Who am I?

12 years ago today was my last day teaching high school English. We had school conferences that day, shortened classes, and minimal Saint Patty's hoopla.

I went home, waddled around a while, and went to bed, only to be awakened by my water breaking in the middle of the night. Tom scrambled to find a tarp to protect the upholstery of our new minivan from my leaky self. I, of course, told him to get a grip and get me the heck to the hospital.

But this post isn't about Tom, or about my sweet baby born 12 years ago tomorrow, or how I lost the 52 lbs of baby weight. It's about me.

12.
A dozen.
YEARS.

How can it be 12 years since I've taught school? That's more than a decade. Do I still call myself a teacher? Should I? Do I have the right?

I taught for 6 years, yet have been "semi-retired" for 12. Now I work part-time at a church, but teaching plays no role in that position.

Was this all part of a master plan that Tom and I formulated in the 90's? Have 2 kids, stay home for a decade, then go back to work part-time? No, like a lot of things, it just kind of happened that way.

It wasn't that I was terribly opposed to having someone else watch Jake for me, but with Tom's insane hours at work and our limited support system, I just couldn't figure out how to SWING it, even part-time. It all just seemed like so MUCH.

A second master's degree to become a librarian fell by the wayside when I couldn't figure out how to care for a constantly nursing child and still attend classes.

Even though I never considered it then, and just plunged into a wonderful decade of staying home, now I wonder if I am comfortable being so dependent on my husband's income, a situation not so very different from that of my mother, who married in 19 flipping SIXTY-THREE.

If I had kept on teaching, I would be making $75,000 by now. Going back tomorrow would earn me far less, but not nearly as little as I make at my part-time job, which pays for the groceries. Almost.

6 years teaching, 12 years not.

This makes me think of other milestones. Like being a daughter who has been alive longer without a mother than with one.

I think of the past and the future.

I think of planning and intentionality.

I have friends who PLANNED out their lives: how many kids, how big a house by which year, etc., in the same amount of time Tom and I took to decide whether we should get a pillow top mattress (no). They had goals. They looked at the big picture, not just the day to day. And of course, as we all know, not all of those plans came to fruition, but many did.

But life happens whether we plan for it or not. Sometimes life happens despite our plans.

I tend to live in the land of inertia, feeling that life happens TO me. I've realized, at age 41, that this is not the way I want to live.

I think rather than a life of planning, however, I yearn for a life of intentionality. What would I like the future to look like? My friendships? My family relationships? My faith? My career? How can I make a difference in the world? How do I get there from here?

I would like to face these questions with honesty, and optimism. Not a to-do list per se but perhaps a "will be" list.

And, as I am not known for my follow-through OR my big picture thinking, let's revisit this issue together...say in about 12 years?

Flashback Friday-- TMI

For Flashback Friday, we're digging into the archives for a post about one of my favorite subjects-- The Gyno. Originally posted 10-13-08.

With school in session, I can take care of a lot of things I put off during the summer, things I don't want to have the kids around for. I'm thinking haircuts, doctors' appointments, the dentist. This has not always been the case. If you are an at-home mom with little ones, you have probably taken your kids lots of places you wish you hadn't. Even a trip to the grocery store can be a major pain.

I remember taking both kids to the gyno with me when they were little. This, of course, would not have been my first choice, but circumstances prevented my getting a sitter that day and off we went. Now a pregnancy visit is one thing-- pee in a cup, the weigh-in, a little feeling of the tummy. This was an annual exam.

The waiting room wasn't bad, although I wonder if a few of the pregnant women were self-righteously thinking, "MY kids will never act like that!"
Does this happen to you? When the waiting room time is over, you think you're close to seeing a doctor, but instead you are tucked into a tiny examining room, told to strip, and then you wait for a seemingly interminable length of time. Maybe it just seems long because of the lack of pants.

When you are on your own, you can artfully fold your little pile of clothes on a chair, pull the paper robe around you and read old copies of Good Housekeeping. With an 18 month and a three year old in tow, you are simply on germ and damage patrol.

Keeping order in such a small space was nearly impossible for me. Within seconds, my neat pile of clothes hit the floor and Molly started caressing the Sharps container. When I got her away from that, she tried to lick the stirrups. Ugh. Three year old Jake was easier to restrain. Sure, at one point he opened the door to expose me in my paper-gowned glory to folks in the hallway, but I actually think that helped get the doctor in sooner.

During my exam, Jake asked, "Mommy, why does that man have his hand in your bottom?" Yikes. I quickly thrust an old National Geographic at him. "Here, read about the pretty zebras." My exam was brief, to say the least, and after the doctor's hasty retreat, I retrieved my clothes from the floor and began to dress.

Jake soon had another question, "Mommy, why are these people all bloody?" Yep, zebras may have been on the cover, but the magazine was documenting a massacre, in full color.

For those of you in the throes of toddlerhood and preschool, I wish for you unencumbered visits to the gyno, the dentist, and maybe even to get a pedicure. The day will come when you can do all these things on your own again. I know we aren't to wish away our kids' childhoods, but I think in certain circumstances it's okay.

You're Gonna Miss This?

I found this list today on a piece of paper shoved in a blank journal. It just says “Summer 2004,” which would have made Jake 5 and Molly almost 3. You don’t have to read the whole thing, or any of it all. It's not that interesting. I think it captures the grueling, often mundane aspects of being home all day with kids, on a “typical day.” It could just as easily have been 2002 (like the above picture), 2003 or 2005. For those of you slogging through the mud today, hang in there. Reading this, I missed it…sort of. I realize now that while the days are LONG, the years are SHORT. And at least we have blogging now!

7:15 a.m. up, Tom already at work
Paper and Shower, kids parked in front of PBS
Breakfast, I eat, kids don’t
2 Tantrums
Period on shorts
Out door, w/ snacks
Preschool to pick up form
Playground
Oak Hill for forgotten toy
Dumpster dive—new sprinkler!
Let kids go in new sprinkler, fully clothed
Naked Lunch
Nice playing
Put away clothes, organize toy room
Kids rearrange everything to play made up game, “Disney on Ice”
Ants in kitchen
Tantrum (Things not EXACTLY right)
Mom suggests movie
Calls exterminator, does laundry, emails
Molly bites Jake, hard, during movie
M to timeout, J gets popsicle
4 neighbor kids waltz in, uninvited
Mom shoos out—not in the mood
Molly screaming, trying to get out of room. Sticking little hands under the door.
Both kids outside
Back inside, 2 extra kids to play “Disney on Ice” to Jake’s EXACT specifications. (furniture rearranged, toys dumped again)
Make zucchini bread w/ Molly – messy
Call exterminator. Again.
Show neighbors sprinkler, all wet and naked again
Come inside, Stormy weather.
Play game
Raining in kitchen, leaky roof
Lecture Jake about “chilling out” again
Meltdown
Dinner
Spilled milk
Ice Cream
Meltdown, Molly wasn’t doing dishes to Jake’s EXACT specifications
Jake’s ice cream falls on floor, tries to eat it off, weeping
Timeout
Spilled milk #2 and 3
Sweep floor
Baths
7:30 pm Dad comes home
Dad reads to kids
Mom finally goes to change feminine protection. Shorts # 2 stained.