Thursday, August 11, 2011

Cute Things to Remember

I'm writing these down now because I keep forgetting to write them down, and I don't want to forget them. Ever.

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Miss Anne got so upset because I wouldn't let her drive the van home after I picked her up one afternoon. I think my mistake was in letting her sit in the driver's seat before we left, marveling at her cuteness as she pretended to turn the wheel and hummed "vroom, vroom." But then it came time to put her in the car seat, and she protested.

Boy, did she protest, and back-archingly so (similar to this).

I finally got her into the car seat and we started home. The entire way, she bawled, "I drive! I drive! I DRIVE!" (Actually, "I dwive! I dwive! I DWIVE!")

Really, it was adorable. And heart-wrenchingly pitiful. When we got home, I let her drive her Cozy Coupe. She was somewhat, though not totally, satisfied with that.

I didn't think I'd have to deal with these kinds of struggles for another fifteen or so years.

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Anne loves lotion. She loves to put it on her toes, her knees, her hands, and her Daddy.

When we're doing lotion at night, she'll yell, "Daddy! Daddy!" And Daddy comes in from whatever he's doing so she can rub lotion on his hands. By "rub," I mean put a dot of lotion on his hand and spread it a bit with one tiny finger. And then repeat with another dot of lotion. And another. And then sometimes she'll say "Toes!" which means she wants to put lotion on his toes. One dot of lotion per toe. So he complies because he's a good daddy.

But he'd better not dare try to dispense the lotion into her hand so she can put it on him. Lotion-dispensing is Mommy's job. It's always Mommy's job.

While she's applying lotion to her Daddy's hands and feet, she counts his fingers and toes. So cute. So stinking cute.

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Her favorite phrase these days is "I try." Or, to be more phonetically accurate, "I twy." She wants to do everything herself, including putting her diaper on and applying her diaper rash cream. And she gets vehement: "I twy! I twy! I twy! I TWY!!"

So we let her twy. Most things, at least. Not driving or applying butt paste, though.

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Ahh. There, I wrote it all down. And here's a somewhat recent picture for everyone:




Yes, she is still the spitting image of her daddy.

The New Normal

Usually, you hear people talking about “the new normal” after someone has died. But I’ve discovered a whole “new normal” in the past year and a half.

Anne is now twenty months old, or close to it. I’m working two jobs, not because I want to but because I have to. This is part of the new normal. It’s the way things are going to be for a while.

Last week, I created a schedule showing when I would work at my tech-writing job, when I would work at my teaching job, and when I would do mommy/family things. “Mommy/family things” pretty much filled in whatever spaces weren't occupied by the 50-60 hours a week devoted to my teaching and tech-writing jobs.

My husband looked at the schedule and commented, “But you haven’t left any free time for yourself.”

Friends, it was the strangest thing. It was like he’d spoken to me in a foreign language. “Free time? What is this ‘free-time’ phenomenon you are talking about? I am supposed to have this ‘free time’ thing somewhere in my schedule?”

Believe me, I’m not writing this to sound like a mommy-martyr (or a work-martyr, or any kind of martyr). I just seriously had to slow down and process what he’d said. The concept of giving myself “free time” has become utterly foreign, at least for now, and for the near future.

And that, friends, is part of the new normal around here.

It’s the normal for any mom of a toddler, I would guess—and even more so for moms of multiple toddlers. And even, even more so (I think, though I could be wrong) for those moms who work full-time outside the home. (And I can't imagine how hard it must be for single moms who are all of the above.)

School begins soon, and my life is going to ricochet into warp speed when it does. (I don’t think that sentence made any sense, but I like the sound of it--linguistically speaking, if not emotionally.) I’ll be working 30 hours a week (hoping to cap it at 30) on software documentation, and I’ll spend the other 25 or 30 teaching sixty or so students—planning their classes, reviewing their homework, grading their drafts (with copious comments, of course!), and generally guiding them to become better writers.

Wow, just re-reading that paragraph, I'm amazed to think of how life, and priorities, have changed in the last few months.

Until this summer, I would read the blogs by women I found through Ann Voskamp’s wonderful blog (the Multitude Mondays and the Walk with Him Wednesdays), and I would imagine I was “one of them.” And with that imagining would come unbearable angst because, in truth, I am nothing like them—stay-at-home, home-schooling Christian moms who, while subtly lamenting about how they never have time to themselves, seem to have plenty of time to write beautiful blog posts almost daily, photograph countless bits and pieces of their daily lives, scrapbook and craft, clip coupons, garden, read books, write books, go to blogging conferences, guest-post for their fellow bloggers, and often leave copious (there’s that word again) comments on the blogs of others.

I loved these bloggers (or some of them), and I made time to read their blogs. I also made time to blog myself occasionally, but it was always time pilfered from something else: from my family (or my household chores, or sleep) if I blogged at night, and from my much-needed work breaks if I blogged during the day. I wasn’t like these bloggers.

And then I started getting these weird junior-high feelings of not fitting in.

And it wasn't just lifestyle. When I was honest with myself, I acknowledged that I was also too skeptical, and too cynical, to “fit in,” spiritually speaking.

So I stopped trying. It's like a weight has been lifted.

I've also stopped grieving the fact that I see so little of my daughter. I could keep doing that, but it's a problem that can't be fixed right now, and all the grieving does is depress me.

Oh, and I've tried to stop getting bitter or depressed when hearing a stay-at-home mom comment that she “really needs a break from the kids.” A simple eye-roll should suffice, shouldn't it?

OK, seriously ...

We all have different lives, different struggles, different challenges. I’m coming to accept that I have my own challenges in this stage of my life, and that I need to deal with my own life instead of wishing it were something different.

I think I’ve begun to embrace this "new normal" in a way I hadn’t before. In fact, it was at that moment of metaphorical embrace that the term “the new normal” came to mind. Or perhaps it was when I realized this was indeed the “new normal” that I became free to quit fighting where I am now.

This weekend, I said something to Dan about how “our biggest mistake was buying our house before the first one sold.” It did, after all, seem like so many problems, building up to my not being able to be with my little girl more, stemmed from that fateful decision.

“There are no mistakes,” he said. “There’s just life, and accepting what it is, and moving on.” (I’m not quoting him exactly. But it was something like that.)

No mistakes. Just life. Perhaps there is a God who planned for things to happen this way, or who at least, in His grace, has allowed things to turn out all right despite my unwise decisions, has allowed me to stay out of the nut house thus far. Perhaps it’s just life. My spiritual-skeptical self goes back and forth.

Whatever it is, I’ve come to a much better place than I was six months ago, or even three months ago. School has been good for me—good for getting my priorities back in order, good for allowing me to use my natural teaching abilities and to play with words and literature in the process.

And that’s the new normal. It isn’t the normal I would have picked if I’d had a choice, but it’s working.

To provide some breathing-room in my crazy schedule, I've begun the soul-feeding practice of composing haikus in my head whenever I can. I'm doing these in the spirit of an old blog-friend, I guess, only my poems are not quite as poetic as his. So I’ll end this relatively serious post on a light note and share one I wrote yesterday while in line at the pharmacy. I hope it will bring a smile to your faces, dear readers:

PMS—only
Three syllables, yet it hogs
My entire haiku

Happy trails!

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Her Constant Companions

Anne set up her four best friends in the glider-rocker for our book-reading session this morning: (L to R) Froggie, Elmo, Monkey, and Froggie, a.k.a. "Other."


("Monkey" is actually a Brutus Buckeye golf-head cover. But Anne doesn't know that, so we won't tell her.)

Monday, August 1, 2011

"Vacation Relaxation?"

Much truth to this little chart on vacation and stress from PhD comics ...