep handy like the shiny, steel tools of a dentist.  I am prepped to pull teeth at a moment’s notice. 

What was the best part of your day today? Your least favorite part?

Did you ask any questions today?

What did you write about in writers’ workshop today?

Who did you play with on the playground?

How was tumbling?

What books did your teacher read to you?

How did you and [insert other half of recently unstable friendship] get along today?

Who did you sit next to at lunch?

On most evenings, I’ve usually cracked the safe after one or two questions.  In fact, I often need to regroup and try to reel their focus back to the meal. 

This evening, BigGirl’s topic of daily review focused around boys.  (Like mother, like daughter!) 

For a few months now, I’ve silently suspected that Boy #1 has a bit of a puppy crush on my girl.  This is, of course, based in part on tales of playful teasing I’ve heard, but also on a few exchanges I’ve witnessed from across the room or playground.  My girl rolls her eyes as she tells all about how he always sits next to her and has given her his own little nickname for her.  I happen to believe he’s pulling her pigtails…if you know what I mean.

Boy #2 is new on the scene.  I don’t know him, and I’m really pulling out all the stops to get any good leads on him…but by the sound of the preliminary intelligence I’ve gathered thus far, he too “could be a contender”.

 

Chiming in from the other side of the table, BabyGirl eagerly spent her precious “turn to talk” stringing together a long, drawn-out tale that could captivate the attention of a herd of cats.  Tonight she told us all about playing on a bouncy house inside the gymnasium (“because it was too cold and windy to go out on the playground, Ms. Teacher said”) until the real live horse that was at her school ran away, but – luckily for us – the baby horse (Yeah, you didn’t know there was a baby horse, did ya?) stayed…well, that is, until Bad Boy in her class called it a poo-poo face and Ms. Teacher told the boys and girls a story about a baby alligator.  “But, last night, when I was born, I read that book before,” she finally concluded.

Perplexed?  So are we.  Every. Single. Time.

 

Regardless of believability (or even coherence) of their dinner table tales, I love listening to their little memories (and fantasies) of the day.

Oh, and the sweetest part?  Many nights, after BigGirl’s rattled on and on about her daily dose of drama for a while, she gets a little quiet before cheerily looking across the table at me and saying, “So, Mommy.  How was your day?”

Sisters

I always wanted a sister.  I still wish I had one.  One that was really mine – not just obligated by marriage or some sort of Uber-Friend.  I dreamt of a sister on whom I could stake my claim, in whom I could expect undying loyalty.  A bond of blood, chromosomes, life and heart.  A history filled with pinky-promises, tearful fights, side-splitting laughter, and whispers in the dark.

I love watching my girlies cuddle like kittens – in front of the TV, eating snacks, beneath quilts and sheets, even at the kitchen table.  Everyday their closeness – or, rather, their absence of personal space and boundaries – amazes me.  It is not the same with brothers.

Yet, I am surprised at how rough and tumble they can be.  More and more, lately, I find them man-handling each other – wrestling around like hyper little puppies in a pen, knowing full well that Mama will snatch them up by the scruff of their neck any  second.  I’ll walk through the den and find them behind the couch, halfway beneath an end table – one sister pinned flat on her back as the other straddles her chest.  Their giggles escalating uncontrollably like wild fires.

BabyGirl was less than a year old when we moved them into the same bedroom.  At a routine well check-up, I hashed out  some baby sleep questions with the pediatrician.  At the time, he asked me if I wanted BabyGirl to be more reliant on me or her sister.  Did I want her to learn to be comforted by BigGirl in the night, or me?  I knew then that, while I did not wish to place a burden on BigGirl, I wanted them to share a close bond that would comfort them both throughout their nights – and days – forever.

A long time ago, My Daddy told my brothers and me that we were the closest thing in the world to each other.  He spoke these words in a fit of frustration and heartbreak; we fought like cats and dogs.  I’ve never forgotten that lecture.  In fact, I’ve preached my own version of it a few times to my girlies.

On the last occasion I tried to impart that pearl of wisdom to my girls, I watched BigGirl’s eyes tearfully soak up my message.  I explained to her that, one day, a long time away from today, Mommy and Daddy would be gone.  We would be in heaven.  But, they wouldn’t be alone because they would have each other.  That is the best, most important gift Mommy and Daddy has ever given them – each other.  They will be best friends, worst enemies, soul mates, teacher and student, companions, playmates, competition, and – one day – parents to each other.  Over time, they will be everything to each other.

To each other, they will scream obscenities, hurl prized possessions, confide deepest secrets, and confess dreams and fears.  Between them, they will protect each others’ stories.  They will know each other better than FireDaddy and I will ever know either of them.  A bittersweet thought.

I love my girlies.  I love BigGirl and I love BabyGirl.  I love them more than I know how to describe.  But, what I love even more than either of them is their sisterhood.  My love for them as a pair is exponentially larger and grander and more amazingly overwhelming than my love for either of them independently.

When I was pregnant with BabyGirl, I feared that this wonderful new addition would jeopardize my relationship with BigGirl.  I worried that I could not possibly love another baby as much as I so obviously loved her.  I worried about jealousy, sibling rivalry, perceived favoritism, and all sorts of potential threats.  I sought the council of friends, my mother, and every mother of multiple children I knew.

One mother, I don’t remember who, finally spoke the words that settled the worry in my heart.  “Don’t think of it as taking something away from her…you are giving her a gift no one else can, a gift like no other.  You are giving her the best gift of all – a sister.”

Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Last night, I cuddled next to BigGirl in a booth at Denny’s.  I held her under my arm and rested my cheek on her familiar sandy blonde head.  I told her that earlier, a friend of mine talked to me about her daughter that was all grown up.  She’s in her twenties.  And, I told her, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like when my baby was all grown up. 

“It will be exactly the same, Mommy.”

“It will?  I’ll still be able to hug you and squeeze you and kiss you and hold you whenever I want to?” I questioned.

“Yes.  I promise.  It will always be just like this.”

 

I wish she was right.

Today, I’m going to steal another bit of love while I can.

Entitlement: My Arch Nemesis

I don't know if something in me has changed, or something in my daughters has changed, or if it's just the alignment of the planets, but recently I feel like I'm at war with my babies.

I've drawn a line in the sand and I am prepared to stand my ground. The prize for which I'm fighting, tooth and nail? School day mornings free from crying, fighting, kicking, screaming, and franticly peeling out of the driveway to race to make it to work on time. (The neighbors have complained about the morning screeching of tires and I've noticed people pointing curiously & whispering at all the tread marks in the street in front of my driveway...)

Recently, I hauled BabyGirl to school barefoot and in her nightgown to prove my point. "I am leaving in five minutes whether you're dressed or not." I have delicately dangled Hannah Montana over their heads to "lovingly remind them of my expectations." Today, I pulled the rug out from beneath their feet ...no dance class.

Unfortunately for them, the warnings didn't sink in until it was too late. And then, once the deal had been sealed, they REALLY went through the roof. They kicked the volume of their hysterics up a notch (or two)....and BigGirl found the guts to confront me.

"You're just so MEAN sometimes."

Wrong thing to say. (This was also shortly after she made the mistake of asking "why" when I asked her to do something.)

"MEAN??? You don't know how GOOD you've got it, girlie!"

I proceeded to run down the laundry list of privileges my daughters enjoy on a daily basis: countless toys, nice clothes - that they get to pick out, new backpacks when they don't even need them, cool lunch boxes, dance classes, tumbling, chocolate Pop Tarts for breakfast and Oreos in their lunch. They don't do CHORES. BigGirl barely even puts her laundry away, even WITH me helping. They eat junk food and chew bubble gum. They get to wear sparkles in their hair and borrow jewelry from me and sleep in my bed with me and buy new books "just because". I fix food that they LIKE and only make them eat a few bites of things they don't like. They get to run into gas stations with us and get juice and snacks. They have it MADE.

SOME kids have chores to do and don't have a lot of toys and never get to eat Happy Meals. SOME kids don't get new school supplies or lunch boxes and can't take dance classes and get pretty hair cuts. MY mother NEVER would have let me eat junk food for breakfast, or run into a gas station and get sugary juices.

"And if I had asked MyMama 'WHY' when she asked me to do something, she would have spanked my bottom so fast I wouldn't have known it was coming!!!"

BigGirl, old enough to understand my rants, softened her anger fairly quickly. It was beginning to sink in. On the way to school, she talked about wishing dance didn't cost us money. It should be free so everyone can go. "...or at least cost like one cent!"

I know I'm not alone in this war against entitlement, but sometimes I wonder how many are really fighting on my team. Entitlement courses through our culture like the blood in our veins.

But not everyone.

This morning, I raced out from the garage -- bangs bobby-pinned back, make-up half applied -- to deliver the trash can to the trash guys. AND APOLOGIZE for being late.

I am the shopper who, upon realizing I've forgotten a bag at the register, rushes back to the store with my fingers crossed, carrying an apology on the tip of my tongue. I let my gratitude gush if they were kind enough to hold my bag.

I am the driver that, at the Clerk of Courts office this week, tried desperately to explain my way out of a citation for an expired tag. You see, I had actually renewed it prior to the day I was pulled over, but had forgotten to put the receipt and proof in my car while I waited for the tag to arrive in the mail. But, when it wasn't looking too promising for me, I said to the cashier, "Well, if it doesn't work out it's not a big deal. I WAS late renewing...so I guess I EARNED this ticket." (In case you're wondering, I did get lucky in the end and only had to pay a $10 fee. Woo-hoo!)

Perhaps my own sense of entitlement began to fade after receiving a few letters from my grandmother sometime in my teenage years. She, in no uncertain terms, reminded me of my privileges in life. She reminded me that my parents worked very hard for everything we had and I, a sassy little teen, had done NOTHING to deserve the riches I enjoyed in life. NOTHING.

That stung a little....but it was so true.

And now, this morning, I stood in my kitchen and uttered those same words to my daughter. And it stung me a little still today.

Art credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/prawnwarp/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Friendship Plan

As BigGirl and I spilled ourselves and all of our miscellaneous carry-ons into the school parking lot this morning, she was positively in a tizzy.

"Mommy, I really need your help! I just don't know what I'll do about this!"

I, completely confused as to what was her problem - except for the fact that it was taking her a solid 5 minutes to get her skinny little bootie out of the backseat, with or without her backpack - hurriedly asked for clarification. (As my arms motioned like a flight attendant for her to move to the nearest exit - PRONTO.)

"I need a plan! Today is my day to play with Bestest BFF, but Friend B will want to play too...I just don't know what to do!"

Dumbfounded (though I'm not sure why I was surprised), I quickly preached the "more the merrier" schpeal. "You know, that's why a party is more fun than just a playdate. It's more fun with more friends."

"I guess I'll just have to tell her that it's my day to play with Bestest BFF...but, HOW WILL I DO THAT? HOW CAN I DO THAT? I JUST DON'T KNOW HOW I CAN DO THAT!"

At this point, resolved that she was NOT going to go for the merry threesome idea, and feeling my stress level frizz as fast as my hair in the morning air, I gave up. "Here's an idea: SAY IT. Use your words. That's why God GAVE us words!"

As we, at long last, began moving toward the building, BigGirl hauling her worries on her back and I hauling my entire office in a cart behind me with one hand and the all important venti skinny vanilla latte in the other, she laid it on the table.

"Mommy, I just need a Friendship Plan. That's all there is to it."

This is just the latest in a long line of heart-breaking girl tiffs that she has suffered through this year. While BabyGirl is busy planning her white wedding to Don Juan Jr. (scheduled to be held in her preschool classroom sometime this year... and we're all invited), BigGirl is crying in the hallway.

On the morn of her "Friendship Anniversary" with the all important Bestest BFF, she arrived at school all decked out in her finest diamond drop earrings, diamond encrusted arm cuffs, and a diamond (blinky-light) necklace. Apparently, not all first grade girlies are confident enough to pull off this level of adornment and SOMEONE felt the need to point out the fact that she does NOT have pierced ears. (Gasp!!! The horror!) Instead, she was wearing (scandalous, I know) CLIP ON EARRINGS!!!

Girls, girls, girls.

My BigGirl, not the type to brush something off without hurt feelings, nor the type to say to her classmate, "I know. These are clip-on. Not everyone has pierced ears." and let that be the end of it, was crushed. She refused to go to school. She came down with a headache and possibly a fever. She needed FireDaddy to come A.S.A.P. to pick her up.

Unfortunately for her...and my officemate who had to listen to the wailing...AND BigGirl's crying, I threatened an embargo on all television privileges if she did not hightail her hiny out of my office chair and march that bootie downstairs to her class. She went reluctantly (and still in tears). Funny, the Motrin didn't seem to help the headache and "fever"...but, with an apology, she was cured.

Why am I rambling about this, you ask? What is it I'm REALLY trying to say?

I am SO not looking forward to the day the hormones start to kick in. Dear God, someone may need to take me out back and put me out of my misery before then.

Scratch that.

I can't leave them alone with FireDaddy.

Dear God, someone is REALLY going to need to get me some stronger pills before then.

Who Are YOU?

Let me preface this post with a disclaimer. I am not in this to make any enemies, offend anyone, or tick anyone off. Sorry. I'm just sayin'....

So, it's been a while, as you can see. Perhaps the Beatles said it best: "Oh blah dee, oh blah dah, life goes on, rah! La, la, la, la, life goes on." (Such an erudite bunch of young chaps they were...)

Do not let my lack of posts fool you, though. I have been here. Lurking in the shadows of others' blogs. I've been reading...and even, at times, commenting. (Feel free to "ooooh" and "aaaaah" at will.)

Tonight, for instance, I read this post. The title must have struck my interest, because this is not a blog I've regularly read. It did turn out to be a thought-provoking post. Particularly, towards the end.

"...I've been with my husband for ten years. I work full time from a home office. (Yes, I've upgraded from the couch.) I have two sons. One kid is three, the other is almost ten months-old. I cloth diaper the little one...."

Now, Ms. Blogger, let me reiterate that I do not mean to offend you in anyway. This is really nothing personal; yours just happened to be the blog that I read tonight. Forgive me for making you my guinea pig, and thank you for playing along. But, I find it quite interesting that you chose to include the fact that you cloth diaper your child in a paragraph describing who you are. This really spoke to me because I've noticed you are, by far, NOT the only mother on the blogosphere that seems to feel this is behavior is a part of their identity in some way. In fact, I have visited blogs (probably many) in which the author finds that this detail of their life is so important it merits inclusion in their mini-bio on their sidebar!

I hope the blogosphere as a whole will forgive me when I say, as honestly and candidly as I can, that I just don't get that, folks. Not the cloth diapering part...the broadcasting it to the world part.

I, as you know (if you've visited before) am the mother of two young drama queens. I nursed my daughters and made a lot of my own baby food (especially with Big Girl). No, I did not choose to use cloth diapers...but, is it really that big of a deal? My mother used cloth diapers for her three children, myself included. (And, yes, they did have disposable diapers then. This was a choice she made.) My question is, since when does the type of diaper you use make such an impact on your identity?

Really?

Would you find it equally as important when defining WHO YOU ARE to include that you use low flow shower heads? Or low watt bulbs? Or, perhaps you use a wash cloth to wipe your child's bum instead of disposable wipes???

I ask you, mothers of the blogosphere, what's up with this? What will you say when your children are potty trained? Will this status line fall to the wayside, or simply revert to past tense? ("Hello. My name is Jenny. I used to cloth diaper my baby.")

Sweet Dreams

Baby Girl tearfully tip-toed into my room tonight with her precious Pinkie [baby blanket]. She had a bad dream.

My life has been plagued by dreams, both good and bad. Perhaps this goes back to a post I started (and abandoned) earlier this evening on imagination; perhaps it's something different, I don't know. But I live in awe - and fear - of my dreams.

My dreams are as real as they come, and they always have been. For as long as I can remember, after I ate my breakfast (once it was deemed "safe" to tell them by my mother) retellings of my night life have been met with remarks about their details and lengths. More times than not, if I remember anything of what I've dreamed, I remember it as clearly as day. I can tell you what I was wearing, describe the setting "to a t", replay conversations verbatim, and - the emotions. That's the most powerful of all. The emotions are raw. Pure. Intense. Consuming.

Perhaps this is why I have also have so many memories of tip-toeing into my parents bedroom at night.

My own little teary person would tenderly, slowly step into my parents room; stalling at the threshold to listen to their breathing (or snoring, whatever the case may be). My heart cried for them to please, please wake up. Most times they would continue sleeping soundly as I crept to Daddy's side of the bed. I can remember sitting on the spare pillow that lay by his bed. My, surely snotty, little nose sniffing as I sat silently near his sleeping body...staring. Intently. Willing him to wake up and save me from my sadness and fear.

I never spoke. I never said his name. I just...waited.

He always woke up. He always knew it was me. He always knew why I was there.

And he always let me climb into the middle of their bed, be comforted by their familiar scents and sounds, and safely fall back to sleep.

I remember the way my mother's speech sounded different in the night - with her mouthguard in. (We suffer from bruxism...add that to my list...) Their voices were quiet and broken by sleep. Their heavy heads never lifted far from their pillows. Daddy's hand softly rubbed my head, a habit he had perfected in my infancy. I welcomed those familiar things.

Now, as an adult, there are nights I would still do it all over again, were they near enough. My dreams continue to disturb me. Sadly, my Littlest Princess seems to be touched in this way, too. While I cannot change her dreams or take them away - and in many ways, I would never want to - I hope one day she will have memories like mine. Because, in the end, it's not the dreams I remember most, it's being saved.

**Author's Note: I considered providing examples of my dreams in this post, to help you understand. But, I decided that' s another post entirely...

A New Project

So, my sister-in-law, Tammy, texted me today after she read about Big Girl's near miss with the law. 

I want to know:  What kind of keys was she planning on putting on that "hot" keychain?  Or is a "hot" mustang next on the list??  

Let's not plant any seeds, OK?

With that, she promptly got me going on my next project.  Just the rebound I need.  I have a good history with rebounds.  I married my last one, you know...but that's another post entirely.

As I recover from the slap in the face my parenting journey just dealt me this weekend, I suspect this sentimental look at motherhood is a fix I sorely need today.  I also expect it will be accompanied by its own fair share of tears on my part, as its timing is right on the heels of the sad culmination of a book I'd been reading.  Needless to say, any tears shed at this late hour, won't be the first of the day.

According to Her Bad Mother, I'm supposed to share with you five trinkets of motherhood I would love to tuck away in the safety of the box my grandmother gave me years ago, alongside a two dollar bill and locks of baby hair.  Then, as the ritual goes, I'm supposed to tag five more mothers who blog - so they can continue this virtual journey around the world in "80 clicks".  

Alright, buckle up, folks.  This boat is setting sail.

1.  I love to watch them sleep, cuddled together like kittens.  Their long, thick lashes lay softly in perfectly neat little semi-circles against their smooth, milky skin.  Their little lips - pink painted on with the tiniest, delicate brush.  Their breathing smooth until they flail and rustle in their sleep.  Arms flopping all over one another.  Their slumber too deep to be disturbed.

2.  I love the glee in riding with the windows rolled down.  As tiny babies, the wind made them catch their breath.  Now, as they grow, the more refreshing and invigorating the wind is to them.  We drive shamelessly through town, singing at the top of our lungs, dancing like mad women, uninhibited by onlookers in the next lane.  I am transported back in time to my high school days - driving around town in a red mustang with my best friend - behaving the same.  

3.  I love playing on the floor with them.  We don't just do puzzles or play Barbies.  We rollick and roll -- we do cartwheels and jump on the mini-trampoline and sing and dance and play "break-break" and airplane and they squeal and scream as I hold them upside down above me while they cling to my legs.  We hide eggs in the house in June and even November.  We paint on the glass door.  We squirt each other with the hose.  We sing songs.  We laugh until we cry and sometimes wet our pants.  

4.  I love to talk to them.  I love to hear their thoughts.  Their tales.  Their perspective on the world around them.  I want to crawl inside their heads and see what goes on in there.  I want to watch the movie of their day from where they stood.  Then, I'd slide down into their chests and study their hearts.  And before I climb back out again, I'd hold it. I'd hug it.  I'd cradle it and cry over it.  There is nothing so precious to me in this world.  My baby's heart.  My heart.  

5.  I love seeing them everyday.  I love their companionship.  I love their smiles.  Their hugs.  Their kisses.  Their grumps.  Their fusses and whines.  I love their presence in my home and in my life.  I love hearing them in the backseat.  I love seeing them in my rearview mirror.  I love that my television is perpetually on Disney, pillows never stay where they're put, books are never reshelved, blankies are on my kitchen floor, sticker charts hang on the bathroom door, small furniture is in every room of my house, and my refrigerator, my desk, my bedside table, my car, my walls, and my heart is decoupaged with their smiles.

I love being a mom.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

Your turn.  Go.  Wallow in it.

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