Why I Hate Mother's Day

I'm in the midst of my yearly nervous breakdown. My Mother's Day breakdown.
It's taken me years to figure out what it is that gets me so anxious and upset. One year, when my husband slept thru the morning hussle and I did the entire breakfast/church shuffle, I thought I was upset because I wasn't being pampered. When we got back from church and there was a gift and flowers and only 1 card (1 card! The jerks!), I made and embarassingly ugly display of pain and anguish over the lack of effort or care or whatever and, while crying, crying, crying, I grabbed my car keys and left. I went down to the grocery store parking lot and cried some more, until my head was throbbing. I was totally mortified I had made such a spectacle of myself and embarassed beyond measure that I had demanded more for myself. I feel ill now, just remembering. I came home to a shell-shocked and hurt household.

But today is Saturday, not Mother's Day and I'm already in tears. So, obviously, it's not about what doesn't get done for me. After some soul searching and a little chocolate, I think I have figured me out.

I don't like to be celebrated. I don't like to be told the things that cards, commercials and other people say about moms on mother's day. It just feels so stinkin' phony. Like I told Kelly, (in our theraputic texting session),
"When they make cards and commercials celebrating the lady who did a so-so job, could've done better, but just sorta phoned it in half the time, when they celebrate THAT lady, I'll feel way more comfortable."

So, at this point in my life, I have hives and tears; a husband who is pertrified of a certain Sunday, and I have to fake a happy face for the kids.
Oh, and I'm pretty sleepy because I took allergy medicine that I didn't need in a desperate attempt to end this day.

Am I hitting motherhood outta the park or what?

But, on the bright side, this is what Kelly shot back at me. She's freaking brilliant.

"Cut yourself some slack.  If you don't have 10 loads of laundry waiting to be washed or washed and waiting to be folded, or folded and ready to be put away, you're not normal. 
 If you've never sent your kid to school in dirty pants that you pulled out of the laundry in a moment of desperation, you aren't normal. 
 I hope you've yelled so loud your throat hurts, thrown a bowl of oatmeal across the yard, or said out loud in front of your kids, in the foyer;  "freaking 8 o'clock church!! It's just a conspiracy to drive moms freaking BATTY"

I hope your toilets occasionally have pink rings or other nameless ick in them,
 I hope you've left at least one kid somewhere or forgotten to pick someone up...Please admit that you've made up an emergency with another child, without a conscience, to explain missing a lesson or meeting.

Or have you ever felt blind panic that you are in charge of so many people... Or cried all the way home from the hospital with that sweet new baby because you're terrified of facing what's waiting at home...In the face of all this fear and guilt and feelings of inadequacy, you still get up every day- get your people washed, primped, fed, hugged, kissed, and off to where they need to be. 

 You take a minute between loading the dishwasher and switching the laundry (cause who are we kidding- its not folded)To let a sticky hand cup your ear and whisper a joke in nonsense words, and look into that expectant, breathless face and laugh- cause that's what they are waiting for.
You learn to drive exceptionally well with one hand so with the other you can hold the hand of your toddler cause she needs to be touched.
Just as you push start on the dishwasher at 11:30 pm, and your teenager who has been hanging around (unusual) says- "mom- I have a question", you know it's going to be a long night.  But you do it anyway.
You skip dance, piano, and practice for every other kid, because one needs a drive, a burger and a talk. 
 Those are the things that define my motherhood.  The things I do  RIGHT.  Not the things I do wrong. 
Whose wrong are we talking about, anyway? 
Pintirist's? 
 Or the girl down the street whose life looks so much better more together than mine?  So what if my floors are occasionally do sticky I'm afraid to walk barefoot?
  So what if my youngest often goes to school in the most, um... "Creative"outfits ever, and frequently doesn't have her hair combed? 
 So what if I made it all the way to the school before I realized she wasn't buckled?  To which, she said in a three year old's high pitched voice: "dammit mommy!  I need to be buckled!".

So what?
That's what therapy is for.
 And I can make a mean batch of cookies."


And then, THEN, because she's so brilliant and pretty much the most fabulous person I know, she added,

"Damn, I'm good."


And suddenly, I think I can face Mother's Day.
Not because I can now buy into my own greatness, but....


Crap. I had a reallly great point I was trying to make but my son just asked me a question and all of my poignant thoughts just scrambled. Rats.
Par for the course....


Well, Happy Mother's Day. I hope you survive the love. Or self loathing.

Here's How I See It

I'm not worried about what the Mayan calendar says.
I'm not sitting up at night, reading ancient scripture, trying to decipher when it all go down.
I'm not particulary frightened by a mass apocolypitic end of the world.
I'm more concerned that we will kill each other, one hurtful and hateful word at a time.


The most current political brew ha-ha is Hilary Rosen, a polical strategist, who said,

“Guess what, (Romney’s) wife has actually never worked a day in her life," .

Ouch. At least from where I sit. Because I, like Ann Romney, am also a stay at home mother to 5 kids.
And, in the interest of honesty and integrity, let me tell you how I got up today, toted my kids to 5 different schools and then went back to my little guys preschool for "Muffins with Mommy" day.

After that, he went to a friends house to play and you know what I did?
I took a nap.

In the middle of the day.

When I got up, I went to get a diet coke and begin the post-school pick ups.
By my own assesment, a super cushy day.

 I'm going to make dinner here in just a bit. I have plenty of food to chose from. And money and a car to use to get more if I don't "feel" like using any of what I have.
So how did I get so lucky?

I married at 19. My husband was days away from 22.
Before we tied the knot, we talked about the type of life and family we wanted. I wanted a bunch of kids. And I wanted to stay home with them. He wanted that, too.

His mom pulled me aside and told me she wanted to tell me something her mother-in-law told her so many years ago. It was, once the children come, don't work outside the home. Let him get 2 or even 3 jobs. It's more improtant for you to be home. Let him figure out how to make enough money.

We got hitched, packed up a few hand-me-down pieces of furniture (a bed, a dresser and a dining table with 2 chairs) and moved to northern Utah. My husband had only 1 year of college under his belt. He got a job in Utah inspecting circuit boards while also going to school full time. I got a job ironing pants at dry cleaners.

Worst job of my life.

I was over the moon when about 6 months later, I got a job working at a Blimpie's tucked inside a truck stop.

Best job ever!
I made $6.50 an hour.

In 3 days, I was promoted to mananger. I was offered benefits, which I cashed in for the extra $0.42 an hour.
Life was good. Easy.
We had next to nothing. No couch. Until I bought one for $15 at Goodwill.
We would go to A&W and buy  cheap little hamburgers and sneak then in our pockets into the Dollar movie theatre. Date night for less than $10.

Bryan worked hard. We spent our first summer as a married couple apart when he went to California for an internship while I stayed in Utah, afraid to let the truck stop job go.

The next year,  Bryan did another summer in Cali and I joined him. I worked as a receptionist during the day and, because I didn't have any appropriate clothes to wear, I worked part time at Ann Taylor. I used the pay and the discount to fund my day job wardrobe. Most days I was working 9am-9pm.
I always worked Saturdays because I had begged and pleaded to have Sundays off for church and time with my husband. I worked my tail off at both places and when it was time to go, both companies said they would always have a place for me.

Just as I got back to Utah, the  company my husband had been working for offered him a full time, year round position in California. Problem was, he had at least 2 years left of his under grad degree.
As part of the offer, the company would pay his tuition. Only problem was, when was he going to find the time? And, oh yeah, I was pregnant.

In all honesty, my father in law was CEO of the company. Despite what you may think, this did not make my husband's life or career easier. Bryan's boss and his boss above him had to convince my FIL that this was the right move; that his son (my husband) was working hard and a valuable employee. I wouldn't say working for his dad was a disadvantage, but it surely meant that he had several people carefully scrutinizing him.
Even at the dinner table.

He took the job, I came back fromUtah. I worked while pregnant. We lived in a bedroom in his parents house while trying to save money.

Just before our first was born, we found an apartment in Gilroy. The rent was $850 and applicants were required to make at least triple that each month. We didn't. I had to convince the landlord that we could afford the rent.
And we did. The baby came. We some how made it on one income, in California, while devotedly paying 10% of our income in tithing.

By the time my husband graduated with his bachelor's, we had two kids. I haven't used a punch card or collected a paycheck since just before our first.

We have had times of plenty. More than plenty.
We have had times when I have made pancakes for dinner because the budget wasn't stretching far enough for protein. There have been times when asked what I want for my birthday, I have answered money for school clothes.

We have given when we could and we have given when we couldn't.
We have been given to.

Both sides of pur families have pitched in and helped ends meet when there was a gap.

Sometimes I wonder, is it luck? Why do I get this privledged life? I know women who wish they could stay home.

For me, and I'm talking about me- not generalizing for all women-I think a huge part of my ability to live the way I live, comes from hard choices and discipline. And help. And karma.

So it bums me out to hear thoughtless words being thrown around, despariging women who stay at home. Despariging women who work outside the home. Or women who have 19 kids. Or women who have none. Each of us has a unique and sometimes complicated story behind who we are and how we got to where we are...no matter where that is.

I'm not interested in tearing someone down so I can look better. That's probaly what makes me despise political commentaries.

Because if there is one thing my unemployed self has learned, it's that love makes the world go 'round. And we serve who we love. And love who we serve. That's is why a mother's love is often described as the strongest type of love. So completely fierce, unyeilding and unwavering. Because as mothers, we serve our kids.
Night and day.

And I'll be damned if someone puts a mother down for being just a mom.
Or drawing a salary while she does it.

It's a Rachel Re-Run

It's not that I'm lazy, per se, but this post is why I love Easter. And I can't say it better myself. I mean, I can't say it better than I already did.


http://www.superrighteous.blogspot.com/2011/04/but-seriously-folks.html

Bri-ish Invasion

I've been obssesed lately with British things.
Accents, shows, people.

Blame Downton Abbey and Sophie Kinsella audio books.
And Robert Irvine from that show "Restaurant Impossible".

Everywhere I turn, I am greeted with that cheeky accent.

AND I LOVE IT.

The other night, I was lying in bed watching Robert Irvine tear down and then build up a restaurant and the restaurantuer.

(BTW, He has enormous biceps)

I started wondering what I would be like if I had a father who was that forceful and direct.
(in my head, I just said die-rect)

My dad is a bit of a lamb, dahling, so I asked my husband what he thought.
Of me. Raised by Robert Irvine.

I said, "Can you imagine?
'Whaut do you meeen you got ahh C on your report cod?' "

(Are you saying that in an accent?)

'Cause I did. And apparently it was a bad one.
Because my husband laughed and then I laughed and we sort of belly laughed together until it hurt.

And then I went to sleep.
And dreamt in a british accent.

So this, friends, is my new fah-sea-na-tion.
And it's lovely.

And so ah you.


POST SCRIPT:

I've just come back from dinner with my husband. As we were walking out of Chevy's, he hucked a big louggie (how in the world do you spell that?!)
Very unluckily, I saw him do it. And my gag reflex kicked in. I thought I might lose my fajitas in the rhododendrons. He quickly, quickly said he was sorry that I had to see that.
Then he blamed it on the lemonade.

I said it was ok, except for the fact that I can't stop seeing the way it fell, so heavy-not lightly like a snowflake,-but so fast because it was weighted down spit.
He said, "Wow. You really are thinking about that aren't you."
And then, THEN!, I said, (in my *best* british accent)
"I cahn't ba-leeve you just spat on thee ahss-fault."

Brillant, I know.

We laughed and drove out of the parkinglot making more chatter (me in the accent). We joked about playing a game called Downtown Abbey (whinkey face)  and blah, blah, blahed ourselves
 to another restaurant. (where the desserts are better)

Once we were seated, he handed me the dessert menu and asked me to read the descriptions in my best accent. (I love when he indulges me)

It was pretty bad, but we were laughing so hard, who really cares. Even the bartendar saw us and laughed a little. Maybe she thought we (I) were (was) tipsy.

The sweets were delicious and my husband told me about a collegue of his and how, while they were emailing back and forth, the lady said she would get him the information, "right quick."
He told me he thought, "Rachel would love that."

After eating little (whittle) bits of 3 different desserts, we paid and left.
On the car ride home, he told me about a friend of his from his highschool days in Singapore. She was british and she pronounced aluminun al-loo-min-e-um.

(Say it outloud. It's awesome.)

And then I thought about the time, when I was in highschool, when a guy friend took bites of a sandwich, chewed it all around in his mouth, and let a dog eat it out of his mouth.

And I thought, what the heck does my husband see in me?

I did get a wee bit sad. For just a second. Then my husband asked  me to say something in my cockney accent. And the insecure moment passed.

Do yourself a favor, give your inner monologue an accent. Especially if you are going to think crazy things.
It all so much betta bri-ish.

When the Hell Did I Get So Strong?

Valentine's Day was lame.
It was a very typical Tuesday, but given the added pressure of being THEE holiday for love and gifts and romance, well...it sucked.

And I didn't care one bit.

I am very happy to report that my husband and I  have been married for so long that we are far past the point when our relationshp hinged on a night or even a conversation.
I have (on more than one occasion) imagined my husband walking in the room and saying,

"It's over. I'm leaving you."

Stupid thing to do, I know.

We are each a little bit crazy and my type of crazy comes in the form of abandonment. My parents both sort of checked out at one point and, although I didn't know it, that time planted a small seed in my heart that has grown to bear the fruit of "Any one who has ever loved you will leave you."

Believe me, it's bitter and causes heartburn.

But considering my husband and his unyeilding love, devotion and obsessive loyalty,
 I'm not afraid he will leave me.
 Ever.
Ever, ever.

In fact, if he walked into the room right now and said, "We need to talk. I'm leaving you", I would laugh and call him a liar.

And for me, that HUGE.

HUGE.

I don't know when I changed. It wasn't very long ago that, in that same scenario, I would have lowered my head and said to myself, "I knew it was too good. Because if you love me, you will eventually leave me."
But I don't believe that anymore.


And that is a gift that can't be bought or baked.
It's a gift that has taken 18 years to create and it outshines every bobble I can dream up.

Sometimes marriage is magical and thrilling.
Sometimes it is he and I, in the trenches, praying that we are digging faster than the mess that is rainging down on us.

But it is always, always he and I giving each other the benefit of the doubt.

All this outpouring of personal information was inspired by this snipit from the blog CJanerun.com.
She's a fav of mine and I hope she doesn't mind if I share with you a bit of her genius:


"And this: relationships work when we sacrifice negative beliefs about ourselves, and in that process we become the best thing that's ever happened to anyone.

And this: a successful marriage is about two people engaged and dedicated to overcoming selfishness--for the rest of their lives."

So, in short, I hope your Tuesday was thrilling and lavish and breathtaking.

Mine wasn't.
 But there's always Wednesday.....

Honestly, What was I thinking? So Glad you asked.

Lately, Ive been thinking.
If I could open up my cerebral cortex and pour the contents out onto my keyboard, it would be, well, gross. And quite the page turner. But I'm a really bad typist. And I'm lazy. So how 'bout the Cliff's Notes to my soul?

1. I want to eat like  a fat girl and look like a swinsuit model. By golly, that's the truest staement I have ever heard.
 From anyone.
 And it sounds rude. Maybe I should say I want to eat like a trucker, but I don't always want to eat like a trucker. I want to eat like girl. A robust one. And then I want to frolick on the beach in stylish swimsuit.

2. I would rather video tape myself saying all this stuff than have to type it out. I am such-a-horrendous-typer/speller. You see all the mistakes I make, right? But what you don;t see is that I have edited myself 361 times and still these mes ups remain. I'm way better in person. Or video.

3. I think I drink too much diet coke.
OH! So much honesty up in here I might die.

4. I'm babyhungry.
This statement does not correlate to fact #1.
I'm simply stating that my maternal clock is tic-tick-ticking. I didn't love being so sick. Although I did love a big tummy. I hated being so tired, but oh those moments, alone at night, with a tiny wee-one stretching, suckling, yawning. My body and soul were made for motherhood.

5. I hate the hatred of politics.
I realize I am a very conservative person. Some of my beliefs would upset you. Some of my beliefs upset me. Not because they I don't like them, but because they aren't easy and honestly (since that seems to be the thread here) everyone seems so volitile lately that disagreeing has become tantamount to hatred. So I guess it's not my beliefs that upset me, rather other people's reactions to them. Does that make sense? It would if I were vlogging.
I really like listening to people, who think diffrently, express themselves. I am a huge fan of rethinking my beliefs, reconsidering and defending my self. Even to myself.

6. I am tired of the notion that women hate women.
I have a short list of people that rub me the wrong way; people that grate my nerves to the point I have to leave a conversation or walk out of the room.
It's a super short list considering my age and how many places I have lived.
And it's a list almost entirely of men. Arrogant, self-centered men.
Those are the traits that send my running. And, correct me if I'm wrong (see #5), the women that i come across that may be hard to get along with or difficult to love, are, in my little opinion, difficult for other resaons. Reasons that I have a higher tolerance for, I guess.
I'm not generalizing the sexes here, just disecting my person list of acquaintances.
I'd love to hear what you think.

7. I have to pee all the time. ALL OF THE TIME.
I've said it before and I'll say it again...As soon as Coach comes out with a stylish urine-catheter carry-all, I'm the first in line.
I'd instantly get that magical, illusive "extra hour of the day". Bam.

8. I have to pee so bad right now I have to end our little session. My apologies.
 Did I spell that right?
See, if this was a vlog instead of a blog, I would have been done sooner, had less typos and would not be wiggling in my chair.

Gotta go.

New Year, Old Me

Did I ever tell you about the time that I stuck pantyliners in my armpits so I wouldn't get sweat marks?
And then the pantyliners moved and traveled to the neckline of my shirt. The sticky underside of the pad had black lint stuck all over it.
It looked like I had stffed my bra with maxi pads.

I didn't tell you that story?
Huh.
It's a good one.