It's like an epiphany. A sucky one.

As some of you may recall from some writing I did before - and for those of you who were not around then - I will start by saying:  I'm a slob.  Although I absolutely hate that word. It just sounds so...so...slovenly.  Okay, sorry - I'm not making sense. Let's start again.

I have never been neat.  There, that's better.  My room as a kid was always layer upon layer of crap. Clothes, toys, games, Barbie clothes, etc. You get the idea.  As an adult, I am sorry to say, I am not much better.  Slightly, perhaps.  I do have my fits and spurts of cleanliness.  It does get to a point where even I cannot take it.  Today, for example.  I have the day off - childless.  Ah, the freedom to Get Things Done.  I came home from dropping the Pixie at daycare and started right off and cleaned my car.  That was a really good feeling.  Very proof positive of a job well done kind of thing.

Then I decided to tackle the Wonderboy's room.  Here is where the epiphany part comes in.  Oh.My.God. My kid is just like me.  I started in the closet pulling out all the accumulated crap.  Stuff that hasn't seen the light of day in months? Donate pile.  (And one that will be boxed up and in the car before he ever sees it.)  Cheap, horrible McDonald's toys? Garbage.  I cut a swath.  Next to the shelves! Taking everything off so I could dust(!) and put things neatly back.

Okay. Now I'm onto the toy box. *shudder*  On a side note.  Wonderboy is big on Legos. His uncle, my brother, is a Lego genius (seriously, he was once a finalist for one of their jobs at Legoland.) So I was kind of psyched when WB showed an interest in Legos. They're cool and I dig the family history thing.  But holy shit, the Legos!!!  EVERYWHERE.  I had started by using quart containers for them and eventually just dragged out a big bin and started throwing them all in there.

People. I have been at this freaking room for almost three hours.  Then I lift up the bed skirt and find out just exactly how much like me this little punk is.  Here is proof of all the stuff I pulled out from under his bed.  From the last time he "cleaned his room."

I thought that whole thing about "When you grow up, I hope you have a kid just like you!" was for when they were teenagers?  I am f*cking doomed.

How come no one asks you what you want to be when you grow up when you're a grown up?

I envy those people that knew from the time they went to college - or before - what they wanted to do with their lives as far as a career.  And then went out and made those careers happen.  Me?  I thought for years I wanted to be a teacher. My parents were teachers, aunts, cousins - it was in our blood.  I went to school and majored in education to be a high school English teacher.  Second semester of senior year I was in a classroom.  In a classroom going, "Holy shit, I don't think this is for me."

And so, all these many years later I have a job in an industry that I never expected. It's okay and all. It takes a special kind of crazy to work in any aspect of hospitality.  But the benefits suck. Like big-time.  The hours can also suck.  We work weekends which has luckily been okay so far, less daycare for the Pixie = less money going out in that direction.  However, in two years she is going to be in school like the Wonderboy.  Their lives will be Monday through Friday.  Weekends are for things like sports, playdates, birthday parties. 

What I'm getting at here is that I need to figure out what the hell I'm doing career-wise.  Good time to be thinking about this, right? Economy is totally tanked - let's go find a new job!  The other part of it is, the avenues that I am thinking of pursuing will require me to go back to school.  Which means paying for school. It's such a vicious cycle.  Can't quit work to go to school full-time.  Can barely pay for anything at the moment, so let's add some educational debt into the mix!  Plus, did I mention how much I hate change? A lot.  Frightens me down to my littlest toe. 

But it's time to face facts.  Health insurance is kicking our ass.  Can't get it through either job so we go private and it's a fortune.  My kids are young, we have a good amount of time before they get to college.  I'm not *ahem* that old.  If I'm looking at 25 or more years of work, I'd like it to be doing something I truly enjoy.  I just wish I could figure out what that is.  I have some ideas - full on career change kind of things.  Scary. The thought of starting over - scary.  The thought that I'd still be sitting at the same desk in another twenty years? Even scarier. 

Any advice?

I have not joined a cult

In case you were worried.  Have been in Florida since Thursday night. Some bumps in the yearly sisters trip this year.  All is well and we will be home tomorrow.  I'm sure it will take me awhile to catch up with everyone!

One of the reasons I would miss New England

Autumn.  Or Fall, if you prefer.  I know some people don't like this time of year since it's the beginning of the end as far as seasons go.  (And New England winters are definitely a reason I would not miss New England.) But how could you not be blown away by these colors?

Seriously.  And check out this crazy tree that I am totally fascinated by

Isn't that just amazingly cool?  Happy Fall!  Let's remember to enjoy it before everything becomes covered in ice and snow.

Taxi!

Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul Varjak:The mean reds, you mean like the blues?
Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling? 
Paul Varjak: Sure.
Holly Golightly:Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name! 


Kind of tough for me to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's.  But man, I've been fighting the mean reds for a couple of days now.  I wasn't going to write about it.  Considering how I was kind of whiny in my last post. I don't want the few of you who come here to start thinking I'm Debbie Downer all the time.  But part of the reason I started blogging was to get some of the stuff that rolls around my head OUT of my head, so there you have it.  You can veer off now if you'd like, my feelings won't be hurt.  And I'm sure I'll come up with something more uplifting soon, just not today.

It started the other night.  Which was a perfectly normal night, hanging out with the kids and the Mr.  Doing the dishes, watching the general craziness.  Wonderboy brings over the binder that has all the letters my Mom wrote to my Aunt (the one I just mentioned in the Halloween post.)  Anyway, there are some pictures in the back that he was showing me - I don't know why he pulled it off the bookshelf.  The pictures are in the back of the book and I turned and started reading the last letter.  My Mom was writing about my brother and me - ages 15 and 11, respectively.  About my pre-teen drama and my brother learning to drive, about possible trips we were going to take that summer.  And then it hit me.  I flipped the page forward and looked at the date at the top of the page.  Early February, 1983.  She never made it to the end of February.  Never saw me and my brother hit ages 12 and 16.  We never went on those trips.

I don't often get maudlin or depressed (anymore) about  Mom's sudden death.  I try to remember, with my Dad and brother and her sisters, the wonderful person she was.  The creative, funny, smart woman.  But sometimes it just comes out of left field.  The hurt and anger.  The taking your breath away unfairness of it all.  When that hits it's hard not to just curl up in a ball and hide under the covers.  For the past couple of days I have been hiding behind the pages of a trashy novel - uninspired to do much of anything.  But that isn't a way, or a reasonable way with two young kids a job and a husband, to be.

I recently listened to a recording of Joan Didion's book "The Year of Magical Thinking".  I decided to try the book on CD thing and oddly, because I prefer the trashy novels, picked this out.  It is the true story of the impact and aftermath of a sudden death.  In this case, the author's husband.  The subject matter is heavy, yes, but it isn't unbearable and Didion's examinations and thoughts on the aftermath are very interesting. It is a book I would recommend to anyone. 

Maybe reading this so recently is part of what triggered my emotions.  Maybe I was just tired.  Maybe I just missed my Mom.

Since I can't combat the mean reds by a trip to Tiffany's to window shop while eating a danish, I will continue to try to shake them off the best way I know how.  By keeping my brain busy with the day to day stuff, and more importantly, by hugging the Mr, Wonderboy and the Pixie very, very tightly.  And never letting a day go by without telling them how much I love them.