It hit me recently that my opinion doesn't matter. I'm not saying 'ho, hum, nobody cares what I think' nor am I insinuating that I don't feel important. What I am saying is that, in the grand scheme of things, if I don't agree with or understand actions or beliefs of other people, it makes absolutely no difference.
It shouldn't.
So, why have I spent the better part of my life thinking it should? Thinking that my opinions of people are somehow the be-all and end-all of their lives?
Throughout my life, I have wasted so much time and energy trying to figure out peoples reasons and motives for doing what they do. Though this isn't bad in itself, it starts to cross the line when I compare their actions and motives to my own perceptions. I get confused, hurt and angry over it. The truth is, I know very little about these people. Only what I see on the outside and maybe a conversation or two's worth of small talk. Even for those I've known better, it doesn't excuse me trying to force my life's perspective on them. It's just idiotic of me to think that I know better than they do.
I've lived most of my life under the impression that I am a good judge of character. It occurred to me that to judge a person's character solely on my misguided opinion that I 'read people really well' is nearing narcissism. Even if, from where I stand, their actions are hurting those close to me, or even hurting me, they may see it a completely different way. I have to allow for others to be human. I can't hold them to a higher standard than I even give myself. I may never understand. I may never see their perspective. I have to accept that, as much as no one will fully understand me because I am the only one who has lived my life and been inside my head, the same goes for them.
I have to let go of all my confusion, hurt and anger. It's doing no one any good - least of all me.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Into the Woods
My childhood home was nestled against acres and acres of State Forest. I spent much of my childhood in those woods - exploring, berry picking, fishing, swimming and aimlessly wondering. Sometimes I miss having a place like that where I can just go off and be alone. Even if I take a walk by myself now, I'm surrounded by people, cars, planes...you name it. The joys of living in the city!
The woods and I had an unsteady relationship. There were times I loved it there and times I was terrified of it. For much of my childhood, I was afraid to go in there alone. I'm not sure why.* I'm also not sure it was a bad thing - it was the same forest that stood behind the County Jail a few miles down the road. As I grew older and I needed a calm place to be alone, I found solace in walking down to the river to a tree a bit off the path. It had a low-hanging branch that had grown almost like a seat and I'd sit there, letting the sound of the water calm my mind. It was my quiet space in this crazy world.
The woods wasn't always such a serious place for me, though. I spent much of my time having fun with my siblings. We'd walk or ride our bikes to the river and go fishing, pick wintergreen and then try to make tea out of it (it never worked, but we never stopped trying!), and pick blackberries. Lots and lots of blackberries. There were times we would head out with a five gallon bucket (or two!) and fill it up with blackberries. Through the years, we discovered different places in the woods that had mind-blowing amounts of blackberry bushes. We'd come back full of yummy goodness in our bellies and in our buckets...completely scratched from head to toe, but we really didn't care. The thorns never deterred us.
At one point during my childhood, the State decided to turn part of the forest into a Veteran's Cemetery. I understand now why they did it and it's a very noble thing to have. However, from a child's perspective, they were tearing down the best blackberry bushes - not to mention the homes of countless Lady Slippers! I got over it eventually - it was only a fraction of the woods and there were still lots of acres left to explore - which is how we discovered the swimming rock and rope swing.
The swim rock was a large rock that you could walk to out in the river. Depending on the depth of the river at any given time, sometimes you had to wade through some water-covered rocks, which could be a bit slippery, but it was worth it for that rock. On one side was maybe an inch or two of water. On the other side, a sheer 10 or so feet of water. Water so deep, you could dive off of it (though I never did). A little ways down river, there was a rope swing complete with a deck/ramp built into the river bank. Obviously, the rope swing wasn't a secret place because we didn't put the rope swing up - or build the deck. However, we rarely met anyone else there and had the place to ourselves most of the time. I never had the guts (or arm strength) to use the rope swing, but I still had fun spending time with people and swimming in the river.
I only hope that when The Husband and I buy a house, there is a place like The Woods nearby so my children will have the opportunity to enjoy as versatile a playground as I did.
*Actually, I lied. I do know why. When I was young, a group of my family and friends went to take a walk through the woods to the river. I had to stay behind for a little while and they told me to just come and catch up to them when I was ready. It was the first time I remember being in the woods alone and just as I came to a split in the path and hesitated because I wasn't 100% sure which way to go, a large bird (I think it was a Turkey, though it might have been more of a partridge-type bird...do we have those in NH?) decided that was a perfect time to take off from the ground into the trees above. Scared the living daylight out of me and I turned and ran home screaming. THAT is why I was afraid to go into the woods alone for the majority of my childhood.
Monday, July 16, 2012
A Journey to Health
I have been unhealthy for a good portion of my life.
Scratch that.
My mom was a health freak when I was little. We had carrots and celery for snacks. If we wanted something 'sweeter', we could add peanut butter and raisins to the mix. She shopped at the whole foods store whenever we could afford it and made everything from scratch.
Two things changed all that: Mom went back to work and I started earning my own money.
Not only did Mom have less time to make dinners from scratch, she was too busy (along with Dad) making sure we had a roof over our head, little things like the fact that I now spent the majority of my money on junk food and candy either escaped her notice or she just hoped it was a phase - or she was just overly exhausted.
Also, I no longer enjoyed the amazing home-cooked meals I had been spoiled with in the past. I still remember the first time I had store-bought tortillas and thought, "This tastes like plastic!" Although, they did roll up better, so there was that. Not to say that we never had home-cooked meals, but they were few and far between. Generally, it was chicken in a crock pot or something along those lines. Still decent, just not what I had been used to up until then. I'm not sure why it never occurred to my siblings and I that we could make a home cooked meal. I guess we were just innately lazy that way.
Anyway, where was I? Right. Mom working, no super healthy meals like I was used to, disposable income for the first time and puberty in general. Oh, I didn't mention that third one before? Right. I got kinda chunky around 5th grade. I was about a year older than most other 5th graders. I had no people my age in my general day-to-day viewing (middle school started with 6th grade) and I didn't realize (or had ignored those who told me) that it's completely normal to get a little chunky when you're just about to have a growth spurt. I still remember very clearly being in the bathroom while two skinny/short girls discussed weight. They were bemoaning the fact that they were almost 100 lbs!! *gasp!* And that they had to do something because they just couldn't live with themselves if they were that fat. I knew full well that I weighed 114 and suddenly, I got very depressed. If they thought 100 was fat, 114 must be morbidly obese!
This is the first time I remember feeling ashamed of my weight. I'm not sure that I ever really noticed it before. I may have, but not like this. I went home and did what any girl my age would do in that situation: I ate. A lot. Candy, chocolate, any junk food I could get my hands on or create. Not to say I binged or ate it all at once. However, over the next year or two, I was in a downward spiral. I got depressed about how I looked and how much I weighed, so I ate because I eat when I'm depressed. So, naturally, I gained weight. I would get depressed about that and the whole cycle would start again. By the time I was between 6th and 7th grade, I weighed 150 lbs.
I remember crying to my mom about it and her response was a very practical one: try to stay that weight and you'll grow into it. I'm glad to say, she was right. I managed to stick to 150 and grew into it. Only, I didn't see it that way. I just saw that I was 150 and 150 was fat. I look at pictures of me then and wonder what made me think I was so fat?! I really wasn't. I look good at 150.
Anyway, I stuck to 150 through my sophomore year of high school, then stress, bad eating habits and sheer laziness rocketed me up to 174 by graduation. I won't bore you with all the mundane details and weight milestones on my way up. A picture is worth a thousand words, so have two:
Suffice it to say, I gained weight so gradually, I didn't notice how MUCH weight I was putting on. A pound or two here, a couple more there. Before I knew it, I was pregnant with my second child and weighed 248 on the day I went into labor. Some of you out there might be saying, "But wait! You were 9 months pregnant. That doesn't count!" I say to you, I didn't gain all that much with my pregnancies. That's the one good thing about being obese! My official non-pregnancy high weight was 230.
Nursing was a godsend for me. By my 6-week postpartum appointment, I was down to 220. I got lazy, though. I figured I would just keep losing weight since I was breastfeeding so I went back to eating like crap and found a lot of excuses not to exercise (having two babies - one being a newborn - was excuse of choice). I got a wake-up call in late November of last year when I bought a scale, stepped on it and was still 220! I hadn't lost one pound since September. Also, in the back of my mind, I kept hearing the nutritionist I had seen during both pregnancies warning me about my chances of contracting Type 2 diabetes since I have family history and had Gestational Diabetes with both my children. If I didn't do something about my weight, I had a 50% chance of getting it in the next 5 years.
One night soon after realizing I really needed to do something about my health and weight, I was up in the wee hours of the morning, nursing The Girl and surfing the web to stay awake. I was getting down about how I was a horrible example for my children. How could I raise two healthy children if I couldn't be healthy myself? In my web browsing, I came across mentions of a website by the name of MyFitnessPal.com and decided to check it out the next morning. Somehow, I remembered to do that. I created an account and started logging my food. I hadn't made it half the day before I realized that something had to change IMMEDIATELY. I couldn't believe I was putting all that in my body! Seeing the numbers just made everything click in my head.
From that day on, I worked on portion sizes, fat intake and exercise. I started small and cut back more when I felt ready. In the past, I had tried to lose weight by either cutting something out of my diet completely or just exercising. I'd never really tried tempering my diet and exercise. The combination of smaller portion sizes, regular exercise and nursing worked wonders for me!
By June, my weight plateaued. Part of it was because I wasn't getting in exercise as much as before, but I also took that time to take a good look at my diet. True, I was doing well with portion sizes, but this time I took a good, hard look at what I was eating. I realized there were way too many carbs & sugars and not nearly enough fresh veggies and fruit. About two weeks ago, I drastically cut bad carbs and refined sugars. I refuse to cut anything out completely because that just makes me want it more! If I tell myself that I can still have it, just few and far between, I'm fine and rarely crave it. Go figure! Since I made the cut, I have lost another 10 pounds and am only a little over 20 lbs from my goal weight of 150!
Since I started my health lifestyle change in November, I have lost 47 pounds and went from a size 20 to a 14 (though I'm starting to fit into some 12s now)! More than the weight, though, I feel better about myself. I feel like I'm actually living life, not merely watching it pass by. I have more confidence and am genuinely more happy. Not just because I think I look prettier. That helps, but it's more because I am so happy and proud that I kept at it. I didn't give up a month into it. I am actually taking care of myself. I feel like I am finally a good example for my children and that, in truth, is the best reason of all.
Scratch that.
My mom was a health freak when I was little. We had carrots and celery for snacks. If we wanted something 'sweeter', we could add peanut butter and raisins to the mix. She shopped at the whole foods store whenever we could afford it and made everything from scratch.
 |
| Me in my younger, healthier days. |
Not only did Mom have less time to make dinners from scratch, she was too busy (along with Dad) making sure we had a roof over our head, little things like the fact that I now spent the majority of my money on junk food and candy either escaped her notice or she just hoped it was a phase - or she was just overly exhausted.
Also, I no longer enjoyed the amazing home-cooked meals I had been spoiled with in the past. I still remember the first time I had store-bought tortillas and thought, "This tastes like plastic!" Although, they did roll up better, so there was that. Not to say that we never had home-cooked meals, but they were few and far between. Generally, it was chicken in a crock pot or something along those lines. Still decent, just not what I had been used to up until then. I'm not sure why it never occurred to my siblings and I that we could make a home cooked meal. I guess we were just innately lazy that way.
Anyway, where was I? Right. Mom working, no super healthy meals like I was used to, disposable income for the first time and puberty in general. Oh, I didn't mention that third one before? Right. I got kinda chunky around 5th grade. I was about a year older than most other 5th graders. I had no people my age in my general day-to-day viewing (middle school started with 6th grade) and I didn't realize (or had ignored those who told me) that it's completely normal to get a little chunky when you're just about to have a growth spurt. I still remember very clearly being in the bathroom while two skinny/short girls discussed weight. They were bemoaning the fact that they were almost 100 lbs!! *gasp!* And that they had to do something because they just couldn't live with themselves if they were that fat. I knew full well that I weighed 114 and suddenly, I got very depressed. If they thought 100 was fat, 114 must be morbidly obese!
 |
| 4th Grade |
I remember crying to my mom about it and her response was a very practical one: try to stay that weight and you'll grow into it. I'm glad to say, she was right. I managed to stick to 150 and grew into it. Only, I didn't see it that way. I just saw that I was 150 and 150 was fat. I look at pictures of me then and wonder what made me think I was so fat?! I really wasn't. I look good at 150.
 |
| Sophomore Year 2002 ~150 lbs |
 |
| High School Graduation 2004 (with my parents) ~175 lbs |
 |
| College Graduation 2008 ~200 lbs |
 |
| October 2010
~230 lbs (with The Husband and The Boy) |
One night soon after realizing I really needed to do something about my health and weight, I was up in the wee hours of the morning, nursing The Girl and surfing the web to stay awake. I was getting down about how I was a horrible example for my children. How could I raise two healthy children if I couldn't be healthy myself? In my web browsing, I came across mentions of a website by the name of MyFitnessPal.com and decided to check it out the next morning. Somehow, I remembered to do that. I created an account and started logging my food. I hadn't made it half the day before I realized that something had to change IMMEDIATELY. I couldn't believe I was putting all that in my body! Seeing the numbers just made everything click in my head.
 |
| April 2012 ~190 lbs |
From that day on, I worked on portion sizes, fat intake and exercise. I started small and cut back more when I felt ready. In the past, I had tried to lose weight by either cutting something out of my diet completely or just exercising. I'd never really tried tempering my diet and exercise. The combination of smaller portion sizes, regular exercise and nursing worked wonders for me!
By June, my weight plateaued. Part of it was because I wasn't getting in exercise as much as before, but I also took that time to take a good look at my diet. True, I was doing well with portion sizes, but this time I took a good, hard look at what I was eating. I realized there were way too many carbs & sugars and not nearly enough fresh veggies and fruit. About two weeks ago, I drastically cut bad carbs and refined sugars. I refuse to cut anything out completely because that just makes me want it more! If I tell myself that I can still have it, just few and far between, I'm fine and rarely crave it. Go figure! Since I made the cut, I have lost another 10 pounds and am only a little over 20 lbs from my goal weight of 150!
Since I started my health lifestyle change in November, I have lost 47 pounds and went from a size 20 to a 14 (though I'm starting to fit into some 12s now)! More than the weight, though, I feel better about myself. I feel like I'm actually living life, not merely watching it pass by. I have more confidence and am genuinely more happy. Not just because I think I look prettier. That helps, but it's more because I am so happy and proud that I kept at it. I didn't give up a month into it. I am actually taking care of myself. I feel like I am finally a good example for my children and that, in truth, is the best reason of all.
 |
| July 15, 2012 ~173 lbs |
Sunday, July 8, 2012
A Year in Review
I looked at the calendar this morning and the date seemed familiar. It wasn't until I was in the shower that I realized why. A year ago today, I became a stay at home mom. My last day of work was July 7, 2011 and it's been quite a ride since! In the last year, I've grown as a mom, a wife and my own person.
Staying home full-time forced me to take a long, hard look at myself and I wasn't impressed with what I saw. I had an almost non-existent relationship with my son. Being pregnant since he was 9 months old didn't help that. He became a complete Daddy's boy and cried when I held him. I was pretty much chopped liver as far as he was concerned.
During that time, I felt like a horrible wife. I always seemed to be stressed and irritable. We share one car between us and so, even though I only worked part-time, I drove hours a day after our son was born. I would drive The Husband to work, drive home, get ready for work, drive The Boy to my in-laws or other babysitters (30 min away) and then drive to work (another 20 min). After work, it was the same, just in reverse. Did I mention I hate driving? We wouldn't get home until 6:30 and both of us were too exhausted to make dinner. Or clean. Or do laundry. All I wanted to do was eat something, put The Boy to bed, unwind for an hour or so and go to bed. I worked all day on Saturday and we spent the day at The Husband's parents' house every Sunday, so it felt like we never saw each other.
I also didn't take care of myself as well as I should and I ate like crap. Well, I'd eaten unhealthily most of my life, but it got really bad those last couple of years before I became a stay at home mom.
In the last year, much of the above has changed for the better. I'm not all there because life is a journey and these things take time (how many cliches can I use in one sentence?) However, I feel that I've made a significant positive turn in my life as a whole.
I feel that I'm a much better parent to The Boy than I was when I was working. I had been distant, stressed and preoccupied. I feel a little guilty that The Girl has had the 'better' mom all along, but I've managed to mend my relationship with The Boy and he's much more open and loving toward me. It gives me warm fuzzies just thinking about it.
I also love the fact that I am here to see my children grow and learn new things. It's an amazing experience and I am so thankful that I am able to witness and be so much apart of their lives. There are always bad days, even weeks, where I wondered if I was crazy to leave my job and stay with my kids. I'm not a 'kid person'...and sometimes they baffle me or get on my last nerve. That's when I remind myself just how stressed I was when I was working - and that was only with one child!
I feel that my relationship with The Husband has gotten stronger since I started staying home full-time. I have time to do all the things that I couldn't before and we actually eat at a decent time now! He helps around the house when it gets ahead of me (which is nearly always) and then we have time to actually spend time together.
More than my relationships with my children and my husband, staying home full-time has forced me to take a long, hard look at myself. I didn't like what I saw. I was unhealthy and had let it get out of control and it was affecting everything in my life. I was lethargic and miserable. It wasn't until November that I decided to do something about it. I decided to take it a day at a time; exercise three times a week and work on eating smaller portion sizes. I started the next day and haven't looked back. I've been much more active and felt a hell of a lot more healthy, happy and proud of myself than I have in a very, very long time. On a purely weight-type win, I just recently hit one of my major goals of passing the 'Obese' to merely 'overweight' (my BMI, that is) category. More on that in another post, though.
So, here is to another year of positive growth. I'm looking forward to what it brings.
Staying home full-time forced me to take a long, hard look at myself and I wasn't impressed with what I saw. I had an almost non-existent relationship with my son. Being pregnant since he was 9 months old didn't help that. He became a complete Daddy's boy and cried when I held him. I was pretty much chopped liver as far as he was concerned.
During that time, I felt like a horrible wife. I always seemed to be stressed and irritable. We share one car between us and so, even though I only worked part-time, I drove hours a day after our son was born. I would drive The Husband to work, drive home, get ready for work, drive The Boy to my in-laws or other babysitters (30 min away) and then drive to work (another 20 min). After work, it was the same, just in reverse. Did I mention I hate driving? We wouldn't get home until 6:30 and both of us were too exhausted to make dinner. Or clean. Or do laundry. All I wanted to do was eat something, put The Boy to bed, unwind for an hour or so and go to bed. I worked all day on Saturday and we spent the day at The Husband's parents' house every Sunday, so it felt like we never saw each other.
I also didn't take care of myself as well as I should and I ate like crap. Well, I'd eaten unhealthily most of my life, but it got really bad those last couple of years before I became a stay at home mom.
In the last year, much of the above has changed for the better. I'm not all there because life is a journey and these things take time (how many cliches can I use in one sentence?) However, I feel that I've made a significant positive turn in my life as a whole.
I feel that I'm a much better parent to The Boy than I was when I was working. I had been distant, stressed and preoccupied. I feel a little guilty that The Girl has had the 'better' mom all along, but I've managed to mend my relationship with The Boy and he's much more open and loving toward me. It gives me warm fuzzies just thinking about it.
I also love the fact that I am here to see my children grow and learn new things. It's an amazing experience and I am so thankful that I am able to witness and be so much apart of their lives. There are always bad days, even weeks, where I wondered if I was crazy to leave my job and stay with my kids. I'm not a 'kid person'...and sometimes they baffle me or get on my last nerve. That's when I remind myself just how stressed I was when I was working - and that was only with one child!
I feel that my relationship with The Husband has gotten stronger since I started staying home full-time. I have time to do all the things that I couldn't before and we actually eat at a decent time now! He helps around the house when it gets ahead of me (which is nearly always) and then we have time to actually spend time together.
More than my relationships with my children and my husband, staying home full-time has forced me to take a long, hard look at myself. I didn't like what I saw. I was unhealthy and had let it get out of control and it was affecting everything in my life. I was lethargic and miserable. It wasn't until November that I decided to do something about it. I decided to take it a day at a time; exercise three times a week and work on eating smaller portion sizes. I started the next day and haven't looked back. I've been much more active and felt a hell of a lot more healthy, happy and proud of myself than I have in a very, very long time. On a purely weight-type win, I just recently hit one of my major goals of passing the 'Obese' to merely 'overweight' (my BMI, that is) category. More on that in another post, though.
So, here is to another year of positive growth. I'm looking forward to what it brings.
Friday, June 22, 2012
TV and Me
Growing up, television was never a large part of my life. Even when we had a television, we rarely had cable. We had three channels: PBS, Local News (WMUR) and a random channel (21) that had older shows and, at one point, changed and became PAX TV (shows with more of a Christian theme). The only time in my young life I remember having cable TV was when on of Dad's brothers came to live with us while he was going through a divorce. I'm assuming he was used to having cable and paid for it. Needless to say, we didn't watch much while he was there because he was paying for it. After he left, though, there was some time before it went away. Because of that, I have a very small window of '90s cartoons/TV show knowledge.
At some point in my early teens, Mom & Dad got cable again. Well, we got cable Internet and Dad figured out that you could plug the cable into the TV and it gave you basic cable. Probably borderline illegal, but we figured if it was, they'd find a way to stop you from being able to do that. That said, we had cable again! I liked TV, but it never really did much for me. I had a few shows that I was addicted to. Matlock was my main obsession (yes, Matlock). I'm sure I watched TV more than I remember, but it wasn't worth fighting my other 4 siblings over what to watch. I'd much rather fight over using the computer.
All this to say, about the time I was in high school, I helped convince my parents to get rid of the TV. Partially because it was a distraction to me and I didn't see the point in keeping it around. Mostly because every time I started climbing the stairs up to the TV room, Josiah would rush to change the channel. In my overly-nosy way couldn't tell if it was because he was watching something he wasn't supposed to (something too old for him) or something he was embarrassed to be caught watching (like Barney). Either way, I told Mom we should get rid of the TV and lo and behold, it disappeared soon after. I went the rest of high school blissfully free of television.
Once I got to college, it was a whole different story. I was lonely at college. I'd gone from a house where there was constant noise and talking to...well, a dorm room where I was often alone. I missed my family and I missed feeling connected. I started to watch TV a lot in order to avoid feeling lonely. Oddly enough, it made me feel connected to the outside world. By my junior year in college, I had my own room and stayed up late watching TV a lot because I didn't want to turn it off and feel alone. I've never been able to fall asleep with the TV on like some people can, so I'd just stay half-awake...in a stupor, not wanting to turn it off, but desperately wanting to sleep.
After I got married, the need to constantly have the TV on dwindled a lot. We liked (and still like) to watch shows and movies together, but I didn't feel the need to have it on at all hours because I didn't feel lonely. Once I started to stay home with the kids, however, that changed a little. At first, I was careful to only use the TV when I needed it. Having a TV to plop The Boy in front of when The Girl was first born was a life saver for me. It was also nice because there were actual people using actual words on the screen, so it made me feel less alone. However, he got used to watching it more and more and then full out became addicted to it. Curious George, Blues Clues, Beauty & the Beast, The Lion King...the list could go on and on with TV shows and movies that could fill an entire day. He'd beg and plead to watch them and I'd cave because I was overwhelmed and could use the break. When I didn't cave, a full on tantrum came. Every. Single. Time. Crying, pleading, yelling, rolling on the ground. The works.
More recently, I started trying to cut back on The Boy's TV time because it was getting to be too much. The first words out of his mouth every morning became "TD?" (he can't quite say 'v' yet..) and then there was the inevitable tantrum when The Husband or I said no. I hated that our days started out on a bad note because of TV. I hated that, even when I caved and let him watch a show, he threw a tantrum when it was over and I wouldn't let him watch anymore and then again an hour later when he asked to watch TV. It was a constant throughout the day. "TD?" "TD?" "TD?"
Sigh.
Finally, I realized that as long as the television was in sight and I was unable to take away the option of watching TV, The Boy was going to incessantly beg for it. I talked this over with The Husband and asked if he was okay with me moving it to our bedroom. This was the only option as a place to move it where a door could conceal it since we live in a small 2 bedroom apartment and we obviously couldn't move the TV to the kids' room.
Moving the TV to our bedroom presented a few issues. First of all, our bedroom is already pretty crowded. It not only houses our bed and dresser, but anything we want to be able to close the door on but get to easily...including my treadmill and The Husband's keyboard & music stand. Also, The Girl naps in a pack n play in our room during her afternoon nap because The Boy naps in their room at the same time (they don't nap well in the same room), so there's a pack n play set up at all times. Other than the practical "where would we put the TV?!" other, more selfish issues arose. Because The Girl naps in our room, I wouldn't be able to have my afternoon relax-and-catch-up-on-some-shows time during the kids' nap. Unless I wanted to watch them on the computer. Also, I go to bed much earlier than The Husband does, so he'd have to give up his night-time video gaming on the nights I hit they hay early.
After weighing the pros and cons with The Husband, I decided I would give it a go. I had the brilliant idea of moving The Husband's keyboard out of our room and setting it up in the place where the TV had been. While I was moving things around, The Boy was a bit distraught. When I put the keyboard where the TV had been, he was downright angry. Once I turned the keyboard on, he jumped up on the chair and joyfully played piano for hours with no mention of TV at all! Once he had his fill of the piano, he got down and started playing with the toys he had ignored for the most part in the past. It was a complete 180 and I am still amazed how fast he transformed.
I moved the TV two days ago. The Boy still asks for 'TD' and 'Blue' (Blues Clues is his current obsession) a few times a day, but he's generally okay once I say no. No more crazy tantrums...just little bouts of self-pity and then it's over and he's off playing with his toys, bringing a book over for me to read to him or playing on the keyboard. Not only have I noticed he's being more creative and in an overall better mood with the TV out of sight, I find that I am, too. I don't have the crutch of just turning the TV on when I need a few minutes of calm anymore. I'm more inclined to play with the kids and interact with them now that the TV isn't as readily accessible. I'm also in a much better mood all day because I'm not constantly telling my child 'no TV' and then dealing with the aftermath.
I'm not one to say that TV is evil or that you shouldn't ever let children watch TV. I'm fine with it in moderation. I even let The Boy watch an episode of Blues Clues today while I cut his fingernails (the kid seriously can't sit still while I do that unless he's watching TV!), but once it was over, I was able to turn the TV off, shoo him and The Girl out of the room and close the door. No fuss, no meltdown. Life went on.
Moving the TV out of the living-room is one of the better decisions I've made as a mother. I only wonder why I didn't think of it sooner.
At some point in my early teens, Mom & Dad got cable again. Well, we got cable Internet and Dad figured out that you could plug the cable into the TV and it gave you basic cable. Probably borderline illegal, but we figured if it was, they'd find a way to stop you from being able to do that. That said, we had cable again! I liked TV, but it never really did much for me. I had a few shows that I was addicted to. Matlock was my main obsession (yes, Matlock). I'm sure I watched TV more than I remember, but it wasn't worth fighting my other 4 siblings over what to watch. I'd much rather fight over using the computer.
All this to say, about the time I was in high school, I helped convince my parents to get rid of the TV. Partially because it was a distraction to me and I didn't see the point in keeping it around. Mostly because every time I started climbing the stairs up to the TV room, Josiah would rush to change the channel. In my overly-nosy way couldn't tell if it was because he was watching something he wasn't supposed to (something too old for him) or something he was embarrassed to be caught watching (like Barney). Either way, I told Mom we should get rid of the TV and lo and behold, it disappeared soon after. I went the rest of high school blissfully free of television.
Once I got to college, it was a whole different story. I was lonely at college. I'd gone from a house where there was constant noise and talking to...well, a dorm room where I was often alone. I missed my family and I missed feeling connected. I started to watch TV a lot in order to avoid feeling lonely. Oddly enough, it made me feel connected to the outside world. By my junior year in college, I had my own room and stayed up late watching TV a lot because I didn't want to turn it off and feel alone. I've never been able to fall asleep with the TV on like some people can, so I'd just stay half-awake...in a stupor, not wanting to turn it off, but desperately wanting to sleep.
After I got married, the need to constantly have the TV on dwindled a lot. We liked (and still like) to watch shows and movies together, but I didn't feel the need to have it on at all hours because I didn't feel lonely. Once I started to stay home with the kids, however, that changed a little. At first, I was careful to only use the TV when I needed it. Having a TV to plop The Boy in front of when The Girl was first born was a life saver for me. It was also nice because there were actual people using actual words on the screen, so it made me feel less alone. However, he got used to watching it more and more and then full out became addicted to it. Curious George, Blues Clues, Beauty & the Beast, The Lion King...the list could go on and on with TV shows and movies that could fill an entire day. He'd beg and plead to watch them and I'd cave because I was overwhelmed and could use the break. When I didn't cave, a full on tantrum came. Every. Single. Time. Crying, pleading, yelling, rolling on the ground. The works.
More recently, I started trying to cut back on The Boy's TV time because it was getting to be too much. The first words out of his mouth every morning became "TD?" (he can't quite say 'v' yet..) and then there was the inevitable tantrum when The Husband or I said no. I hated that our days started out on a bad note because of TV. I hated that, even when I caved and let him watch a show, he threw a tantrum when it was over and I wouldn't let him watch anymore and then again an hour later when he asked to watch TV. It was a constant throughout the day. "TD?" "TD?" "TD?"
Sigh.
Finally, I realized that as long as the television was in sight and I was unable to take away the option of watching TV, The Boy was going to incessantly beg for it. I talked this over with The Husband and asked if he was okay with me moving it to our bedroom. This was the only option as a place to move it where a door could conceal it since we live in a small 2 bedroom apartment and we obviously couldn't move the TV to the kids' room.
Moving the TV to our bedroom presented a few issues. First of all, our bedroom is already pretty crowded. It not only houses our bed and dresser, but anything we want to be able to close the door on but get to easily...including my treadmill and The Husband's keyboard & music stand. Also, The Girl naps in a pack n play in our room during her afternoon nap because The Boy naps in their room at the same time (they don't nap well in the same room), so there's a pack n play set up at all times. Other than the practical "where would we put the TV?!" other, more selfish issues arose. Because The Girl naps in our room, I wouldn't be able to have my afternoon relax-and-catch-up-on-some-shows time during the kids' nap. Unless I wanted to watch them on the computer. Also, I go to bed much earlier than The Husband does, so he'd have to give up his night-time video gaming on the nights I hit they hay early.
After weighing the pros and cons with The Husband, I decided I would give it a go. I had the brilliant idea of moving The Husband's keyboard out of our room and setting it up in the place where the TV had been. While I was moving things around, The Boy was a bit distraught. When I put the keyboard where the TV had been, he was downright angry. Once I turned the keyboard on, he jumped up on the chair and joyfully played piano for hours with no mention of TV at all! Once he had his fill of the piano, he got down and started playing with the toys he had ignored for the most part in the past. It was a complete 180 and I am still amazed how fast he transformed.
I moved the TV two days ago. The Boy still asks for 'TD' and 'Blue' (Blues Clues is his current obsession) a few times a day, but he's generally okay once I say no. No more crazy tantrums...just little bouts of self-pity and then it's over and he's off playing with his toys, bringing a book over for me to read to him or playing on the keyboard. Not only have I noticed he's being more creative and in an overall better mood with the TV out of sight, I find that I am, too. I don't have the crutch of just turning the TV on when I need a few minutes of calm anymore. I'm more inclined to play with the kids and interact with them now that the TV isn't as readily accessible. I'm also in a much better mood all day because I'm not constantly telling my child 'no TV' and then dealing with the aftermath.
I'm not one to say that TV is evil or that you shouldn't ever let children watch TV. I'm fine with it in moderation. I even let The Boy watch an episode of Blues Clues today while I cut his fingernails (the kid seriously can't sit still while I do that unless he's watching TV!), but once it was over, I was able to turn the TV off, shoo him and The Girl out of the room and close the door. No fuss, no meltdown. Life went on.
Moving the TV out of the living-room is one of the better decisions I've made as a mother. I only wonder why I didn't think of it sooner.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
The Elusion of Sleep
Well, I suppose I should write a post seeing as I didn't last week. Call it writer's block, apathy, exhaustion or just being a mom, but every time I sit down to write, there's just...nothing.
I have been extremely tired lately. Madeleine is teething and James is well, a two-year-old. Add that to my sudden inability to fall asleep before 11 pm despite going to bed early and the fact that I'm still trying to balance my 'new' healthy diet - it just makes for one very tired Sarah. When I'm tired, I get irritable. Needless to say, I've been a ray of sunshine lately! It's all I can do to keep a forward momentum during the day. Coffee is my friend. Iron is not. In that I can't seem to digest enough of it.
I now understand how my mom could fall asleep mid-sentence while reading to us as children. We used to absolutely hate it. The three of us (before Sam & Josiah came along, obviously) would crowd around Mom as she led the way into a fantasy land through magical act of reading and then, always during the most exciting scene, she'd fall asleep! One of us would shake her awake and say, "What happened next?!" and she'd rouse herself awake enough to read about another paragraph before dropping off again. Then the next child would shake her awake and so on and so forth. After a little while, we decided it would be best if Jesse just learned to read and took over for her.
Unlike my mother, I don't actually fall asleep. I just really, really, really want to. I seem to have the opposite problem. I'm so tired that I can't sleep. Not even at night when I force myself to go to bed early. I just lay there and...can't sleep.
I'm sure that this too shall pass.
I won't always have little ones and I am trying my hardest to enjoy every moment I have with them despite my exhaustion. Yesterday, we played with 'goo' made from cornstarch and water. James wasn't too sure about it. He didn't like the way it felt on his hands, but he had a blast finding things to stick in it (and then loved trying to un-stick them!). Madeleine thought it was delicious. I can't imagine that it tasted all that scrumptious, but she seemed to think differently.
We've been exploring outside every chance we get and I love watching James and Madeleine starting to play together. Not only is it adorable, but it gives me a chance to relax for a second and not have to be 'on' all the time! And we read. Oh, how we read! Both of my children absolutely love books. They love it when Mommy and Daddy read to them and they love 'reading' to themselves.
Speaking of, I'm going to go read to my children now - and do my best not to fall asleep!
I have been extremely tired lately. Madeleine is teething and James is well, a two-year-old. Add that to my sudden inability to fall asleep before 11 pm despite going to bed early and the fact that I'm still trying to balance my 'new' healthy diet - it just makes for one very tired Sarah. When I'm tired, I get irritable. Needless to say, I've been a ray of sunshine lately! It's all I can do to keep a forward momentum during the day. Coffee is my friend. Iron is not. In that I can't seem to digest enough of it.
I now understand how my mom could fall asleep mid-sentence while reading to us as children. We used to absolutely hate it. The three of us (before Sam & Josiah came along, obviously) would crowd around Mom as she led the way into a fantasy land through magical act of reading and then, always during the most exciting scene, she'd fall asleep! One of us would shake her awake and say, "What happened next?!" and she'd rouse herself awake enough to read about another paragraph before dropping off again. Then the next child would shake her awake and so on and so forth. After a little while, we decided it would be best if Jesse just learned to read and took over for her.
Unlike my mother, I don't actually fall asleep. I just really, really, really want to. I seem to have the opposite problem. I'm so tired that I can't sleep. Not even at night when I force myself to go to bed early. I just lay there and...can't sleep.
I'm sure that this too shall pass.
I won't always have little ones and I am trying my hardest to enjoy every moment I have with them despite my exhaustion. Yesterday, we played with 'goo' made from cornstarch and water. James wasn't too sure about it. He didn't like the way it felt on his hands, but he had a blast finding things to stick in it (and then loved trying to un-stick them!). Madeleine thought it was delicious. I can't imagine that it tasted all that scrumptious, but she seemed to think differently.
We've been exploring outside every chance we get and I love watching James and Madeleine starting to play together. Not only is it adorable, but it gives me a chance to relax for a second and not have to be 'on' all the time! And we read. Oh, how we read! Both of my children absolutely love books. They love it when Mommy and Daddy read to them and they love 'reading' to themselves.
Speaking of, I'm going to go read to my children now - and do my best not to fall asleep!
Friday, June 1, 2012
Biology of a Dream
The Husband had vacation last week - thus the lack of a post from me. We didn’t stay anywhere for the week, but had a really good time at home with a couple of day trips thrown in there. It just so happened that both trips we took were to ocean-themed places: the New England Aquarium and Ordiorne Point/Seacoast Science Center. Both the Boy and the Girl absolutely LOVED our trips - especially the sea creatures. Even at ten months, the Girl was enthralled with the fish as big as her swimming by and she couldn’t get enough of the penguins. The Boy loved the fish as well - but was most obsessed with the sea turtles. Both the Husband and I loved watching our children revel in this new world they had discovered.
This got me thinking: I absolutely love the ocean and the creatures that live in it. There was a time in my life that I really wanted to be a dolphin trainer. I think it was my first real ‘what I want to be when I grow up’ dream. You know, the first one after ‘president’ or ‘astronaut’.
So, yes. I wanted to train dolphins at Sea World when I was a teenager. I was smart enough to know that you don’t just go to ‘dolphin training’ school and assumed that meant I’d have to go to school for marine biology. Before I got to college, however, I realized the chances of me actually training dolphins at Sea World were slim to none. After that, all I could envision for my life with a degree in marine biology was field research - spending weeks on a boat and then coming home and begging corporations/businesses/government for sponsorship. I’m not sure why I didn’t think that there might be an in-between type job, but either way that sounded terrifying to me, so I gave up my dream for one a little more practical.
Music.
Those who know me know how well that turned out!
I got so caught up in my failure at pursuing music that I never really gave marine biology a thought when it all came crashing down. Well, that’s being gracious. It’s hard for something that never got off the ground to ‘come crashing down’.
Suffice it to say, I didn’t go back to my old dream. It honestly never occurred to me. I enrolled into college undeclared. I went to my first Gen Ed class - World History - and was so taken by the professor’s enthusiasm for the subject and amazed at how it was presented (you mean our assignment is to read people’s journals?! Awesome!) and the rest is, well, history.
I love history.
I majored in history.
I would never consider myself a history buff. Or geek. Or nerd.
I love being able to see how people thought. What drove them to make the decisions they did. How it affected those around them and the world at large. I have never been, nor do I ever expect to be one of those people that can discuss the finer points of the Battle of Gettysburg or tell you the exact (and, sadly, general) date something significant occured. I’m sure I knew it at one point. I’m sure I even got it right on a test in school. I just don’t have the memory for it. I can barely remember what date semi-significant events happened in my own life, much less those not pertaining to me.
Throughout college, I found myself awed and slightly jealous of my classmates who were history buffs and seemingly knew everything about whatever subject the professors were talking about. I knew the basics. Probably less. I avoided history throughout middle and high school, ironically. I didn’t like the writing, so I avoided it like the plague. In college, I knew what I had read for that class or was researching for my paper and that was about it. It seemed like all the other History Majors spent all their free time soaking up as much history as they could. They’d talk about the documentary they’d seen or history book they’d read. To be completely honest, the only documentary I will seek out to watch are ones about the ocean or sea life. I’ll watch others if they’re on or someone else is already watching one, but they just don’t interest me enough.
All that to say, going to the aquarium and Ordiorne Point this past week got me thinking. I love the ocean. Although I glad I went the History route in college and would never give up that experience and friendships I made along the way, there is a part of me that is sad I didn’t give marine biology a chance. There is a little part of me that still would like to test it out and see how it fits.
Maybe that’s what I’ll do when the kids grow up.
This got me thinking: I absolutely love the ocean and the creatures that live in it. There was a time in my life that I really wanted to be a dolphin trainer. I think it was my first real ‘what I want to be when I grow up’ dream. You know, the first one after ‘president’ or ‘astronaut’.
So, yes. I wanted to train dolphins at Sea World when I was a teenager. I was smart enough to know that you don’t just go to ‘dolphin training’ school and assumed that meant I’d have to go to school for marine biology. Before I got to college, however, I realized the chances of me actually training dolphins at Sea World were slim to none. After that, all I could envision for my life with a degree in marine biology was field research - spending weeks on a boat and then coming home and begging corporations/businesses/government for sponsorship. I’m not sure why I didn’t think that there might be an in-between type job, but either way that sounded terrifying to me, so I gave up my dream for one a little more practical.
Music.
Those who know me know how well that turned out!
I got so caught up in my failure at pursuing music that I never really gave marine biology a thought when it all came crashing down. Well, that’s being gracious. It’s hard for something that never got off the ground to ‘come crashing down’.
Suffice it to say, I didn’t go back to my old dream. It honestly never occurred to me. I enrolled into college undeclared. I went to my first Gen Ed class - World History - and was so taken by the professor’s enthusiasm for the subject and amazed at how it was presented (you mean our assignment is to read people’s journals?! Awesome!) and the rest is, well, history.
I love history.
I majored in history.
I would never consider myself a history buff. Or geek. Or nerd.
I love being able to see how people thought. What drove them to make the decisions they did. How it affected those around them and the world at large. I have never been, nor do I ever expect to be one of those people that can discuss the finer points of the Battle of Gettysburg or tell you the exact (and, sadly, general) date something significant occured. I’m sure I knew it at one point. I’m sure I even got it right on a test in school. I just don’t have the memory for it. I can barely remember what date semi-significant events happened in my own life, much less those not pertaining to me.
Throughout college, I found myself awed and slightly jealous of my classmates who were history buffs and seemingly knew everything about whatever subject the professors were talking about. I knew the basics. Probably less. I avoided history throughout middle and high school, ironically. I didn’t like the writing, so I avoided it like the plague. In college, I knew what I had read for that class or was researching for my paper and that was about it. It seemed like all the other History Majors spent all their free time soaking up as much history as they could. They’d talk about the documentary they’d seen or history book they’d read. To be completely honest, the only documentary I will seek out to watch are ones about the ocean or sea life. I’ll watch others if they’re on or someone else is already watching one, but they just don’t interest me enough.
All that to say, going to the aquarium and Ordiorne Point this past week got me thinking. I love the ocean. Although I glad I went the History route in college and would never give up that experience and friendships I made along the way, there is a part of me that is sad I didn’t give marine biology a chance. There is a little part of me that still would like to test it out and see how it fits.
Maybe that’s what I’ll do when the kids grow up.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Holidays and Traditions
I love holidays. I love celebrating as many as I possibly can. I love decorating and buying my kids gifts. I love getting together with family and creating memories and starting traditions with my new little family. Growing up, my parents weren’t into celebrating most holidays. I’m sure most of it had to do with lack of funds, but it also had a lot to do with my parents’ beliefs and convictions of faith. My parents also tend to lean toward the practical as opposed to the sentimental. Add those together and it leaves a decent hole in holiday traditions. Our general holiday tradition was not having one.
Let me give you a ‘quick’ rundown of a typical year in holidays throughout my childhood:
We never celebrated New Year’s Eve as far as I can remember. I think we went to church events occasionally. The only one I specifically remember was ringing in the year 2000.
We didn’t celebrate Easter - other than going to church, which we did every week anyway, so nothing super special. We didn’t do the Easter Bunny, Easter baskets or Easter egg hunts. They were pagan. We didn’t do pagan in our house. There was one year I remember waking up on Easter Sunday to a small basket of goodies and a Bible with my name inscribed on the cover. I thought it might be the start of something new, but the next year - nothing. Ah well.
We did celebrate Mother’s and Father’s Day by making the respective parent breakfast in bed - which generally consisted of an omelet, toast and coffee.
Occasionally, we could coax our parents into taking us to the fireworks on the 4th of July. It never ended well. My family is not known for their love of driving - especially in bad traffic - and my father is the worst offender. After the beautiful display of fireworks, we were always treated with a tension-riddled ride home in crawling, barely-moving traffic. Oh, the memories.
The most celebrated holiday in our household was Thanksgiving. There was always lots of good, homemade food my mom made and more often than naught, some extended family or good family friends. I have nothing but good memories from my childhood Thanksgivings. Maybe because there’s nothing I expected out of it. Well, except really good food and those rolls with the three bumps. My mom stopped making those a while ago and I miss them so much. Back to my point. Thanksgiving, more than any other holiday for me, was about good friends and good food. There were no presents expected (or given), so no disappointment was possible.
Halloween. I literally had to come back and add this part in because I forgot it existed. We never celebrated it. Ever. In any way. Well, there were probably one or two church ‘fall festivals’ that just so happened to coincide with trick or treating. However, it was a pagan holiday. As I explained in Easter...my family didn’t do pagan. The kids in school were always horrified that I didn’t trick or treat. I felt kind of sad, but not so much after they gave me some of their candy out of pity. Pity candy is still candy. Even better, I didn’t have to dress up in silly costumes and beg for it door-to-door.
Christmas was an interesting holiday in my family. Every Christmas, my parents would announce that they weren’t going to get a tree that year. What was the point? To this day, I’m not completely sure if they were just trying to get a rise out of us or really not planning to get a tree. They always gave in and got one and set it up last minute. I found out this past year that it was actually a Swedish tradition they were following - setting the tree up on Christmas Eve. It probably would have helped if they explained that to us. They might have. I probably just forgot. I do that a lot.
My parents were also very adamant about the whole ‘Jesus is the reason for the season' when it came to celebrating Christmas. We didn’t do Santa. To the point where I distinctly remember seeing a classmate crying off by himself during recess in 2nd or 3rd grade and asked him what was wrong. He told me, through a tear-stained face that he just found out Santa didn’t exist. I looked blankly at him and asked, “Who’s Santa?” Needless to say, I just made him cry more.
So, that’s the general run-down of the holiday celebrations of my childhood. Or lack thereof.
Let me quickly add that my husband’s family is about as opposite from this as can be possible.
They are very into celebrating holidays and have a lot of family traditions surrounding them. Sometimes I get a little down because my family isn’t as into traditions as his because I LOVE celebrating holidays and I’d love it even more if I could do so with my family. Or, in the very least, bring some of my childhood traditions into our new little family.
It’s not that my family didn't have any traditions; just not in conjunction with holidays. Old Sturbridge Village was a long-standing tradition throughout my childhood. My parents would buy a family membership and we’d make the couple-hour trek down a few times every year. We would mosey oh-so-slowly through the first few buildings and finally make it to the general store - where we were allotted between $1-$2 each (depending on how rich our parents were feeling) to get whatever we wanted. It was usually stick candy because that was the cheapest and, therefore, we could get the most. Mom and Dad would get a coffee and a cookie. I’d always look at their cookies and wonder why I didn’t just use my money for one. I didn’t really like stick candy all that much. Cookies were much better. I'd get a cookie next time. When the next time came around, I’d get stick candy again because, well...you could get more!
After sitting outside the general store eating our treats, we’d continue on to the Towne House and then over the covered bridge and beyond. If we were lucky, they’d be running the horse-drawn shuttle tours and we’d go on that all the way around. We’d skip rocks in the pond and watch the sawmill (or “WooshWoosh, as Sam liked to call it). By the time we got to the Freeman Farm and potter, my feet were usually killing me. But I didn’t care - those were my favorite. I loved watching the woman bake in the kitchen and the potter make beautiful containers out of blobs of clay.
At some point in the day (usually around 1 or 2), it would be lunch time. Thought there is a tavern inside OSV that serves food, it was always a little steep for our whole family, so we’d head back to the car and pull out our trusty cooler full of food. It was tradition to have egg salad sandwiches, cookies, chips and warm soda. II’m sure there were healthy foods in there, too.
After lunch, we’d head back in and explore all the places we’d missed the first time around - always exiting at the garden and the clock room. It was tradition. In a way, OSV was my own personal Santa Clause. I still remember the day I realized the people didn’t actually live there. It was like finding out Santa didn’t exist.
Last weekend, my family went to Old Sturbridge Village for the first time since 2002 (it’s true - I looked it up. I have pictures to prove it, Dad!). A lot has changed in our family since then. Most importantly, weddings and children. It took my family months to find a date that everyone could go. Even then, there were two who couldn’t make it. My husband was on a road trip to a good friend’s wedding and my sister’s hands were tied with work and previous promises she’d made.
Though my husband wasn’t there, I loved spending the day with my children, parents and siblings - reveling in old traditions and creating some new ones. I spend so much time celebrating holidays with my husband’s childhood traditions that it felt really good to share some of my childhood traditions with my kids. The Boy LOVED the horses, sheep, cattle and chickens. And running. Especially after the chickens. He loved not having to hold someone’s hand all the time and just exploring. The Girl was a little young yet, but she loved snuggling up with me and looking around when she wasn’t sleeping.
I can’t wait to go back in the years to come - hopefully as an entire family (large or small) - continuing a tradition that is as good as any holiday.
Let me give you a ‘quick’ rundown of a typical year in holidays throughout my childhood:
We never celebrated New Year’s Eve as far as I can remember. I think we went to church events occasionally. The only one I specifically remember was ringing in the year 2000.
We didn’t celebrate Easter - other than going to church, which we did every week anyway, so nothing super special. We didn’t do the Easter Bunny, Easter baskets or Easter egg hunts. They were pagan. We didn’t do pagan in our house. There was one year I remember waking up on Easter Sunday to a small basket of goodies and a Bible with my name inscribed on the cover. I thought it might be the start of something new, but the next year - nothing. Ah well.
We did celebrate Mother’s and Father’s Day by making the respective parent breakfast in bed - which generally consisted of an omelet, toast and coffee.
Occasionally, we could coax our parents into taking us to the fireworks on the 4th of July. It never ended well. My family is not known for their love of driving - especially in bad traffic - and my father is the worst offender. After the beautiful display of fireworks, we were always treated with a tension-riddled ride home in crawling, barely-moving traffic. Oh, the memories.
The most celebrated holiday in our household was Thanksgiving. There was always lots of good, homemade food my mom made and more often than naught, some extended family or good family friends. I have nothing but good memories from my childhood Thanksgivings. Maybe because there’s nothing I expected out of it. Well, except really good food and those rolls with the three bumps. My mom stopped making those a while ago and I miss them so much. Back to my point. Thanksgiving, more than any other holiday for me, was about good friends and good food. There were no presents expected (or given), so no disappointment was possible.
Halloween. I literally had to come back and add this part in because I forgot it existed. We never celebrated it. Ever. In any way. Well, there were probably one or two church ‘fall festivals’ that just so happened to coincide with trick or treating. However, it was a pagan holiday. As I explained in Easter...my family didn’t do pagan. The kids in school were always horrified that I didn’t trick or treat. I felt kind of sad, but not so much after they gave me some of their candy out of pity. Pity candy is still candy. Even better, I didn’t have to dress up in silly costumes and beg for it door-to-door.
Christmas was an interesting holiday in my family. Every Christmas, my parents would announce that they weren’t going to get a tree that year. What was the point? To this day, I’m not completely sure if they were just trying to get a rise out of us or really not planning to get a tree. They always gave in and got one and set it up last minute. I found out this past year that it was actually a Swedish tradition they were following - setting the tree up on Christmas Eve. It probably would have helped if they explained that to us. They might have. I probably just forgot. I do that a lot.
My parents were also very adamant about the whole ‘Jesus is the reason for the season' when it came to celebrating Christmas. We didn’t do Santa. To the point where I distinctly remember seeing a classmate crying off by himself during recess in 2nd or 3rd grade and asked him what was wrong. He told me, through a tear-stained face that he just found out Santa didn’t exist. I looked blankly at him and asked, “Who’s Santa?” Needless to say, I just made him cry more.
So, that’s the general run-down of the holiday celebrations of my childhood. Or lack thereof.
Let me quickly add that my husband’s family is about as opposite from this as can be possible.
They are very into celebrating holidays and have a lot of family traditions surrounding them. Sometimes I get a little down because my family isn’t as into traditions as his because I LOVE celebrating holidays and I’d love it even more if I could do so with my family. Or, in the very least, bring some of my childhood traditions into our new little family.
It’s not that my family didn't have any traditions; just not in conjunction with holidays. Old Sturbridge Village was a long-standing tradition throughout my childhood. My parents would buy a family membership and we’d make the couple-hour trek down a few times every year. We would mosey oh-so-slowly through the first few buildings and finally make it to the general store - where we were allotted between $1-$2 each (depending on how rich our parents were feeling) to get whatever we wanted. It was usually stick candy because that was the cheapest and, therefore, we could get the most. Mom and Dad would get a coffee and a cookie. I’d always look at their cookies and wonder why I didn’t just use my money for one. I didn’t really like stick candy all that much. Cookies were much better. I'd get a cookie next time. When the next time came around, I’d get stick candy again because, well...you could get more!
After sitting outside the general store eating our treats, we’d continue on to the Towne House and then over the covered bridge and beyond. If we were lucky, they’d be running the horse-drawn shuttle tours and we’d go on that all the way around. We’d skip rocks in the pond and watch the sawmill (or “WooshWoosh, as Sam liked to call it). By the time we got to the Freeman Farm and potter, my feet were usually killing me. But I didn’t care - those were my favorite. I loved watching the woman bake in the kitchen and the potter make beautiful containers out of blobs of clay.
At some point in the day (usually around 1 or 2), it would be lunch time. Thought there is a tavern inside OSV that serves food, it was always a little steep for our whole family, so we’d head back to the car and pull out our trusty cooler full of food. It was tradition to have egg salad sandwiches, cookies, chips and warm soda. II’m sure there were healthy foods in there, too.
After lunch, we’d head back in and explore all the places we’d missed the first time around - always exiting at the garden and the clock room. It was tradition. In a way, OSV was my own personal Santa Clause. I still remember the day I realized the people didn’t actually live there. It was like finding out Santa didn’t exist.
Last weekend, my family went to Old Sturbridge Village for the first time since 2002 (it’s true - I looked it up. I have pictures to prove it, Dad!). A lot has changed in our family since then. Most importantly, weddings and children. It took my family months to find a date that everyone could go. Even then, there were two who couldn’t make it. My husband was on a road trip to a good friend’s wedding and my sister’s hands were tied with work and previous promises she’d made.
Though my husband wasn’t there, I loved spending the day with my children, parents and siblings - reveling in old traditions and creating some new ones. I spend so much time celebrating holidays with my husband’s childhood traditions that it felt really good to share some of my childhood traditions with my kids. The Boy LOVED the horses, sheep, cattle and chickens. And running. Especially after the chickens. He loved not having to hold someone’s hand all the time and just exploring. The Girl was a little young yet, but she loved snuggling up with me and looking around when she wasn’t sleeping.
Everyone enjoying their treats outside the General Store.
The Girl, The Boy, my Mom and Me enjoying a stylish carriage ride.
I can’t wait to go back in the years to come - hopefully as an entire family (large or small) - continuing a tradition that is as good as any holiday.
Friday, May 11, 2012
I Wish They All Could be California Moms
In light of it being Mother’s Day on Sunday, I decided to share about my mom and, inevitably, my dad. I apologize to any of my readers who also read my Brother's blog as there is bound to be some crossover (since he wrote about our parents this week).
My mom got married the same month she turned 19 and then proceeded to move across the country from California to New Hampshire with her new husband - a man she had known about a year before marrying. They were engaged after about two weeks of dating and married 6 months later.
My Dad was 5 years her senior, in the Navy and had a...questionable...past. My mom only had one boyfriend before Dad and was about as naive as one can be. She was even voted by her high school “Most LIkely to become a nun.” If I was friends with my mom at that time in her life, I would have told her he was bad news and to keep looking (I’m pretty sure family members did). I’m glad she didn’t. I would not have been born. My 3 brothers and 1 sister would not have been born either.
31 years later, they are still married. Not to say that they haven’t had their rough patches. What couple married for that long hasn’t? But they have always taken their promise to love and cherish each other through good times and bad very seriously. I’d say two major things have kept them together in the hardest of times and brought them closer during the good times: their love of God and love of music. These loves are what, as their daughter, I see as the foundation their relationship is built upon.
Soon after they moved across country, my mom gave birth to my oldest brother. She went back to work for two weeks and couldn’t stand being away from him, so my parents made the decision for her to stay home full time. It’s a good thing, too, because within the next two-and-a-half years, she had given birth to three children! There was a bit of a break in the childbearing after that. I’m not sure if Dad thought they were done, but I know Mom knew they weren’t because she had been praying back before she was pregnant with her third child and felt God tell her that she would have her ‘Samuel’. So, when she found out she was pregnant, she was sure it was her Samuel. So, when a screaming baby girl was born, she was a bit surprised. You’d think I would have a complex after being told this story countless times, but I really don’t mind being a Sarah instead of a Samuel. And I don’t feel that she was sad I wasn’t a boy. She still got her Samuel - four years later. He’s the favorite. Not my Mom’s favorite (she’s been amazing at not showing favoritism at all), but everyone’s favorite. But now I’m not only getting off topic, I’m encroaching on Josiah’s blog even more than anticipated.
Growing up with my mom at home was amazing. I absolutely loved my childhood. We lived on the edge of State Forests and would spend hours walking the paths to the river, picking blackberries or just exploring. We built forts in the back yard with fallen (and felled) trees, and swung from wild grape vines (not kidding - it was AWESOME!) like Tarzan. These are things that we would not have had time to do if we were in daycare all day. At least, not to the degree that we did.
I am so glad that my mom was not a helicopter mom. She was very laid back and let us play so long as it wasn’t obviously life-endangering. She also let us be kids. We got dirty and messy and then proceeded to trudge through the house, sit on the couch and be generally oblivious of the mess we were making. Mom’s attitude was, “meh, it’ll wash out,” or, “That’s what vacuuming/sweeping/ect is for.” Which we did. A lot. At least, the three oldest of us. My mom made sure to teach us how to clean properly. We had chores. Lots of chores. I thank God that she taught us how to clean because that has come in handy now that I have my own place.
My mom also made sure that we had a very musical childhood. My two older siblings had piano lessons and we were all in children’s choir growing up. I loved singing and making up dances to music at home. Mom always had music playing during the day. I now understand more than ever why she did this. It can keep you from going stir crazy while staying home with little kids! She also sang ALL THE TIME. There was one time that my sister and I woke up to her singing...in a microphone...past midnight. I’m pretty sure we got up and told her to knock it off (in the nicest way, of course). She didn’t just sing at home, though. She sang while grocery shopping and running errands. Sometimes I loved it, other times it embarrassed the hell out of me. I’m still on the fence about it, though I catch myself humming to my children while being out and about.
Mom and Dad assumed our family was complete with their four children. However, four years after Samuel was born, we were all surprised by the arrival of my parents’ fifth and final child. the wild child, Josiah. My mom had a bit of a rough time after he was born because she was homeschooling the three oldest of us and chasing Sam around. Josiah was born smack dab at the end of August (which, anyone who knows public schools in the Northeast knows that’s when school starts). This was a pivotal time in my mom’s life...and my parents’ marriage. Up until then, she had been trying as hard as she could to fill the role as ‘perfect mother’ and ‘perfect wife’ (not to mention teacher) and it all came crashing down after Josiah was born. Not necessarily because of Josiah. I think having a fifth child at that time of the year was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.
My grandma came out to help with the children, but had to go back to California after a couple of weeks. She wisely saw that my mom wasn’t ready to be left alone with five children in her state, so she drove my mom and all five kids to my aunt’s house in Missouri. We lived there until Christmas and started going to public school while my mom recuperated and my parents worked through their issues long-distance. As an eight-year-old, I didn’t realize how strong my Mom had to have been to finally come to terms with her shortcomings and the fact that she couldn’t force herself to be someone she wasn’t. After years of trying, she essentially told my father, “This is who I am and what you can expect from me. Take it or leave it.” I can’t imagine how scary that must have been. Especially with five kids! To my father’s credit, he accepted this and they worked things out.
Soon after Josiah was born, my dad got laid off. I’m not completely sure when this was exactly. It feels like it was right after we came home from Missouri, but it was probably a few years later. Either way, Dad had no job and Mom had no post-high school education. My parents made the tough decision that it was time my mom started working outside the home. She went to school to get her CNA license and started working in various nursing homes. Sadly, she worked 2nd shift, so we didn’t see much of her. It fell to the oldest three of us to help keep the house running, which included watching the two younger boys.
As much as I would have loved to see my younger brothers have the same childhood I did, I know my mom did what she had to do to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. I admire her for plunging back into the workforce and still managing to be an amazing, supportive mother to her five children.
As we grew, my mom encouraged us to find our various passions in life. To find out who we were, what we wanted out of life and to take chances. She refused to tell us what to do in various situations. That’s not to say she wouldn’t listen to our concerns or talk decisions through with us, but her inevitable response when we asked her what to do was, “Pray about it.” Whether or not we actually did pray about it, I think her pushing us to make our own decisions about the paths in life we chose to take helped us become the unique individuals we are.
There wasn’t much my parents wouldn’t let us do. If it was something they didn’t agree with or had an issue with, they’d let us know their stance and then let us make our own decision. They’d rather us make a mistake while we were still living at home and have a support system in place to help us back on our feet than to make us wait till we were out on our own and have nowhere to turn when things went south.
Now, all five of us are grown up and out of the house. We are each our very own person with our unique personality but all love each other very much. This is largely due to our very unique, loving mother who made sure to raise five distinct, creative and music-loving children.
I love you, Mom!
My mom got married the same month she turned 19 and then proceeded to move across the country from California to New Hampshire with her new husband - a man she had known about a year before marrying. They were engaged after about two weeks of dating and married 6 months later.
My Dad was 5 years her senior, in the Navy and had a...questionable...past. My mom only had one boyfriend before Dad and was about as naive as one can be. She was even voted by her high school “Most LIkely to become a nun.” If I was friends with my mom at that time in her life, I would have told her he was bad news and to keep looking (I’m pretty sure family members did). I’m glad she didn’t. I would not have been born. My 3 brothers and 1 sister would not have been born either.
31 years later, they are still married. Not to say that they haven’t had their rough patches. What couple married for that long hasn’t? But they have always taken their promise to love and cherish each other through good times and bad very seriously. I’d say two major things have kept them together in the hardest of times and brought them closer during the good times: their love of God and love of music. These loves are what, as their daughter, I see as the foundation their relationship is built upon.
Soon after they moved across country, my mom gave birth to my oldest brother. She went back to work for two weeks and couldn’t stand being away from him, so my parents made the decision for her to stay home full time. It’s a good thing, too, because within the next two-and-a-half years, she had given birth to three children! There was a bit of a break in the childbearing after that. I’m not sure if Dad thought they were done, but I know Mom knew they weren’t because she had been praying back before she was pregnant with her third child and felt God tell her that she would have her ‘Samuel’. So, when she found out she was pregnant, she was sure it was her Samuel. So, when a screaming baby girl was born, she was a bit surprised. You’d think I would have a complex after being told this story countless times, but I really don’t mind being a Sarah instead of a Samuel. And I don’t feel that she was sad I wasn’t a boy. She still got her Samuel - four years later. He’s the favorite. Not my Mom’s favorite (she’s been amazing at not showing favoritism at all), but everyone’s favorite. But now I’m not only getting off topic, I’m encroaching on Josiah’s blog even more than anticipated.
Growing up with my mom at home was amazing. I absolutely loved my childhood. We lived on the edge of State Forests and would spend hours walking the paths to the river, picking blackberries or just exploring. We built forts in the back yard with fallen (and felled) trees, and swung from wild grape vines (not kidding - it was AWESOME!) like Tarzan. These are things that we would not have had time to do if we were in daycare all day. At least, not to the degree that we did.
I am so glad that my mom was not a helicopter mom. She was very laid back and let us play so long as it wasn’t obviously life-endangering. She also let us be kids. We got dirty and messy and then proceeded to trudge through the house, sit on the couch and be generally oblivious of the mess we were making. Mom’s attitude was, “meh, it’ll wash out,” or, “That’s what vacuuming/sweeping/ect is for.” Which we did. A lot. At least, the three oldest of us. My mom made sure to teach us how to clean properly. We had chores. Lots of chores. I thank God that she taught us how to clean because that has come in handy now that I have my own place.
My mom also made sure that we had a very musical childhood. My two older siblings had piano lessons and we were all in children’s choir growing up. I loved singing and making up dances to music at home. Mom always had music playing during the day. I now understand more than ever why she did this. It can keep you from going stir crazy while staying home with little kids! She also sang ALL THE TIME. There was one time that my sister and I woke up to her singing...in a microphone...past midnight. I’m pretty sure we got up and told her to knock it off (in the nicest way, of course). She didn’t just sing at home, though. She sang while grocery shopping and running errands. Sometimes I loved it, other times it embarrassed the hell out of me. I’m still on the fence about it, though I catch myself humming to my children while being out and about.
Mom and Dad assumed our family was complete with their four children. However, four years after Samuel was born, we were all surprised by the arrival of my parents’ fifth and final child. the wild child, Josiah. My mom had a bit of a rough time after he was born because she was homeschooling the three oldest of us and chasing Sam around. Josiah was born smack dab at the end of August (which, anyone who knows public schools in the Northeast knows that’s when school starts). This was a pivotal time in my mom’s life...and my parents’ marriage. Up until then, she had been trying as hard as she could to fill the role as ‘perfect mother’ and ‘perfect wife’ (not to mention teacher) and it all came crashing down after Josiah was born. Not necessarily because of Josiah. I think having a fifth child at that time of the year was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.
My grandma came out to help with the children, but had to go back to California after a couple of weeks. She wisely saw that my mom wasn’t ready to be left alone with five children in her state, so she drove my mom and all five kids to my aunt’s house in Missouri. We lived there until Christmas and started going to public school while my mom recuperated and my parents worked through their issues long-distance. As an eight-year-old, I didn’t realize how strong my Mom had to have been to finally come to terms with her shortcomings and the fact that she couldn’t force herself to be someone she wasn’t. After years of trying, she essentially told my father, “This is who I am and what you can expect from me. Take it or leave it.” I can’t imagine how scary that must have been. Especially with five kids! To my father’s credit, he accepted this and they worked things out.
Soon after Josiah was born, my dad got laid off. I’m not completely sure when this was exactly. It feels like it was right after we came home from Missouri, but it was probably a few years later. Either way, Dad had no job and Mom had no post-high school education. My parents made the tough decision that it was time my mom started working outside the home. She went to school to get her CNA license and started working in various nursing homes. Sadly, she worked 2nd shift, so we didn’t see much of her. It fell to the oldest three of us to help keep the house running, which included watching the two younger boys.
As much as I would have loved to see my younger brothers have the same childhood I did, I know my mom did what she had to do to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. I admire her for plunging back into the workforce and still managing to be an amazing, supportive mother to her five children.
As we grew, my mom encouraged us to find our various passions in life. To find out who we were, what we wanted out of life and to take chances. She refused to tell us what to do in various situations. That’s not to say she wouldn’t listen to our concerns or talk decisions through with us, but her inevitable response when we asked her what to do was, “Pray about it.” Whether or not we actually did pray about it, I think her pushing us to make our own decisions about the paths in life we chose to take helped us become the unique individuals we are.
There wasn’t much my parents wouldn’t let us do. If it was something they didn’t agree with or had an issue with, they’d let us know their stance and then let us make our own decision. They’d rather us make a mistake while we were still living at home and have a support system in place to help us back on our feet than to make us wait till we were out on our own and have nowhere to turn when things went south.
Now, all five of us are grown up and out of the house. We are each our very own person with our unique personality but all love each other very much. This is largely due to our very unique, loving mother who made sure to raise five distinct, creative and music-loving children.
I love you, Mom!
Friday, May 4, 2012
Archiving Memories
I find it ironic that I’m an extremely sentimental person, but I have the absolute worst memory of anyone I’ve ever met. Seriously, it’s scary how bad my memory is. I half-jokingly tell the Husband that he won’t realize I have alzheimer's until it’s too late because my memory is already so bad. I’m pretty sure he secretly agrees with me. Through the years, I’ve stored my memories through keeping mementos, taking lots of photos and journaling.
I used to keep everything remotely sentimental in shoe boxes in my closet when I was younger. Ticket stubs, random party favors I received, and lots of random knick knacks that meant something to me but probably just looked like junk to everyone else. As I grew up and started to fear that I would become a pack rat, I forced myself to go through said boxes and weed out anything with which I couldn’t attach a specific memory. Soon, I became painfully aware that I was doing a disservice to such precious mementos by keeping them in ugly shoe boxes (plus, I’m pretty sure my sister complained to me about all the ugly boxes in our closet), that I decided to upgrade to nice memory boxes. Being too young to have any disposable income, I asked for some for Christmas. My siblings looked at me in horror as I opened empty boxes that Christmas and was absolutely thrilled! They asked me what was inside and, when I said, “Nothing. They’re boxes to put things in,” they just looked at me like I was crazy and went back to building their Legos. I still keep mementos, though not with the fervor I did when I was ten . As I grew older, photos and journaling took over most of my memory keeping. They take up much less space!
I love pictures for the memories they hold. I’m not necessarily good at taking pictures, but I take a LOT to make up for that. I figure, the more I take, the better the odds are that one of them is bound to come out decent. The problem is, I have trouble bringing myself to delete any. Thank God for digital photography! I can’t imagine how much money I’d be wasting if it was all film!
I take a lot of photos in a row figuring that I’ll weed out the bad ones and have one or two from that particular pack as keepers. When it comes time to hit that ‘delete’ button, I grow weak. What if that is the specific look in my child’s face that I’m looking for later in life? What if the other photos don’t catch the nuance quite the same way? I’ve finally been forcing myself to weed out the out-of-focus and obviously bad ones. I’m a tad embarrassed to admit that it’s been a very emotional time for me.
Taking lots of pictures as often as I remember to is my antidote for a bad memory. Not only do they carry sentimental memories, the pictures act as much of a reference. When I can’t remember how old the Boy was when he took his first steps, I just look for the pictures I took. The digital date stamp is a life saver! I’m not talking about the ugly orange stamp you can choose to have your camera stamp on the front of your photo, but the one that is in the picture’s digital data. I love that I can just click on a photo in my computer and see what date it was taken. There are a few people who have taken photos of events that I was unable to photograph or was too busy being in to take myself (wedding, children’s first few days, etc) and they were very kind and gave me the photos. I’m not sure if their cameras dates weren’t set right or the files lose something in editing, but some dates were off by the year...others are just out there. I have some photos that claim to be from 1970! I wasn’t even alive in 1970! Luckily, most of those events are pretty much ingrained in my memory, so there’s no question in my mind of when they occurred.
Before I had a camera to capture my memories and archive my life, I journaled on an impressively regular basis. I slowed down in college and have pretty much stopped at this point in my life. I think I write in my journal about twice a year. I do miss it. There is something cathartic about just getting everything out on paper and then looking at it from outside your brain. It definitely takes more work than just snapping a picture or two (or 100) and there is more of my actual thoughts and memories in journaling than photography. And this is why I choose the latter over the former more often than not.
Up until I started this blog, I have always written faster and more fluidly on paper than the computer. In college, I wrote all of my outlines and rough drafts on lined paper. I felt more at home with that medium because of my journaling. I was rather surprised and a bit saddened when I realized that I now think better while typing than writing. My brain also works so erratically and I forget (only to remember later) what I wanted to write or expand on that it is much more conducive to be able to go back a few sentences and interject an idea...or switch around paragraphs. All that to say, I realized soon after starting this blog that it is my new way of journaling. A bit more public, so therefore a bit more guarded, but it feels good to get my thoughts out of my head and onto ‘paper’.
I used to keep everything remotely sentimental in shoe boxes in my closet when I was younger. Ticket stubs, random party favors I received, and lots of random knick knacks that meant something to me but probably just looked like junk to everyone else. As I grew up and started to fear that I would become a pack rat, I forced myself to go through said boxes and weed out anything with which I couldn’t attach a specific memory. Soon, I became painfully aware that I was doing a disservice to such precious mementos by keeping them in ugly shoe boxes (plus, I’m pretty sure my sister complained to me about all the ugly boxes in our closet), that I decided to upgrade to nice memory boxes. Being too young to have any disposable income, I asked for some for Christmas. My siblings looked at me in horror as I opened empty boxes that Christmas and was absolutely thrilled! They asked me what was inside and, when I said, “Nothing. They’re boxes to put things in,” they just looked at me like I was crazy and went back to building their Legos. I still keep mementos, though not with the fervor I did when I was ten . As I grew older, photos and journaling took over most of my memory keeping. They take up much less space!
I love pictures for the memories they hold. I’m not necessarily good at taking pictures, but I take a LOT to make up for that. I figure, the more I take, the better the odds are that one of them is bound to come out decent. The problem is, I have trouble bringing myself to delete any. Thank God for digital photography! I can’t imagine how much money I’d be wasting if it was all film!
I take a lot of photos in a row figuring that I’ll weed out the bad ones and have one or two from that particular pack as keepers. When it comes time to hit that ‘delete’ button, I grow weak. What if that is the specific look in my child’s face that I’m looking for later in life? What if the other photos don’t catch the nuance quite the same way? I’ve finally been forcing myself to weed out the out-of-focus and obviously bad ones. I’m a tad embarrassed to admit that it’s been a very emotional time for me.
Taking lots of pictures as often as I remember to is my antidote for a bad memory. Not only do they carry sentimental memories, the pictures act as much of a reference. When I can’t remember how old the Boy was when he took his first steps, I just look for the pictures I took. The digital date stamp is a life saver! I’m not talking about the ugly orange stamp you can choose to have your camera stamp on the front of your photo, but the one that is in the picture’s digital data. I love that I can just click on a photo in my computer and see what date it was taken. There are a few people who have taken photos of events that I was unable to photograph or was too busy being in to take myself (wedding, children’s first few days, etc) and they were very kind and gave me the photos. I’m not sure if their cameras dates weren’t set right or the files lose something in editing, but some dates were off by the year...others are just out there. I have some photos that claim to be from 1970! I wasn’t even alive in 1970! Luckily, most of those events are pretty much ingrained in my memory, so there’s no question in my mind of when they occurred.
Before I had a camera to capture my memories and archive my life, I journaled on an impressively regular basis. I slowed down in college and have pretty much stopped at this point in my life. I think I write in my journal about twice a year. I do miss it. There is something cathartic about just getting everything out on paper and then looking at it from outside your brain. It definitely takes more work than just snapping a picture or two (or 100) and there is more of my actual thoughts and memories in journaling than photography. And this is why I choose the latter over the former more often than not.
Up until I started this blog, I have always written faster and more fluidly on paper than the computer. In college, I wrote all of my outlines and rough drafts on lined paper. I felt more at home with that medium because of my journaling. I was rather surprised and a bit saddened when I realized that I now think better while typing than writing. My brain also works so erratically and I forget (only to remember later) what I wanted to write or expand on that it is much more conducive to be able to go back a few sentences and interject an idea...or switch around paragraphs. All that to say, I realized soon after starting this blog that it is my new way of journaling. A bit more public, so therefore a bit more guarded, but it feels good to get my thoughts out of my head and onto ‘paper’.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Sociable Hermit
At my heart, I’m a hermit. I’m a homebody. I need to be alone. I need ‘me’ time more than naught. However, I also crave interaction with other people. Not just any old conversation, though. I crave understanding and connectedness. I loathe small talk. It baffles me. It’s clunky and awkward for me, though I’m slightly better at it now than I was before. If there’s no real meaning or importance to what I’m talking about, it seems pointless. Why waste my breath?
I’m an introvert. But not. I'm a sociable hermit. I go crazy if I’m alone with my thoughts for too long, but people scare me. Intimidate me. I’m not sure why, but they just do. I assume the worst. I assume that I’m boring them to death with my constant nervous chatter. I assume that what I have to say isn’t nearly interesting enough to be said. There are few people I feel comfortable enough to be myself and talk to in a meaningful way. Yet, when I’m around those people, they can’t get me to shut up. When I get going, I talk too much. Waaaay too much.
Staying home with my two children has proved interesting in this regard. Most of the time, I absolutely love it. I’m home almost all the time, I don’t have a car most days as we only have one and my husband needs that to go to work. So, for all intents and purposes, I’m home-bound with a two-year-old and a 9-month-old. The hermit me embraces it. Loves it. Thrives on it. The social me feels suffocated. Isolated. Trapped. That said, when I start talking to a friend or family member, I have a hard time ending the conversation.
I blame my parents for my social awkwardness. They are hermits. Two hermits who found each other and managed to have five children. Most of whom are also hermitish in their own way. Some more than others. Growing up, I hated staying home. I wanted to go out and do things. Be around people. Spend time with the few friends that I had. There was still an aspect of me that needed alone time, but generally I was the outgoing one in my family. The one who communicated and made sure everyone else communicated while they were happy to be in their own little world.
I remember in high school, my sister and I were both in the nuns’ chorus in the school musical. I loved staying after school for practice because most of my friends were also in the musical. The best part for me was once practice was over and we all just hung out and goofed off until our parents came to pick us up. I would drag my feet once Mom came and keep trying to talk and joke around with my friends. It drove my sister insane. All she wanted to do was go home. That was the last thing I wanted to do.
I’m not sure when I went from more social to more hermit. I think it was probably college. I went into shock in college. There were just so many people and so many strong opinions flying about that I shrunk back inside my shell in record time. I made a few lasting friendships there, though most were my roommates at some point in time. I threw myself into studying and working 3 jobs to stay afloat. I forced myself to get involved in a few clubs in hopes that it’d help me come out of my shell, but it didn’t really work. Mostly, I just wanted to be home. I’ve never missed home that much. I tried to go home every weekend that I didn’t have to work, which was difficult since I didn’t have car. I both loved and hated college. I loved learning and picking the brains of my professors, but I hated being alone all the time. I just couldn’t connect with many of the students there. I was surrounded by thousands of people, but felt isolated.
The isolation I feel now is a different type of loneliness. It’s a temporary kind. I am home. My own home with my own children. The little family my husband and I created. Sometimes I miss having an adult to talk to that can talk back. However, I realize the fun part right now is that I get to do all the talking. The Boy is a tad speech delayed. He’s a little over two and has enough words, sounds and gestures to get his point across. Mostly. So I’m pretty much the only person talking between the hours of 7:30am-5:30pm on weekdays. I know that will change soon enough. I know as my children grow up, they will not only be talking over me, they will be old enough to take out for day trips and play dates more often and easily. Then they will be off at school and I’ll miss the days when we could all be home all day and I could embrace the hermit in me. For now, I will continue to try and get out when I can, keep the radio on and call family and friends to chat when I find a break in my day. Or do this. Blog. It’s not much, but it helps me feel more connected to people. Even if it’s a bit of a one-sided conversation. It gives the social me enough of an outlet to stay sane.
I’m an introvert. But not. I'm a sociable hermit. I go crazy if I’m alone with my thoughts for too long, but people scare me. Intimidate me. I’m not sure why, but they just do. I assume the worst. I assume that I’m boring them to death with my constant nervous chatter. I assume that what I have to say isn’t nearly interesting enough to be said. There are few people I feel comfortable enough to be myself and talk to in a meaningful way. Yet, when I’m around those people, they can’t get me to shut up. When I get going, I talk too much. Waaaay too much.
Staying home with my two children has proved interesting in this regard. Most of the time, I absolutely love it. I’m home almost all the time, I don’t have a car most days as we only have one and my husband needs that to go to work. So, for all intents and purposes, I’m home-bound with a two-year-old and a 9-month-old. The hermit me embraces it. Loves it. Thrives on it. The social me feels suffocated. Isolated. Trapped. That said, when I start talking to a friend or family member, I have a hard time ending the conversation.
I blame my parents for my social awkwardness. They are hermits. Two hermits who found each other and managed to have five children. Most of whom are also hermitish in their own way. Some more than others. Growing up, I hated staying home. I wanted to go out and do things. Be around people. Spend time with the few friends that I had. There was still an aspect of me that needed alone time, but generally I was the outgoing one in my family. The one who communicated and made sure everyone else communicated while they were happy to be in their own little world.
I remember in high school, my sister and I were both in the nuns’ chorus in the school musical. I loved staying after school for practice because most of my friends were also in the musical. The best part for me was once practice was over and we all just hung out and goofed off until our parents came to pick us up. I would drag my feet once Mom came and keep trying to talk and joke around with my friends. It drove my sister insane. All she wanted to do was go home. That was the last thing I wanted to do.
I’m not sure when I went from more social to more hermit. I think it was probably college. I went into shock in college. There were just so many people and so many strong opinions flying about that I shrunk back inside my shell in record time. I made a few lasting friendships there, though most were my roommates at some point in time. I threw myself into studying and working 3 jobs to stay afloat. I forced myself to get involved in a few clubs in hopes that it’d help me come out of my shell, but it didn’t really work. Mostly, I just wanted to be home. I’ve never missed home that much. I tried to go home every weekend that I didn’t have to work, which was difficult since I didn’t have car. I both loved and hated college. I loved learning and picking the brains of my professors, but I hated being alone all the time. I just couldn’t connect with many of the students there. I was surrounded by thousands of people, but felt isolated.
The isolation I feel now is a different type of loneliness. It’s a temporary kind. I am home. My own home with my own children. The little family my husband and I created. Sometimes I miss having an adult to talk to that can talk back. However, I realize the fun part right now is that I get to do all the talking. The Boy is a tad speech delayed. He’s a little over two and has enough words, sounds and gestures to get his point across. Mostly. So I’m pretty much the only person talking between the hours of 7:30am-5:30pm on weekdays. I know that will change soon enough. I know as my children grow up, they will not only be talking over me, they will be old enough to take out for day trips and play dates more often and easily. Then they will be off at school and I’ll miss the days when we could all be home all day and I could embrace the hermit in me. For now, I will continue to try and get out when I can, keep the radio on and call family and friends to chat when I find a break in my day. Or do this. Blog. It’s not much, but it helps me feel more connected to people. Even if it’s a bit of a one-sided conversation. It gives the social me enough of an outlet to stay sane.
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