A New Year's Eve Whine

The year was 2003. I was five months pregnant with Bird. We had bought and renovated an 80-something year old house. We were planting roots.

And then I got laid off from my job at an advertising agency. Funny how it's so easy to fire a pregnant woman, yet it's a stretch to hire one. I did get another job, though that agency was toxic, and I left soon after Bird was born. Our once comfortable life was beginning to crack a tish. The year proved to be bittersweet, with the sweet beating out the bitter.

Bird was a lovely, easy baby. He brought us so much joy and completely changed our perspective of the world. You'd never see me without a camera as I snapped every little milestone and cornerstone. I started my marketing consulting business (What, you mean you thought the words on this screen pay my student loans? Not by a long shot.). Baby Deal came soon after, 22 months after Baby Bird.

2004.
2005.

Our lives were complete, if not completely chaotic. We juggled two more house renovations, two jobs, two kids, one breast cancer scare, all on our own without the benefit of family. What could have torn me and Mac Daddy to shreds actually made us stronger. We became our own little hub, knowing it was up to us to protect and nurture this little foursome we call Family. well, we call ourselves The Curried Cheeseheads too as a nod to our mixed Indian and Wisconsonian heritage.

Every year since that fateful layoff in 2003 we have chanted on New Year's Eve, "This is gonna be our year." So far our mantra has failed us.

We haven't caught up to where our lives (and bank accounts) were. We've faced some scary illnesses, bid farewell to friends, battled some demons, lost our beloved pets, and buried a father.

Life's hardships are de rigeur. Our downs are not as low as others', and our ups are grander than most. But, there was so much left unaccomplished this year. So much stress. Too many financial obligations. Not enough time. Too little of everyone and everything to go around. I'm not complaining, though I am admittedly whining a bit.

I'm letting 2009 go with a sigh. A great big exhale.

Then I'll hold my breath for a moment. Count my blessings. Kiss my family. Cuddle my dog.

Inhale.

Welcome 2010. This is gonna be our year.

Dusting Off Some "Me Time"

The weekend here was positively glorious. Sunny, with a gentle warm breeze, sapphire blue skies dotted with whipped cream clouds, and my favorite temperature. 82 degrees. Surely you're not surprised that I have a favorite temperature?

Mac Daddy took the boys to the park to play some baseball Saturday morning. They gathered their gear, a cooler of snacks (that I admit to checking on the sly to ensure Mac Daddy packed the right stuff), and sunblock, thanks to my nagging (no word on if that was actually applied). Hugs and kisses, smooch smooch goodbye. Off they went, downright dancing down the sidewalk. My three boys, to whom I owe all this dirt and noise.

And then I clutched the powder room pedestal sink to keep from falling to my knees onto the cheap plastic stool and wept. Fat monsoon tears that I didn't even bother to wipe away. I gripped the sink to keep myself from giving in to whim and bashing the weathered pewter mirror in front of me. I stifled the bellowing scream bubbling up in my gut and let a snarl escape instead, a rather unfulfilling impostor.

No park for me. No breeze was to grace my face. I stayed behind at home.

Ah, the house to myself. Just me. Unplugged and Twitter free. Illicit, decidedly un-kid-friendly lyrics cranking at rock star decibels on the iPod, hot, strong coffee in my favorite travel mug and another full pot in the French press.

And me, hair swept back in a blue bandanna fished out of the dress up box, tattered purple tank tank top, supremely comfortable baggy jersey knit shorts, not a lick of mascara. Just me.

And a dustpan.
Broom.
Mop.
Murphy's oil.
Vacuum.
Sponges.
Rags.
Toilet bowl brush.
Stainless steel polish.
Method cleaner.
Dustbuster.
And those damned yellow rubber gloves.

You see, the only "me time" I get in my house is when I'm cleaning. Forget what I said before, now I regret firing my cleaning lady. First of all, cleaning my house makes me utterly irascible, while having a clean house makes me deliriously jubilant. The stream of pee around the bathrooms, thanks to two little boys and one big man, with poor aim, is enough to make me gag. You should hear me yell when I catch Bird leaning back to pee so he can (somewhat) aim and watch Kim Possible at the same time. He misses. Every. Single. Time.

And then there's all the dust bunnies.
Hair.
Fuzz.
Crunched leaves, twigs, and other signs of nature.
Sticky floors.
Crumbs.
Dust.
Fingerprints.
Hand prints in the least expected spots.
Toothpaste goop.
And all the usual suspects.

I. HATE. To. Clean.

The proverbial silver lining is this: I am all by myself when I am cleaning. That alone makes it more bearable.

No one is there to tug on me. I can pee in peace, whether the door is shut or not (and for the record, I have no issues with aim). I can eat three popsicles in one sitting, one in every flavor. I don't mentally tally up the constant chorus of "Hey, Mommy" in my exploding head. I don't have to endure knock-knock jokes or the Dragon Tales theme song. I don't have lunches to prepare or LEGO fights to mediate or bottoms to wipe or time outs to impose. There is no whining, bickering, yelling. The banshees have left the building.

And I am alone.

Me time.

Problem is, me time is not the same as time for me.

I suddenly don't feel so guilty about ignoring my family all day Monday while I curled up in the rocking chair on the front porch, with the ceiling fans on so I too could feel a breeze in my hair, to indulge in Twilight.

Sometimes I miss my little one bedroom apartment on Excelsior Boulevard. The one where I had a God awful floral wallpaper border in my nauseously girly bedroom, battenburg lace curtains, umpteem throw pillows on my bed, two walk-in closets, a tiny balcony covered in AstroTurf, a wall of mirrors in the bathroom, my very own stereo, even though it was just a little Bose shelf unit, and wall-to-wall carpeting. The same apartment where my Sunday paper was stolen on a regular basis. The same apartment that smelled ever so faintly of a potion of cat piss, stale Swisher Sweets, and bleach. The same apartment where doing laundry in the basement required a chaperon. The same apartment where I was alone but never lonely. Alone. By myself. Doing whatever the hell I wanted.

When time was all about me.

I am 4 today!

I am 4 years old today.

I like LEGO, Playmobil, puppies, and books. I especially like to make LEGO vehicles with lasers and Storm Troopers. I do not like to swim because I hate getting my face wet. I really really really want a puppy. I promised my dad that I will stop sucking my thumb when I turn 4, but Mommy knows that's not gonna happen. I like to laze around in my red bean bag chair that my Dadu gave me. Mangoes and vanilla yogurt are my favorite things to eat. Sometimes I get vanilla milk at Starbucks with Mommy when she gets a latte. I help my mom bake cookies and I like to help my dad make green pancakes. Pink used to be my favorite color, but now I like yellow. Ball was my first word, but I didn't talk until I was 2. That worried my parents. But I spoke in full sentences right away. When I grow up I want to be a veternarian or a SWAT police guy. I am giving some of my piggy bank money to Barack Obama. I am also giving some to the Ronald McDonald House. My chores are to take out the recycling, help my brother set the table, and clean up toys. Mommy is also teaching me how to make my bed so I can do that too. But we get a break and don't have to make beds on Sundays. I am going to some fun camps this summer. I can't wait to go with my best friend Jayden. He is my best buddy. I am also going to Legoland this summer when I go visit my grandma. Last summer we went to Disneyland with my Uncle Sanjit. Nani just came for a visit and gave me a CD player. I like to listen to They Might Be Giants. I am really good at doing puzzles and writing my name. One day I surprised my parents and teachers and just started writing my name. Those wacky grown ups don't even realize all the stuff I learn just by watching. I am the Wii boxing champion in my family. Bird won't even challenge me anymore. I also like to play Eye of the Tiger on Guitar Hero. I wear sunglasses and my guitar T-shirt to rock out like Johhny Napalm. I really want a mohawk, but Mommy won't let me get one. And she won't let Daddy take me out alone to get a haircut. My daddy lets me tackle him and play hop on pop with him. Mommy thinks he's getting too old for that horseplay, but he likes it. I can tell because he laughs the whole time. I really look up to my big brother even though he's not always nice to me. Secretly we all know what we are best friends and would do anything for each other. It's way more fun having him home for the summer. I miss him when he's in school, but I do like my special time with Mommy. Mommy told me that the doctor said I was born sunnyside up and it shows. I think she means that I'm cheerful all the time. Sometimes I whine and cry. Then I go sit on the naughty step until I calm down. Mommy gets weepy on my birthday and keeps asking me what happened to her little baby. I tell her I grow like the weeds in our yard. When I play I like to pretend I am an 8-year old. That makes my brother 10. And when I'm 10 he'll be 12. When I'm 12 he'll be 14. See how that's a pattern? It's a kind of math. Daddy teaches me about numbers, and Mommy teaches me about words. I know what a homonym is. Hangar/hanger is a homonym. It's a plane garage and something you put your clothes on in the closet. When I grow up I want to live with my Mommy and Daddy, or at least on their street.

I am 4 today.

Time Travel

When my babies were tiny, I used to spend hours gazing at their slumbering faces. Little nostrils flaring, breath setting a hypnotic beat, eyes twitching in dreamland, itty bitty fingers swatting away invisible itches on a scrunched up nose. Their little faces contorted this way and that. Their gaze so fixed on me upon waking. In their faces I would imagine them as toddlers, boys, grown men. It was an involuntary slideshow running before my eyes.

In a flash I would catch a glimpse of them as their older selves.

Now that my boys, my babies, are teetering on the cusp of six and four, I see time reeling backwards and forwards in a cruel teasing tango. In a random giggle I see them as their infant selves. Perhaps it’s in a pensive moment while chilling out in the back seat. Perhaps it’s while they rest their heads upon each other, a scrambled mess tucked onto the beanbag chair.

At other times, I see my boys as men. When Bird glances at me sideways and snickers in jest at some silliness, I see him as a high schooler, rolling his eyes at my latest faux pas. When Deal perches on the couch with a toy catalog in hand, knees crossed, fist tucked beneath his chin, I see him as a contemplative adult. His gestures already too grown up for his three years.

Time is at once a thief and a jester. We want more of it, we want it to clip along at a faster pace, we want to switch it to slow motion, we want to hit the pause button, and sometimes we want to rewind. Yet Time controls us. We simply live to its ticking. It’s infinite and eternal beat.

And so, at night when I am restless, I slip out of the comfort of my quilt, kneel beside my sleeping boys, and watch them sleep. Inhale, exhale, twitch, rub, toss, flutter, turn, sigh. And I watch Time travel before my very eyes.

A Time Saving Tip

We are all busier than a hive of predatory queen bees bucking for, well, Queen Bee, these days. With all the Facebooking, Twittering, Stumbling Upon, Kirtsying, and blogging we do, there are simply no seconds to spare or waste time on the inane. That is precisely why I don't watch Regis & Kelly or bother to shave when it's not date night. In light of our buzzing lives and all that beckons, I'd like to share a time saving tip.

Do not read this book.
Put it back on the shelf. Dig up the receipt and return it for The Other Boleyn Girl. Hell, read Elle Decor instead. Reading a whole box of fortune cookies would be more interesting (especially if you add "in bed" to the end of each fortune).

I have read some crappy stuff in my day, but this one takes the reine de saba cake.

I was so excited to get my hands on this book and finally have a free spot between book club books to read it. I didn't get past page 51. And let me tell you, I never ever leave a book dangling in mid air before I've finished it. Life is too short to read shitty literature.

I love to cook. I love to read. I love to write. All the necessary ingredients to make Julie & Julia a time honored favorite of mine, right? I envisioned reaching for its tattered pages over and over again through the years. Nah. Not gonna happen. The writing is unimpressive, and I am surprised some editor or agent didn't get fired over its publishing. The author's voice is unauthentic, and the attempt at comedic banter is uncomfortable and unnatural. But mostly what irked me is that I've been duped.

Here I thought I was going to dig into a verbal feast a la Like Water for Chocolate. Not even close to being Like Water for Chick Lit. Food played a tertiary role in the book, not capturing the lime light as I had anticipated (and naturally expected based on the title and premise). The author spent more time complaining or waxing about random adolescent memories that were not salient to the premise. I feel like she secured a book deal, spent the advance, and went to town writing a free flow piece all in one sitting, deadline ticking feverishly away. I bet she even turned it in bleary-eyed with cramped fingers and carpal tunnel about to blast through her wrists. This book is not an example of stellar writing, folks.

If Julie Powell can land a book deal and have a mastermind PR team behind her, surely Dirt & Noise can. In the mean time, I'll devote my time to not wasting yours.

Voiceless = Useless

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to corral two boys without a voice? I am coughing my way through the day with a bad case of bronchitis and laryngitis. The hacking is annoying to anyone within a 5 mile radius. What's worse is my feeble, muted attempt to speak.

For anyone who knows me, you know that staying silent is not something I do well. One time Mac Daddy, Tony, and Cathy challenged me to not speak for five consecutive minutes on a road trip to Alpine Valley to see Jimmy Buffett. I couldn't do it, captive audience and all, how was I supposed to stay silent when there was SO MUCH to remark on in that time?! Every single report card I got as a kid said in one manner or another that I talked too much in class. Here at age 39, I still talk too much. No lessons learned, I suppose. Bird keeps getting yellow cards in school for the same reason. It's hard to punish him for that. He can't help that the talks-too-much gene is crowding his gene pool.

The house is eerily quiet with Deal napping and Bird building a fort with jump ropes, pillows, paper towel tubes, and cardboard. Geesh, I think he's making a booby trap. There's only so much interaction we can have, me being the mute and all. He can't read yet so writing notes is fruitless. I always sucked at charades so that's of no use. Gesticulate as I might, it's not going well. Pictionary, anyone?

Should I book a flight to head to New York's Voice and Swallowing Institute?

Argh, I miss my voice!!!!!!!! (!!!!!!! for added effect since I can only figuratively scream right now)

On marbled time.

My niece just emailed this to me. It is eerily in line with my post today so I had to include it. Ignore that it is an Internet chain. Just read it and take the message to heart. Marbles aren't just doled out one demand, you know.

Here's Nic's note:
"The older I get, the more I enjoy Saturday mornings. Perhaps it's the quiet solitude that comes with being the first to rise, or maybe it's the unbounded joy of not having to be at work. Either way, the first few hours of a Saturday morning are most enjoyable.

A few weeks ago, I was shuffling toward the garage with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other. What began as a typical Saturday morning turned into one of those lessons that life seems to hand you from time to time. Let me tell you about it:

I turned the dial up into the phone portion of the band on my ham radio in order to listen to a Saturday morning swap net. Along the way, I came across an older sounding chap, with a tremendous signal and a golden voice. You know the kind; he sounded like he should be in the broadcasting business. He was telling whomever he was talking with something about 'a thousand marbles.' I was intrigued and stopped to listen to what he had to say

'Well, Tom, it sure sounds like you're busy with your job. I'm sure they pay you well but it's a shame you have to be away from home and your family so much. Hard to believe a young fellow should have to work sixty or seventy hours a week to make ends meet. It's too bad you missed your daughter's 'dance recital' he continued. 'Let me tell you something that has helped me keep my own priorities.' And that's when he began to explain his theory of a 'thousand marbles.'

'You see, I sat down one day and did a little arithmetic. The average person lives about seventy-five years. I know, some live more and some live less, but on average, folks live about seventy-five years.

'Now then, I multiplied 75 times 52 and I came up with 3900, which is the number of Saturdays that the average person has in their entire lifetime. Now, stick with me, Tom, I'm getting to the important part..

It took me until I was fifty-five years old to think about all this in any detail', he went on, 'and by that time I had lived through over twenty-eight hundred Saturdays.' 'I got to thinking that if I lived to be seventy-five, I only had about a thousand of them left to enjoy. So I went to a toy store and bought every single marble they had. I ended up having to visit three toy stores to round up 1000 marbles. I took them home and put them inside a large, clear plastic container right here in the shack next to my gear.'

'Every Saturday since then, I have taken one marble out and thrown it away. I found that by watching the marbles diminish, I focused more on the really important things in life.

There is nothing like watching your time here on this earth run out to help get your priorities straight.'

'Now let me tell you one last thing before I sign-off with you and take my lovely wife out for breakfast. This morning, I took the very last marble out of the container. I figure that if I make it until next Saturday then I have been given a little extra time. And the one thing we can all use is a little more time.'

'It was nice to meet you Tom, I hope you spend more time with your family, and I hope to meet you again here on the band. This is a 75 Year old Man, K9NZQ, clear and going QRT, good morning!'

You could have heard a pin drop on the band when this fellow signed off. I guess he gave us all a lot to think about. I had planned to work on the antenna that morning, and then I was going to meet up with a few hams to work on the next club newsletter.

Instead, I went upstairs and woke my wife up with a kiss. 'C'mon honey, I'm taking you and the kids to breakfast.' 'What brought this on?' she asked with a smile. 'Oh, nothing special, it's just been a long time since we spent a Saturday together with the kids. And hey, can we stop at a toy store while we're out? I need to buy some marbles."

This little story sums up the philosophy at Chez Dirt & Noise. Mac Daddy is one of the few dads I know who is home from work every single night for dinner with the family. Every. Single. Night. He takes time to read to the boys' classes at school. He chaperones field trips, bakes birthday snacks, and checks the class wish list to ensure the teacher doesn't have to fork out her hard earned money for supplies. Mac Daddy and I share parenting. There's no fiscal versus household division here. Parenting and partnering are practically the same word, n'est pas?

We both know the boys' teachers' names and where the classrooms are. We can both whip up a healthy meal that doesn't involve a menu and speed dial. We can both bathe, dress, cuddle, love, and raise our children. On the flip side, we can both ensure the heat and phone are never disconnected. We can both pay tuition. We can both beef up the 529 plan.

The bottom line is that we prioritize our family. We won't get time back with Bird and Deal. Soon enough they'll be embarrassed for us to hold their hands as we walk into school. They'll go quiet at the dinner table. And sadly, come September, Bird will start school and officially spend more time of his day with someone other than me. So for now, we cherish our family time. It's not a duty. We actually enjoy each other's company, though it's obviously not a sleigh ride all the time.

We spend our Saturdays together. Sometimes it involves inane things like hitting Costco or getting the car washed. Other days we all go hit tennis balls, explore bugs at the science museum, or take a spontaneous road trip to the beach. We view everyday as Saturday and try to inject some family time. I hear too many horror stories from friends and colleagues who don't get to eat dinner with their kids, let alone prepare a healthy meal, miss kissing their children good night, leave in the wee hours while their wee ones are still sleeping, sending a nanny to videotape a school performance.

When Bird and Deal grow up they won't remember (or care) that Daddy (or Mommy, but since I work from home they're well aware that my office is the yellow room at the top of the stairs) had a corner office and worked 70 hours a week. Well, they'll remember the 70 hours but will have no idea who their daddy is. The bottom line is that we don't get time back. Our children will grow up and away in the flash it takes to snap a mental picture. And then poof, it's gone. Our little ones are suddenly taller than us (OK, not a big deal considering I'm five feet tall). Living in another state. Holding hands with a woman who isn't their mother. Not calling on Mother's Day. Life won't wait for us to close the deal, take the call, impress the boss, make the rain.

There's a fine balance to meet our family's needs in the here and now while securing a financially secure future. No one wants an epitaph to read "Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda." Use your marbles wisely.