and I figured I had two hours max to exercise and pick up the mass of toys strewn around the family room. But, two hours creeped into three, then four…still no sign of them, no call from Bill. I kept thinking that I should write, revise, begin my final push to finish the novel I’m working on. But I knew as soon as I sat down and got in the groove, I’d hear the garage door going up. So I cleaned and fussed and made darn sure I didn’t place any calls of inquiry to Bill, because all though I was sure they’d be home any second, I didn’t want to offer any encouragement. After all, Bill had been in California for six days…he needs that kind of alone time with his doting children…Anyway, 6 1/2 hours passed (he had been at his mothers as I suspected) and the house was cleaner, clothes were put away, the Housewife Cafe was opened for business, but I hadn’t done a lick of writing or revising. So, use me as a lesson, my writing friends–write every chance you can–you never know when one moment will slide into hours and you actually get something done. Moral of the story–don’t assume your husband will bring the kids back as soon as humanly possible…ask the question…get the work done.
I’m completely out of anything that might be considered “nice,” underwear.
That’s right, last week while shopping–grocery shopping–with my friend Lisa, I plucked a pack of white no-name underpants off the display and bought them.
I think I saw her cringe as I did, though she didn’t SAY she thought it was an odd grocery store purchase.
But it was only today as I sorted the laundry that I found myself rifling through my drawer, white cotton Hanes here, a generic flowered pair there, old maternity pair buried at the bottom.
No, no, no.
Hadn’t I even been awake the last four years I had been getting dressed?
Oh, yeah. I wasn’t awake.
Barely, maybe, sometimes.
How had I fallen so far in so few years?
Alas, this post could go in Calm Before The Stork, but really, this is simply another weakness in my Housewife persona–Lost in a Sea of Cotton…Will I ever return to the shores of Victoria’s Secret? Will Bill withstand the drought? Stay tuned.
While exercising this morning a song from long ago filtered into my ears. “I want Everything,” by Cracker seemed bring to mind the dilemma of the modern mother and also memories of a girl and boy in love. Yes, back in the early dating days my husband Bill and I went to HFStival in Maryland–moshed around in the pit, drank some, and suffered early spring sunburns. Hearing that song brought feelings rushing back–of being young and optimistic, completely unhampered by anything other than work. That feeling–if only I could bottle it. Sniff a little here and there when I’m in the toddler trenches. I don’t know. The calm before the stork, it seems like a good thing now. But really, when I imagine life thirty years from now, I know the insanity will have been worth it.
It’s Saturday August 27th and I have no recipe of the week. Just another indication of my houswifery weaknesses. A recipe–Anyone? Anyone?
Thank God for my friends at fatplum.com. Having finished the sequel to my first novel–one I now have an agent for–I went back to book boot camp thinking I was way further along in my writing than I turned out to be. Well, that’s half right. Most of the content I needed was there, but there were issues with timing…Boy what the writer can’t see herself…
Toilet paper is a funny thing–it tends to run out. This is a glimpse into why I am a poor representation of a housewife. You can be assured that I will run out of lightbulbs and toilet paper as sure as I will take my next breath. My dad used to stock our entire basement with paperproducts and daily use items. When we went off to college, he would send us with bags and bags of staple items. So why I didn’t inherit this particular compulsive behavior, I don’t know. In our kitchen we have two overhead lights with three bulbs each. One of the lights went out on Monday. Rather than change those bulbs right away I decided to wait until the other light’s bulbs burned out. It is summer after all–lots of natural light to be had. Five days later both lights are burned out and with two trips to the grocery store behind me, I’ve still forgotten to get new bulbs. I don’t make lists. I need to make lists. Reason number two I’m a bad houswife–no grocery lists. Anyway, my heart skipped a beat this morning when at the early hour of 6:30 AM I was out for a walk/run and one of my neighbors–a very good housewife was on her way to the store for…toilet paper. If she could forget, then I can’t be that bad off, can I?
I created this category to get at the times when kids are irrepressibly impossible to stomach another second, let alone an entire lifetime. Also, posted here will be the times the pendulum swings in the direction that heals all parental wounds–when I see the big picture and know that children and their innocent ramble through life could teach most adults a lesson or two. So here goes.
After a month of meltdowns, fueled by stimuli invisible to the naked eye, Jake (almost four) has been fully acredited in the field of Parental Torture. Seriously, his papers arrived in the mail yesterday. The steady build up of time-outs for Jake and calming self-talk for me was beginning to make some headway in his behavior–until a half hour ago. From the kitchen where I was slaving over a difficult breakfast of frozen silver dollar pancakes and grapes, I caught a glimpse of Jake “riding” the leather recliner for the fiftieth time today. It’s only 9:23 AM.
Knowing he wasn’t aware that I was watching him, and tired of “teaching” good behavior I let him ride it out, sister Beth (2 1/2) cheering him all the way. His small face plastered with a giant smile, hair wipping in the wind he was creating as he stood gripping the back of the chair, yanking it back and forth, unglued all my motherly instincts and I shuddered with laughter. Trying to contain the laughter, I choked and pushed aside my safety concerns–yes he could potentially torpedo backwards off the chair into the coffee table. Yes, I’d have to explain this in the emergency room…”but he looked funny and happy and I couldn’t stop from laughing, Doctor…”
Thrust asunder were the warning thoughts of a broken and expensive chair, Bill’s facial expressions when I explain we need another one four years into its 30 year life span. I was struck by the complete sense of bliss on Jake’s part. Finally I rationalized that he’d get it out of his system if I let him do it (not that he knew I was letting him) this one time. Yea right.