It's that time of year again. Well, that time of year, every four years, again.
Yes, folks, it's the time when I get all fired up and decide to become an Olympic athlete.
I get so inspired by these people, I want to be them. Well, not literally; I want to be myself, but do what they are doing. They make it look so easy that I'm nearly certain that with a few months of practice, I can become almost as good as they are, and earn myself a spot on Team USA at the next go-round.
The fact that I cannot run 100 yards without falling over in utter muscular fatigue means nothing. Absolutely nothing. Completely beside the point. If I want to be a speed skater or a ski cross skier, or a bobsledder, what's to stop me?
(I'll tell you though, I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to be on the skeleton team. Because the likelihood that you will end up one is just too great.)
I do like watching the figure skaters, but it's not something I have really ever aspired to be. I'm tall, and they're not. It's pretty much that simple. So I just admire them and applaud.
Curling seems to be something I could handle; you don't have to be young, or short, or particularly limber, and while I seem to fit the demographic for women curlers, I'm not sure I could get too excited about participating. Even just watching it isn't very enthralling; I do understand the point of the sport and how it is played (thanks to a quick Google search), but I just plain don't really care. I need adrenaline, people!
Hence skiing, speed skating, and bobsledding. I am not a fan of slow. I cannot slow down, take it easy, be mild, or chill out. More, more, faster, faster! I have an inner speed demon that is simply begging -nay, howling- to be released. Impatience is my middle name. I don't like to wait on anything or anyone. I nearly have siezures when I'm near the middle or back of an airplane and have to wait on all the incompetent idiots in front of me to disembark before I can haul ass outta there. Not because I don't like planes, but because I don't like to wait. I don't care how long you take as long as you let me go by first. I get some kind of psychotic natural high from being first, the fastest, leaving everyone else in the dust. I'm sure there's a complex psychological explanation for this (maybe being the oldest child has something to do with it) but really, I just like to be fast.
But it's not just about being fast. Oh no, I have to be good, too. Artistically sound. Graceful, smooth, confident. I don't want to slide across the finish line on my side, legs flying and arms clutching at thin air. I want to swoosh in with arms held high, fists pumping in the air, the smile of victory gracing my visage.
Fast, however, is the key term here. Everything else is just details. Important details, to be sure, but details all the same.
As soon as I can decide on my sport, I'll start training. I've got four years, you know. Since, in my perfect physical condition (don't everyone hurt yourselves laughing), it should only take a few months, I've got some time. Might as well treat myself to a s'more while I assume the resting position in front of my tv to assess my future competition.
Gotta prep, you know.
About Me
- Soonerchick
- I have a Bachelor's in Psychology, a Master's in Human Relations, and a Ph.D. in telling people what to do. I raise children, dogs, cats, and hermit crabs and cultivate crabgrass and pretty weeds. I am teaching myself to cook, not because I love to cook but because I love to eat. I love to travel, read, and take pictures; I also like to write, so you'll get to read a lot about all the aforementioned subjects plus about anything else I happen to feel like sharing with you. I'll take all your questions and may even give some back with answers if you're lucky and I'm feeling helpful (or bored.)
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
"I don't know how you do it"
A lot of people have expressed pity for me over the past several years. Not because I'm drop-dead gorgeous and can't go to the grocery store without being ogled by men, adored by women, and mobbed by paparazzi, but because I'm an Army wife. By virtue of that, my husband is often gone. Sometimes it's for one day, sometimes it's for six weeks, sometimes thirteen months. But the point is, the task of getting myself and three little boys through each day falls to me, and me alone, more often than not. On any given day, we have school, sports, homework, three meals, snacks, some inevitable cartoon watching, laundry, dishes, various injuries, cat vomit, large smelly dogs, clogged toilets, dead batteries, bills to pay, missed deadlines, barely-made-it-by-the-skin-of-our-teeth deadlines, messes, hissy fits, and other such atrocities that take away from our joy. And I manage it all.
I know women who cannot plunge a toilet. Cannot comprehend the thought of taking a preschooler and a toddler to an entire season of the older brother's baseball games without their husband or other trusted child-watcher there to help. Cannot physically handle the sight of blood when their child's fingers get smashed at school and fingernails are ripped off. Cannot clean up vomit or poop. Have little or no idea how to pay bills or do their taxes. Have never stayed anywhere, even in their own homes, without another adult there just to make them feel safe. Assume the position of helplessness when their fence falls down or their basement floods or their car won't start or a spider crawls across the floor. Can't fathom moving more than 20 miles from their parents or their hometown.
These women say to me: "I don't know how you do it. I couldn't do it." (what they're really thinking is that I must be crazy.) And I never know how to respond to this. It's clear that they're trying to compliment me, no matter how left-handedly. But I always feel both insulted and disgusted instead. Insulted because they seem to be implying that, thank God, they have a husband who takes care of all their dirty work and bills and emergencies for them so they don't have to miss a lunch date or break a nail; disgusted because it seems to be that any wife, mother, or otherwise competent adult should be able to handle most of these situations anyway, without constantly relying on their husband or parents to do any heavy lifting that may be required. I have no patience for women who can't take care of themselves or their kids without daily assistance. These women whine and cry when their husbands leave for two or three days for a business trip, loudly wailing about how they can't handle all the stress of being left alone, "it's so lonely," "I just can't go 24 hours a day without a break for me," "he better make this up to me," and so on and so forth. These women make me wish there was a "How to handle common situations and take care of yourself in life" test that must be passed before you can be declared competent to have children or any other life form that must rely on you for assistance and care.
Yes, it is lonely. Heartbreakingly lonely. Crying-with-the-kids-when-you-see-them-crying lonely. Desperately lonely. Lonely enough to make you wonder just how much postage it would require for you to mail yourself to wherever he is at that moment. I know lonely, my dears. I start getting teary-eyed when my husband starts packing, and heaven help us all if the baby starts crying, because I'm crying right along with him. I call my friends and cry about how empty my bed is, how bare the bathroom counter looks, how quiet the house is without him. The first night (or day) is always the hardest. But after that, unless he's been gone several weeks or more at a time, (or 13 months), and you're lucky to hear from him once every couple of days, don't tell me about how lonely you are. Go clean something. It does wonders in the way of distraction. If your housekeeper has already shined the place (we should all be so blessed), go sort out your kids' Legos by color, shape, and size - or come to my house. I've got more than enough housework to keep you busy; you'll forget all about your loneliness while scrubbing my kitchen floor.
And a break for you? All right, granted, when you signed up for this mom gig, you probably didn't envision having sole responsibility for the little bundle(s) of joy all day, every day (and all night as well). And I admit that I take my breaks. I try to have at least several hours in a row at least one day out of the week when it's all about me; I can read a book, take a nap, take myself to lunch, watch tv not aimed for a target audience of ages 5 and under. And I do arrange for a babysitter now and then, usually when I'm going someplace where it's considered inappropriate for three little hooligans to run around creating mayhem and wreaking havoc, like at the ob/gyn's office, or a parent-teacher conference, or if my son's baseball game runs past the little ones' bedtimes, since I can't physically carry a sleeping toddler and preschooler at the same time, along with lawn chairs, all the way from the field to the car. Sometimes the wait in the dr's office is the only "me time" you may get that day, and my only advice is to bring along a book or magazine or your iphone and enjoy the relatively quiet time to yourself. I once brought my ipod to a late baseball game, plugged myself in, and paused it only when my son was at bat. I got a few condescending looks, to be sure, but that was the only "me time" I was going to get that week, and I was going to enjoy it. I wasn't there to watch the other parents' kids, anyway, so as long as I paid attention whenever my own son took center stage, I just couldn't work up any guilt. Yes, you may not get your weekly massage, you may miss your favorite soap operas (or grown-up tv altogether), and your friends may have to do without the blessing of your presence at your favorite lunch joint or book club, but surely your mama must have told you that life isn't a bed of roses all the time. If not, well, I'm here to tell you now.
He better make it up to you? Hand me my smelling salts, please, or I may break something.
Look, if he's out party-hearty-ing, or cheating on you, or abandoning you altogether for no justifiable reason, then yes, I would agree. But if he's genuinely working, fighting a war, rustling cattle or climbing all over an offshore rig, or the like, and would rather be home with you and the kids, then your demands just don't hold water with me, my dears. Some husbands won't make it up to you because they're scum; they don't notice all the hard work you're doing or the sacrifices you're making, and they wouldn't care even if they did. In that case, you may want to reconsider just why you're with this guy, anyway. But a decent husband will recognize that hard work and those sacrifices, (even if you have to point them out to him), and will do what he can make it up to you on his own, anyway, without your threats. I am on call 24/7 unless my husband is home or I'm visiting my mother; it's just my default state. I'm used to it. If I were to be resentful of it all the time, I would be miserable all the time. Are there times when I am resentful? Of course. When my husband went bowling or played volleyball or ogled, ahem, watched nearly-nude cheerleaders entertain him and his buddies during his off-duty hours while deployed, I will admit to a certain geyser or three of resentment. And there are definitely times when I feel overwhelmed beyond measure, taken for granted, and underappreciated. But when my husband presents me with spa days, diamond earrings, roses, date nights when he's home, and other things that show me he's listening to what I like and want, I positively radiate excitement. And when he spends time playing baseball with the boys, taking them fishing, teaching them strategy board games, waging Transformer battles, watching movies, playing blocks or trucks or Legos, or staying up with them until they fall asleep, I am reminded of what a great dad he is to them, which makes me love him all the more.
So here's what I say to those women who "don't know how I do it": I'm an Army wife. This is the life I chose, with my eyes open. I do it because that's what's required of me as a military wife. Sometimes it's blissful, sometimes it's heartbreaking, but isn't that life in general? So please, the next time you're astounded by how I manage it all, don't mutter "I don't know how you do it;" rather, thank me and my kids for the sacrifice of our time with our soldier while he's away, so that you can enjoy the freedoms and protection that you do. It's not just servicemembers who serve.
I know women who cannot plunge a toilet. Cannot comprehend the thought of taking a preschooler and a toddler to an entire season of the older brother's baseball games without their husband or other trusted child-watcher there to help. Cannot physically handle the sight of blood when their child's fingers get smashed at school and fingernails are ripped off. Cannot clean up vomit or poop. Have little or no idea how to pay bills or do their taxes. Have never stayed anywhere, even in their own homes, without another adult there just to make them feel safe. Assume the position of helplessness when their fence falls down or their basement floods or their car won't start or a spider crawls across the floor. Can't fathom moving more than 20 miles from their parents or their hometown.
These women say to me: "I don't know how you do it. I couldn't do it." (what they're really thinking is that I must be crazy.) And I never know how to respond to this. It's clear that they're trying to compliment me, no matter how left-handedly. But I always feel both insulted and disgusted instead. Insulted because they seem to be implying that, thank God, they have a husband who takes care of all their dirty work and bills and emergencies for them so they don't have to miss a lunch date or break a nail; disgusted because it seems to be that any wife, mother, or otherwise competent adult should be able to handle most of these situations anyway, without constantly relying on their husband or parents to do any heavy lifting that may be required. I have no patience for women who can't take care of themselves or their kids without daily assistance. These women whine and cry when their husbands leave for two or three days for a business trip, loudly wailing about how they can't handle all the stress of being left alone, "it's so lonely," "I just can't go 24 hours a day without a break for me," "he better make this up to me," and so on and so forth. These women make me wish there was a "How to handle common situations and take care of yourself in life" test that must be passed before you can be declared competent to have children or any other life form that must rely on you for assistance and care.
Yes, it is lonely. Heartbreakingly lonely. Crying-with-the-kids-when-you-see-them-crying lonely. Desperately lonely. Lonely enough to make you wonder just how much postage it would require for you to mail yourself to wherever he is at that moment. I know lonely, my dears. I start getting teary-eyed when my husband starts packing, and heaven help us all if the baby starts crying, because I'm crying right along with him. I call my friends and cry about how empty my bed is, how bare the bathroom counter looks, how quiet the house is without him. The first night (or day) is always the hardest. But after that, unless he's been gone several weeks or more at a time, (or 13 months), and you're lucky to hear from him once every couple of days, don't tell me about how lonely you are. Go clean something. It does wonders in the way of distraction. If your housekeeper has already shined the place (we should all be so blessed), go sort out your kids' Legos by color, shape, and size - or come to my house. I've got more than enough housework to keep you busy; you'll forget all about your loneliness while scrubbing my kitchen floor.
And a break for you? All right, granted, when you signed up for this mom gig, you probably didn't envision having sole responsibility for the little bundle(s) of joy all day, every day (and all night as well). And I admit that I take my breaks. I try to have at least several hours in a row at least one day out of the week when it's all about me; I can read a book, take a nap, take myself to lunch, watch tv not aimed for a target audience of ages 5 and under. And I do arrange for a babysitter now and then, usually when I'm going someplace where it's considered inappropriate for three little hooligans to run around creating mayhem and wreaking havoc, like at the ob/gyn's office, or a parent-teacher conference, or if my son's baseball game runs past the little ones' bedtimes, since I can't physically carry a sleeping toddler and preschooler at the same time, along with lawn chairs, all the way from the field to the car. Sometimes the wait in the dr's office is the only "me time" you may get that day, and my only advice is to bring along a book or magazine or your iphone and enjoy the relatively quiet time to yourself. I once brought my ipod to a late baseball game, plugged myself in, and paused it only when my son was at bat. I got a few condescending looks, to be sure, but that was the only "me time" I was going to get that week, and I was going to enjoy it. I wasn't there to watch the other parents' kids, anyway, so as long as I paid attention whenever my own son took center stage, I just couldn't work up any guilt. Yes, you may not get your weekly massage, you may miss your favorite soap operas (or grown-up tv altogether), and your friends may have to do without the blessing of your presence at your favorite lunch joint or book club, but surely your mama must have told you that life isn't a bed of roses all the time. If not, well, I'm here to tell you now.
He better make it up to you? Hand me my smelling salts, please, or I may break something.
Look, if he's out party-hearty-ing, or cheating on you, or abandoning you altogether for no justifiable reason, then yes, I would agree. But if he's genuinely working, fighting a war, rustling cattle or climbing all over an offshore rig, or the like, and would rather be home with you and the kids, then your demands just don't hold water with me, my dears. Some husbands won't make it up to you because they're scum; they don't notice all the hard work you're doing or the sacrifices you're making, and they wouldn't care even if they did. In that case, you may want to reconsider just why you're with this guy, anyway. But a decent husband will recognize that hard work and those sacrifices, (even if you have to point them out to him), and will do what he can make it up to you on his own, anyway, without your threats. I am on call 24/7 unless my husband is home or I'm visiting my mother; it's just my default state. I'm used to it. If I were to be resentful of it all the time, I would be miserable all the time. Are there times when I am resentful? Of course. When my husband went bowling or played volleyball or ogled, ahem, watched nearly-nude cheerleaders entertain him and his buddies during his off-duty hours while deployed, I will admit to a certain geyser or three of resentment. And there are definitely times when I feel overwhelmed beyond measure, taken for granted, and underappreciated. But when my husband presents me with spa days, diamond earrings, roses, date nights when he's home, and other things that show me he's listening to what I like and want, I positively radiate excitement. And when he spends time playing baseball with the boys, taking them fishing, teaching them strategy board games, waging Transformer battles, watching movies, playing blocks or trucks or Legos, or staying up with them until they fall asleep, I am reminded of what a great dad he is to them, which makes me love him all the more.
So here's what I say to those women who "don't know how I do it": I'm an Army wife. This is the life I chose, with my eyes open. I do it because that's what's required of me as a military wife. Sometimes it's blissful, sometimes it's heartbreaking, but isn't that life in general? So please, the next time you're astounded by how I manage it all, don't mutter "I don't know how you do it;" rather, thank me and my kids for the sacrifice of our time with our soldier while he's away, so that you can enjoy the freedoms and protection that you do. It's not just servicemembers who serve.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Back to Reality
Soldier Boy, the baby, and I just got back from a whirlwind of a weekend trip out to the west coast for an Army Family Event. It involved airplanes (which I love), places I have never eaten before (which turned out to be great), and reimbursement of all travel expenses (which simply cannot be beat).
To begin at the beginning, I love to go places. If I stay put for too long I get antsy and start itching to go, somewhere, anywhere, just to inject a little flav-ah into things. This can be accomplished by something as simple as a one-day excursion, even; I just have to get out and go. I am not a sedentary person. I've traveled by plane, train, and automobile, but my favorite by far is air travel. There's just something about airports, even just the thought of them, that gets my senses tingling. I become a rabbit, sitting up on its haunches, paws up in front of its chest, nose up in the air, sniffing maniacally: "airport? airplanes? going places?"
It's comical at best. Even luggage excites me.
And getting to go places with Soldier Boy is even better (!)
We took the baby with us because he's still in pull-ups and is the most labor-intensive of all the boys, but he's a veteran air traveler, so the only problem we had was desperately trying to keep track of all the tools in his Handy Manny toolbox that he insisted on bringing. Then we had a little issue with the incompetent morons at United Airlines (yes, I will name names here, don't think I won't) who apparently couldn't figure out how to actually open enough gates to allow their passengers to disembark, so we sat in the plane, ON THE GROUND, for more than 45 minutes, while they played spin the bottle to decide which of their 47 planes sitting on the tarmac would actually get to taxi to what was apparently their only manned gate. (Hint: it wasn't ours). We ended up missing our connecting flight by over an hour, were told we would automatically be re-booked on the next flight to that location, then were told that not only had they not re-booked us, but that the next flight was full, and that next flight after THAT wouldn't leave until 10:30 pm. And this was at 1:30 in the afternoon. Absolute madness. We ended up switching airlines, which meant we had to go down to baggage claim to get our checked bags, take a bus back to the other side of the airport to the terminal, go back through security, and wait another two hours to get on our new flight. I have a headache just thinking about it.
The hotel we stayed at the first night was, ahem, not quite up to par with what I consider Doubletree Hotel standards, and happened to be located smack in the middle of what was apparently the industrial district; our complimentary toiletries included two sets of earplugs (I kid you not) to help block the deafening noise from the train tracks two blocks away. We decided to switch hotels for the next night, but when we checked out, discovered we had been smacked with an "early check-out fee" of $50. After some ranting and raving on my part, they eventually agreed to drop the unjustifiable charge and we all went on our merry way to a Marriott property (which we prefer anyway), and spent a very pleasant night. On hold.
We had learned that there was a possibility of inclement weather at home the next day or so, and in light of Soldier Boy's mandatory travel for work on Monday, and the massive delay we experienced on the way TO our West-Coast Weekend, decided to try to move our return flight up in order to get home sooner. To do this, we had to call the travel agency (whom we're required to use for this type of travel) and request the change. Problem was, the entire Mid-west and East coast were getting pummeled by a winter storm that was (go figure) affecting air travel, and the agency was swamped with calls from everyone and their aunt's cousin's grandma's uncle trying to find a way out of that particular mess. We sat on hold for over two hours before anyone even picked up the line. Fortunately, we did actually reach a semi-competent individual who was able to accomodate us, and made it home, on time, with luggage complete and intact.
But other than that...
No, really, it was fun, I promise. We ate at In-N-Out Burger and Round Table Pizza, neither of which I'd ever had before, and both of which I loved. We ate at Panda Express, which we have here in OK, but which I'd never eaten at before either, and of whose Orange Chicken I immediately became a fan. We got upgraded on our rental car and ended up with a Sebring that smelled brand-spankin' new, and if you think that didn't make me happy beyond words, you'd best quit thinkin' now. I love new-car smell. And no, the air-freshener-new-car-scent doesn't cut it; it has to be actual new-car smell straight from the factory, ma'am. And it was.
Soldier Boy's question to me on our way home: "Was it worth it?"
Yessir, soldier. Yessir. I love going places, and most of all, with you. It makes me happy.
To begin at the beginning, I love to go places. If I stay put for too long I get antsy and start itching to go, somewhere, anywhere, just to inject a little flav-ah into things. This can be accomplished by something as simple as a one-day excursion, even; I just have to get out and go. I am not a sedentary person. I've traveled by plane, train, and automobile, but my favorite by far is air travel. There's just something about airports, even just the thought of them, that gets my senses tingling. I become a rabbit, sitting up on its haunches, paws up in front of its chest, nose up in the air, sniffing maniacally: "airport? airplanes? going places?"
It's comical at best. Even luggage excites me.
And getting to go places with Soldier Boy is even better (!)
We took the baby with us because he's still in pull-ups and is the most labor-intensive of all the boys, but he's a veteran air traveler, so the only problem we had was desperately trying to keep track of all the tools in his Handy Manny toolbox that he insisted on bringing. Then we had a little issue with the incompetent morons at United Airlines (yes, I will name names here, don't think I won't) who apparently couldn't figure out how to actually open enough gates to allow their passengers to disembark, so we sat in the plane, ON THE GROUND, for more than 45 minutes, while they played spin the bottle to decide which of their 47 planes sitting on the tarmac would actually get to taxi to what was apparently their only manned gate. (Hint: it wasn't ours). We ended up missing our connecting flight by over an hour, were told we would automatically be re-booked on the next flight to that location, then were told that not only had they not re-booked us, but that the next flight was full, and that next flight after THAT wouldn't leave until 10:30 pm. And this was at 1:30 in the afternoon. Absolute madness. We ended up switching airlines, which meant we had to go down to baggage claim to get our checked bags, take a bus back to the other side of the airport to the terminal, go back through security, and wait another two hours to get on our new flight. I have a headache just thinking about it.
The hotel we stayed at the first night was, ahem, not quite up to par with what I consider Doubletree Hotel standards, and happened to be located smack in the middle of what was apparently the industrial district; our complimentary toiletries included two sets of earplugs (I kid you not) to help block the deafening noise from the train tracks two blocks away. We decided to switch hotels for the next night, but when we checked out, discovered we had been smacked with an "early check-out fee" of $50. After some ranting and raving on my part, they eventually agreed to drop the unjustifiable charge and we all went on our merry way to a Marriott property (which we prefer anyway), and spent a very pleasant night. On hold.
We had learned that there was a possibility of inclement weather at home the next day or so, and in light of Soldier Boy's mandatory travel for work on Monday, and the massive delay we experienced on the way TO our West-Coast Weekend, decided to try to move our return flight up in order to get home sooner. To do this, we had to call the travel agency (whom we're required to use for this type of travel) and request the change. Problem was, the entire Mid-west and East coast were getting pummeled by a winter storm that was (go figure) affecting air travel, and the agency was swamped with calls from everyone and their aunt's cousin's grandma's uncle trying to find a way out of that particular mess. We sat on hold for over two hours before anyone even picked up the line. Fortunately, we did actually reach a semi-competent individual who was able to accomodate us, and made it home, on time, with luggage complete and intact.
But other than that...
No, really, it was fun, I promise. We ate at In-N-Out Burger and Round Table Pizza, neither of which I'd ever had before, and both of which I loved. We ate at Panda Express, which we have here in OK, but which I'd never eaten at before either, and of whose Orange Chicken I immediately became a fan. We got upgraded on our rental car and ended up with a Sebring that smelled brand-spankin' new, and if you think that didn't make me happy beyond words, you'd best quit thinkin' now. I love new-car smell. And no, the air-freshener-new-car-scent doesn't cut it; it has to be actual new-car smell straight from the factory, ma'am. And it was.
Soldier Boy's question to me on our way home: "Was it worth it?"
Yessir, soldier. Yessir. I love going places, and most of all, with you. It makes me happy.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Meet Charlie
This is Charlie. And he is every bit as big as he looks. Although he doesn't look very big in this picture. But I can promise you that he weighs more than my chocolate lab, and his belly actually sways from side to side when he walks.
A few things about Charlie:
Charlie is - ahem- hefty.
Charlie loves my baby. Loves him. He will wait for my baby to lie down, and will then lie down right beside him. He will follow him around the house and rub around his legs. This becomes problematic at times, as Charlie and my baby are approximately the same weight and my baby's legs just aren't quite long enough to step around the cat. You can guess the outcome.
Charlie belonged to someone else long before us. They left, left him behind, then tried to come back six months later and claim him. I told them not on my life. You abandon your animal, I adopt it, it's mine. Get lost, neglectful losers.
Charlie also developed a habit of sleeping on our bed while Soldier Boy was deployed for 13 months. This was not a problem at the time, but Soldier Boy, despite being a cat person, does not like them on his bed. So when he came home, Charlie took note and stayed off. (The other two cats didn't get the memo and have to be disgracefully escorted out every night.) However, Charlie is quite astute; when Soldier Boy left yesterday, he again took note. And this morning I woke up to a very large orange cat nestled up beside my feet.
He's quite charming, that Charlie. Even if he does weigh 5,682 pounds. And snores.
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