Monthly Archives: March 2012

Workin’ 9 to 9.

So, I’m up at the butt crack of dawn. The fact that I—a girl who usually requires a solid 9 hours of sleep and hates to do anything before mainlining her coffee—am up before the sun is is just, well, weird. The sun, apparently knows better than me. Weirder still that I wake up at 5am and think “I should probably get up and get some work done.” Not only do I think it, I do it.

Good god. I have gone mainstream.

I just have so much to do! All the time! It never stops! And the things that I get paid to do? Well, they’re fun! And I get paid! But, dudes. It’s really hard. In fact, life is hard. I’m talking, super hard. Although, to steal a quote from my good friend, Erica, it’s totally first world hard, which means basically that I can’t find a sitter for the boys. God, I am such a jerk.

Really, though. Being a working mother is really freaking hard. It’s hard to know where to begin, really. First though, I want to know why none of you told me! How come women have gone through life never being like “WHATEVER YOU DO! DON”T PROCREATE! IT’S REALLY FUCKING HARD!” Or, in this case, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! WORKING AND BEING A MOM AT THE SAME TIME IS HARDER THAN PUTTING YOUR FIRST TAMPON IN!” I’ve been working since the boys were little, but as a massage therapist, which means that I worked 8 hours a week when it was convenient to me. I took most of the first couple of years off with the kids, and got hella lazy professionally. I see now though, that like a squirrel hoarding the nuts, I was subconsciously storing my drive to work and earn. And now, the floodgates have opened.

I mean, good god! I’m up and blogging at 6am! What is wrong with me? I’ve been so busy lately that I actually had to schedule time to write a post, for I fear that if I don’t, I will just stop writing, which would make the sunshine disappear, and a single tear drip down the faces of people everywhere. So, basically, this is a forced post, so as to avoid the entire world becoming depressed. Sort of like verbal constipation. Mostly I just wanted to use the word constipation.

Poop.

I don’t have time to go to the grocery store! Or clean my house! I used to say that my house was “hippie clean,” but now it’s more lik “homeless clean.” So, don’t like my floor, K? Actually, I would rather you lick my floor than my shower. Definitely don’t lick that. Sheesh. It’s so bizarre to be so busy and happy at the same time. Then there is the added oddness (those two words together make my eyes cross) of being in a position where people believe that you can do things that you don’t even believe you can do. That’s something I am trying to get used to.

Yet, what’s hardest for me is the great imbalance between the genders. When my husband has to go to work, he gets up, proceeds to spend 27.6 minutes doing god knows what in the shower (not exaggerating) [totally exaggerating -ed.], gets ready, and walks out the door. Don’t get me wrong. He helps me out in the morning and everything, it isn’t that he is a dick. It’s about how simple it is for him to go to work. The things expected of him are, really, quite minimal. He is the known breadwinner, therefore he goes forth to make the . . . er . . . bread. The process for me is a little different, and involves the hiring of many, many babysitters. And if I thought I was spinning plates before? Well, holy Moses. Now I’m spinning plates with my hands and feet, while also cooking dinner.

When I jump in the shower, I usually do it so fast that I bang into something and get a bruise. And then the children sense that I am in the shower and come forth to ask me to do things for them that are completely unreasonable, considering I am both naked and wet. (You want a picture of that, don’t you?) My showers last approximately 2.6 minutes, and in that time I not only manage to shower, but I also decide what I am going to wear, remember what things I need to do that day, and make a mental note of all the people that I need to call. The things I do while at home are never just those things. They are done while also doing 3 things at the exact same time. And again, I do them so fast, they usually end in an injury.

So, I don’t know. It’s funny. This new job sort of crept up on me, and has been sort of miraculous. It isn’t single-handedly responsibly for the busy, either. It’s life, it’s how it is. And then you have me, and the nature of . . . well . . . me. Two jobs, two kids, mandatory volunteering at their school, a house, a refrigerator that occasionally needs food in it, and you know what? I still decide to run for President of the Board at my kids’ school. Why? Well, I’ll tell you the long why in a different post, but I can assure you that it has something to do with the fact that I am insane.

But too busy to care.

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The Submarines Are Coming! The Submarines Are Coming!

This is a little embarrassing to admit, which should give you an idea of how serious it is, since I rarely feel embarrassed by anything. But here it is. You be the judge.

I’m scared of submarines. Not the sandwiches, you do-do, the vessels. It is a strange fear, I know. Especially since I live in the desert, and there is little risk of me ever strolling down the street and running into one, but last I checked, fear isn’t usually rational. Right? Right? And just to lay it all out on the table for you, I’m actually terrified of submarines. It’s not that they make me a little uncomfortable, it’s more like if one appears on the screen in a film (because let’s face it, that’s the only way I am going to be seeing a submarine. Right? Right?), I have to leave. And my heart races, and I feel very much like I may vomit up a lung. It’s your classic anxiety.

I’ve had this fear for years. Recently, the kids discovered it, and now refer to submarines as “boatmarines” instead, which is so very, very kind of them. But even Luca seems dismayed, and has asked me why. “Why are you afraid of sub– I mean boatmarines, Mama?” I honestly don’t know how to answer him. I’m not a fearful person (Oh! Except I hate it when people touch me with their feet! Don’t ever do that.), and I would hate to think that I may be a bad example for my boys, but for the love of all things holy, fear has crept in. And now, it goes beyond my old fear of submarines. Now it’s something else.

I’ve been flying since I was a baby. I’m told that I was put on the floor—where you now stow your purse or backpack—and sent hurtling through the sky towards . . . well, I’m not really sure where I was going. I was a baby. And then of course, in the eighties, my parents’ divorce sent me once again hurtling through the sky, as an unaccompanied minor, from one state to another. We did that a lot, my sister and I, and I remember it fondly. It felt both ridiculously silly (or maybe I was just ridiculously silly, with freedom) and risky, which as a teenager, was awesome. Then of course we had the trip to France thrown in there. So, you see…lots of flying. And never once did I panic about it.

Until now.

Here are some brief details from our most recent trip to New York:

1. Flew out of Phoenix at 6 am, after spending a horrible, sleepless night in a hotel where we woke up at 2:45 instead of 3:45 because some asshole changed the clock.

2. Overpacked.

3. Talked a lot about how we always over pack.

4. Talked about how next time we should not pack so much.

5. Rearranged the luggage, 3 times.

6. Left 2 hours late out of Phoenix with too much luggage.

7. Were assured we would have no trouble with our connection in Chicago, since all flights were delayed.

(This whole trip was so riddled with travel issues that I can’t even begin to write about them all.)

While we were in the sky, headed to Chicago, I realized that I no longer like to fly. Actually, that isn’t right. My heart no longer likes to fly. Well, that and my head, and my central nervous system, and I suppose my endocrine system, since I sweat like a pig from the stress and anxiety I feel as I’m flying. It’s so very . . . odd. My body has taken my desire to travel completely hostage! AH! Hostages! Add fear of being taken hostage to the whole thing! Dear SIPNEL! I don’t ever want to become a hostage!

Alas, I am a hostage to my overwhelming fear, which brings a great shitball of irony to the whole mix.

Shitballs! Great! Another thing to fear! ARGH!

What is mystifying to me is the complete inability to control the fear that I feel. It’s overwhelming, both physically and emotionally. And it has greatly intensified since I had my children, because how on earth am I supposed to explain to them, as we plummet toward earth, why I thought it was a good idea to strap them into a metal death machine that is shooting through the sky at top speed?
Usually, while flying, I reach a point where I just sort of accept that, yep, I’m going to die. The plane is going to plunge and smash into the earth and I will burn up and be, well, dead. That’s just all there is to it. Once I accept that, I actually calm down a bit and make it through the flight. It’s completely ridiculous, right?

I hate that I fear anything. I want to be completely fearless in my life! The truth is, I’m just not. I genuinely don’t want to get hit by a submarine. Totes. And I really, really don’t want to be set on fire, ever. I certainly (clearly) don’t want to go down in a plane, and I would rather not be hit in the face, ever. I would prefer you never touch me with your feet. And I’d rather not find another (yes, another) band-aid in my soup. I’d like to get through life unattacked. I would love to never, ever have to see a clown hiding in a cupboard or other dark, gloomy space. But mostly? I would rather just be totally, and completely fearless.

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