And back again

We've unpacked (mostly). We've installed-and used!-our washer and dryer.  I've hung some pictures on the walls, and plugged in the sewing machine.  We've entertained guests, and met some of the neighbors.  We've located the nearest grocery store, gas station, and library, but still can't find a park.  We've settled into a nice little routine, and had our son asleep by 9:00 most every night.  It's safe to say I'm starting to feel like I'm home.

A Woman's Work Is Never Finished

Last summer, I called my district office and requested to be removed from the roster of church workers.  I had been a teacher for two years, but had decided I needed to be at home.  So I phoned the office and requested to be removed from the roster.  The dear secretary asked me several times if I was certain I wanted to be removed, and not just listed as "unavailable," or "not open to calls."  Being removed isn't easily reversed.  But I was certain.  I had tried the working-mother gig for a year, and found it too difficult.  I had tried the working-wife gig for three years, and found that too difficult.  The many conversations I've had with my husband had all resulted in the same decision:  I am staying home.  Not just for my son, not just for a short time until he's in school, not just until I feel "ready" to go back.  I am staying home.

Staying home has its place in this world, as long as it's just for your kids, and just as long as they're pre-schoolers.  After that, it's foolish for a woman to be in the house spending her hours laboring over oppressive chores. Certainly she would feel better about herself if she had secured herself a job- a career!- a paycheck for her efforts.  But I'm not convinced that my work at home will be done when my son is grown.  As long as I have a home and a husband, I'll be satisfied to stay here and care for them. 

I do not want to yoke myself to another job with its own burdens, stressors, deadlines, and mandates.  I do not want to go to interviews to answer questions about my strengths and weaknesses, and what good I would bring to a company or school.  I don't have those answers.  I do not want to deal with the guilt I would feel for leaving that job to care for my father or mother-in-law should they need it.

I used to think differently about such things.  But now I've learned that my place is here.  My husband and my home need me here, and my heart is in this work.  I know that my son will grow up, and at that time, I will be expected to go back out and rejoin the workforce. But I will be content to remain here, caring for the extraordinary large garden I intent to have, and reading all the books I've wanted to read but can't understand right now.  And we intend to structure our lives accordingly, even if it means becoming a better seamstress and learning to can the vegetables my garden produces.

The fourteenth time's a charm....wait, that's not right.

After fourteen moves, you would think I would have packing down to an art.  But it seems that no matter how organized I am, no matter how soon I start, no matter how many boxes I have sealed and stacked, I realize the week before we're supposed to move that I haven't done nearly enough.  So to combat the stress I feel over getting everything boxed up and neatly stowed in a moving trailer, I start shoving our stuff into boxes with wild abandon, hardly noticing what ends up where, even though I know I'll cringe when I haul boxes into our new house that are labeled  "Really Random Stuff," and "To Be Organized VI."

I will be a happy lady when I can throw away all the boxes I've saved since we got married, (That's right.  I have them all!), and move into a house that I can believe will be our home for more than a few months to a year.

Ruh-Ro, Raggy!

Things I don't understand

I've read that children need fathers in their lives, in part, because a father is more likely to rough-house with his children than the mother.

I've read that children need mothers, in part, because a mother is more likely to be caring and nurturing with her children than the father.


So why is it that my child views me as a jungle gym and gives me a fat lip while I'm putting him to sleep?

Having fun is really hard, despite the library card.

Libraries used to be wonderful, exciting places.  I used to go there regularly and pick out books or study.  I enjoyed browsing for a title that sounded unique, cover that looked interesting, an author I recognized, or a genre I enjoyed.  I carried a book with me wherever I went, and often spent Saturday afternoons curled up in a chair with a cup of tea and a novel.

Throughout college, I maintained a wishlist of books on Amazon, and gladly purchased the required texts for my literature courses.  And, unlike many of the other students in my classes, I actually read them!  Twain, Kipling, Defoe, Bronte, Orwell, Dostoyevsky, Hemingway, Salinger, whatever a professor threw at me, I read.  Everything, but Mrs. Dalloway.  Try as I might, I couldn't wrap my head around that.  And although I was looking ahead to a series of moves, being engaged to a Pre-Seminarian, I kept every single one of them.  Even Mrs. Dalloway.

During some dizzying years a third-grade teacher, I had little time for books with a reading level higher than 8th grade.  I was always in need of the next great read-aloud, and knew I wouldn't find it hiding on the shelves at home between D.H. Lawrence and Emily Dickinson.  So I grabbed E.B. White and Shel Silverstein; Kate DiCamillo and Beverly Cleary.  Good authors, no doubt.  But certainly not challenging.

I eventually quit that job, moved again, but this time, left most of the books packed away in storage.  Since having a kid, something in me changed.  Certainly I was aware that the majority of the books I would be reading would be at his level (at most, 32 pages, and fully illustrated).  But surely, since I would be staying home, surely I would have time for something more challenging that Eric Carle and Kevin Henkes.  Surely, surely I could find time for something well-written and though-provoking.

But sadly, no.  Most of the library time is spent finding books at his level.  If I ever get a chance to venture to the "Adult Fiction" section, and actually manage to peruse the shelves and select a novel; even if I'm lucky enough to bring it home and start to read, I'm sunk.  Somewhere along the line, everything above an 8th grade reading level became like Mrs. Dalloway.  I find myself rereading entire pages, searching past sections for the plot I missed, even wondering who the main characters are supposed to be.  I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I'm interrupted every fifteen minutes, and that I'm constantly wondering what my child is up to when he's not interrupting me.

And so, I try to keep out of the Adult Fiction section.  The books I have managed to find and read (excepting Michael Perry) have been sorely disappointing.  But I keep being drawn back, in search of that elusive well-written, thoughtful text, authored by someone kind enough to keep everything simple enough that I don't have to think too hard about the meanings of the words on the page.  After all, I may only get a few minutes before my son wakes up, or empties a gallon of water on my kitchen floor, but I still want to read!

How to mop your kitchen floor (with your toddler still awake)

1.  Fill large bowls with warm soapy water.

2. Place bowls on towels in middle of kitchen floor.

3. Give toddler several measuring cups and several empty bowls, pans, pots, whatever.

4. When towels are thoroughly soaked, scoot them around the floor with your feet.