It's been a whirlwind of a holiday, like it always is. I finished work, and thought that I'd have a small space of time, carved out, for me. An hour of one's own, so to speak, and there just wasn't enough there. We're a family of four, there's just always so much to do. I shopped, I planned, I baked, I cleaned, I wrapped and then I packed at at 9am on Boxing Day we were all loaded in the car, on our way to the grandparents. (By the skin of our teeth, given we'd found the car with a dead battery at 8:45am. But that's a whole 'nother story.)
Christmas was nice. It was very nice. Despite the first wake up call at 5:40, we did stay in bed until 7am. Stockings were unpacked, breakfast was eaten, and presents were unwrapped to the delight of the five year old, and the delight (and confusion) of the 20 month old. It's getting harder to buy The Boy things -- the brain of a nine year old and the body / maturity of a five year old makes it tough. Books are pretty easy, and we got a few of those. But the electronics set from his grandparents is fantastic for his brain, but not so much for his sense of being careful and his dexterity; the game his dad bought is great for the two of them but not one The Boy can play with his friends when they come by.
(Embarrassing moment for me: we had a friend of The Boy's around on Christmas Eve, and he came into the living room to admire the hanging stockings, and then asked which one was The Boy's .. and I said, with some surprise in my voice, "Well, the one with his NAME on it ... " without remembering that not all five year olds can read, you idiot and I felt like a nasty nasty woman.)
The Girl received a new baby! And a baby bed! and a baby stroller! But while those were all very favourably received (the stroller especially), the biggest hit of the season was the tiny stuffed Elmo that I found as a last minute stocking stuffer, thinking, Oh, How cute this will look at the top of the stocking, it's like $5 and it'll be about $5 worth of fun (i.e. an hour or two). But oh NO! The red muppet now goes everywhere, and we have to refer to him as such when he's not in the room so she doesn't go completely nuts wanting him.
We spent four days with my parents in Hometown. Hometown is a place where I lived for 24 years, and the last six I spent fervently wishing I wasn't. As soon as I was able, I left, and I didn't look back. Over the past five years, I've grown to appreciate Hometown a fair amount, but this trip I realized I really, really MISS it. And I wish I could move back. I've thought over the past five years that it would be a great place to live, but not for me; now I just look at the houses and wish I could move right in, and drive to this place and that place with more regularity. Mostly I just wish I could see my parents more often, for less time. A dinner here and there, an afternoon at the pool. You know. It would make parenting just a whole lot less burdensome and much more fun. And I miss them, too.
I came home with the kids last night, alone -- The Man having gone to visit a friend -- in the pelting rain and fog, driving along highways with large semis that doused the windshield with rain each time they passed. I drove fervently wishing The Girl would stay awake for the 45 minutes past her bedtime we drove in the dark. We got home to a cold house, anxious cats, and I put the children to bed and tried to breathe, to sit and be still for once, after the chaos of Christmas prep and travel and relations and presents and children who have eaten too many cookies and not much else.
This morning dawned far too early, and I took the kids to care, came home. The house was messy. But quiet. I cleaned. I tidied. And I'm sitting.
Finally.
With time to think.
2011 was an interesting year. I started it on maternity leave. My son turned five. I went back to work, my daughter turned one. My son went to kindergarten. It's been a year of big changes and messing up of old routines and attemptings to settle into new ones. Upheaval. Some of it good, in the end. Some of it not so much.
I don't put much stock in New Year's resolutions. But I'd like to think that 2012 will be the year that things get smoother. That we finally find a way to move forward -- personally. Professionally. Financially. The kids are settled into their places, one in school and one in care, and now I want to take a breath, a moment, and look at where I want to be in five years, and figure out how to get there. To remember that I can take it slowly, but that planning and thinking, wishing, and making big dreams is all worthwhile.
Will we get there? Maybe not. But I want 2012 to be the year that I think Yeah. Maybe that. The year that I take a moment to breathe, to think, to reflect, and to march onwards to better things.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
It's true. You can make a gun our of anything.
One of the things I wanted to do on all this time off was to spend time with my children. Alone, preferably, especially with The Boy, with whom I never get to spend time alone. So we did that today. Got up, got The Girl ready, dropped her off, and came home.
We played games -- Uno, Clue, Chutes and Ladders. We wrestled. We went out to lunch. We played at lunchtime with the crayons provided. (He's five. We go to restaurants that provide crayons.) We came home, we made paper snowflakes and then watched a Christmas show together. During the day I also cleaned the kitchen and made dinner, did a load of laundry and registered both kids for gymnastics in January.
I felt like super mom.
We came home later in the afternoon, with The Girl, and I sat on the floor with her and played with her shape sorter (something that has justclicked for her, like that, and she is now all over it.) And The Boy came by making flying / shooting sounds. With the snowflake. Folded.
"It's a MONSTER, mom!" he enthused. "And when you damage it, it goes like THIS." He unfolds it to its biggest, making accompanying ferocious noises.
I read the apocryphal tale about the parents who wouldn't let their little boy have gun toys, and he bit his toast into a gun and pretended to shoot them. And now, you know, I figure that kid's a rank amateur. Toast is toast. It's a blank slate. My kid took a snowflake, a symbol of peaceful winter tranquility, and made it into war. That takes talent.
Or so I will keep telling myself, so as not to think too hard about this.
We played games -- Uno, Clue, Chutes and Ladders. We wrestled. We went out to lunch. We played at lunchtime with the crayons provided. (He's five. We go to restaurants that provide crayons.) We came home, we made paper snowflakes and then watched a Christmas show together. During the day I also cleaned the kitchen and made dinner, did a load of laundry and registered both kids for gymnastics in January.
I felt like super mom.
We came home later in the afternoon, with The Girl, and I sat on the floor with her and played with her shape sorter (something that has justclicked for her, like that, and she is now all over it.) And The Boy came by making flying / shooting sounds. With the snowflake. Folded.
"It's a MONSTER, mom!" he enthused. "And when you damage it, it goes like THIS." He unfolds it to its biggest, making accompanying ferocious noises.
I read the apocryphal tale about the parents who wouldn't let their little boy have gun toys, and he bit his toast into a gun and pretended to shoot them. And now, you know, I figure that kid's a rank amateur. Toast is toast. It's a blank slate. My kid took a snowflake, a symbol of peaceful winter tranquility, and made it into war. That takes talent.
Or so I will keep telling myself, so as not to think too hard about this.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Ho Ho Holidays
I reserved the last two weeks of my vacation for Christmas time, and so Friday was my last day of work until JANUARY 5th, people. Ask me how excited I am. Go on, ask me. YES. VERY.
I'd like to say that I have weeks of family merriment planned, or at least a whole lot of spa time for me, but the fact is, as I said to a colleague yesterday, that I AM CHRISTMAS. As in, I think The Man is buying me a gift, but the rest -- the kids, the extended family, The Man, me, the groceries, the baking -- well, it's all up to me. So the next week at least will be shopping, cleaning, wrapping, baking, meal planning and grocery purchasing. But a change is as good as a rest, right?
I read the other day another mother blogger complaining about how December makes her feel blue, because it's all up to her, to make this Christmas magic happen. I was surprised. Maybe I'm weird, but I'm actually kind of excited about making my family happy on Christmas morning. (At least, I hope they will be.) But I admit: ask me again next year, when for whatever reason I don't have the time to plan and execute Christmas. Maybe then I'll be unhappy and resentful that I have to do it. But in the meantime, I walk around with a little smile on my face, thinking of next week's few days when I get to shop, and wrap, and prepare, so that on Christmas morning, their faces light up.
* * * *
So much is new that it's hard to know where to start with writing. My son is flourishing in kindergarten. He had his first report card and we had our first parent teacher interviews, and we were beaming with pride through the whole thing, newbies that we are. He is excelling in academia, which is no surprise, but was also commended on his maturity, his problem solving, his winning ways with friends, which was nice to hear. Not terribly surprising, I do watch him after all. But still.
We spent the parent teacher interview, though, not discussing kindergarten -- he loves it, he's doing great, no one has any concerns, moving on! -- but about next year. About What To Do. I mean, he's kind of covered math, science, and reading for probably grade two or so (he's started learning division. In his head.) We've all noticed that the one thing he dislikes in school is the repetition; he doesn't want to learn fundamentals of addition when he can multiply in his head. He's still young enough that when I ask about it, he just rolls his eyes good-naturedly and says "easy peasy lemon SQUEEZY, mom." But what about next year, when it's the same stuff all over again? And then the next?
One of the questions I asked was if they thought he was mature enough to handle acceleration, and they allowed as how that yes, they thought he could handle it. So now I'm wondering if, when he has to change schools next year, if right then he should just head straight into grade two. I mean, skipping is hard when you have a peer group; without one, maybe easier. Recently in conversation with a friend, I found out she has connections with one of the consultants for the gifted program in our local school district, so she's going to put us in touch in the new year. To discuss, to think about options. To plan.
But who knows. He's happy now, and matter how you slice it, his being happy has been all we've ever sought, all we continue to seek. The acceleration, special programs, alternative schools -- all just so he doesn't dread going to school each morning. And if he doesn't, well ... then we don't really need to worry. I guess we'll just play out the year, and see where next year takes us.
* * * *
The Girl is now 19 months, and talking and ... well, being a toddler. She walks, runs, climbs, likes to try to jump, squeals with laughter and frustration, talks in two word sentences and is working on more, loves her mama and her daddy and her Naynee -- she nicknamed her brother, but no one else -- and has made friends with two or three of the kids in her daycare, and calls them by name. She flourishes, bringing emotional wreckage wherever she goes, as is appropriate for the age.
Some of her best words include "yogik" for yogurt. She eats like a bird, but can eat her weight in mandarin oranges. She continues to love her Baybees, and has started liking to draw as well. Or rather, scribble on paper. She's finally discovered books, but doesn't have much patience with them. As in, she can sit through a few readings, but only a few. Which may well be normal, but her brother could sit through lengthy readings of picture books for hours (literally) at this age, so. But I'm not comparing. Really.
I recently went and got her hair cut, her little wisps tamed into a tiny toddler bob. She, like her brother, is not blessed follicularly (is that a word?) and continues to have very fine, thin hair that doesn't grow much in the front half of her head. I'm not terribly worried -- by the time he was two, The Boy had decent hair, and by three he had as much hair as any kid. Now at five he's got a whole lot of thick hair. So perhaps she will too. But all in all, hair or no hair, she's delightful and maddening and gorgeous and fun and I just can't wait to see what she does next.
* * * *
They are exhausting, they are busy, they demand a lot. I am tired, I am in need of some serious alone time. But I am so, so lucky.
My office has changed a lot since I started. It used to be filled with people my age, and we were all having children. Now, while there are still some people my age, and some older, more of them are younger. Two are getting married this summer, another two are almost affianced. All have admitted they are looking to have children. One of them I speak with more often spoke to me this week of another colleague across the organization, a man who has a severely autistic son. He and his wife aren't having any more; having this one has affected their lives so much, they can't handle another child. She admits to me that she's pretty scared of having kids, of having that happen. And I said yes, I was too. That being pregnant with the first was very scary, with the second no less so, from that point of view. To my credit, I didn't actually worry about it too much -- there's nothing you can do, after all -- but it's there. What if, what if, what if?
It's clear by now that my son is not autistic. Nor has other neurological issues, at least those as evidenced by five years old. My daughter similarly. We see so much bad news these days that it feels very much that I got a lucky roll of the dice, twice, and what a sigh of relief that brings. But the fact is that these things, albeit more common, are still pretty rare.
But that doesn't stop me from being grateful and counting my blessings, all the same.
* * * *
One of the recent changes at work has meant that the position above mine as just come open and available. I'm humming. And hawing. And thinking. The position itself isn't that interesting to me, but it's serious career advancement -- management experience, overseeing internal operations of a 12 person team. I'll still get to write. But not nearly as much. I won't be the writer any more, won't have that as my title.
But I'm still considering applying. It's good career experience, and now that the kids are here, I had planned on doing more with my own career. No matter where I go in future, good career experience will be helpful, as will a long record of promotions.
And the fact is that as much as my title says "Senior Writer", I do very very little writing any more. I'm more like "Senior Editor", which is fine, but it's not writing, nor is it -- importantly -- the kind of editing I'd like to do. I like editing. I am considering doing more editing in my future career. But this editing-under-the-guise-of-writing, no time for actual writing, no time for creativity, just churn out someone else's stuff (or my own, from years ago, recycled) and hope for the best ... well, it's mind-numbing.
There's a possibility that this new position will allow me to still continue to write -- and what's more, to write the stuff I *want* to write, and to delegate the rest. And so that, combined with the added responsibility and experience and stuff ... well. Maybe it will be worth it. Plus ... maybe if I'm not editing all day, I might have the mental energy to write more at home. Here, or privately, which is something I've wanted to do for such a long time.
I'll still miss having "Writer" as my title though. That was a cool eight years.
* * * *
Anyway. The kids are calling, the morning has begun, and I need to get going. There's coffee to be drunk here, people, and it's not going to drink itself.
If I don't get back here again, happy holidays.
I'd like to say that I have weeks of family merriment planned, or at least a whole lot of spa time for me, but the fact is, as I said to a colleague yesterday, that I AM CHRISTMAS. As in, I think The Man is buying me a gift, but the rest -- the kids, the extended family, The Man, me, the groceries, the baking -- well, it's all up to me. So the next week at least will be shopping, cleaning, wrapping, baking, meal planning and grocery purchasing. But a change is as good as a rest, right?
I read the other day another mother blogger complaining about how December makes her feel blue, because it's all up to her, to make this Christmas magic happen. I was surprised. Maybe I'm weird, but I'm actually kind of excited about making my family happy on Christmas morning. (At least, I hope they will be.) But I admit: ask me again next year, when for whatever reason I don't have the time to plan and execute Christmas. Maybe then I'll be unhappy and resentful that I have to do it. But in the meantime, I walk around with a little smile on my face, thinking of next week's few days when I get to shop, and wrap, and prepare, so that on Christmas morning, their faces light up.
* * * *
So much is new that it's hard to know where to start with writing. My son is flourishing in kindergarten. He had his first report card and we had our first parent teacher interviews, and we were beaming with pride through the whole thing, newbies that we are. He is excelling in academia, which is no surprise, but was also commended on his maturity, his problem solving, his winning ways with friends, which was nice to hear. Not terribly surprising, I do watch him after all. But still.
We spent the parent teacher interview, though, not discussing kindergarten -- he loves it, he's doing great, no one has any concerns, moving on! -- but about next year. About What To Do. I mean, he's kind of covered math, science, and reading for probably grade two or so (he's started learning division. In his head.) We've all noticed that the one thing he dislikes in school is the repetition; he doesn't want to learn fundamentals of addition when he can multiply in his head. He's still young enough that when I ask about it, he just rolls his eyes good-naturedly and says "easy peasy lemon SQUEEZY, mom." But what about next year, when it's the same stuff all over again? And then the next?
One of the questions I asked was if they thought he was mature enough to handle acceleration, and they allowed as how that yes, they thought he could handle it. So now I'm wondering if, when he has to change schools next year, if right then he should just head straight into grade two. I mean, skipping is hard when you have a peer group; without one, maybe easier. Recently in conversation with a friend, I found out she has connections with one of the consultants for the gifted program in our local school district, so she's going to put us in touch in the new year. To discuss, to think about options. To plan.
But who knows. He's happy now, and matter how you slice it, his being happy has been all we've ever sought, all we continue to seek. The acceleration, special programs, alternative schools -- all just so he doesn't dread going to school each morning. And if he doesn't, well ... then we don't really need to worry. I guess we'll just play out the year, and see where next year takes us.
* * * *
The Girl is now 19 months, and talking and ... well, being a toddler. She walks, runs, climbs, likes to try to jump, squeals with laughter and frustration, talks in two word sentences and is working on more, loves her mama and her daddy and her Naynee -- she nicknamed her brother, but no one else -- and has made friends with two or three of the kids in her daycare, and calls them by name. She flourishes, bringing emotional wreckage wherever she goes, as is appropriate for the age.
Some of her best words include "yogik" for yogurt. She eats like a bird, but can eat her weight in mandarin oranges. She continues to love her Baybees, and has started liking to draw as well. Or rather, scribble on paper. She's finally discovered books, but doesn't have much patience with them. As in, she can sit through a few readings, but only a few. Which may well be normal, but her brother could sit through lengthy readings of picture books for hours (literally) at this age, so. But I'm not comparing. Really.
I recently went and got her hair cut, her little wisps tamed into a tiny toddler bob. She, like her brother, is not blessed follicularly (is that a word?) and continues to have very fine, thin hair that doesn't grow much in the front half of her head. I'm not terribly worried -- by the time he was two, The Boy had decent hair, and by three he had as much hair as any kid. Now at five he's got a whole lot of thick hair. So perhaps she will too. But all in all, hair or no hair, she's delightful and maddening and gorgeous and fun and I just can't wait to see what she does next.
* * * *
They are exhausting, they are busy, they demand a lot. I am tired, I am in need of some serious alone time. But I am so, so lucky.
My office has changed a lot since I started. It used to be filled with people my age, and we were all having children. Now, while there are still some people my age, and some older, more of them are younger. Two are getting married this summer, another two are almost affianced. All have admitted they are looking to have children. One of them I speak with more often spoke to me this week of another colleague across the organization, a man who has a severely autistic son. He and his wife aren't having any more; having this one has affected their lives so much, they can't handle another child. She admits to me that she's pretty scared of having kids, of having that happen. And I said yes, I was too. That being pregnant with the first was very scary, with the second no less so, from that point of view. To my credit, I didn't actually worry about it too much -- there's nothing you can do, after all -- but it's there. What if, what if, what if?
It's clear by now that my son is not autistic. Nor has other neurological issues, at least those as evidenced by five years old. My daughter similarly. We see so much bad news these days that it feels very much that I got a lucky roll of the dice, twice, and what a sigh of relief that brings. But the fact is that these things, albeit more common, are still pretty rare.
But that doesn't stop me from being grateful and counting my blessings, all the same.
* * * *
One of the recent changes at work has meant that the position above mine as just come open and available. I'm humming. And hawing. And thinking. The position itself isn't that interesting to me, but it's serious career advancement -- management experience, overseeing internal operations of a 12 person team. I'll still get to write. But not nearly as much. I won't be the writer any more, won't have that as my title.
But I'm still considering applying. It's good career experience, and now that the kids are here, I had planned on doing more with my own career. No matter where I go in future, good career experience will be helpful, as will a long record of promotions.
And the fact is that as much as my title says "Senior Writer", I do very very little writing any more. I'm more like "Senior Editor", which is fine, but it's not writing, nor is it -- importantly -- the kind of editing I'd like to do. I like editing. I am considering doing more editing in my future career. But this editing-under-the-guise-of-writing, no time for actual writing, no time for creativity, just churn out someone else's stuff (or my own, from years ago, recycled) and hope for the best ... well, it's mind-numbing.
There's a possibility that this new position will allow me to still continue to write -- and what's more, to write the stuff I *want* to write, and to delegate the rest. And so that, combined with the added responsibility and experience and stuff ... well. Maybe it will be worth it. Plus ... maybe if I'm not editing all day, I might have the mental energy to write more at home. Here, or privately, which is something I've wanted to do for such a long time.
I'll still miss having "Writer" as my title though. That was a cool eight years.
* * * *
Anyway. The kids are calling, the morning has begun, and I need to get going. There's coffee to be drunk here, people, and it's not going to drink itself.
If I don't get back here again, happy holidays.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Respite of clean
A brief respite of time, made possible by a playmate and an independent toddler, for all of five minutes. I had a week at the end of which I felt coated in emotional toxicity, and I don't think it's a coincidence that I have so far spent all weekend clearing things out of my house. I feel somehow cleansed, and it is a good physically exhausted feeling. I am almost, almost ready for Christmas, now that some of the old year's detritus has moved on. 2011 has brought some disastrous things for people around me, and hasn't entirely been smooth sailing here either, and it feels so much like a new start that I feel somehow certain that 2012 will be a good change.
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