home alone 5

My husband, Saint Casey, God bless him, has taken my 3 daughters to Ohio for the week. I’M HOME ALONE!!!!!

Why is it so delicious to have the house to myself? Have a couple hours? Let me count the ways:

When I leave my keys or lipstick on the counter they’re there when I come back.

When I get up in the night to pee I don’t step on a lego or a blob of jelly that fell out of a sandwich.

I can hear myself think.

No homework.

No teasing.

I don’t care if we have milk.

I know where the remote is.

I can eat out of the pan.

No one kicks me because I’m snoring.

I can read until I get bored.

I can get bored.

I don’t have to say “No.”

I don’t have to share.

Did I mention sleep?

My kids always ask me if I get lonely or miss them when they’re away. I lie. I say “of course!” The answer is “not really.” Am I a bad mom? I don’t think so but I also don’t care. Honestly. Whatever. I LOVE my week. I need it.

I love it because it is only a week.

The funny thing is I’m so boring when I’m alone. When I fantasize about having time alone my fantasy self does projects. Cleans out the closets. Gets drunk and stays out late with friends. My real home alone self is a slob, sleeps until 10:30, reads Norwegian mystery novels, doesn’t drink much at all (who needs a cocktail when you’re already in heaven?!), doesn’t even leave the house until the Stay’s Pita Chips run out. Left to my own devices I’m completely pathetic (and ecstatic, for the time being).

Who would I be without my husband and kids? Oh dear. I freaking couch potato with wierd knowledge of crime in Oslo but no idea who Lady Gaga is. A woman who hasn’t been projectile vomited on and therefor is under the illusion that she’s in control of her life. A woman who thinks having her keys in the same place she left them is really important. I know better. Any 4-year-old can tell you where your keys are (after all she hid them). She’ll also tell you that you’re “prettyful” and that your dress is “fabriolous”which in itself is worth more than a decent nights sleep.

groundhog year

I know it’s not officially Groundhog Day but in the Bill Murray movie sense isn’t practicallyeveryday GH day when you’re a parent?

As I was trudging up the stairs looking for some missing clothing item for 16th time this morning I was stunned at what a catastrophe our home is. Clothes everywhere. Popcorn on the floor. Boardgames, paper, crayons, dishes. Didn’t I just pick everything up yesterday? There was not one trace of evidence that I had done anything yesterday. For that matter there was no evidence that I had even existed. What did I do all day?

There are subtle differences between yesterday and today. I made 4 unique breakfasts this morning instead of 3. Frances needed a cheeriosmilkandsugar chaser after her “porridge” (cream of wheat). The dishes left over from dinner last night were actually grosser than usual—the chicken had burned in the pan, the gravy was congealed and dried. No one—i.e. me—had soaked the greasy pans. I have a food hangover from stress induced late-night eating. Awesome.

If I had sat on my ass all day yesterday what would today look like? All the picking-up I did has been eradicated. Most of the food I made is gone and all I have to show for it is dishes. I still haven’t paid the bills or responded to all the emails I don’t want to. I went to the store but forgot eggs so I have to go again. I just found out a pitch I worked on and sent out yesterday has gone to someone else. If I could do yesterday over maybe I should just stay in bed?

There has to be a bright side to this. OK, yesterday was a wash (as many days are). It hasn’t been a Groundhog Year has it? Has it? Oh shit. It kinda has.

If you saw a friggin’ photograph of my house last February 10th it would look exactly the same. A mess. A year ago I was starting my little business. It’s still a little business. My kids are still OK, not rock stars but fine. My friend H’s cancer is still around. And so is he.

I guess that’s basically the point. We are still here. I’ve actually started a viable business. My kids are in school not stealing necklaces or flubbing the national anthem. H is helping me pitch a big website job.

The dishes are in the sink and I am not going to wash them until tomorrow.

iknowmoms

the gift of underemployment

As the year ends, I look back at what a year of working at home has done for me. The gains have not been financial. Since both my husband and I started new businesses this year we’ve have a lot less money. Hey, we did well for first-time entrepreneurs but a far cry from the old days of paid vacation and steady paychecks. Nonetheless, I LOVED this year. I feel so blessed to have been able to experience this slowed-down time. I wasn’t a class parent, didn’t make Halloween costumes and rarely picked up my kids from school but I was a calmer, saner, mother. A few highlighted moments:

1. A couple mornings ago, B and F had simultaneous meltdowns. Each wanted me to take them to school--even though it 17 degrees out, they go in opposite directions and their Dad was available. But I did it. Cheerfully (kind of). Last year, I would have had my own meltdown--yelling, whining and bitching about how late I was.

2. I actually enjoyed Christmas shopping this year.

3. As my kids have said more than once “we eat much better dinners since you’re home.”

4. Coffee and lunch with about 45 people I never would have met or caught up with.

5. When F’s doll lost her shoes on the way to school I sucked it up and walked (almost) all the way home to find them. Although I was 1/2 late for an on-site job, I took the shoes back to school.

6. I wrote a couple actual letters this year—and mailed them.

7. I cleaned all the way under the claw foot tub for the second time ever. (The tub’s ten years old)

8. I had more than a couple dinner parties.

9. Way more sex.

10. Oh yeah, I built a website, started a blog, designed my first iPad app, and learned FLASH.

There were less presents under the tree this year. Not such a bad thing. Whether they know it or not, my kids got the gift of their mother’s “presence” after years of half-way-there mom. And I got quality of life--a damn good present.

I heart insomnia

I’ve started to enjoy my sleepless nights.

In my 30s, fter a bad breakup with a boyfriend, I had a really bad period of insomnia. I fought it like crazy which of course just made it worse. I went to bed early, stayed up late, drank wine, ate turkey. Nothing worked and I started to freak out. It got so bad that I was getting depressed from lack of sleep. Then one day my Dad said something that clicked: he told me that when he can’t sleep he does paperwork or cleans his office. The simple matter-of-fact way he said it made me understand that fighting insomnia wasn’t the answer, embracing it is. The next time I couldn’t sleep I did my taxes, something I’d been putting off. I got the whole thing done (ok, this was back in the EZ-form days) and it felt great. The next night when I couldn’t sleep I cleaned. Soon I was sleeping through the night.

For the past couple years I’ve had chronic insomnia. 4 or 5 nights a week I’m awake in the middle of the night, usually between 2 and 4 am. I’ve come to really like it.

For some reason, like those taxes I did years ago, I get things done at 3 am that I can’t get myself to do during the day: answering emails I’ve put off, finding a missing insurance form, cleaning out my purse. Often this time is quite productive, almost like a second wind. I think clearly and with purpose and while I don’t have tons of physical energy, I can sit down and plow through a project or answer a slew of emails. It’s gotten so bad—good?—that I actually put off real work knowing I can get it done the next time I can’t sleep. (Bonus: sending a project to a client at 4:20 am and knowing they’ll think you pulled an all-nighter.)

Of course, sometimes I just read a book which is damn satisfying when you have three kids under age ten.

More than once, I’ve wondered if insomnia isn’t my body’s way of getting me-time that I would never get otherwise. I can count the number of times I’ve been alone in our house—every delicious one. Being wide awake at 3 am is the next best thing: a poor mother’s solution to her crazy-busy life. It’s perfect: absolutely nobody needs me. I’m not neglecting anything because— I’m supposed to be asleep! If I get something done it’s a bonus. My insomnia is truly stolen time. And since I stole it from myself I can spend it any way I like.

training bras

My oldest daughter R got a bra yesterday.

You’re probably thinking tmi but hang in there. There is a reason for my overshare.

Poor R. The youngest in her class, the biggest tomboy EVER, and she gets boobs before any other girl in 5th grade. (well, there is one but she’s a full year older.) Needless to say this was not a happy “development” in our family.

The good news: her best friend M, one of those concave-chested girls, is dying for breasts and leapt at the chance to go shopping and try on bras “just to see what it’s like”. God love M. What could have been a very teary trip to K-mart (killer training bras, btw) turned into a funny, exciting adventure. While R and I investigated the sports bra area looking for the tightest, most t-shirt-like boob smasher/binder, M and my 4-year-old F, headed for the “real” bras, gravitating to the most flashy, styrofoam-like cups they could find. B, my middle daughter, did her middle-child part running back and forth—consoling, offering commentary, eager to make everything nice.

We left with 4 very plain boob diminishers and 2 adorable 30AA boob creators. All 4 girls “dressed up” in bras when we got home.

OK, so where am I going with this? Well, I started thinking about my own first bra and the shopping trip. It was just me and my mom and although it wasn’t a terrible experience it was a bit uncomfortable. Although I had a good relationship with my mom—and a great one now—I didn’t like talking to my mom about private things; it was embarrassing, unnatural. Things were just a lot less open back then.

This got me thinking of how much healthier these conversations are today. I don’t think I've ever seen my mom naked, but since I tend to walk around in my underwear at home my girls have seen just about all of me. I think—hope—that this has made them feel OK about their own bodies. I try to set an example: this is what a woman’s body looks like, no big deal. They ask me questions I would never dreamed of asking my mother. Occasionally the questions are inappropriate and I tell them so but for the most part I’m honest and open and I think this is good. Which is kind of unusual for me.

For the most part, I tend to see their childhood in less than ideal terms compared to mine. I worry that kids today grow up to fast. I hate the loss of innocence, the 10-going-on-20 attitude. I don’t like most of the tv shows a lot of kids watch, the amount of “stuff” they have. I think the computer and other screens take away from the books and imagination-building games I had to come up with. Although they are basically good girls, I don’t like the way my kids talk back and challenge me.

In all this worry and comparison, I’ve missed a benefit to their growing up in 21st century: the emotional connection I have with my girls (and the one they have with their stay-at-home-Dad). They can talk to me in a way that I never could with my mother. I know when one of my daughters is upset. I can read her behavior and take her to a quiet room and get her to tell me what’s wrong. They talk back but that can be part of an open dialogue (right?). Yes, we argue over the stupidity of “Jake and Josh” but it is a conversation and kids are entitled to opinions and (a limited amount) of inane tv.

I’ll never like everything about childhood today but I can say this: when R noticed her breasts growing and was upset about it, I knew. She showed me and we talked about it. She was able to tell me that she didn’t like the changes in her body. So I told R that I had hated getting my period but it was OK after awhile. I never told my mom this.

iknowmoms

on reinventing myself

Who knew that I would be “finding myself ” at 46?!

Not that I really want to; I don’t have a choice. My skills as a print designer and even recently as a website designer are quickly becoming obsolete. I need to learn “interactive design”—and fast. Which I will, and this isn’t a bad thing. I tend to need to be dragged, kicking and screaming into situations that later are life-changing and I think this is one of those times. Yet, going back to school—admittedly just a night course or two—wasn’t in my career plan even two years ago.

Just a couple short years ago I thought I was approaching my “coasting” years—the ones where one has “arrived” career-wise and can rest on past successes. Those days are over. Steve Jobs made this idea impossible for any of us print people.

All my of mentors were able to coast in their later years. They earned their dues and deservedly got to the point in their careers when they could relax and know there would be work for them. Admittedly, I’m just a tiny bit bitter that I’m going to miss this opportunity. Part of me is kind of tired of striving. Frankly, I’m not dying to compete with the 20-something computer whizzes out there. I like designing printed pieces.

On the flip side, there is nothing like seeing your work on a screen. Even my printed pieces in pdf glow with colors that can’t be replicated on paper. Once I get over the old-lady-“Why do things have to change?”-shock, it’ll be great. Learning something new—especially something you’re afraid of—is liberating. I witnessed this recently with my 7-year-old and her bike. Because she was embarrassed, she’d avoided learning to ride it. It had become so big in her mind she became afraid to try. But once she got on, she rode it easily and now wants to bike ride everywhere.

Hopefully, 6 months from now I’ll be posting interactive ideas here—sans training wheels.

iknowmoms

ny circle

I’ve been working on this networking diagram for months, adding names after each meeting (added a client today, thanks to Debbie). The idea started as a way to keep track of contacts (and being a visual gal I had to make it fancy). After a while I was struck by how many women I’ve met in the process of starting this little business. I went back through my notebook and found a few from the beginning stages whom I had forgotten. Definitely a work in progress.

Networking is painful for me. Asking for help is simply not a natural instinct. So the fact that I have a networking circle is something. I started with a small circle of relevant friends/ colleagues, made contacts through them and through these contacts, more. Yeah, I know this is truly networking 101 but you have to realize that I am not a social woman, in fact, I’m downright shy.

The idea that women unknown to me agreed to a meeting just because another woman’s name was in the subject line of my email, is pretty cool. The fact that most of them agreed right away to see me was a relief. And surprising. And gratifying. Most of the meetings resulted in another name or an idea; even if nothing concrete materialized these meetings kept me motivated. If these women were game to have coffee with me my idea must have some merit, right?

Call me crazy—or sexist—but I don’t think men do this for each other. I can’t imagine my husband or one of his friends reaching out to the friend of another guy for help. I can’t hear the words “Hi X, Y says you might be able to help me with my resume.” Admittedly, I married another wallflower so he might not be a strong case study. Something tells me most guys would have a hard time making a diagram like the one above. Let me know if you disagree.

I do know I owe the women I met with. Many of my clients came as a result of this networking. So did the idea for the business itself.

iknowmoms