Weeds

It has been one of my only constants. Weeds always grow back. There is always work to be done. Long grass around the gardens, dandelions, prickles, dirty clothes, dishes, toys, dusty floors, jackets in need of hanging, shoes collected by the front door, an overgrown junk drawer. You get the idea. My life seems to be bursting at the seams with weeds.

While working full time it was easier to make excuses for the weeds in my home life. When my 6 year old was only 6 months old I talked my husband into hiring a cleaning service and a yard service. This went on for a couple of years. I would breathe a sigh of relief on yard days. My yard sparkled with tidiness. On house cleaning days I would come home from work and breathe in the fresh smell of furniture polish and bleach. It was lovely. All rooms clean at the same time. Hanging jackets and putting away shoes was a fun sport. I had nothing else to weed out. While working full time my Love would always take some early morning time and empty and load our dishwasher. More often than not, he would also cook dinner. We took turns with the laundry. The junk drawers didn't bother me. I was never at home with time to watch them morph into a deep dark abyss.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't lazy. I had plenty of weeds at the office that needed tending too. Everyday the same weeds would grow back. A nasty physician interaction, a database that didn't want to work, an explanation given time and time again, filing, meetings to attend. This work though was somehow more enjoyable. It didn't seem tedious. Plus I got paid every two weeks for my spectacular gardening skills.

Now home full time I wonder what made me such a fabulous gardener outside the these four walls. Was it simply the pay? Why have I not been able to find my stride here in this new job? It has been 7 months and I am still struggling with the weeds, and for that matter, the plants.

I have come to the conclusion that I love an audience. I do my best work when I am on stage (at the office). The compliments rush over me and I find myself weeding entire days worth in a couple of hours. There is no audience at home and I have found myself moving slower, putting off and giving in. I also discovered that I had a great deal of pride in my work at the office. It was a reflection of myself. I wanted it done nicely, correctly, expeditiously and systematically. My pride came from the continuous confirmation from others that I was doing an awesome job. It didn't matter to me that the weeds grew back. I enjoyed cleaning it all up again and again.

I am looking for that same pride now. As I wash down my kitchen counter tops for the 5th time today I try to  muster pride. As I vacuum and dust, clean out the toaster oven, discipline kids, pick up toys, do the laundry, and clean out the junk drawers I try to summon pride. As I clean out the garden beds, prune back overgrown plants and learn how to mow the grass I rally my pride. Without an audience to give wittiness to this work I find that my pride has sometimes hidden itself very well. It discourages me when the weeds grow back. I feel like a gardener with no garden tools, no gloves and no boots.

Today I decided that it was okay that my pride refused to shine. Today I decided it was okay that nobody noticed my work. Today I decided to JUST DO IT. And to keep on doing again and again for the sake of doing. I realized that there are going to be times in my life when pride in my work does not come easily. This is okay. I will continue to work hard for the sake of working hard. I discovered today that my work ethic, my sheer grit to get the job done, runs deeper than my sense of pride or my want of an audience.

Knowing that I am a hard worker no matter the job causes my pride to peek out from under the bed (just a little bit). Give me some time. I will get there.

Motherhood.

My life was adequate, interesting, ordered and spontaneous before the plunge. In the very early moments after the plunge, life didnt seem to change. My infant carseat went with me eveywhere. My Love and I once went out on Valentine's with one of my infants in tow. She behaved perfectly. Almost like she wasnt even there.

As time went on though, things got a bit jumbled. My little ones started to take notice of me (love me?) and I became a human target. I have been spit up on, peed on, pooped on, barfed on, yell at, kicked, hit and cried on (sometimes all in the same day!). The love shown to me by my children has ended almost all my telephone conversations with a nagging, "pay attention to me" whine, it has kept me up at night as I watch and listen to their breathing (the coughing, the sniffling, the moaning) and it has jumbled my words as I try to punish one kid but use their sibling's name instead. The love shown to me by my kids has ruined perfectly good evenings with my Love, it has dictated meal plans, it has messied and cluttered my house, and it has pushed me to the brink of desperation.

As well as being their human target, I am their life preserver. On some days I am the only thing they have left. My children cling to me; dont let me out of their sight. The desperation shown takes away my privacy, my time, my ability to get anything accomplished. This desperation cries out to be heard at all the wrong times.

On very rare days I am their superhero (the stars usually have to align for this one to happen). I can take away bumps and bruises with a kiss, I can laugh at all the right moments, I can prolong a nap, I can catch (with lighting speed) a full dinner plate as it cascades off the table, I can rid closets of monsters and I can make homework seem fun.  This rare display of heroics takes away my confidence on days when the superwoman costume refuses to be found and it crushes my spirit when my children refuse to be rescued.

I have bled for my children. I will continue to bleed for my children. I am their Mom. So while I'm at it, I should probably give a shout out to my Mom (my human target, my life preserver and my superhero). Thank you for bringing me to life and for giving me your heart.

Happy Mom's Day.

My Hair

I am looking forward to growing my hair out again and living until I decide I have
 lived long enough to want to do it again.

For those of you who have known me for a while, you know that my hair is my life line. When I was 18 years old I took a file clerk job with Tacoma General Hospital. I was relegated to the basement for 8 hours a day and filed back thousands of medical charts over my two year term. 6 months prior I had decided to cut my locks of beautiful blonde hair.

It was my first such adventure and it was thrilling. Staring at myself now however in the basement restroom of the hospital, I wondered if it would ever grow out again. My mortality was on the line. I honestly did not believe I would live long enough to see my beautiful hair again.

It has been 16 years since then and I count myself lucky to have witnessed my hair grow out again (at least on 7 separate occasions). Once I decide that my hair (and me) have lived long enough, I cut it and decide that I want to live until I can grow it out again.

Strange, I know. A small idiosyncrasy. Don't read too much into it.

This last episode was different though. I had been growing my hair since my not-so-little bundle of joy had been born. 2 years later it was down the middle of my back. I loved it. I curled it. I ponied it. I colored it dark. I was proud of it.  I would of course cut it in small amounts; keep it healthy, sometimes up to my shoulders but then fast back down my back it would grow. I never wanted it short again.

I wondered about this the other night. I wondered why I doubted my life line.

Did I seriously think I would not make it through again? Silly thoughts. I became too comfortable, too prideful with my hair (and my life). The next day while my baby was sleeping I picked up a pair of scissors and cut it off. I did it quick, without allowing myself to think.

I am looking forward to growing my hair out again and living until I decide I have lived long enough to want to do it again.