Something about Miss Swift's latest single, "Fifteen" has me humming a tune of nostalgia. It's not so much the entirety of the song about the issue of high school drama, but more about the underlying notes of hammering out one's identity.
"I've found time can heal just about anything, and you just might figure out who you're supposed to be. I didn't know it at fifteen." Well, hell, I didn't even know it at twenty-five!
I didn't really know who I was supposed to be until a few weeks ago really. I'll be twenty-eight in a few months. Sigh, but I'll get to that later.
But as I've droned on before, motherhood has had its way of interceding the thoughts I thought I had about me, and what the heck I'm "supposed to do in life", or what I want to be in life in addition to the domestic guru I've come to be over the past few years. It's not as if I was in "the know" of my direction in life before kids. They just seemed to slow the progress of figuring that out if it were to ever happen.
Taylor Swift crossed my mind while I watched early home videos of Mason and Peyton this morning with the two of them nestled in my lap. They're both sick right now, as am I, but that's not really important. We watched and they both thoroughly enjoyed viewing their former selves on the TV; the stories I tell them from my recollection are not as entertaining as it is to literally watch Mason shake his butt on camera. I think in the three years of film I appear on camera all but a four times. I am behind the lens, but my voice is still audible.
Besides my pudgy lil' babes, my husband and stepdaughter grace the camera often. They were so natural with the boys. Happy. Overjoyed. Ecstatic. My kids adored them, and it was evident in the footage how much my boys loved them too. They were enamoured with each other.
And then there was me. Frantic, exhausted behind the camera. Happy, but I could just hear the discomfort I had in my own skin. As mom. I didn't know who I was supposed to be at twenty-five.
I trace through my journals and I know how abundantly my heart flowed with love for my kids and obviously I do more now twenty-fold than when the boys were infants. But most of the time when I was with them, I wanted to be someone else. Because I wasn't so sure how to do the mom thing. And I didn't want to admit it-- who acknowledges those things when you're a mom!? You're supposed to be a strong, all-knowing, life-giving being who instantly tames the crazy emotions and physical demands of being a mom the moment your child takes its first breath of air... but I wasn't.
I was totally disconnected, present physically but emotionally I was all over the place, and unfortunately my kids were left with a mom who was quite confused a lot of the time. Three years and a steady dose of counseling has given me time to settle and wrap my head around parenthood. With a clear mind now, I wonder in the cliche term that Swift sings about, if I knew three years ago what I know now, would I have enjoyed my kids a bit more?
Preschool registrations are rearing their head. Reviewing kindergarten regulations are not out of the question now. Both things are nearing quicker than I anticipated and I realize how fast the days have passed me at light speed. And so I wonder to myself could I do a better job tomorrow than I did today? The answer is always yes.
So thank you Taylor Swift, you savvy eight-Grammy nominee, entertainer of the year. All nineteen freakin' years of you gave insight to a stay at home mom. Imagine that.
As for figuring myself out, as I mentioned earlier-- that may be just as important as evaluating the time spent with my kids developing their roots, so to speak. I'm studying to be a personal trainer. While a part of me wants to drift into thought wondering how much happier of a person I would have been for my kids three years ago if I knew both how to be a mom and enjoy it, AND how to be happy with my purpose in my life trying to help people train and fulfill healthier lives... I won't.
I'm just thankful I figured it out now.
Showing posts with label career. Show all posts
Showing posts with label career. Show all posts
Friday, January 29
Tuesday, March 24
Quips from a SAHM
If you're rereading that title sounding out SAHM, then perhaps you should read past this post to find something more applicable to you. I'm not making lofty assumptions, but it would be safe to say if that acronym is over your head, this entry will probably induce a yawn session. SAHM spills over into a world of domestic engineering, or otherwise known as a stay at home mom.
Perhaps it should be SAHP: stay at home parents seems to have a bit less of a gender bias.
Nonetheless, I recently became irritated [not that this is anything new], when someone commented on my assumed oodles of free time as a director of stay at home affairs.
As I wrote a few weeks ago, I have joined Facebook and in light of that, I have caught up with many former classmates. As I might have ventured before registering I have rekindled feelings, both good and borderline irritating, concerning some of my former equals. I made the error of commenting on my wall one day last week how glad I was to have my computer back in a working condition, and that low and behold I was connected to the world wide web once more. Technology is great, but when it turns against me, I take a short drive to crazy town.
To this comment, a friend inquired what I "do" besides the internet these days, with the full understanding I am at home with my kids.
This, is the be all end all statement that gets under my skin like nothing else. Prior to this tornado of a life as mom, I worked in a semi-chaotic corporate setting.
I had deadlines. I had a business card; although I could make one again, I don't know that I want to advertise surrogate motherhood any time soon. I had a desk, my own private extension, and secretly felt important to be paged on the intercom [unless it was my boss in which case I was a sitting duck]. Daily, I wore dramatic stiletto heels that give me painstaking cramps in my calves now after wearing them to, I don't know, get the mail. I made press releases and drafted business correspondences or marketing proposals for review of executives. I created streamlined presentations given throughout the state by our executive branch. My creative juices flowed freely, and I ate up the notion that I played a vital role in their creative department. There were nights I would get home only to scarf a salad, shower and get up at 5:30am only to do it all over again with pleasure.
With a pat on my back, and a paycheck wired to my account every other week I saw the fruits of my labor on a regular, or at least occasional basis. [I need not recount the instances I took a quick rest on the hot seat. It wasn't all glory.] But at least when I spoke to people outside of my profession, I wasn't questioned. I never confronted, "So, no, really. What do you do all day?"
My kids don't thank me for changing their diapers or fixing them baked oatmeal. I don't earn brownie points for reading to them, though I know this will pay for itself in the future. A monthly bonus doesn't fall into my lap for making certain the bathrooms don't smell like a urinal, or that the tumbling dust bunnies are vacuumed on a weekly basis. I do receive pats on the back for the weekly Rachael Ray delights, but really I won't be adding any of this to my working resume.
On a side note, I am in no way knocking the working moms. Because all that I do with my two toddlers [29 and 15 months young], I am puzzled to imagine how I could possibly function while also operating an adult, non-mommy related, brain cell. Something for me, or for my family, would suffer. I know how curt I was at times while I was working, and step-mommying, and later pregnant while step-mommying and coaching and being a wife, etc. It was crazy, and I know that some women can master that; I, however, was not up for the challenge.
But this, too, is crazy. Prior to my kids' boisterous awakening, I rise at 5am to get to the gym where I complete a rigorous 60 minute cardio slash weight lifting work out before Jason goes to school to teach by seven. From the time my kids are pounding their wooden cribs at 7:30am ravenous for food, they are on edge like little wind up toys and don't stop until lunch is over and scattered among the linoleum kitchen floor roughly by 1pm. After I get them settled for a nap I clean up, make a half-attempt at lunch for myself, and thereafter I prep dinner which then usually leaves me about an hour or so of uninterrupted time to myself if I don't have laundry to fold, bills to pay, furniture to dust, floors to mop, dishes to put away, shirts to iron, bathtubs to sanitize, rooms to vacuum, or toilets to defunk.
Until you become a parent you have no understanding how much that time of solace is to survival, and so be it if take an hour to peruse the internet or write a blog entry for all six of my readers to enjoy. Before I can breathe another second the boys are up and ready for more action by 3:30pm. In rare form, since they are refreshed with the energy reserves of marathon runners, ready to conquer the basement in search of another toy explosion until dinner time when Jason usually walks in the door. The energy levels kick up a notch at the sight of Dah-DEE and they are wild like banshees until 8pm after which point, Jason and I collapse on the family room chairs and exhale in relief for having made it through another draining day after shutting their bedroom door for the night. Aside from that, half of the week we increase our parental stamina after the toddlers are in bed to get Justine, our resident teenager, through the rest of the day with the remaining amount of tact, love and patience we reserved for her.
I need not validate with the other at home parents how draining this job
is, and how downright undermining it can be at times. Do I really need to validate my life at home? I suppose not. I knew before taking this job offer that motherhood at home 24/7/365 can be a thankless job at best. It's demoralized by ignorant twits who scoff at the idea of it being anything remotely difficult.
But, ya know what? To each their own. Each of us working humans face the difficulties on the job, and while I don't see professional careers on the domestic front becoming slightly prestigious any time soon I have to say that I have respect for myself. When the latest headlines these days relate to how many more billions of dollars corporate giants are managing to smuggle away from the little guy, I have to say that raising a new generation of kids is a mighty fine gig.
Perhaps it should be SAHP: stay at home parents seems to have a bit less of a gender bias.
Nonetheless, I recently became irritated [not that this is anything new], when someone commented on my assumed oodles of free time as a director of stay at home affairs.
As I wrote a few weeks ago, I have joined Facebook and in light of that, I have caught up with many former classmates. As I might have ventured before registering I have rekindled feelings, both good and borderline irritating, concerning some of my former equals. I made the error of commenting on my wall one day last week how glad I was to have my computer back in a working condition, and that low and behold I was connected to the world wide web once more. Technology is great, but when it turns against me, I take a short drive to crazy town.
To this comment, a friend inquired what I "do" besides the internet these days, with the full understanding I am at home with my kids.
This, is the be all end all statement that gets under my skin like nothing else. Prior to this tornado of a life as mom, I worked in a semi-chaotic corporate setting.
I had deadlines. I had a business card; although I could make one again, I don't know that I want to advertise surrogate motherhood any time soon. I had a desk, my own private extension, and secretly felt important to be paged on the intercom [unless it was my boss in which case I was a sitting duck]. Daily, I wore dramatic stiletto heels that give me painstaking cramps in my calves now after wearing them to, I don't know, get the mail. I made press releases and drafted business correspondences or marketing proposals for review of executives. I created streamlined presentations given throughout the state by our executive branch. My creative juices flowed freely, and I ate up the notion that I played a vital role in their creative department. There were nights I would get home only to scarf a salad, shower and get up at 5:30am only to do it all over again with pleasure.
With a pat on my back, and a paycheck wired to my account every other week I saw the fruits of my labor on a regular, or at least occasional basis. [I need not recount the instances I took a quick rest on the hot seat. It wasn't all glory.] But at least when I spoke to people outside of my profession, I wasn't questioned. I never confronted, "So, no, really. What do you do all day?"
My kids don't thank me for changing their diapers or fixing them baked oatmeal. I don't earn brownie points for reading to them, though I know this will pay for itself in the future. A monthly bonus doesn't fall into my lap for making certain the bathrooms don't smell like a urinal, or that the tumbling dust bunnies are vacuumed on a weekly basis. I do receive pats on the back for the weekly Rachael Ray delights, but really I won't be adding any of this to my working resume.
On a side note, I am in no way knocking the working moms. Because all that I do with my two toddlers [29 and 15 months young], I am puzzled to imagine how I could possibly function while also operating an adult, non-mommy related, brain cell. Something for me, or for my family, would suffer. I know how curt I was at times while I was working, and step-mommying, and later pregnant while step-mommying and coaching and being a wife, etc. It was crazy, and I know that some women can master that; I, however, was not up for the challenge.
But this, too, is crazy. Prior to my kids' boisterous awakening, I rise at 5am to get to the gym where I complete a rigorous 60 minute cardio slash weight lifting work out before Jason goes to school to teach by seven. From the time my kids are pounding their wooden cribs at 7:30am ravenous for food, they are on edge like little wind up toys and don't stop until lunch is over and scattered among the linoleum kitchen floor roughly by 1pm. After I get them settled for a nap I clean up, make a half-attempt at lunch for myself, and thereafter I prep dinner which then usually leaves me about an hour or so of uninterrupted time to myself if I don't have laundry to fold, bills to pay, furniture to dust, floors to mop, dishes to put away, shirts to iron, bathtubs to sanitize, rooms to vacuum, or toilets to defunk.
Until you become a parent you have no understanding how much that time of solace is to survival, and so be it if take an hour to peruse the internet or write a blog entry for all six of my readers to enjoy. Before I can breathe another second the boys are up and ready for more action by 3:30pm. In rare form, since they are refreshed with the energy reserves of marathon runners, ready to conquer the basement in search of another toy explosion until dinner time when Jason usually walks in the door. The energy levels kick up a notch at the sight of Dah-DEE and they are wild like banshees until 8pm after which point, Jason and I collapse on the family room chairs and exhale in relief for having made it through another draining day after shutting their bedroom door for the night. Aside from that, half of the week we increase our parental stamina after the toddlers are in bed to get Justine, our resident teenager, through the rest of the day with the remaining amount of tact, love and patience we reserved for her.
I need not validate with the other at home parents how draining this job
is, and how downright undermining it can be at times. Do I really need to validate my life at home? I suppose not. I knew before taking this job offer that motherhood at home 24/7/365 can be a thankless job at best. It's demoralized by ignorant twits who scoff at the idea of it being anything remotely difficult.But, ya know what? To each their own. Each of us working humans face the difficulties on the job, and while I don't see professional careers on the domestic front becoming slightly prestigious any time soon I have to say that I have respect for myself. When the latest headlines these days relate to how many more billions of dollars corporate giants are managing to smuggle away from the little guy, I have to say that raising a new generation of kids is a mighty fine gig.
Sunday, November 30
The Beaten Path
“The greatest barrier to success is the fear ofPrior to writing this entry I searched for my quote, and decided to look in the appropriate category of fear. The number of fear quotes on this website [thinkexist.com] was nearly as popular as friendship or family quotes. It’s not surprising or at least comforting to some degree that many people have their own phobias. My phobia just happened to be listed as numeral uno on the list.
failure.” Sven Goran Eriksson
Perhaps fear of failure is one common to many people, but suffice to say it is my greatest nemesis. However, my fear is as much a phobia lurking inside of me as it is something of my own conscious decision: I choose to be afraid of failing.
Last weekend, as I drove to work which I do part-time on the weekends as a banquet server to an upscale facility in my hometown I again began to feel the sinking notion that I’m doing nothing with my degree. And it’s not as if I “never did” anything with my bachelor degree. For four years I worked in public relations, copywriting, editing, page layout and design, and basic graphic design for an alternative energy company. Two of those four years I worked while attending school part-time so I could finish my degree in my four-year goal, and pursue my career full-force. After graduating, I stayed with the firm and traveled quickly up the ladder to be working alongside the CEO, vice-chairman and several VPs of the company doing pertinent projects to the mission of their ground workings in alternative energy.
Then… kids happened. Well my kids didn’t just happen. Since the get-go of my relationship with my husband I inherited the step-mom badge, but after a few years of marriage I finally got pregnant and later determined that I wanted to stay home to raise them. And so for the time being, in light of our ever-fabulous economy I am working part-time in the restaurant industry’s ever draining environment on the weekends so my husband can stay home while I work, and vice-versa.
After working for a couple of hours last Saturday, at least a dozen times I passed the table of name cards for the two-hundred plus wedding we were catering. Normally I scour over these names, although I rarely ever know any of the guests. A half an hour passed and the guests arrived. I passed a woman chatting to another guest who appeared to be mother of the bride or groom. I did a triple take as I noticed I knew this woman as the mom of a girl I graduated with from high school. I dashed back to the card table, and scanned the names of the guests. My stomach began to churn and my hands sweat profusely as I realized that literally over a third of the people would undoubtedly know me. Even worse, they were the “people you could do without seeing until your 25th reunion, but even then it’s too soon” classmates.
It was an awkward night of doting over my guests and serving or clearing the plates of the irritating twits I graduated with over eight years ago. It was the continual “So you’re a… waitress now?” My confidence fizzled when I uttered “Well, I stay home with my boys.. Full time. And I do this on the weekends.” Stabbing myself in my eye with a red-hot poker was more inviting that being present. Although I have the utmost respect for anyone who commits to the restaurant industry and does it well, I cannot continue loathing the fear of failure. I am not saying that being a server is beneath me. I’m just through being too damn scared to pursue my writing career on my own. Sadly enough, it’s far easier to travel on the beaten path of ease than it is to take a trail of greater resistance. And if it’s nothing but the squeamish feeling I had from seeing old classmates again then fine, but it’s time for me to face my fears head on and pursue my career.
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