Tag: Home

9Jun

Stay-at-Home-FEMA

“So,” asks the nice lady at church, “Have you found a job yet? Are you working?”

Huh, I think. There’s no shame in being a stay-at-home-mom, but I always feel guilty admitting to it, as if I’m not pulling my weight in adult society. I don’t want to answer until I’ve shown her my résumé, issued a disclaimer in triplicate, and introduced her to someone’s toddler. Specifically, mine.

Sophie Ruth - What a face on this one

Because, have you met Sophie? This sweet baby of mine has a personality that is one part movie star, two parts hurricane, and fifteen parts trouble. She is the reason I am a stay-at-home-mom rather than a stay-at-home-writer or a stay-at-home-gadabout.

Sophie Ruth - On the table getting into markers while wearing movie star sunglasses

And this is her afternoon schedule:

  1.    Climb onto the bathroom shelf; dump out all the Q-tips
  2.    Spill an entire sippy-cup of water all over the kitchen (how?!); repeat
  3.    Get into the drawer of pony-tail holders; scatter across the bedroom
  4.    Get the candles off my bookshelf; eat one
  5.    Take off her pants and speed-climb onto Natalie’s bunk bed; pee on it
  6.    Steal my makeup; randomly decide which to apply, which to toss, and which to taste
  7.    Climb onto the kitchen table to get into the bag of cookies; take a bite from each
  8.    Turn on MTV; dance
  9.    Get napkins out of napkin holder; strew about kitchen
  10.    Unfold clean clothes; place in laundry basket
  11.    Dump out all the Q-tips again; pee on them
  12.    Scream with joy until someone gives her an ice cream cone; eat it from the bottom up
  13.    Sift through the trash; redistribute around house
  14.    Dump out all the recycling; redistribute around house
  15.    Steal my Microplane zester; lick
  16.    Unpack the lower section of the credenza; run around with a casserole dish
  17.    Ride her dump truck backwards into the kitchen; start the microwave
  18.    Climb into the bathtub; wander the floor in wet socks
  19.    Rearrange furniture so as to reach kitchen counter; dump out bag of sugar
  20.    And pee on it
  21.    Climb on top of the table at which Natalie is coloring; color arms and mouth
  22.    Do three sit-ups next to me; sit on me for the remaining thirty-seven
  23.    Run around the house with a limoncello glass; if anybody notices, throw it

Sophie Ruth - Reading a few books

19 months is adorable and horrifying, and I’ve never worked so hard at any job in my life. I thought teaching was a challenge, but it’s nothing compared to planters overturned on the rug or chocolate smeared across the wall, floor, and hair of a giggling girl. Or potty training. By the end of a normal weekday, our house is petitioning for disaster relief funds and my mind is curled up in bed sucking its thumb. If I’ve managed to edit an article or make it to the grocery store or shower, well… that’s just icing on the supermom cake.

Sophie Ruth - How Sophie twirls

“Well, are you working?” the lady presses.

“No,” I smile. “Not right now.”

15May

Trial Period Has Expired

Adjusting to a new culture is never easy, and there are some quirks to Italy that may always prick under my American skin. The disorganization, for instance. When you show up to an appointment at an Italian hospital, you have to wander the halls and peek into doors until you find your doctor… or at least someone who can find him for you. Or when you need to contact the gas company about an error in your bill, you have to go to their headquarters and stand in a tangled huddle of a line to talk to someone who will inevitably tell you “Come back later.” And those basic permission documents you need to legally stay in the country? They’re held up in some Italian black hole for 1 ½ years (and counting).

The disorganization and bureaucratic laziness certainly top the list of Things That Rankle, but there are plenty of smaller irks:

          How bill-paying is done exclusively at the post office, where long lines make it frustrating for those who want to actually mail something

          How shopping cart wheels swivel at will and must be pushed with full-body strength to avoid collisions

          How the libraries do not have children’s sections

          How awkward run-ins with gypsies, beggars, and peddlers are unavoidable

          How fashion dictates that women navigate even the cobbliest of stone streets in strappy stilettos (I haven’t mastered that skill yet)

However, there is so much utter loveliness to Italian culture, and most of the “quirks” I noticed when first moving here have turned out to be little blessings. Many of them are relational, such as building a rapport with the local pharmacist since we don’t have the option of grabbing medicine off a shelf, or elderly women talking freely (and good-heartedly) about our personal business. I love the way Italy’s easygoing personality translates into holidays every few weeks, national two-hour lunch breaks, and limited store hours (it’s easier to do without a 24-hr Wal-Mart than you’d think!). I’ve even grown to appreciate the lack of air conditioning and clothes dryers; the absence of both gives spacious, breathable air a place of honor in our lives.

I enjoy living in a place where everyone has a bidet, an armoire, and a love of good wine. Where I can take for granted that I will be kissed on both cheeks in greeting and that a hospital stay will treat our wallet gently. Where an attendant will pump my gas and where late night TV guarantees to be insanely amusing. Where laws are flexible and ham is cured and windows are open and parking spaces are subject to imagination and lunch is the big meal and cleavage is always appropriate and roundabouts keep intersections spinning merrily. This is a country I want to know more deeply.

~*~*~

We found our house o’ dreams yesterday. I am afraid to write about it in the same way I was afraid to speak as Dan and I walked through the rooms, squeezing each other’s hand over and over to make sure we were seeing the same thing, terrified someone else was going to snatch it away before we had a chance to sign the contract (okay, so the irrational terror was entirely on my part). But nobody snatched it away. As of one hour ago, it’s ours.

Imagine cozy and airy waltzing together in a gabled hilltop condo. Shiny wood and windows everywhere and a Texas-sized patio with a breathtaking view of downtown. A lush green yard with rose bushes and a darling wooden swing. Three silky dogs for the girls to play with and downstairs (and next door) neighbors we already know. A marble bathtub. A fireplace. Oh, oh, oh. I did not realize one could fall so desperately in love with a house.

We’ll be moving in July (a whole two miles away from our current apartment), and the tedium of packing and changing addresses shines like joy on the horizon. This perfect little dream house is where we will put down roots. I can’t wait to finally be part of a neighborhood community, something a high-rise apartment can never provide. This feels like the end of our trial period—depression, temporary job contract, and cramped living space all traded in for something so much better—and the true beginning of our happy Italian life.

3Jan

Tums for the Soul

Since blogging last, I have:
Baked cookies for everyone we know, and them some.
Taken girls to the doctor for seasonal maladies, discovered the doctor was not in, and tried again the next day. And again the next day. And again…
Finally Skyped a doctor friend in the States at 1 a.m. to find out if we should be panicking over Natalie’s fever or not (Answer: not).
Finished Christmas shopping.
Loaded up on groceries.
Cracked the code of crunchifragilistic caramel corn.
Used up the last of our wrapping paper.
Painted.
Made a mental list of the dumbest holiday song lyrics ever (Winner = Emery’s “God, please make a way for Santa’s sleigh”).
Put Sophie back to bed 4,687,721,003 times.
Concocted a white-chocolate-blood-orange cheesecake that will be the death of all other cheesecakes henceforth, amen.
Hosted Christmas Eve Brunch, complete with Christmas Casserole, games, and intense theological discussions.
Watched our girls open their gifts and hit the ceiling with explosions of sheer joy (a tent! a dollhouse! finger puppets! story books! Legos x 10480!).
Hosted Christmas Dinner, complete with chili, cornbread, and assorted fight-and-make-ups.
Guzzled Delicately sipped three gallons a bit of eggnog.
Read an entire book cover to cover (over the course of three days… but it totally counts).
Edited and uploaded reams of photographs.
Conquered the slopes with my new snowboard.
Worn the same sweater three days in a row.
Rolled sushi with the hubby (a fork may have been necessary at one point… shhh).
Gone on a hot date.
Wound up lost on spaghetti-sized mountain roads in the dark.
Attended two parties.
Swept under the shoe pile (lordy).
Been asked by a new acquaintance if I’m expecting a boy or a girl.
(Note: I am not with child. Not even remotely.)
Eloquently told the new acquaintance, huh?, at which point he dashed away.
Laughed.
Cried.
Laughed.
Cried.
Cried.
Cried.
Cried.
Laughed.
Been kissed by hordes of Europeans in celebration of the New Year.
But not gotten any spumante.
Twisted and shouted.
Participated in Italian group karaoke.
Finally finished a giant puzzle that Dan and I gave up on several years ago.
Climbed Mount Laundry and lived to tell about it.

The one thing I haven’t done is sat down to write, which had a lot to do with the flurry of guests and baked goods and teething Sophies. It also had to do with the stampede toward 2009… life getting off the couch to boogie, and my perspective getting trampled into the chocolate-stained rug. Symptoms of my new year include sweating palms, hair loss, and repeated trips to the chocolate bowl.

I’ve had over a year now to get used to life with two little ones, but I honestly feel more overworked than experienced these days. Soul-searching is limited to five minute bursts between dirty diapers and boiling pasta until my mind is impossibly fragmented and just. wants. sleep. You know that feeling, yes? Last New Year’s Eve, I had inklings of a lush, creative beautyscape ahead, but this year, I’m swerving along a tightrope with a chasm of housewifery below and aspirations obscured by neon signs flashing “Selfish! Selfish!” and “Untalented: YOU!” Miles away from champagne and fireworks, I know.

My belly has been an awful character lately (aside from making people think I’m pregnant, though that is certifiably awful): gnawing at me from the inside-out, tying itself into knots, whispering with clenched teeth that 2009 will be a wasteland. It won’t. I have to believe it won’t, but damned if it doesn’t look just like dirty bathrooms and tumbleweeds from here. Anyone have a burst of inspiration to share? An extra sprinkle of optimism? Some champagne-and-fireworks wishes that I can pop like Tums and transform my stomach from a gremlin to an upstanding citizen again? Because I’m not so good with tightropes, and Mount Laundry’s no longer waiting to break my fall.

19Dec

‘Twas the Friday Before Christmas – LIVE!

3: 49p – Coerce 3-year-old into going potty. Change 1-year-old’s diaper. Tuck both girls into bed with their favorite stuffed animals and a kiss. Resist the urge to shout “I’M FREE!!!” as you close their bedroom door.

4:01p – Turn on your favorite Christmas movie of all time, “Love Actually,” and instantly glow from the loveliness it exudes. Retrieve secret cookie recipes from vault and begin to whisk ingredients while watching Colin Firth. Feel sure Mrs. Claus never had it so good.

4:11p – Hear suspicious noise from girls’ room. Pause movie.

4:12p – Discover 1-year-old has managed to turn on the bedroom lights and is sitting in the Lego bin. Put her back to bed. Stuffed animals, kisses, etc.

4:15p – Restart movie and whip butter as light and fluffy as your heart currently feels. Think jolly thoughts. Occasionally swipe a handful teensy taste of cookie dough.

4:26p – Hear suspicious noise from girls’ room. Turn off mixer. Pause movie.

4:27p – Discover 1-year-old sitting in a pile of books, rapturously tearing out pages. Put her back to bed with stuffed animals and admonishments. Pretend not to notice her springing up as you shut the door.

4:30p – Restart movie. Line baking sheets with parchment paper, roll cookies, and deposit in the oven. Sit down to start on secret sparkly elf tasks.

4:39p – Hear suspicious noise from girls’ room. Pause movie. Think bad words.

4:40p – Discover 1-year-old halfway up the ladder to her sister’s bunk bed. (Sister is giggling uncontrollably and egging her on.) Tuck her back in bed with mild threats.

4:43p – Restart movie. Have a hard time concentrating on elfin responsibilities with all the crashes and shouts of glee coming from the girls’ room. Remove first of 400 batches of Christmas cookies from the oven.

4:51p – Can no longer ignore the sounds of merriment issuing from the girls’ room. Pause movie. Say bad words.

4:52p – Discover 3-year-old hanging off the top bunk and 1-year-old dancing a jig on top of her toy dumptruck. Notice a decidedly un-festive odor surrounding her. Escort 3-year-old to the potty and change 1-year-old’s diaper. Identify with the Grinch. Strongly.

4:58p – Duct-tape 1-year-old into bed. Agree to let 3-year-old, who says she is not tired, not at all tired, in fact she has never been less tired, can’t she stay up, pleeeeeeaaaase? play quietly on the living room floor amidst the remnants of your Christmas spirit.

5:01p – Eject movie. Retrieve sense of humor. Turn on holly-jolly dancing tunes and bake the remaining 399 batches of cookies with the sweetest (and most talkative!) 3-year-old helper this side of the North Pole. Dream up Christmas goodies for favorite husband and daughters and know with certainty that Mrs. Claus never had it so good.

17Dec

Christmas Shovels

It’s perfectly normal to have a violent allergic reaction to the sound of coughing, yes? To feel your sanity slowly dismembered with every raspy bark? To fantasize about intubating your sweet sick daughter who can’t stop coughing any more than she can stop being three, but still… THERE ARE LIMITS TO HUMAN ENDURANCE.

Christmas preparations are in full swing—piles of presents to wrap, photos to edit, a solid ton of cookie dough chilling on the balcony—but every time I think of tackling a project, I run smack-dab into a shovel (name that book/film!). First, I smashed my thumb into smithereens. (It continues to leak interesting substances and sulk in its room listening to emo.) Then, a shelf corner deliberately planted itself in the path of my forehead. Oh yes, I also got mild food poisoning after a delightful lunch with relatives of a well-known Italian actress who is married to a well-known French actor (10 points if you figure out who!). Dan’s been sick, Sophie’s sprouting molars*, and now poor Miss Natalie is home sick. COUGHING. This holiday is seriously doomed.

* About that, teething bites. Hehe.

11Dec

Dramatic License

Husband, gently: “Aren’t you being just a wee bit dramatic?”

Me, dramatically: “NO! See that gray glob on the kitchen floor? Those are Sophie’s lungs that she screamed out this morning, and next to it are two-thirds of the thumb I slammed in the car door earlier. And next to THAT are the shredded remains of any talent I used to possess, and of course the enormous puddle seeping under the fridge is my sanity.”

I am never anything but strictly literal, you see.

One particular Thursday, over six years ago, Dan sat down in a senior college class lovingly dubbed “Stupid English” and asked the girl next to him if she was having any fun. The girl, who was at that moment being introduced as the class tutor, allegedly told him “Shhhh.” I have no recollection of doing such a thing, but I do remember looking forward to every Thursday morning thereafter. (It had less to do with the Stupid English and more to do with the Future Husband, though I wouldn’t have admitted that at first.)

“Stupid Thursday” has since lived up to its name. The first year of our marriage, we began to notice increasingly stupid things happening each Thursday. Tripping in public, food burning, cars dying, bread landing butter-side-down. By now, catastrophes are a common Thursday occurrence. Today, it was a rusty hacksaw of a molar boring through Sophie’s gums, my thumb discovering just how flat it can get, and Natalie’s lovely flower-shaped Danish Butter Cookies melting to a gooey mess in the oven… not to mention lesser ills like all dropping my keys in the rain while my arms were already full and my freshly-bloodied thumb was screaming obscenities… or all the dirty silverware being dumped out by a family member (no names, but “Sophie” does come to mind)… or stovetop spills or stains on clean clothes or an entire half-chewed banana ending up under the kitchen table.

It is such a relief that days like this are in no way related to my gross incompetence or the inherent need of toddlers to create disasters. No, it’s merely Stupid Thursday, which 1] gives me unlimited license to be dramatic (not that I ever am. ahem.), and [2] means that tomorrow is Not A Thursday. Joy!

4Dec

Ducks AWOL

It’s a little after midnight, and I really should be in bed. If a 24-hour virus hadn’t made bed a necessity, my 8 a.m. dentist appointment tomorrow certainly should… but I can’t pull myself off the couch just yet. It’s been a hard couple of days. On Monday, Sophie snuggled up to me on the rocking chair and sweetly threw up 15 gallons of curdled milk. I came down with it yesterday around lunch, then Natalie at bed time last night, then Dan this morning, and I would just about trade my soul for a sick day right now. Just one day to settle into my skin without dishes piling up or little tears to wipe. Paid leave to hibernate under the covers and figure out who the heck I am again.

I feel as though my reserves of mothering strength have worn down over the last few weeks through rainy days and too many bouts of sickness, but mommies can’t be pansies. No, every bit of strength goes by instinct to the girls, which means other things suffer—marriage, health (ha!) career aspirations (ha2!). Nothing is terrible right now… just a little frayed. Too tired to exercise, too tired to write, too tired to fully engage my mind with my husband’s, too tired to shut down the computer and go to bed already.

When I was in school, autumn never lagged like this. A little by late November, sure, but there were always still tidy typed deadlines and bursts of knowledge to keep my mind churning along.  Without that pressure, without someone dictating most of my time to me, I feel grossly incapable. I come up with aspirations for myself, then divide them by two little daughters, then subtract housecleaning duties, then lower them by several degrees of self-esteem… and still I can never seem to reach. It sure looks a lot like failure around here.

This isn’t exactly how I wanted this year to end. I guess I supposed that 2008 was going to be the year I would get my ducks in a row… but here I am, and one of those ducks is lost somewhere under the couch, and one is partying in Bali, and one drowned just four hours ago under a deluge of preschool vomit, and six are wearing cool glasses in NYC getting published without me, and one tiny one is pecking around in the fridge for something resembling food. The ducks, they’re decidedly NOT in a row, and I’m not sure how okay I am with that. I can’t get to officially living my life until they are, right?

Probably not. I’ve always like John Lennon’s quote, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans,” though I kind of hate it when it applies to me. I enjoy my plans working from time to time… but I’m pretty sure that nothing—plans or life or ducks-getting-in-a-row—is going to happen tonight. Perhaps I should get myself tucked responsibly into bed to get some of that sleep I keep complaining about not having, eh?


P.S. – If you like getting surprises in your mailbox, the holiday goodie from my last entry still stands!

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