Growing up, I used to have bad anxiety attacks on Sunday nights. I would have fear about impending doom, start crying and generally be a mess.
I have not been doing much better lately. A debacle at my children's preschool has meant that my entire week's schedule got thrown off. I had planned everything so that I only had to be at preschool on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Tuesday's we had dance for Bekah and Thursdays were wide open. It allowed me to spend time alone with Doug two mornings. I had signed him up for storytime on Monday mornings. I was excited to spend time with him just by himself.
He has gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to attention from me. He was born into a family with a brother and sister who are needy and persistent. Bekah has always existed within inches of me. Wherever I go, she goes.
Jeremy allows me some autonomy but likes to snuggle up next to me on the couch. He is more prone to make requests of me constantly (for milk, pretzels, veggies, apple slices, etc.)
Between the two of them, Doug and I get very little time to ourselves. If I start to pay too much attention to him, his brother and sister insert themselves into the situation. Lately, Bekah has started manhandling him. She sits behind him, straddling him, puts her arms around him and falls back so that he's on top of her on his back.
She likes to hug him after he's pulled himself up at the couch. If he's sitting on my lap, she's trying to kiss him and hold him.
I don't get a chance to read him books. We can't play together on our own. All of this has taken it's toll. He is almost 15 months old, is not walking yet and still has not called me mommy. he doesn't know who Bekah and Jeremy are-he has no symbol or word for them. If you say, "where's Daddy?" he doesn't know where to look.
I know that kids all progress at their own pace. He just started therapy (occupational and physical) to help him develop these skills. I had a lot of guilt about him starting this process. I feel like I've let him down; that I've not performed to a high enough standard as a mommy.
He is not autistic; he is ebullient, makes beautiful eye contact, loves to snuggle and is generally well-adjusted. He is not hearing-impaired and he doesn't have any disabilities. He just doesn't have language. He also hasn't started using sign language to a point that we're able to communicate.
It is tough to see him connect emotionally with me but not have a word for me. It's tough to see him crawl toward Brian and reach out his arms, but not be able to connect that Brian is his daddy. It's like we exist in a parallel universe to him; we're nice enough people, we meet his needs nicely enough, but he's not sure really who we are.
There's an emotional emptiness there. I can't explain it, but it's hard to not connect with him. I hate that he doesn't greet me with "momma" when I open his door in the morning. I hate that he doesn't have funny names for his brother and sister.
And so here I sit, on a Sunday night. I am not strangled by anxiety, but I am morose. I am pissed and sad that I don't get to spend time alone with Doug tomorrow. I am angry at the inept new director at the preschool who screwed up the whole schedule I had.
Tonight, Doug did crawl over to me at the couch and want to snuggle. Since he's started to crawl, he's been pretty excited to be constantly on the go. It's been lovely to have him requesting, in non-verbal ways, to spend time with me. As soon as he got into my lap, I had to fight Bekah off of him and delegate milk retrieval to Brian.
I know he will catch up. His therapists are optimistic. I know before long I'll tire of hearing him say "momma." On this Sunday night, though, I'm dreaming of the day he greets me with a loud "momma," arms outstretched. I guarantee there will be tears.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
A Glimmer of Hope
I have been pretty open with my readers about how desperate our financial situation is right now. We are delinquent on our mortgage, suffocating under the crush of medical bills and still trying to keep our heads above water. Over the past few days, Brian has encouraged me to share with my readers that we can't afford to live anywhere.
It's not simply that we can't afford the house in which we currently reside. We can't, but it's more than that. Not living with margins means we have no savings right now. We would not be able to come up with a downpayment on a new house. We wouldn't have the money to put the first and last month's rent down on a rental, nor would we have enough to pay movers to move us into said rental.
Even more, rental prices right now are bloated. People need to cover their mortgage payments, but their mortgage payments are based on their house being worth something that it isn't anymore. The banks are not willing to deal, head-on, with this fact. What ends up happening is that everyone is paying more for their home than it will be worth for many years to come.
I am terrified at the prospect of having no place to go. I wish that I had an answer that was reasonable. The thought that's been taking up rent is that we could rent a one-bedroom and live there, as a family, until things could turn around. Although, now that I'm typing that, I'm not sure a landlord would rent a one-bedroom apartment to a family of 5 with 2 dogs.
Today, though, we received some good news. There is a program called Illinois Hardest Hit. It's for homeowners like us, who have been hammered by a substantial loss of income. (Not long after we moved into our house, Brian's salary was slashed by 30%. The rest of our bills remained the same and there was little we could do to maneuver ourselves, seeing as we had just bought our house. We never were able to refinance because we never had equity in our home to speak of.)
We had applied for relief through this program last year. We had to prepare a 60-page document detailing our financial situation. It was overwhelming and invasive. If accepted into the program, we would either be brought current (we were at the time) or we would receive monthly monies that would allow us to continue to pay our mortgage.
In a peculiar twist of fate, we were denied because we did not reaffirm our mortgage commitment when we filed for bankruptcy. Let me explain. At the time we decided to file for bankruptcy, we owed Wells Fargo a sum of money--let's say $7K. We did not have any way to pay them back that money. We had been accepted into the Home Affordable Program that adjusted our mortgage amount. We were told that, once formally accepted, Wells Fargo would roll the money we owed into the total amount of the mortgage and extend the loan out. They did not do that. When we called to see when it would be done, the Wells Fargo that had originally issued the mortgage had no idea that we had been accepted into the Home Affordable program.
The Wells Fargo that was working with us through Home Affordable couldn't (or wouldn't) communicate with the other part of Wells Fargo. There was no recourse. We were just as confused as I'm sure you are. I had no way of getting the two parts of Wells Fargo to talk to one another.
Now, when we filed bankruptcy, we had two options when it came to our mortgage. We could reaffirm. This would mean we acknowledged that we wanted to continue to live in our house. We wanted to try to make some kind of restitution to Wells Fargo for the money we owed them. They could come after us for that money and start the foreclosure process. If we eventually walked away from the property, we would continue to owe them the money.
We could also not reaffirm. This would mean that, technically, we were no longer considered homeowners. Wells Fargo would not be able to come after us for that money and if we walked away, we would be free and clear. All things considered, we didn't reaffirm. We didn't have the money they wanted and with Doug coming in just a few months (we filed for bankruptcy in April 2011, he was due in July 2011), we knew we wouldn't have the money.
Of course, the even more peculiar twist of fate is that it cost us $3000 to file for bankruptcy. I had to cash out the remaining money of the 401k I had from working at Hewitt Associates just to file. The rest of the money from the 401k was eaten up by medical bills and miscellaneous expenses. Jeremy was hospitalized in March 2011 just after Brian's insurance had changed. It used to cover us at 100% after we met a family deductible; the new insurance covers us at 80% once we've met a much more substantial deductible. This still has us holding the bag for a portion of any bill we have. Our computer broke and now we were looking at having to pay much more just for having Doug.
All of those things being considered, it was a no-brainer to not reaffirm. So last fall, when we first heard about the Hardest Hit program, we were ecstatic. We filled out the 60-page document they required and submitted it. At that point in time, we were still current on our modified mortgage amount. We were really scraping to make it. The help from this program would have allowed us to have some margins. They came back and said we couldn't be considered homeowners because we didn't reaffirm the mortgage. (Even though we would have been forced into foreclosure for owing Wells Fargo money and then really wouldn't have been homeowners. There's no telling that, if we did reaffirm, that Wells Fargo would have ever resolved the issue with the outstanding money. Owing to the fact that they have shut a shitty track record with dealing with us, I felt pretty confident they wouldn't.)
We were also rejected because Brian (on paper) makes too much money. It's this crazy thing I don't think people understand. In order to benefit from social/government assistance, one has to be making a ridiculously small amount of money. Like $20K a year, something that small. If we were making that little a year, then it wouldn't even be a question of keeping the house. It's really quite appalling. We're supposedly making all this money, but it's being eaten up by health expenses.
Then, at the beginning of this year Brian had to have surgery. We chose to do the surgery over paying the mortgage. We fell behind again. And it's been getting darker and darker; yes, he has been making a bit more money, but any extra money we make is being eaten up by health expenses. He is driving a car with 180K miles on it. We are, really, just barely making it. We are not in a position to pay to live anywhere.
So here we are. Wells Fargo has been giving us deadlines to become current with our mortgage or face foreclosure. It started in July and every month, they've given us one more month to come up with the money. We really didn't know what was going to happen. I have a faith in God, but honestly, we've been pummeled so hard and for so long that I couldn't imagine that God was even keeping tabs on us.
We called again this weekend, after receiving another month from Wells Fargo. They referred us to Nicole, a woman we worked with when going bankrupt. There were classes we had to take in order to go bankrupt (that also cost money and for which we could not receive assistance to pay); we took them at her office.
The long and the short of it? Illinois Hardest Hit decided that the parameters they set were too narrow. There were other people in our same predicament and it wasn't helping enough people. So we re-submitted our information to Nicole. We received news today that while we still make too much money to have monthly help, it looks like they will be able to pay to get our mortgage current.
It's huge news. I am a firm believer in waiting to see it to bank on it, but if it really happens, that's a tremendous help. It gets Wells Fargo off of our backs for a while, gives the economy a chance to continue to heal and hopefully gives Brian a chance to either start making more money at his current job or find a job with better benefits or better pay. I wish I could say I am jumping up and down, but I'm not. I'm still cautiously pessimistic.
As a final note, this program was brought to us by Democrats. I'm not saying that should sway your vote, but keep in mind that we are being helped by Democrats, not Republicans. If it were up to Republicans, we would have been kicked out a while ago. Just saying.
It's not simply that we can't afford the house in which we currently reside. We can't, but it's more than that. Not living with margins means we have no savings right now. We would not be able to come up with a downpayment on a new house. We wouldn't have the money to put the first and last month's rent down on a rental, nor would we have enough to pay movers to move us into said rental.
Even more, rental prices right now are bloated. People need to cover their mortgage payments, but their mortgage payments are based on their house being worth something that it isn't anymore. The banks are not willing to deal, head-on, with this fact. What ends up happening is that everyone is paying more for their home than it will be worth for many years to come.
I am terrified at the prospect of having no place to go. I wish that I had an answer that was reasonable. The thought that's been taking up rent is that we could rent a one-bedroom and live there, as a family, until things could turn around. Although, now that I'm typing that, I'm not sure a landlord would rent a one-bedroom apartment to a family of 5 with 2 dogs.
Today, though, we received some good news. There is a program called Illinois Hardest Hit. It's for homeowners like us, who have been hammered by a substantial loss of income. (Not long after we moved into our house, Brian's salary was slashed by 30%. The rest of our bills remained the same and there was little we could do to maneuver ourselves, seeing as we had just bought our house. We never were able to refinance because we never had equity in our home to speak of.)
We had applied for relief through this program last year. We had to prepare a 60-page document detailing our financial situation. It was overwhelming and invasive. If accepted into the program, we would either be brought current (we were at the time) or we would receive monthly monies that would allow us to continue to pay our mortgage.
In a peculiar twist of fate, we were denied because we did not reaffirm our mortgage commitment when we filed for bankruptcy. Let me explain. At the time we decided to file for bankruptcy, we owed Wells Fargo a sum of money--let's say $7K. We did not have any way to pay them back that money. We had been accepted into the Home Affordable Program that adjusted our mortgage amount. We were told that, once formally accepted, Wells Fargo would roll the money we owed into the total amount of the mortgage and extend the loan out. They did not do that. When we called to see when it would be done, the Wells Fargo that had originally issued the mortgage had no idea that we had been accepted into the Home Affordable program.
The Wells Fargo that was working with us through Home Affordable couldn't (or wouldn't) communicate with the other part of Wells Fargo. There was no recourse. We were just as confused as I'm sure you are. I had no way of getting the two parts of Wells Fargo to talk to one another.
Now, when we filed bankruptcy, we had two options when it came to our mortgage. We could reaffirm. This would mean we acknowledged that we wanted to continue to live in our house. We wanted to try to make some kind of restitution to Wells Fargo for the money we owed them. They could come after us for that money and start the foreclosure process. If we eventually walked away from the property, we would continue to owe them the money.
We could also not reaffirm. This would mean that, technically, we were no longer considered homeowners. Wells Fargo would not be able to come after us for that money and if we walked away, we would be free and clear. All things considered, we didn't reaffirm. We didn't have the money they wanted and with Doug coming in just a few months (we filed for bankruptcy in April 2011, he was due in July 2011), we knew we wouldn't have the money.
Of course, the even more peculiar twist of fate is that it cost us $3000 to file for bankruptcy. I had to cash out the remaining money of the 401k I had from working at Hewitt Associates just to file. The rest of the money from the 401k was eaten up by medical bills and miscellaneous expenses. Jeremy was hospitalized in March 2011 just after Brian's insurance had changed. It used to cover us at 100% after we met a family deductible; the new insurance covers us at 80% once we've met a much more substantial deductible. This still has us holding the bag for a portion of any bill we have. Our computer broke and now we were looking at having to pay much more just for having Doug.
All of those things being considered, it was a no-brainer to not reaffirm. So last fall, when we first heard about the Hardest Hit program, we were ecstatic. We filled out the 60-page document they required and submitted it. At that point in time, we were still current on our modified mortgage amount. We were really scraping to make it. The help from this program would have allowed us to have some margins. They came back and said we couldn't be considered homeowners because we didn't reaffirm the mortgage. (Even though we would have been forced into foreclosure for owing Wells Fargo money and then really wouldn't have been homeowners. There's no telling that, if we did reaffirm, that Wells Fargo would have ever resolved the issue with the outstanding money. Owing to the fact that they have shut a shitty track record with dealing with us, I felt pretty confident they wouldn't.)
We were also rejected because Brian (on paper) makes too much money. It's this crazy thing I don't think people understand. In order to benefit from social/government assistance, one has to be making a ridiculously small amount of money. Like $20K a year, something that small. If we were making that little a year, then it wouldn't even be a question of keeping the house. It's really quite appalling. We're supposedly making all this money, but it's being eaten up by health expenses.
Then, at the beginning of this year Brian had to have surgery. We chose to do the surgery over paying the mortgage. We fell behind again. And it's been getting darker and darker; yes, he has been making a bit more money, but any extra money we make is being eaten up by health expenses. He is driving a car with 180K miles on it. We are, really, just barely making it. We are not in a position to pay to live anywhere.
So here we are. Wells Fargo has been giving us deadlines to become current with our mortgage or face foreclosure. It started in July and every month, they've given us one more month to come up with the money. We really didn't know what was going to happen. I have a faith in God, but honestly, we've been pummeled so hard and for so long that I couldn't imagine that God was even keeping tabs on us.
We called again this weekend, after receiving another month from Wells Fargo. They referred us to Nicole, a woman we worked with when going bankrupt. There were classes we had to take in order to go bankrupt (that also cost money and for which we could not receive assistance to pay); we took them at her office.
The long and the short of it? Illinois Hardest Hit decided that the parameters they set were too narrow. There were other people in our same predicament and it wasn't helping enough people. So we re-submitted our information to Nicole. We received news today that while we still make too much money to have monthly help, it looks like they will be able to pay to get our mortgage current.
It's huge news. I am a firm believer in waiting to see it to bank on it, but if it really happens, that's a tremendous help. It gets Wells Fargo off of our backs for a while, gives the economy a chance to continue to heal and hopefully gives Brian a chance to either start making more money at his current job or find a job with better benefits or better pay. I wish I could say I am jumping up and down, but I'm not. I'm still cautiously pessimistic.
As a final note, this program was brought to us by Democrats. I'm not saying that should sway your vote, but keep in mind that we are being helped by Democrats, not Republicans. If it were up to Republicans, we would have been kicked out a while ago. Just saying.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Shower of Love and Crazy
I think Jeremy's birthday has made me a bit nostalgic. The story you're about to read is an actual, real account of what happened at his baby shower. I know that you might be tempted to question it's veracity, but I assure you, it did really happen.
I don't have a lot of extended family and neither does Brian. I am very close to my parents (always have been); he is close to his mom but estranged from his dad. We both have one sibling and a smattering of random aunts, uncles and cousins. For our wedding, I did invite some of my relatives living in Mexico, but it was too expensive for them to travel. I am not close enough with them to have extended an invitation to my baby shower.
I will say, Brian and I have quite a few friends. They come in all shapes, sizes, ages, etc. I had 8 bridesmaids for our wedding. I probably could have had a few more, but Brian was complaining that he would have to start pulling homeless guys off the street. The wedding party was beautiful but diverse. There are reasons for the diversity, but this the not the forum to divulge those reasons. Suffice it to say, I have friends who are 5 years younger than I, 10 years older than I, 20 years older than I. It gets a bit sticky to introduce some of them so typically I say we all met at church.
At the time of the shower, both of my grandmas were alive and in attendance at my shower. Some might see this as warm and fuzzy; I assure you, I did not. My grandmas are more prickly than fuzzy and both are a bit crazy. My maternal grandmother is banned from visiting my parent's home because she picks fights with everyone and is generally mean-spirited. My paternal grandmother, who passed away when Jeremy was very young, was also prickly. I spent a lot more time with her, Isabel, than I did with Ann, my mom's mom. Isabel babysat me for a while after my mom gave birth and had to return to work. She was responsible for potty training me, made homemade flour tortillas, danced with me and had more "grandma" type memories with me.
I only saw Ann a couple of times a year growing up. We are both pig-headed, stubborn and emotional. I would go out early to Pennsylvania to visit her on my own before my parents came to visit. I would fly there and then drive home with my parents. As soon as my mom and dad would arrive, my grandma would sit down with my mom and read her the laundry list of ways I had angered and/or disappointed her. My mom and her grandmother, Nellie, were always very close. My mom wanted me to have the relationship with Ann that she had with Nellie, but that just never came to fruition. Ann and Earl (my grandfather) ran a business for many years and I think she was successful because she was a bit cold. I'm not saying that to dig at her, I'm just saying that successful businesspeople have to have a bit of ice in their veins.
I'll give two examples to demonstrate. First, one time I visited Ann and things were going fine until the third or fourth day I was there. That's when she started laying into me about the things I had done wrong. (I should mention, she is the woman who made disparaging remarks about my weight while I was four months pregnant with Bekah. My weight has always been an issue for her, she has always been critical of me and we only get along for hours at a time.) One of the offenses was that, when I de-planed, I greeted my grandfather first. She claims that I saw her, but ignored her and greeted my grandfather first. My hand to God, I saw him first. I was not trying to slight her or diminish her at all; I simply laid eyes on Earl first.
The second instance I'll share happened on another trip out there. I was staying with her and my uncle at their home in the country (the business they ran was a hotel of sorts--they maintained an actual residence just outside of Grove City). I woke up early one morning and decided to go for a walk. They have quite a bit of acreage that abuts a farm--I wanted to just stretch my legs a bit. When I returned, she raged at me for about half an hour about how rude I was for doing that. I was 12 at the time and couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what I had done wrong. (At 34 I'm also baffled.)
I say all of this to demonstrate that there's a fair amount of crazy on my side of the family. Brian's family, well, they are lovely people but crazy abounds there as well. He is estranged from his dad, but his dad's brother Rick (who just recently passed away) stepped in and acted almost as a father for Brian. He and Sharon, his wife, worked very hard to be a part of our wedding and also our baby shower. Rick was very angry at Mike, Brian's dad, for not staying for the reception. Mike's reason for leaving? He had to attend Bible study and couldn't possibly stay. (Mike also didn't like the fact that Brian was getting married in the first place.)
Overall, Rick and Sharon are the nicest people you'd ever want to meet. On several occasions they had us up to see them in Muskegon, Michigan. Rick paid for him, me and my brother-in-law Bill to go charter fishing on Lake Michigan. I had a blast! He would send us small gifts every Christmas and, up until the end, was still trying to patch things up between Mike and Brian.
The one flaw about Rick is that he was stubborn. He liked to think he had it figured out. The day of the shower, he, Sharon, his daughter Cassy and her twin girls were visiting his mom in the south suburbs. Brian gave them detailed instructions on how to travel from there to the shower, which was being held at my parent's house in Crystal Lake. We didn't realize until partway through the shower that he had improvised.
So the shower. A lovely affair, really. I was excited and nervous as a first-time mom. I actually can't stand large gatherings of people, though you wouldn't know it based on the invite lists I compile. I get anxious about where to sit and stand, to whom I should be talking, etc. It was no different on this day. Brian came along for moral support, but he was lucky enough to be able to hide-out upstairs with my dad.
Ann was already at the house (this was before the ban was put in place). Isabel was going to be delivered by my Uncle Adolfo. Meanwhile, I had a lot of ladies arriving. Keep in mind, my friends come in all shapes, sizes and ages. The first sign that the shower was a showcase for crazy was that Ann greeted my friend Dorothy, a retired teacher, as my grandmother Isabel. I was walking out to greet Dorothy and Candace, another friend and I heard Ann behind me saying, "Isabel, it's so good to see you. You remember me, don't you?" (There's a story for another day about a meeting that was supposed to happen at the Drake for high tea but didn't. It became a source of tension between Ann and Isabel.)
To be fair to Ann, she hadn't seen Isabel in several years. She is in her 80s and her vision is not what it once was. To be real, Dorothy and Isabel don't resemble one other and Dorothy and I don't resemble one other. I thought that would have been pretty clear to everyone; apparently, I was wrong.
I really thought that if I wished hard enough, the earth would open up under my feet and swallow me whole. I was mortified and started apologizing profusely. To Dorothy's credit, she played right along with it, took Ann by the arm and walked her inside. I am eternally grateful for friends who don't even skip a beat when confronted with crazy.
Meanwhile, there's no sign of Rick and his entourage. I was starting to get concerned and had Brian call Rick, but there was no answer. We were puzzled as to why it was taking him so long to arrive, but there was more crazy to manage.
Isabel finally arrived and she and Ann settled in on the patio outside to catch up. I wasn't present for this particular crazy, but I am told that they started discussing illnesses and surgeries. In true old-lady style, Isabel raised her shirt and lowered her skirt a bit (while sitting down) to show Ann a surgical scar. This was while some of my friends were in full view, enjoying a cigarette. Even as I am typing this, I have a tinge of embarrassment. My dad has commented that there are a lot of similarities between toddlers and old people. Neither have a filter when they talk and both are incredibly free with their bodies.
Finally, the time came to play games and open presents. Brian and I were set side-by-side in my mom's living room. We had just begun opening gifts when the front door bangs open, revealing Rick, Sharon, Cassy and the twins. Brian and I were literally in the middle of opening a gift when Rick walked in and plopped a twin on each of our laps. I am not speechless often but this was one of those times. My mouth was agape and there were simply no words. I stole a glance at my friend Carrie and just saw on her face how I must be looking. Her eyes were huge and she and I exchanged glances as if to say, "what the &*$@ just happened?" I had to find her later; she is famous for her reactions to things and I had to rib her a bit about not being able to contain that particular reaction.
I can't honestly remember what happened next. I know Ann and my mom, both Emily Post graduates, were probably also taken aback. I couldn't see my mom from where I was sitting (she was sitting on the other side of Brian). I think, although I'm not sure, that she got up and tried to coax Rick into taking the girls into the kitchen and feeding them. With no twins on our laps, we were able to continue to open gifts. There wasn't even a way to apologize for the interruption; the best way forward was to ignore that anything had happened.
However, the piece de resistance was Ann. I had adjourned to the kitchen and was talking to Sharon. She (since I've known her) has always had acrylic nails, usually with some design on them. They are usually a bit longer but within normal limits. That day, she had American flags on her nails. She and I were sitting at the table, catching up, when Ann bursts upon us and asks her, "how do you scrub your shower with those?" (Keep in mind that Ann is obsessed with cleaning and used to regale us with stories about how inept the cleaning ladies at her hotel were. She has set foot into my house one time and I spent two or three days trying to clean it enough to not give her reason to criticize. She still did.)
I will admit, it was then I really hoped the Earth would swallow me. I had reached the limit of crazy and was not sure I could continue. God bless Sharon, though, she didn't skip a beat. She responded, "I don't," and continued her conversation with me.
We found out later that Brian had given directions to Rick that include Rt. 31. That's a main drag into Crystal Lake, but that road was late in the directions. Rick saw Rt. 31 while on the south side and figured, "hey, I'll save some time and just take 31 all the way up." No wonder he arrived about 3 hours late to the party. It's a long and circuitous (and indirect) trip from there to here.
There are still times that Brian and I reminisce about the shower. We still can't believe how much crazy our families were able to squeeze into a lovely Saturday afternoon.
I don't have a lot of extended family and neither does Brian. I am very close to my parents (always have been); he is close to his mom but estranged from his dad. We both have one sibling and a smattering of random aunts, uncles and cousins. For our wedding, I did invite some of my relatives living in Mexico, but it was too expensive for them to travel. I am not close enough with them to have extended an invitation to my baby shower.
I will say, Brian and I have quite a few friends. They come in all shapes, sizes, ages, etc. I had 8 bridesmaids for our wedding. I probably could have had a few more, but Brian was complaining that he would have to start pulling homeless guys off the street. The wedding party was beautiful but diverse. There are reasons for the diversity, but this the not the forum to divulge those reasons. Suffice it to say, I have friends who are 5 years younger than I, 10 years older than I, 20 years older than I. It gets a bit sticky to introduce some of them so typically I say we all met at church.
At the time of the shower, both of my grandmas were alive and in attendance at my shower. Some might see this as warm and fuzzy; I assure you, I did not. My grandmas are more prickly than fuzzy and both are a bit crazy. My maternal grandmother is banned from visiting my parent's home because she picks fights with everyone and is generally mean-spirited. My paternal grandmother, who passed away when Jeremy was very young, was also prickly. I spent a lot more time with her, Isabel, than I did with Ann, my mom's mom. Isabel babysat me for a while after my mom gave birth and had to return to work. She was responsible for potty training me, made homemade flour tortillas, danced with me and had more "grandma" type memories with me.
I only saw Ann a couple of times a year growing up. We are both pig-headed, stubborn and emotional. I would go out early to Pennsylvania to visit her on my own before my parents came to visit. I would fly there and then drive home with my parents. As soon as my mom and dad would arrive, my grandma would sit down with my mom and read her the laundry list of ways I had angered and/or disappointed her. My mom and her grandmother, Nellie, were always very close. My mom wanted me to have the relationship with Ann that she had with Nellie, but that just never came to fruition. Ann and Earl (my grandfather) ran a business for many years and I think she was successful because she was a bit cold. I'm not saying that to dig at her, I'm just saying that successful businesspeople have to have a bit of ice in their veins.
I'll give two examples to demonstrate. First, one time I visited Ann and things were going fine until the third or fourth day I was there. That's when she started laying into me about the things I had done wrong. (I should mention, she is the woman who made disparaging remarks about my weight while I was four months pregnant with Bekah. My weight has always been an issue for her, she has always been critical of me and we only get along for hours at a time.) One of the offenses was that, when I de-planed, I greeted my grandfather first. She claims that I saw her, but ignored her and greeted my grandfather first. My hand to God, I saw him first. I was not trying to slight her or diminish her at all; I simply laid eyes on Earl first.
The second instance I'll share happened on another trip out there. I was staying with her and my uncle at their home in the country (the business they ran was a hotel of sorts--they maintained an actual residence just outside of Grove City). I woke up early one morning and decided to go for a walk. They have quite a bit of acreage that abuts a farm--I wanted to just stretch my legs a bit. When I returned, she raged at me for about half an hour about how rude I was for doing that. I was 12 at the time and couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what I had done wrong. (At 34 I'm also baffled.)
I say all of this to demonstrate that there's a fair amount of crazy on my side of the family. Brian's family, well, they are lovely people but crazy abounds there as well. He is estranged from his dad, but his dad's brother Rick (who just recently passed away) stepped in and acted almost as a father for Brian. He and Sharon, his wife, worked very hard to be a part of our wedding and also our baby shower. Rick was very angry at Mike, Brian's dad, for not staying for the reception. Mike's reason for leaving? He had to attend Bible study and couldn't possibly stay. (Mike also didn't like the fact that Brian was getting married in the first place.)
Overall, Rick and Sharon are the nicest people you'd ever want to meet. On several occasions they had us up to see them in Muskegon, Michigan. Rick paid for him, me and my brother-in-law Bill to go charter fishing on Lake Michigan. I had a blast! He would send us small gifts every Christmas and, up until the end, was still trying to patch things up between Mike and Brian.
The one flaw about Rick is that he was stubborn. He liked to think he had it figured out. The day of the shower, he, Sharon, his daughter Cassy and her twin girls were visiting his mom in the south suburbs. Brian gave them detailed instructions on how to travel from there to the shower, which was being held at my parent's house in Crystal Lake. We didn't realize until partway through the shower that he had improvised.
So the shower. A lovely affair, really. I was excited and nervous as a first-time mom. I actually can't stand large gatherings of people, though you wouldn't know it based on the invite lists I compile. I get anxious about where to sit and stand, to whom I should be talking, etc. It was no different on this day. Brian came along for moral support, but he was lucky enough to be able to hide-out upstairs with my dad.
Ann was already at the house (this was before the ban was put in place). Isabel was going to be delivered by my Uncle Adolfo. Meanwhile, I had a lot of ladies arriving. Keep in mind, my friends come in all shapes, sizes and ages. The first sign that the shower was a showcase for crazy was that Ann greeted my friend Dorothy, a retired teacher, as my grandmother Isabel. I was walking out to greet Dorothy and Candace, another friend and I heard Ann behind me saying, "Isabel, it's so good to see you. You remember me, don't you?" (There's a story for another day about a meeting that was supposed to happen at the Drake for high tea but didn't. It became a source of tension between Ann and Isabel.)
To be fair to Ann, she hadn't seen Isabel in several years. She is in her 80s and her vision is not what it once was. To be real, Dorothy and Isabel don't resemble one other and Dorothy and I don't resemble one other. I thought that would have been pretty clear to everyone; apparently, I was wrong.
I really thought that if I wished hard enough, the earth would open up under my feet and swallow me whole. I was mortified and started apologizing profusely. To Dorothy's credit, she played right along with it, took Ann by the arm and walked her inside. I am eternally grateful for friends who don't even skip a beat when confronted with crazy.
Meanwhile, there's no sign of Rick and his entourage. I was starting to get concerned and had Brian call Rick, but there was no answer. We were puzzled as to why it was taking him so long to arrive, but there was more crazy to manage.
Isabel finally arrived and she and Ann settled in on the patio outside to catch up. I wasn't present for this particular crazy, but I am told that they started discussing illnesses and surgeries. In true old-lady style, Isabel raised her shirt and lowered her skirt a bit (while sitting down) to show Ann a surgical scar. This was while some of my friends were in full view, enjoying a cigarette. Even as I am typing this, I have a tinge of embarrassment. My dad has commented that there are a lot of similarities between toddlers and old people. Neither have a filter when they talk and both are incredibly free with their bodies.
Finally, the time came to play games and open presents. Brian and I were set side-by-side in my mom's living room. We had just begun opening gifts when the front door bangs open, revealing Rick, Sharon, Cassy and the twins. Brian and I were literally in the middle of opening a gift when Rick walked in and plopped a twin on each of our laps. I am not speechless often but this was one of those times. My mouth was agape and there were simply no words. I stole a glance at my friend Carrie and just saw on her face how I must be looking. Her eyes were huge and she and I exchanged glances as if to say, "what the &*$@ just happened?" I had to find her later; she is famous for her reactions to things and I had to rib her a bit about not being able to contain that particular reaction.
I can't honestly remember what happened next. I know Ann and my mom, both Emily Post graduates, were probably also taken aback. I couldn't see my mom from where I was sitting (she was sitting on the other side of Brian). I think, although I'm not sure, that she got up and tried to coax Rick into taking the girls into the kitchen and feeding them. With no twins on our laps, we were able to continue to open gifts. There wasn't even a way to apologize for the interruption; the best way forward was to ignore that anything had happened.
However, the piece de resistance was Ann. I had adjourned to the kitchen and was talking to Sharon. She (since I've known her) has always had acrylic nails, usually with some design on them. They are usually a bit longer but within normal limits. That day, she had American flags on her nails. She and I were sitting at the table, catching up, when Ann bursts upon us and asks her, "how do you scrub your shower with those?" (Keep in mind that Ann is obsessed with cleaning and used to regale us with stories about how inept the cleaning ladies at her hotel were. She has set foot into my house one time and I spent two or three days trying to clean it enough to not give her reason to criticize. She still did.)
I will admit, it was then I really hoped the Earth would swallow me. I had reached the limit of crazy and was not sure I could continue. God bless Sharon, though, she didn't skip a beat. She responded, "I don't," and continued her conversation with me.
We found out later that Brian had given directions to Rick that include Rt. 31. That's a main drag into Crystal Lake, but that road was late in the directions. Rick saw Rt. 31 while on the south side and figured, "hey, I'll save some time and just take 31 all the way up." No wonder he arrived about 3 hours late to the party. It's a long and circuitous (and indirect) trip from there to here.
There are still times that Brian and I reminisce about the shower. We still can't believe how much crazy our families were able to squeeze into a lovely Saturday afternoon.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Champagne Problems
I intended to write about Bekah today. She amazes me most days. She is a kind, caring, compassionate little girl. She blew me away yesterday when she started using the French terms (chassé, releveé, piqué) for what she's doing in ballet class.
I shouldn't have been surprised. The girl's mind is like a bear trap. She was never easy to distract as a toddler; once she knew what she wanted, you could not trick her into wanting something else. We call her our family's recorder of deeds. She remembered for Jeremy (months after the fact) that he didn't have a Pillow Pet anymore because he had destroyed it.
She remembers that a boy in her Sunday School class pinched her face with a pair of toy pliers. This happened when she was about 2. She is now 3 1/2 and will still remind us about it.
She is also smart as a whip and stubborn as a mule. Brian and I often joke that if she ever comes home from a party drunk, she will not be able to tell us someone *made* her drink. It simply doesn't happen. If she has made up her mind about something, she will beg, borrow and steal to get it (all with a smile on her sweet little face).
She was so proud of herself yesterday. It was her turn to bring home a reading friend from preschool. She wanted to carry it out to the car, even though the container was about as big as she. As soon as she showed her friend to Jeremy, he told her that she needed to share. She has been very attentive to Honey's needs since yesterday. It's fun to watch her care so deeply for a stuffed animal.
After Brian headed upstairs with the kids, I headed to my parent's house with some dirty dishes. We have a clog in our kitchen sink. I called the plumber today but discovered that he is no longer in business. I am searching for a new plumber, but meanwhile the dishes are piling up! I loaded my dishes in their dishwasher and then plopped down on the couch to enjoy some time with my parents. They were finishing up another documentary and we were talking about the strike in Chicago being over.
My dad's next documentary choice was The Harvest/La Cosecha. It's a first-hand account of Zulema, Perla and Victor, American children who pick crops as migrant workers. As the filmmakers point out in the beginning of the movie, for migrant workers there is no minimum wage, no laws against child labor, no 8-hour workdays and no protection.
The more I watched, the more I wanted to punch someone. These kids, who are US citizens (the one girl talks about hearing people tell her to go back to Mexico-she says, why would I do that?), miss school regularly to work in the fields in a variety of states. The small amount of schooling they receive is fragmented at best. Perla, who is asked to return to a country that's not hers, says that sometimes, her records from a previous school don't make it to her new school. That means she starts again at zero. She has already been held back one year.
These families are living in poverty. There is running water in their homes, plumbing, but not much else. They have no access to health insurance. They have no access to dental insurance. If they don't work, there is no money coming into the home. They don't have sick days. Perla travelled with her family to Mississippi. While there, her mother was hospitalized. She had been having stomach cramps for some time (but didn't say anything because she didn't want to be a burden). Perla cries when she talks about the incident. She and her dad, when they realized her mom was recovering, tried to find work. There was none to be had.
The filmmakers follow Victor, a 16-year-old boy, through a day of work. He picks tomatoes. He is paid $1 for one bucket of tomatoes (that weighs 25 pounds). In the course of the day, he schleps 1,500 pounds of tomatoes. That nets him $60. Zulema picks strawberries with her family in Michigan (they arrive at a run-down shack that they live in while working there--it reminded me of the slave cabins I saw on a plantation in South Carolina). She works under someone else's name just so she can collect a paycheck. As she points out, though, she is too young to cash her own check.
I love my kids fiercely. My husband and I make sacrifices every day for them. I don't consider that a burden, but a privilege. I am willing to make sacrifices for them so that they have a better future. I lament that I can't pay $300 to sign Jeremy up for soccer, but watching this documentary I realize how fortunate I really am to be able to make those sacrifices. The parents of these children, they don't want this life for their children. I wouldn't, either. They don't have the luxury of making sacrifices. They work for cash, they don't have any savings, they are really living hand-to-mouth. There is no safety net for these parents; they will not be able to collect Social Security or Medicare. It becomes clear that although they don't want their children to become life-long migrant workers, they are enmeshed in a system that doesn't allow them to break free.
I can't decide what makes me angrier; that our country has such a loathing for those with brown skin or that it is 2012 and our economy is being propped up by child labor. My blood boils when I hear the deep-seated prejudices still alive and well in our country.
Each generation has a scapegoat, to be sure. The brown-skinned folk is our generation's. I can assure you, the children and families depicted in this movie are neither stealing American jobs or freeloaders. There is not more than a handful of Caucasian people working in the fields. It is back-breaking work they're performing. They are not being well-compensated but they keep working because otherwise they will not eat.
Unfortunately, the kids have dreams they know will probably not be realized. They aren't dreaming about iPods or XBoxes; they dream about graduating from high school, getting good jobs. Their shoulders are sloped with the burden of knowing that those dreams will probably not be realized. I think about Bekah, who already knows some French; graduating from high school is not a pipe dream for her.
It becomes a generational career, a vicious cycle. They can't be at school because they need to work to help support the family. If they aren't at school, they can't get the education to rise above working in the fields. If they can't get an education...well, you see where I'm going.
Condoleeza Rice spoke at the RNC. My Facebook feed was crowded with praise for Secretary Rice. They praised her for "rising above growing up in the Jim Crow South." I responded, saying I don't begrudge her success but I wonder about the thousands of other Black women who haven't fared so well. Their response? "Well, Secretary Rice had drive and worked hard, that's what those other women are lacking."
The implication is that Zulema, Perla and Victor are stuck in the morass of poverty because they are lazy and lack drive. Yeah. Cause hauling 1500 pounds of tomatoes for $60 a day is certainly slacking off. Being torn between attending school and helping to feed your family shows a lack of drive. I know that Bekah would choose to work because she would want to do everything she could to help. I am grateful that she doesn't need to make that choice. I am sad that these teenagers are having such adult decisions thrust upon them.
I tell ya what, I was never so grateful to be able to take a box of dishes to my parent's house and run them through the dishwasher. We may be floundering financially, but I know that Bekah will not have to work in these fields. I am sick that we still rely on child labor to get work done in our country. I am grateful for the opportunities I've had that allow us to live in a house in the suburbs, where crime is low, schools are well-funded and hope runs high for children. I am sickened when I think of the people who are less fortunate; who live in poor areas with high crime rates, schools that are underfunded and crumbling and who have to work to help make sure there is food on the family table. That makes me ashamed to be an American. It makes my insides squirm that, as a country, we are allowing this to happen.
That's why, if I am asked to pay more taxes so that Perla, Zulema and Victor have a chance at a better future, I will do it. I am grateful for the Obamacare that so many lament, because it means that these kids who make it possible for me to have veggies on my plate will have better access to healthcare. I believe you can tell a lot about someone by how they treat the least among them. I appreciate the freedoms of living in the United States, but what is the point of living in a free country if the price of that freedom costs so much?
I shouldn't have been surprised. The girl's mind is like a bear trap. She was never easy to distract as a toddler; once she knew what she wanted, you could not trick her into wanting something else. We call her our family's recorder of deeds. She remembered for Jeremy (months after the fact) that he didn't have a Pillow Pet anymore because he had destroyed it.
She remembers that a boy in her Sunday School class pinched her face with a pair of toy pliers. This happened when she was about 2. She is now 3 1/2 and will still remind us about it.
She is also smart as a whip and stubborn as a mule. Brian and I often joke that if she ever comes home from a party drunk, she will not be able to tell us someone *made* her drink. It simply doesn't happen. If she has made up her mind about something, she will beg, borrow and steal to get it (all with a smile on her sweet little face).
She was so proud of herself yesterday. It was her turn to bring home a reading friend from preschool. She wanted to carry it out to the car, even though the container was about as big as she. As soon as she showed her friend to Jeremy, he told her that she needed to share. She has been very attentive to Honey's needs since yesterday. It's fun to watch her care so deeply for a stuffed animal.
After Brian headed upstairs with the kids, I headed to my parent's house with some dirty dishes. We have a clog in our kitchen sink. I called the plumber today but discovered that he is no longer in business. I am searching for a new plumber, but meanwhile the dishes are piling up! I loaded my dishes in their dishwasher and then plopped down on the couch to enjoy some time with my parents. They were finishing up another documentary and we were talking about the strike in Chicago being over.
My dad's next documentary choice was The Harvest/La Cosecha. It's a first-hand account of Zulema, Perla and Victor, American children who pick crops as migrant workers. As the filmmakers point out in the beginning of the movie, for migrant workers there is no minimum wage, no laws against child labor, no 8-hour workdays and no protection.
The more I watched, the more I wanted to punch someone. These kids, who are US citizens (the one girl talks about hearing people tell her to go back to Mexico-she says, why would I do that?), miss school regularly to work in the fields in a variety of states. The small amount of schooling they receive is fragmented at best. Perla, who is asked to return to a country that's not hers, says that sometimes, her records from a previous school don't make it to her new school. That means she starts again at zero. She has already been held back one year.
These families are living in poverty. There is running water in their homes, plumbing, but not much else. They have no access to health insurance. They have no access to dental insurance. If they don't work, there is no money coming into the home. They don't have sick days. Perla travelled with her family to Mississippi. While there, her mother was hospitalized. She had been having stomach cramps for some time (but didn't say anything because she didn't want to be a burden). Perla cries when she talks about the incident. She and her dad, when they realized her mom was recovering, tried to find work. There was none to be had.
The filmmakers follow Victor, a 16-year-old boy, through a day of work. He picks tomatoes. He is paid $1 for one bucket of tomatoes (that weighs 25 pounds). In the course of the day, he schleps 1,500 pounds of tomatoes. That nets him $60. Zulema picks strawberries with her family in Michigan (they arrive at a run-down shack that they live in while working there--it reminded me of the slave cabins I saw on a plantation in South Carolina). She works under someone else's name just so she can collect a paycheck. As she points out, though, she is too young to cash her own check.
I love my kids fiercely. My husband and I make sacrifices every day for them. I don't consider that a burden, but a privilege. I am willing to make sacrifices for them so that they have a better future. I lament that I can't pay $300 to sign Jeremy up for soccer, but watching this documentary I realize how fortunate I really am to be able to make those sacrifices. The parents of these children, they don't want this life for their children. I wouldn't, either. They don't have the luxury of making sacrifices. They work for cash, they don't have any savings, they are really living hand-to-mouth. There is no safety net for these parents; they will not be able to collect Social Security or Medicare. It becomes clear that although they don't want their children to become life-long migrant workers, they are enmeshed in a system that doesn't allow them to break free.
I can't decide what makes me angrier; that our country has such a loathing for those with brown skin or that it is 2012 and our economy is being propped up by child labor. My blood boils when I hear the deep-seated prejudices still alive and well in our country.
Each generation has a scapegoat, to be sure. The brown-skinned folk is our generation's. I can assure you, the children and families depicted in this movie are neither stealing American jobs or freeloaders. There is not more than a handful of Caucasian people working in the fields. It is back-breaking work they're performing. They are not being well-compensated but they keep working because otherwise they will not eat.
Unfortunately, the kids have dreams they know will probably not be realized. They aren't dreaming about iPods or XBoxes; they dream about graduating from high school, getting good jobs. Their shoulders are sloped with the burden of knowing that those dreams will probably not be realized. I think about Bekah, who already knows some French; graduating from high school is not a pipe dream for her.
It becomes a generational career, a vicious cycle. They can't be at school because they need to work to help support the family. If they aren't at school, they can't get the education to rise above working in the fields. If they can't get an education...well, you see where I'm going.
Condoleeza Rice spoke at the RNC. My Facebook feed was crowded with praise for Secretary Rice. They praised her for "rising above growing up in the Jim Crow South." I responded, saying I don't begrudge her success but I wonder about the thousands of other Black women who haven't fared so well. Their response? "Well, Secretary Rice had drive and worked hard, that's what those other women are lacking."
The implication is that Zulema, Perla and Victor are stuck in the morass of poverty because they are lazy and lack drive. Yeah. Cause hauling 1500 pounds of tomatoes for $60 a day is certainly slacking off. Being torn between attending school and helping to feed your family shows a lack of drive. I know that Bekah would choose to work because she would want to do everything she could to help. I am grateful that she doesn't need to make that choice. I am sad that these teenagers are having such adult decisions thrust upon them.
I tell ya what, I was never so grateful to be able to take a box of dishes to my parent's house and run them through the dishwasher. We may be floundering financially, but I know that Bekah will not have to work in these fields. I am sick that we still rely on child labor to get work done in our country. I am grateful for the opportunities I've had that allow us to live in a house in the suburbs, where crime is low, schools are well-funded and hope runs high for children. I am sickened when I think of the people who are less fortunate; who live in poor areas with high crime rates, schools that are underfunded and crumbling and who have to work to help make sure there is food on the family table. That makes me ashamed to be an American. It makes my insides squirm that, as a country, we are allowing this to happen.
That's why, if I am asked to pay more taxes so that Perla, Zulema and Victor have a chance at a better future, I will do it. I am grateful for the Obamacare that so many lament, because it means that these kids who make it possible for me to have veggies on my plate will have better access to healthcare. I believe you can tell a lot about someone by how they treat the least among them. I appreciate the freedoms of living in the United States, but what is the point of living in a free country if the price of that freedom costs so much?
Sunday, September 16, 2012
A Clog in the System
I haven't meant not to write over the past several days. It's become one of those weeks, where nothing has gone according to plan. I enrolled Bekah and Jeremy in preschool in a way that I hoped would give me one-on-one time with Doug and a couple of free days.
Their preschool has not been cooperative. Within the past week, I have gone from only having to be at the preschool Monday, Wednesday and Friday to having to be there every morning. It's exhausting.
It doesn't help that I spent most of the week feeling like I had rocks in my head. I couldn't remember what time Bekah's dance class started. I couldn't remember when their dental appointment was. I didn't have the energy to sit at the computer and write some necessary e-mails. My head was jumbled and I felt like someone had shaken my brain.
It was going to be a busy weekend. I am a member of Mothers & More. We have a resale twice a year; this weekend was the second resale of the year. And Murphy's Law required that it was also the weekend of my girlfriend's bachelorette party, a Beth Moore simulcast, my other friend's open house for her home-based business and a weekend I had committed to watch my parent's dogs.
In the past, I would have run around to all of these events. It would have been hectic, I wouldn't have enjoyed any of them more than a little and I would have gotten home late, exhausted. Fortunately, as I was listing all of these items out loud to Brian, it became very apparent I would not be able to attend more than 2.
I was most devastated to not be able to attend the bachelorette party. It was in direct conflict with dog-sitting and required money for dinner/dancing and money for gas. Owing to the fact that it's the weekend before Brian gets paid, money is (as usual) very tight. I shops for all of my kids' clothes at the resale. I save probably hundreds of dollars by getting their clothes secondhand. I also sell at this sale. I am hopeful that what I sold will outpace what I bought, but there is a two-week lag between selling and getting paid.
I am fortunate that my parents were able to help pay for the purchases. If not for their generosity, I would be looking at a negative balance in my bank account. It is frustrating that I am still having to ask my parents for help at age 34. I am discouraged and humiliated that I applied for financial aid through my children's preschool and then was humiliated some more. They approved us for a need-based scholarship and then, after the fact, demanded that we sign a letter indenturing us to serving the preschool throughout the school year.
There is nothing fun about working hard and not being able to get ahead. I get stressed every time I go to the grocery store. I have to plan my meals and my list to the smallest detail. It hurts to have to always be mindful of money. I hate that every decision I make has to be plotted out on a graph. I'm not saying I want to throw money around willy-nilly, but I grew up thinking that working hard would actually bear fruit.
So far, it hasn't. I'm living in a house that is worth far less than what I paid for it. I never had equity in my house. I never had a chance to refinance. We moved in just before the bottom fell out of the market. We are currently unable to make even our modified mortgage payment. I can't think of any business that could be successful, long-term, for asking people to pay more for something than what it's worth.
Then, let's take a look at the medical situation in which we find ourselves. We have experienced multiple hospitalizations over the past four years. Our health benefits have slowly gotten more expensive and less beneficial. As I'm writing, see have a health plan with a $6000 family deductible. Yep, $6000. And after we meet that, we are still responsible for paying 30% of our bills.
Meanwhile, my husband, who was perfectly capable of performing his job from our house, has to drive from Crystal Lake to Northbrook every day. He drives a Honda Civic with $170K miles on it. His boss felt like he was distracted at home, but the reality was that he was selling less because the manufacturing sector has been so sluggish. He is stuck at his job because there are no better jobs out there. He looked for a year straight and went on one interview.
It is so frustrating to have medical bills come in. I received one yesterday for $964 for one visit to Jeremy's cardiologist. That's in addition to the $30 copayment I have to make just to be seen by the doctor. I'm sure you'll be quick to tell me that I can negotiate this down and then make monthly payments.
That's all good and fine, but when you have 10-15 different providers to whom you owe money, even small monthly payments can balloon into something unmanageable. We are also staring down a $1500 bill for Brian in November. He has to go in every year to make sure that his cancer has not recurred. Centegra will not negotiate with us; we are paying them because if we don't, they won't even allow us to make an appointment with them. I spent $900+ to pay off a bill from my OB/GYN for Doug's delivery.
Yeah, and that was fun, sitting across from my OB's business manager, explaining to her that we didn't have the $600+ their office required before they would even deliver Doug. When I explained my situation, that we were on the verge of bankruptcy (we filed in April, Doug was born in July), that we didn't qualify for all kids, for WIC, for any kind of public aid, she looked like she had just sucked on a lemon.
I wish I could explain to you that feeling. I wish I could help you understand how utterly humiliating it is to sit across from someone and talk about how you can't afford something. It's one thing to say no to junk food, or to a bachelorette party (even though that was a huge bummer); it's an entirely different feeling to tell someone you can't afford to give birth to your son.
The peculiar twist of fate was that when we conceived Doug, we had an insurance plan that covered everything at 100% after the deductible was met. In February of the year he was due, our plan shifted into this current iteration. Because we had no way of knowing this, we were unable to plan financially for it. We were caught completely off-guard. Imagine dealing with the stress of going bankrupt and changes in insurance while carrying your third child. Not fun.
I don't know why I'm sharing this, other than to say I am so frustrated. I had hoped that I would be in a different place at 34. I had hoped that buying a house (one that was well within our means) would give us some stability, some security. It has done nothing but the opposite.
It is now, weekends like this, that the revelation that our ill-engineered garbage disposal having a clog becomes enough to deflate my faith. That's a $140 call to our plumber. We have to call once a year to have it unclogged. We have no credit cards. We owe my brother money for having taken my dog to the vet a few months ago. My parents have their own mortgage to worry about and have already been so incredibly generous.
We cannot create an emergency fund for plumbers when we are struggling just to put gas in our tanks, (Brian can't get to his job without it), food on our table and send our kids to preschool. We would visit the food pantry, but the shelves are bare; there was an article about how Crystal Lake's food pantry is floundering on MSNBC a few months ago. In a addition, the food at food pantries is generally highly processed and high in sodium content; not good for two people who take medication every day for high blood pressure.
I know money is not the answer to our situation; I know ultimately it's a spiritual problem that needs a spiritual solution. I just wish I didn't feel like God has been consistently sleeping on the job. I wish I knew what the endgame was, because as I sit here, it seems to not be anything cheerful.
Their preschool has not been cooperative. Within the past week, I have gone from only having to be at the preschool Monday, Wednesday and Friday to having to be there every morning. It's exhausting.
It doesn't help that I spent most of the week feeling like I had rocks in my head. I couldn't remember what time Bekah's dance class started. I couldn't remember when their dental appointment was. I didn't have the energy to sit at the computer and write some necessary e-mails. My head was jumbled and I felt like someone had shaken my brain.
It was going to be a busy weekend. I am a member of Mothers & More. We have a resale twice a year; this weekend was the second resale of the year. And Murphy's Law required that it was also the weekend of my girlfriend's bachelorette party, a Beth Moore simulcast, my other friend's open house for her home-based business and a weekend I had committed to watch my parent's dogs.
In the past, I would have run around to all of these events. It would have been hectic, I wouldn't have enjoyed any of them more than a little and I would have gotten home late, exhausted. Fortunately, as I was listing all of these items out loud to Brian, it became very apparent I would not be able to attend more than 2.
I was most devastated to not be able to attend the bachelorette party. It was in direct conflict with dog-sitting and required money for dinner/dancing and money for gas. Owing to the fact that it's the weekend before Brian gets paid, money is (as usual) very tight. I shops for all of my kids' clothes at the resale. I save probably hundreds of dollars by getting their clothes secondhand. I also sell at this sale. I am hopeful that what I sold will outpace what I bought, but there is a two-week lag between selling and getting paid.
I am fortunate that my parents were able to help pay for the purchases. If not for their generosity, I would be looking at a negative balance in my bank account. It is frustrating that I am still having to ask my parents for help at age 34. I am discouraged and humiliated that I applied for financial aid through my children's preschool and then was humiliated some more. They approved us for a need-based scholarship and then, after the fact, demanded that we sign a letter indenturing us to serving the preschool throughout the school year.
There is nothing fun about working hard and not being able to get ahead. I get stressed every time I go to the grocery store. I have to plan my meals and my list to the smallest detail. It hurts to have to always be mindful of money. I hate that every decision I make has to be plotted out on a graph. I'm not saying I want to throw money around willy-nilly, but I grew up thinking that working hard would actually bear fruit.
So far, it hasn't. I'm living in a house that is worth far less than what I paid for it. I never had equity in my house. I never had a chance to refinance. We moved in just before the bottom fell out of the market. We are currently unable to make even our modified mortgage payment. I can't think of any business that could be successful, long-term, for asking people to pay more for something than what it's worth.
Then, let's take a look at the medical situation in which we find ourselves. We have experienced multiple hospitalizations over the past four years. Our health benefits have slowly gotten more expensive and less beneficial. As I'm writing, see have a health plan with a $6000 family deductible. Yep, $6000. And after we meet that, we are still responsible for paying 30% of our bills.
Meanwhile, my husband, who was perfectly capable of performing his job from our house, has to drive from Crystal Lake to Northbrook every day. He drives a Honda Civic with $170K miles on it. His boss felt like he was distracted at home, but the reality was that he was selling less because the manufacturing sector has been so sluggish. He is stuck at his job because there are no better jobs out there. He looked for a year straight and went on one interview.
It is so frustrating to have medical bills come in. I received one yesterday for $964 for one visit to Jeremy's cardiologist. That's in addition to the $30 copayment I have to make just to be seen by the doctor. I'm sure you'll be quick to tell me that I can negotiate this down and then make monthly payments.
That's all good and fine, but when you have 10-15 different providers to whom you owe money, even small monthly payments can balloon into something unmanageable. We are also staring down a $1500 bill for Brian in November. He has to go in every year to make sure that his cancer has not recurred. Centegra will not negotiate with us; we are paying them because if we don't, they won't even allow us to make an appointment with them. I spent $900+ to pay off a bill from my OB/GYN for Doug's delivery.
Yeah, and that was fun, sitting across from my OB's business manager, explaining to her that we didn't have the $600+ their office required before they would even deliver Doug. When I explained my situation, that we were on the verge of bankruptcy (we filed in April, Doug was born in July), that we didn't qualify for all kids, for WIC, for any kind of public aid, she looked like she had just sucked on a lemon.
I wish I could explain to you that feeling. I wish I could help you understand how utterly humiliating it is to sit across from someone and talk about how you can't afford something. It's one thing to say no to junk food, or to a bachelorette party (even though that was a huge bummer); it's an entirely different feeling to tell someone you can't afford to give birth to your son.
The peculiar twist of fate was that when we conceived Doug, we had an insurance plan that covered everything at 100% after the deductible was met. In February of the year he was due, our plan shifted into this current iteration. Because we had no way of knowing this, we were unable to plan financially for it. We were caught completely off-guard. Imagine dealing with the stress of going bankrupt and changes in insurance while carrying your third child. Not fun.
I don't know why I'm sharing this, other than to say I am so frustrated. I had hoped that I would be in a different place at 34. I had hoped that buying a house (one that was well within our means) would give us some stability, some security. It has done nothing but the opposite.
It is now, weekends like this, that the revelation that our ill-engineered garbage disposal having a clog becomes enough to deflate my faith. That's a $140 call to our plumber. We have to call once a year to have it unclogged. We have no credit cards. We owe my brother money for having taken my dog to the vet a few months ago. My parents have their own mortgage to worry about and have already been so incredibly generous.
We cannot create an emergency fund for plumbers when we are struggling just to put gas in our tanks, (Brian can't get to his job without it), food on our table and send our kids to preschool. We would visit the food pantry, but the shelves are bare; there was an article about how Crystal Lake's food pantry is floundering on MSNBC a few months ago. In a addition, the food at food pantries is generally highly processed and high in sodium content; not good for two people who take medication every day for high blood pressure.
I know money is not the answer to our situation; I know ultimately it's a spiritual problem that needs a spiritual solution. I just wish I didn't feel like God has been consistently sleeping on the job. I wish I knew what the endgame was, because as I sit here, it seems to not be anything cheerful.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Morass of Misery
I started out today with a headache; that was indication enough that it was going to be a rough day. It was tough to get the big kids motivated to eat breakfast and get dressed for school. I always chuckle when people talk about "controlling" their kids. Anyone who thinks kids could be controlled doesn't have any of their own. It seemed like the more I cajoled, nagged and bugged them to hurry up, they shifted down a gear.
Doug and I went to our first storytime together at the library after we had dropped them off. It was so wonderful to just have one person. I forget sometimes how much easier it is to move around when I'm only in charge of one, versus three, little people. There is a sense that I am moving a bit quicker and more forcefully in the intended direction. Directing three people around usually results in a very circuitous movement. I liken it to a travelling three-ring circus. When there's three of them, I'm really just herding, trying to drive them in the vicinity of the desired destination. It was luxurious to have Doug in my arms and walk directly from storytime to our van.
It was a pick-up that I feel like I stepped in tar. It's a tricky thing, preschool. I can only compare it, in some ways, to high school. There are different groups of women, all of whom are very cordial, bustling about, trying to herd their children. We are all working on a common goal but with different outcomes. There can't be any real conversations because we're constantly making sure our children aren't hurting each other or defiling the church. It's easy to feel alone in a crowd like that. It's easy to feel slighted, or marginalized. I think the other moms are lovely, honestly. It's my own issues of insecurity and low self-worth that cause me to feel like I've just exited the Mad Tea Cups ride. I never feel like I have my footing, my stomach feels twisted in knots and I end up feeling like I need a good nap.
No one said anything unkind at pick-up, but I still walked out feeling unsettled. I really did feel like I stepped in something that I couldn't shake--like a feeling of impending doom. Really, though, it was just like splitting a log; it's easier when you can find the existing crack. I have been feeling beaten-down lately. It's been tough to parent when you feel so stressed out. I don't feel like I can be the kind of calm parent I want to be. So anything averse that happens, it's like the crack expands further. I can feel my insides splintering. Usually I can pull myself together, but lately the stress has been impeding my ability to fake it.
Jeremy has always had a weird quirk about eating paper. I don't understand it in the least. It makes no sense to me. A lot of times, I can understand where he's coming from. I can empathize and so it makes it easier to talk to him about it. The paper-eating is beyond anything I can comprehend. Lately, it's taken an even more bizarre twist. He has taken to eating his sister's books and works of art. I found him, the other day, eating the pages out of a book my parents had purchased for Bekah. Two days ago, they were pretending that one of her pieces of art was a treasure map. By the time we reached home, he had torn it up and was eating it. Today, on the way home from preschool, he was looking at a drawing Bekah had done in preschool. He took it into the house with him. When I got inside, I found him with the paper in his mouth.
Like I said, usually I can compose myself. Usually, I can send him to his room and not get too bent out of shape. Today was not one of those days. His behavior went downhill from there and he spent the better part of the afternoon in his room.
Add to this inexplicable behavior stress about money and everything is magnified. I have been pretty open about some of my family's financial woes, so I won't rehash too much. I will say, we are still drowning. There is a backlog of medical bills that we really can't unsnarl. We are not sure how much longer we will be allowed to stay in our house. We're not sure where we'll end up if we aren't living in our house. These are not small issues. We recently purchased a new van in an attempt to save money every month. The crazy thing is that the only bit of leverage we had was our van--a 2010 Honda Odyssey. It was the only thing we owned that had any equity. The hope was that lowering the car payment would help ease money into other areas.
The problem is that we have been drowning for so long that it's like we were drowning under 8 feet of water and now we're drowning under 6. Still drowning, but not quite as much. (The numbers are just arbitrary.) Yes, I have an iPhone, but it's absolutely the only nice, new thing we own (aside from the van). I won't say I don't feel guilty about having it, but I live on that phone. It helps me do a lot of things I wouldn't be able to do without it. I hadn't had a new phone before this one in 3 1/2 years. And even if we sat in the dark, ate food out of cans and drove nowhere, we would still be drowning.
I am also aware that it's not a financial problem we're facing. It's really a spiritual problem. I know that we made good decisions when we bought the house. I didn't know at the time that we were making decisions based on bad information--no one knew, really. When we found out, there was no way to maneuver out of it. Our best bet was to ride it out; there was no way to sell a house we had barely been in for 6 months and no one could have fathomed how deep and wide the deception in the financial sector was. So we have been living by faith for about 3 years. We have poured every last dollar we have into trying to save a house; now we just have to see what the bank is going to say. Ultimately, it's a powerless feeling. We know no one who would personally help bail us out. Furthermore, I wouldn't want anymore good money chasing after bad.
I've learned, through all of this, that we can live on so much less than what we think we can. At the same time, there is a grind to having money be in every conversation. Can we afford that? Can I afford to drive there? Is that the best use of my money? Any little hiccup sends us into a frenzy. We are living with no margins, so it takes very little to send us into a tailspin. Ultimately, this is really about trusting God, about trusting that He has a plan. Time has demonstrated, though, that it's easier to do that in the earlier months of a drought (spiritual, financial, emotional) than in the endless middle of a drought.
That's where I find myself. In the middle of what seems like a never-ending drought. There is no amount of money that can solve this drought, though. It's tough to have to make decisions about people I love. My close girlfriend is getting married in a few weeks. She's having a bachelorette party this weekend. We received an unexpected windfall in the amount of Brian's weekly budget for gas. Am I to take that to mean I should go, or do I really need to look forward and see if perhaps the money will be better spent elsewhere? There's a great parenting seminar at my church. The problem is, my church is just far enough away that it eats away at my weekly gas budget. It's free, but I'm spending money to get there. Is that okay? Is that noble, or am I justifying and rationalizing? And so it goes for every single small decision I'm forced to make everyday.
I know that I have more than most. I am grateful for what I have. I'm not looking for handouts, I'm just saying, this is a grind. It's stressful. It seems like there is no end in sight. And it drags on my soul. I wish I could remember that, as long as Peter kept his eyes on Jesus, he was able to walk on the water as well. I've got to be honest; I'm feeling weary of being faithful. I know God has a plan, but it so far has only seemed to involve us getting broker. I'm not sure exactly where He's headed with all of it and I'd love to know. Not so that I wouldn't have to pay attention to him, but so that I could feel less anxious.
All of this contributes to the tar I feel like has a hold of me. It shades all of my interactions with my friends. It shades my interactions with my children. I usually feel like my tank is only ever half-full. This means I can only handle about one big crisis or emotional outburst or five smaller ones. Any more than that and I come unglued. I know that I should just say, "oh, God has plans for me, plans to prosper me, blah blah blah." But the God I serve knows my heart. He knows how weary and worn-down I feel. I'm not going to insult him, going around praising Him with my lips and cursing Him in my heart.
I was not a great mom today. I didn't handle Jeremy's misbehaving in a calm manner. I was brusque with him and I don't even feel all that bad, that's what kills me. I love all of my kids, but I can't muster any "like" up for him lately. I don't know why, but he's bearing the brunt of my frustration, my unrest, my discontent. I wish I had answers, but really all I have is more questions. I am tired in a way that sleep can't touch. I have been on the verge of tears every day for about two weeks. I have had a strong desire to just pull the covers over my head. I can say I love my kids because I get up, get them fed and dressed and entertained even though I really don't feel like doing anything. Other than that, it's all rote.
I am tired of platitudes, of the same verses being thrown at me over and over again. I was seeing a therapist, but that became a logistical nightmare in and of itself. And when you're already drowning, the last thing you want to do is work harder. I haven't been on many playdates, but those aren't conducive to talking either. I don't even know what I want to hear. I feel like a giant knee without cartilage; every movement is painful and the cure is even more painful than the ailment.
I wish I had the answers, really. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make this all go away. I do laugh a lot, but it's just like short gasps for air before another wave hits. I've been swimming in deep water for so long, I'm hoping it's soon that I feel earth beneath my feet again.
Doug and I went to our first storytime together at the library after we had dropped them off. It was so wonderful to just have one person. I forget sometimes how much easier it is to move around when I'm only in charge of one, versus three, little people. There is a sense that I am moving a bit quicker and more forcefully in the intended direction. Directing three people around usually results in a very circuitous movement. I liken it to a travelling three-ring circus. When there's three of them, I'm really just herding, trying to drive them in the vicinity of the desired destination. It was luxurious to have Doug in my arms and walk directly from storytime to our van.
It was a pick-up that I feel like I stepped in tar. It's a tricky thing, preschool. I can only compare it, in some ways, to high school. There are different groups of women, all of whom are very cordial, bustling about, trying to herd their children. We are all working on a common goal but with different outcomes. There can't be any real conversations because we're constantly making sure our children aren't hurting each other or defiling the church. It's easy to feel alone in a crowd like that. It's easy to feel slighted, or marginalized. I think the other moms are lovely, honestly. It's my own issues of insecurity and low self-worth that cause me to feel like I've just exited the Mad Tea Cups ride. I never feel like I have my footing, my stomach feels twisted in knots and I end up feeling like I need a good nap.
No one said anything unkind at pick-up, but I still walked out feeling unsettled. I really did feel like I stepped in something that I couldn't shake--like a feeling of impending doom. Really, though, it was just like splitting a log; it's easier when you can find the existing crack. I have been feeling beaten-down lately. It's been tough to parent when you feel so stressed out. I don't feel like I can be the kind of calm parent I want to be. So anything averse that happens, it's like the crack expands further. I can feel my insides splintering. Usually I can pull myself together, but lately the stress has been impeding my ability to fake it.
Jeremy has always had a weird quirk about eating paper. I don't understand it in the least. It makes no sense to me. A lot of times, I can understand where he's coming from. I can empathize and so it makes it easier to talk to him about it. The paper-eating is beyond anything I can comprehend. Lately, it's taken an even more bizarre twist. He has taken to eating his sister's books and works of art. I found him, the other day, eating the pages out of a book my parents had purchased for Bekah. Two days ago, they were pretending that one of her pieces of art was a treasure map. By the time we reached home, he had torn it up and was eating it. Today, on the way home from preschool, he was looking at a drawing Bekah had done in preschool. He took it into the house with him. When I got inside, I found him with the paper in his mouth.
Like I said, usually I can compose myself. Usually, I can send him to his room and not get too bent out of shape. Today was not one of those days. His behavior went downhill from there and he spent the better part of the afternoon in his room.
Add to this inexplicable behavior stress about money and everything is magnified. I have been pretty open about some of my family's financial woes, so I won't rehash too much. I will say, we are still drowning. There is a backlog of medical bills that we really can't unsnarl. We are not sure how much longer we will be allowed to stay in our house. We're not sure where we'll end up if we aren't living in our house. These are not small issues. We recently purchased a new van in an attempt to save money every month. The crazy thing is that the only bit of leverage we had was our van--a 2010 Honda Odyssey. It was the only thing we owned that had any equity. The hope was that lowering the car payment would help ease money into other areas.
The problem is that we have been drowning for so long that it's like we were drowning under 8 feet of water and now we're drowning under 6. Still drowning, but not quite as much. (The numbers are just arbitrary.) Yes, I have an iPhone, but it's absolutely the only nice, new thing we own (aside from the van). I won't say I don't feel guilty about having it, but I live on that phone. It helps me do a lot of things I wouldn't be able to do without it. I hadn't had a new phone before this one in 3 1/2 years. And even if we sat in the dark, ate food out of cans and drove nowhere, we would still be drowning.
I am also aware that it's not a financial problem we're facing. It's really a spiritual problem. I know that we made good decisions when we bought the house. I didn't know at the time that we were making decisions based on bad information--no one knew, really. When we found out, there was no way to maneuver out of it. Our best bet was to ride it out; there was no way to sell a house we had barely been in for 6 months and no one could have fathomed how deep and wide the deception in the financial sector was. So we have been living by faith for about 3 years. We have poured every last dollar we have into trying to save a house; now we just have to see what the bank is going to say. Ultimately, it's a powerless feeling. We know no one who would personally help bail us out. Furthermore, I wouldn't want anymore good money chasing after bad.
I've learned, through all of this, that we can live on so much less than what we think we can. At the same time, there is a grind to having money be in every conversation. Can we afford that? Can I afford to drive there? Is that the best use of my money? Any little hiccup sends us into a frenzy. We are living with no margins, so it takes very little to send us into a tailspin. Ultimately, this is really about trusting God, about trusting that He has a plan. Time has demonstrated, though, that it's easier to do that in the earlier months of a drought (spiritual, financial, emotional) than in the endless middle of a drought.
That's where I find myself. In the middle of what seems like a never-ending drought. There is no amount of money that can solve this drought, though. It's tough to have to make decisions about people I love. My close girlfriend is getting married in a few weeks. She's having a bachelorette party this weekend. We received an unexpected windfall in the amount of Brian's weekly budget for gas. Am I to take that to mean I should go, or do I really need to look forward and see if perhaps the money will be better spent elsewhere? There's a great parenting seminar at my church. The problem is, my church is just far enough away that it eats away at my weekly gas budget. It's free, but I'm spending money to get there. Is that okay? Is that noble, or am I justifying and rationalizing? And so it goes for every single small decision I'm forced to make everyday.
I know that I have more than most. I am grateful for what I have. I'm not looking for handouts, I'm just saying, this is a grind. It's stressful. It seems like there is no end in sight. And it drags on my soul. I wish I could remember that, as long as Peter kept his eyes on Jesus, he was able to walk on the water as well. I've got to be honest; I'm feeling weary of being faithful. I know God has a plan, but it so far has only seemed to involve us getting broker. I'm not sure exactly where He's headed with all of it and I'd love to know. Not so that I wouldn't have to pay attention to him, but so that I could feel less anxious.
All of this contributes to the tar I feel like has a hold of me. It shades all of my interactions with my friends. It shades my interactions with my children. I usually feel like my tank is only ever half-full. This means I can only handle about one big crisis or emotional outburst or five smaller ones. Any more than that and I come unglued. I know that I should just say, "oh, God has plans for me, plans to prosper me, blah blah blah." But the God I serve knows my heart. He knows how weary and worn-down I feel. I'm not going to insult him, going around praising Him with my lips and cursing Him in my heart.
I was not a great mom today. I didn't handle Jeremy's misbehaving in a calm manner. I was brusque with him and I don't even feel all that bad, that's what kills me. I love all of my kids, but I can't muster any "like" up for him lately. I don't know why, but he's bearing the brunt of my frustration, my unrest, my discontent. I wish I had answers, but really all I have is more questions. I am tired in a way that sleep can't touch. I have been on the verge of tears every day for about two weeks. I have had a strong desire to just pull the covers over my head. I can say I love my kids because I get up, get them fed and dressed and entertained even though I really don't feel like doing anything. Other than that, it's all rote.
I am tired of platitudes, of the same verses being thrown at me over and over again. I was seeing a therapist, but that became a logistical nightmare in and of itself. And when you're already drowning, the last thing you want to do is work harder. I haven't been on many playdates, but those aren't conducive to talking either. I don't even know what I want to hear. I feel like a giant knee without cartilage; every movement is painful and the cure is even more painful than the ailment.
I wish I had the answers, really. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make this all go away. I do laugh a lot, but it's just like short gasps for air before another wave hits. I've been swimming in deep water for so long, I'm hoping it's soon that I feel earth beneath my feet again.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
O, Christmas Tree...
By Christmas, then, I am sick of Christmas. I can't take one more song, look at the lights flashing anymore or ingest another cookie. It's as if, for me, the Christmas season begins and ends sooner than for everyone else. It's a classic symptom of impatience. I am so excited for Christmas that I start celebrating too early and can't hang for the entire three and a half months.
Growing up, Christmas was an oasis in my house. I grew up in a house with conflict, as did 95% of every other human being on the planet. There was a lot of shouting and cursing and silent treatment, but after the last bit of turkey was consumed on Thanksgiving, a hush fell over the house.
I know the tendency is to romanticize one's childhood, but in our house, we did Christmas up right. We dragged out our bedraggled tree, hung up every crappy, home-made ornament we had ever crafted, put up all sorts of crazy decorations, baked cookies, listened to music and watched movies. My mom led us in a narrative (every year) about every ornament we had mangled. The mouse, sticking out of the chimney--there used to be a present, but I had unwrapped it because I was certain there was a real present in it. All the handprints, clothespin reindeer, portraits with glitter frames...everything went on the tree.
There were no blinky lights. This was something about which my mother was adamant. She hated lights that flashed, blinked, raced and chased. She was in charge of hanging the lights, so she had the final say. My dad, brother and I were in charge of hanging the actual ornaments. My dad had a predilection toward the shiny glass ball ornaments. To this day, I have glass ornaments he gave me when I moved out on my own....almost 12 years ago. I was in charge of making sure no clumping occurred, but it became difficult because the tree was so bedraggled that there were empty spaces everywhere.
We experimented with live trees for a few years. We went to lots, we went out and cut them down, but they all had a recurrent theme. One of us (I'm not saying who--mostly cause I can't remember) would promise to keep the tree watered. The problem was, because we would insist on going the day after Thanksgiving, the tree was ready to go up in flames a week and half before Christmas. In the end, we went back to artificial.
There were movies and music and each adhered to a specific schedule. We listened to Steve Green while we decorated, there was some Andy Williams, but mostly we listened to Bing Crosby. We watched White Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life, several of the Christmas Carols, Holiday Inn, and, in recent years, A Christmas Story. There was a schedule we adhered to. My dad was the fanatic for A Christmas Carol, but I recall that we watched It's a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve and White Christmas on Christmas Day.
There were cookies. Sugar cookies, gingerbread (secretly, not my favorite), thumbprint, kolaczy. It was a lot of fun to start baking with my mom and then veg on the couch while she baked the next six dozen. It was fun to eat the cookies, at first, anyway, until the only things that were left were the un-garnished thumbprint cookies. We took platters of cookies to friends and family members. We ate loads of turkey--we have always been turkey Thanksgiving and turkey Christmas people.
It was no surprise then, when I got to my freshman year of college and my family life was floundering, that I started celebrating Christmas almost upon moving in. I'm not joking. I started listening to Christmas music (exclusively Bing Crosby--there's two different albums, though, that I listened to), put up Christmas lights and did inane countdowns to Christmas. In short, I drove everyone on my floor crazy.
I continue to celebrate Christmas in unexpected ways. We have lived in our home for four years. This past year, I decided I was finally going to decorate the staircase. I put up lights--yes, blinky, chasing, flashing obnoxious lights--and garland. I fastened the decorations securely with plastic ties, put a timer on them and grinned to myself every time I climbed the stairs to bed. Unfortunately, as Bekah pointed out to me last month, "Mommy, it's not Christmas anymore." I will say it's been about five months since I figured out a way to get the kids to stop plugging them in.
I hope that even when I'm losing my mind, I love Christmas. I have been working hard to establish traditions with my kids and new family. We don't have crazy ornaments, this is probably the first year I'm going to attempt baking with the kids and I have kiboshed the present orgy. So far, my attempts to establish traditions have fallen flat. But Mr. Crosby? Well, I have since discovered that he was an abusive, raging alcoholic. Man, he can sing, though. Yeah, Mr. Crosby will always have a place in my Christmas traditions.
Growing up, Christmas was an oasis in my house. I grew up in a house with conflict, as did 95% of every other human being on the planet. There was a lot of shouting and cursing and silent treatment, but after the last bit of turkey was consumed on Thanksgiving, a hush fell over the house.
I know the tendency is to romanticize one's childhood, but in our house, we did Christmas up right. We dragged out our bedraggled tree, hung up every crappy, home-made ornament we had ever crafted, put up all sorts of crazy decorations, baked cookies, listened to music and watched movies. My mom led us in a narrative (every year) about every ornament we had mangled. The mouse, sticking out of the chimney--there used to be a present, but I had unwrapped it because I was certain there was a real present in it. All the handprints, clothespin reindeer, portraits with glitter frames...everything went on the tree.
There were no blinky lights. This was something about which my mother was adamant. She hated lights that flashed, blinked, raced and chased. She was in charge of hanging the lights, so she had the final say. My dad, brother and I were in charge of hanging the actual ornaments. My dad had a predilection toward the shiny glass ball ornaments. To this day, I have glass ornaments he gave me when I moved out on my own....almost 12 years ago. I was in charge of making sure no clumping occurred, but it became difficult because the tree was so bedraggled that there were empty spaces everywhere.
We experimented with live trees for a few years. We went to lots, we went out and cut them down, but they all had a recurrent theme. One of us (I'm not saying who--mostly cause I can't remember) would promise to keep the tree watered. The problem was, because we would insist on going the day after Thanksgiving, the tree was ready to go up in flames a week and half before Christmas. In the end, we went back to artificial.
There were movies and music and each adhered to a specific schedule. We listened to Steve Green while we decorated, there was some Andy Williams, but mostly we listened to Bing Crosby. We watched White Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life, several of the Christmas Carols, Holiday Inn, and, in recent years, A Christmas Story. There was a schedule we adhered to. My dad was the fanatic for A Christmas Carol, but I recall that we watched It's a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve and White Christmas on Christmas Day.
There were cookies. Sugar cookies, gingerbread (secretly, not my favorite), thumbprint, kolaczy. It was a lot of fun to start baking with my mom and then veg on the couch while she baked the next six dozen. It was fun to eat the cookies, at first, anyway, until the only things that were left were the un-garnished thumbprint cookies. We took platters of cookies to friends and family members. We ate loads of turkey--we have always been turkey Thanksgiving and turkey Christmas people.
It was no surprise then, when I got to my freshman year of college and my family life was floundering, that I started celebrating Christmas almost upon moving in. I'm not joking. I started listening to Christmas music (exclusively Bing Crosby--there's two different albums, though, that I listened to), put up Christmas lights and did inane countdowns to Christmas. In short, I drove everyone on my floor crazy.
I continue to celebrate Christmas in unexpected ways. We have lived in our home for four years. This past year, I decided I was finally going to decorate the staircase. I put up lights--yes, blinky, chasing, flashing obnoxious lights--and garland. I fastened the decorations securely with plastic ties, put a timer on them and grinned to myself every time I climbed the stairs to bed. Unfortunately, as Bekah pointed out to me last month, "Mommy, it's not Christmas anymore." I will say it's been about five months since I figured out a way to get the kids to stop plugging them in.
I hope that even when I'm losing my mind, I love Christmas. I have been working hard to establish traditions with my kids and new family. We don't have crazy ornaments, this is probably the first year I'm going to attempt baking with the kids and I have kiboshed the present orgy. So far, my attempts to establish traditions have fallen flat. But Mr. Crosby? Well, I have since discovered that he was an abusive, raging alcoholic. Man, he can sing, though. Yeah, Mr. Crosby will always have a place in my Christmas traditions.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Please Don't Stop the Music
My mom's parents live in western Pennsylvania. Growing up, we made the 8-hour drive 2-3 times a year. We drove in a Honda Accord 4-door. No DVD player, no video games, no personal space.
We passed the time mostly in nerdy ways-reading books, reading books out loud and playing travel games.
We were never cooler than when my dad turned on the music. Every trip was tinged with different musical favors. My dad listened to whatever struck him; he was loyal to no one.
Over several years, we listened to Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Vivaldi, Randy Travis, Duran Duran, U2, Alabama...the list went on and on. I am shocked by the diversity, honestly. It's quite a way to be born into music.
I will say, I have not retained love for country music. With few exceptions, I find the genre annoying and unnecessarily maudlin. I also hate that it purports to be more moral than non-country music. But I digress.
I usually loved the music of the hour. I sat by the radio, finger poised over the record button, waiting for that favorite son to come on. I enjoyed any music that allowed me to shake my booty.
As an orchestra geek, though, I also had a deep love and admiration for classical music. I would listen to Beethoven, Bach, Mozart. I adored Tchaikovsky's work and listened to it so much I could tell when it was about to shift keys. My dad rented Swan Lake from the library and I was honored to see Mikhail Barishnykov dance as the Prince.
I really do enjoy music. I love feeling it wash over me. It's akin to diving into pool for swim practice. The water is undisturbed, cool and feels wonderful over my skin. I enjoy turning up the volume and listening to a favorite song.
I listen to music when I run and there are now songs that remind me of different training runs. The second time I trained for the North Shore Half Marathon, I almost exclusively listened to the first disc of the Rolling Stones 40 Licks-Disc One. To this day, when I hear a Rolling Stones song, I'm transported to Highland Park.
My playlist during training for the Flying Pig Marathon was more diverse, but it was the same thing every week. It included the Black Eyed Peas, Paul Oakenfeld, Benny Goodman, Len, Stevie Wonder and more. I can tell you where I was on the MCCD trail when each song played.
Feist's song, 1234, came out right around when Jeremy was born. It was also the song that played during the iPod nano commercials. Between the commercials and video playing on VH1, I get teary-eyed every time I hear that song.
I don't understand why music resonates so much with me. There are songs that I like and I can't even explain why. I have a crazy habit of listening to a song over and over again. I like to listen for nuances. I enjoy listening to the lyrics, to key changes, to harmonies. I don't listen to music lightly.
I recently checked the movie Fantasia out of the library. I thought that Bekah and Jeremy would enjoy it. They did, but not for the reasons I thought they would. What I did notice is that Jeremy, while listening to some of the music, was able to provide accompaniment to it. There wasn't anything random or mimicking to it; he was making percussive noises with his mouth that complimented the music.
Nowadays, with DVD players and video games, I may not be able to bombard my children with music for hours. I am doing my part, though; Bekah has been known to give concerts in the toy room. She usually performs a version of Everybody Talks, by Neon Trees. She calls Maroon 5 "The Jaggers," because of the song, "Moves Like Jagger." Jeremy has requested me to play Adele and sings along.
Yep, they'll be just fine.
We passed the time mostly in nerdy ways-reading books, reading books out loud and playing travel games.
We were never cooler than when my dad turned on the music. Every trip was tinged with different musical favors. My dad listened to whatever struck him; he was loyal to no one.
Over several years, we listened to Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Vivaldi, Randy Travis, Duran Duran, U2, Alabama...the list went on and on. I am shocked by the diversity, honestly. It's quite a way to be born into music.
I will say, I have not retained love for country music. With few exceptions, I find the genre annoying and unnecessarily maudlin. I also hate that it purports to be more moral than non-country music. But I digress.
I usually loved the music of the hour. I sat by the radio, finger poised over the record button, waiting for that favorite son to come on. I enjoyed any music that allowed me to shake my booty.
As an orchestra geek, though, I also had a deep love and admiration for classical music. I would listen to Beethoven, Bach, Mozart. I adored Tchaikovsky's work and listened to it so much I could tell when it was about to shift keys. My dad rented Swan Lake from the library and I was honored to see Mikhail Barishnykov dance as the Prince.
I really do enjoy music. I love feeling it wash over me. It's akin to diving into pool for swim practice. The water is undisturbed, cool and feels wonderful over my skin. I enjoy turning up the volume and listening to a favorite song.
I listen to music when I run and there are now songs that remind me of different training runs. The second time I trained for the North Shore Half Marathon, I almost exclusively listened to the first disc of the Rolling Stones 40 Licks-Disc One. To this day, when I hear a Rolling Stones song, I'm transported to Highland Park.
My playlist during training for the Flying Pig Marathon was more diverse, but it was the same thing every week. It included the Black Eyed Peas, Paul Oakenfeld, Benny Goodman, Len, Stevie Wonder and more. I can tell you where I was on the MCCD trail when each song played.
Feist's song, 1234, came out right around when Jeremy was born. It was also the song that played during the iPod nano commercials. Between the commercials and video playing on VH1, I get teary-eyed every time I hear that song.
I don't understand why music resonates so much with me. There are songs that I like and I can't even explain why. I have a crazy habit of listening to a song over and over again. I like to listen for nuances. I enjoy listening to the lyrics, to key changes, to harmonies. I don't listen to music lightly.
I recently checked the movie Fantasia out of the library. I thought that Bekah and Jeremy would enjoy it. They did, but not for the reasons I thought they would. What I did notice is that Jeremy, while listening to some of the music, was able to provide accompaniment to it. There wasn't anything random or mimicking to it; he was making percussive noises with his mouth that complimented the music.
Nowadays, with DVD players and video games, I may not be able to bombard my children with music for hours. I am doing my part, though; Bekah has been known to give concerts in the toy room. She usually performs a version of Everybody Talks, by Neon Trees. She calls Maroon 5 "The Jaggers," because of the song, "Moves Like Jagger." Jeremy has requested me to play Adele and sings along.
Yep, they'll be just fine.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
The Art in Learning
We reached the top of the stairs and were looking upon three huge paintings. I was there under duress, age 11, with my dad and his mom. I looked upon the paintings without much feeling. My dad, always the teacher, told me to look closer. When I examined the painting on the right, I saw that the Friar was holding a young boy's tongue over his head.
I didn't know if I should be grossed out or if that would, as a reaction, encourage our trip to the Art Institute. I was a consummate student, but even this seemed to be reaching past my acceptable level of nerdiness. I decided to show some mild shock and hung back as we walked through the different wings.
By the end of my visit, I couldn't hold back. I wasn't an instant fan of art, but there was something so regal and magnificent about Sunday on la Grande Jatte. About Jackson Pollack's canvases. The miniature houses, the blown-glass paperweights, the furniture. All of it seemed to radiate emotions. I could sense the desperation in Hopper's "Nighthawks at the Diner." I didn't understand, but I appreciated Van Gogh's point of view.
At that point, I hadn't full embrace my own artistry. I didn't understand that most renowned artists are plagued, in some variation, by madness, depression, alcoholism, etc. There is something so ephemeral about ideas. They are fleeting, they are transient, they skitter around like frantic houseflies. I have learned how important it is to write these ideas down. I have been frustrated by conceiving of beautiful story lines only to reach pen and paper and realize they departed hours earlier.
I don't do subtlety well. I always struggled to find themes or subtext. I find that, for me, the art of my writing is in re-writing. I am able to strip words away until I am hinting at how something feels or looks. It's not a sledgehammer driving a railway nail; it's the faint whisper of someone's perfume as they have already passed you and are gone.
I, therefore, am amazed at the juxtaposition of art and writing. The oil-soaked canvases have peaks and valleys of paints. Pollack's works didn't impact me until I saw the movie starring Ed Harris. I watched Mr. Harris channel Mr. Pollack. I saw the canvas transformed. I used to look at those kind of paintings and think, I could do that. But even in his works, there is subtlety. He doesn't simply fill the entire canvas; there are blank spots, voids, pauses.
Monet is a favorite; for my money, I enjoy his perspective on the world. I used to think that my writing had to be dark, the groanings of a tortured artist. Now I know that it can evoke emotions that long lay dormant. I know the power of words can transform paper into pictures. When I read, I see the story as a movie, not as one-dimensional words, but people interacting, moving around. I think Monet saw beauty and felt obligated to capture it. I love that he seemed to see the world through cheesecloth, as Ingrid Bergman is portrayed on film; gauzy and soft, radiant. That, to me, means that he focused on the beauty and softened harsh edges, wherever he saw them.
I watched Pleasantville when it came out. I know reviews on it were mixed, but for my money, I think it spoke to the fact that passion awakens you. I don't believe it was just sensual passion; there were people who had awakenings of all sorts. I remember watching the scene where Joan Allen and Jeff Daniels are in the diner, after she's become "colored." He is showing her Picasso's "Weeping Woman," telling her that the woman is happy. With tears in her eyes, Joan Allen says, "no, she's crying." And in that instant, I saw what she saw. I understood that art is transformed by our experiences. It's not static; each painting, each statue, takes on new meaning as new life experiences unfold.
I am amazed when I re-read things I've written. I have different reactions. I am shocked that I could have been so naive. I am humbled by revelations I made or revealed that I never noticed before. I uncover new treasures where I thought they had all been pillaged. It's an interesting idea, that the beauty of art is in the eye of those beholding it. Most modern art eludes me, but that doesn't mean it's not art. It doesn't mean there isn't something magical about transforming different media into a narrative.
I don't get to the Art Institute much anymore. Living in suburbia with three kids will do that to you. I discovered rather harshly in high school that art, in the traditional sense, is not my forte. I took one art class and just failed. I produced one or two great pieces, but overall I was not able to use my hands to transform the ideas in my head into 2- or 3-D works of art. It was very humbling. I had hoped that I had some latent talent for drawing, or painting or what have you, but no. I learned the valuable lesson that we cannot be whatever we want to be. I am not meant to paint. My drawings are rudimentary at best. I lack the ability to see a creation in a pile of raw materials. I love watching Project Runway. I am amazed that there are people who can look at fabric and conceive wearable pieces of art. They sketch at the beginning of the show, giving hints as to what the finished garment will look like. I have a difficulty seeing it as they do, but it's amazing to see them transform something flat and without life into a breathtaking garment.
A poem birthed itself in my head today. I will share it in it's infancy. I hope it demonstrates that though my medium is different, my words pile on the page to weave a rich tapestry.
O beautiful fruit, sprouting
between my heart and my
womb. Cells divide
distance between us, tendrils contract
the soul we share. Every day my body
rises; limbs transform
empty space into occupied. New
you replaces unused me, replaces
selfish, replaces vacuous. Reborn I feel
gravity's new pull, heavy, binding
weighing down expectations.
I groan
low and loud, feeling spasms
twisting my abdomen, water
spilling forth, revealing life.
Silence
fills my mouth, dry and cracked
as your body, drenched
with possibility rests on mine; tears
cloud my mind, gravity shifts
as I contemplate
my new universe, exploded forth
with beauty. My creation, new life moves
it's tendrils into my heart, implanting
love
adoration
fear.
I didn't know if I should be grossed out or if that would, as a reaction, encourage our trip to the Art Institute. I was a consummate student, but even this seemed to be reaching past my acceptable level of nerdiness. I decided to show some mild shock and hung back as we walked through the different wings.
By the end of my visit, I couldn't hold back. I wasn't an instant fan of art, but there was something so regal and magnificent about Sunday on la Grande Jatte. About Jackson Pollack's canvases. The miniature houses, the blown-glass paperweights, the furniture. All of it seemed to radiate emotions. I could sense the desperation in Hopper's "Nighthawks at the Diner." I didn't understand, but I appreciated Van Gogh's point of view.
At that point, I hadn't full embrace my own artistry. I didn't understand that most renowned artists are plagued, in some variation, by madness, depression, alcoholism, etc. There is something so ephemeral about ideas. They are fleeting, they are transient, they skitter around like frantic houseflies. I have learned how important it is to write these ideas down. I have been frustrated by conceiving of beautiful story lines only to reach pen and paper and realize they departed hours earlier.
I don't do subtlety well. I always struggled to find themes or subtext. I find that, for me, the art of my writing is in re-writing. I am able to strip words away until I am hinting at how something feels or looks. It's not a sledgehammer driving a railway nail; it's the faint whisper of someone's perfume as they have already passed you and are gone.
I, therefore, am amazed at the juxtaposition of art and writing. The oil-soaked canvases have peaks and valleys of paints. Pollack's works didn't impact me until I saw the movie starring Ed Harris. I watched Mr. Harris channel Mr. Pollack. I saw the canvas transformed. I used to look at those kind of paintings and think, I could do that. But even in his works, there is subtlety. He doesn't simply fill the entire canvas; there are blank spots, voids, pauses.
Monet is a favorite; for my money, I enjoy his perspective on the world. I used to think that my writing had to be dark, the groanings of a tortured artist. Now I know that it can evoke emotions that long lay dormant. I know the power of words can transform paper into pictures. When I read, I see the story as a movie, not as one-dimensional words, but people interacting, moving around. I think Monet saw beauty and felt obligated to capture it. I love that he seemed to see the world through cheesecloth, as Ingrid Bergman is portrayed on film; gauzy and soft, radiant. That, to me, means that he focused on the beauty and softened harsh edges, wherever he saw them.
I watched Pleasantville when it came out. I know reviews on it were mixed, but for my money, I think it spoke to the fact that passion awakens you. I don't believe it was just sensual passion; there were people who had awakenings of all sorts. I remember watching the scene where Joan Allen and Jeff Daniels are in the diner, after she's become "colored." He is showing her Picasso's "Weeping Woman," telling her that the woman is happy. With tears in her eyes, Joan Allen says, "no, she's crying." And in that instant, I saw what she saw. I understood that art is transformed by our experiences. It's not static; each painting, each statue, takes on new meaning as new life experiences unfold.
I am amazed when I re-read things I've written. I have different reactions. I am shocked that I could have been so naive. I am humbled by revelations I made or revealed that I never noticed before. I uncover new treasures where I thought they had all been pillaged. It's an interesting idea, that the beauty of art is in the eye of those beholding it. Most modern art eludes me, but that doesn't mean it's not art. It doesn't mean there isn't something magical about transforming different media into a narrative.
I don't get to the Art Institute much anymore. Living in suburbia with three kids will do that to you. I discovered rather harshly in high school that art, in the traditional sense, is not my forte. I took one art class and just failed. I produced one or two great pieces, but overall I was not able to use my hands to transform the ideas in my head into 2- or 3-D works of art. It was very humbling. I had hoped that I had some latent talent for drawing, or painting or what have you, but no. I learned the valuable lesson that we cannot be whatever we want to be. I am not meant to paint. My drawings are rudimentary at best. I lack the ability to see a creation in a pile of raw materials. I love watching Project Runway. I am amazed that there are people who can look at fabric and conceive wearable pieces of art. They sketch at the beginning of the show, giving hints as to what the finished garment will look like. I have a difficulty seeing it as they do, but it's amazing to see them transform something flat and without life into a breathtaking garment.
A poem birthed itself in my head today. I will share it in it's infancy. I hope it demonstrates that though my medium is different, my words pile on the page to weave a rich tapestry.
O beautiful fruit, sprouting
between my heart and my
womb. Cells divide
distance between us, tendrils contract
the soul we share. Every day my body
rises; limbs transform
empty space into occupied. New
you replaces unused me, replaces
selfish, replaces vacuous. Reborn I feel
gravity's new pull, heavy, binding
weighing down expectations.
I groan
low and loud, feeling spasms
twisting my abdomen, water
spilling forth, revealing life.
Silence
fills my mouth, dry and cracked
as your body, drenched
with possibility rests on mine; tears
cloud my mind, gravity shifts
as I contemplate
my new universe, exploded forth
with beauty. My creation, new life moves
it's tendrils into my heart, implanting
love
adoration
fear.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Bedtime? Since When?
I have three children. Jeremy will turn 5 in a few days. Rebekah is 3 1/2. Doug is 13 months. Brian and I decided, and our experience has taught us, that our kids like routines and schedules. I have co-slept with my newborns for increasing periods of time, but I typically don't do that for more than 3 months. I have no judgement on those who do, it's just not right for me. I covet my sleep and I like to sleep by myself. I sleep in bed with Brian because he's my husband, but I don't like to be cuddled, touched or snuggled.
In any case, we adopted a routine that felt right for us and has borne out to be the right thing for our family. I would love for our bedtime routine to start at six o'clock. I get worn out from the constant barrage of questions. I covet my evenings, where I can blog or connect with other adults or in some other way disentangle myself from my family. I love everyone, but I am a better mommy when I have some regular adult interaction.
Alas, six o'clock doesn't work for us because that's when Brian arrives home. There are days when he arrives home and is immediately confronted by screaming, tantrumming children. Those days, bedtime comes early for one or more of the small people in my house.
So we usually start the march toward bedtime around 7. I relinquished bedtime and bathtime to Brian a long time ago. I figure, I take care of all other times, from breakfast on through dinner. Why not take something off of my plate. That's not to say I plop down on the couch once the kids have disappeared upstairs, pick up my iPhone and tune everything out. Nope, I typically spend a good hour picking up toys, clothes, sippy cups and flotsam. I get the dishwasher loaded, vacuum, wipe the counters down, check the calendar for the next day, etc. I don't really stop moving until it's my bedtime, which is consistently two or three hours past when it should be.
Now. I estimate that Jeremy has been going to bed 1825 nights in a row, give or take. Some of these, it's true, he's been in the hospital. Probably more than most. I'll knock about 15-20 days for the hospital, but still. 1800 nights in a row, he's gone to bed. We do not let our kids run around until they pass out. Everyone sleeps in their own bed (again, this suits our family well). There are rules about bedtime. #1, Stay in Bed. #2, Close Your Eyes. #3, Stay very quiet. #4, Go to sleep. I don't mind them talking to each other, but really, this is not the time to play Kipper or tag or other crazy, active games.
It amazes me, then, that every night bedtime is met with shock. I don't mean like "oh, no, a spider just dropped into my lap. Eek!" I mean, like genuine shock. They are blindsided by bedtime. Every night. Even just the announcement that it's time to take their clothes off is met with consternation.
Negotiations commence from that moment and continue until Brian has shut the door to their room. These are high-powered negotiations, ones that would make CEOs proud. They ask for concessions of all kinds; extra shows, more water, more information on what we're doing tomorrow. They beg and plead. They request extra stops to the bathroom. Brian has to acquiesce because they tell him, if he doesn't, they'll make a mess in their pull-ups and that would be a disaster. (Their words, not mine.)
In a perfect world, bedtime would resolve with their bedroom door closing. But it doesn't. There are the numerous trips into the hall. Brian and I sit, watching TV and trying to catch up on our day. We typically hear the door open and then the distant chatter of our two oldest. Our strategies swing between yelling (from where we're sitting) that they should go back to their room. On nights when I still have some vestiges of patience, love and tolerance I go over to the bottom of the stairs.
Usually, there are two cherub faces looking down at me. "I have a question for you," they'll say. I typically sigh, then ask, "what?" In my heart, I'm hoping it's something new and fresh. It's usually not. "What are we doing today after naps mommy?" I've determined that they don't understand days per se. In their minds, it's just one, continuous day. They don't know that, upon waking up, it will be a new day on the calendar. Hence, "what are we doing today after naps."
It continues on like that for some time until, finally, they fall asleep. We have found Jeremy asleep in the hall a few times. He has crept down to see us and told us, "Mommy and Daddy, Bekah's eyes are closed. I can't sleep." I am not sure what's going to happen when they no longer room together; he is absolutely lost when she is napping or not around. We usually encourage him to do the same thing; close his eyes and go to sleep. One more kiss, one more hug, and then he patters off to bed.
Thus concludes bedtime....until tomorrow night.
In any case, we adopted a routine that felt right for us and has borne out to be the right thing for our family. I would love for our bedtime routine to start at six o'clock. I get worn out from the constant barrage of questions. I covet my evenings, where I can blog or connect with other adults or in some other way disentangle myself from my family. I love everyone, but I am a better mommy when I have some regular adult interaction.
Alas, six o'clock doesn't work for us because that's when Brian arrives home. There are days when he arrives home and is immediately confronted by screaming, tantrumming children. Those days, bedtime comes early for one or more of the small people in my house.
So we usually start the march toward bedtime around 7. I relinquished bedtime and bathtime to Brian a long time ago. I figure, I take care of all other times, from breakfast on through dinner. Why not take something off of my plate. That's not to say I plop down on the couch once the kids have disappeared upstairs, pick up my iPhone and tune everything out. Nope, I typically spend a good hour picking up toys, clothes, sippy cups and flotsam. I get the dishwasher loaded, vacuum, wipe the counters down, check the calendar for the next day, etc. I don't really stop moving until it's my bedtime, which is consistently two or three hours past when it should be.
Now. I estimate that Jeremy has been going to bed 1825 nights in a row, give or take. Some of these, it's true, he's been in the hospital. Probably more than most. I'll knock about 15-20 days for the hospital, but still. 1800 nights in a row, he's gone to bed. We do not let our kids run around until they pass out. Everyone sleeps in their own bed (again, this suits our family well). There are rules about bedtime. #1, Stay in Bed. #2, Close Your Eyes. #3, Stay very quiet. #4, Go to sleep. I don't mind them talking to each other, but really, this is not the time to play Kipper or tag or other crazy, active games.
It amazes me, then, that every night bedtime is met with shock. I don't mean like "oh, no, a spider just dropped into my lap. Eek!" I mean, like genuine shock. They are blindsided by bedtime. Every night. Even just the announcement that it's time to take their clothes off is met with consternation.
Negotiations commence from that moment and continue until Brian has shut the door to their room. These are high-powered negotiations, ones that would make CEOs proud. They ask for concessions of all kinds; extra shows, more water, more information on what we're doing tomorrow. They beg and plead. They request extra stops to the bathroom. Brian has to acquiesce because they tell him, if he doesn't, they'll make a mess in their pull-ups and that would be a disaster. (Their words, not mine.)
In a perfect world, bedtime would resolve with their bedroom door closing. But it doesn't. There are the numerous trips into the hall. Brian and I sit, watching TV and trying to catch up on our day. We typically hear the door open and then the distant chatter of our two oldest. Our strategies swing between yelling (from where we're sitting) that they should go back to their room. On nights when I still have some vestiges of patience, love and tolerance I go over to the bottom of the stairs.
Usually, there are two cherub faces looking down at me. "I have a question for you," they'll say. I typically sigh, then ask, "what?" In my heart, I'm hoping it's something new and fresh. It's usually not. "What are we doing today after naps mommy?" I've determined that they don't understand days per se. In their minds, it's just one, continuous day. They don't know that, upon waking up, it will be a new day on the calendar. Hence, "what are we doing today after naps."
It continues on like that for some time until, finally, they fall asleep. We have found Jeremy asleep in the hall a few times. He has crept down to see us and told us, "Mommy and Daddy, Bekah's eyes are closed. I can't sleep." I am not sure what's going to happen when they no longer room together; he is absolutely lost when she is napping or not around. We usually encourage him to do the same thing; close his eyes and go to sleep. One more kiss, one more hug, and then he patters off to bed.
Thus concludes bedtime....until tomorrow night.
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