Snippets from Suburbia: Saturday Soccer & The Jesus Mug

**The second entry in the suburban snippets series, the factional (combination of fact and fiction) story of raising kids, marriage, suburbia, and parenthood. The series where we are reduced down to broad generalities--mother, father, eldest, youngest, cat and dog because that is, after all, what we become, at least to some extent. Isn’t it? 

Oh shit, the mother jumps out of bed. Maybe jumps is too strong a word, stumbles may be more accurate. “Let’s go,” she yells at the kids huddled together on the couch in various levels of dress as she enters the living room.The dog looks up at her for a moment, disinterested, and goes back to licking herself.

Seeking Balance: A Parenting Myth

GUEST POST from Kelly at Beer and Junk. Follow her on Facebook or Twitter.


Author’s Note: This post originally Appeared in the Emmetsburg Democrat and Reporter in March of 2014. We no longer have an 8 month old son with a saturated diaper. We have an almost 3 year old son who refuses to wear underwear and craps on the floor. My apologies for the confusion.


The most recent issue of Health magazine arrived in my mailbox last week, with the headline: Alison Sweeney and Her Super Balanced Life! Allison Sweeny is an actress, host of The Biggest Loser and star of the soap opera, Days of Our Lives. She also has two children, a husband who works full time as a state patrolman and has written two novels, one of which was written in half hour increments while her children did their homework.


I have a hard time believing that Alison Sweeney’s life is super balanced. I’m guessing that it took a lot of make-up, forgiving lighting and some very creative journalism to make it appear that way for this particular article. And I would put money on the fact that when the interview was over, there were five text messages from her son who forgot his homework in the car, two missed calls from her agent regarding a contract change, and one voice mail from her husband saying that an accident on the 101 was going to keep him at the office late and could she possibly pick up the kids from soccer.


Alison Sweeney, Hollywood actress, gets paid to tell you all about her super balanced life, but let’s pretend for a minute that Alison Sweeney is your best friend. What Alison Sweeney, BFF, would tell you- when the cameras are off and the two of you are sitting in a quiet café drinking lattes… no scratch that- when the two of you are on the phone three states apart respectively chugging sugar free Redbull and reheated coffee while simultaneously putting away groceries, feeding the dog, and translating algebra homework- is that her life is bat crap crazy.


And that is ok. I’m convinced that seeking balance has simply become another way of chasing perfectionism. We continue to believe that if we could only make our lives more balanced in the multitude of ways thrown at us in the media- Less Caffeine! More Yoga! Work Less, Play More! Declutter! Detox! Destress!– we would be happy. “Balance” may have become a popular buzzword, but it is incredibly over rated.


My life is not simply unbalanced, it is saturated. Occasionally it is saturated like my eight month old son’s diaper, when I have to realize that I simply cannot cram one more thing into my schedule, no matter how economically fantastic it may be to make homemade laundry detergent. Most often though,it is saturated like the perfect color of burnt orange paint on the living room walls of our first home; a color that both took over the room and yet somehow made all of its lovely details- the newly refinished hardwood floors, coved ceilings, and intricate woodwork- stand out in contrast. Balance simply can’t compare to the sense of accomplishment that rises up out of chaos, the creativity found hiding among the mess, and the sheer joy of doing everything you love, all at once.


And now if you will excuse me I need to run to the store, we seem to be out of baby formula and Red Bull.

The Night Sky

This week, as I walked the dog through my suburban neighborhood, I gazed up into the night sky to what seemed like an infinite number of stars spread out in haphazard fashion. It was as if someone took a large container, shook it, and twirled around and around peppering the heavens with glittering, wondrous luminosity. I imagined Jackson Pollock filling his paintbrush with yellow stars, and frenetically splattering--the sky his empty canvas. I was delighted at first. I recalled moments of first love, wet grass under tippy toes, on a humid July night. I had glanced up into the same night sky filled with hope and longing for the future, staring into the eyes of a would-be soul mate who would never play such a role.

I Am Not The Person I Thought I Would Be. Are You?

I am standing in my kitchen wiping the counter tops when the first wave hits. It is a moment of sheer panic, frightening in its ability to stop me. The crippling seconds are a monster I have only recently discovered. Piles of papers glare at me from underneath the microwave, the broken dishwasher lies dormant beckoning me to call a plumber and have it fixed, the linoleum bathroom floor is peeling in a conspicuous spot directly by the door. I cannot hide it in a closet or throw it in a drawer as I do with so many other things lately.

"Fix me," the house screams as I break out into a cold sweat. I cannot move, but if I could I would brush every last bit of paper into the trash without thought, pound on the dishwasher with a sledge hammer or a meat mallet (a more likely find), and tear up the bathroom floor. My immobility is a blessing then, at least I can't ruin the house filled with flaws and reminders of my inability to be the adult that I had always hoped I would be. 

And there it is, the truth, the confession, one I am not even sure I was aware of: I am NOT who I wanted to be. I am the woman in the kitchen who has forgotten how to care for herself. I am the woman who never built a foundation so now I float in the puffy clouds, which while beautiful, actually have the potential to suffocate me. After attempting to sit down, I begin the list in my head. Having always been a list maker this seems both reasonable and comforting to me. Who am I? I need to answer that question before I can figure out how to become who I want to be. 

I am a 41 year old mother of four. I am an introverted 41 year old mother of four with few friends. I am a 41 year old cashier at a grocery store with a Masters Degree. I am a 41 year old woman with varicose veins, a lazy eye and a sour disposition. I have no career. I have never built that. I have no idea what I'm doing. I am angry. I am sad. I am disappointed. The list is made. I am all these things. But, I find myself wondering, am I only these things? 

I begin the list again. The list must be revised, I realize, because it is not entirely right. Things are missing. 

I am a 41 year old mother of four who was abandoned by her parents and now needs to be with her children as much as possible. I am a 41 year old mother of four who works at a grocery store because it allows me to spend the days with my kids. I am a 41 year old mother of four who is writing a book and is teaching her children to follow their dreams even when life has told them they are too old, or too impractical. I am a 41 year old woman with a family I love and a house with a peeling bathroom floor and other defects. It matches me in its imperfection, but it is comfortable and big enough and it is home. It is a place where memories are made and I am thankful.  

I am a fighter for the underdog, the misfit, the truth (even when it hurts) teller, the introvert who sometimes enjoys the company of others.  I am a 41 year old with veins in legs that work and are strong, and eyes that while lazy are able to watch my children change from day to day. I am a 41 year old woman who has lived 11 years longer than the mother, my mother, who didn't get this far. The mother who never had a house with flaws, or a marriage that she worked hard on, or children who counted on her, and knew her. The mother who could never truly be a mother because she succumbed to an addiction she couldn't fight. 

I am so many things I realize as I mentally refine my list. Fine, I am NOT the person I thought I would be. But maybe that's okay. Maybe it's time to stop comparing and being envious. Maybe it's time to embrace the life I have, instead of the life I thought that I was supposed to. No, I am NOT the person I thought I would be. Are any of us? Does life even allow for that? I am NOT that person. Instead, I am this one. I am a flawed, imperfect dreamer. I am all the things that I need to be. Maybe you are too. 

FU, SKINNY JEANS! YOU’RE OUT.

They were everywhere for what felt like an eternity. They clothed the cool and fashionable mom at school drop off, the one who always seemed so together and had the impossible measurements of a Barbie doll. They looked equally as fabulous on the twenty-something who helped you pick them out, promising you’d be able to pull them off, too. She was wrong.

storytime

Whenever I go to the library there she is….the librarian. No, not the one for adults--she leaves you alone and won’t say a word until needed. I’m talking about the childrens’ librarian. I enter and she waves. I see the glimmer in her eye. I know that she is dying to guide my son to the latest Sci Fi, my daughter to a great new tween book about some talking animal, and the two little ones to the superhero section.

Living the Life My Mother Once Did

I remember the smell of smoke in our living room. My father sat on the velvet green couch, a Lucky burning in the ashtray beside his tumbler of scotch. He held one eye on the sports section of the paper, and the other on the nightly news. My mother often came in, though she rarely joined him. The living room, with it’s intricately beaded throw pillows, belonged to him. 

The Little Girl Who Couldn't Ride

And the little girl believes in the warmth of the sun as she whispers and sings in a raspy and broken voice. The words, those she thinks to be correct, are all wrong. She sings anyway. Her notes rise against the wind, carried high up and away like a balloon she remembered from another summer. She had watched it with wonder until she’d realized what she’d lost, and then she cried until her father promised her a new one.

The Pretty Girl

“Am I pretty?” she asked as she stared into the full-length closet mirror. A box of clothes waiting to be unpacked or shipped off to Goodwill, another bit of clutter from her childhood, dominated the closet. Later, she will fall asleep on the shirts and pants they have all outgrown. 

5 Consideratons When Preparing for Your Digital Girls’ Night

I have several friends who live out of state. I rarely see them and our friendships, which used to be so intimate, have grown distant. While we all want to stay in touch, life often prevents us from doing so minus the texts and Facebook status updates we trade—and even those are less frequent then we’d like. Our friendships seem reduced to 100-word impersonal musings and memes about husbands, kids and milestones and/or the annual girls’ night or weekend.

Five Senses: A Short Work of Fiction

She died on a Tuesday, before her nail appointment, but after electrolysis. Karen remembered the way the homeless man shuffled his feet, one of his shoes cut in two. He’d pieced them together with what looked like a metal hanger. She thought him quiet clever, but didn’t tell him so. The man smelled of lemons and piss. The lemons were from her childhood, but the piss belonged to him.

Ghosts

As I walk through my home, the one I make with my children, there are ghosts everywhere--reminders of the person I used to be. My grandmother's dining room table, bought when I was in eighth grade, just before Christmas, was inherited after her death. The children use it to color pictures and draw worlds culled from their imaginations. The chairs, already reupholstered once, wear the various stains a life with children dictates, and the wood is wearing down and uneven. 

8,614 Reasons Mom Never Goes The F*ck To Bed

The kitchen clock is the only one I see as I deposit more ice cubes into my glass. The big hand is on the outfield, while the little one rests by the bleachers. I attempt to calculate, but my mind refuses. Annoyed, I head to the living room to find the easy to read digital numbers on the cable box.

7 Movie Quotes From The 1980's That Really Got Me...and Still Do

As I approach mid-life and my own son gets closer to his high school years, I often find myself thinking back and recalling some of the feelings I had during my teen years. I wonder how I will pass along advice, wisdom and guidance when he needs these things. In an effort to bridge the age gap I recently rewatched a few of the movies I grew up with in the 1980’s and realized, minus the cell phones and social media, little has changed in the teenage realm. I remembered quoting the really great lines from these iconic movies of my youth in the hallways between classes, or while I talked with friends over cold, barely-edible cafeteria pizza.

8 Halloween Costumes Any Crazy Mother Can MacGyver

I love Halloween. My two favorite things about it are scary movies and dressing up. However, since I've had kids it seems I spend so much time helping them  pick costumes, apply makeup and become the person or thing they choose, on the night of make believe, I have forgotten my love of dress up. 

A costume from 5th grade. Yes, that's a poodle on my skirt. 

1,354 Things You Find in the Guts of a Mother Purse

With Halloween fast approaching I am all about gross and scary, and there is nothing more disgusting and frightening than the innards of a mother purse. If you are like me, you won't change out purses for occasions (as our grandmothers used to). 

Check out my original up on The Mid today...Raising a Shy Son Helped Me Deal With My Own Shyness

Oh, and the son who I hoped would hug and cuddle with everyone was slow to warm, unwilling to hug, just like me. From the millions of traits he could have inherited from his mother, he got this one.

For more come check out the rest of my original here:

Raising a Shy Son Helped Me Deal With My Own Shyness