I know my title sounds a bit trite, but I am staring down a LOT of new beginnings right now. Pete and I have begun looking for places to rent. We're checking out houses that we mostly know we don't want just so we can get a feel for the neighborhoods. We're not ready to move until we get a few more things worked out, so the places that are available right now aren't actually the ones we could apply for anyway. But our town is filled with a lot of the same few models for single-family homes, so it's worh knowing that we DO like the Hibiscus II model, but NOT the Matheson model. Even if one isn't open right now.
And the neighborhoods here are wonky. You could be driving down one street looking at mansions with big walls, and gates, and lots of balconies that just make you assume this is the house that hosts Operah's book club. Then you take a side street from there and you think, "There are more teeth in this car than there are on this street!" So we need to look around. Also, I think the more I look, the more I like the townhouses here. A lot of them have fun layouts, and I sort of like the idea of the bedrooms being upstairs, rather than off of the main living space. So we'll see, you know?
Lucian starts school this coming Monday. I can't wait! Not at all in the way I'm supposed to, though. I can't wait, because the wondering will be over. It's like the difference between slowly climbing in to a pool in winter and jumping in. While you're climbing in, you have time to think about how awful it's going to be once you're submerged. But if you jump in, you just have to figure out how to deal with the suck. I'm sure that it will suck. I know every kid (except for home-schoolers, I guess) goes to school. Some like it, some don't. But either way, I lose my little boy. He's going to have friends that I didn't make for him. He's going to have to use what I've taught him to make good decisions. He's going to have to be responsible, and motivated, and honest, and and and... And I'm terrified.
Is this normal? I should probably seek proffessional help, but who has the time?
I feel like I'm embarking on a journey. I hope that it leads to happiness, and contentment. But I fear it's going to lead to the assylum.
2010 has a lot expected of it. I hope it can meet my desires.
Showing posts with label pity-party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pity-party. Show all posts
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Eight Years Ago, Yesterday...
I was taking a nap hoping that with some extra sleep I would be able to party the night away, and not have to suffer the consequences tomorrow. It was snowing, it was supposed to snow all night, and my mom had asked that I not leave the house, unless there was an emergency. I wasn't planning on listening. But I had decided that I would either abstain from intoxicating substances, or I would sleep wherever I wound up. I didn't want to take foolish chances, but I did want to ring in the new year in style. I was, after all, going to be 21 this year, and this would be my last opportunity to start the year off illegally drunk. I liked doing illegal things then. I felt like I was a rebel. My mom called me her "rebel without a cause." I had a cause, but it was a dumb one. I thought that society put unfair taboos in place, and it was my mission to break all of them. Multiple sex partners makes you a slut? I was nearing 100. Doing drugs made you a loser, I had several prepared for that night. You had to be 21 to drink? I had been drinking since I was 18. It seemed to me that everything that was fun was illegal, or morally wrong, or simply looked down upon. I smoked cigarettes, I danced for money, I took risks, and I lived my life uncaring what anyone thought of me. When my friends told me I was shallow, I told them they were too serious. When they told me I was too skinny, I told them they were fat and jealous.
I had no intentions of staying home, just because my mother had told me that this was a dangerous night. But, I was taking whatever precautions I could think of. So, I slept. The phone rang. It half woke me out of my slumber, but my boyfriend and I were the social coordinators of our group, so I dismissed this phone call as probably one of my circle calling to find out when exactly we were meeting, and other such details.
When Carl came in the bedroom, I was prepared to yell at him, and tell him that he would just have to coordinate without me, I needed my sleep. I'll never forget how unsure he sounded when he told me my dad was on the phone. He sounded scared of being in the same room with me, and prepared to hug me at the same time. I couldn't figure out why. Despite my rebellious nature, I had a great relationship with my parents, and I was sure this was just my father's attempt at telling me what my mother had already sent in an email. "Stay home. The roads are icy, and they're just going to get worse. Celebrate next year." She had written in bold at the bottom, reiterating her entire email in one sentence, "Please do not drive unless it is an emergency. I don't want you to spend New Year's Eve at the hospital."
I got on the phone with my dad prepared to blow him off. To tell him it was OK, the party I was going to was only a few streets away, and they were my friends. I'd be able to crash there until morning, but I wasn't going to miss my favorite party night. When I heard his voice, it was obvious he'd been crying. "Baby," he said and I panicked. " I'm at the hospital. Your mom, she collapsed. They think she's had an aneurysm. She's being air lifted to [my mind goes blank here. I can't remember if I had to go to Cooper, or Jefferson] Hospital. Can you meet us there? I don't know what's happening, but I need everybody there." The fear was clear. I could hear how his voice shook, and how he didn't sound hopeful, even as he tried to reassure me while giving me directions.
I told Carl he had to drive. He didn't really like driving further than the 7-11, but I was in no condition. I cried and screamed all the way to the hospital. Carl kept asking me to tell him happy stories about her, and I tried. I can't really remember what I talked about. I just babbled and cried and screamed. And navigated.
I was the first one to the hospital. I went to the counter to tell them who I was looking for and they asked if I was eighteen. I told them no, I was twenty. They smiled gently, and told me that was good enough. They needed me to check her in to the hospital. No one had arrived yet to do it. They led me into a small conference room, and a doctor sat across the table from me asking questions about about her name, age, birth date, medical history, and such. He asked me if I knew why she was there, and I told them I only knew she had collapsed. He explained to me what an aneurysm is and that since she had survived the initial burst, there was a chance she would recover, but it was a small chance. Then he asked me if it was OK to give her a blood transfusion if she needed it. My mother was a Jehovah's Witness. I had been raised in her cult, but I never really understood their viewpoints on blood transfusions. They don't allow them. That's all I really know. And that it was important to her that she follow her beliefs. I told him as much, and then I told him that he should come back and ask me specifically again if it came to her needing one. I would deal with her being mad at me if she survived. I would explain to her how I couldn't have let her go, based on what I, by then, considered to be fairy tales.
When I walked out of the intake room, my whole family was there. I collapsed into tears the minute someones arms were around me. My grandmother's. She was the reason we were all Jehovah's Witnesses. She had converted when my dad was young, my dad brought my mom in while my older brother was young, and my mom kept us all going until we were old enough to decide on our own what we believed. I told my grandmother that I had respected my mother's wishes, even though I didn't want to. I asked her why she would make me do that, but she had no answer, except to say thanks.
I looked around and noticed my little brother. He was seven. I tried to pull my tears back into my eyes, then. I didn't want him to see how serious this all was. I wanted him to cling to hope for as long as he could. The doctor had made it sound as though with some surgery, and time, my mother would at least be home soon. She may not have all her faculties, but she should come home. I was prepared to move home and take care of her, since I knew it would be too much for my father to have to take care of a son, a wife, and the house. My little brother looked like he was shaken, but he wasn't crying. I was thankful for that. I tried to just remain quiet for as long as I could, staring out at the fireworks exploding over Philadelphia. I remember thinking that it was too bad she was unconscious, my mom loved fireworks, and she wouldn't want to miss this display. I also remember being angry that they would dare to use smiley face fireworks, while my mom's life hung in the balance. Like they knew. Or cared.
Eventually, my grandparents took my little brother for a walk, and my dad, my older brother, and Carl and I went tot he cafeteria. WE talked about mom, and how strong she was. WE talked about hospitals and how awful they were. We made inappropriate jokes like only people who were terrified and sad could. We even laughed at how people must have been thinking we were there for a birth instead of tragedy. I felt guilty for laughing. I think we all did. I know Carl was appalled. He was an outsider. We couldn't stop, though. If we stopped laughing, it would've meant we had given up hope. And we weren't prepared to do that.
I don't remember how long we stayed. I know that eventually we left. My mom was in a coma and we wouldn't know if she would make it for a while, yet. The sun was up, and we needed sleep. I couldn't keep Carl there. This wasn't his tragedy, and he needed to get back to his life.
My mom stayed in the coma for ten days. People took turns sitting with her. Everybody who knew what had happened had written her letters to tell her how important and loved she was. Her co-workers, fellow cultists, friends far and near. My dad and the others who visited read them to her all day. I didn't visit her. I went to the hospital to visit the visitors, but I couldn't go into her room. She didn't look right in that bed, and I didn't want too many chances to burn that image on my mind. My mom never liked having the camera pointed at her, so my memories were the only pictures I had. She seemed to get better for a while, but never better enough for the the doctors to be optimistic. I had been in my own sort of coma. I felt like I couldn't hear when people talked to me. I felt like time wasn't real. I didn't sleep much, I ate when I was forced to. I didn't talk on the phone afraid that I would tie up the line, and I wouldn't get the call. I tried not to hope that when the call came it would be to tell me she had opened her eyes. I tried not to hope that I would drive her to rehab soon. I tried not to imagine her arms around me while she told me she forgave me for wanting to give permission for a blood transfusion. I tried not to think of how empty the mother of the bride chair would be if I ever convinced someone I was worth marrying.
I failed miserably. These were the thoughts that followed me everywhere I went. I walked around in a daze of self-pity. I don't think I even worried about my dad, or my brothers. They were stronger than me. They didn't need her as much as I did.
Eventually, though, I did sleep. I laid down to take a nap. Carl was home from work, and I felt safe that someone was there to answer the phone if the call came. And come it did. It was about an hour into my nap that Carl came in sounding every bit like he did on New Year's Eve. I knew this was not good news. My dad was on the phone saying that the doctors wanted a decision from him. They could keep my mother alive on machines and hope that someone discovered technology that could save her, but as of now there was nothing that could be done. It was my dad's decision, they said, since she had no living will. Fortunately for my dad, my mom had been adamant about not wanting to be kept alive by machines. She had told us all several times. And we knew what she would want. I told my dad with all the calm I could muster that if I were in his shoes, I would do what mom wanted. That, as his daughter, I supported the decision we both knew he had to make. He thanked me for not making it more difficult on him. I guess we all knew that I was the most selfish of us, because he said he'd waited to call me last. I still feel bad about that.
It's been eight years, now. I have two children of my own. Not a single day goes by that I don't wonder if I will put my boys through this someday. I worry constantly that my boys will look to the mother of the groom chair, and see a picture of me taped to the back. I try to make sure I get as many pictures of me as I can so they have one to tape there, just in case. Today, at the beginning of another new year, I can't stop myself from crying. Crying over the loss I've suffered. Crying over the fear that lays inside me. Crying over how selfish I am that I am locked here inside my bedroom blogging instead of out there enjoying my family as best as I can while I have them.
That having been said, I'm going to go share a sandwich with Pete, take a percocet to kill the pain, and do the mummer strut with my children in the street.
I had no intentions of staying home, just because my mother had told me that this was a dangerous night. But, I was taking whatever precautions I could think of. So, I slept. The phone rang. It half woke me out of my slumber, but my boyfriend and I were the social coordinators of our group, so I dismissed this phone call as probably one of my circle calling to find out when exactly we were meeting, and other such details.
When Carl came in the bedroom, I was prepared to yell at him, and tell him that he would just have to coordinate without me, I needed my sleep. I'll never forget how unsure he sounded when he told me my dad was on the phone. He sounded scared of being in the same room with me, and prepared to hug me at the same time. I couldn't figure out why. Despite my rebellious nature, I had a great relationship with my parents, and I was sure this was just my father's attempt at telling me what my mother had already sent in an email. "Stay home. The roads are icy, and they're just going to get worse. Celebrate next year." She had written in bold at the bottom, reiterating her entire email in one sentence, "Please do not drive unless it is an emergency. I don't want you to spend New Year's Eve at the hospital."
I got on the phone with my dad prepared to blow him off. To tell him it was OK, the party I was going to was only a few streets away, and they were my friends. I'd be able to crash there until morning, but I wasn't going to miss my favorite party night. When I heard his voice, it was obvious he'd been crying. "Baby," he said and I panicked. "
I told Carl he had to drive. He didn't really like driving further than the 7-11, but I was in no condition. I cried and screamed all the way to the hospital. Carl kept asking me to tell him happy stories about her, and I tried. I can't really remember what I talked about. I just babbled and cried and screamed. And navigated.
I was the first one to the hospital. I went to the counter to tell them who I was looking for and they asked if I was eighteen. I told them no, I was twenty. They smiled gently, and told me that was good enough. They needed me to check her in to the hospital. No one had arrived yet to do it. They led me into a small conference room, and a doctor sat across the table from me asking questions about about her name, age, birth date, medical history, and such. He asked me if I knew why she was there, and I told them I only knew she had collapsed. He explained to me what an aneurysm is and that since she had survived the initial burst, there was a chance she would recover, but it was a small chance. Then he asked me if it was OK to give her a blood transfusion if she needed it. My mother was a Jehovah's Witness. I had been raised in her cult, but I never really understood their viewpoints on blood transfusions. They don't allow them. That's all I really know. And that it was important to her that she follow her beliefs. I told him as much, and then I told him that he should come back and ask me specifically again if it came to her needing one. I would deal with her being mad at me if she survived. I would explain to her how I couldn't have let her go, based on what I, by then, considered to be fairy tales.
When I walked out of the intake room, my whole family was there. I collapsed into tears the minute someones arms were around me. My grandmother's. She was the reason we were all Jehovah's Witnesses. She had converted when my dad was young, my dad brought my mom in while my older brother was young, and my mom kept us all going until we were old enough to decide on our own what we believed. I told my grandmother that I had respected my mother's wishes, even though I didn't want to. I asked her why she would make me do that, but she had no answer, except to say thanks.
I looked around and noticed my little brother. He was seven. I tried to pull my tears back into my eyes, then. I didn't want him to see how serious this all was. I wanted him to cling to hope for as long as he could. The doctor had made it sound as though with some surgery, and time, my mother would at least be home soon. She may not have all her faculties, but she should come home. I was prepared to move home and take care of her, since I knew it would be too much for my father to have to take care of a son, a wife, and the house. My little brother looked like he was shaken, but he wasn't crying. I was thankful for that. I tried to just remain quiet for as long as I could, staring out at the fireworks exploding over Philadelphia. I remember thinking that it was too bad she was unconscious, my mom loved fireworks, and she wouldn't want to miss this display. I also remember being angry that they would dare to use smiley face fireworks, while my mom's life hung in the balance. Like they knew. Or cared.
Eventually, my grandparents took my little brother for a walk, and my dad, my older brother, and Carl and I went tot he cafeteria. WE talked about mom, and how strong she was. WE talked about hospitals and how awful they were. We made inappropriate jokes like only people who were terrified and sad could. We even laughed at how people must have been thinking we were there for a birth instead of tragedy. I felt guilty for laughing. I think we all did. I know Carl was appalled. He was an outsider. We couldn't stop, though. If we stopped laughing, it would've meant we had given up hope. And we weren't prepared to do that.
I don't remember how long we stayed. I know that eventually we left. My mom was in a coma and we wouldn't know if she would make it for a while, yet. The sun was up, and we needed sleep. I couldn't keep Carl there. This wasn't his tragedy, and he needed to get back to his life.
My mom stayed in the coma for ten days. People took turns sitting with her. Everybody who knew what had happened had written her letters to tell her how important and loved she was. Her co-workers, fellow cultists, friends far and near. My dad and the others who visited read them to her all day. I didn't visit her. I went to the hospital to visit the visitors, but I couldn't go into her room. She didn't look right in that bed, and I didn't want too many chances to burn that image on my mind. My mom never liked having the camera pointed at her, so my memories were the only pictures I had. She seemed to get better for a while, but never better enough for the the doctors to be optimistic. I had been in my own sort of coma. I felt like I couldn't hear when people talked to me. I felt like time wasn't real. I didn't sleep much, I ate when I was forced to. I didn't talk on the phone afraid that I would tie up the line, and I wouldn't get the call. I tried not to hope that when the call came it would be to tell me she had opened her eyes. I tried not to hope that I would drive her to rehab soon. I tried not to imagine her arms around me while she told me she forgave me for wanting to give permission for a blood transfusion. I tried not to think of how empty the mother of the bride chair would be if I ever convinced someone I was worth marrying.
I failed miserably. These were the thoughts that followed me everywhere I went. I walked around in a daze of self-pity. I don't think I even worried about my dad, or my brothers. They were stronger than me. They didn't need her as much as I did.
Eventually, though, I did sleep. I laid down to take a nap. Carl was home from work, and I felt safe that someone was there to answer the phone if the call came. And come it did. It was about an hour into my nap that Carl came in sounding every bit like he did on New Year's Eve. I knew this was not good news. My dad was on the phone saying that the doctors wanted a decision from him. They could keep my mother alive on machines and hope that someone discovered technology that could save her, but as of now there was nothing that could be done. It was my dad's decision, they said, since she had no living will. Fortunately for my dad, my mom had been adamant about not wanting to be kept alive by machines. She had told us all several times. And we knew what she would want. I told my dad with all the calm I could muster that if I were in his shoes, I would do what mom wanted. That, as his daughter, I supported the decision we both knew he had to make. He thanked me for not making it more difficult on him. I guess we all knew that I was the most selfish of us, because he said he'd waited to call me last. I still feel bad about that.
It's been eight years, now. I have two children of my own. Not a single day goes by that I don't wonder if I will put my boys through this someday. I worry constantly that my boys will look to the mother of the groom chair, and see a picture of me taped to the back. I try to make sure I get as many pictures of me as I can so they have one to tape there, just in case. Today, at the beginning of another new year, I can't stop myself from crying. Crying over the loss I've suffered. Crying over the fear that lays inside me. Crying over how selfish I am that I am locked here inside my bedroom blogging instead of out there enjoying my family as best as I can while I have them.
That having been said, I'm going to go share a sandwich with Pete, take a percocet to kill the pain, and do the mummer strut with my children in the street.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
I'm a sucker, I know.
I just paid $32 for information and a start up kit for something having to do with getting paid $2 per envelope. I have no idea what this means I will actually be doing. I know that this probably means it's a scam, but I need something to fill my evening after the kids go to bed. I need income. And I need some reason to feel the way I feel. Which is to say I feel like I have no control any more. I live in somebody else's house with their routines, their schedules, their lifestyle. I didn't have much of a lifestyle before I moved in, but it was my own choice. Now when I lay on the couch watching TV while my MIL puts away groceries, or sweeps the floor, I feel guilty. When I take the kids out in the morning, and I want to come home early because their having a rough time, I feel guilty for interrupting everyone else's quiet time. When my kids want to stay out longer, I feel guilty because someone at home is holding off on a project they want the kids to help with. If I don't want to take the kids anywhere because we all feel a bit lazy, I feel guilty because I'm not allowing the rest of the family their quiet time to do what hey want to do.
Part of this comes from the fact that my MIL and FIL don't like to hear the kids cry, and they cry to get what they want. Before we all moved in, they didn't cry much, because they knew they wouldn't get what they wanted anyway. Now, they know that someone will cave and come play with them, so they make a fuss. I don't think that my MIL is doing them any harm not developmentally, definitely not physically, and really not even emotionally. It's just not how I would do it. So it makes me crazy. For example, at dinner we all sit down together and eat. I sit as far from the children as possible, and allow mom-mom to sit between them. She plays games with them to get them to eat. She makes up stories about dump trucks, and plays a bit of reverse-psychology telling my 3 year old he 'better not' eat whatever it is she wants him to eat. That's how it is now. Before we moved here? We all sat down to eat, and it went parent, child, parent, child around a circular table. I gave each child a plate of food that I expected them to eat. I gave them plenty of time, and I reminded them to eat a few times each meal. After the appropriate amount of time had passed, I took their plate from them, and they got no more until tomorrow.
Does it make a difference? Do they eat any better for them or me? No. They eat about the same. Is my sanity still together? Yes, because I have no part of it. I was having a conversation with a cousin about it, and she had made the comment that Lucian must hate having 4 adults telling him to eat his dinner, and I told her that I just stay out of it, because it would drive me crazy otherwise.
My MIL, who claims she can't hear my voice too well, overheard this conversation, and threw a fit claiming that she would back off and the kids could sit near me. The problem is, she felt like I was not happy with how she did it, and I wanted the job back. But that's not the case. a) I do not believe for a moment that she would indeed back off. b) I don't care how it's done, as long as they eat.
So. Here I am with no control. Because, if I took the kids back to my side of the table, I'd still have her trying to make dinner fun for them, and now I would just be surrounded by loud children while I'm trying to eat my dinner.
I have decided to take back control where I can. If I can earn some extra money, I will not feel guilty spending it on doing some things for myself. And I will be able to show what I am useful for. Also, if I am sitting on the couch watching TV and doing something with envelopes I will not feel guilty that I'm not helping put the groceries away.
Also? I am going to check out the local colleges and try to get a degree in psychology. I want to be a therapist, and I think that now is the time to pursue it. I have free daycare as it stands right now, and I'm young enough to be able to begin a career and have it go somewhere.
So, I'll keep you posted on how both of these endeavors are going.
Part of this comes from the fact that my MIL and FIL don't like to hear the kids cry, and they cry to get what they want. Before we all moved in, they didn't cry much, because they knew they wouldn't get what they wanted anyway. Now, they know that someone will cave and come play with them, so they make a fuss. I don't think that my MIL is doing them any harm not developmentally, definitely not physically, and really not even emotionally. It's just not how I would do it. So it makes me crazy. For example, at dinner we all sit down together and eat. I sit as far from the children as possible, and allow mom-mom to sit between them. She plays games with them to get them to eat. She makes up stories about dump trucks, and plays a bit of reverse-psychology telling my 3 year old he 'better not' eat whatever it is she wants him to eat. That's how it is now. Before we moved here? We all sat down to eat, and it went parent, child, parent, child around a circular table. I gave each child a plate of food that I expected them to eat. I gave them plenty of time, and I reminded them to eat a few times each meal. After the appropriate amount of time had passed, I took their plate from them, and they got no more until tomorrow.
Does it make a difference? Do they eat any better for them or me? No. They eat about the same. Is my sanity still together? Yes, because I have no part of it. I was having a conversation with a cousin about it, and she had made the comment that Lucian must hate having 4 adults telling him to eat his dinner, and I told her that I just stay out of it, because it would drive me crazy otherwise.
My MIL, who claims she can't hear my voice too well, overheard this conversation, and threw a fit claiming that she would back off and the kids could sit near me. The problem is, she felt like I was not happy with how she did it, and I wanted the job back. But that's not the case. a) I do not believe for a moment that she would indeed back off. b) I don't care how it's done, as long as they eat.
So. Here I am with no control. Because, if I took the kids back to my side of the table, I'd still have her trying to make dinner fun for them, and now I would just be surrounded by loud children while I'm trying to eat my dinner.
I have decided to take back control where I can. If I can earn some extra money, I will not feel guilty spending it on doing some things for myself. And I will be able to show what I am useful for. Also, if I am sitting on the couch watching TV and doing something with envelopes I will not feel guilty that I'm not helping put the groceries away.
Also? I am going to check out the local colleges and try to get a degree in psychology. I want to be a therapist, and I think that now is the time to pursue it. I have free daycare as it stands right now, and I'm young enough to be able to begin a career and have it go somewhere.
So, I'll keep you posted on how both of these endeavors are going.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
I need a new playgroup...
Today, Val was sick, so we left him home with Pop-pop and headed out to our usual Wednesday playgroup. Now the group is advertised as being for mobile babies to 5 years old. Both of my children fit squarely into this category, so I thought that it would be fun for them for several years. I thought I wouldn't need to look elsewhere, maybe ever because one they're 5 years old, they'll be in school, and won't have time for morning playgroups anymore. But lately, it's been mostly 1 - 1 1/2 year old kids and they're just too small for Lucian to play with. Also, they're too small for Lucian to play around. He likes to ride all the bikes, and prefers to crash into other kids. He knows better than to purposely crash into the smaller kids, but sometimes they wander into his way before he can maneuver around them. And then the other moms get mad at him. And though I spend the morning yelling his name from across the gymnasium, they never come to me, they yell at him, instead. It irritates me, but I know that not everyone can handle adult confrontation the way I do, so I just make sure that I reinforce what the other mom told him, so he learns that anyone taller that him is an authority that needs to be respected and listened to. I figure this is good for school. (I realize this also sets him up for kidnapping, but I really don't let the kid out of my sight, even at playgroup)
Today, somebody did work up the nerve to tell me that my kid was making her nervous. I apologized, assured her that he was pretty good on the bike, and that I would try to keep a better eye on him. She assured me that her twin boys would bite him, if they felt threatened. I said I was sure they wouldn't have to go that route. But, the truth of the matter is, he is too old for that play group. He's too old for all of them. He's a three year old boy who plays better with 4 and 5 year olds that kids his own age. And moms with older children obviously run in different circles. I am looking for those circles.
Do you have older preschoolers? Where do you hang out? Do you think I should separate the groups I take my older kid to from the ones I take my younger kid to?
Today, somebody did work up the nerve to tell me that my kid was making her nervous. I apologized, assured her that he was pretty good on the bike, and that I would try to keep a better eye on him. She assured me that her twin boys would bite him, if they felt threatened. I said I was sure they wouldn't have to go that route. But, the truth of the matter is, he is too old for that play group. He's too old for all of them. He's a three year old boy who plays better with 4 and 5 year olds that kids his own age. And moms with older children obviously run in different circles. I am looking for those circles.
Do you have older preschoolers? Where do you hang out? Do you think I should separate the groups I take my older kid to from the ones I take my younger kid to?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Support
Have you ever been somebody's support? Been there to rub their back when they get too stressed, make them coffee in the middle of trying to do a million other things because they're tired and don't want/have time to, stay up until 3am to let them vent even though you have a busy day ahead of you? Have you ever been the one to listen as they talk through their problems, offering advice, or cheering them up - whichever you think is most necessary at the time?
If you have, for how many people do you offer this service? Do they return the favor? Do you have somebody that you can go to for this service if the person/people that you support doesn't/don't reciprocate?
If you haven't, are there people in your life that you can turn to when you need them? Why don't you support others? Do support somebody financially, or otherwise that you feel lets you off the hook for emotional support?
That leads me to my next question: is financial support equal to emotional support? If you live in a situation similar to mine - one working parent with one stay-at-home parent - is it the job of the SAH Parent to make sure that the working parent is stress free so s/he may keep his/her job? Looking critically it seems that the working parent has the more important job. Because we all know raising kids is a tough job, but it's also not the type of job you can get fired from for having one bad day (unless that bad day is taken to extreme), and if you have both parents, somebody will pick up the slack. But the SAHP cannot (usually) go into the office for the working parent, and without their ability to keep their job, the family is in worse shape than if the kids are a little spoiled, or didn't get a bath, or are having nightmares.
I don't know if I phrased this post well at all. My in-laws just left from packing up the moving truck, and I'm a little frenzied. I have to get showered and dressed, and then pick the kids up from the baby-sitter so we can all go to our first night of parenting class. I wish I had more time. I would go into more detail.
I may not be back online for quite sometime. I don't know how long it will take to get me a computer I can use in the new living arrangement.
P.S. I voted early today! Woo! That's a load off my mind. Now I don't have to worry about what my schedule looks like for Election Day.
If you have, for how many people do you offer this service? Do they return the favor? Do you have somebody that you can go to for this service if the person/people that you support doesn't/don't reciprocate?
If you haven't, are there people in your life that you can turn to when you need them? Why don't you support others? Do support somebody financially, or otherwise that you feel lets you off the hook for emotional support?
That leads me to my next question: is financial support equal to emotional support? If you live in a situation similar to mine - one working parent with one stay-at-home parent - is it the job of the SAH Parent to make sure that the working parent is stress free so s/he may keep his/her job? Looking critically it seems that the working parent has the more important job. Because we all know raising kids is a tough job, but it's also not the type of job you can get fired from for having one bad day (unless that bad day is taken to extreme), and if you have both parents, somebody will pick up the slack. But the SAHP cannot (usually) go into the office for the working parent, and without their ability to keep their job, the family is in worse shape than if the kids are a little spoiled, or didn't get a bath, or are having nightmares.
I don't know if I phrased this post well at all. My in-laws just left from packing up the moving truck, and I'm a little frenzied. I have to get showered and dressed, and then pick the kids up from the baby-sitter so we can all go to our first night of parenting class. I wish I had more time. I would go into more detail.
I may not be back online for quite sometime. I don't know how long it will take to get me a computer I can use in the new living arrangement.
P.S. I voted early today! Woo! That's a load off my mind. Now I don't have to worry about what my schedule looks like for Election Day.
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