Practicing Improvisation

Privacy Please!

2009-03-20T21:01:00.004-04:00

I reopen this blog with a rant.

Tonight, after a day spent with a terrible cold and two clingy, whiny children, I retreated to the bathroom for a nice, quiet, relaxing soak in the tub--with the door securely locked.

It's wonderful, until, as I am drying off, I hear the lock to the bathroom door being picked. The door is thrown open and in pops my husband.

After I yell that it is rude to unlock the door and barge in, especially into a bathroom, he has the gall to tell me he thinks it is rude to lock him out! Then he storms downstairs muttering that I shouldn't take a bad mood out on him. Is he kidding me?!

Must I rent a hotel room to get some privacy?!

Learn to Finish My Sentences Correctly

2008-08-23T14:23:00.005-04:00

One of my pet peeves is people who finish my sentences, but get it wrong. This meme allows me to finish the sentence and always get it right!

Thanks Sunshine for the open tag. I tag my friend Life of a Supermom because she usually doesn't do these things and T.A. to get her started on her new blog (I'm not sure if she's going to use her real name).

Finish the sentence.

Maybe I should stop taking myself so seriously.

I love the smell of lilacs.

People would say that I am a grounded person.

I don’t understand why little boys find poop so funny!

I lost the watch I received for my 8th grade graduation and had worn everyday since.

Life is worth appreciating more.

My past is something I am working on understanding.

I get annoyed by double standards.

My idea of a good time is sharing a bottle of wine with good friends.

I wish my boys wouldn't fight so physically.

Twins are something I hope never to have.

Dust bunnies are everywhere now that we have wood floors.

Tomorrow I’m going to a scrapbook crop.

And I just entered a scrapping giveaway for summer stuff at Iowa Geek, so I better finally get my Christmas pages done. If you scrapbook (Kim, I'm thinking of you), enter and tell her I sent you!

I have low tolerance for loud noises and crowded places.

I’m totally terrified of heights.

I wonder why I make mountains out of molehills.

Never in my life have I ridden a motorcycle, and I never will.

High school was annoying.

When I’m nervous I blush and can't think of anything to say.

One time at a family gathering my sisters and I flew across the country to surprise my dad.

Take my advice: Trust your instincts.

Taking a good picture is something I wish I did consistently.

I’m almost always fashionably late.

I’m addicted to my espresso maker.

I want someone to babysit the kids for an entire weekend (for free) so my husband and I could get away.

The Career of a Stay at Home Mom

2008-08-15T15:01:00.005-04:00

I can remember stating with great conviction that my career as a writer/editor was perfect because it allowed me to work at home while raising children. At the time, I was pregnant with Cole and under contract to deliver a book a couple months after I delivered the baby. No problem, I thought.

Soon after Cole was born, I realized my plan of working from home was a lovely illusion. The morning I tried to feed Cole in my lap with one hand and type with the other, while keeping my notes balanced in front of me and Cole’s body at the correct incline so he wouldn’t spit up all over the keyboard was the morning I decided my career would have to be put on hold.

Somehow, I finished the book. It was published, got some nice reviews, and that was that. Instead of working, I attended Kindermusik and Gymboree, joined a moms club, made new friends who had kids the same age, became room mom at the preschool, and settled into my new life. I loved it all.

I still do. But now the feeling of contentment is fading. The friends and I have additional children and are drifting apart as life becomes more hectic; Kindermusik, Gymboree, and playgroups don’t work for Jay because of Cole’s school schedule; the organizations have become more an obligation than a joy; and since I can’t keep up with the friends I have, what’s the point of making new ones?

Although I don’t feel as depressed anymore, I do feel restless. I need something more, something that is just mine, something that requires more brain power than solving Blues Clues. There are writing opportunities that tempt me, but the simple fact of deadlines holds me back. They were hard enough to meet when I lived alone. Now, the constant and relentless needs of small children would bury any time commitments.

I hope this blog will dissapate some of that restlessness. It’s a way to think and write without the pressure of deadlines.

And elementary school is only a few years away.

Wishful Thinking Contract

2008-08-11T14:09:00.005-04:00

I am in a foul, foul mood this morning.

I didn't keep up with the housework yesterday because I felt ill (too much yard work in the August heat without enough food and water). I napped in the afternoon and went to bed early, leaving hubby in charge.

This morning the entire house was a wreck: toys strewn everywhere, dishes piled on the counter (even though they went to Wendy's for dinner), food spilled on the floor, pee fermented in little guy's potty chair, I could go on and on (and on and on).

How have I let him think this is acceptable?

When we dated, he kept his place tidy. When we lived together and both worked full-time, I felt fine with the division of housework. Now that I am a stay-at-home mom, I seem to be in charge of everything except minor repairs and some bills.

How did a relationship based on equality get so lopsided?

I am familiar with the argument that hubby works hard outside the house and that, as a stay-at-home mom, housework should fall on my shoulders. And I agree, to a point.

I feel my job description should be the same as a day care provider, which is what I am replacing. I should be responsible for what happens in the course of day-to-day life with young kids: feeding them nutritious meals, doing dishes after meals, picking up the clutter they create, keeping them occupied and safe, disciplining them when needed, ferrying them to preschool and other activities, arranging doctors appointments, etc., etc.

I do not believe that the chores hubby would do if he lived alone should completely fall on my shoulders. In the evenings and on weekends, housework and childcare should be shared.

I have let this belief slide (as have many others), and I have no one but myself to blame. I know that if the dishes I left on the counter got washed, freshly laundered clothes appeared in my closet, the pantry was always fully stocked, and presents and cards for birthdays and holidays were purchased and sent, I’d kick back in the recliner and flip through the channels too. (However, I would feel a twinge of guilt if, while I relaxed, my spouse was doing dishes, sweeping, and folding laundry.)

I recently learned about Alix Kates Shulman (see here and here). In 1970, she and her husband drew up a marriage contract. In it they stated: “each member of the family has an equal right to his/her own time, work, values, and choices…The ability to earn more money is already a privilege which must not be compounded by enabling the larger earner to buy out of his/her duties and put the burden on the one who earns less.” The contract also stated, “If one party works overtime in any domestic job, she/he much be compensated by equal work by the other.” The agreement then listed each job involved in running a household. After putting the contract into effect, Shulman wrote three children’s books, a biography, and a novel.

Although Shulman later divorced and wrote another piece titled “A Marriage Disagreement, or Marriage by Other Means,” her idea is worth investigating. Some sort of contract may alleviate my dissatisfaction with my current status as domestic servant and make my husband realize that while parts of being a stay-at-home mom are rewarding and satisfying, many parts are tedious and unfulfilling.

Unfortunately, I’ll have to hire a maid and babysitter to look into it. (And yes, a babysitter is here while I am writing this.)

Therapy--Yikes!

2008-08-07T10:21:00.003-04:00

Today I try out a new psychologist. The last one just sat there without giving any feedback. If I wanted to hear myself blabber, I could talk to the walls.

Seeing any mental heath provider is a tough thing for me. My parents both came from households where problems weren’t discussed and they carried that through to our family. People in the small town where I grew up have a “buck up” and “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” attitude. I don’t think a single psychologist practiced there when I was a kid. I’m also quite introverted. When I talk about myself, I feel uncomfortable and start to blush. Fifty minutes of blushing is quite a long time.

I know now that seeing a therapist isn’t uncommon. When I got to college, I was shocked by how casually others talked about their psychologists. Some had been seeing shrinks for years! Of course, it never occurred to me to see one myself, even though it would have been extremely helpful.

The people in my life now--people I think have it all together--have not been shy about sharing the names of their psychologists and psychiatrists. What an eye opener. Bloggers I've been following are also open about their experiences. Reading their posts has given me courage to go through with therapy. Thanks Flutter; Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper; and Maternally Challenged.

I’d like to work on my unhelpful patterns of thought. I’ve become more aware of my self-talk and it’s very negative. I’m a bully. I beat myself up for not being perfect and call myself names—loser, stupid, unlikable jerk. I would never talk to others like that and if someone called a friend or family member those names, I’d be furious. I’d like to give myself the same respect I give others.

The psychologist practices cognitive-behavioral therapy. I think that is what I need. From what I’ve read though, strict cognitive-behavioral therapy doesn’t care about the past or why the feelings developed. I think that would be helpful to know.

Writing these thoughts gave me a clearer idea of what I want from therapy. That should help this afternoon. Wish me luck!

Intimacy with Fear

2008-08-04T17:06:00.003-04:00

(Removed link to my other blog: http:thejoysofmyboys.blogspot.com)

I started reading When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön when I was in the midst of my recent depression. At that time, I was simply reading the words, not thinking of their meaning.

A few days ago, I picked it up again. I’ve never read something that seemed so apropos to my life. I had to stop underlining passages to keep the book legible.

The title of this entry is the name of the first chapter. The epigraph is “Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth.” I must be right on top of the truth, because, boy oh boy, do I feel fear.

But do I really? If I am honest, I actually avoid it. I desperately do anything else but feel fear.

Why else would I have moved to three cities in three years? Why did I have dreams each move of making a circle of true friends, having my apartment be the center of activity (à la Friends), being vivacious and extroverted at parties, and charming the man of my dreams. The truth is that I was too shy to meet people outside of work, too socially anxious to have fun at parties, and too scared to date anyone who didn’t ask me out first (losers, losers, losers).

I can see the same habit in my career. In writing each book, I would research until the deadline loomed, then race to meet it. If the editor found fault, I allowed myself the luxury of thinking I could have done it perfectly if only I had more time.

Even being a mom gives me excuses to hide from the things that scare me. It’s easy to let the day-to-day grind of being a stay-at-home mom keep me from taking on projects and risking rejection. I haven’t written or edited a word (except the annual Christmas letter) since Cole was a baby. If I weren’t scared, I would let the housekeeping slide, rely on Rob more, and not be so available for my kids (which, quite frankly, would be good for them).

Now that I see my reactions for what they are, my instinct is to fight the fear and tame it. Chödrön says to do so is heartbreaking because it cheats me of the present moment. Instead I should become intimate with fear because that “points to what life really is when we let things fall apart and let ourselves be nailed to the present moment.”

I’m not certain I truly understand Chödrön’s teaching in this first chapter. In fact, I don’t understand it at all. How does one become intimate with fear? What happens when you are? How do you know you are there?

I hope the rest of the book answers these questions. I fear, however, that I am alone on this journey.

The Beginning

2008-07-30T09:50:00.001-04:00

I started my first blog, The Joys of My Boys, to keep far-away relatives updated on my family. Because of this audience, I mostly write about my sons and their antics in a Readers' Digest, Good Housekeeping sort of way. Few of the entries are about me or my thoughts and feelings.

This post by Sunshine made me realize how much I long to write without censorship. I love my family, but some topics must be off-limits (for their good and mine).

So, The Joys of My Boys will continue to be about my family written mainly for the grandparents; Practicing Improvisation will be more true to myself. I look forward to seeing where it goes.