Category: Fretfulness

. . . most things I worry about never come to pass.

Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me

I have another cold.

Tonight I have an obligation, a meeting to attend. Of course, I’ll be late because first I have to put Babygirl to bed.

Tomorrow morning at 10:15 a.m., we are having our family portrait taken. I have all the clothes picked out, ready to go, but I can’t decide whether to battle my hair and straighten it or whether I should just let nature win and have raucous curls. I’m also hoping to have some cosmetic surgery, pronto. Or at least find some good concealer.

All day tomorrow, my husband will be busy interviewing a candidate for youth pastor at church. Yeah, we know what that means. I will be home with the kids all day. I am so sick of being home alone with the kids. I want to drive my car somewhere. I want to walk down the city streets and look into store windows. I want to eat a meal in a restaurant with silverware. I want to leave whenever and come home whenever. I want to buy myself flowers and smell perfume at department store counters and read books in bookstores with no thought for the time.

Then tomorrow night, after spending a pleasant day with the brood, I will be having dinner at a church member’s home with a bunch of other people, including the youth pastor candidate and his wife. They’ve flown in from Pennsylvania. (I want to fly in from Pennsylvania.)

The home is beautiful–I walked through it while it was under construction. I can barely contain my jealousy, though. These people had a gorgeous home before with marble countertops and a view of the Puget Sound and stained glass windows the wife created herself. And now, they built an even bigger, grander, more lovely home with a better view. (I want a home with a view.)

I’m usually quite happy with my house and my little odd-shaped yard ringed with wild hedges and determined ivy. Then I drive two miles down the hill to a home ten times nicer than mine and suddenly, I’ve gone from 1972 and shabby carpets to 2004 and I’m standing on carpet padded so luxuriously that my feet actually sink into it. I wash my hands in bathrooms with no water stains, no toothpaste smeared on the counter. I look out the windows and instead of seeing my moss-covered shed with its falling-apart door that needs replacement–I see lights twinkling on the rippling water of the Puget Sound. I hear the blaring horn of the ferry as it crosses the water. The kitchen is all about marble and stainless steel and spacious cupboard and suddenly, my own little kitchen with its dated cabinets and dull yellow-gold countertops looks even smaller and darker.

Jealousy has always been my issue.

Contentment is my goal.

Sunday always means church here and even if I don’t go (because of sick kids), my husband is busy all day. This week, especially, he’ll be busy all day.

I really hate weekends.

Then Monday all over again.

I realized all this yesterday–that I would have no time to myself–and I was really having a pity party, complete with balloons and noise-makers–and today God smiled at me and caused my baby to fall into a deep sleep. Actually, I think she napped because every day this week, I have followed the same routine. Upstairs at 1 p.m., nurse her until 1:30 p.m., put her in her bed. Today was the first day she actually curled up and slept. The other days, I let her cry for half an hour and when I retrieved her, she looked at me with big, teary eyes and said, “Night-Night” very regretfully. Like “how dare you make me go night-night!”

I’d also like to point out that God must love me because tomorrow, the weather is supposed to be spectacular. The temperatures will reach sixty-degrees and it’s supposed to be mostly sunny. After the pictures, maybe we’ll do something fun outdoors.

A girl can always dream. Even a jealous girl.

The Tedium

What really gets to me is the tedium, the monotony, the grinding routine of doing the same stuff over and over again, every day. Each day, I’m crestfallen when I remember I have to think up dinner again. I just made dinner last night. I pick up the same toys. I wash the same clothes. I flush the same toilets, which surprisingly enough, the boys always forget to flush. I wear the same clothes. The only thing different each day is my stupid hair, which has a mind of its own which is in cahoots with the weather.

I hate the alarm ringing in the morning. I hate waking up in the dark. I hate mornings.

The sad thing is that this is what life is made of–the small stuff, the boring stuff, the routine stuff. Sticky floors and unfolded laundry and a stack of papers on the counter are my life. I am the Queen of the trivial detail, the Servant of the household demand, the Slave to the kitchen.

I need a make-over!
I need a chef!
I need a vacation in Tahiti!

But I’d settle for two hours at Target on Saturday. Without a baby in my cart!

Ack!

When I lifted Babygirl from her crib this morning, she seemed warm. Her hands seemed strangely warm to me. I haven’t used a baby thermometer for years and years, but I can tell from my baby’s hands if she is feverish. I toted her to my husband and asked him if he thought she was warm. “No,” he said, and finished putting on his shiny shoes.

So we went to church, where I ended up manning the nursery since I coordinate the volunteers and the scheduled volunteer was a no-show. Half-way through, Babygirl began to fuss. The fuss accelerated into a full-blown cry. I realized that she, indeed, was feverish.

When we returned home, I gave Babygirl some ibuprofen. She promptly gagged it onto my skirt in a mucusy wad of vomit. Then she napped a bit. She woke when my mother brought YoungestBoy home. She’d taken him after church to McDonald’s. (My twins went from church to a friend’s home to play.) I visited with my mother for a while. Babygirl played happily, fueled by her twenty minute nap.

My husband was home from 3:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m., then returned to church for more meetings. Babygirl grew crabbier as the day went on. She did keep some ibuprofen down when I tried again at 2:30 p.m. She took another nap. She nursed on and off all afternoon, and ate snacks here and there.

At 7 p.m., after an hour-long attempt to nurse her to sleep, she slumped over on my shoulder and fell into an immediate sleep without nursing at all. That was the first time that she ever went to sleep at night without nursing. I am hopeful that she’ll wake up cheerful in the morning with no sign of the fever. This is the illness that DaycareKid brought to us last Thursday.

I’ve watched the Golden Globes while reading a few chapters of “I Sleep at Red Lights” and now I will drop into bed so I can begin another exciting week of getting by. Oh joy.

I’ve Fallen Off the Wagon Already

Yeah. So much for grand proclamations about riding the exercise bike everyday. I am not exercising today. But the time I remembered, it was 9 p.m. and I whined to my husband, “I am just too tired!”

I started my day off at 3:12 a.m. when Babygirl woke up crying. I have no idea why she woke up, but I spent 10 minutes in her room before trudging back to bed. Then, DaycareKid showed up early at 7:10 a.m. and I was barely dressed. My hair was still wet.

At only 7:15 a.m. with Babygirl still sleeping, I checked my email while DaycareKid played here in the family room. At 7:55 a.m., while watching television with YoungestBoy and nursing Babygirl, I looked at the clock and thought “Uh-oh! I didn’t wake up the twins!” I normally wake them up at 7:30 a.m. so they can be ready to leave by 8 a.m. School starts at 8:25 a.m., but they like to be early.

They were so mad that I woke them up late. Oh dear. I just completely forgot to wake them up!

Then they were gone.

We went outside right away. Before 9 a.m. Babygirl, DaycareKid and I were outside freezing our bippies off. YoungestBoy came out in his pajamas and rubber boots and discovered that the water he’d put in the old dog bowl had a coat of ice on it. Did I mention that it was freezing? DaycareKid seems very unhappy and I figure he’s cold, so after twenty minutes or so I lure them inside with a promise of watching “The Wiggles.”

DaycareKid spent the entire morning being unusually unhappy. He stood and cried. He sat and cried. He stumbled around and cried. Poor kid. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. He whined for a drink and then wouldn’t drink it. He carried around his snack, but wouldn’t eat it. Finally, at 10:45 a.m., I thought, maybe he is just really hungry. I fed him lunch. He ate, then cried. I began to wonder if he was coming down with something. I felt a swollen gland in his neck and I thought he seemed warm. At 11:30 a.m. (an hour earlier than usual), I put him to bed. He fell right asleep.

His mother picked him up early at 3 p.m. He had a pre-existing doctor’s appointment for a well-baby check-up. I told his mother that he seemed very unhappy and I wondered if he was overly tired? Or sick? She called me later in the day and told me that the doctor found DaycareKid had a throat infection and a fever, but that it wasn’t strep and that he wasn’t contagious. I can only hope!

A sick daycare baby is the major drawback to having a daycare baby. I hate it when he brings germs to my baby! Sigh.

At noon, I suddenly realize that YoungestBoy didn’t do his homework yet and by then it was too late. What is wrong with my brain? I just can’t remember anything today!

Must be old age approaching. Next Wednesday I turn 39.

The Human Condition

It seems that the human condition is essentially to be alone. You think you have friends and companions, but when it comes down to it, you are alone in the world. Well, maybe you are not alone, but I am. You see, I am a pastor’s wife.

This dismal thought brought to you courtesy of church politics.

More dismal thoughts from the pastor’s wife to come later.

And one more thing

Tonight, my husband mentions that next year, if Adam goes to sixth grade in public school (rather than homeschooling) that he will not be able to play the flute. Apparently, that would be just asking for him to be taunted because middle-school boys don’t play the flute without other middle-school boys taunting them and calling them “gay.”

I remember one of my husband’s friends joking years ago, way before we even had kids, about “flute-playing boys.” My husband and all his college friends are jocks. My husband played every sport in high school and then intramural college sports. He loves to watch football and baseball. He’s just a jock with two sons who are completely the opposite. Our twin boys have little coordination, no drive and complete disinterest in sports. They played baseball for a while, but it was boring and torturous. They took judo at the YMCA, but that eventually became drudgery. So, my husband, The Jock, counts on Zach and Grace to inherit some of his athletic skills and interests.

When I was in school, I was the girl in the library who thought jocks were stupid. I hated them for their bullying, for their cockiness, for their attitudes, for their stupidity. I did not have time for idiots like that. I went to one football game in all four years of high school. I thought that partying and drinking and being wild and crazy was just pointless. I thought the adulation of boys who were coordinated was sickening, especially when their IQs were lower than their jersey numbers.

And yet, here I am, married to a former jock who is warning me that my flute-playing son will be a target of other boys–the very kind of jocks I hated when I was in school–next year. Apparently, he was already called “gay” this year because of his flute.

So, I said, “Well, that is just stupid!” And then while my husband answered the phone, I moped on the couch and started to cry.

I either need therapy or a vacation! Or I need to slap the stupid boys in sixth grade who would make a flute-playing boy feel like a freak.

My husband says with incredulity, “Are you crying? Why are you crying?”

And I wipe my eyes and say, “Because I am a woman and I have hormones!” Sniffle, sniffle.

We discussed it more and I agreed that Adam should have other musical lessons and continue playing the flute at home. He’d like to play guitar and I’d like him to play the piano. He shows musical aptitude and I’d like to help him develop it.

As for me? I should be locked in a closet until this mood passes.

Final Thoughts While Freezing Rain Falls

So, my husband decides to walk to work in the Winter Wonderland and I think, Geez, I wish I could be walking to work in nice, soft, quiet snow and then sit in a nice, quiet, neat office and do nice, quiet paperwork. But no! Here I am with this runny-nosed baby and my wild hooligan children. Woe is me.

Then, after dinner, my friend calls to report that she’s making gumbo and do I already have dinner plans? I say, “Yes,” while glancing over at my Chicken Helper “chicken and dumplings” and pan of corn. She tells me she’ll bring some over tomorrow night for my husband and me. Then she reports that she and her sons built three giant snowmen today.

I immediately think, I am such a loser. Not only did I not build a snowman–my baby hates snow, plus she has a cold and my husband went to work on a day when the entire world stayed home–I actually yelled at my kids when they tracked snow all the way from the patio door to the laundry room. When, oh when exactly will I become the mother I thought I’d be (before I had kids)? The one who sings through the days and cooks hearty meals and plays with her rosy-cheeked cherubs? I never even saw “The Sound of Music”, yet I thought I’d be that singing governess, twirling my skirts in the Swiss mountains!

Of course, I also thought my kids would eat casseroles with food mixed together (gasp!) and that they’d want to do craft projects at the kitchen table while listening to gentle music. Never did I dream that I’d rule over a household full of kids who don’t care if they stink and who would rather step on a pillow repeatedly than pick it up. Still.

Old dreams die hard, I guess. Now, hand me a tissue box and leave me alone!