Going back on my word

I don't like to do that, truly—to go back on my word. Say what you mean, mean what you say, or shut up was my phrase of choice for years. Many times, however, I fail to adhere to my own mantra. Thankfully, if I've learned little else, I am finally figuring out that I should never say never... unless I want to end up doing exactly what I swore I wouldn't do. We little humans preach and predict, and God smiles gently and then proceeds to completely rearrange every detail of our lives. He likes to keep us on our toes, I suppose.

I was never going to have kids. (Yeah, I have one.) I was never going to teach again. (Although I'm not currently instructing, I did end up teaching Sunday school after that brash promise to myself.) We were never going to buy another small house... and our current dwelling is the smallest yet (although I do console myself by oft and silently by chanting Location, Location, location).

And I was never, ever going to become one of those smug, smarmy, fitness-in-your-face folks who belonged to a gym. No way. I had the whole world around me, and I could walk and jog and run errands at top speed and that was the only workout I needed, thank you very much. As IF I would pay someone to go tread on a mill with tens of other people, staring sightlessly alongside my treading companions, all of us going nowhere. So silly, thought I.

And then, my metabolism tanked. And doing what I had always done was no longer sufficient. I was forced to up my game, to be more intentional about taking more steps and taking them more quickly. And it seemed to be working (albeit taking what felt like aeons...)

Then? The knees. Especially the left knee, that troublesome bugger. The hands-in-pockets fall I took a few years back must have caught up with me. Suddenly, I found myself gimping around like an old woman, moving at half my normal speed, avoiding stairs, excusing myself from long walks, putting off laundry (washer/dryer in basement, you see). My heart went out to all the people I know who suffer chronic pain combined with weight problems. In a matter of a weeks, it all made sense to me, and new compassion was born.

But I'm not old enough to have these issues! Maybe, thought I, if I found a swimming pool, I could do aqua exercises to loosen the bad knee and rebuild strength lost during my gimp season... But the nice community center with a pool that is nearest me was private, thus expensive. And it was only January; waiting many more months for hot weather, all the time watching my weight creep higher, was not an option.

So I ended up at one of the biggies: one of those clubs that have multiple branches in every major American city. Happily, I chanced to stop in one day before the no-initiation-fee special kicked off. I joined, and after convincing the trainer that I was not willing to pay beaucoup bucks to become a professional bodybuilder, I did begin attending water aerobics. And that helped, a bit.

The whole club culture cracks me up, though. I spent the first few visits just looking around me, watching, waiting for someone to figure out that I was a complete poser. I knew nothing about the machines, I didn't have a lock for my locker, I was worried whether people were watching me get dressed, I felt awkward because I was the youngest person in the water class... I got over all of it. No one is paying attention to me—they're too busy worrying about themselves, watching the big TVs in front of the treadmills, checking out their biceps in one of the countless mirrors, making sure they're wiping the equipment before they use it (because, you know—other people's sweat). The club even has its own soundtrack, every song thumping a beat and featuring often suggestive lyrics... Boom, boom, boom...

And I said I would never join a club. Pshaw.

Anyway, I worked, I rode, I tried. And not much happened. The workouts became a bit easier, and I started having an easier time in general keeping up with the routine, stepping up my speed on the bike... But the knee pain stayed. Some days, it got worse. So, after a clear x-ray, and an unrevealing MRI, I went back on my word yet AGAIN and agreed to a cortisone shot.

WOW!!! That works! I'm back, baby, jogging up steps again, keeping up with laundry, feeling like I should at my age. It's incredible.

But I'm still at the club. Turns out it's not so silly after all. I'm pals with a couple of ladies in their 80s, and I bumped into a neighbor a couple of weeks ago who says she's been coming there for years. I think I'm a tad better at blending in these days. I've even dropped a couple of pounds at last.

My advice to you? Swear you won't do something only if you really want to do it. The Big Man is listening; He might even be smirking.

Busy, busy

The days fly by during this time of year. There are too many places to be, school- and sport-related tasks for my little dude, garden items to harvest and preserve, a filthy home that begs for attention, a misbehaving cat who may or may not have an intestinal disorder, and the quiet but insistent footfalls of autumn as it nears...

I finished a couple of paintings recently—one a commission of a neighbor's pet kitty, and the other just for me because I liked it (a nuthatch, in case you're not familiar with that type of bird). I made salsa, twice. And froze some tomato sauce. Next on the list? Peeling apples for apple butter, in between layers of paint on an old wooden chest that needs a facelift.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll force myself to get registered on LinkedIn in an attempt to drum up some freelance proofreading. I so prefer the painting and preserving; if only those pastimes paid better. Sigh.

Spewings of a discouraged, uptight visionary

There was an old eighties song with this refrain: "What are words for when no one listens anymore?" (Remember that song, that band, the singer with her trademark breathy, squeaky style? You do? Then you, too, are old.) But the song stuck with me, and I keep singing it to myself lately. More true, it is, every day. (Now I'm being Yoda.)

When I was young, I loved words. I loved to read, to write, to journal, to gab for hours and hours on the telephone. Words were magical, a sanctuary for me, a means of achieving change and growth, of acquiring new relationships and knowledge. Back then, I put a lot of stock in words.

Years passed, and I began teaching school. I honestly became aggravated by my own voice; perhaps every teacher does at times. And then there was grad school, where words themselves started to become tiresome. Often, nothing new was being said, it was only being expressed in a different way. I wasn't quite as enamored of words; I stopped short before finishing the Master's. I just didn't want more words in my world.

I switched careers, and technical writing and editing fit better, because it encouraged a more terse, to-the-point style of writing. Fewer words seemed like a good idea; being taciturn was downright appealing to me.

Words took center stage once again when I had my baby. Watching a child learn to understand language, then try to speak for himself, is fascinating. I grew tired of the sound of my endless voice, explaining, conversing, reading aloud, but it paid off. Thankfully, my son speaks and reads well.

But now? It seems I release my words into the wind, where they soar away, unheard, resented, ignored. My words have become traps, because what I say can and will be used against me. The words I employ are almost always displeasing to others, because they involve responsibility, work, jobs, schedules and timetables, commitments no one wants to keep. I am the lone Type A, and therefore I am the regular bearer of bad news.

I was recently accused by my partner; he informed me that I love telling people what to do. Truly, I do not. I am a reluctant leader. On personality tests, I always score high in leadership yet low in soft edges and relational skills, and I know that about myself: I'm effective but often insensitive when in charge. I don't enjoy leading, just like I didn't enjoy teaching; since I know I can be a cruel leader, I am guilt-stricken the entire time I'm doing it. Am I being too black-and-white? Do those I'm leading find me callous? Will I achieve anything other than hurt feelings? Usually, I end up leading only because there is a lack of leadership and an abundance of indecision, which I can't stand. Sometimes others are willing but not able—or the others who want to lead would clearly wreak havoc for various reasons.

I tried to defend myself, to explain to the accuser that I don't enjoy telling people what to do. I don't. But someone has to do it. To make matters worse, I told him, I am skilled not only at seeing inefficiencies, but also in foreseeing danger and mishaps and the like. I imagine the near future, and all sorts of avoidable but probable events leap out with crisp clarity. I want to help people get work done faster, reach their destination sooner, avoid any silly foibles. I want to help them steer clear of painful consequences, of injuries and unfortunate occurrences. And a lot of times, I am right; the things I foresee with concern pan out just as I'd feared. I hate it. There's no joy in being right about that stuff, just as there's no joy in leading when you know you're likely leaving a wake of bitterness.

I ponder the rest of my life, and I feel laden with the burden of silence. In all human situations where I'm involved at more than a surface level, I will be required to either bite my tongue or annoy people. Always. And how can I bite my tongue every time? Work still needs to be done, projects still need to be completed, meals need making, shopping must happen, laundry and tasks and cards and gifts and homework checks and appointments... how to accomplish it all without speech? Must I be the responsible, nagging wife and mom for all my days? And there's anxiety in being that one who supposedly "loves telling people what to do": I fear for my son and husband if I die. I ask my friends, Please, check in on them. Make sure they don't become hoarders, make sure the kid still goes to school, eats something other than pizza.

Would a big chalkboard work? A daily agenda that is written and need not be spoken? Doubtful. I fear it would go unseen, as do the jobs, assignments, timely meals, household messes, grass un-mown... It would likely be one more thing to go unnoticed by them, and yet one more item on my to-do list ("#47-update daily agenda"). I am weary, so weary.

I wish I would remember that no one is listening, and that more importantly, people learn best by doing... even if that do-ing involves falling flat on one's face. I wish I could remember to pray more and talk less,. And I really wish I were a mature enough Christian to say that I find as much satisfaction in God's working things out instead of me warning, reminding, carping, and then saying, "I told you so." No one likes hearing that.

Alas, I am not that big a person—yet.

I'm a small man in some ways, Bart. A small, petty man.
-Principal Skinner from The Simpsons

No cowboys to be found

(I might put some of you in a snit over this one.)

I was looking for a song on YouTube earlier, and had to sit through a stupid advertisement in order to get to the video I'd been seeking. The ad was for the razor/shaver/shave cream-producing company, Gillette. It seemed harmless at first, featuring a well-groomed fellow in a casual suit, chatting with beautiful models around what appeared to be a swimming pool party. He would question one lovely about what sort of fellow she preferred, and all the answers had something to do with the chickie-babe's body hair preference. "No back hair, just a bit on the chest, and there's nothing weird about a guy who's absolutely hairless..." You get the picture. The ad finished with close-up shots of a man's chest, being shaved clean of all hair, and then it flashed one last time to Mr. Groomed Interviewer—who made a smug comment that clearly implied how a hairless dude was sure to score with these gorgeous gals who shun body fuzz.

Okay, if divers and swimmers and male dancers want to shave all the hair, go for it. Your body, your choice. (Except, wow, I'll bet those parts itch when they start to re-sprout...) But honestly, isn't it bad enough that we pressure women to shave everywhere? To be smooth, thus more attractive and sexy? Now America is trying to brainwash its young men that overpowering cologne and aftershave will no longer suffice, and he must also shave his naturally occurring body hair? Really?!

It made me ill, then mad. Then I began to consider how our culture embraces unmanly men. The metrosexual, if you will. I know that term is outdated, but it doesn't really matter what we call them, does it? They're seriously short on masculinity. They might be the guys who spend too much time getting ready, who fear the outdoors, who think that manual labor ends with trimming the perfectly manicured grass or spreading bags of mulch. I saw some men's clothing ads in magazines recently, and the "men" on those pages were painfully skinny, harmless-looking guys with highlighted hair, wearing pastel shorts and un-scuffed, spotless bucks. They looked like fellows who'd prefer shiny cars and restaurant meals, who'd eschew sweating unless it's performed in the proper place (a crowded gym or club, of course). Where are the man's men? Where are the cowboys?

I know, the cowboy is a bit romanticized. There were probably times when he stunk and had dirty underwear; it's unlikely that he knew how to hold a goblet correctly, or the best way to consume oysters on the half shell. Some of them were possibly rough characters who lacked nobility and thought women were servants. But seriously, which one would you rather have in an emergency? Whom would you call if you heard a noise in the night? The gun-toting steak lover who fell asleep on the couch in his stained T-shirt, or the pretty boy sporting silk pajamas and a pedi?

I fear this is part of the downfall of America—not just the falling away from God, the epidemic of fatherlessness, the dissolving traditional family unit, but also the absence of real men in general. Men who encourage risk-taking and even a bit of foolishness. Those men started charcoal grills with gasoline, gave their children pen knives with which to forage and explore, and forced the kids to mow the yard before age 16 instead of keeping things safe and moving to a townhouse. I'm not saying I embrace the stone ages, that I'd give up my education and my freedoms and my vote in elections; those are invaluable rights that I deserve as an American, let alone a woman. But God made boys and girls different. Making girls more powerful and men more feminine won't change human nature, and it's doing a serious disservice to our country.

I see it especially with children. Kids need a balance; they need to have a parent who teaches them caution, and tidiness, and the finer points of navigating the feelings of others...yet they also need a parent who encourages them to build a bike ramp or clubhouse, collect bugs that might sting or bite them, or wrestle it out in a spacious area. We all need balance. While our youthful characters are developing, we need for both those types to be present in our lives, so we know not just how to walk away from trouble but also how to make a proper fist and not end up with a broken thumb. When all the parental figures begin to look like the fussy, safe ones? Then we're in serious trouble.

This isn't meant to be a statement on men who shave everything, nor on people living in townhomes. I'm not condoning gasoline as a safe fire starter. But I do see a connection between commercials that encourage men to shave so women will like them, and the dwindling numbers of old-fashioned men in our culture. To my way of thinking, we could use more straight-talking, straight-shooting cowboys these days.

I urge you to check this out

In keeping with yesterday's post:

The stories you'll find on this link (below) encompass the very spirit that has made this country great. They are the voices of true Americans. Read these stories, be inspired, and if you agree, then consider adding your own life anecdote.


http://the53.tumblr.com/

When an American says that he loves his country, he means not only that he loves the New England hills, the prairies glistening in the sun, the wide and rising plains, the great mountains, and the sea. He means that he loves an inner air, an inner light in which freedom lives and in which a man can draw the breath of self-respect.
~Adlai Stevenson

Who was that girl?

My somewhat recent forays into downtown reminded me of the first summer I worked there, so many years ago. I've been telling my son about that experience. My stories amuse him—and honestly, they amuse me, too.

I was such a young, small-town girl that summer. Coming from a safe, protected little college where the tallest building was an 8-floor dorm, the 'Burgh was incredibly "city" to me. I temped my way through a few warm, blissful months, living with an older sister, finding my hesitant and clueless path one day at a time.

Riding the trolley was worrisome; would I get on the right one? Could I get on a wrong one? How safe was this thing? What if I ended up heading the opposite direction? Thankfully, the system was pretty fail-safe even for a greenhorn like me. I can recall the first time I saw the underground platforms, how amazed I was. Coming up from those stations, sounds of traffic mingling with piped-in classical music, I had never felt like such a sophisticate.

The first time I temped at the Steel Building, I emerged from the largest subway plaza, confused, turned around... I asked a fellow passing by where I might find my destination, and the kind man stifled a chuckle as he informed me I was standing directly in front of it.

Arriving at the right floor in those days was a whole new challenge. Security was loose pre-September 11, but getting oneself to the proper bank of elevators provided a whole new obstacle. If a person has never been in a building more than 10 stories high, then how is that person to know that there are different sets of elevators to serve different groupings of floors? I distinctly recall having to ask someone about that system, too; thankfully, Pittsburgh is full of humble workers who clearly recall their own bewilderment when first faced with similar situations.

Eating alone was awkward as well; I'd managed to avoid that scenario as much as possible in the college cafeteria. I knew no one downtown, and as a temp I didn't stay in any office long enough to meet anyone; yet, I was so desperate to break away from whatever desk I was occupying that I made myself head out to little shops or parks or courtyard benches at mid-day to take in some nourishment. I was shamelessly self-conscious then (silly me, still thinking that everyone was watching my show). I became more accustomed to the solitude as the summer passed, began to frequent the bagel and sandwich stores that offered free newspapers, learned to stow a paperback in my purse at all times, because God forbid I sit at that table and look at my food or other diners or out the window!

Somewhere along the way, in the past 20 years, I've become more comfortable with myself; I've been liberated by the knowledge that, all along, no one was noticing. I've also been denied free time for large chunks of my adult life—which has helped me to realize now what a blessing an unscheduled lunch block really is. I've learned my way around our little city, and have even managed to maneuver myself through some larger cities as well.

I'm not the girl I was. Most days, I wouldn't want to be. But that girl? She had bright eyes, and a smile on her lips, and she carried sincerity and frivolity side by side in her heart. I wish, sometimes, I could keep my liberated old self while still maintaining that girl's energy and expectation. Is that possible?

Good discombobulation

I'm not sure that discombobulation is a word, but I'm using it and believe me, it fits.

Late last week, we happily learned that my husband will be picking up part-time contract hours for a few months at a nice office where some friends of ours already work. We'd both been hoping, and waiting, and the offer was official this weekend. Part-time, contract work in his field, with professionals, in a great place—ahhhhhhhhh. He's excited. I'm excited for him.

However. While we were waiting to hear about that opportunity, and days were passing, and more days, I was feeling guilty. Here was my hub, trying to get a second job after I had walked away from my one. I decided to try to "look busy" and put out some feelers in the biz world. I picked out a few local companies, very close to our home, and dropped off resumes with general cover letters. I went to a temp firm and filled out some paperwork. I sent some more resumes to online work opportunities.

Then, we got the news about his gig coming through. I breathed a sigh of relief, stopped putting out feelers for a couple of days, and looked further into that Etsy shop I mentioned a few posts ago.

SO, yesterday I get a call from the temp agency. They have a job for me, part-time, a couple of months' worth, at a firm downtown who needs an editor. Go figure. I called them back, explained the need for flexibility (in-service days this week and next, looming sicknesses, the need to meet my son's bus) and my desire for not too many hours, etc. The temp liaison worked it all out and the company wanted to try me. I said okay. The plan was laid.

That meant errands today, because the company wants me to start tomorrow. I went to the grocery store, I stopped at FedEx and got scans of several paintings, I hit the bank and the gas station, I carried all my stuff home and—lo and behold, there was a message. From one of the local companies where I dropped a resume. They wanted to talk to me. I called them back, explained the same stuff I'd gone over just one day before, and they still wanted to meet. So we did, just a couple of hours after speaking. It's honestly not looking good (I think they'll need a bigger commitment in the summer than I can give... and what a shame that is, because it took me ONE minute to drive there. And they would give me less money but also benefits. HELLO?! Benefits!!!???) Sadly, I'm sort of assuming that this one is a lost cause. Still, my head was spinning when I got back home. I called a friend to get her input, and while we were talking, I checked email.

Wait for it.

There was a little message from one of the companies to which I'd sent my resume recently, in that flurry of "looking busy." Guess what? They want to talk to me. So, we're having a phone interview later this week.

Don't you wonder how things work out this way? Maybe none of these sudden developments will become real opportunities. Perhaps they've simply been thrown in my path to give me a little pep in my step, to revive my hope in the economy, our country, myself. I might go to this temp assignment and fail miserably. But it might be great.

Either way, the past few days have been rather exhilarating and also slightly disconcerting. There I was, poised for painting and bonbon consumption. Alas, I fear it is not meant to be, at least not right now. What a crazy ride.

I'll certainly share news if anything becomes more stable. Until then, I'll practice standing on some Jello, since that's sort of what it feels like we're doing these days.

P.S. All this activity, albeit slightly frenetic, confirms for me that I wasn't supposed to be cleaning houses. That's my interpretation, anyway.

Throwing in the dust cloth

I quit the cleaning job.

I feel awful. I feel like a quitter. I guess I am a quitter.

I feel relieved, in a way, because I did not enjoy it and I felt my brain beginning to atrophy. And yet. Did I do the right thing? Time will tell.

I didn't think through the initial decision; I see that now. I didn't even make it through the first week of school before I slipped into panic mode and began making arrangements to jump into this job. When will I actually live the "trust God" theory that I regularly recommend to others? Why do I even believe for a moment that I am in charge and can change things? Why can I never wait?

I didn't think through the sheer labor involved in deep-cleaning for hours at a time. I did not think through my blood sugar issues in the morning. I did not imagine that I would be required to carry heavy supplies up and down stairs, nor did it occur to me that people who pay for cleaning services sometimes have giant mansions. I never considered how the immensity and extravagance of those homes would gall me. I did not entertain the thought that I might not be good at cleaning. I forgot that instead of having my sweet boy interrupting my thoughts and making me long at times for privacy, my dearest little guy would now be gone all day, every day, and that my loner tendencies might be exacerbated by even more time spent alone or around people who are trying to ignore me.

I just did not think hard or long enough about this decision.

The part-owner who's been trying to train me was not amused when I shared the news. I don't blame him. I'm sure this happens a lot, and I caught him at a bad time, and while I was trying to end the situation before it became even more complicated and clients started to know me well, there really is no good time to bow out and leave people in the lurch.

So, he can be cranky with me and I will bow my head and bite my tongue because, frankly, he probably has the right.

What am I supposed to be doing? I just don't know. I do feel pretty certain, though, that cleaning is not what I'm supposed to be doing. The deciding factor was Gramma Sally's apartment.

One of the places I tidied last week was absolutely charming. When I stepped in the door, it felt as if I'd stepped into an embrace. Walls were filled with artwork, beautiful stuff, warm colors and nature everywhere. Rich-colored pottery sat on shelves, cozy and comfortable furniture beckoned, simply pretty curtains adorned every window, and beyond the sliding doors was the most inviting little porch I've seen outside of a magazine. Photos filled every flat surface, and a knitting basket adorned a chest at the bottom of her bed. (I knew it was a woman's home as soon as I entered. It just reeked of woman.) It was not a fancy place, it was not luxurious in any way—it was wonderful and homey to the extreme.

As I went about my work, I did some light dusting in the office. Sally (not her real name) had left some letters and envelopes out; I glanced at one of the papers, then was curious enough to examine some of the paintings on the walls. Sure enough, the name was a match; Gramma Sally was the artist of nearly all the framed pieces.

And I stood for a moment and pondered: here is this woman, talented and crafty, and she has made all these beautiful things and surrounded herself with them. Why am I here, cleaning her home, admiring her craftiness, instead of trying to create my own? Is this really what I am to do? Is this really the area in which I excel?

The answer was a resounding no. Couple that with the mantra that had been swimming 'round my head all morning ("Clean your own damned house") and you can probably see why I was having a hard time with this career move. Everything about it felt wrong. It's not using my strengths; it's keeping me from performing tasks that I do relatively well. Ultimately, I may not be engaged in even remotely artistic or creative work; still, I had to admit as I stood there that I possess many other strengths that lay cast aside while I struggled to do this job instead.

So, there it is. I'm unemployed again, but hopefully a tad wiser. I really need to stop worrying and rushing. I'm not supposed to worry; doing so implies that I don't think God has it under control. Rushing isn't very smart, either, because it gets you into positions that compromise your integrity and makes you do things that you know are not cool. For example, quitting a job after a couple of weeks. That's not cool. It's been a learning experience, and I'm a better cleaner because of it (in theory, at least) but I've thrown a wrench into the works for those hard-working people who own that business. That was not my intention. When I rush in like a fool (hence the phrase), there will be consequences.

I really hope I get some direction from God soon. I feel rather adrift. Sailing is okay, but it's more comfortable for me when I can glimpse the next island on the horizon. Right now? No islands in sight. Floating. Floating. I know He will hold me up, but I'm still going to scan for that island.

On switching gears yet again

So, I was a little bit stir crazy that first week of school. I'd been watching our savings account slowly dwindle over the summer. And I had been looking at jobs online for weeks; I'd been noticing a disturbing trend among the so-called "writing" jobs.

Writing does not require any real training or skill these days—did you know? Any opinionated fool with an internet connection can share his or her lunacy, however poorly worded or ineffectively expressed, for the entire world to consume like soda pop and salty chips.

I knew it was coming to this, I did. I foresaw it with texting, and responses on YouTube, and comments on every online article (even the news), and even in the rapidly growing number of blogs. I could easily predict that the value of the word would plummet as words became more and more common and available. And indeed, that has happened.

The turning point was a writing job advertised on craigslist, which specified that no writing experience was necessary. I followed that one by clicking on a cleaning job that paid better anyway. You can probably guess what happened: I called about the cleaning job. And got it.

I don't know how long I'll last. I've only been at it for a week, and part-time at that. I've been in some unbelievably swank, sumptuous homes—the kind of homes I did not believe existed except among celebs and sports heroes. In fact, I've been in a celebrity home of sorts, a name you'd recognize (no, not a sports hero, so get your skivvies untangled). It's been eye-opening to say the least. If this is the world of home-cleaning during a recession, then HOLY COW, people, I don't think I'd be able to take it when the economy's good. I might end up at Gatsby's house, and then who knows what could happen...

I've learned that I'm actually not such a good cleaner. All this time, I've been known as a neatnik. Some people (including me) actually thought I had OCD tendencies; not so. Actually, I am only bothered by clutter. For all these years, I've been absentmindedly avoiding the real scum in my home. Well, I can't do that any more—my blissful, if smudgy, ignorance has been wiped unforgivingly clear. Happily, I've also begun to learn some of the tricks of the trade.

I've suddenly become mindful of how a single hair left on porcelain can undo an hour's worth of scrubbing in the eyes of a client.

I've learned that even rich people's kids make messes with toothpaste, and sometimes miss the toilet.

I've learned, too, that I never want to own stainless steel appliances.

I've learned how one industry is taking advantage of the two income, work-or-run-constantly lifestyle, and making it profitable. More power to them; these people earn every penny. I never dreamed this was such grueling work. I thought I was in pretty good physical shape, and knew how to get a house in order. Wrong. I will never again take for granted a shiny hotel shower, a perfectly vacuumed carpet or spotless tiles. Those cleaning people, carrying a giant bucket of supplies, toting a mop or broom? Never again will those people go unnoticed by me. They are slaving, doing an honest day's work. They deserve my recognition.

I've learned there are far worse jobs than this one. While I'm scrubbing, or dusting, or whatever, my mind is focused on the job at hand. When I'm done, I'm weary, sometimes sore...but not in a bad way. I don't have to feel guilt about what I've done. I haven't talked an older person into an unnecessary home improvement. I haven't sold a gadget that doesn't work. I haven't contributed to someone's poor health by creating an unhealthy food item, or selling cigarettes or trans-fatty donuts. I haven't even been forced to make yet another round of pointless, expensive changes to a client's advertisement, newsletter, or catalog.

Still. This is hard. And humbling. And I don't know how long I'll last. It's money, it gets me out of the house, and it's probably good for me. Is it ultimately what I'm supposed to be doing? I don't know. Is it using my best God-given talents? Doubtful. And might I be fired because I stink at it? Perhaps. I've left every job by my choice, in my time, except for one: the first I'd ever had, where I was let go...by the local supermarket. It seems I do not excel at the menial stuff. Hmmmm. Go figure.

I'll keep you posted. Until then, say hello to the next cleaning person you see. And if it's me? Try not to snicker.

The infiltration

My boss loves to bake and cook, as do I. Many Mondays find us exchanging casserole samplings or baked goods, the occasional cookies, etc. It's fun, and a nice way to break up the monotony of eating meals at work, which can get pretty dull.

Recently, a new week began and I found a lovely pumpkin muffin awaiting my return to the office after a weekend. There it sat on my desk, pretty and browned, wrapped in clear cellophane, beckoning to me. I was strong and left it sitting next to my keyboard; I had plenty to eat already that day, the office traffic was frenetic, and as I bustled about talking to clients, I thought about how it would brighten the following afternoon.

The next workday came, and a couple of hours into the day I looked longingly at the muffin. It would be tasty with a cuppa tea... and then I saw it. Crumbs near the wrapper. I eat so many things at my desk that I assumed my own messy nature had brought about the crumbs; I'd probably dribbled them from a recent cookie or bread. But no. A closer look revealed something in the cellophane wrap that made me shudder: a hole.

A nibbled hole. A small, rough-edged entry, further marked by an indentation in the muffin itself. A perfect little proof of rodent infestation.

I looked. I looked again. I turned to my boss, who sits behind me. "How concerned should I be about this?"

She glanced at my computer screen, assuming I'd managed to invite yet another virus into the office server. She looked pointedly at the monitor, perplexed. "What?"

"No, THIS." I indicated the hole in the muffin with a disgusted finger.

She looked, and looked more closely. Her face changed completely; the inquisitive, confused expression was suddenly repulsed, her mouth twisted involuntarily, her brows rose and her eyes widened. "Oooooooooh!"

"Oh, yes." We looked at the ruined muffin with shared horror. She mentioned some earlier indications from months ago, where she'd wondered whether there was an issue but had blamed the bad-mannered, sloppy students. Now, though, we knew: sloppy though those students may be, they were not to blame for shredded candy wrappers. Oh, no.

I threw some of my now-contaminated food stash away, and left only a lone granola bar and a foil-wrapped bag of rice crisps. Mice couldn't eat through foil, could they? They couldn't get inside the desk drawers. My goods were safe.

The next morning, I am saddened to say I learned I was so very wrong; yes, they eat through foil, and yes, they can climb inside desk drawers.

All the food has since been banished from my clearly penetrable desk, straight into the work-kitchen garbage. And the traps sit, waiting. Poised to catch a mouse. Set to snap on an unsuspecting, treat-seeking critter. A sly, sneaky, hungry pest that, if I saw it, would likely charm me with its cuteness.

But I have not seen it. I see only the evidence of its filthy, thieving ways. When next I see it, IF next I see it, I hope it is caught.

Truth be told, I'm hoping it realizes what it's up against and just moves elsewhere. I really don't want it dead. I just don't want it in my desk. OR in my baked goods. YUCK.

Stripped, someday to be blurred

I go back and forth about subjects for this blog. I have many that I would like to tackle, but end up shelving because I'm either not certain what I want to say, or I fear that the topic will be too depressing to address. Today's post is one that I've been toying with for days. And hey, I'm a reasonably honest person and this is my forum; if you find it disagreeable, no one's holding a gun to your head—at least not about whether you read this mindlessness.

We're in a period of our lives here, in my home, that I suspect will be blurred in my memory. It's simply not a happy period. It's not bad, not painful, not terrible, we're not suffering, we're trying each day to be thankful and look forward while still enjoying many blessings. But I'd be lying if I said this was a comfortable, contented season. It's full of uncertainty, of instability, rife with worries (even though those aren't biblical, I know) and just generally disconcerting. We have enough, even plenty in the eyes of most of the world. We have a home. We have work and money coming in. I'm writing this on a computer which is for the most part a completely unnecessary toy in that home. I have a stomach full of breakfast food. I am sitting in front of a heater that emanates warmth on a chilly morn.

But this is not a season of joy. I'm trying to find the joy, but many days it eludes me. And I know from experience that in the future, I'll look back on this time and a lot of it will be unclear. I'll have let the sharp memories slip away to soften the intensity of the emotions associated with them. It's been shown that we humans store memories alongside accompanying emotions, and that each time we recall that moment or event, we relive the feelings that we felt then. I have many clear, distinct memories of wonderful moments, turning points in my life, dear fragments of existence that changed me for the better. On the flip side, to be frank, a lot of the feelings of this long, current moment are not desirable to me, and therefore will render the memories less than precious. Good things are still occurring during this time, but they're hidden among lots of other garbage that I'll do my best to toss out when given the chance.

It's funny, how instability and uncertainty are always present with us, but unless we are forced to confront them daily, they seem less powerful, easier to set aside. When the illusion of stability is stripped away, we must face what was always there: the reality that we have no idea what the next minute will bring. It's always that way, but job losses, big changes, concerns, illness and fears bring that reality into stark focus in a way that happy, carefree times never will.

I talked with a friend last night who'd attended a burial. She was deeply disturbed by the fact that at said burial, as the casket was lowered into the ground, jutting up against its resting place were several vaults* that had shifted slightly from erosion and the construction of a road nearby. There stood the mourners, looking into that hole, confronted with undeniable evidence that the bodies planted near this spot were, indeed, still hanging out under all that earth, beneath a slab of concrete. Why was it so disturbing? Between us, my friend and I determined it was simply because the illusion of preservation was suddenly gone. There's no denying that a body placed in the ground will eventually turn into something very unlike a body; it's hard to argue with that when you're looking at proof that the holding tanks are still there, years later. Not to be gruesome or morbid—it's just the truth.

So, we've been similarly stripped of illusions here at my place. And I plan to blur this reality as soon as I am able. I'll keep portions of it, because as I said, there are many blessings within the uncertainty. But the rest I will jettison into the surf like the flotsam that it is. And I will pray, and pray, that this is not the new and permanent reality.

* A vault is the concrete "box" that holds and protects a casket. Yes, I'll admit, I am stupid and did not know this until last night's discussion.

The wi-fi facade

Hello, folks. Yes, I've been MIA once again. Sickness has descended on our humble home and has made its miserable way through each and every family member. Yet, we have not entirely succumbed, work has continued, life has continued, school tomorrow will continue, and life goes on. Cough, cough, snot, snot, HONK. (That last honk was me blowing my nose.)

So, I know I'm really old when the whole "wi-fi" train has left me behind at the station. Wi-fi in your house? Yes, that makes some sense. You can check various fronts from the comfort of your couch, or from the handy-dandy kitchen office that really swank, huge homes feature (which we lack here). You can be working online while your kids are playing games with kids in other countries. It's all good.

But wi-fi at coffee shops? At bagel stores? Why? I am flummoxed. I know it's cool. I know it's hip. I know that people shouldn't feel confined to office spaces anymore. How limiting. How very 90s. Still, I fear that performing online work tasks at Panera is doing to work what talking on cell phones at all hours in all places has done to the quality of telephone communications. (Hint: REDUCING QUALITY SIGNIFICANTLY.)

Work is work. It takes space most of the time. It takes quiet sometimes. It takes thought-space, ponder room, concentration. It takes a place where you can have a conversation with a person and not be concerned about the undisciplined brat sitting at the next table, throwing a fit over butter instead of jelly. It takes a "professional" atmosphere (do those still exist?!), as it should.

Yes, I visited Panera Bread recently. And yes, I wondered once again how much meaningful work could honestly be performed in such a setting. There are workers taking calls, typing on their laptops, spreading various papers all around them, looking terribly important. Come on, you couldn't do this in your hotel room, if you're traveling? In your own bedroom, if you are self-employed? How much work can honestly be accomplished in such a public, noisy, unregulated environment?

So, yes, I'm old. Yes, I don't take my laptop to a coffee shop to do work. I don't even have a laptop. So call me names. Laugh at me. You know what? When I have real work to do, I get it done. Fast. Efficiently. In a purposeful and focused manner. And no one on a work-related call with me ever has to wonder who is screaming in the background, or why my office features an out-of-control milk steamer.

Thoughts? I know I'm a dinosaur... I can take it.

The project philosophy as marriage theory

Ahhhhhhhhhh, a few coerced moments on the computer at last. I nearly had to arm-wrestle for access to the *#!?*& thing.

We tackled one of the aforementioned home improvement projects last week. If it weren't raining right now, and if the ladders had been put away and the porch swept back into shape, I'd provide a photo: The front of our home now sports lovely, chocolate-colored railing, trim, and gutters. What a difference! Perhaps next time I'll show you the nearly edible loveliness.

For now, though, all that recent work and (sometimes reluctant) teamwork has me thinking about projects in general. It seems to me that all projects follow a similar course. Professional projects, outdoor projects, remodeling projects, whatever—they all proceed in roughly the same fashion.

• First, the project looms, sometimes larger than life. Even small projects, when examined in detail, can be a bit daunting. All those minute points, hidden complications, the sheer thought of attempting such tasks can deter even the most brave and seasoned worker. What? We'll need a taller ladder than we own? Will we have to rent it? We need to scrape all that first? I never noticed how intricate is the scrollwork on this crazy trim... What a pain.

• Then, the details are wrestled into submission. The project is placed into sections, is ordered properly, different portions are prioritized, and the work begins. A ladder is borrowed, paint and supplies are purchased, work is tackled. At first, it may go smoothly, stay on schedule, follow the expected course... The workers' confidence may soar, and additional projects might even be discussed in the heat of success.

• And then, an unforeseen obstacle. Something unexpected happens, or is uncovered. Darnit, the eaves under this gutter are rotten. And the gutter is leaking and clogged at the same time—apparently hasn't functioned properly in years. We need wood, we need more caulking, we need sealant... But we will conquer. Camaraderie reigns yet.

• The project proceeds. More unforeseen obstacles; even with the dark shade, two coats are most definitely needed. Rain is forecasted, days of it for Pete's sake. And the rest of the household chores are looming—they have no respect for the big job in process. They cry out for attention as well. And the neighbors, those friendly chatty neighbors, keep distracting the workers from the job at hand. Interference! Where's the ref?

• At last, crunch time is reached. A new away-from-home work schedule hangs in the near future, in addition to inclement weather on its way, not to mention that one worker is planning to travel out of town in just a few days. All those factors bring about the just-buckle-down-and-get-it-done mentality in at least one team member, and that member's panic and grim determination eventually bleed onto the other members; work commences with steely force, marked by new intensity. The neighbors sense this and steer clear, recognizing the set of the workers' mouths, seeing and knowing that such a speechless, driven approach can only mean that "Just work, dammit" has become the mindset and small talk, even among the workers, has been set upon a shelf for a friendlier future time.

• And then, achievements accumulate, genuine and observable achievements, and the workers are fueled for the finish. Maybe they're still speaking, maybe not, but work continues at a still-somewhat-breakneck pace because the end is in sight. We can taste it.

• Finally, it's done, or so close to done that it feels done, and life can go back to normal, whatever normal looks like.

And that's the project. Nearly every project I've ever been involved with. And you know what I'm realizing? Marriage itself is a project—a project that happens to contain countless other smaller projects. To say this has been an odd, stressful summer would be an understatement. And I'm seeing that daily, especially in stress, this whole project procedure also describes intimate personal relationships a bit. The initial thought of marriage is intimidating, then do-able, then you plan it, then you take the plunge, obstacles arise and you work through them, more arise, you wonder what you were thinking, you get through it, normal is achieved once again, and this pattern repeats many, many times. Occasionally, the obstacles encountered are mind-numbing, might have kept you from starting the project if you'd known it would involve this... You work through them. You have no choice. It would be nice if the majority of married time was spent in that clear-cut, prioritized period where work is accomplished and people feel good about it. But many days, it's not there. Sometimes it's in that "just work, just get it done" phase where the only thing that keeps you working is that you started it and you'll finish it, by God.

Thankfully, marriage includes many moments between projects—happy, carefree periods of employment, of busy but not frenetic schedules, times to enjoy life and have plenty and take things for granted. Memories that are savored when the excrement hits the fan and suddenly every conversation is short and loaded, when Just Work, Dammit is the phrase on your lips and you have to bite your tongue and keep pressing forward, clinging to the knowledge that you made a promise, made a covenant, and you're in it to stay.

I don't think we'll be starting any new projects right now. Yes, there's time, there's man- and woman-power. But I think for now, we'll just savor this moment between projects. We'll get back on a schedule, we'll simply BE for a bit. Down the road there'll be time for more projects, for discomfort aplenty. And it will come. Oh, it will come.

Preparing to be turned on my ear

I accepted a job offer today, and will begin at the end of this month.

No, really. I did. You might have noticed my conspicuous inactivity of late in the blogosphere; it's been quite busy here at our place. Freelance work for my hus, and interviews for me. Three of 'em in 4 weeks. And I turned down a fourth option just this morning. There are still jobs out there, people. Don't listen to the news. And these jobs mostly definitely do NOT exist because of that asinine stimulus bill... But that's another entry.

The job I've taken is part-time, at a non-profit tutoring center 10 minutes from my home. The boss is great. The other folks I've met are great. The hours? They stink. Truly. Because guess when tutoring happens? After school, into the evening. Yep. And even though I won't be tutoring much, I need to be there when that's going on.

There are a lot of good things about this opportunity, other than those wonky hours. Mostly, it'll give my other half the time to pursue his type of work; that was the main reason I was looking, after all.

I have fears. Many of them. It's been awhile since I've worked for pay and recognition. And I've never tried to work while I have a family hangin' at my cozy home without me. Yet, I figure if I'm going to do this, I'd choose to do it with these people at this type of place. And those bills... they just keep showing up. So, maybe there's really not a lot of choice about it.

Wish me luck. Say a prayer. Tell me it'll all be okay. Remind me that God is faithful and an awesome provider. Please.

Thanks.

Double whammy *

What lovely weather we’ve had! And tonight for dinner I was able to make haluski from the beautiful cabbage we’ve grown in our own garden—delicious! Marcus frolicked in his new little swimming pool shaped like an alligator. And my husband came home early from work yesterday.

Can you guess why?

Go ahead, I’ll give you a minute. We’ve been through this drill before, haven’t we? Remember?

Yep. We’re unemployed again. The new employer, after a ridiculously short trial period, decided that Todd is not a good fit for the position. They told him how much they like him, admire his work, wish they could use him, will keep him in mind, etc. And then they asked him to go home and not return.

In truth, he had misgivings from the start, even before he accepted the position. He hasn’t enjoyed the work at all. He’s told me time and again that it’s hard to learn, the environment is rushed and unforgiving, the people who offer the tiny bit of training available are set in their ways and inflexible about the current, problematic systems… I am figuring out now that he really hated it. So, I compared it to a bad love relationship. It wasn’t working. Someone had to speak up, to call it what it was, to cut the cord. But boy, the timing surely does suck. And can you imagine how demoralizing for my poor guy? I really can’t. I just can’t.

I was “let go” from my very first job at a grocery store when I was 17. I failed as a cashier. I can just barely recall the numb feeling I had when the manager called me into her office and told me it wasn’t working out and I need not come back. I’ve blocked most of it from my head, but the whole experience really messed with my confidence. How could I be fired from such a simple job? I was an honor student! Yet it did not matter. I wasn’t the best cashier, I know—I got rattled with long lines, made some mistakes with the scanner, did not memorize the codes for produce… but I only worked about 8 nights before they ditched me. This sort of feels the same way; we’re dazed, confused, mystified as to how this whole experience fits into the big picture of our journey. And perhaps, just perhaps the judgment that came down was premature? Not that it matters.

Whatever the reason(s), this is the place where we stand right now. And I feel a little panic, yet I also feel a little reassurance. God is good. He is faithful. Maybe we misread His will. Or maybe there was some reason my hub had to be at that place for almost 2 months, and we’ll never know what it was. Perhaps there’s a really great, appropriate position that will use all his amazing talents and it just wasn’t available until now. Maybe God wants me to go back to work instead. (Please excuse me while I go throw up now.)

I don’t know. I guess I don’t need to know. I just need to keep pressing on. To continue to take steps. To believe and trust and pray.

Hope you choose to join me in that venture. Thanks for listening.

* If you're a regular reader, then you'll know what I mean by this title.

Pondering my potential comeback...or lack thereof

I apologize for my absence. Just in case you noticed I’ve been absent.

I’ve been turning over some heavy subjects, not the least of which concerns whether I will have to return to work sooner than planned. (And pretty much anytime is sooner than planned, since I had cherished the hope that I’d simply be adored and supported comfortably by my patrons for the rest of my life. Don’t laugh; you know you hope for that, too.)

Now, please don’t misread my statement. I am not in a complete panic about the possibility of returning to work. There’s a not-so-small part of me that would embrace an opportunity to work outside of the home again. To work for pay again. To work for recognition again. To work at something I’ve studied and practiced and feel somewhat competent while performing. To be acknowledged by the rest of the working world. No, those aspects or returning to work don’t sound too daunting. My concerns run much deeper than that.

I fear that all the time and effort I’ve invested in my son will be lost. Suppose my investment should fade, those memories we’ve made become lost. Suppose his wild boy instincts are nurtured aggressively by an alternative caregiver, and my sensitive little sweetheart who loves to read and make his stuffed animals talk suddenly becomes a rough-and-tumble bruiser who thinks I’m a sissy neatnik. I know that will likely happen anyway… But does it have to happen already? So soon? I gave up a lot for this kid—and now he probably won’t even remember the bulk of my commitment, if it is to end at this point.

I also shudder when I consider that perhaps, no one will want to hire me. Why should they? What have I to offer? A frumpy housewife who’s been out of the workforce for over 4 years… My work experiences of late are probably not so useful to a potential employer. Yeah, I know there are lots of people out there touting the returning-to-work SAHM and how much common sense and no-nonsense attitude she brings to the office, but honestly, most of the folks spouting that opinion are—you guessed it—other SAHMs who are trying to return to work outside the home. The minute they see I’m not on LinkedIn, they’ll toss my skimpy resume aside like last week’s Us magazine. (Although, in honesty, isn’t LinkedIn just a work version of Facebook? “Connections,” “friends,” whatever you want to call ‘em—it’s all sort of high schoolish to me.)

And the biggest fear of all? That if I somehow can overcome everything, market myself successfully, iron a shirt and wear lipstick for a change, slough off the old homemaker/mom dinginess, and be a valuable commodity again, that it won’t be enough. Because, you see, it won’t be just me pulling myself up by my bootstraps and hitting the street, will it? No sir, it’ll be me…and thousands of other people who live quite near to me. Of which possibly hundreds are qualified to do the same sort of work I am seeking.

So, you can see why I haven’t had much to say of late. I’ve been thinking way more than I’d like to. Sometimes, it really does stink to be a realist.

Maybe next time, I can write something light and funny about my boy. I hate to milk him for amusing anecdotes like that, but I’m just not seeing much else worthy of sharing right now.

Stay tuned. And thanks for checking in.

This should come as no surprise

Silly me, telling you that my next post would be happy. Tut, tut.

Yesterday began simply enough. Todd’s truck was being repaired, so he took the car to work—which always makes me feel trapped. The kid and I woke up later than normal (that was nice!), hung around, played a bit, watched Sesame Street, and then decided it was warm enough to go outside. The sun was beaming, the sky was a glorious shade of blue, and we donned our jackets and stepped onto the porch.

It was a pretty day, but the wind was whipping. We ended up huddled first in the protected sunken driveway, and then on the sunny porch that is somewhat shielded from the buffeting gales. We finally gave up and went inside. The whole time we braved the cold, I was wondering where Todd was. He was supposed to come home for lunch, thus returning the car, and then I would take him back to work after lunch and he’d ride home with a friend who lived near the car-repair shop that had his truck.

He didn’t come. And he didn’t come. And a twinge of worry crept into my tummy. We started to eat a late lunch without him. And finally, I heard the garage door. He was home.

And I knew, as he climbed the steps toward me, that we had become a statistic.

I knew from his face, from the unspoken apology in his expression, from the stiffness of his gait. I knew before he ever said, “You don’t need to take me back to the office.” I knew.

No one yelled or cried. We were amazingly calm, although I realized my hands were shaking as I finished making my sandwich. It’s not as if we’re the first to have this happen, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been half-expecting this for the past year. We kept ourselves slightly perky, to belie our trepidation for our little boy’s sake. Daddy told him he’d need to find another job, because he wasn’t needed at this one anymore. And our attentive boy commented, “So 3 people lost their jobs.” Which means he’s been listening carefully—because yes, last week’s scary announcement at Todd’s job involved a layoff of 2 other folks from a sister company.

We finished lunch in mostly silence, while I tried to distract the kiddo with questions about preschool. I don’t think he was fooled, but he seemed to appreciate the conversation.

Then we all climbed into the car for the long drive to retrieve the truck, a haul even without traffic, and we timed it perfectly to coordinate with end-of-day traffic. To make matters worse, there’d been a misunderstanding between mechanics and while one had told us the truck was finished, in actuality it was not. We paid and loaded ourselves back into both vehicles, knowing all the while that Todd would have to turn around and make the same stupid trip the next day.

As I followed my boys through the streets of that small town, making our way toward the inevitable hell of rush hour around Pittsburgh, we stopped at a red light and I found myself gazing around at various store fronts. One place was an embroidery specialty store (now, honestly, do you see that surviving this economy? What a shame.) The store had a large window with a low, wide ledge, and I noticed motion on the ledge. Awww! There were two adorable pugs, watching the traffic, their funny compressed noses tilted slightly upward as they gazed at passersby. I looked at the light to make certain it had not yet changed to green, and then I glanced back at the storefront.

The dogs were copulating.

Yep, right there, in the window of an embroidery store. So inappropriate. And I guess I shouldn’t assume that the male dog was accomplishing anything—I was not close enough to be sure of his success or lack thereof—but the “under-dog” had resigned herself to the activity and was just trying to outlast the event. She looked distracted and weary. She knew there was no use fighting or trying to escape; she was just waiting until it was over. When the light changed to green, I pulled away, leaving the dogs to their scandalous window activities, and the thought that was foremost in my mind was this: I guess everybody gets theirs at one point or another.

The moral of the story? Sometimes you’re “top dog” (not to be facetious), and sometimes you’re the other dog.

The dangers of kidspace

You’ve heard of MySpace, right? That huge, frighteningly addictive website that contains excruciating details (many of which are lies, I might add) about millions of people? Well, today I’m inventing the word kidspace. It’s not even remotely related to MySpace. Or perhaps it is, since the wide availability of kidspace opens up countless hours of time dedicated to MySpace…among other pursuits.

Kidspace is the alarming amount of space given to young people who not so long ago were considered to be children. And I’m not talking about literal space here—I’m talking about the amount of time these kids spend unsupervised or, worse, alone in a home or apartment.

I grew up during the end of a different era; my mom stayed home with us when we were tots, and then after we were all safely ensconced in school, my mom picked up part-time work; the stipulation was that the work must always allow her to be home with us after school and in evenings. It was wonderful when I was small, and frankly, it probably kept me out of trouble when I was bigger. We didn’t eat out much but we ate well, we had plenty of acres and hobbies and pets to keep us busy, and I am thankful to this day that my childhood was so idyllic.

Too often, this is not the case nowadays. A lot of folks have lots of new stuff, take big yearly vacations, are involved in more activities than you can count…and their children are first reared by strangers, and then when of age, are abandoned to their own pursuits for many hours each day. Summertime brings this situation to a head. I’ve heard many parents long out loud for the start of school, not so they can send the kids back to classes for education, but so they don’t have to pay the sitter every day. You can see Mom or Dad counting the years until their darlings will be self sufficient enough to stay home unsupervised for hours at a time.

Case in point: We have neighbors, a couple, and they have kids. The youngest is in high school. She’s 16; her boyfriend is in college. Both of her parents work. All day. Every day. This gal’s the only one still living at home. And nearly every morning this summer, her boyfriend’s car has been parked outside the house from 9 or 10 a.m. through lunchtime or beyond. Now, I want to believe the best about this young lady. But I dimly recall being 16, and I clearly recall the goal of just about every boy between the ages of 14 and 35.

No one has ever checked with me about what goes on there during the day, even though they’ve commented more than once about my being “home all day.” I don’t go out of my way to notice, but there’s that car, morning after morning. What’s going on? And I can’t help but wonder: wasn’t there some way to get that girl out of the house? A job? Day camp? Something? And if not, then why isn’t there any level of curiosity from her folks? I’d be curious. It seems they’re more concerned about buying the girl her own car, a plan they’ve shared with us a few times, than they are about whether said car can accommodate a baby seat. They both work, a lot, the mom more than one job… Is it worth it? I’m sure they know more than I do about this young lady, about the situation. Right?

I want to trust, but I don’t want to be a fool. I will do everything in my power to keep my son from ever having an empty house at his disposal when he’s a teen. At least that’s my plan now. Perhaps I, too, will someday be lulled into a comfort zone where I feel perfectly okay about leaving him unwatched, unchecked, for hours each day. I hope not. It’s no accident that America’s insatiable desire for “things,” and how it’s come to outweigh family time, also coincides with the increasing baby boom among our teens. If you take an alcoholic to a bar, he or she is likely to fall off the wagon. If you give a shopaholic a credit card and drop him or her at the mall, that person is likely to spend. And if you leave a teenager alone, free to entertain members of the opposite sex, they are likely to delve deeper than they should into a world that has some pretty heavy consequences. And pregnancy isn’t necessarily the most heavy of those consequences. Think about it.

Too much kidspace is not good. This neighborly example is one of many—and I’d guess a lot of the kids in question are younger than this particular chica. Even if these kids emerge, unscathed by pregnancy or disease, from this premature freedom, I’d venture to guess they are scarred anyway. Kids are not adults. We shouldn’t confuse them with adults. And even when it’s easier for us as parents to grant freedoms, that doesn’t necessarily make it the best thing for those youngsters. I pray that this nation will open its eyes wider and start shouldering the responsibility they accepted when the burden was new and squalling and smelled like baby powder.

Perhaps I’m being too harsh. Am I?

Peaches just past their prime

I waited a day too long--when I'd finally dragged out the easel, I had to arrange these fellas to hide the spots where they were starting to turn. We sliced 'em up later that night and had a bite.

I wondered as I nibbled and wiped peach juice from my chin... would I enjoy painting as much if it were my vocation instead of avocation? What if I suddenly had to do it every day? Is the mere act of accepting compensation for an activity sufficient to strip the activity of its joy?

I still enjoy blogging/writing. But if I had to do it? For pay?

Thoughts?

A few working observations

Some freelance work came my way recently, which was a nice change of pace. Actually earning money for work is also nice (wink, wink). It reminded me how much I miss defined assignments, and schedules, and paychecks…and it also reminded me how spoiled I have become.

Suddenly, I had to really plan every commitment. I had to skip an activity to meet the deadline. I had to hurry to the computer as soon as the kid was sleeping so I could get busy. One day was rather lovely, and I couldn’t go outside to drink it in. I worked for an hour and, for the first time in a long time, I experienced that old shoulder stiffness and soreness that used to be part of my daily existence. I wondered why my backside ached and why I felt so sluggish, then recalled that I’d sat on that body part for far longer than normal.

I was newly aware of the joys of a more flexible schedule. I was newly short of breath at the thought of sinking back into the life-sucking world of The Office. I was newly cognizant that a huge number of people spend their days sitting and frowning at a pretty little box, arms poised awkwardly and painfully before them, fingers hovering over a little tray of numbers and letters.

I remembered, again, how odd is this world we’ve created for ourselves, where physical suffering and injury is often caused not by hard labor, but by lack of it.

That’s all for now.