Playing Well With Others Is Not My Forte.

The sun is shining in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, which means the park is beckoning not only to my children but also to a large majority of the children in the area. Park days are full of sunshine, sunscreen, dirt coated children and moms, a lot of moms. Moms who love nothing more than planning play dates, enabling them to spend the day chatting with each other while their children run wild with little supervision.  I am not one of these mothers.

            The past week has been full of spontaneous park visits due to a string of pleasant days. It was during one of these spontaneous trips to the park with Lily-Anne that I ran across one such group of mothers. As I followed Lily from one contraption to another, I watched this group of mothers sit chatting with each other, their children either abusing the playground equipment and the other smaller children in the area by barreling along carelessly or disappearing from sight completely. My disdain took flight, and I was reminded of why I am, by choice, somewhat of a loner, or at least socially selective.

           

            When I express my frustration at these situations to my husband he always repeats the same line, “Honey, you do not play well with others.” Humorous, yet true. I was never one to like partner or group work when in school. As a teacher, I despised assigning group work despite my administration’s insistence on doing so. I have never been one to “be a part of the crowd.” I never had an overwhelming desire to join a sorority, be a team player (despite playing basketball), or jump on one of the numerous bandwagons the public so enthusiastically embraces. I have never wanted to be part of the moms club.

I blame my apathy on a variety of personality quirks. I am somewhat of a control freak. I like things done in a certain way in a certain amount of time. I have very little patience for bullshit. I have very little patience for drama. As I once told my husband, "I have enough drama of my own, I do not need other people’s drama on top of it.” I like intellectual, grounded, and honest individuals, which excludes a whole host of mothers who want to do nothing more than rave about the joys, and ignore the stresses, of motherhood and marriage.

  Fitting in is simply not a part of my nature. Rather I choose to surround myself with a small group of individuals, individuals who are real and honest. Individuals who do not ask me to apologize for who I am, or rather, who I am not.

Forever A Loser

Today, I realized that I will forever be a loser in my daughter’s eyes. One day she will boldly exclaim, “LOSER” while forming her fingers in the shape of an L in front of her forehead, as I frequently did to my father as a teenager. Or she might adopt her father’s saying, “L for LOVE” meaning LOSER. And though she will be joking, there will be truth behind her words.

            On Saturday, Lucy unexpectedly declared that she wanted to spend the night at her Mi Ma and Pop Pop’s house (my parents). On Sunday, she requested permission to stay until today, Tuesday. At first, I felt a deep longing to keep her by my side. She had barely been gone for two hours and I missed her ceaseless chatter and never ending questions. As the quiet began to settle in I felt less sad, though I experienced the same nagging feeling I do when something is missing but I can’t wrap my brain around what is missing. That nagging feeling followed me both day and night during Lucy’s absence.

            However, as Lucy reported the fun she was having, the endless crafts, and three hours of building a fairy house; I was, admittedly, glad it was my mother spending hours of quality kid time with her and not me. My sense of relief was followed by an extreme sense of guilt.

            I am not a mother who enjoys endless crafts and tea parties. I do crafts and participate in tea parties because I feel it is my duty to do so. However, they are, quite frankly torture. I can only play out the same five minute scenario three or four times, a max of fifteen to twenty minutes, before I am crawling out of my own skin. My child’s possession of an extremely active imagination brings me joy. Having to participate in her imagination gives me a headache. I often say that my inner child must be dead because being 6 is not any fun. The torture I feel when participating in imaginary scenarios with my children fills me with the same sense of guilt I experienced this weekend when relief washed over me.

            My guilt, therefore, drove me to think of creative ways to interact with Lucy upon her return home. While out and about, I purchased a chalk paint kit, thinking of Lucy’s love of art and the outdoors. I imagined us painting unicorns on our driveway, her smiling, me feeling happy and content. I was obviously delusional.

            Upon her arrival home today, I surprised Lucy with the chalk paint. She looked at it, tried it once, did not receive the results she expected, and decided riding her scooter was far more enjoyable. I was upset. No, I was pissed. And then the realization that I am and always will be a loser hit me. I teared up then I came to peace with reality.

            When I say I am a loser, I mean I cannot win. When I try and surprise Lucy with things like chalk paint, she finds them “boring” or they do not meet her approval. However, if I cease to try because of Lucy’s lack of interest, she throws my frustration back in my face and claims I do not spend time with her; I never play with her; I love her sister more. The truth is that no matter how hard I try, no matter how much time I spend with Lucy, she always wants different or more.

            Therefore, this loser pledges to do her best, knowing that though I may ultimately lose, I will still hold out hope that I may yet experience a victory or two.

My Pink Fuzzy Robe

            I have a pink fuzzy robe. A pink fuzzy robe that fits me like a glove.

 My pink fuzzy robe is permanently stained around the sleeves from throwing wood in the wood stove, from wiping snotty noses and yogurt covered faces. The sleeves are stained from the pellet dust that grinds itself in as I am hauling forty-pound bags. They are stained from dirty laundry, paint, pencils, and pastels. My robe proudly displays a hole, created either by the ash or the heat from the wood stove at the height of winter’s cold. It is so worn that “clean” has become a relative term. But my pink fuzzy robe is my staple, my warmth, and my comfort.

            I cannot get up in the morning, get out of the shower, or enter my house without donning my robe, whether -30 or 60, my robe is the first thing I grab. Though I wear my robe inside the house regularly, I have been known to wander outside, still securely wrapped in it’s warmth, to watch the girls go sledding, to collect the mail, to chat with a passing neighbor or friend, or simply to enjoy a cup of coffee in the sun, on my front porch. I often joke that passing cars must think I am a little “touched”. They must believe that I never get dressed, when in reality I simply slip my robe over my clothing.

            Living in a place that sees 6 months of winter, a robe comes in handy simply for warmth.  Living in a farmhouse built in 1876 with extensive drafts necessitates the ownership of a robe. Stepping out of a hot shower in the middle of winter, I grab my robe so as not to let the shower’s warmth seep from my skin. On a cold and rainy day, like today, my robe blocks out the dampness and the cold. It creates a cocoon of warmth.

            I feel naked without my robe. I have realized that throughout the years it has become more to me than merely a piece of clothing that keeps out the drafts. It’s stains, holes, and wear tell a story. It signifies “home”. A place where I do not need to put up pretenses; pretend to be shiny, pretty, or happy. I can relax and be my imperfect pink fuzzy self.

Writer’s Block and Brain Farts

I have this little blog. A blog with a limited, though somewhat loyal set of readers. I started my blog as a means to share funny stories from the past and present, frustrations, and opinions. But mostly I started it to have a creative outlet for the crap, the mud that floats around in this pin-sized head on a daily basis. I had originally intended on posting a piece a week. A reasonable goal. And yet, the reality is that my postings are rare and can take months on end. The crap is still spinning around inside my head, but instead of producing solid material on a weekly basis my brain merely creates flatulence.  Instead, of spinning works of creative art, I sit staring at my computer wondering what in my day full of poopy diapers, potty talk, and ponies is interesting and amusing enough to not only write about but to also want to read about. In my search for subjects, I feel nothing but a vacuous hole.  I read other individual blogs and my frustration level rises, as I see others creating masterpieces about a cute look from their kid or a wacky neighbor who walks around in a pink bathrobe inside and outside of her house all day (oh, wait that’s me).  My frustration is compounded by the fact that many of these bloggers are not just mothers, and wives, but mothers and wives working outside of the home; some are juggling two or three different jobs. I juggle plenty in a day, but I am home, often on my computer or next to it, and still my pint-sized noggin refuses to produce more than a whiff or two of air. So what might be the point of this posting? I just gave myself a subject.

My Christmas Card Conundrum

 

For the past two years, my Christmas cards, which I used to have addressed, stamped, and mailed, well before Christmas, have been pushed so far back that they have morphed into New Year’s cards. As I sat today addressing and stuffing this year’s cards into envelopes, I began to ask myself why I even bother with cards anymore, considering their late timing, ultimate fate, and communication avenues such as Facebook.

                It seems that each year, the number of Christmas/New Year’s cards that arrive in my own mailbox dwindle considerably. In past years, my mailbox would be overflowing each day with greetings from afar from Thanksgiving until after the New Year. The wall where I hang them ran out of space, forcing me to stuff three or four cards a piece under each clothespin fastening the cards to the wall. However, the past two or three years have seen my clothespins become increasingly light and the time in which cards arrive become increasingly shorter. Today, I have only one or two clothespins that hold more than one card, a significant change from years past.  It seems that, like me, others have also started to question their motivation for sending cards.

                It is not surprising, in some respects, that friends and family have stopped the annual ritual of sending out Christmas/New Year’s cards. It is not only an expensive endeavor, with the cost of postage added onto the cost of the cards themselves, but also a time consuming endeavor, especially if personalized messages or letters are attached. It can be difficult to justify this cost when the end result of most cards is the recycling bin, even if hung or hoarded for several weeks before tossing them in said bin. Furthermore, Facebook, Facetime, Twitter and the like, allow daily long distance contact and communication with friends and family. Technology that has become so popular, you are archaic should you not utilize it. Today, I receive daily updates on my friends lives, however brief, and have the opportunity to not only watch their children grow, but share all those “first” events that I would miss being 3000 miles away from a good chunk of them, and ten hours away from the other chunk. I have already seen most of the Christmas card pictures before I receive them. In fact, the picture I am sending this year will have been seen by the majority of my family and friends due to Facebook.

                Why then do I continue to send cards out each year? The answer is surprisingly simple. I not only enjoy sending out cards and find it important to reach out to friends and family in a much more personalized manner than the internet, but I also enjoy receiving them. 

                Last year, I began my Christmas/New Year’s card by explaining the excitement that surrounds capturing the perfect Christmas card picture. I outlined in detail the craziness that ensues, as well as my family’s reaction to my somewhat obsessive behavior. Though I drive myself, and them, crazy, it has become somewhat of a fun and funny ritual in my house; me trying to capture the girls, and sometimes my very pessimistic husband, at the perfect moment, in the perfect pose, while they do everything in their power to photo bomb and sabotage my efforts. When I finally do capture that perfect photo, I feel somewhat triumphant and excessively pleased.  I enjoy the hours of searching online for the perfect template in which to place my perfect photo, and smile with delight when the two mesh into a piece of harmonious color and form. I further get excited at the thought of friends and family opening my masterpiece and delighted when I think of the “ooohhhing” and “aaaahhhing” that must surely result.

                I do a considerable amount of “ooohhhing” and “aaahhhing” myself, upon the receipt of cards from afar. Each Thanksgiving, I anxiously await the arrival of the first Christmas card. Trudging through the snow to our mailbox, I look forward to a stack of envelopes heavy with cards, instead of bills or junk mail. Opening cards is more than a daily task. It is a ritual. I first examine the return address. Who the card is coming from, or where the card is coming from, should it be void of a name.  Then with care and joy, I crack open each envelope waiting to find a surprise inside. Whether a picture, letter, or simply a signed card, I find holding those pieces of paper in my hand highly personal. I can imagine my friends or family members checking their lists, finding my name, and wondering how I am doing, as I do them, each time I address a card.  Unlike interactions across the internet, they, like me, have held that very card in their hand and taken the time and energy to send it. They have put time, thought, and love into the cards they send.

                The arrival of the New Year, instead of bringing an exciting new beginning, often enters my life with a sense of disappointment, as the cards become less frequent, the Christmas decorations come down, and life returns to its pre-Christmas routine. Personalized mail is almost non-existent, the bills and junk return and I am once again forced to communicate through Facebook. I realize that I not only miss those cards, those small tokens of love, but also miss daily face to face interactions with my friends living elsewhere. I wake up realizing that another year must pass before the cards start flooding my mailbox again and before I can occupy my time obsessing over something as simple as a Christmas/New Year’s card.

Another New Year; Another Broken Resolution

Each Year I, like a large majority of Americans, make a list of resolutions…in my case these resolutions consist of things I love, but have little time to accomplish, that enhance my mental, physical, and spiritual well-being. Every New Year, I have the best intentions of beginning and following through on my plans; again a very common trait among humanity. However, it always seems that life gets in the way. Managing the household, while giving two girls and a husband the necessary attention, not only occupies the majority of my day, but also zaps my energy, leaving me exhausted and drained in the very time slot (the evening) that I have to take care of my own wants and needs. 

 My resolutions have varied over the years. Some are very common; get into better shape, eat healthier, cut out the SUGAR. Others are somewhat specific to myself; write more often, read more ferociously, finally get around to learning all the idiosyncrasies of my camera. However varied, each resolution is born of the same intentions and each resolution dies of the same malady. Each year, I feel a considerable disappointment in myself for my inability to balance my own needs with others, negating the positive effect resolutions are intended to have.

Therefore, this year, I am resolving to make, and break, my resolutions regularly. In doing so, I hope to eliminate the guilt that accompanies breaking a resolution, which often feels more like an obligation. Instead, I hope to pick up my pen and a book when life allows, and to feel inspired by the words I write and read, instead of frustrated by writers block and a feeling of apathy towards books in general. I vow to run when I can, walk when I don’t feel like running, and relax when walking feels as if it is a burden.  Most of all, I resolve to try and be human; wonderfully flawed and highly imperfect.

That Warm Fuzzy Feeling (AKA Hallmark's Countdown to Christmas)

     Each year, come November, I indulge in a guilty pleasure; one that my husband despises, and my eldest daughter does not understand. It is a pleasure that begins to excite me months before it airs. A pleasure that never ceases to make me cry, laugh, and smile from ear to ear. Indulging in this pleasure, creates a warm fuzzy feeling deep in my gut, which ultimately grows and spreads, resulting in a radiating warmth that negates the dark chill of winter. It is Hallmark's Countdown to Christmas.
     Hallmark Christmas Movies are completely formulaic. The characters often lack depth and personality. The acting is less than stellar. The men are very often far better looking than the women they fall in love with (yes, periodically the women are far better looking than the men). The conflicts created are simplistic and could be easily solved by a simple conversation amongst its characters. However, pride and fear keep communication from occurring immediately, creating the perfect formula for a two hour special. Despite these factors, Hallmark Christmas Movies never cease to move me. To surround me in the magic of  Christmas. Whether it is the guarantee of a happy ending, one that embraces the magical spirit of Christmas, or a human desire to believe in hope and love, I am unsure, but Hallmark Christmas specials caress me like the warm summer sun.
     For all of these reasons, and I am sure some unspoken reasons, my husband dreads the Countdown to Christmas. He not only considers Hallmark movies unwatchable tripe, but refuses to occupy a room in which a Hallmark movie is airing. My daughter looks at me like I have four heads for not believing that Disney Junior not only has the best shows on TV, but also the most fun and hilarious characters in existence.
     Thus each November and December I find myself in the most rare and unfortunate of circumstances, alone and undisturbed in a room watching a show that only I want to watch.