Unrequited Friendship

I thought I had a pleasant circle of friends. We saw each other several times a month and I liked and respected them. They had young children like I did, and we had similar interests, struggles, dreams, and ideas. I knew they, like myself, were trying to be the best they could. Then one day, through an inadvertant mention in an unrelated group email, I found they had a monthly girls' night doing a hobby we all enjoyed. Without getting too bogged in details, there was no possibility I had been overlooked (I had even mentioned a few times that such a night would be fun, but everyone always seemed strangely disinterested); I'd been deliberately not invited. In fact, obvious effort must have been made to not mention this group in front of me. For whatever reason, my presence was undesirable.

It didn't help that not long after, I was given a Christmas letter from one of the women where she went on about several large parties she had thrown throughout the year where she and her husband had invited ALL their friends. I've never been sure why she felt a need to give me the letter without giving me a single invitation. But it compounded the still recent sting.

I was humiliated and heartbroken. I thought I had friends who liked me, but I was more a tolerated ... what? Acquaintance? Annoyance? Affliction? The worst part was I still knew these women were good women. I couldn't feel bitterness towards them, I had simply misunderstood our relationship. It had been my mistake. If my attendance made their night out unpleasant enough to go to the trouble to hide it from me, I couldn't begrudge them not asking me. After all, at the stage of life we were all in, these nights out would be rare and meant to be fun. I took it as a kindness (if a little misguided) that they went out of their way to keep me ignorant. In fact, a few years later I found myself on the opposite side of a similar situation and understood their position even better.

I learned a lot through this experience. I learned that liking me was not a prerequisite for goodness. Compatibility with me doesn't have a monopoly on kindness, hard work, or happiness. I also learned that,  despite what other people thought of me, I liked myself well enough. In fact, I see this as the genesis of feeling comfortable in my own skin and letting others learn to do the same.

Our family's next couple moves were to places where people were more, um, direct about their feelings and more embracing of eccentricities. I continued to grow from its the lessons, but rarely thought about that less-than-pleasant situation.

But since moving here, I've found myself reflecting again on that time. Recently I've realized I do carry some negative baggage I picked up all those years ago: I'm frightened of unrequited friendships. Obviously, I'm not great at reading social cues about friendship and I don't know if I can handle making friends only to find I really haven't. To learn to care for and admire women who simply don't reciprocate. I don't want to be tolerated, I want to be friended. Coupled with my natural shyness this has kept me isolated, probably a little prickly, and (I suspect) not responsive to more subtle attempts at friendship.

Now that I've identified a problem, maybe I can move forward. My comfort zone needs expanded a little bit, and I need to risk getting hurt. Another hard lesson learned. Getting wiser, not just older, is a difficult thing sometimes.

 

Uterus versus the Mail

We love in our hearts and think in our brains. Intuition begins in the gut and weather forecasts in our joints. We even believe with every fiber of our being. But do you know what part of the body we use to find things? Is it our eyes, our brain, or maybe our fingers?

Nope. According to Pennsylvania folklore, we use our uterus to find things. That is why men can't do it and why, when we lived in PA, it was not uncommon to hear something along these lines: "Ever since my hysterectomy, I can never find my car keys."

My uterus has been in charge of looking for things ever since.

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Today Peter couldn't find some mail. He remembered setting it down a couple weeks ago "somewhere special" so he wouldn't lose it. He just couldn't remember where this special spot was hiding. I would have helped him look, but I was busy doing other important things, like reading blogs and checking Facebook. I mean, it wasn't that big of a deal; it was only the soon-to-be-overdue renewal of his State Medical License.

So he looked and I ... sat at the computer. And he looked and I ... loaded the dishwasher. And he looked and I ... picked the kids up from school. And he looked and I ... sat at the computer again.

A couple hours later, panic was beginning to build and there was real threat of the house being torn apart. I finally decided I might be a little sad (and hungry) if my husband lost his ability to work. Besides, I'd finished reading blogs for the moment. So I got up, walked to our bedroom, and found it in a pile of papers on our dresser. A piece of mail I'd never seen in a pile I'd never noticed before. It took less than thirty seconds.

"Don't worry," I said as I brought them back downstairs, "Maybe someday you can grow a uterus, too."

"Thanks," he replied, "Can you find me an envelope?"

A Snow Day or Three

I am a creature of routine. Unexpected changes make me a grouchy, grouchy Mom. But there is something magical about snow days. Even though plans fly out the window, there still lingers my childhood excitement of SNOW DAYS and CANCELLED SCHOOL. Even though it goes against every part of my personality, I love, LOVE, LOVE snow days.

This year I was lucky; Peter had the whole week off, so we hibernated together. We braved the roads several times to keep a supply of Redbox on hand.

Can you tell how much I LOVE being cold. I would have covered my eyes, too, if they weren't required for walking without falling down.

We found a great hill for sledding. Despite what it looks like, Joseph had a blast.

Matthew learned that when we tell him to wear a scarf, he probably should. Never fear, I shared mine until he decided it was too hard to walk in. (Don't ask me, I don't know why a scarf made it hard to walk, either.)

After sledding and our second bout of driveway shoveling, we went out for lunch and hot chocolate. We kept thinking the roads would get better as we moved towards busier ones, but apparently our new home town doesn't do a great job with snow plowing. In fact, none of the roads looked like they'd been plowed at all! Even the freeways. I'm glad our new Suburban has 4-wheel drive. Still, we kept driving to our destination. After all, we needed to change things up so we could 

...do exactly what we were doing at home.

Then there is the daylong pause where we did nothing and have no pictures to prove it. Well Ryan went to an overnight scout camp, Peter took the kids sledding again, and I went to a GNO, but other than that, NOTHING.

When the roads finally started to melt, we let the kids get out some pent up energy at the local skating rink.

And nothing finishes off snow days like Blizzards from DQ.

The temperature has risen, the snowy roads have melted, and we are all back on routine- or we will be, starting tomorrow. The kids had today off for semester break, even though school was cancelled during finals and the semester is now extended two days. Now I need to dig out of some major housework; hibernation is a messy thing when you have six kids!

What is this gratitude of which you speak?

Sitting at the kitchen counter, minding my own business and resting after another exhausting shopping trip, my reverie was broken when my son decided he must speak his mind. "Mom, thanks so much for buying those pudding cups you know I like. That was really nice of you."

Say WHAT?!?

Absolute shock: a face usually reserved for stepping on an entire tube worth of toothpaste on the bathroom floor or finding my best scissors used on fruit leather or, better yet, the real leather chair.
It crosses my face often enough that its appearance evoked no special attention. I was surprised, however, he didn't notice when I almost fell off the stool.

"You're ... welcome?" I tentatively reply after regaining my composure- and balance; more surprised his follow up was a hug and not a request for extra computer time.

It gets weirder.

Over the next several days I was thanked for waking someone up in the morning, driving a kid to school, making a favorite dinner, fixing a pair of pants. The thoughtful thanks just kept rolling out off their tongues!

So much for motherhood being a thankless job. Somehow my children actually noticed the things I do on a regular basis. And they appreciated it. Enough to tell me. I checked their biological clocks and they were at least a decade or two ahead of schedule. I couldn't figure out what kind of alternative universe I'd entered, but I can't say I didn't enjoy it.

While it lasted, anyway.

A couple weeks later I was once again at the counter resting my shopping-sore feet. "You bought pudding cups? But I wanted granola bars!" Ah, to that I know how to respond. (Cue up the You-Want-To-Go-There-? face and watch the kid scamper upstairs, bemoaning the cruelty of his insensitive mother). Guess I accidentally hit the reset button on those biological clocks. Oops.

This picture has nothing whatsoever to do with the post. I just like it.

Insanity is the new Settled Down

There are a million things I'm going to do when life settles down. Two weeks into the new year, I reluctantly faced the reality that this is as settled as life is going to get. Insanity is the new Settled Down.

I came to this conclusion in the middle of Costco. With all six kids in tow. At dinnertime.

Two pairs of glasses needed picked up (Kirsti and Ryan) and two different prescriptions for glasses needed dropped off (Elise and me); or in other words I was exchanging my bank account for half the family's proper eye sight. The first 3 days of the week had failed to provide any opportunity for the trip. Or, in more honest terms, I was able to find ample procrastination fodder. You see both teenagers had to be with me: one for fitting the glasses and the other for choosing the frames. Since Peter worked evenings all week, I had an all-or-nothing choice for bringing the kids. I chose"nothing" for as long as possible, but guilt finally made me go with "all."

Hotdogs and churros was the promised reward for good behavior, or at least better than devilish behavior. "If you don't stop wrestling across the optical center floor you're not getting Costco hotdogs.". It was also the bribe for making the kids wait all week to get their new glasses. "I know we need to go, but if you just wait until Thursday there'll be a Costco hotdog in it for you." It was also an excuse to not make dinner. What? I meant I LOVE making a huge mess in the kitchen everyday so at least one kid can complain about the menu. It makes my life worth living. Buying mystery meat and smothering it in ketchup was a sacrifice on my part. No, really.


So anyway, we can all see again, I've begrudgingly embraced reality again, I've found insanity suits me again and Costco didn't even revoke my membership. Just another day in my nice, settled life.

 

How my household is sleeping (or not) tonight.

I would like to apologize right now to my poor kids' teachers. You see, they are still awake and it is way past bedtime. We sent them to bed earlier, but for some reason they aren't sleeping tonight. Our 7-year-old just loudly threatened to tell on our 10-year-old for turning out his bedroom light. We were torn between reprimanding the latter- "Leave your brother alone!" and "Why are you not in your own room?"- or reprimanding the former- "Why is your light BACK ON?"

Kind of like the Tattle-telling About Open Eyes During Prayer dilemma.

 For the record, we reprimanded both. And NOT in our sweetest voices.

Anyway, I feel now like we should have gone with the Pretend You Didn't Hear Them So You Can Believe They're All Actually Asleep route. We'd save my vocal cords and not feel guilt for their teachers tomorrow. After all  Peter worked two twelve hour shifts this weekend, leaving me solo with all six kids both days long, so we're both entitled to a little self delusion.

Speaking of sleep, my husband is a couch sleeper. Not is a bad marriage sort of way, but in an I'm not tired yet, I'll be up in a zzzzzzzzzzzzz sort of way. Drives me slightly crazy, but he might come to bed more often if I didn't sleep-complain about the noise level of the TV. Hey, I can't help what I do after I'm already asleep. (Which is, incidentally, the same argument he makes for the couch sleeping.)

Would it be bad to sneak melatonin into his Diet Coke? So he would be tired enough to come to bed when his fuddy-duddy-early-bed-time wife does? It's not like I'm sneaking in Viagra or Arsenic or anything. It's like sneaking vegetables into brownies. Only with a natural sleep aid that I'm half convinced works for me placebicly. (placebo-ic? placebo-like? Imaginatively?) 

By the way, I would never actually sneak vegetables into brownies because the only one in the house who doesn't like vegetables would be the one doing the sneaking. My kids beg me to add broccoli to the menu. It's weird, I know. Also, they order asparagus at restaurants. Maybe all that healthy eating has made them immune to sleep. Or, more likely, they sneaked some of Peter's non-melatonin-ed Diet Coke.

---

Peter is snoring next to me on the couch while he watches the football game he recorded during his 12 hour shift. If I wake him up, he'll claim he wasn't asleep and not ready for bed yet. Also, I think I heard one of my sleeping children walking around upstairs.

So I am going to convince myself the footsteps are ghosts and slyly steal the remote out of Peter's hand to watch something more interesting. Then attempt to trick Peter into bed. 

(And yes, I know the play on words I could make about the tricks needed to get him to come to bed, but I'm above pointing them out. Oh crap, I guess I'm not.)

Good night.

  

My life is a little busy

School can't be in session for over a month. I refuse to believe it as it would mean accepting "once things get settled" must already have happened. This level of busy can't actually be my baseline!

I blame encouraging the kids to get involved at school.

        And having five kids in school.

        And needing to entertain the lonely one left at home.

        And needing the whole month to get my house to approximate some level of post-summer clean.

        Although, it would've been cleaned much sooner if the kids didn't come home from school everyday.

Speaking of which, does anyone else suffer from Mopped Floor Syndrome, whose primary symptom is having something red, sticky, or voluminous spill immediately after mopping?

I'm not bitter about the can of soda spilled on my just-mopped floor after dripping off my just-polished granite. Not bitter at all.

But the 20 socks I picked up off the floor this afternoon (and or threatened the kids to pick up)? Totally bitter. I swear some of the kids double up. Which is weird, as every time I check they've forgotten to wear socks at all.

I cleaned over 8 hours today. Tomorrow I will run approximately 5000 errands.

---

When Peter surprised me with an overnight bed and breakfast trip for my birthday last month, my brother and his family came and watched the kids. The list of what they needed to do was two pages long. After we came home, we asked them if they took advantage of our bathtub (of which, I just realized, I've never posted pictures). "No," my sister-in-law replied, "by the time I got the kids all in bed, all I could think was that I had to get up in the morning and do it again. So I crawled to bed."

I took it as a lovely compliment (or maybe just grateful acknowledgement of how exhausting my life can be sometimes).

Which reminds me, I really need to get to bed. Tomorrow will come way to early.


 

And speaking of laundry...

T W E N T Y

 Twenty what, you ask?

 Twenty laundry baskets. That's how many it takes for me to do my laundry. Are they technically called laundry hampers? Oh well,  soft shell tortillas aren't called tacos and a Suburban isn't a van, but that's never stopped me from using my very own vernacular.

 You may think I am over compensating for my lack of true laundry talent. And I may have an entire summer of unsorted socks that would agree with you. Well, I did have an entire summer's worth before Peter kindly matched them up the other day. My plan was to ignore the pile and continue wearing sandals until my toes froze off.

Want to know why any sane person would own 20 laundry baskets? I'll break it down for you:

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3 are for the kids' bedrooms (one per room). Yes,they're mostly for looks. I'm not sure I've ever found dirty clothes in them. Empty chip wrappers, lost library books, and the shirt I've washed 10 times without seeing worn once- this is what I find in these laundry baskets.

+

6 are for sorting dirty laundry: 2 darks, reds, lights, whites, and blue jeans. I only do laundry once a week, so I fill all 6 overflowing each week.

+

Four kids still aren't done. Hmmmm.

9 are for sorting clean laundry: one for each person (Peter and I split 3 between us.) As you might have gathered from my last post, my kids think of them as a mere extension of their actual dressers. I found them on clearance, or I probably would only have 6. "Only six"would seem less crazy, right?

+

2 are for towels. Which run on an entirely different schedule from laundry. Or, more accurately, run only when I'm forced to dry off with a washcloth due to towel shortages. See the "towel hamper" full of socks? I wasn't kidding about the Summer Sock Sort. That is the basket AFTER it has been raided for two weeks.

+

(3 is the number I'm still short as I have no basket downstairs and two of my dirty laundry baskets double as bathroom baskets.)

My weekly pile (unsorted)

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If twenty baskets makes one of my least favorite chores a little more tolerable, it's a small price to pay. And by "small price" I don't mean small price at all, laundry baskets are expensive! Anyway, please tell my I am not the only person with an odd collection of random storage/cleaning/household supplies. Confessions are encouraged to help me feel better about my obsession ... makes me look like a hoarder in training .... my hobby ... no, that sounds even worse... my quirkiness.

Laundry Purgatory or A Piece of Heaven?

Laundry was taking a while. Approximately eternity, give or take an infinity. That's how it seemed anyway. That is pretty much how it always seems. I gathered, sorted, washed, dryed, resorted and began folding. 

Now I am no fool. My kids fold their own laundry. But I am neglectful sometimes, and my two youngest had at least two weeks of unfolded clothes. Last week it had seemed easier to let them live out of the laundry basket than enforce rigorous folding regimes. Since I am also  impatient sometimes, I decided this week to fold and put them away myself.

So after I folded my clothes and my husband's clothes (don't ask*), and after I got after the older four kids to get theirs done (I confess. I had purposefully overlooked more than just the youngest two's lack of folding. In fact, only one child had folded their clothes last week), I folded and put away Joseph's clothes.

One more basket. ONE MORE BASKET. Laundry purgatory nearly escaped!! But as I walked to my room with Matthew's basket on my hip, Joseph bounded up, boldly smiling his toothless grin, "Mom, want help folding Matthew's clothes?"

Of course I didn't! If I wanted his brand of help I would have encouraged him to fold his own. I was only one stinking basket away from finished!

But his enthusiasm struck me dumb a moment. One moment. A pause. A reflection. What was a little more time in laundry purgatory compared to answering his earnestness with gratitude?

"Sure thing, I'd love some help," I answered in the faux-what-a-fun-adventure voice all mothers master.

---

My apprentice folder added at least 5 minutes to my folding time. In those five minutes we talked about the first 3 weeks of school. I learned a silly writing exercise his teacher assigned in class ("Can you believe it, Mom?" he giggled, "it was so funny.") and how many of Matthew clothes used to be his ("All these pajamas used to be mine! I loved this one!"). We joked, we laughed, we folded. He talked, I listened.

Those five minutes were the best of my entire day.

Who knew I could find heaven by staying in laundry purgatory a little while longer?

 


*Fine, do ask. I fold my husband's laundry. And I feel like I should be ashamed by this. And then I feel bad that I don't feel ashamed. So I think I should pretend to be ashamed, but I can't bring myself to do it. So if my laundry folding insults you, please feel free to get a life.

Autumn despite the weather

I couldn't wait any longer. School has started, my birthday is past, and days are noticeably shorter. Despite the weather still tipping past 80 (sometimes flirting with 90), it is soup weather.

After all, isn't it included in the extensive Labor Day rules of etittiquette? White shoes must be put away and soup should be served at least once a week. I know I learned it somewhere.  My mind said, "still too hot," but my heart yearned for Chicken Noodle. And last week I could hold off no longer. I ground my wheat for homemade bread and pulled out the slow cooker.

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It isn't just the soup, though. I've found myself eyeing my jackets and sweaters, trying to decide if the inevitable heat stroke would be worth it. It just feels like it should be time to bring out the warmer clothes even if reality feels like I'm melting when I walk outside.

I long for cool mornings, colorful leaves, and apple cider. September means summer is over and fall has begun. But, it is becoming increasing difficult to ignore the stubbornly high temperatures. Even the desert-induced cooling at night is only a weak substitute for proper autumnal temperatures.

Maybe it's worse because this is our first autumn since leaving New England. Perhaps I'm must be suffering from major Fall Season Withdrawals.

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Despite the fact that nothing can ever compete with New England Autumn, I hope to survive this difficult transition by cranking up the air conditioner a bit and snuggling under a blanket with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate.

If reality won't play nice, I'll just use my imagination.