Return of the…

Well, I got the job. I start in the beginning of June. 

Oh. My. God.

I start. In the beginning of June.

I have been home for four years and two months. I transitioned into stay-at-home motherhood with a fresh new baby, a three year old, and a soon-to-be kindergartener. I re-enter the full-time workforce with kids entering 4th and 2nd grade, and a pre-kindergartener. 

I am… god, I don’t know what I am.

I know this is the right time, I know it is the right thing, even though I am sad about leaving this behind. It was always supposed to be a season– not the rest of my mothering journey. And it actually was supposed to end two years ago. Even a year ago, I wasn’t ready– we weren’t ready. 

But I think we are as ready as we can be, now. I’m still sad to lose the ability to pick up and hit the pool on a random afternoon. I worry about missing those sunny afternoons when we all curled up on the couch with our books. I cry when I think about the fact that my youngest child has never NOT had me there– and now he will be on his own all day in day care. 

I worry, worry, worry. Shit, the other day I was crying because I felt guilty about what this would do to my DOG for the love of Pete. 

BUT. I can take time off to hit the pool. We can read in the evenings. The kids are psyched to go to a day program with all their friends. Squeak is (somewhat cluelessly) excited about his new school. As conflicted as I was about working when the older kids were littler, they don’t even remember when I worked full time. So there goes my worries that I was ruining their little lives.

Evenings are going to be crazy, life is going to be insane, but I think it’s time. I loved my career, was good at it. If I don’t go back soon, I will lose the ability to do so. This job is a great opportunity, with good people, and good pay. I worry that my kids are “losing me,” but they aren’t. They need to see me working and being successful outside of the home just as much as they needed me in the home four years ago. 

Mostly…  It’s time. I wouldn’t mind to wait another year for Squeak to be in school… but it took 6 months to be hired now.  And also he is driving me batshit crazy (this is mostly since I took the job. It’s like he senses a disturbance in the force.)

Also, we super need a second bathroom and we can’t move until I start bringing home some scratch. 

And yes I wore a suit

The day after I wrote this post I got an email asking me to interview. I know, right? It was just the pick-me-up I needed, right at the minute I needed it. 

I had that interview. It went awesome. I won’t say more other than: good people, good vibes,  good stuff. 

But since the interview I have been floating around in the ether, waiting.  This is hell. I am not a patient person. I have a bit of a control issue when it comes to my own life, and I am a worrier. And nothing brings out my worry and lack of patience like a good dose of ambiguity.

It’s perfectly normal that these folks would want to interview other people, take time, meet, all those very rational things. But I am, as I sometimes put it, a scab picker. I cannot leave a scab alone. I have spent this past week picking the scab off my interview over and over. There was a problem with my resume (from HR, not me) and I have been stewing over that. Wondering who the other candidates might be. Worrying that I won’t stack up. “Trying on” going back to work. Stewing about childcare, our daily schedule, and how I will get dinner on the table by 6. All things outside of my control, and 90% of those things don’t even require my worry until I actually HAVE a job. Also, I already worked FT before, I made it work, it will work.

No need to worry. (She tells herself at 2am every night.)

I didn’t expect to like this opportunity or the people so much, to want the job so much. Add to that the licking of my residual shitty-job-search wounds, and I am a freaking basket case.  

Chances are good I won’t hear anything until next week. 

But the whole blog thing worked last time, so why not give it a whirl again?

P.S. Even if I don’t get this job (please let me get this job) I did look freaking fantastic. So it’s good to see I still clean up okay. 

Untouchable

When Hubs and I decided that our lives would not be complete without someone to constantly clean up after, we started “trying.” Today, I blush at the idea that we told everyone we were “trying” like it DIDN’T mean “we’re screwing in a messy way and hoping to get pregnant!” “Hey mom/dad/boss/random person! We’re fucking!”

A-hrm.

Anywho.

We didn’t get pregnant right away. This flew in the face of the belief I had held since 5th grade sex ed– that if I even one time had unprotected sex even one time or even thought about sperm or penises or even heavy petting I would get pregnant with a litter to rival Octomom.

But it didn’t happen right away. In fact, it took almost a year. (That’s a lot of wet spots, yo.)

What started out as a natural, fun process quickly became a laborious chore that involved thermometers, graphs, bizarre post-coital yoga poses, and many, many tears. At one point, sitting there with yet another frowny faced pee stick, I turned to Hubs and said, “if someone could tell me that within the year we would be pregnant, I wouldn’t be so upset every time we’re not. It’s the NOT KNOWING if it will EVER work that hurts the worst.”

Obviously, eventually, we did make a baby. And karma had its way with me by rewarding my worry with two unplanned pregnancies after that.

All this to make a point: I am trying to go back to work full time.

I know that in this space I rent my garments (and yes this is the correct past tense of “to rend one’s garments,” I totally looked it up) and gnashed my teeth about my baaaaaaaaaaaaaaabies and how I just wanted to be home with them and I was missing sooooooooo much!  And I wouldn’t change a thing about the past four years. (Four years! WHAT?!) But Squeak is nearly ready for kindergarten. The kids are in school all day. And from a financial perspective, it is time. Past time. Kids’ activities and appetites have outpaced our ability to remain a one-income family. (And yeah we’re not technically a one-income family since I have a PT job and a business and stuff but let’s face it, it ain’t a real salary.) I also started to really *miss* working, specifically working in my chosen field. I missed making a difference, having an impact. I missed wearing grown up shoes.

I have (mostly) loved these days. But this was always meant to be a season, not our lives. And that season seemed to be drawing to close.

To that end, long about October, I started applying for jobs. Specifically, one job. It was this one perfect job, a dream job, that made me finally take the plunge.

I never, ever in a million years contemplated that I wouldn’t even get an interview.

For that job, or for more jobs after that.

As Autumn turned to Winter, and then Spring, I applied for, and was rejected from, MANY jobs.

It has been a long, soul-crushing slog as I navigate the constant annihilation of my self-worth and sense of competency.  In October, I would have told you that I am a valuable, well-educated asset to any department that might hire me. I would tell you about the national awards I have won. I would tell you my success stories. And I would tell you that taking this time out has seasoned my skills, my perspective, and my abilities. Not made them moot.

If you asked me today, I would probably just make a squishy sad Oliver face and say, “Please, sir, may I have another job?”

There have been many times in the past months when I have second-guessed my decision to re-enter the workforce. Wondered if this might be a sign that I should wait until all the kids are in school. Or the economy improves. Or or or. But this is always tempered with the feeling that I have somehow, unexpectedly, become untouchable.

Nightly, I toss and turn wondering what I could do differently. What might be the reason. By all accounts, I was well-respected in my past employment. I have the proper degree, the right experiences, a beauty of a resume and I interview like a beast.

I don’t know why. I just don’t know.

Any theories are only theories. Folks try to make it better, but the platitudes don’t do much for me, either. Sometimes, I want to go back to that woman four years ago, with her humongous pregnant belly and no humility when it came to her belief that she would always be able to be hired, and punch her in the face. Then I realize I just said I wanted to punch a pregnant lady. Even if that lady is myself, it’s still not ok.

I just never really even considered that I wouldn’t be able to get back in. This search is the first time ever in my professional career that I have not at least gotten an interview for a job I applied for.

If you told me that, within the year, I would have a job, it wouldn’t hurt so much each time I don’t get one.

But for right now, I gotta tell you, it stings like hell.

Flippin’ Problems

Some of you might remember waaaaaaaaaaay back when I had the kids in a little gymnastics class. We’ve been long-time customers of our local Parks and Rec, and if they offer a sport at least one of the Pair kids have probably tried it. Basketball (Noise loved, Funk hated), baseball (Noise loved, Funk wouldn’t even try), dance (Noise and a bunch of little girls in tutus)… it’s cheap and a great place for kids to try new things with very little commitment.  Forty bucks, eight weeks, and even if they hate it they get a cute little certificate and you never have to enroll again.

And so it began with Funk and gymnastics:

Cuteness, no? What could be better than a pudgy four year old in a leotard, I ask you? (NOTHING, THAT’S WHAT.)

But time has marched on, and Funk is no longer that pudgy little girl in the leotard. She is a SEVEN year old, thankyouverymuch, and over the past six months her love of gymnastics has flowered into a passion– nay, dare I say– obsession.

This is Funk on the way to her very first honest to goodness gymnastics meet. Competing with those Parks and Rec girls, a ragtag bunch of knobbly knees and missing front teeth, she was all aflutter. It was obvious from the get-go that our girls were not the well-coifed, heavily made-up product of the “big gyms,” but they could NOT have been more happy. They were all lovely.

And I wouldn’t be Funk’s mother if I didn’t feel she was exceptionally lovely.

She was so lovely, in fact, that she was “on the podium” (fourth place or above) in every event, and third All-around in her group.

And that while I felt like she was getting pretty good before this meet, you really could have knocked me over with a feather. She was so poised, so focused, so… HOLY CRAP THIS IS GOING TO COST A CRAPTON OF MONEY.

It was on the way home that Funk first asked us about going to a “real gym.”

Yes, that would be the afore-mentioned well-coifed, heavily made-up production gyms.

See, our little ol’ Parks and Rec program only goes up to a level 4 in gymnastics. We don’t have a lot of the right equipment, and we definitely don’t have the space to keep moving girls up the skills ladder. For those of you versed in gymnastics, we don’t even have a springboard floor. Parks and Rec was made to give kids a taste of a sport… for them to take somewhere else.

After the first meet, we decided to wait it out another year. Funk is only a level three right now, after all, and we reasoned that one meet does not an Olympic gymnast make. Parks and Rec is planning to build a real gym and grow the program, hopefully in the next two years. And P.S. gymnastics is helllllllllllllla expensive. Those “real gyms” cost bank we Pairs ain’t got.

And then Funk had the opportunity to compete in another meet. In the time between the first and second meet, however, two big things happened: 1) Funk turned 7, and 2) she fell off the beam in practice. We noticed in practice that she was more tentative, a little more scared. We braced ourselves for the real test: a bad meet. In the first meet, Funk competed as one of the very oldest six year olds. In the second, she would compete as a newly-minted seven year old with girls almost a year older. Add to that equation her newly found wobble on the beam, and… well… we reasoned that we could best assess her love of the sport after a BAD meet, even moreso than after a good one.

But she didn’t have a bad meet. She didn’t have as great a meet as the first one, but she scored a 9.4 on the bars and took fifth in her group. Even with her wobble on the beam. And she didn’t slow down. And she doesn’t appear that she will.

On the way home, we were talking about how different kids have different barriers in gymnastics– in some kids, that might be a lack of flexibility. Other kids might struggle with remembering the routines. Others, we hinted, might have fears they need to overcome.

“Lucky for me,” she said, “in gymnastics I have no barriers at all. I will be just as good as I work to be.”

And so these are my days, in the gymnastics gym but also in the living room and the trampoline and curbs the right width to be a beam and pretty much everywhere.

And so we discuss it. Move her? Don’t? Gymnastics is such a high-pressure, sometimes dangerous sport. There are ugly politics and moms with large blonde hair who chew their gum like cows and wear bejeweled shirts that say, “GYMNASTIC MOMS BEND OVER BACKWARDS.” And it’s hard work and so competitive and crazy expensive and so much time and did I mention I’m going to need to sell a kidney?!?

But she loves it.

Bottom line, she loves it. She works for it. And she’s good. So we’ll tour gyms in the next month. Start learning the lingo, asking the questions, and finding out whether it’s even possible. Or desirable. Or necessary right now.

And then I just have to figure out what to do about this, because I cannot sell both of my kidneys. 

My Voice

The deal is that I feel like I lost my funny. I don’t want this blog to become my one-woman waaaaahmbulance and yet… when I sit here staring at this screen the funny runs away and all that’s left is “I’M NEVER FREAKING GETTING OUT OF THIS FREAKING HOUSE AND ALSO NO MONEEEEEEZ AND NO JOBBBBBBB.”  Or something in that vein.

It’s a problem.

One, because ain’t nobody got time fo dat (listening to me bitch), and two, because it does nothing to actually improve the situation (other than get it out of my head and into the interwebs.)

I could become a sewing blogger. I have a lot of fabric that I have nowhere to store and a sewing area that is in the middle of my tiny G.D. house and I sew stuff.  I only occasionally sew over appendages. I don’t see other sewing bloggers doing that shit, so I guess that could be my angle. “See what kind of effed up injury Dawn gets THIS time!”

I could regale you with my mommy tales, but these stories are swiftly becoming Not Mine. My children are getting older and their stories more complex. (Although last night Squeak was setting the table and he slipped on a melted piece of ice and stabbed himself in the ear with a fork, nearly completely piercing it. So that’s weird. But hardly a blog post.)

I could bitch about people I know, but that has a tendency to come back and bite me in the ass. ( BUT OH COULD I TELL YOU SOME SHIT.)

I could tell you about all the cute DIY renovations I’m doing to my tiny house, but a) we’re not and b) TINY FREAKING HOUSE.

When I started blogging a loooooooooong time ago, it was a way to reach out and say, “you, too, right? I mean it’s not just me, RIGHT?” Now that I have been around a while, I KNOW it’s not just me, and I feel like it’s all been said, and most of the time it’s been said better by someone else.

And, depressingly, in five years I’m pretty sure the same exact blog posts will be being written.

Because what I have to say is basically the same as lots of other people. We’re white and middle class and we have kids who are loud and obnoxious and wonderful and we have hobbies and some extra pounds and thoughtless partners and cramps and blah, blah, blah, you know? First world problems.

I only have one bathroom and “WAH” says the child across the world sharing an outhouse with his eight siblings.

Oh. Right.

I loved, loved, loved blogging.

I think…

I fear that I have lost my Voice.

Flunking Adulthood

This summer is my 20 year reunion. It is my 20 year reunion, and I still dream about high school stress with regularity. In most of these dreams, I cannot find my locker, or I find it and then I cannot remember the combination. I spend the five minutes between class running endless halls (my high school was huge) only to finally find my locker and stand there with no idea of how to get in. Often in these dreams I show up to class and there is a test I did not study for, because I never realized I was in the class. I must take the test anyway, because to walk out would be to fail immediately… so I sit down to fail eventually. 

It’s a stunning metaphor for my feelings on adulthood. I feel like I forgot to show up for classes on how to be a “successful adult”– totally spaced every single class.  How To Be Thin. How To Have Moneez. How to Keep A Spotless House. How to Have a Yard That Doesn’t Make Your Neighbors Sigh and Close Their Shades. How To Know Whether You Should Have a Full-Time Job or Not Have a Full-Time Job So You Can Raise Your Preshus Babies.

To make matters worse, I feel as though everyone else totally showed up for these classes except ME. They are sitting there with their smug faces and their blue books and their sharpened pencils, ready to kick ass on this test.

But here I am, clueless– being forced to take the test anyway. Failure eminent.

[There was a lot of self-pity and wallowing in this space. Many paragraphs. I took it out because even I thought I was being pathetic.]

Anyone else ever feel that way? And I ask not because I want you to say nice things about me, because my logical brain knows that I’m doing fine and my kids are fine and my house is fine and my yard well it’s awful but what the hell I never claimed to have any interest or skill in gardening. I really want to know. Is this the mantle of adulthood? 

 

Dusty in here

Jeez… there’s so, so much. It’s overwhelming to think about all you don’t know, all that’s gone on… This used to be such a great space for me. The problem with time marching on is that the longer you wait to catch up, the more there is to explain. 

So… let’s not. Let’s just pick up.Like old friends that can do that. Because even though time has passed, I am me. You are you. 

I want to tell you about Noise’s first crush. (“I understand all those love songs now, mom.”) (I DIE.)

He loves to draw, and read, and fling himself around rooms.

I want to tell you about Funk’s burgeoning gymnastic career and the feelings I have about that that are all feelery. (Proud. Terrified. Broke.)

She’s having a heckuva time keeping her teeth in her mouth these days.

I want to tell you about Squeak’s boyness and no-training-wheel bike riding and nagging demands to play with him. (It’s a really good thing he’s cute.)

This picture is nothing like Squeak 99% of the time. Because he’s quiet. And sitting down. And not asking me for anything.

I will tell you it all.

I just have to figure out where to start. 

The Wave

The days are long and getting longer– Hubs is gearing up for another busy time at work and he hasn’t been able to be around much. I had a ton to get done, Mount Washmore was piling up, and my house has developed an unpleasant smell.

I am treading water. 

When the kids walked in the door after I had already spent a full day with their demanding little brother, the I-wants and the can-I-haves began before I had even taken off my shoes. It went on, and on, as is their custom, until I became so agitated that I growled

“NO ONE CAN ASK ME FOR ANYTHING ELSE, RIGHT NOW.”

I am treading water, and sometimes the taste of the ocean is more than I can bear. Sometimes I go under, but only for a bit.

But then it’s sports activities and friends over to play and through it all I am folding load after load after load of laundry and then it’s baths which breeds yes more laundry and through it all they are talking (so anyway about Harry Potter) talking (when is my teacher coming back) talking (where do dead frogs go/why can’t we have candy for dinner/ what does annoying mean) and asking (can we braid my hair so it’s wavy tomorrow) asking (can you read me these five books and find my Winnie the Pooh) asking (can I stay up and read) and NO PLEASE DO NOT ASK ME FOR ANYTHING ELSE.  

I am barely treading water. I am flailing. Everyone else is grabbing at me with their needs, and their wants, and I cannot even breathe but 

I finished folding. All that remained in the hampers were the day’s filth.

“Laundry is DONE!” I beamed. This one thing managed to be done. I conquered Mount Washmore. I did it. I said it aloud, again, but my children– who had only moments before been renting permanent space in my ass– had scattered to the winds. It was suddenly VERY quiet. True, no one was asking me for anything else… it wasn’t what I had in mind.

Only one little voice– that same small voice that drove me to the edge of my sanity all day– all week– long– offered to help put away his own laundry. 

I am sometimes drowning. In flailing and fits.

So I slammed drawers and put away put away put away and added it to the ever-growing list of THINGS ONLY I DO and HOW NO ONE CARES and I AM NOT PARENTING THEM WELL IF THEY DON’T OFFER TO HELP and little Squeak put his undies and tees away and then wandered off to bigger, brighter plans with his dump trucks and plastic farm animals.  

I am not drowning. Drowning people do not yell, and stomp, and make ugly angry faces. 

I said no. NO I WILL NOT BRAID YOUR HAIR and NO YOU MAY NOT STAY UP LATE and NO I WILL NOT FIND WINNIE THE POOOOOOHHHHH!!!!  Because I am TOO TIRED from doing EVERYONE ELSE’S THINGS!!! And I still have to work!

Everyone went to bed in tears. 

I was in tears. I turned on my computer to begin working at my part-time job. 

I took a deep breath, and realized that I could breathe– that I was breathing. I was not drowning. I was breathing. 

And that meant it wasn’t too late. 

I laid with Squeak for a minute, forehead to forehead, Winnie the Pooh between us. I thanked him for being such a sweet boy. I reminded him of his playdate tomorrow, that he is so excited to have. He glowed.

I snuck in and braided Funk’s hair in the dark. It wasn’t important to me, but her school pictures are tomorrow and she wanted wavy hair. It was easy to make her happy– it was important to her. She said “I’m sorry I took away your work time.” and I said, “baby, you didn’t TAKE it. I GAVE it to you. Because I love you. Also, I am never putting away your laundry again.”

I brought Noise his book and his glasses and gave him ten minutes to read. After ten minutes, he gave me a grateful kiss and curled up for sleep. 

I am not drowning. The water is shallow– the ground is within reach of my feet. If I choose to stand. 

I control what I give, I control how I give it. I did work my ass off all day long, but no one made me do any of it. I did it because I wanted to do it, but I forget that all the damn time. I forget that the way a gift (such as my time) is given is just as important as the gift itself. If I was just going to bitch about it, why bother? It only makes my kids feel like shit. And it doesn’t do much for my attitude, either. 

And so the eleventh hour turnaround. The wiping of tears, the promises to do better. The apologies and hugs and the mess that is being a family.

I love my kids, I love my life, but that doesn’t negate the fact that the wave of need, demands, and tedium is sometimes more than I think I can bear. I see the wave before me, and I get so overwhelmed and exhausted and angry and I just think I can’t stand anything else. I am sad and lonely and desperate and venomous and I swear I just. can’t. do it. 

But I can. And I do.

And we do. 

Fairies

Last night, he asked his dad.

“Dad, is the Tooth Fairy real?”

Hubs didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, she’s real.” 

I could see it in Noise’s eyes when he went to bed, and I knew he was still skeptical. One thing led to another, and between a sick kid, a husband with a broken arm (oh THAT’S a story for another post) and my own stuff, I forgot that I was supposed to take care of Fairy Business. 

At 6am, there was a Very Concerned Kid next to my bed. 

“She forgot,” he said. 

SHIT! Shitshitshitshitshit! 

“Well, honey,” I said, “there was a lot of up and down last night. Maybe she came and folks weren’t asleep.”

He eyed me. I could tell he was thinking about it. Mulling over whether or not he wanted to pursue it.

“Yeah, maybe,” he muttered. 

I could tell he wanted to ask The Question. So I asked him what was on his mind. He crawled up into my bed, with his face on my pillow, inches from my face. He didn’t say anything, he just looked into my eyes. I could see that he already knew the truth. 

“Mom…”

I weighed it. I could tell him that the Tooth Fairy is real. I could buy us maybe another 6 months. Maybe even a year. But the writing was on the wall. And what I stood to lose by not telling the truth now would overshadow whatever gains I thought the lie was getting us. He is getting older, now. 

“Is she real? Are you the Tooth Fairy? Please tell me the truth.”

I didn’t say anything. I just looked into those beautiful eyes, the same ones that I looked into eight years ago, in this same bed, in the early morning hours. I thought about why I felt the need to resist telling him the truth. In all honesty, I don’t really care if he believes in the Tooth Fairy. But I know that today’s Tooth Fairy is tomorrow’s Santa, and I felt unready for that large step into big-kid-hood.

“What do you think?” I said.

“I’m asking you. What’s the truth? Why does it matter what I think when the answer is either yes or no?”

I looked again. By now I knew that we both knew the answer, what I needed to say. My silence had already said it. But I knew that he needed to hear me say it. I took in his big blueish-greenish eyes with the brown freckle inside. I breathed in his smell, I touched his soft sweet face. I wanted to remember this moment, the moment before yet another piece of childhood slipped away from us. 

“No,” I said. “She’s not real. I am the Tooth Fairy, and I forgot to do my job last night. I am very sorry.” 

“I knew it,” he said simply. 

“It’s a secret, and now you’re in on it. You have to help us with Squeak and Funk, now. YOU are a Tooth Fairy.” 

And then he was off on his day. At first, the secret was too big and for a few perilous minutes I thought for sure he would blow it. But after a little while, he calmed down. He gave me a knowing wink. We were in cahoots. 

And one more piece of childhood faded away for my baby boy. 

Fifteen Minute Rant

I’m giving myself fifteen minutes to rant my thoughts on this; it deserves much more time but that’s all the time and head space I can give it right now.

Topic: Abortion in the case of rape

We’ve heard a lot from the GOP about this issue, some asshat comments about “shutting it down” and rape being “just another method of conception,” but I think that the real point is being lost. 

Being pro-choice doesn’t mean you are against life, or for abortion. 

It means that you respect and value the right of a woman to do what she needs to do with her own body, psyche, and soul.

In the case of rape, abortion can be valuing life. 

It can be valuing the life of the mother, which has already been torn asunder by a violent, horrific act. To force a woman to carry to term a pregnancy that was forced onto her IS to destroy life– the life of the mother. You cant’ say you “value life” and then render the woman in that situation completely without worth. 

I can’t imagine that there are many women who don’t consider seriously the implications of choosing abortion. We have all heard stories about women who use abortion as birth control, but the fact is that this is not the norm or the majority. It is a small, small portion. Smaller, I’d wager, than the number of women who have children in order to get more aid and then don’t raise their children properly. 

I can’t imagine being raped, and then being forced to carry the physical burden of that act for forty weeks. I can’t imagine how it would feel to have so much hate, and anger, and rage, and then be told that you must continue to be victimized by becoming what is basically an incubator– your life now insignificant in comparison to a non-viable bundle of cells. 

I don’t devalue life. I obviously think children are something pretty special, I have three of them. 

I am pro-choice, and that extends beyond rape. But ESPECIALLY in cases of rape, I believe that a woman needs to be able to take control back of her body, not continue to be assaulted by her attacker and then her government. 

Maybe she’ll choose to have the baby. Maybe she won’t. What I am saying is that I think it’s her call. Not ours.