Touching on Various Subjects

A glimpse of what's been left unsaid.
I'm off this week, originally because we'd planned another cross country adventure circa Summer 2006, but as it turns out, so far the time has been spent turning Hannah's old room into an office for me. She moved out two weeks ago and has been having a ball socializing with John's family, the same people who outcast us six months ago for daring to question their inappropriate meddling in John's kids' lives. If you're confused by that sentence, join the club. In response to our statement that we weren't going to participate in dysfunctional dynamics of passive aggression, denial, and character attacks, we were told by John's sister and brother-in-law that we would never be spoken to again. Nice. Ever since then, John's mom, aka Leader of the Pack, has told us (despite our clear requests not to do certain favors for his oldest son --like ENABLING him, for instance-- as he learns about the consequences of his adult choices) that she would "do it all over again" and has wondered aloud with complete innocence why she feels she doesn't get to see our five- and six-year-olds. Gee, I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that not only do you have no respect for me as parent and undermine me with small jabs at every turn when you're around any of my kids or stepkids, but you also blatantly told me this is how you plan to operate over and over again. No, we won't be lining up at your door for babysitting services. She thinks it's "unnatural" to call and ask to see the kids, by the way -- we aren't stopping her from seeing them, as much as she tries to convince us that we are.

No more excuses not to write.
Anyway, while Hannah and the in-laws burn pictures of us, brew stolen toenail and hair clippings, and sew the final touches on the voodoo dolls they plan to stab in our honor, I've been busy trying to create an office for myself. Our (still new) house still feels huge, but most of our space feels shared to me; I haven't had a place to privately sit down and work, think, read, or write other than our bedroom, where there is usually a small child or children bouncing on a bed or having a sword fight - despite the fact that they each have their own beds on which to bounce as well as a huge gameroom full of their toys and plenty of space for whatever mutual maiming they insist on doing for the 14 waking hours that make up each day. My new office has inherited lots of individual pieces of furniture that were randomly placed up until now, as well as previously unhung pictures, and it is fast becoming the coziest room in the house. In addition to a writing desk and a comfortable chair, we lugged the huge bookshelf from the gameroom (the only place we had to store it until now), which means it's like a real, live office of someone who would habitually read and write. My only remaining excuse for NOT reading or writing will be the ever-present time factor, which won't exactly hold much water if I continue to spend my evenings halfway to coma status in front of the TV. The transported furniture means, of course, that there are now gaping holes in our larger-than-we-realized master bedroom, which has turned Project Office Creation into Project Master Bedroom Completion, something I wasn't prepared to deal with in the measley five days I have off work, a few of those we have supposedly set aside to do something that resembles a vacation with the kids (and that is literally as much planning as we've done so far).

Free entertainment, until you cave and buy a pet (we haven't yet).
So, the past year has been, shall we say, full of surprises crap stress -- well, just full. One of the results of said fullness has been our focused buckle down on the finances, which means all of our planned trips this year were either drastically simplified or eliminated completely. We've taken to finding things to do in our own locale -- and not just the SAME things we always do, either. And when I say "we" I really mean mostly John, since he is the one attempting to work out of our house all summer while two bored elementary schoolers (Quinn will be in kindergarten, so I can officially say that now - excuse me while I sob) loudly and constantly beg to swim, bowl, play miniature golf, and go to restaurants. (I really only see one activity - swimming - in that series of requests that would seem "normal" to me for a five- and six-year-old. What have we done to these kids?) John has drowned out some of the begging with SpongeBob and video games (against my useless protesting from a phone in my cubicle 15 miles away), but he's come up with some free summertime entertainment, too. They've hit pet stores, water parks, and "home school," which as you can see by the look of joy on Quinn's face in the last picture, is clearly all the rage with today's five-year-olds.

Post Title Here

I've been looking for things to say here tonight. Literally, I'm looking around the room and wracking my brain for something to write about other than what has been holding my thoughts hostage for the past few hours. I'm apparently pressuring myself not to be a negative nelly, which is odd, since I rebel against such pressure when it comes from any external source. But the only subject that would flow freely right now has to do with the same boring complaints I always fall back on in this forum - work/home balance frustrations, control struggles with the kids, self-loathing for not being more fun-loving and spontaneous or appreciative of these fleeting days. Bleh. After a while I get sick of thinking about it and I'm not sure writing about it ends up being the cathartic release I expect. I've started to suspect that all of my day in, day out analysis, guilt, and planning for better responses and more appreciation each "next time" that presents itself only serves to make me that much more self-critical as I go. I guess eventually one would just explode being under a self-imposed microscope like this, which is why occasionally in the middle of just such a group of overwhelming thoughts, I give up and drink wine in front of the TV. That's completely healthy, right? I'm sure it has nothing to do with any of the very issues that drive me to that state, like the fact that the issues are recurring or that I need to lose 15 or 20 pounds.

Abduction

Rather than stay and watch Bryce's hour-long Tae Kwon Do class tonight, I met John and the kids there after Quinn's shorter 30-minute class was over and took him home to start dinner. This is a rare occasion around here anymore, since dinner lately has consisted of 1.) restaurant food, 2.) four different thrown together meals as time permits, or 3.) wine and M&Ms. If anyone prepares a nutritious and complete dinner for this family on any sort of regular basis, it's John, who prepares it while I'm cursing traffic on the way home from work or while I'm attempting to act like a present and aware parent while watching the kids in their evening Tae Kwon Do classes. Tonight, we switched places. Our first mistake, apparently, was not giving His Highness Quinn enough warning: the whole walk to the car was drenched in thick demanding whines about how he never gets to eat at restaurants. I quoted him the three places I knew he'd eaten in the past week and told him that cost $100, did he have $100? No, he said, but he knew where we could GET $100. Where? He'll SHOW you, that's where.

At home when I asked for his help setting the table I was told, no, he would not do that, he was getting dominoes right then, and he'd better be having noodles for dinner. The plate I put in front of him was calmly called horrible, I make the worst dinners ever, when would dad be getting home? When John arrived and didn't acknowledge the injustice of the tripe I had placed on Quinn's plate, he crouched under the bar stools and winnied like a horse, he never gets anything he wants, this is the most horrible day he's ever had! Tell me about the best day you could ever have, I asked him. His best day is horrible! The word horrible is apparently part of his sophisticated new vocabulary (which also now includes the phrase 'pull my finger,' a sad fact I learned after leaving my kids in John's solo care for a week while I was away for a work trip).

Quinn finally gave up and stomped upstairs, disgusted with his horrible mom's horrible dinner finalizing his horrible day. I prepared myself for Horrible Dinner, the Sequel, aka Bryce's Reaction to Vegetables, but something happened. Bryce, for one thing, sat down in his chair like a normal person, not someone whose head is attached to a string held by a speed-addicted madman playing basketball. Then, mystifyingly, he picked up a fork and ate salad. Salad, with lettuce in a glass bowl. Bizarre. I got brave and told him he needed to eat his corn and green beans and he said, okay, and smiled. Huh? He took a natural and non-chalant bite of corn (which I'm not sure he's actually ever eaten before tonight) and said, woops, I forgot to put my napkin in my lap, I'm trying to be as polite as possible. Quinn made a few last ditch efforts to sound the sympathy horn from upstairs and Bryce looked at me, shook his head, and said, little kids are so crazy, aren't they? John and I tried to act natural, but we were wondering when the other shoe was going to drop, or should I say, when the spaceship was going to show up to return our real kids.

Vicious Cycle

It never fails. All week long I yearn for the weekend, that peaceful time at home with my kids, those little people I feel like I never see and whose lives are passing me by while I worry about their savings and tuition fees and the daily financial demands of living in a house and driving cars. Then Friday night arrives in all its disappointing fatigue and stress thanks to the week preceding it, and I hinge my hopes on Saturday, which greets me most typically with a fairly innocent set of questions about whose turn it is for the gameboy, but ends with me cursing myself for once again thinking the kids can handle staying up late without attacking each other or me. Sunday is an on again, off again last ditch effort on my part to cling to any enjoyable moment in the hopes it will multiply if nurtured with enough of my silent appreciation for it, but inevitably the silent appreciation holds too much eagerness, which saturates the moment with expectation we can only fall short of. Sunday night, even if spent drinking margaritas and ingesting thousands of yummy queso calories, usually ends with someone yelling, in tears, or in Quinn's case, demanding to know why he never gets anything he wants. Ever.

This weekend was particularly full of expectation because I was out of town on mind-numbing business for a week beforehand. It's like the kids don't know how to handle the transition to my being back home, especially knowing that I'll be going back to the office Monday through Friday, which may as well mean I'm out of town again. In fact, now that I think about it, this weekend is probably the quintessential weekend, different from the norm not in content, but in intensity. We've played games, watched movies, told stories, and spent most waking moments together, but somehow it can never be enough. In their zeal for togetherness, they lose control and compete unfairly, testing where my loyalties will fall and then ganging up to see me squirm when they push my buttons together. By tonight's bedtime, although I was determined to end the night --the weekend -- with no yelling or crying, I was at the end of my rope and certainly wasn't the attentive and loving person the kids thought they missed all week long.

By this time tomorrow I'll be lamenting all the time spent at the office, all of the demands that take my focus off of my family and home. Tuesday and Wednesday will feel like pits of despair and guilt, especially when I lean down for good night kisses and hear, "I missed you today." Thursday and Friday will be wished away and there may even be brief evening discussions about how to change this scenario permanently (hello, fantasy world). But then on Friday night there will be shrieking and there will be hitting and there will be Bryce's quick and now predictable response, "One more chance! I didn't do it! It was Quinn's fault!" and I'll think, "Crap. It's the weekend again."

Sound of Silence

As much as I'd love to say my last post was the pinnacle of dysfunction around the Fringe, I'd be lying. I'm having to hack my way through cobwebs and dust even to post at this point, but I've realized over the past six months that my written silence is punishing my future self, the self that will actually want to remember the sequence of events that led me to where I will be, the experiences that showed me what I stood for was more than just my own self-interest and pride, but something I wanted to give and teach my kids, and maybe simultaneously also myself.

There is very little point for me to try to sum up the day to day chaos and wonder and fun and fear and tears and hysteria and sleep and pain and drinking and weight gain and thanks and learning and change that has taken place in the past several months. It's not over, either, as we all know. Despite what we believe as kids, or what we want to believe in our cocky assumption that we'll handle it all better than those who came before us, adult life never smooths out and rolls before us, an idyllic dewy pasture where the only pitfalls are wet feet and grass stains. The pitfalls around here are more like pesky hidden lava pits, unscheduled beheadings, and R.O.U.S's. Nevertheless, there is a peacefulness in the realization that what lies before us may not be in our control, the people around us may live in dysfunctional and created hells, but we are here anyway. There are other, smaller, admittedly more high maintenance people with missing baby teeth and Tae Kwon Do belts to receive and emotional meltdowns over missing Smarties dosages that, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, need us to stay out of the lava pits a day at a time.