This morning, I was making pancakes, and after pouring one cup of Aunt Jemima mix into the bowl, I measured out the milk, and promptly poured it into the tub of Smart Balance margarine. Cursing under my breath, I poured the milk out of the Smart Balance and into the bowl, leaving pearls of white glistening in the margarine, and picked up an egg. And dropped the egg. Right onto the floor.
At this point, I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or crawl back into bed. None of these were real options, as my two year old, Riley, was happily coloring at the table, eating an "eggie" that I had effectively scrambled with some cheese before its brother hit the hardwood. My husband was recovering in the other room from full shoulder replacement surgery, and the pancakes were for him, to try to pad his stomach against the harsh painkillers he needed to take to diffuse whatever happens to your body when someone saws off your bone and replaces it with metal.
I haven't slept in ages. My days have become cycles of the following:
Wake up at 7, teach until noon, come home to a husband who can barely move without shooting pain, make lunch for everyone, erase the rambunctious Riley artwork (she has decided the walls of my house are a canvas for her dry erase crayons), lift ten month old future-mountain-climber Ella from the peak of the art easel/desk, potty train (Riley), remove crayons/paper/tissues/puzzle pieces from mouth (Ella), snack time, pretend to be a choo-choo train while dancing around the kitchen with my girls, grade papers during nap time, answer emails while both girls watch Sesame Street (thank you Abby's Flying Fairy School), cook dinner, bath time, story time, carry around the sleepy one (Ella), while the toddler takes a ride on my leg, bed time, answer more emails, watch HGTV or ESPN to relax, sleep for however long until one of the girls inevitably wakes up, administer bottle or sippy cup, toss and turn, finally fall back asleep, wake up to alarm clock, do it again. And I wonder why I'm exhausted.
Superheroes need their entourages- Batman needed his Alfred (don't think for one second he could have survived without his trusty friend organizing Bruce Wayne's schedule and keeping the home fires burning). Superman needed Lois and Jimmy to cover Clark's ass while he was flying around, saving the world.
I need my family relieving me when I'm dropping pancake ingredients into, and onto, the wrong receptacles. It's times like this that I realize I'm lucky. I have a husband who makes me laugh and stays home with our kids while I am at work. I have jobs that allow me the best of the work/stay at home worlds. I have a mom and step-dad who are amazing with my kids and live three minutes away. I have the greatest in-laws in history, who drop by to give me much needed breaks and naps on their way home from work. I have an aunt-in-law who comes by at least once a week for her "nieces fix".
But they aren't here 24/7, and the reality is, we all have our breaking points. It's a matter of finding that second joint of bending, to make sure that you can embody Elastigirl for a moment. It's laughing when the egg hits the floor, instead of crying. It's accepting that during bathtime, you're going to get more soaked than if you were in a splash zone at Sea World.
It's knowing that these moments with small children that cling to me are fleeting, and to embrace the noise and the shrieks and the laughter. Because the superhero entourage isn't complete without the people that look up to you, learn from you, and appreciate you. And that makes it all worthwhile.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Ramble on rose
The man, mid to late 50's, three piece suit, glasses, executive hairstyle, walked into the darkened auditorium. He squinted at the ticket in his hand, illuminated for brief bursts by the red and purple light jumping off the stage, and scanned the dancing revelers. Strains of "Mama Tried" wafted through the air.
One and only rebel child, from a family meek and mild.
Glancing up, he locked eyes with another man, similar in description, and grinned. His stride increased as he traversed the floor, walking, shuffling, and finally, galloping the last few feet into a bear hug. He loosened his tie, removed his jacket, and by the time the strains of "Ramble on Rose" were sashaying through the crowd, he had unbottoned a few buttons, and I swear his hair had grown an inch in its shagginess.
I like to think the man was reliving his youth. That sometime, long before a nine to five job, paying for his kids' education, and that job-required tie, he was a Dead-Head, waving his arms, spinning in circles, and showering on an as-needed basis. Throughout the show, I would sneak glances at his row, and watch him swaying with his eyes closed, hopefully picturing some open field concert of his youth and a girl (maybe the one he married) wearing flowers in her hair and giggling.
Such is the transformation at a Dark Star Orchestra show on a Tuesday night in December.
When I was 15, my parents took my little sister to a Grateful Dead show (the final tour before Jerry Garcia's death), and it changed her life trajectery. She would say later that the freely dancing, smiling, chanting folks around her made her feel a sense of community that was impossible to replicate. That said, she sure as hell tried, following the band Phish around for the majority of her 20's, selling homemade skirts and dresses, dreadlocking her hair, and sleeping in tents for summer night after summer night. She now runs an artists' retreat and sustainability farm upstate, something I'm sure the former hippies she met that night would approve of.
Before my kids, I had my own experiences of twirling around, being that girl with the flowers and the long hair. Woodstock '99, Phish shows, festivals. I even saw Phil Lesh and Bob Dylan the summer after my dad died, and smiled through my tears as he encored with dad's favorite song, Blowin' In The Wind.
All my choices derived from a desire to experience the 60's and 70's era of music my parents lived through, and introduced me to through their vinyl albums. Peter Paul and Mary, Dylan, The Dead, Joplin, Hendrix. Lyrics that said something, melodies you could dissolve into.
Listening to Dark Star, in a college auditorium filled with the faithful apostles of the original Dead, and seeing this man transform from a middle aged working bee into the carefree butterfly of his youth, I smiled. The beat goes on, and with your eyes closed, you can enter any era, relive any moment, journey through any song. There's a beauty to settling down but continuing to ramble. You just have to know where to look.
One and only rebel child, from a family meek and mild.
Glancing up, he locked eyes with another man, similar in description, and grinned. His stride increased as he traversed the floor, walking, shuffling, and finally, galloping the last few feet into a bear hug. He loosened his tie, removed his jacket, and by the time the strains of "Ramble on Rose" were sashaying through the crowd, he had unbottoned a few buttons, and I swear his hair had grown an inch in its shagginess.
I like to think the man was reliving his youth. That sometime, long before a nine to five job, paying for his kids' education, and that job-required tie, he was a Dead-Head, waving his arms, spinning in circles, and showering on an as-needed basis. Throughout the show, I would sneak glances at his row, and watch him swaying with his eyes closed, hopefully picturing some open field concert of his youth and a girl (maybe the one he married) wearing flowers in her hair and giggling.
Such is the transformation at a Dark Star Orchestra show on a Tuesday night in December.
When I was 15, my parents took my little sister to a Grateful Dead show (the final tour before Jerry Garcia's death), and it changed her life trajectery. She would say later that the freely dancing, smiling, chanting folks around her made her feel a sense of community that was impossible to replicate. That said, she sure as hell tried, following the band Phish around for the majority of her 20's, selling homemade skirts and dresses, dreadlocking her hair, and sleeping in tents for summer night after summer night. She now runs an artists' retreat and sustainability farm upstate, something I'm sure the former hippies she met that night would approve of.
Before my kids, I had my own experiences of twirling around, being that girl with the flowers and the long hair. Woodstock '99, Phish shows, festivals. I even saw Phil Lesh and Bob Dylan the summer after my dad died, and smiled through my tears as he encored with dad's favorite song, Blowin' In The Wind.
All my choices derived from a desire to experience the 60's and 70's era of music my parents lived through, and introduced me to through their vinyl albums. Peter Paul and Mary, Dylan, The Dead, Joplin, Hendrix. Lyrics that said something, melodies you could dissolve into.
Listening to Dark Star, in a college auditorium filled with the faithful apostles of the original Dead, and seeing this man transform from a middle aged working bee into the carefree butterfly of his youth, I smiled. The beat goes on, and with your eyes closed, you can enter any era, relive any moment, journey through any song. There's a beauty to settling down but continuing to ramble. You just have to know where to look.
Settle down easy, ramble on rose.
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