I may or may not have mentioned that I’m working a lot right now. The nature of my contract accounting work is such that Fridays are my Mondays, Mondays are my Thursdays and Wednesdays are a magical land known as Trips To The Grocery Store and Possibly Having Interaction With Real Life Human Beings.
I’m actually holding up alright under the weight of the workload I have taken upon myself. Deadlines are being met, children are alive and well and I even manage to have some one-one-one time with my husband. Ahem.
Because I have well over thirty hours of work crammed into a four-day period, some things have to give. The main thing being my attendance at church. I haven’t gone on the last three Sundays.
(And all the Southern Baptists gasped in horror.)
It’s not that I don’t want to go. We have an amazing church family and a pastor who (Looks at you like he can see into your soul, and) always speaks pure Truth. My favorite part of the service is the singing; music speaks to my heart. I always walk out of there encouraged and refreshed.
There just really are only so many hours in a day and I truly can’t do it all. Going to church may sound like it could easily fit in, but anyone who attends with small children can tell you that it’s an affair that lasts all morning. There is the getting ready, the drive there and back, the service itself, the friends who want to visit with you. From the time we walk out the door to the time we arrive home is at least three hours.
I could stay up until the wee hours of the morning to work. However. I don’t know about you, but my brain goes into sleeper mode after ten o’clock in the evening. I can hammer out a blog post (See: this) but reviewing assignments with complicated mathematical formulas is simply impossible for me to accomplish. As it is, I wake up at six o’clock in the morning and start working shortly thereafter. A girl has to sleep sometime.
A major part of the equation is that I have this husband and three kids that I not only love, but also (for the most part) like. I want to be able to stop working for lunch and dinner breaks, tickle-fests on the couch and snuggles before bedtime. This means that if for this short season I need to skip going to God’s house in order to be able to spend a few hours with the little people at my house, that is exactly what I am going to do. I’ve had to do it before and I will likely have to do it again. Such is my life. I can take my Sabbath on Wednesday.
It’s not as though the only thing that I am missing out on is church. The other four members of my family have gone on many an adventure to the beach, on the ATV and out fishing. All of this while I have been stuck at home, sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop and trying to work as furiously as I can so that when they get home I might be able to afford the time for a rousing game of Bocce ball on our back lawn.
The reason that I am writing about this in so much detail is that Matthew and I have had a few of those kind-but-mostly-passive-aggressive comments about the fact that I haven’t been at church. He’s been accosted by people with a condescending tone who ask, “So where’s Angella?” I’ve had people make (seemingly) innocuous comments that they missed me at church. Most people who make these statements and who ask where I am do it with a good heart. I know this. As I said above, we have a truly great church family. It is just those select few who have that aura of Judgment about them that get my back up and make me upset.
It’s not like I’m skipping church because I’m rebelling. I am simply providing for my family and need to do it beyond the financial realm. I need to be here for them emotionally and physically as well. I am doing all that I do to the best of my ability. God and I are good regardless of whether or not I sit on a pew.
I’m not trying to lash out at those who sitting pretty with their views that I might be doing it wrong. I have been in their shoes. I have thought that since I’ve figured out what works faith-wise (for me) that everyone else should do exactly the same as I do. I am an intelligent woman. I must have figured out the “right” way to live my faith and have God figured out. (Uh, yeah. Have God figured out? Not possible.) I finally matured enough in my faith to come to the realization that God is God is God and that means something entirely unique and personal for each and every human being. There are absolutes, yes, but then there is the relationship. It’s different for everyone.
The way I live my out faith is flawed and imperfect and dotted with missteps and stumbling but that is because I am human. I am not God. I am in no position to judge anyone else on Earth about how they live their life because I am no better than they are. I really wouldn’t want God’s job anyway; with great power comes great responsibility.
If you’re asking where I am or saying that you miss me because you simply miss me, I appreciate it. I miss you too. If you’re asking where I am or saying that you miss me because you are trying to passive-aggressively point fingers me for not doing what you think I should be doing, I’m asking you to knock it off already.
Don’t judge me. I’m doing the best that I can.
I’m pretty sure that God will back me up on that one.
I wrote a post over at sweetmama.ca about how to take great photos of your kids. It’s part of a contest; Johnson’s is giving away a photo shoot worth $5,000. Check it out.
Comments Off Many thanks to Mona for posting this video: Pregnant Women Are Smug. It’s funny because it’s true.
It is no secret that I have a daughter. Those who have been around these parts for a long time know that my sweet baby girl came out…bald. You may think I’m exaggerating, but I have photographic evidence.
I ranted about it at the time (Shocking, I know.) (The rant wasn’t about the baldness, but about the fact that people would remark that she was a boy. A BOY.)
At the time, I thought that maybe getting her ears pierced would help to stop the “boy” comments. Friends with (equally bald) girls told me that earrings wouldn’t help in any way. If being dressed head-to-toe in PINK DRESSES wasn’t enough to make people recognize that she was a girl, glimmering pieces of jewelry in her ears wouldn’t make the nonsense stop.
So? We didn’t pierce her ears as a baby.
This girl of mine will be three in October. I’ve enrolled her in a preschool that will have her busily playing, learning and crafting for two mornings a week. (Which means that for the first time in almost seven years, I will be completely child-free at that time. WEIRD. And a little bit awesome.) She’s not a baby anymore. To quote her word for word, “I’m a big girl now!”
Lately my “big girl” has been all into the “dressing up” and wanting to do what I do (Painting her toes, wearing lip gloss (Lipsmackers) and so forth). She asked about my earrings and said that she wanted some too. I told her that it would hurt (Like HECK) to get them done, but once the stinging subsided she would be left with sparkly ears. She was up for the challenge.
The earring lady had to clip back her hair.
She had to CLIP BACK EMILY’S HAIR. Awwww…YEAH.
Totally unrelated, check out the hair models on the wall of the salon:
This is not where I get my hair done, FYI.
Two ladies stood on either side of her and counted down. “Three, two, one…”
The sound of the piercing guns fired and all was well. For approximately three seconds. Then Emily started to flail. I picked her up and she wailed and she screamed and she kicked me. HARD. This went on for a whopping two minutes and then…all was fine. We walked to the dollar store, bought some penny candy as a treat for being so brave and soon after I heard the phrase that I was longing to hear.
“My ears don’t hurt anymore!”
When we got home I asked if I could take a photo of her with her earrings. I got this one.
And this one.
And also, this one.
Yeah. Getting shot in the ears deserves that face.
(But doesn’t she look (even more) adorable?)
Over at Work It! Mom: What age should you be when you get married?
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This is kind of like Blur’s Song 2 except that there is no “Woohoo” factor (Unless, of course, you feel inspired). There isn’t any music either. Jumping is always an option, if you feel so led. It’s been an entire two months since my last rant (Really?)(Which, in our household, is always followed by, “Seriously? OH, COME ON.”) It felt good to put it all out there when I wrote it way back in the day (Or two months ago. Whatever.) Based on the fact that I am running on too much work, too little sleep and (possibly) a few too many raging hormones, I felt it was time to bring on Ms. Ranty McRantypants.
1. We have credit cards. Shocking, I know. We try to use these credit cards for good and not evil. This is why we put all of our pre-authorized payments on them (Cell bill! Utility bill! Etcetera bill!) and pay them off each month. The main reason for having said credit cards is to (build up our credit, and) rack up the AirMiles in order to redeem them for merchandise (ATV’s for the kids! (HOLY CRAP THE KIDLETS WERE WEE.) A Canon point and shoot to keep in my purse! A trip to Portland!) HOORAY FOR AIRMILES.
Except when your credit card is compromised three different times within six months. Calling all of those companies with whom we do pre-authorized payments is EXACTLY what I want to do in my “free” time. BLERGH.
2. I have read a lot about the whole American health care debate. My friend Loralee has written some posts on it (and was on the front page of the White House website) (Yes, really). As a Canadian looking in, I don’t understand why there is such a fight between “liberals” and “conservatives” when it comes to universal health care. In Canada, everyone is thankful for our health care system. Liberals, conservatives, ninjas. Everyone.
3. People telling you how to blog/Twitter/Facebook. What exactly makes you the expert? Because you’ve proclaimed yourself to be an expert? You have more “followers” than I do? (Sounds like a cult, but no)(At least not with me.) BULLY FOR YOU. And no, I don’t read you on a regular basis. My friends just link to you when you post something stupid like, “How to Twitter” (GOOD GRIEF) and then we all laugh at you. Because you’re an idiot. It’s TWITTER for frack’s sake. (Who is frack? I’ve no idea.)
4. There are two grocery stores in my small town and they carry all of our dietary needs. Between the two of them. Hauling three kids out of the van, into one store, then back into the van, then back out of the van and then into THE SECOND STORE is a little bit ridiculous. One of them carries my favorite chips, ground flaxseed for a family recipe and the Crystal Light flavor that I like. The other one carries excellent produce and has better prices. I CAN’T WIN.
5. The packaging on kids’ toys. Nathan had a birthday this week (Remember?) and received some toys that were packaged like only the big toy companies know how to do. Twist ties, elastic bands and plastic with the properties of steel. I darn near had to break out Matthew’s reciprocating saw to help me set his presents free. I also may have donned some safety goggles to help me in my endeavor. There may or may not have been a cloud of nasty words floating about my head while I went to work.
6. People who comment to me that they don’t understand how I have time to blog (Hate that word, by the way). You do what you love, people. Some people like to watch hours upon hours of TV or fill out every “What type of (fill in the blank) you are on Facebook. I like to read and write, both online and off. Knock it off with the comments already. Or I will smite you (If I only had that ability).
7. Skinny jeans. They’re as bad as the fold n’ roll. If not worse.
8. “Captcha” when leaving comments on posts. Trying to decipher squished together letters that might be sfhzajkfhjkAHFskdjh makes me not want to comment. On that note, partial feeds are also of the debbil. Reading ten words doesn’t make me want to click through to see what you have to say, unless you are a close personal friend. To quote the blogger formerly known as Schnozz, “WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT YOUR PARTIAL FEED.”
(I might just make that into a t-shirt for BlogHer 2010.)
9. Automatic faucets. My husband is able to abstain from releasing his bodily fluids in any place but our home (and a random gas station in Faulkland). I, however, often find myself in the bathroom at Wal*Mart with the kids, telling the boys to LIFT UP THE SEAT ALREADY (And FLUSH ALREADY)(“When it’s yellow, let it mellow” only flies at home.) When all of the nasty has been dealt with, I find myself helping the kids wash their hands. Which requires water. Which may or may not involve me waving my hands crazily in front of the sensor and possibly doing a rain dance. I don’t know what it is but I cannot get those blasted faucets to work consistently.
10. People who tailgate you when you are driving in the slow lane. DUDE. I am in the SLOW LANE. And have set cruise control to be at the SPEED LIMIT. Tailgating me tempts me to do the heavy break, but that’s not safe with the kids in the van. Instead, I will speed up enough so that I am driving right next to the person in the “fast” lane. Which means that you are boxed in and couldn’t pass me if you tried. I am awesome like that.
So. It’s been awhile since I blatantly asked you guys to chime in (Sorry). Anything that you want to rant about?
Hey, Nathan.
As both you and I have exclaimed many times over this past week, it’s a little unbelievable that you are five. FIVE. You can’t believe it because you have never been five. For you, five is a magical place that you go to and are suddenly considered “all grown up.” Your baby years are stripped away and left by the wayside as you start new adventures that include school and sports and one day giving your Mom a heart attack when the girls who already flock to you start to dial our phone number.
I can’t believe that you are five because despite what the calendar tells me, I’m pretty sure that I brought you home from the hospital just yesterday. You with the full head of hair and long chicken legs and a face that looked so much like your Daddy’s but in newborn form. It was a little bit weird and a whole lot of awesome to have this new baby who was so completely different from the one who had come before him. Instead of being a carbon copy of any family member, whether in looks or personality, you proved from that very first day that you were different. Special. Original. Unique.
I have wrestled a bit with how to write to you on your birthday. I contemplated posting some of my favorite photos of you and writing little snippets about them but it didn’t seem like it would be enough. For you are my “middle child” and if you believe the hype, your birth order puts you at a bit of a loss. The firstborn gets all of the glory and the baby gets all of the attention. The middle child is stuck floundering somewhere in between.
I want to tell you to ignore the stereotype. For you, my sweet Nathan, get all of the glory and all of the attention that you deserve. There is something about you that makes strangers light up in your presence. People who know you well look forward to their encounters with you because you exude love and happiness, wrapped in a blanket of sunshine.
It absolutely makes your day to give hugs away. You like to receive them, of course, but if someone asks you for a hug your face lights up to a wattage that doesn’t technically exist and you wrap your long wiry body around them and squeeze with all of your might. You also spread this love to people who don’t ask for it and while there is the occasional moment where a mere acquaintance is accosted by your love and unsure of how to respond, they always reciprocate because, well, how could they not?
You are a natural athlete and master any sport that you try almost immediately. You pop wheelies on your bike, skate circles around me and knock the baseball out of the park every. single. time.
You have the cutest little lisp that makes the most innocuous words a source of glee for the rest of us (See: “Thought” becomes “Fart” and the family dissolves into fits and giggles.) You love cars, and trucks and anything propelled my a motor. On that note, you love all things robotic; Star Wars and Transformers occupy a lot of your imagination. Bumblebee is your favorite and, well, who can really blame you?
I have often commented about the fact that you look absolutely nothing like me and one hundred and fifty percent like your Daddy. It’s a little startling, really. Each and every day I find myself looking at you and hoping to find a glimmer of myself in the face that I am looking upon. It’s not that I think seeing that sliver of me would make me love you any more than I already do; it’s more of a fascination that despite our physical differences we are eternally bonded. You are a piece of me and hold one-quarter of my heart in your hands.
One thing that we love to argue about is who loves the other one “more.” I’ll say that I love you and you’ll say, “I love you more” and I’ll fire back, “I love YOU more.” And so it goes. On and on and on.
But this is where I need to pull the grown-up card and state for the world to see that I love you more. I’m bigger and as such, my heart is full of more love. I win.
But I’ll let you win because I love you. More.
Love, Mommy
***
I clicked on last year’s birthday post and saw that I had posted my all-time favorite photos of him. It only makes sense to post them here and add a few more from his fifth year.
