To Push or Not to Push, That is the Question - Pour Your Heart Out

Teddy started getting into Pokemon a few years ago.  It started with sitting on Daddy's lap, watching him play the video game.  Then it turned into him playing the video game on his own.  A little more than a year ago, he started playing the card game at our local league.  He really seemed to love it, and it helped that he was doing really well during his first few tournaments.  A second place at a pre-release tournament.  A third place at a Battle Roads.  He was excited to go to League every Sunday and pull out his deck, testing it against anyone who would play with him.  He started making friends among the other Junior-level players.  He was happy.

Teddy hamming it up at a recent tournament.

Until he started losing.

With each loss, he'd get upset and start crying.  He'd swear that he didn't want to play anymore.  Sundays he would ask to stay home instead of go to League.  And if there was a tournament, he didn't care if he went or not.  Or if he did go, he'd play his DS the whole time he was there instead of breaking out his deck to play with his friends.  It wasn't the Pokemon that he stopped enjoying - it was the card game.

Before I had kids, I'd sworn that I would never push them to do anything they didn't want to.  (Well, except go to school.  That's kind of a requirement.)  If they didn't want to play a particular sport or an instrument, they didn't have to.  If they didn't want to go to college, they didn't have to.  The important thing was that they were happy.  Because I knew that the surest way to make them hate something was to force them to do it whether they felt like it or not.

And I still believe that it's more important for my kids to choose their own activities, to find what they enjoy.  But when it comes to Teddy and Pokemon, I'm finding that it's so much more difficult.  Because I don't know whether his desire to not play any more or that he's annoyed because it isn't easy any more.  If it's the first, then I won't push him but if it's the second.... that won't be sending the right message.

Teddy has the same problem in life that I did.  Intellectual things come to easy.  He's always been able to catch on to things quickly and it's made him think that everything should be easy.  He doesn't have the patience to work at things because he hates to fail.  And rather than try to keep learning, practicing, getting better, he convinces himself that he'll never be able to do it so why try?  And that's not a lesson that I want him to learn.  It's the path I took through life, and it's why I'm sitting here without my degree, 20 years of being a semester away from graduating.  He deserves better.

I've tried asking him why he doesn't want to play and he gives me a non-committal shrug.  And I don't think it's because he doesn't want to tell me but because he honestly isn't sure himself why he doesn't want to play.  He just knows that he's not having as much fun with it anymore and not thinking about it beyond that.

So here I am, trying to decide which instinct to follow.  Do I put my child's happiness first, following a rule I set down before he was born to not force something he doesn't enjoy, or do I try to continue making this a lesson about what perseverance can give him?  If I could guarantee that he'd get better and start winning again, I'd know what route to take.  But life doesn't have guarantees, particularly with the talented kids we have playing at our league.  He could end up getting no better and just hating it more and more.  I have no way of knowing.

I suspect I'll try to keep him going for a little while longer.  Try to get him to keep playing so maybe, just maybe, the regular practice will help him play better.  And hope that there will come a time that I won't regret this decision.

PYHO - Good-bye

I'm probably not going to be blogging much for a few days.  My heart just isn't in it.  As much as I want to continue with my challenges, post my pictures, participate in the memes that I love to be a part of and support, I hurt too much right now.

Yesterday afternoon, my mom called to tell me that my aunt, her oldest sister, had been moved to a higher level care facility hospital.  She had double pneumonia and things weren't looking good.  We needed a miracle to hope that she'd come home.  This morning, I found out that a little after two this morning, she left this world.  And, whenever I have a minute to think, I'm in tears. Not just for my own heart ache, but for that of my mother, my grandmother, my aunts and uncles, my cousins and their children.

Of all my aunts and uncles on my mom's side, Aunt Gail was the one I was closest to, in part because she was also one of my mom's best friends.  When I was growing up, I spent a lot of time at Aunt Gail and Uncle Jerry's house.  Sometimes it was because she was keeping an eye on my sister and I if my mom had an appointment.  Sometimes it was because my mom was over visiting with her.  Sometimes it would be because I had something happening after school and I'd go to her house to wait for Mom to come pick me up.

Aunt Gail was always such an open, honest woman.  She would tell you what she thought, but she was never cruel about it.  She was just... honest.  She was there for my whole family, whenever we needed her support.  As my mom has put it, she was the rock of the family. She was the one everyone went to when they felt like they couldn't go it alone.  I remember sitting in her kitchen, talking with her sometimes when school was rough for me.  When my mom and dad were divorcing, she was there for both of them.  She was just always there.

Some of my fondest memories from childhood took place with her, and in her house.  I remember her helping my mom and dad wash our new puppy, Shoe, in her downstairs bathroom.  I remember her being nearby during my first shot at babysitting - watching her first grandchild, Blake.  I remember sitting in her living room, watching cable TV (which we didn't have out at my house outside of town) while she chatted with my mom in the dining room.  I remember her letting me pull old books from the bookshelves to read when I was in elementary school.  I remember watching her fry zucchini and squash that came from her garden in the summer, and knowing that I wanted to learn how to do the same.  I remember sitting at her kitchen table, playing Skip-Bo and Polish Rummy with her and my mom and having so much fun playing with them.  Even now, about half the dreams that I have take place in her house, with her somewhere in the dream.

She hadn't been doing well for awhile.  She'd been in and out of the hospital because of her lungs for the last several years.  Every time, we were afraid that this would be the last time.  But each time, she'd managed to pull through.  But each time, she was a little weaker.  The last time I saw her was a few years ago.  We were up in NY, visiting my mom, and I made a point to stop by briefly and see her.  I think it was the only time she actually met my boys.  I wish I'd made the time when we were up this summer, though I believe she may have been in the hospital then.    I just wish I had one more chance to tell her how much I loved her and how glad I was to have had her in my life.

As I said earlier, my heart breaks more for the other members of my family than it does for myself.  My grandmother, even at almost 90, shouldn't have to bury one of her children.  I know how devastating this has to be for her, though I haven't talked to her yet.  I know that when I saw her this summer and Aunt Gail wasn't doing well, that the thought of losing her was breaking her heart then.  For all that Aunt Gail was 10 years older than my mom, she was still my mom's best friend.  She was the one that my mom talked to when things were rough.  She's the one that would go walking with mom when she wanted to try to get in shape.  When things were good, or when things were bad, I think Aunt Gail was one of the first people my mom called.  I did speak with my mom this morning and, while she was holding it together, I could hear her tears inside.  And I wanted to badly to be there with her so I could hold her and let her cry.  Aunt Gail has four children and 10 (I think) grandchildren.  And I know how close everyone of them was to her.  And I want to be there for them, too.

For the longest time, I wanted to live further away from my family.  I wanted to be away from the drama and the frustration that came from being close by.  I wanted to live my life my way and be able to love my family from a physical distance.  But right now - right now, I want to be there more than I've ever wanted to in my life.  I want to be there for my family, be able to grieve with my family, to hug and be hugged as we all cry for our loss.  Because, for all that I have my husband, my boys and my friends so close by (one of my best friends, Becca, talked me into getting out of the house this morning because she knew it was the best thing for me, and I love her for that), and for all that I'm getting the virtual hugs and condolences, it's not the same. My boys don't remember Aunt Gail.  Rich has only met her once or twice.  And my friends here in Tennessee have never met her. I can't laugh and cry over memories with them the same way I could with my mom or my sister, my grandmother or my cousins.

A part of me wants to yell and scream.  I don't CARE that she'd lived a good life.  I don't CARE that it means she's not hurting any more.  I don't want her gone.  I know that it's selfish, but I don't want my family hurting right now because she's not with us.  I just want to be able to say good-bye one last time and know that she heard me.  Because I don't know if I ever told her just how much I loved her and how much I appreciate her.  And I can't stop crying because it hurts too much.

There's a part of me that likes to think she's not in heaven alone.  My Aunt Cindy passed away a couple years ago, as did my step-mom.  My grandfather left this world 20 years ago.  I know there are others that I think she'd want waiting for her there.  I know that the sorry and heartache I'm feeling now is more for me than for her - I think that she is in whatever her idea of heaven is, and she's not hurting any more.  And I try to make that be enough to soothe my soul.  But right now, it's not.  It won't be for a little while.

So I'll be silent for a little while, i think.  At least until I can stop feeling so selfish and can start thinking outside myself again.  For the condolences that I know will be posted (because I know my readers, and you all have big hearts), thank you in advance.  Even if you don't post the words, but just think them, I thank you.  I just need a few days to finish letting my heart say good-bye.

Time - Pour Your Heart Out

Yesterday, I was a little girl, hair permed within an inch of it's life. Slim with lots of energy, I played outside all day, every day.  I searched the front yard for tiny strawberries so I could pick them and eat them with milk and sugar.  I made up stories about secret passageways in castles and would use the area between the driveway and the hedges as that passage.  I fought with my sister, could sometimes get mean.  I was too sensitive and would cry if someone was even the smallest bit stern with me.  When my parents fought, I was always convinced that it was my fault.  Who else's could it be?  I did well in school, read far beyond my grade, and wanted to be a teacher some day.  And a mommy.  Because mommies were special.

In just over a month, I will be 39.  Edging so close to 40, but not quite making it yet.  The hair has straightened.  The slimness of early childhood spreading into the fat of middle-age.  I no longer have acres and acres of property to look for strawberries in.  I don't even have a place to call my own.  And my imagination has seemed to stagnate a little.  No more castles - though I do find time to be a Pokemon master or an evil monster once in awhile.  My sister and I get along, though I wouldn't say we're close.  I'd like to say that the mean streak disappeared with childhood, but it sometimes rears it's ugly head, and it makes me cry.  I haven't lost my sensitivity, though I'm a little better at fighting back tears when I'm hurt.  Just not every time.  I know now that my parents' problems weren't my problems.  Sometimes, things aren't meant to be.  But they still are role-models to me, proof that just because a relationship ends doesn't mean that the friendship has to as well.  I still love to learn, though I don't give myself nearly enough opportunities to do so.  And I still love to read - and I make those opportunities happen.

Yesterday, he came squalling into the world.  8 pounds, 2 ounces, 21 inches long.  I have a fuzzy remembrance of , as my husband so eloquently put it, a "cream cheese covered grape" being shown to me over the draped sheet.  The doctor said he wasn't a newborn, he was a two year old.  My mind still wasn't all there, dulled by the drugs that I needed in order to have the C-Section after we realized he couldn't come into the world in the usual way.   For the longest time, I thought his eyes would stay blue. I'd so wanted a blue eyed boy.

He wasn't always a happy baby.  There were times when he would scream and cry and I would sit in the chair in tears because I just KNEW I was doing something wrong.  But those times didn't come as often as they could have.  What happened more often were the moments that made me smile - the first smile, the first word, watching him cruise around, hands on the couch, watching him take his first steps.  Knowing that, from the moment he first arrived, my life would be different, and that this would always be my baby.

In two weeks, he'll be seven.  Gone is the happy baby, content to play on the floor at my feet.  Now much of his time is spent laying on the couch, DS in hand as he happily catches Pokemon.  Gone are the blue eyes, mellowed into a beautiful hazel.  Gone are the moments when I didn't know why he was crying and it made me feel helpless.  Now I know why he's upset about something - though I can still feel helpless when I don't know how to fix it. No longer do I see so many firsts at once.  His smile and laughter, his walking and running - these I get to see every day. I also get to see the intelligence and humor, the love and joy.  I regret that I can't snuggle him in my arms for hours at a time.  Or carry him up to bed when he falls asleep downstairs.  I have to accept quick hugs, silly kisses.  I have to wake him up and prod him to get upstairs into his bed to sleep.  Or throw a blanket over him to keep him warm as he spend the night on the couch.  And for all that he's still my baby, there are times when I miss my little baby.

I see so much of who I was yesterday in who he is today.  The intelligence.  The thirst for knowledge.  The sensitivity.  The love of reading and the way he can lose himself in a book.  I see the imagination, even if he doesn't have the huge yard to let the imagination loose in like I did at his age.  I see the temper, the frustration that I remember well when things don't work out the way he'd planned.  I worry about him sometimes because I know the problems I had in my childhood.  I don't want him to have the heartache that I did.  But I also see differences.  He's sillier than I am, having his dad's sense of humor.  And he makes friends more easily.  I also don't think it bothers him as much when someone doesn't like him.  He doesn't seem to have the need for acceptance as I did.  But then again, maybe I didn't feel the need as much then.  Sometimes it's hard to remember seven.

I sit here today and wonder where the time went - both for him, and for me.  The little girl is now the woman.  The baby is now the boy.  It doesn't seem like enough time has passed for this to be reality.

Time is funny that way.

Pour Your Heart Out - Finding What Works

Today was another rough day with Peter.  It started this morning when I told him it was time to get dressed.  He was watching a Pokemon video and didn't want to stop.  I warned him that if he didn't go pick out clothes and get dressed, I'd turn the video off.  He refused and the video went off.  And that's when the fit started.  Yelling. Screaming. Crying. Hitting.  Acting more like a two year old than a four and a half year old. I spanked him.  I chased him up the stairs.  I eventually picked out his clothes and told him that, because of his behavior, he wasn't having the video turned back on before going to school.  He still got angry and I had to forcibly dress him.  Of course, he still wanted his "movie" back on and got angrier when I didn't do it. Finally, I calmed myself down and had him sit on my lap.  I reminded him that I could't understand him when he cried and talked.  No one can.  I got him calm.  Then I told him that we were leaving in 10 minutes and that, no, he wouldn't have his video on before that.  But if he was good at school today, I would let him watch it when he got home.  Finally, he agreed, got his shoes and became the happy boy that I know is in there. On the way to school, we talked about vegetables.  He wants to plant some this spring.  I have a smaller planter and have been meaning, for several years now, to plant something so we can have fresh veggies at least part of the year without having to have the money to pay for them.  We talked about different vegetables that could go in salads and my son decided that he wanted all of them planted.  Not all, I assured him, but some.  Things were going really well when we walked in the door, still talking about vegetables and salads. I don't know why things went wrong from there.  He had the sillies, maybe.  But when we got to his hook to put up his things, he started acting like a goof.  Hitting his head back into the handle of his backpack and saying "Ow."  Pretending he couldn't put things away.  His teacher came out to help and told him that she wasn't going to have the nonsense from him today.  Which just made him mad.  We finally got him to put his stuff up, and he crossed his arms and I knew, I just knew, it was going to be a rough day.  I sat down and had him look at me.  I reminded him that he needed to be good and listen to Miss Kim if he wanted to watch Pokemon when he got home.  I asked him if he understood, he said yes, but still walked into the room with his arms crossed. I ran my (very brief) errand of going to the grocery store and was trying to decide if I had the energy to blog after all when my phone rang.  It was the name of the church that he has PDO at.  My heart sank. I knew what it was.  There was no other reason the director would be calling me.  And I was right.  Pete refused to pay attention to Miss Kim, having attitude when he was asked to do anything, or even flat out refusing to do so.  Laughing at her when she tried to discipline him.  So with tears in my eyes, I went to pick him up. I walked in and told him that I was not happy with him.  That we were going home and he was not watching TV.  He was being punished because I had to pick him up for misbehavior.  I talked with his teacher and, once again, ended up in tears.  I can't blame her for being frustrated with him.  He's 4 1/2.  He shouldn't be acting like this.  None of her other students do.  Teddy never did.  So it came as no surprise when she told me that if we can't figure out what will get him to behave, that they may have to ask him to stop coming.  (Though the director assures me that we'll do everything in our power to find that.  She doesn't want to give up on him.  And for that, I'm grateful.) Pete and I talked in the car.  He knew I was upset, and he knew why I was upset.  He knew that if he didn't stop misbehaving, he would be told he couldn't come back and be with his friends.  And he knew that neither of us wanted that.  I told him that we were going home.  I would not turn on the TV for him today.  When we got home, we would work on the worksheet he refused to do at school.  He would eat his lunch and then we would both lay down and take a nap.  He was very subdued as we drove home.
His pep came back as we pulled up in front of the apartment, though.  He started to try being silly as he got out of the van, but I reminded him that it was what got him in trouble earlier.  So a little of the silliness stayed, just enough to make him happy.  He put his jacket and bags up as soon as we got in the house, then came right to the kitchen table with me to work on his worksheet.  He listened to me and did what he was supposed to.  I got to help teach him.  Then lunch (which he ate all up) and finally, nap time.  No fighting, no screaming, no yelling.  And he napped for almost 3 1/2 hours.
He just woke up now, coming downstairs happy, no Plo in his hands, no thumb in his mouth, smiling.  He told me he had a good nap.  He sat on my lap and told me his truth for the day, "Sometimes monsters come out of closets and sometimes they don't."  He snuggled me for a few minutes before I sent him off to play with his toys.  "Teddy'll be home soon, right?" he asked, and walked away smiling when I assured him he would.
There are going to be some changes around here from now on.  Things that I'm hoping will work to make it easier here and easier at school.  No more TV on all the time.  (And no more tons-of-computer time for Teddy either.)  I'm going to pull out the Preschool workbook he has and make sure to work on it with him every day.  We're going to practice his letters, his numbers and everything else we can work on.  We're going to have Mommy and Peter play time every day.  If the weather cooperates, we're going to spend more time outside.  There's a play area here in the complex (though I don't care much for it) and plenty of playgrounds in the vicinity. We're going to have afternoon naps again, because it makes a difference for him. And we're contacting a group called RIP (Regional Intervention Program) that is set up for exactly these kinds of problems.
I'm afraid that so much of this is my fault.  That I haven't been doing the things with Teddy that I did with him and that I'm shorting him for it.  I know that it's not too late to have him learn how to behave.  I know that I'll be able, with help, to find the things that work for him.  He's not hopeless, and neither am I.  It's just a matter of finding what works to bring out the best in both of us.

My happy boy, playing with his toys

Pour Your Heart Out - Another Rough Day

"He had another rough day today."
These are the words that I dread to hear when I walk in to pick up my son from Parents' Day Out, but they are also the words I expect to hear as well.  And I'm not sure what to do.  Because I don't know where this is coming from.
He's been in this PDO program since he was a year old.  He didn't give me trouble dropping him off, he'd nap without any trouble that first year.  He was a good kid most of the time and his teacher absolutely adored him - even when he did silly things like put rocks in his diaper on the playground.
As he's gotten older, we've had some smaller problems with him, usually at rest time.  For two years, it was always a toss up whether he'd be in the classroom asleep or out in the hall because he couldn't be silent and let the other kids nap.  Last year was filled with singing and kicking the walls, laughing and chattering away to himself.  But it was just naptime that was the problem.  The rest of the time, except for isolated incidents, he was a great kid.  His teachers still loved him.
But this year.... this year has been different.  He's gotten more defiant, throwing more fits.  Little things will set him off in yelling and screaming fits.  He hates to be told what to do and the fits will start when he's told that he needs to behave.  He licks his hands when he's angry, knowing that his teachers will tell him to go wash his hands again and knowing that he'll get upset by it.  He refuses to do things that he can, like writing his letters or saying his numbers.  We know that it's not a matter of not being able to - he'll do it when he wants to, but that is rarely in the classroom.
We're having him tested by the school system for special needs at his teachers' suggestion.  They want to make sure that we can all make sure we're giving him what he needs.  And on the one hand, I have no problem with that.  I WANT what's best for my son.  But on the other, there's the guilty part of me saying, "What am I doing wrong?"
For all that I know that no two kids are the same, we never had the same kind of problems with his older brother.  Yes, his brother had moments of defiance, moments where he wasn't behaving in school the way he should.  But they weren't as common as they are with my youngest.  So am I doing something different at home with him?  Am I not giving him the attention his brother got?  Am I giving him more?  Am I not working with him on things the same way I did with my brother?  What am I not giving him that I should?
Everyone assures me that it's not me.  And intellectually, I know that it's not.  But yesterday, when I walked through the door to hear that he'd had a bad day all day, I started to cry.  Because I feel like I'm failing him somehow.  I'm failing to prepare him in some way that I should.  And I'm failing his teachers, making their lives, and the lives of their students, more difficult because of something I'm doing or not doing.  It doesn't matter that the director, who also happens to be a friend of mine, tells me that we've got a lot of options to get him help.  I still feel guilty.
So tomorrow, I'm stopping by his doctor's office to pick up his medical records, making copies of his social security card and birth certificate and dropping them off at his PDO so they can send it to the school system and set up the testing.  And I have to hope that we can find a way to make things easier for all of us as we work all this out.

Pour Your Heart Out - It's Not All Bad

This year has been filled with a lot of negativity here - the problems with the van on our trip north, Rich not get assigned classes and money being tight, the engine blowing this November, the sprain in my foot just in time for the holidays.  Since so many of these things have happened in the second half of the year, it's been hard for me to remember that the year hasn't been all bad.  But really, it hasn't.  And I'm not just talking about the usual good things of having a roof over our heads, food on our table and being together.  There's been so much more.

It's been a year and a half now of Rich being cancer free.  I still remember the fear last year when we found out that he had colon cancer.  The worries as he went through surgery.  Would they get it all?  Would it reappear somewhere else?  How badly will the surgery effect him for the future?  And yes, some of those worries are still there.  We both know that there's a possibility of the cancer returning in the future.  And there have been some changes that we've had to make since his surgery.  But the important thing is that for 18 months, cancer has been out of his body.  And that's enough reason for anyone to celebrate.

This summer, we were able to take the first long vacation as a family since both boys were born.  Yes, there were problems with the van.  But the time we spent with family and friends was priceless.  We'll always have the memories of the week at the beach with Rich's family, watching the cousins play together and getting a chance to chat with other family members.  I'll always be able to rewind the video in my mind of my boys playing miniature golf with their Pop.  I still feel the hugs and love from stopping to see my heart-family, Dave and Barb.  I will always remember the peace of visiting with my mother and sister and watching my boys play with my sister's kids while remembering the fun I had with my own cousins as a child.  It was a summer that I won't forget.

This year, we were able to leave diapers behind.  It was sometimes difficult, trying to get Pete to use the potty, especially in the beginning.  He just preferred pull-ups.  But sometime after PDO was over, something clicked with him and it was all potty, all the time.  Of course he still has occasional accidents.  He's four.  But 99% of the time, he is dry.  Of course, 99% of the time, he also doesn't want to wear clothes, which makes the problem moot.  But he's making steps in the right direction.

In May, I was able to watch my son say good-bye to Kindergarten, then watch him say hello to First Grade in August.  I watched him receive an award for his reading at the end of the school year, and watched him surprise his first grade teacher with how well he could read.  I watched him deal with a bully in kindergarten and not let it break him, and I watched him gain a lot of good friends in first grade.  Every day, he impresses me, his dad and his teacher with his brains.  And just as often, he impresses us with his heart.  I've watched him become a great six year old and that's something else that I could never replace in my mind.

And Pete... along with his success at potty training, I've gotten to watch him become the little clown that he is.  His sense of humor is something that I swear I'm going to get on video one of these days.  He is growing so quickly, showing how smart he is and how different from his brother he is.  He's still small enough that he can snuggle with me on the couch (especially right now when I can't do much more than snuggle on the couch) and that fills my heart with joy.  He's my little scientist, my super hero with his enemy invisible man and my imaginative child.  He's part of what's made the year great.

One of the best things of the year was watching my dad regain himself.  For so long, he'd been in pain. There was so little that he could do - physically and mentally.  But he was able to let go of baggage, have his back repaired and lose a lot of weight.  And now he's doing so much.  He's even dating again, and I couldn't be happier for him.  My relationship with my dad has always been strong, and I'm still a Daddy's girl.  (I doubt that's something that will ever change.)  But I feel even closer to my dad now, somehow.  I've been able to spend more time with him, able to see him more (both at my house and at his) and I'm continuing to make memories with him just as much as I'm making memories with my own children.  The best is that I'm able to let him continue to make memories with his own grandsons.  I can't regret that.

I've made a lot of positive changes in my life as well.  I'm continuing to lose weight.  Slowly, yes.  But I've lost over 35 pounds since I was at my heaviest a few years ago.  And I'm noticing the difference not only in my clothes but in my ability to do things.  I don't hurt as much as I used to.  I don't feel as tired as often.  And I'm heading in the right direction.  I'm also starting to figure out how to keep on top of the things that I need to do around the house.  For awhile, my house was a disaster.  There was a time when we were being threatened with non-renewal of our apartment because of the state it was in.  But now I'm able to keep things clean and I'm even working through my clutter.  This moment in time, when I can't do as much as I was because of the sprain, is a momentary set-back.  I've internalized what I need to know to get back on track.  And that's what is important.

So I may often say that 2012 sucked.  It's been a year when one thing after another has gone wrong.  But I can also remember the things that have gone right, the things that, when I remember them, will fill me with a sense of pride and love, that will make me smile when I remember them.  Like every other year, 2012 has had it's good and it's bad.  But I want to try to remember the good as I step from 2012 into 2013.

Should I Be a Mom? - Pour Your Heart Out

Should I have ever had the boys?  Do I really have what it takes to be a mom?

These questions have been going through my mind since... well, honestly, since the day I found out I was pregnant with Teddy.  But for some reason, they've been circling my brain more than usual lately.  And I want it to stop.

I love my boys.  I truly do.  When Teddy comes up to me at night and says, "Mama, I want to snuggle!", my heart expands with love.  When Pete practically jumps in my arms and says, "You're the best mommy in the whole world!", I know that there is no love in the world like what I feel for these little ones. And those are the times that I'm so grateful for what I have.

But then there are the times I sit back and look at my behavior and am convinced that I should just walk out the door because it would be better for Rich and the boys in the long run.  Times when I see my anger, my depression, my spending, my procrastination as insurmountable problems rather than something that I'll find a way through.  There are times when I see the same personality struggle between me and Teddy that my mom and I had, and it scares me.  Because, for all that I love my mother, we would anger lock each other and have the hardest time breaking out of it.  My mom said things when she was angry that hurt me for a long, long time, eating away at my psyche until I started talk therapy and was able to deal with it a bit more.

Those times, the times I get anger locked, are the ones that scare me the most.  Because I'll hear myself say such hurtful things to whichever of the boys is pissing me off at the moment and, at the moment I say it, I mean it.  Or rather, the anger means it.  When I tell them I want to give them away or that I should never have had them.  When I tell them that they're not stupid, so why do they have to act like it all the time.  Or when I swear uncontrollably at the top of my voice.

When I was a kid, after one of these soul-scaring arguments with my mom, I swore that I would never treat my kids the way I was treated.  I would never say hurtful things. I would never let my anger get the better of me.  I was going to be an understanding mom, a calm mom.  I wasn't going to fight with my kids the way my mom and I fought.  And yet here I am, screaming at the top of my lungs, physically holding back a hand that wants to fly out and smack them hard (at least I have enough strength of mind to not hit them even when I want to), saying more hateful things than my mother ever said to me.

I don't know how to fix it.  And that scares me.  I take medication to help with my depression and anxiety, but they don't always seem to work. I need to get in to talk therapy again, but I have such a difficult time making that initial call.  Rich has talked about getting a durable medical power of attorney so he can make these calls for me, but we haven't done it yet.  

I've tried to find a stress-outlet, since I know that it's a big part of what makes me shorter tempered, but I haven't found one that I can do regularly enough. For awhile, I went to Starbucks to read a book and sip a drink while Rich watched the boys, but then money got tight.  I've tried taking a bath with a book and a glass of wine, but I always have the kids wanting to come in and talk to me.  I've tried journaling, but like so many things I get gung-ho about, it ends up falling by the wayside within a couple of weeks.

This, of course, feeds into my depression.  Maybe I don't want to change?  Maybe there's a part of me that likes being a bullying bitch to my kids, hurting them when I'm hurting inside myself because I've got to share the pain?  Maybe I should never have had them in the first place and then they wouldn't have to worry about having a psycho mommy?

All I know is that I've got to do something.  Because I do love these boys more than I love myself and I hate what I'm doing to them by getting into this cycle of self-hate.  They need a strong mommy, one who loves them and treats them right.  One that doesn't show them when she gets angry.  One that doesn't need to apologize when she gets angry because she doesn't get angry.

In my heart, I know that I'm the best mom for these boys.  There are still far more times of hugs and fun and silliness than there are times of anger and hurt.  There are still many times when I control my anger and talk things through with them.  I know their quirks and foibles, what makes them laugh and how to comfort them when they are sad.  And I love them so much that it hurts.  But I want... no, I need to be a better mommy before it's too late.  Even when they get on my last nerve, destroying a living room in 10 minutes that I worked for four hours to get immaculate or being demanding and contrary, my heart can't hold any more love for them than I do now.  And I want them to always remember me as a loving mommy.  They need that touchstone, and I need to leave that legacy.

*edited to add: I just took a first step.  I called and made an appointment with a talk therapist.  They can't get me in until the end of November, but it's an appointment made.  Now it's just finding ways to cope between now and then.

It's Not as Easy as You Think - PYHO

"You know this is a supposed to be a social event.  You need to play with other people."
"Why don't you just call the school?"
"You should contact your school board member.  That's what they're there for."
Three phrases I've heard this week.  Three phrases from well-meaning people that don't understand how difficult social anxiety can be.
I've always been a shy person, afraid of confrontation and worried about what people think.  When I was a kid, I was teased for being smart, for being overweight, for being poor.  There were many times when I opened up to someone, sure that they were going to be a real friend, that they would be someone I could talk to and trust, only to find out later that they were making fun of me behind my back.  I still remember overhearing one boy say to another, "Amber likes you?  You'd better run!"  And my heart broke and I cried.  Which, of course, let me in for more teasing.  And this was a regular thing for me in my tiny K-12 school until I moved to Florida and attended a much larger school.
But by then, the damage was done.  Yes, in my new school I had more friends.  I was accepted for who and what I was.  I was able to reinvent myself a little without having to live down the embarrassing moments from my youth.  But the seeds of doubt were firmly in my mind, the conviction that things weren't what they seemed.
As I got older, it became more and more difficult for me to handle any kind of confrontation.  Oh, I could go into a store and shop.  I could handle being a call center employee where 90% of the calls coming in to me were ones where I got to help rather than ones where I was yelled at.  I could handle calling a select few friends and family members.  
But not all of them.  If there was a new friend, or someone that I hadn't talked to in awhile, I had a difficult time picking up the phone.  What if they are in the middle of something?  What if their "call me" wasn't sincerely meant?  What if what if what if?  And if I needed to talk to someone about something that was wrong, like calling about Teddy's busing situation, I freeze up.  What if they aren't the ones that are wrong, but I am?  Will they make me feel even worse about myself than I do on my darkest days?  Even knowing what I do from working customer service doesn't make it any easier.  The negative thoughts keep circling.
People think it's easy to just join in the fun.  After all, everyone around you is having fun.  They're there to talk, to play a game, to participate in the fun that they are their to have.  And that's, supposedly, why I came too.  And it is.  And I want to.  But what most people don't realize is the fact that I'm even there is a big step for me.  Going out of my house and joining in a new situation where I don't know the people, don't know the rules, don't know how things usually happen, is almost paralyzing to me.  Large groups, like Nashville's Celebration of Cultures isn't a problem because I can hide among the large number of people.  I don't have to be social.  But smaller groups, like our local Pokemon League, are a different animal.
With the Pokemon League, we've been going for about 9 months, almost a year.  At first, I let Rich take Teddy and I'd stay home with Pete.  I didn't know the people and I didn't know the game.  Then Rich started taking Pete to give me a bit of alone time.  Then, for a reason I still don't understand, I started joining them.  First, it was things like Pre-release tournaments.  Then I started coming on Sundays.  Most of the time, I kept an eye on Pete, read or played on my Kindle and kept to myself.  Slowly, I started getting to know a few of the PokeMoms-and-Dads.  We'd talk about little things, things that weren't terribly important, sharing things we had in common like various geekisms or what it was like to be a parent.  But even now, I generally stake out a table and sit by myself in the corner, saying hi as people walk by rather than come up and sit with someone that's already there or invite others to sit with me.
Pokemon is, in a lot of ways, Teddy's life.  He plays the DS game, plays the card game, reads Pokemon books, plays pretend Pokemon with Pete, compares things to Pokemon.  It's his current obsession and, as obsessions go, he could have worse.  Pete's getting to be very much the same way.  And Rich also plays at League and in tournaments.  And for the longest time, Teddy's been wanting me to play as well.  So I asked Rich to make me a deck.  And, without realizing why, I asked Rich to play a round with me at League the other week.  I signed up for a POP ID and started playing.  But only with Rich and Teddy.
I know a lot of the people that play, both the kids and the adults.  They know me.  I can call them by name, ask them about things in their life.  But I can't, without serious fear, ask them to play a game with me.  I don't know the rules well.  I make a lot of mistakes when I play because I forget things.  My deck isn't very good so they won't be getting a good amount of play out of me.  And if I make a mistake, I'm sure I'll cry from embarrassment  which will just embarrass me more.  (As a matter of fact, thinking about it is bringing tears to my eyes as I type this.)
All these thoughts go through my head, keep me from enjoying something that I know I do enjoy, keep me from putting myself out there where I can learn more.  And it makes me want to jump back into my hole, not play, not try to push myself out there because of the fear of rejection.  And people just don't understand it.
It's so easy for someone to suggest that I do something that they, themselves would find easy.  It's easy to look at me from the outside and suggest how to handle a situation.  And it's easy for them to be in the situation.  But for them to be me, just for a day when the pressures of facing my fears is overwhelming... they can't do it.  Because they aren't made the way that I am.  And the worst of it is, I can't even tell them when the situation comes up, because that feeds into my fears as well.
I'm trying.  I really am.  Sunday, I'm planning on asking the head of the League to play a round with me.  Monday, I called the school system again to complain about the bus situation.  I was forceful about what my worries and concerns and what I had a problem with.  I gave them the information they needed without resorting to screaming, swearing or breaking into tears.  I was told they'd call me back with answers to my questions regarding why they can't get my son home at close to the same time every day.  And so far, I've heard from no one.  But I can't take the step to make another call yet.  Because it's too hard of a step to take right now.
I just want people to understand that it's not as easy to be inside my head as they think it is.

The Case of the Overcrowded Bus - PYHO

The facts:

• Teddy has been back to school for 2 months.
• We live 1 mile from the school.
• A school bus is supposed to pick up the kids from our apartment complex at 7:36 for an 8 am elementary school start time.
• A school bus is supposed to drop off the kids at 3:19 at the end of their school day.

The story:

Last year, Teddy was a car rider.  Not because of any problems with the bus - he seemed to enjoy riding it, the kids didn't pick on him and it picked the kids from our complex and dropped them off near the time they were supposed to every day.  No, he was a car rider last year because it became easier for me to drive him back and forth because of Pete's school schedule and the fact that Teddy didn't pay attention when he was walking down the drive to the complex with the other kids and would run out in front of traffic.  And I liked driving him back and forth to school.  I'd get a minute or two to chat with his PE teacher to see how he was doing and things like that.

This year, however, I decided that the bus was going to be the thing.  He was a year older, a little more responsible - and I was making an effort to bring him up to the stop and walk him (and about a dozen other kids whose parents were never there) down into the main part of the apartment complex.  Pete liked waiting for Teddy at the bus and Teddy had a few new friends at our stop that helped him enjoy his time there.

This was the plan.  And it would have been a good one.  If they didn't keep messing with the kids' in our complex's bus schedule.

At the beginning of the year, we would get to the stop at around 7:25, just in case the bus was early.  And we'd wait.  And wait.  And wait.  Finally, around 7:50, the bus would show up and, with the grid-lock of traffic between our complex and the school, they would consistently be late.  And the afternoons were no better.  Pete and I would walk up to meet Teddy at around 3:15.  45 minutes later, the bus would finally show up, the kids telling stories of how they had to wait for a new bus to pick them up.  And this wasn't a once-in-awhile thing.  This was happening every day.

I called the school system, registered several complaints about the delay for the buses and was told they were still working out things with the buses, that they had less drivers this year so they were trying to figure out routes and to please be patient.  So I was, steaming inside all the while.

When a note came home with the kids in our apartment complex stating that our kids were going to be moved to a different bus and we were given the new times, I was hopeful.  I was giving them another chance, because Teddy liked riding the bus and I liked not wasting gas in stop and go traffic.

For a little while, it did seem to do the trick.  The bus picked the kids up between 7:35 and 7:40 every morning.  They had time to get to school, grab breakfast if they were able, and settle into their classroom before morning announcements.  And in the afternoon, they would be dropped off at the stop between 3:15 and 3:30.  A little later than we were told, but not 45 minutes later, so I could handle it.

These last two weeks, I'm seeing the old patterns reassert themselves and I'm hearing disturbing things from the kids as they get off the bus in the afternoon.  Yesterday, the bus didn't arrive until 7:55.  And when I turned the corner a short time after it had left (on my way to the grocery store with Pete), I saw it sitting on the side of the road, no driver in the driver's seat and the bus full of kids, I was steaming.  They were already late.  What on earth was she doing?

But that isn't even what has me the angriest.  It's what has been happening in the afternoons.  The buses each go by a color and the kids line up according to that color.  Then they'll call the bus colors out two at a time so there isn't so much chaos heading for the buses.  The kids from our complex wait patiently in line with the rest of the kids on the Red bus.  Their color gets called, they walk out and get on the bus.  And then the bus driver turns to them and says, "Brighton Valley kids, you need to get off the bus.  It's too full.  Another bus will be by soon to take you home."  So the kids need to get back off the bus and return to the school to wait once more until there's a free bus that can pick them up and bring them home.

What I don't understand is why, all of a sudden, the buses are getting overcrowded again.  They have a roll of who lives where so they know how many kids could, at maximum, be getting on or off at each stop.  They know how many kids can fit on the bus (and there's a lot since they are long buses and they make the elementary school kids sit 3 to a seat).  So why is this, once again, a problem?  And why is it always our kids?  I've asked Teddy, and I've asked his friend, Landon.  There's never an announcement that other kids need to get off the bus because of overcrowding.  It's only our apartment complex.  And it happens at least once a week.

Of course, they don't bother to let any of the parents' know that they are making our kids' wait until someone else is free to take them.  We're still required to be there at 3:15 to pick up our kids, regardless of the weather or anything else.  And then we're required to wait.  And wait.  Because, of course, they can't drop our kids off in our apartment complex.  Supposedly, the bus has no place to turn around if they do (which is a lie, since I've seen them turn around inside there on other occasions).  So we are waiting on an access road next to a busy street to take our K-4 kids back to the safety of their homes.

I don't want to drive him to school or pick him up from school.  I want him to be able to spend time with his friends, Landon and Ashton.  I want him to have the experience of being a bus rider so he knows what's expected on buses.  And, selfishly, I want that bit of extra time it gives me not having to be at the school 45 minutes early so I'm not having to wait out in the street because the parking situation is abysmal. 

I don't think I'm asking for much.  Just for them to get their act together, stick with a route for our kids and stop treating them like extras who are just thrown to whoever can take them.  Because it's not fair to them, it's not fair to the drivers who aren't familiar with our route and it's not fair to us.

PYHO - He can't be 4

For the last month, it's been a regular litany of, "I'm gonna be 4 on my birthday!"  People don't even need to ask him, he's willing to tell everyone he meets that the big day is coming soon and he won't be 3 any more, he'll be four.

Most days, it's just a matter of fact.  The miracle of becoming four is buried in the day-to-day frustrations of "Don't hit your brother!" and "I don't care what you think you heard, you can't have cake for breakfast!" The messes that need to be cleaned up, the backpack and lunch that needs to be packed two days a week, the strange conversations that one can only have with a preschooler.  And, of course, it's lost among the stresses of getting ready for the day - where to have the party, what kind of cake does he want, who will be coming, how can we afford this once he actually has friends?!!!

But then there are times like today when I sit back and wonder where my baby has gone.  A year ago, he was in diapers.  We flirted with potty training, but that's all it was, a brief glance across a crowded room before diapers closed between us again.  You couldn't understand a lot of what he said, his speech was still so much the baby talk of a two year old.  He had no interest in doing anything beyond playing and coloring.  He loved dinosaurs and pretty much ignored everything that Teddy was into.

Today, I realized as he ran around the house naked (a common occurrence now that he knows how to use the potty), that he's even closer to becoming his own person.  He wants peanut butter and jelly and it has to be cut in half or he won't eat it.  Chocolate milk is his drink of choice.  He understands now, where a year ago he didn't, that he can't get nuggets and fries from McDonald's at 8am.  He tells me stories, "reads" to me from books, and wants to learn how to play Pokemon with his brother.  He adores Teddy's DS and tells everyone who'll listen that he wants one of his own.  He has bumps and bruises, really plays with other kids, and doesn't need Mommy for much anymore.

But I also know that my baby isn't gone.  This morning, as we were coming in from the car after dropping Teddy off at the bus, he tripped and smacked his face into the sidewalk.  From the heavy rain we had, he ended up completely black with mud, scrapes on his knees, and a bloody lip.  He cried.  Loud, piercing sobs.  And I wrapped him in my arms, held him close and told him that it would be ok.  Mommy would fix it.  We came inside, I cleaned him up on the bathroom sink, then got him an ice cube in a paper towel to hold on his lip.  And then I just snuggled him.  It made him feel better.  And it made me feel better.

He's growing up.  I can't stop it.  But somewhere in there will always be my baby.  My sweet angel who tells me, "I love you, Mommy." and comes to me to be held.  The one who curls in my lap and sucks his thumb while watching TV, because Mommy's lap is still the most comfortable place to be.  It's hard to get him to slow down sometimes, but  when he does, and when he falls asleep, my heart swells.  My baby.

PYHO - It's Not the Same

Over at Momma Can..., Momma spoke about the importance of saying yes to the notes your child comes home with from the PTA or the teacher. Many schools - and more importantly, teachers - are relying on donations and assistance from the parents and the community at large.  So few things are able to be supplied by the school systems any more that things that were once a staple of school just don't happen any more.

And it got me thinking about how different Teddy's school experience is than mine was 30+ years ago.

When I was in first grade, I don't remember needing to bring my own crayons, my own glue, my own chalk (which would have been the equivalent of today's dry erase markers).  What I needed for school were  pencils and paper.  Maybe not even the pencils, though I suspect I probably did.

Teddy had a long list of things that he needed to have for the first day of school, along with another list sent home by his teacher on the first day of school.  The school-wide list was:

• 1 large box of Kleenex
• 1 small plastic school box
• 1 pair of Fiskar scissors
• 24 count box of crayons (no more)
• Back Pack (NO ROLLING BACK PACKS)
• 4 Yellow #2 pencils (Do not put names on the pencils)
• 1 container of disinfecting wipes
• 2 (8oz.) Elmer's bottle of white glue
• 1 pack of rectangular erasers
• 1 bottle of liquid soap

Our Art teachers request the following materials from 1st grade students:

• 1 box of #2 pencils
• 1 box of Crayola colored pencils

The teacher's list was similar, a few more of various items here and there.  And while I think that these things are incredibly important to learning, it saddens me that schools aren't able to help provide something as simple as Kleenex or soap.

It's not just the supplies that are different.  It's what we learned vs what they are learning.

When I was in school, there was a focus on being well-rounded.  Art and music were as important as math and reading.  PE was something that (I think) we had every day.  We learned science and social studies, talked about the world around us.  Through 6th grade, we had a designated day and time that we went to the library every week.  When we were younger, the librarian would read a story to us.  As we got older, we were encouraged to pick out books to take home and read.  It was a huge thrill when we were able to move from the "little kid" books to the ones that were for what would here be considered middle school. (And the day we were able to go through the door from the elementary library to the HS library.... just, wow!)

For Teddy, he still gets art and music - and, thankfully, he's at a school where they do think it's important.  But he's got PE two days a week instead of daily (and yet, they complain about children being overweight).  The library is something he goes to only when he wants to rather than being a scheduled thing.  His teacher mentioned at Open House that they aren't letting them focus on science or social studies any longer - our school had poor reading and math grades so it was to be a heavy focus on those two subjects and the rest could be fit in as you had time.

When I was younger, school was as much a place of social learning as it was book learning.  Recess lasted 30 minutes.  You were encouraged to play and to work out your differences with your friends.  Teachers were there if you needed them, but they tried to let us handle what we thought we could first.  The time we weren't learning how to write or read or add or how plants grew was spent learning how to interact with our friends - and we were given down-time to just decompress from the hard job of learning.  Granted, it was a little less each year, but the down time was just as important.

In Teddy's school, recess lasts 15 minutes.  Lunch is only 20 minutes.  Every minute of every day is scheduled with learning.  There never seems to be a minute that they can catch their breath.

It seems as though what they learn is accelerated far beyond what I learned at that age.  Kindergarten was a time to play, to learn how to interact with people, and maybe learn your ABC's, numbers, colors and shapes.  We still had nap time and afternoon snacks.  First grade was simple addition, starting to read, starting to learn how to write a bit better.  I don't ever remember bringing home homework my first couple years of school.

But for Teddy, kindergarten was a place where he learned simple addition and how to read sight words.  (Though he has always been far beyond when it comes to reading).  In first grade, he's already doing tens addition.  The first week he came home from school, the word "attitude" was one of his spelling words.  He has homework every night (though usually it's only a worksheet or two).  He has spelling tests weekly and tests on his reading passages.  It's a lot more work than I remember first grade being.

Now, in some ways, I'm comparing apples and oranges.  I went to school at a K-12 in upstate New York. Teddy goes to a K-4 school in a state capital.  We had 2 teachers for each grade.  They have between 8 and 10.  We could wear whatever we wanted to.  They have an SSA (though, thankfully, it's not as strict as it could be).  We didn't have the infrastructure in place to help kids that were gifted.  Teddy's school does.  I don't know how schools were in larger towns, if they were anything like what Teddy's experiencing now.  But from what I've read by others, I don't think my experience would have been too different from theirs.

Don't get me wrong.  I love Teddy's school, his teachers and there are a lot of advantages he has now that I couldn't dream of having then.  Everyone at the school knows Teddy and loves him.  They try to find ways to push him further than he would push himself - like letting him read chapter books (since he's reading at a 5th grade level).  We've had some problems with him health-wise in school, and they go out of their way to make things easier for him there.  I am glad that he has this school and has had these teachers.  But sometimes... sometimes I wish he could go back to when I was in school and enjoy being a kid rather than having to focus so hard on learning.

PYHO: Why is It Just Me?

I've talked a lot lately about getting myself on track with housework.  I've been so proud of the fact that I've kept my house clean for over a week - an unheard of feat in the past.  I may have kept a room or two clean, but never everything.  There was always more places than not that needed serious attention.  But I finally managed to get everything under control, figured out how to make keeping the house clean work for me, how to get the groove going.  I was so proud of the fact that I could let maintenance workers come in without fear.  That I wouldn't be pushing hard to get the house presentable when the quarterly visit by the pest control guy happened at the end of the month (read: tomorrow, Thursday, August 30).  It felt good to know that I was finally on top of one thing in my life, and that it was just the beginning for everything else that would be coming under control as well.

That is, until I got sick/threw my back out.  I don't know if it was overdoing it with all the cleaning or just my back being persnickety, but from about Saturday on, I've spent more time in bed than out.  Trying to move to the bathroom hurt.  Trying to eat made me nauseous.  I spent more time asleep than awake.  I was just feeling completely and utterly horrendous.

My husband said not to worry. He'd take care of things.  He made sure that the kids had lunches and dinner.  He made sure Teddy's homework got finished and that laundry was done on Monday.  He went out to buy ginger ale for me since it was one of the easiest things on my stomach.  He reminded the kids that Mommy wasn't feeling good so no, going up to wake her up just to show her something on the Pokemon game wasn't a good idea.  He's a good husband.  Which is why I'm a little annoyed at myself with how annoyed I am at him and the boys for the state of the apartment when I finally dragged myself downstairs last night, knowing that I would have to do a lot of dragging today (since he had to go to work and I had to drive Pete to PDO).

I came downstairs to find books and toys littering the living room floor, dishes sitting on the coffee table with bits of yogurt stuck to the side.  I found paper plates littered here and there instead of in the garbage where they belonged.  Shoes weren't at the front door, and backpacks weren't in the bin at the bottom of the stairs but were instead hazards to avoid while trying to walk from room to room.  And the kitchen... the kitchen I'd been so proud of keeping clean had dishes piled in the sink, empty pizza boxes lying on the stove and on the counter, jars and containers taking up all the spare space on the counter tops.  Magnets weren't on the fridge where I'd been reminding the boys to put them after they'd been taken off.  They were, instead, on the floor in front of the fridge acting as caltrops to anyone foolish enough to try to enter the fridge with bare feet.

I couldn't deal with it last night.  But it simmered inside me, just waiting for some other frustration to push me over the edge.  And that frustration came this morning with kids refusing to listen to me, items missing from the backpack that were supposed to be there, and shoes lost amid the mess and clutter.

I'll admit, I lost it.  I yelled and screamed, cried and bitched.  I'd been working so hard at keeping on top of things and in less than a week of me being out of commission, I felt like I'd done nothing.  I felt like I was the only one that was keeping a lid on things and I felt like I wasn't allowed to have a down day.  I was angry because even though keeping on top of things at home is my responsibility - one of the jobs that I'm supposed to be paid for in hugs, kisses and love instead of cash - I felt like I wasn't allowed to have time off because if I did, everything would go to shit.

I hate feeling like it's all on me.  Yes, I'm the one that stays home.  Taking care of the house is part of my "job".  But everyone here is old enough to help out.  I shouldn't have to go after everyone and remind them that their clothes need to be put in the hamper, not on the floor.  Or that their dishes need to go in the sink.  Or the reason we have a trash can is for trash to go in it, not for trash to be left on the floor.  It's hard enough when I'm feeling 100% (or even 75%) and can bug them to do these things.  When I'm not up for bugging them and have to come down  to find everything that they should know better about doing being left for me is enough to make me wonder why I bother.

My husband told me he'll take care of all of it tonight when he gets home.  I'm going to trust him, because I know that he's going to try to make it right.  And I'm going to push the boys to make sure they help as well.  And hopefully tomorrow, I'll be back to 75% and be able to jump back to what I need to do.  Because we all need to remember that it's our house.  Not my house.  Not Rich's house.  Not Teddy's or Peter's house.  But our house, and that means we all need to work on keeping up with it.  Because I don't mind doing the heavy lifting, as long as I'm not the only one carrying all the weight.

PYHO - I Just Want to Whine

I know that I shouldn't.  Whining is a plea for attention, saying "Poor pity me!  I've got it so rough!"  And I know that I whine more than I probably should.  I know that my life isn't hard.  Compared to many, my life has been a dream.  I've never been hungry or worried about where I was going to live.  I've never been the victim of physical violence (though mental is another story).  I've had friends and family that loved me through some of the darkest days of depression.  I even had a friend call the cops on me when I was threatening suicide, because she couldn't get to me as quickly as they could.  (And I love her for helping put me on the road to recovery.)

I probably don't have a lot to whine about.  But I want to whine today anyway, because of the little things that didn't go my way.

I didn't get as much cleaned as I wanted to.  I spent too long looking around Wal-Mart, trying to figure out what, precisely, I wanted to purchase in order to get myself better organized. I always having a hard time looking at what I did do, instead of focusing on what I did.

I forgot to ask my husband to bring down the boxes of clothes that I needed to bring to my friend's for her kids, so I carried three not-so-heavy-but-somewhat-awkward boxes downstairs and out to the van.  My back was screaming at me by the time I was finished.

Just as they were dismissing the kids from school, my van decided to die.  I panicked because there were other parents behind me and I couldn't figure out what was wrong.  There was not trying to turn over, but there was also no loss of battery.  I thought people would get mad at me because I wasn't moving and I didn't know how I was going to get the kids and I back home.  (Especially since we'd let AAA lapse.)  I was worried and scared and couldn't stop crying as I called first my husband and then my father.

Once I finally did get the van home (my dad said it was just a glitch in the electrical system because, after a few minutes "rest", it started back up with no problem) I decided to let it rest a bit more.  I'd promised Teddy that we'd get his hair cut today, followed by Subway for dinner and a trip to the park.  I had to reneg on Subway and the park, but the salon is right across the street.  Which meant there was no reason we couldn't walk there.  Except for it being uphill most of the way there (my apartment complex is in a valley), it being 82 degrees and humid and me being woefully out of shape.  But I wasn't going to disappoint my son again.  So the three of us walked.

Between trying to get keep Peter from running into the road and carrying my purse up the hill and across 4 lanes of traffic, I strained my back.  But I had to ignore it because I still had to get back home after the boys got their haircuts.

Peter, for the first time since we started getting his hair cut, threw a fit as our stylist was trying to cut it.  We almost had to put it off to another day, but the thought of Teddy going home with new hair and him not meant that he finally settled down.

We had to walk back.  Downhill, but still hot.  And now along with the boys to control and my purse over my shoulder, I was carrying a bag of product for the boys' hair.  My back got worse.  Add to this the need to walk past the apartment to our mailbox, only to find out that the only mail was junk mail, and the boys fought over who was going to carry the keys and who "won" in their race to the mailbox and back.

Once inside and settled, I took pics of the boys.  That's actually what my PYHO was going to be about - talking about how different my boys look right after a hair cut, how grown up.  I had pictures from earlier in the week, with their shaggy manes, and pictures from today where they both look so much older than their 3 and 6.  But for some reason, my computer won't pull up the files when I try to pull them from the SIM card. So I decided that I wanted to whine instead.

Yes, I know that these are all little problems, and most of them worked out in the end.  I found what I wanted at Wal-Mart - and had the money to buy it.  Even though it hurt, I managed to get all three boxes of clothes downstairs, to the van, dropped off at my friend's house, to her on her porch, grab lunch from McDonald's and still pick up Pete on time from PDO.  My van did start back up and it didn't cost me anything to have it do so (*knock on wood*).  Even though it's hotter than it should be on Pi Day in Tennessee, the walk was good for me.  Getting more exercise is always good.  Plus, the boys got exercise too.  And even without the pictures today, I still found something to write about for PYHO.

Trivial things.  Small things.  Things that, even me looking back at them knows they are nothing to really whine about.  But that doesn't stop me from want to, even if it's just for a little while.  Even if it's just in the space of this post.  Because sometimes, you've got to get the whine out and then move on.  And that's what I'm doing now.  The whine is out, my soul is clean, my heart okay.  It's time to move on.

So Much, So Little - PYHO

On Sunday, I will turn 38.

38 years of trying to figure out this thing called life.

456 months of doing the best I can.

13, 880 days of making decisions that affect the course of my life.

333, 120 hours of growing and learning.

19, 987, 200 minutes that have been filled with moments both cherished and forgotten.


Sometimes I'm proud to be turning 38.  After all, I've been alive for almost 4 decades.  I've seen a lot and done a lot in that time.  I've seen the world change from large push button machines to ones that you can hold in the palm of your hand while you swipe your finger across the machine.  I've seen fashion go from leg warmers and jelly shoes to ripped jeans and flannel to... well, whatever kids are wearing now.  I've listened to the music of Alabama and Rick Springfield, Reba McEntyre and Queensryche, JoDee Messina and They Might Be Giants, Carrie Underwood and Lady Gaga.  I've gone from surprising my teachers that I could read in kindergarten to my son's teacher being surprised not that he can read, but how well he can read.  I've moved from a small town in New York to a larger town in Florida to one of the biggest cities in the country to the capital of my state.  I've fallen in love, had my heart broken and broken a few hearts along the way.  I've learned who I am and what I want from life.  I've met the man of my dreams and, with him, brought two wonderful boys into the world.  I've had a good 38 years.

But there are other times where I wonder where the 38 years have gone.  I still remember waiting at my bus stop in first grade, holding on to my "briefcase" that held my pencils and paper for school.  I can remember fighting with my sister, hurting her sometimes but also being afraid when she would really get hurt.  I remember standing up for her, but not being able to stand up for myself.  I remember my first boyfriend, and my first kiss. And I remember how heart broken I was when I found out that he was only dating me because of a bet or something.  I remember my first love and the heart break I felt when my parents wouldn't let us date any longer.  I remember getting ready for college, getting scared out of my wits during Honors Weekend when some friends and I found evil.  I remember being able to run without getting winded, being able to move without pain.  I remember fitting into size 9 clothes (and feeling so good when I did).  I remember being on my own and going back to my parents.  I remember being innocent and trusting.  I remember being rewarded, and getting hurt.

But mostly, I remember my dreams that never came true.  I dreamed of being a teacher.  I loved my teachers in school.  I loved the knowledge they imparted and how they made things fun.  I loved teaching things to my friends and I just knew I could be a great teacher.  But when I actually got into the schools for the mentoring program in college, I couldn't handle it.  I was used to people that wanted to learn.  I went in blind.  And it was too much for me.  So teaching became a broken dream.

I remember the three men I imagined spending the rest of my life with.  The first, my first love that still holds a tender place in my heart.  The second, a man that demeaned me but I was convinced that I was destined to be with. The third, a man who had no confidence in himself which made it difficult to be with him.  Each dream, shattered in time.

I remember thinking I'd be a perfect mom and housekeeper.  I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of getting yelled at and I'd never do that to my kids.  But I find myself yelling when angry, feeling like I'm losing control.  I hear the words, "Because I said so," coming out of my mouth when I swore I never would say them.  I see the disaster that is my home and wonder where I went wrong.

This wasn't the life I thought I'd have 10, 15, 20, even 30 years ago.  In some ways, it's better.  I have a man that understands me, supports me and loves me falling asleep next to me every night.  I have two little boys who tell me they love me more than the whole wide world.  I have family close by without being on top of me, and friends that are just a message away.  I hadn't seen where the internet was going when I made my life plans, and it's invention has given me more than I could ever imagine.  Those are the good things.

But I'm also not where I want to be, financially and personally.  Don't get me wrong.  I don't mean my physical location or the people in my life.  Those are some of the best parts of the last 38 years.  But where I want to be is something I can't figure out.  I was sure that by the time I was 38, I'd know what I wanted to do with my life.  I'd have something that I could look at and say, "I'm good at that.  This is what I want."  Instead, I feel like I'm floundering around from one thing to the next.  I throw myself into crafting for a few months, then it feels old.  I start blogging and love it... but then feel overwhelmed by the things I want to add.  I start writing - fiction, non-fiction, it doesn't matter.  But even that feels more of a requirement than a joy.  So I have this feeling of dissatisfaction because I'm convinced that, by now, I should have answers to all these things.  But I don't.  And I'm not sure if I ever will.  And I'm not okay with that but I also don't know how to fix it.

But the biggest thing that bothers me as I get older is the same thing that bothered me as a child - death.  There were a couple decades where I didn't think about death.  I didn't think about what was waiting for me in the afterlife or what I would do without certain people in my life.  Death wasn't personal.  But now, I'm seeing friends and loved ones pass away.  People that aren't that much older than me leaving behind loved ones.  My step-mother passed away 3 years ago and I've had to watch my father deal with her loss.  And her death makes me think of how much or how little time my Daddy has left and what I'll do when he's gone.  I worry that something will happen to me and my boys won't have the chance to know me.  I worry that something will happen to them and I'll shatter.  I worry because my belief in the afterlife is that what happens is what you want to happen (heaven, hell, rebirth, nothing) and because of this philosophy, I don't know what will happen to me.  I'm afraid of being forgotten and forgetting.

38 years.  So much. So little.

A Change Will Do You Good

Great intentions, right?  I always have great intentions.  I intend to keep up with the housecleaning every day. I intend to post on my blog every day. I intend to keep up with SparkPeople every day.  I intend to work-out every day and work on swaps every day and play with my boys every day and and and.

I know that I'm over committed. I need to work on that. I need to find a way to do the things I want to do without them being stressful. Because I really do enjoy the things that I do.

I love to do things for swap-bot.  It keeps my creativity flowing.  The same goes for the two role-playing games I'm in.  I've been trying, with swap-bot at least, to make sure I'm only signing up for swaps that I know I can keep up with, and most of them are e-swaps, which make it quite a bit easier.  On the gaming front, it helps that I have a set schedule for them.  Still, I've been missing too many posts.  I owe two right now.

I love to update my blog.  I love to talk about the things that are going on in my life, to share great things with my readers, to reach out to other bloggers and get to know more about more people.  I like having the schedule of things, even if I don't get to them as regularly as I'd like.

I love having a clean house.  However, I hate what I need to do to get it that way.  And I hate the way I get when I've spent 3 hours working on cleaning something, only to have the boys come in and destroy it within 10 minutes.  It makes me wonder why I do it.  And I've tried to get them to clean up after themselves - taking away their privileges when they refuse, or bribing them with more good things when they do what they're supposed to.  But they don't like to listen to me.  Probably because I'm Mommy.

The same goes with exercising.  I love having a healthy body.  But trying to get into the flow of exercise just doesn't work as well as I'd like it to most days.  I'd been doing really good with walking or pilates every day... until I told people about it.  Then my commitment went out the window.

Why do I do this, I wonder?  Why do I set myself up to fail with things?  Ok, maybe I'm not meaning to, but it is what happens too often.  I keep up with something until I think it's become habit, I tell people about it as a "hey, I'm doing great" and BAM!  The habit goes away.  I'm trying to find what will work for me.

I've been trying to make a schedule every day.  But it's so easy for my schedule to get blown out of the water because of the kids and things they need to do, or something coming up at home unexpectedly.  So maybe the schedule thing won't work as well as I'd like it to.

All I know is that I need to make some changes.  I'm thinking of making some changes to my blog - mainly pulling my book reviews out into a blog of their own.  Because I feel like I'm fighting back and forth with what to write.  If I know that my books have a separate place of their own, it might make it a bit easier.  I dunno.

I need to change.  I need to figure out what I need to change.  Maybe I need a vacation.  Maybe I need to learn Zen.  Maybe I need an epiphany.  Who knows.  But something's got to give before I do.


I'm writing this entry today for Pour Your Heart Out, the weekly feature over at Things I Can't Say.