Friday Night.
It’s almost the weekend. School is over, and I’m only bringing home a small pile of papers to grade. I’m packing up my stuff and getting ready to leave work and the phone rings. It’s moderately disappointing news, and I try not to let it affect my mood. A co-worker comes in, looking for a book that I might have borrowed and forgotten to return. I panic and begin to search through my materials, feeling guilty and slightly irritated, because I’m pretty confident that I returned it. From the other room, another colleague shouts, “I found it.” I’m relieved and aggravated at the same time.
I get home and put down my bags and the phone rings. It’s Bea’s guidance counselor. This is the thing I won’t recover from this evening. I’m worried and stressed and trying to solve a problem, and it’s all made so much harder by the fact that I’m not her mother (n) but it’s my job to mother (v) her. And all the love in the world doesn’t make up for the fact that I’m not her mom, and sometimes what a girl really wants her mom. And then I realize that I’m making it about me, and it’s not about me. It’s about her, and what I need to do is show up and listen and do the best I can because, really, that’s all any of us can do.
Next, I get to drive Lee to a roller rink birthday party. And then three of us (Cal, Jack, and I) go to the third grade moving up dance. Which is what every working parent looks forward to from 7-9 on a Friday night. Cal had the time of his life, while Hubs and I mostly tried to avoid the smell of a hundred sweaty third graders and occasionally check the Bruins score.
So we finally pried my son away from the free candy and line dancing, and headed home. Then my husband ditched me to go watch the Bruins game. I was going to read or write or do something productive, but I wound up watching Netflix and falling asleep on the couch. As Friday nights go, it wasn’t on the top ten list, but it wasn’t a tragedy.
Saturday.
I am so goddamned angry right now. Why is everything always swearing and yelling and whining and misery around here? Why can’t we just enjoy each other’s company? Why can’t we spend quality time together and laugh? Why can’t we help each other and enjoy the weather and just be freaking happy?
I’ve been reading Brene’ Brown’s book, “Rising Strong,” and I read it and I think I’ve got a good handle on this. I read stories of people with unreasonable expectations, and I think “That’s not me,” but you know what? It IS me. It is totally freaking me.
I just want to happily straighten up the house, all of us together, you know… not just me. And then I want to happily pack up some snacks and head to the lake and then sit on the shore and soak up the sunshine and read my book and play in the sand with my kids and then swing on the swings and freaking smile with my hair blowing behind me like I’m in one of those commercials for organic yogurt or something.
And the reality is, my house is moderately neat but not clean and everybody’s getting yelled at for not helping and Jack just told the kids they have to get rid of all their pets by the end of the week, and Bea doesn’t want to do anything that requires her getting out of her bathrobe and Lee won’t stop crying because he has to give away his guinea pig and Cal just keeps trying to sneak outside to play and I can’t say as I blame him, ‘cause I don’t want to be here, either.
Saturday Night.
After this afternoon’s rant, I took Bea and Lee shopping- we ran some errands and bought some things that smell good- candles and air fresheners and coffee. Bea got her eyebrows waxed, and that pretty much made her day. Cal and Jack went out on the boat, which pretty much made their day, so things were looking up.
And then we had a lovely visit. The house got cleaned, and the fajitas were delicious and timed perfectly so that we were ready to eat when my in-laws arrived. We chatted and ate and enjoyed each other’s company and exchanged gifts and watched the Kentucky Derby. The kids were good and the dogs were good and the house was clean(ish) and then we ate cheesecake. Once everyone left, Bea and Lee went to bed, but Jack and Cal and I watched “Civil War” as a refresher before we go to see “Infinity Wars” tomorrow. I blissfully fell asleep on the couch, about two minutes before the climax of the movie (as is my typical pattern). For a day that started out so crappy, it ended pretty beautifully.
Sunday.
This morning, I woke up to dog pee on the carpet. Again. It’s my own damned fault, because I’m so used to being able to let the dogs out after dinner and then forget about them until morning. But the big one is getting old. She can’t hold it that long anymore. So somebody needs to let her out right before we go to bed. But obviously, we forget. It’s not habit yet. So for the past two weeks, we’ve been cleaning up pee on the carpet.
You know when you clean something nasty with a particular cleaner, and then that cleaner is always associated in your mind with that nasty smell or whatever? Well, I’m at the point where I can’t tell if what I’m smelling is dog pee or carpet cleaner because every time I smell that damned carpet cleaner, my brain says, “Eeew. Dog pee.” I think I’m just going to rip up the carpet.
So I put cinnamon buns in the oven. At least then, the house will smell like something good. So now I’m sipping coffee and writing while cinnamon buns bake in the oven, and even if they are Pillsbury from a can, I feel a little like Betty Freaking Crocker, and I’m going to enjoy it for a while before I have to switch the laundry and shower and get ready for church.
Church.
I volunteered to teach Sunday School today. I feel sort of obligated to do this because I’m part of the Christian Education (CE) committee at my church, but in the two years that I’ve been on the committee, I’ve realized two (embarrassing) things. First; I am more of a control freak than I like to admit. Second; although I’m a teacher by trade, I am terrible at teaching Sunday School.
So this morning was predictably disappointing. I missed the sermon. I missed communion. I missed hearing my husband sing in the church band. I missed hugging my friend who is struggling, and I missed the sweet smile from the lady who tells me how lovely my boys are even when they’re being loud and distracting and, well, boy-ish. And instead, I headed to the back rooms and made an attempt (somewhat like herding cats) at reading and discussing a bible passage with third graders.
I mean, it was okay. It wasn’t painful. It just wasn’t fulfilling. So then, after the service, I joined my friends for Coffee Hour and I wanted so badly to connect with these people I love, but I felt like I mostly just stood there awkwardly, being in a bad mood and gauging how I only had 10 minutes before I needed to leave, so I probably shouldn’t get into any sort of meaningful or important conversation.
The whole morning felt like a miss.
Sunday Afternoon.
We got our whole family to agree on a movie and go to the theater together, which, in and of itself, feels like a win. Nobody fought over popcorn or cried because I wouldn’t buy nachos. I gave them a dollar for the crappy claw game and Cal didn’t cry when he lost. Lee took advantage of the “Free Refill on a large popcorn” policy, and replenished our supply all on his own, without me having to leave the theater at all. There’s something cool about him being that grown-up. Bea threw a pair of fuzzy socks in my purse before we left, which I thought was weird but when she was freezing and put them on about halfway through the movie, it was just adorable and endearing.
We all enjoyed the movie- we’re that family that has seen every Marvel Comic film at least 3 times, so this one was sort of an event for us. Even Bea is getting into it, which is surprising and sweet and really, really nice. Overall, it was a pretty great afternoon.
Sunday evening.
I have been trying new recipes in an attempt to eat better and expand our dinner repertoire. Tonight’s plan was a turkey rolatini recipe, which looked amazing in the online photos. It was filled with a mix of herbs and wrapped in bacon, so it had definite potential to be a keeper. The problem is the fact that it was flattened and rolled meat. I fully expected this dish to be delicious, but not pretty like the picture on the website. In fact, I introduced this recipe idea as a ‘potential Pinterest fail’ when I pitched it to my husband.
But, guys… guess what? It came out AWESOME. It was pretty AND delicious. So this morning I was Betty Freaking Crocker and tonight I was Martha Freaking Stewart and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Of course, Lee wouldn’t eat it because it was meat, and Cal wouldn’t eat it because it had green stuff inside, and Bea replied, Meh,” when I asked if she liked it. But whatever, because I thought it was amazing.
Reflecting.
On Sunday nights, I have a habit of reflecting back on the weekend. What was the overall vibe? Pretty good? Kinda crappy? Amazing? Awful? But this weekend, looking back, was pretty representative of weekends at this phase in my life. There were moments of rage and moments of bliss. There was mild disappointment and contentment and peace and pride and frustration. There were moments that I felt like I was failing at this whole parenting thing, and moments when I felt like I could teach others how it’s done. There were moments I wanted to escape and moments I wanted to last forever.
I’m not going to ‘enjoy every moment’ like I’m often advised by well-meaning old ladies. I’m going to enjoy the enjoyable moments. And I’m going to breathe and get through the difficult ones. I’m going to laugh and cry with my people, and we’re going to get through this crazy life together.
I’m sitting here, in the middle of one of those quietly content moments, typing a blog and reflecting on the ups and downs of life, and, I kid you not… from downstairs, a kid just shouted, “Mom? I think I’m gonna puke!” God does have a sense of humor, doesn’t he?