"What if we get shot?"
"What?! Why would we get shot?!"
"Well, we're just walking up to someone's door. We don't know them. What if they don't want us here?"
"Carlos, it's called Halloween. This is what you do. When people leave their porch light on, that generally means they welcome trick or treaters. See those two houses over there? No porch lights. We don't knock on their doors."
"Well, I've never done this before. I don't know."
Oh yea. I forgot.
Because my husband has been in this country for more than fifteen years, and we have dressed up on Halloween before, attended Halloween parties, watched Halloween movies, I simply forgot that he had never actually pounded the pavement on the actual evening to ask for candy.
For my daughter, the evening was quite uneventful; we trick or treated at the 5 or 10 residents' homes who were actually participating, she freaked a bit over one man who answered the door dressed as a skeleton (full on garish makeup included), she loved the giant plastic spider one lady gave her, and learned to say "happy Halloween," and continued to say it all night, long after we had already left earshot of whoever she was supposed to be saying it to, of course.
She was an adorable kitty cat, and she will get to eat none of her candy.
Pretty basic.
But my husband is another story. I think this one tiny evening, that literally consisted of walking the two buildings that make up our complex and the tiny dead end street across from it, will stick in his memory forever. This was of course his first experience trick or treating, but it was also his first time trick or treating with his daughter. He was shouting "woohoo!" on the quiet little street, and bursting out with "trick or treat!" as each door opened, which more than compensated for Celaya's lack of social interaction enthusiasm. He wore a wig that he bought last year, covered with a viking hat my brother wore to the same party last year, and his regular street clothes.
He had so much fun that he went back down to the skeleton's apartment to hang out, check out their extravagant decorations, drink beer, and talk soccer.
I, on the other hand, put my very worn out kitty cat toddler down to sleep and teleconferenced in to a staff meeting for work that lasted two hours.
Still, thanks to my husband's constant ability to surprise me with his childlike joy for all things new and adventuresome, and of course thanks to my precious purr baby, this Halloween will remain firmly planted in my memory as well.
"Woohoo!"
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Tow Truck Adventures
"Alright, I'll get your car loaded up. You can chill in the truck if you want."
He was about 5 feet tall, Asian, and he talked like he was from the streets.
"What street you live on?"
"E Street."
"A Street?"
"E Street."
"Oh D street."
"N-"
"Yea, alright, so uh, there's the heater, and you can like mess with it or whatever," and he chuckled a bit. "Cuz you know, I know how it is."
Okay, first of all, E STREET!
Second, now I know where the term Blasian comes from.
And finally, no, I have no idea if you know how it is, because I'm not even sure I'm clear on how it is.
But it was certainly an adventure.
My evening began when I got to work and coolant was leaking from under my car.
I let Carlos know, I bought some water, poured it into my empty coolant reserve tank, started the car, which sounded fine, and planned to drive it home after work.
Carlos texted me that our mechanic said, after hearing about my story, not to drive the car home.
Well, here I was all proud of myself for carrying water in my car, ready to pull off and refill if needed, prepared to blog all about how I am a superwoman who can handle her own car troubles.
Cut to me halfway home with a temperature gauge tipping into the red zone and steam coming from under my hood as I pull to the side of the freeway off ramp. At 1030 at night. In Oakland. With a mini-thug serving as my hero in the strangest, most futuristic tow truck I've ever been in, complete with a pack of Marlboro Reds in the dash and in the cup holder a bottle of some liquid that said in big, bold letters across the back of the label: CONTAINS NO JUICE. Well alrighty then.
Come to find out, my engine is probably shot. Today may very well have been a farewell to my little Volvo. She has been good to me, traveling up and down the California coast, and dutifully pulling herself back together after some rough patches. But I think this may be it. Her heart may have finally given out.
And while I am sad to possibly be saying goodbye to a car that I did really like, for some reason I'm not worried at all about being without a car.
I have no money in savings, I have a painful amount of debt, and I have a job to get to that is completely inaccessible via public transportation despite being only 15 miles from my house. I have groceries to buy, errands to run, a toddler to transport.
But in reality, I figure I'll find a way to get to work, be it zip cars or rental cars. I'll share Teno's car and Carlos' car when I need to. I already walk and bike whenever possible, so I'll just increase that (hmm maybe lose a few pounds in the process?). And I'll find the fun in it. I have been without a car before, and yes, it can get very annoying after a while, but I'm not desperate, and I'm not without resources if I become desperate.
What is interesting to me is that every extraordinary occurrence of late, every possible adventure like the one tonight, now instantly becomes an idea for writing.
"Oh, I can blog about fixing my car while also tutoring a student prepping for the SAT this Saturday."
"Hey, now I can blog about wanting to have blogged about fixing my car but instead ending up blogging about this funny little tow truck man."
"Ooooooh, no car, what can I do with this turn of events.........?"
In truth, it is beginning to seem as though, while I definitely write about what I think and do, I am now more incentivized to think and do things in different ways in the hope of writing about them. Then, while writing about my thoughts and experiences, I think about new ways to approach different tasks or new ideas for future projects.
It has all gained quite a bit of exciting momentum.
But now I'm home safe, an hour past my normal late night schedule, and destined to do nothing else but sleep for a few hours.
Thanks, Joe the Tow Guy. Thanks.
He was about 5 feet tall, Asian, and he talked like he was from the streets.
"What street you live on?"
"E Street."
"A Street?"
"E Street."
"Oh D street."
"N-"
"Yea, alright, so uh, there's the heater, and you can like mess with it or whatever," and he chuckled a bit. "Cuz you know, I know how it is."
Okay, first of all, E STREET!
Second, now I know where the term Blasian comes from.
And finally, no, I have no idea if you know how it is, because I'm not even sure I'm clear on how it is.
But it was certainly an adventure.
My evening began when I got to work and coolant was leaking from under my car.
I let Carlos know, I bought some water, poured it into my empty coolant reserve tank, started the car, which sounded fine, and planned to drive it home after work.
Carlos texted me that our mechanic said, after hearing about my story, not to drive the car home.
Well, here I was all proud of myself for carrying water in my car, ready to pull off and refill if needed, prepared to blog all about how I am a superwoman who can handle her own car troubles.
Cut to me halfway home with a temperature gauge tipping into the red zone and steam coming from under my hood as I pull to the side of the freeway off ramp. At 1030 at night. In Oakland. With a mini-thug serving as my hero in the strangest, most futuristic tow truck I've ever been in, complete with a pack of Marlboro Reds in the dash and in the cup holder a bottle of some liquid that said in big, bold letters across the back of the label: CONTAINS NO JUICE. Well alrighty then.
Come to find out, my engine is probably shot. Today may very well have been a farewell to my little Volvo. She has been good to me, traveling up and down the California coast, and dutifully pulling herself back together after some rough patches. But I think this may be it. Her heart may have finally given out.
And while I am sad to possibly be saying goodbye to a car that I did really like, for some reason I'm not worried at all about being without a car.
I have no money in savings, I have a painful amount of debt, and I have a job to get to that is completely inaccessible via public transportation despite being only 15 miles from my house. I have groceries to buy, errands to run, a toddler to transport.
But in reality, I figure I'll find a way to get to work, be it zip cars or rental cars. I'll share Teno's car and Carlos' car when I need to. I already walk and bike whenever possible, so I'll just increase that (hmm maybe lose a few pounds in the process?). And I'll find the fun in it. I have been without a car before, and yes, it can get very annoying after a while, but I'm not desperate, and I'm not without resources if I become desperate.
What is interesting to me is that every extraordinary occurrence of late, every possible adventure like the one tonight, now instantly becomes an idea for writing.
"Oh, I can blog about fixing my car while also tutoring a student prepping for the SAT this Saturday."
"Hey, now I can blog about wanting to have blogged about fixing my car but instead ending up blogging about this funny little tow truck man."
"Ooooooh, no car, what can I do with this turn of events.........?"
In truth, it is beginning to seem as though, while I definitely write about what I think and do, I am now more incentivized to think and do things in different ways in the hope of writing about them. Then, while writing about my thoughts and experiences, I think about new ways to approach different tasks or new ideas for future projects.
It has all gained quite a bit of exciting momentum.
But now I'm home safe, an hour past my normal late night schedule, and destined to do nothing else but sleep for a few hours.
Thanks, Joe the Tow Guy. Thanks.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Connections
Just a quick note
because
I got home late tonight
because I was busy making a friend.
Truthfully it happened twice in one night.
First, I was in the kitchen at work and a coworker said, "I really like your sweater; it almost looks Peruvian."
I was so excited: "I got this in Peru! I can't believe you recognized that."
We went on to have a conversation about our individual trips to the Latin American country and our different experiences with Macchu Picchu.
It really is so nice when you realize you have a connection with someone, especially someone you regularly encounter.
Then, on my way out the door tonight, another coworker, our new Spanish tutor, made a comment: "Did I hear you say your daughter's name is Celaya?"
"Yes," I responded.
"Like the town in Mexico?"
"Yes!" Here I was again, astounded, by yet another coworker of mine, that someone got some small part of me.
We ended up walking out to the parking lot together, actually all three of us, discussing language acquisition and bilingual children, public education versus private, travel, and myriad other related topics.
It felt wonderful.
I realized halfway through the conversation that I kept pausing in my additions to the exchange to see if she would break in to steer the conversation toward its end, but she didn't. She continued to inquire and respond to my inquiries, seemingly just as stimulated by the dialogue as I was. We stood there for an hour, making friends.
It is really difficult for me to form lasting relationships. I am often overwhelming and can come across as harshly critical. I am loud and raucous and tend to fill up a room. I am real and bold and sometimes brutally honest. I realize that I am difficult to love, which is why I am so grateful for the currently snoring, tossing, turning man at the back of this house who somehow finds a way to keep doing it day after day.
In addition to this, I find my existing handful of good friends slowly drifting out of reach because we have simply reached different stages of our lives and have lost the connection.
It is funny when I think of the quotes that stay with me through the years, and one in particular I came across in a random Nora Roberts book has continuously returned to the forefront of my thoughts since I first read it: "The risk of wanting more is losing what you have."
And it is true. I want to do more, go further, learn more, create more at work? I will lose time with Celaya. I want to teach, get into a classroom, build my own curriculum, perhaps go on to a PhD program? I will lose the momentum I have built at work. The equation works in every circumstance, as it clearly has with my friendships. I want stronger connections, people who don't let me down without a care, people who share my values and goals, or at least understand them in a comprehensive way. So I risk losing the friends who don't fit this criteria, certainly losing the strong ties we once had.
Let me stop here for a moment and give thanks for my sisters, my mother, and my aunt who remain strong, solid, stable friends in that unconditional family kind of way.
In the end, after midnight now, I merely want to acknowledge how nice it is to connect with people who don't "have" to love you.
And, hooray, tonight I got to do it twice!
because
I got home late tonight
because I was busy making a friend.
Truthfully it happened twice in one night.
First, I was in the kitchen at work and a coworker said, "I really like your sweater; it almost looks Peruvian."
I was so excited: "I got this in Peru! I can't believe you recognized that."
We went on to have a conversation about our individual trips to the Latin American country and our different experiences with Macchu Picchu.
It really is so nice when you realize you have a connection with someone, especially someone you regularly encounter.
Then, on my way out the door tonight, another coworker, our new Spanish tutor, made a comment: "Did I hear you say your daughter's name is Celaya?"
"Yes," I responded.
"Like the town in Mexico?"
"Yes!" Here I was again, astounded, by yet another coworker of mine, that someone got some small part of me.
We ended up walking out to the parking lot together, actually all three of us, discussing language acquisition and bilingual children, public education versus private, travel, and myriad other related topics.
It felt wonderful.
I realized halfway through the conversation that I kept pausing in my additions to the exchange to see if she would break in to steer the conversation toward its end, but she didn't. She continued to inquire and respond to my inquiries, seemingly just as stimulated by the dialogue as I was. We stood there for an hour, making friends.
It is really difficult for me to form lasting relationships. I am often overwhelming and can come across as harshly critical. I am loud and raucous and tend to fill up a room. I am real and bold and sometimes brutally honest. I realize that I am difficult to love, which is why I am so grateful for the currently snoring, tossing, turning man at the back of this house who somehow finds a way to keep doing it day after day.
In addition to this, I find my existing handful of good friends slowly drifting out of reach because we have simply reached different stages of our lives and have lost the connection.
It is funny when I think of the quotes that stay with me through the years, and one in particular I came across in a random Nora Roberts book has continuously returned to the forefront of my thoughts since I first read it: "The risk of wanting more is losing what you have."
And it is true. I want to do more, go further, learn more, create more at work? I will lose time with Celaya. I want to teach, get into a classroom, build my own curriculum, perhaps go on to a PhD program? I will lose the momentum I have built at work. The equation works in every circumstance, as it clearly has with my friendships. I want stronger connections, people who don't let me down without a care, people who share my values and goals, or at least understand them in a comprehensive way. So I risk losing the friends who don't fit this criteria, certainly losing the strong ties we once had.
Let me stop here for a moment and give thanks for my sisters, my mother, and my aunt who remain strong, solid, stable friends in that unconditional family kind of way.
In the end, after midnight now, I merely want to acknowledge how nice it is to connect with people who don't "have" to love you.
And, hooray, tonight I got to do it twice!
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Crazy Busy
Apparently, in a poll of 2,000 women conducted by Parents magazine, this is the second most common term used when asked to describe their lives in one word.
Crazy busy.
When I read this data, I smiled to myself. I use the same expression frequently when referring to my life.
But the article was on stress, specifically that of mothers.
And I thought, "But I'm not stressed... Am I?"
Of course, being the highly over analytical person that I am, I then had to review all aspects of my existence: times of day, days of the week, weekends, weeks, months. What did my big picture look like? Was I stressed?
Well, let's review.
From one angle, I wake up, make and have breakfast, clean a bit, get myself ready to leave the house, get my wriggly, giggly, running, twisting, turning daughter ready to leave the house, go for a walk/bike ride/errand running excursion, come home, get my daughter down for a nap, get dinner started, have lunch when Celaya wakes up, clean up, then either leave for work or take Celaya out again for another excursion, get ready for and have dinner, clean up, get Celaya in the bath, read her books, put her down, finally take a shower, pay some bills, watch some TV or read a bit, and go to bed.
Every single day is some slightly altered version of the above schedule. Crazy busy, right?
From another angle, on the same day, I lounge around in bed for at least a half hour while Celaya has her bottle, and I drink the nice gigantic mug of coffee my husband has brought me, setting it down with a deliciously aromatic "clink" on the glass nightstand. I enjoy a fashion magazine or a well written political article while Celaya watches videos of herself on my phone. The breakfast process takes about an hour to an hour and a half because Celaya "helps" with eggs, or bagels, or oatmeal, "helps" unload the dishwasher, insists on coloring for a few minutes, and we FaceTime with Agua (Grandma) for a few minutes. Our walks and bike rides are generally stretched out to twice the time they would be because we stop to check out tractors or crunch fallen leaves. During Celaya's nap I usually get to sit (sometimes lay) down and catch up on shows or reading. At work I almost always have a free hour to read or update my academic skills. After work or on nights at home I also make sure I have time for myself, and time for my husband. And on nights at home, I enjoy a nice full glass of a really good wine with dinner.
From the outside, I'm sure to many my life does look like it must be stressful, but from the inside I only see my life as full, full in a way that it never had been until the arrival of my daughter.
For the most part I think that "stress" is an issue of proper perspective. I do think that you can decide to be stressed or not, which brings me to the other inner smile I found myself with while reading this article: most of the tips for managing stress I have already been following.
Delegate, moms. You don't have to, nor should you, do it all yourself.
I recently managed to get my brother to agree to being responsible for his own night of dinner each week. Now I have my husband in charge one night, and my brother another. Yay me!
Breathe. Unless it is literally a fire, you probably don't have to run, leap, or jump at whatever issue is occurring this moment.
My family has learned that if you leave a message, I'll call you back. My husband and brother know that I have my little routine of things that I do for myself, whether it be a bubble bath or writing my blog, that I will take care of before doing whatever it is they want to do. Even my daughter now will wake up in the morning or from her nap and say "I'm coming!" because that's what she is used to hearing me say as I finish up whatever it is I am working on/doing/waking up from and making my way to her.
And finally, organize a life that works for you.
You can see clearly from my schedule above that my life is routine. Very routine. Some may say rigid. But again, it is a matter of perspective. I love my routine, it makes my household feel like a well oiled machine, it keeps our little family always on the same page even when days go by on which we barely see each other.
And honestly, the only time I do get stressed is when my routine is messed with. And then I get terribly stressed. From here I get the moniker "neurotic" by those who know me well. Ah well, and here you were thinking I was perfect.
In the end, I suppose that what is true of my toddler is also true of me: I need predictability.
So many aspects of life are unpredictable, there are so many surprises, both welcome and not so welcome, that knowing what the rough outline of each day looks like on my own road of life gives me the ability to take speed bumps and head on collisions more in stride.
In short, predictability enables me to say "No. I'm not stressed."
Crazy busy? Most of the time, not really. Just full.
Crazy busy.
When I read this data, I smiled to myself. I use the same expression frequently when referring to my life.
But the article was on stress, specifically that of mothers.
And I thought, "But I'm not stressed... Am I?"
Of course, being the highly over analytical person that I am, I then had to review all aspects of my existence: times of day, days of the week, weekends, weeks, months. What did my big picture look like? Was I stressed?
Well, let's review.
From one angle, I wake up, make and have breakfast, clean a bit, get myself ready to leave the house, get my wriggly, giggly, running, twisting, turning daughter ready to leave the house, go for a walk/bike ride/errand running excursion, come home, get my daughter down for a nap, get dinner started, have lunch when Celaya wakes up, clean up, then either leave for work or take Celaya out again for another excursion, get ready for and have dinner, clean up, get Celaya in the bath, read her books, put her down, finally take a shower, pay some bills, watch some TV or read a bit, and go to bed.
Every single day is some slightly altered version of the above schedule. Crazy busy, right?
From another angle, on the same day, I lounge around in bed for at least a half hour while Celaya has her bottle, and I drink the nice gigantic mug of coffee my husband has brought me, setting it down with a deliciously aromatic "clink" on the glass nightstand. I enjoy a fashion magazine or a well written political article while Celaya watches videos of herself on my phone. The breakfast process takes about an hour to an hour and a half because Celaya "helps" with eggs, or bagels, or oatmeal, "helps" unload the dishwasher, insists on coloring for a few minutes, and we FaceTime with Agua (Grandma) for a few minutes. Our walks and bike rides are generally stretched out to twice the time they would be because we stop to check out tractors or crunch fallen leaves. During Celaya's nap I usually get to sit (sometimes lay) down and catch up on shows or reading. At work I almost always have a free hour to read or update my academic skills. After work or on nights at home I also make sure I have time for myself, and time for my husband. And on nights at home, I enjoy a nice full glass of a really good wine with dinner.
From the outside, I'm sure to many my life does look like it must be stressful, but from the inside I only see my life as full, full in a way that it never had been until the arrival of my daughter.
For the most part I think that "stress" is an issue of proper perspective. I do think that you can decide to be stressed or not, which brings me to the other inner smile I found myself with while reading this article: most of the tips for managing stress I have already been following.
Delegate, moms. You don't have to, nor should you, do it all yourself.
I recently managed to get my brother to agree to being responsible for his own night of dinner each week. Now I have my husband in charge one night, and my brother another. Yay me!
Breathe. Unless it is literally a fire, you probably don't have to run, leap, or jump at whatever issue is occurring this moment.
My family has learned that if you leave a message, I'll call you back. My husband and brother know that I have my little routine of things that I do for myself, whether it be a bubble bath or writing my blog, that I will take care of before doing whatever it is they want to do. Even my daughter now will wake up in the morning or from her nap and say "I'm coming!" because that's what she is used to hearing me say as I finish up whatever it is I am working on/doing/waking up from and making my way to her.
And finally, organize a life that works for you.
You can see clearly from my schedule above that my life is routine. Very routine. Some may say rigid. But again, it is a matter of perspective. I love my routine, it makes my household feel like a well oiled machine, it keeps our little family always on the same page even when days go by on which we barely see each other.
And honestly, the only time I do get stressed is when my routine is messed with. And then I get terribly stressed. From here I get the moniker "neurotic" by those who know me well. Ah well, and here you were thinking I was perfect.
In the end, I suppose that what is true of my toddler is also true of me: I need predictability.
So many aspects of life are unpredictable, there are so many surprises, both welcome and not so welcome, that knowing what the rough outline of each day looks like on my own road of life gives me the ability to take speed bumps and head on collisions more in stride.
In short, predictability enables me to say "No. I'm not stressed."
Crazy busy? Most of the time, not really. Just full.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Liar Liar
I know. I said I was going to write a little bit every day, it's been three days since I started writing, and I already missed a day.
But....
In my defense, I was experimenting with the other intentions I laid out in my first post. I actually sat down and talked to my husband. I gave him my undivided attention, with no television on, no magazine or stack of bills on my lap, no phone in sight. I looked into his eyes and listened to his random stories of the week, his views on the people and places he encounters in all his mini adventures at work, and all the little stuff I usually rush him through or past so I can get to the next to-do on my list.
Spend time with husband: check.
At first, it was actually quite difficult. Really? Difficult to listen to the man you love and have dedicated the rest of your life to? Yes. Difficult to just sit, just be, just listen.
I had this flash of all of the fictional and nonfictional accounts of what it is like to be a telepath, how at first it sounds like a flood of voices attacking you all at once.
In the beginning, I was sitting, with my glass of wine, fresh from my bath and relaxed, sitting on my bed, and Carlos came in with his glass of wine and started talking.
The voices in my head would not shut up. What I had to do tomorrow, what I still had to do tonight, is my dad coming over for dinner on Sunday, this article I'm in the middle of in Parents magazine is interesting because..., and on and on.
I had to look, right into his eyes, listen, only to his voice, and enjoy the moment. I had to push all the other noise out of my head and savor the sound of my husband's voice, appreciate the expression changes on his face as his passions rise and fall over a particular situation at work or an experience with our daughter.
It worked. We visited, we laughed, we had serious discussions, we had light banter.
At one point my brother came in with the announcement that a cat had climbed five flights of stairs, found his way through a locked door and to Teno's window in an attempt to adopt him. But that's a story for another night.
The point of this apology for not writing last night is that I don't apologize. For a rare change of pace, I put my husband above all else, above myself, above my writing, above all the mundane tasks of my days and nights. I fell asleep happy, sated, and not sorry for a moment that I missed a night of writing.
But....
In my defense, I was experimenting with the other intentions I laid out in my first post. I actually sat down and talked to my husband. I gave him my undivided attention, with no television on, no magazine or stack of bills on my lap, no phone in sight. I looked into his eyes and listened to his random stories of the week, his views on the people and places he encounters in all his mini adventures at work, and all the little stuff I usually rush him through or past so I can get to the next to-do on my list.
Spend time with husband: check.
At first, it was actually quite difficult. Really? Difficult to listen to the man you love and have dedicated the rest of your life to? Yes. Difficult to just sit, just be, just listen.
I had this flash of all of the fictional and nonfictional accounts of what it is like to be a telepath, how at first it sounds like a flood of voices attacking you all at once.
In the beginning, I was sitting, with my glass of wine, fresh from my bath and relaxed, sitting on my bed, and Carlos came in with his glass of wine and started talking.
The voices in my head would not shut up. What I had to do tomorrow, what I still had to do tonight, is my dad coming over for dinner on Sunday, this article I'm in the middle of in Parents magazine is interesting because..., and on and on.
I had to look, right into his eyes, listen, only to his voice, and enjoy the moment. I had to push all the other noise out of my head and savor the sound of my husband's voice, appreciate the expression changes on his face as his passions rise and fall over a particular situation at work or an experience with our daughter.
It worked. We visited, we laughed, we had serious discussions, we had light banter.
At one point my brother came in with the announcement that a cat had climbed five flights of stairs, found his way through a locked door and to Teno's window in an attempt to adopt him. But that's a story for another night.
The point of this apology for not writing last night is that I don't apologize. For a rare change of pace, I put my husband above all else, above myself, above my writing, above all the mundane tasks of my days and nights. I fell asleep happy, sated, and not sorry for a moment that I missed a night of writing.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
About My Title
It's wishful thinking.
No.
Maybe more than that.
I am actively trying to make this title a reality.
If I'm honest, and I'm really trying to be, I am Mama Woman Wife. And I know that's so wrong. I have to take care of myself first. My marriage has to be strong and well cared for if I hope for it to last the rest of our lives. And with those two things firmly established, I can rest (mostly) assured that my daughter will have a solid foundation and a good mother.
But... But... But.
But my child is demanding. (Yes, I know this is because I let her be, because, in fact, I encourage her to be.)
And life is demanding. (Yes, I am aware that I like my life busy and full of demands.)
And if I don't put myself first I at least have to put myself second! (Yes, I know, my poor husband.)
Couldn't I just imagine that I really am a superwoman, and I really do have superpowers, and I really can do it all? Give one hundred percent to it all?
No?
No.
I realize that we all only have one hundred percent, and that we choose each day how to divide that pie, who or what gets the biggest piece each day, and since my daughter has been born, on almost every single day, she has gotten the biggest piece. And on the days when it hasn't been her receiving the gigantic, healthy portion of Shanna's attention pie, it has been those rare occasions when I have worked an eight or ten hour teaching day.
It is only now hitting me that in the nineteen months since Celaya has been born that my husband hasn't gotten the largest portion of attention pie on any single day.
When I was in college, I remember coming to the realization that I had to make my real life match my stated priorities. School is so important? Then spend more time doing schoolwork. Family is so important? Then make those extra phone calls, take those extra trips to visit, watch those stupid housewife reality shows so you can laugh about them with your sister.
Well, here it is knocking me down again. Granted, there likely won't be many, if any, entire days in the near future when I can simply put everything to the side and give my husband my undivided attention, but there are evenings, there are nap times, there are hours, there are moments, when I know I could do better. I know I could look him in the eye when he's telling me a story about his day, instead of paying a bill, loading the dishwasher, or checking Facebook. I certainly make sure I get my time.
Now, I just have to certainly make sure he gets my time too. He deserves it. He deserves to come second in my big picture. And sometimes, in the small picture, he deserves to come first.
Woman. Wife. Mother.
No.
Maybe more than that.
I am actively trying to make this title a reality.
If I'm honest, and I'm really trying to be, I am Mama Woman Wife. And I know that's so wrong. I have to take care of myself first. My marriage has to be strong and well cared for if I hope for it to last the rest of our lives. And with those two things firmly established, I can rest (mostly) assured that my daughter will have a solid foundation and a good mother.
But... But... But.
But my child is demanding. (Yes, I know this is because I let her be, because, in fact, I encourage her to be.)
And life is demanding. (Yes, I am aware that I like my life busy and full of demands.)
And if I don't put myself first I at least have to put myself second! (Yes, I know, my poor husband.)
Couldn't I just imagine that I really am a superwoman, and I really do have superpowers, and I really can do it all? Give one hundred percent to it all?
No?
No.
I realize that we all only have one hundred percent, and that we choose each day how to divide that pie, who or what gets the biggest piece each day, and since my daughter has been born, on almost every single day, she has gotten the biggest piece. And on the days when it hasn't been her receiving the gigantic, healthy portion of Shanna's attention pie, it has been those rare occasions when I have worked an eight or ten hour teaching day.
It is only now hitting me that in the nineteen months since Celaya has been born that my husband hasn't gotten the largest portion of attention pie on any single day.
When I was in college, I remember coming to the realization that I had to make my real life match my stated priorities. School is so important? Then spend more time doing schoolwork. Family is so important? Then make those extra phone calls, take those extra trips to visit, watch those stupid housewife reality shows so you can laugh about them with your sister.
Well, here it is knocking me down again. Granted, there likely won't be many, if any, entire days in the near future when I can simply put everything to the side and give my husband my undivided attention, but there are evenings, there are nap times, there are hours, there are moments, when I know I could do better. I know I could look him in the eye when he's telling me a story about his day, instead of paying a bill, loading the dishwasher, or checking Facebook. I certainly make sure I get my time.
Now, I just have to certainly make sure he gets my time too. He deserves it. He deserves to come second in my big picture. And sometimes, in the small picture, he deserves to come first.
Woman. Wife. Mother.
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