Muchness

I have noticed that lately I am less patient with people who are not interested in taking the time to get to know me.  They have a pre-conceived notion of who I am, and how I should behave.  It’s my fault.  For most of my life, I have worried what others think of me, and have tailored my actions, opinions, and outward appearance to please as many people as possible.  This was a mistake, and one for which I have paid a huge price.  For who wants or needs to be surrounded by people who don’t know you?  Who is a better person for trying to please everybody, all the time?  It is not possible.  Usually what ends up happening is that you please nobody, yourself included.

It starts out when we are young girls. Told what is and what is not ladylike, made to believe that acting in any way that is not “ladylike” will cause us to be ostracized and ridiculed, conditioned to conform.  We pluck, shave, rip out and color our hair.  We spend hours upon our make-up, clogging our pores and causing the dreaded pimples we most likely wouldn’t have if we would just stop trying to cover up perceived imperfections in our already lovely faces.  We cram our feet into uncomfortable shoes.  We wear uncomfortable clothing.  We sacrifice modesty for glamour.

I fell into this trap.  I squashed my own unique weirdness, that wonderful thing that made me awesome.  I was meek when I wanted to be loud and obnoxious.  I spent time practicing a less raucous laugh.  I spoke softly.  I didn’t carry a big stick.  I allowed people to treat me as the person I pretended to be.  It wasn’t their fault they didn’t value my opinion.  How could they?  I didn’t value it myself.

In the last few years, I have become angry.  I am angry with myself.  I am angry with those around me who expect me to continue making them feel comfortable at the expense of my own happiness.  I am angry watching beautiful women worry that they are not good enough, thin enough, pretty enough.  I see them.  They do not see themselves, and it is a poverty to this world.

 I am not saying that I am a man-hating femi-Nazi.  I am not.  I am very traditional in what I myself want to be as a woman.  I want to be able to be a stay-at-home mom.  I love my job.  It is a very hard job.  It deserves more respect than it gets.  I don’t want to be judged for my choices.  I want to not judge other women for their choices.   I want my daughters to grow up not pretending to be someone else’s idea of the perfect woman.  They already are.

What I am trying to impart to everybody who reads this is that who you are is who you are.  No matter how hard you try to cram yourself into someone else’s mold, you are never going to fit.  You have your own mold.  Learn to love it, because it is the only one that will ever make you happy.

I hereby vow to laugh LOUDLY.  I will throw temper-tantrums when I am angry.  I will tell people when they are walking on my toes.  I will wear red and purple together, because I like BOTH colors.  I will wear make-up if I feel like it, and leave it off if I don’t.  I am going to give my honest opinion if asked, and often even if I am not asked.  And if I disagree with you, I am going to tell you so.

I challenge every woman I know to dance.  You dance to whatever goof-ball tune you hear, because you are fabulous.  Stop letting yourself and others steal it from you.  You know who those people are.  They are our mothers, our fathers, our friends, our boyfriends and husbands, even ourselves.  It isn’t their fault.  After all, they had it stolen from them, and it is going to take generations to fix.  Be the change you want to see.

Boys

In the last few years, we have been living with a teen-aged boy.  It hasn't been fun, to say the least.  Our eldest has always been willful.  Jake has never met a rule he didn't like....to break.  As parents, the shelf-life of our bluff expired about 3 years or so too early.  It made for some "interesting" situations.

He has been suspended for fighting.  He was defending a friend who got sucker-punched, but fighting is fighting. He has been put on probation for a dead raccoon.  Yep.  Dead raccoon, don't ask.  He has run away, more than once.  Once, I even thought he was dead.  It was the longest hour of my life. When we finally decided that perhaps high-school was more of a way for him to get into trouble than a way to earn an education, he went and took the GED tests, and scored #6 in the state.  Jake isn't stupid, he is just a fool.  He is his own worst enemy, and he needs to stop hurting himself.

Jake doesn't get along with his father.  His dad thinks he should shape up and stop tattooing "Dude" on his back.  Jake thinks his dad needs to mind his own business, especially since Jake is now 18.  I think Jake needs to grow up, deal with his problems and BOTH of them need to stop bickering right now.

Dads want their sons to be good men, responsible men.  If they aren't toeing the line, they are a poor reflection of said dad's parenting skills.  Dads want to know that you are doing right.  They want you to not be stealing, or smoking dope, or embarrassing the family in some other deviant way.

Moms....we just want to know you are still on this planet. At the end of the day, all we ask is that you are still breathing.  So, call your mom, guys.  She just wants to know you are still on the right side of the dirt.  For her, it is the only test you ever have to pass.

Starsong the pony goes missing

Hannah-I can't find Starsong, Mom.
Me-Well I think she is in your room, if you clean it, you will find her
Hannah-*walks away*
Hannah-*from a distance* Starsong???!!!  Starsong??!! STARSONG!!??
Me-Baby, Starsong is a toy.  She can't hear you with her plastic ears, and even if she could, she can't walk with her plastic pony legs. You have to clean your room.
Hannah- :( Oh   *walks away*

A few minutes later, she comes out, carrying a wand, and held out fairy wings to me

Hannah-Mom can you put these on?
Me-Sure. *put on wings*  Are you going to clean your room?
Hannah-Yeah.
Me-You do know that fairy magic isn't real, and you will have to actually CLEAN your room, don't you?
Hannah-Yeah :(

I want my money back

Dear Calgon,
   Enclosed you will find a receipt for some bubble-bath I recently purchased.  I would like a refund.  You see, apparently, your marketing campaign of "take me away" does not apply to mothers of young children.  After having spent the entire morning rescuing a tiny kitten from a four-year old little girl who loves him much too much, cleaning the kitchen only to have it destroyed again in a matter of five minutes, and walking into my bedroom to find my husband's muddy labrador retriever laying in the middle of my bed, I thought I would take you up on the "take me away" offer.

   I was hoping for the Bahamas.  Instead, I had just gotten a bath run, and was sitting down for some quality "me-time" when the previously mentioned 4 year-old ran in, naked, and demanded that she be allowed to "take a baff wiff you, Mom!"  I herded her out, crying, and making the promise that she could have a "baff" of her own when I was done.  I locked the door.  Climbed BACK in the water and was just getting back into relaxation mode when a blood-curdling shriek rolled through the house. I ran out, dripping water and bubbles, oh yeah, and NUDE, to see the 4 year-old STILL naked, screeching at the top of her lungs. My kitchen looked like a plague of locusts had swarmed through it, and all the other kids standing there with a "Who, me?" look on their faces.  I grabbed the naked 4 year-old and deposited her in the tub. I dried off, got dressed and went out to kill...I mean clean my kitchen. Again.

  In short, your product makes my life more stressful, rather than less so.  Therefore, I want my money back.  I also suggest you issue an immediate disclaimer, which should read: Not for use under the influence of children.

  Sincerely,
         Caryl Frei

Whoops...

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am quite possibly the most clumsy person on the planet.  I blame the stork-like legs I was cursed with in youth, and also I think gravity is determined to make me its bitch.  I have never met a staircase I haven't fallen up, down, and sideways.  And yes, I have fallen OFF of my shoes more than once.

In the past week, I have fallen no less than 5 times.  Three of the times were pretty minor, but let me tell you about the other two.  The first involved chickens.  Bill built our hens a new, really fancy hen-house.  Our hens, being the birds of the devil, quickly decided they hated the new house and launched a mind-game war upon us.  They refused to use the new house, electing instead to continue both roosting and laying in the old house.  This couldn't be tolerated, as we had not only put a large amount of money into the new house, we needed the old one for our hogs, which were due to arrive in just days.

So, being the red-neck farm-girl I was raised to be, I determined that as soon as the nasty old biddies went to sleep we would move them to the new house.  Oh, I was cocky...pun intended.  This would only take a jiffy.  I grabbed my ratty old flip-flops, and off Bill and I went to move the chickens.  Ungrateful wretches.  I stooped and slouched into the old hen house, which was obviously designed for only midget chicken farmers, and proceeded to catch 3 of our 4 chickens.  The final old bird hopped off the roost, and ran around avoiding me for several minutes as I crouched, much like a pissed-off chimpanzee, trying to catch her.  Having finally caught the rotten egg-factory I hunched toward the door, cursing my dependence upon eggs for yummy baked goods.

As I put my right foot onto the lawn, I forgot that not only was I wearing what is laughably called "summer footwear" AKA, great big sled runners, the lawn was soaking wet.  And down I went,  thinking the whole time, "Don't let go of the damn chicken or you will never catch her again."  As I lay there, my ass soaked and muddy, my back scraped up, stupid chicken pecking at my head, I looked up.  There stood Bill.  Laughing. At me.  He thought it funny that I hadn't let go of the chicken.

Skip forward to last night.  The kids wanted to ride their bikes in the garage, which meant we needed to move the cars out.  I got into my car, and moved it.  Bill didn't want to start his pick-up unnecessarily, so he decided I would help him push it out.  Wearing my trusty flip-flops again, I was gung-ho to get 'er done.  BUT it has been raining.  All of our vehicles have been dripping water.  Which I stepped in.  BLAM!  Down I went again.  My knee was skinned up and all sting-y.  I wanted to cry a little but the girls were watching.  As I limped into the house, Bill was giving me pointers on how to be more graceful....

I threw the flip-flops in the garbage.

Where did I put that ark?

It has been raining.  A LOT!  And I am feeling very Vitamin D deficient.  It is cold and we have run out of our winter's supply of wood.  Which means we are slowly purchasing the electric company using electric heat.  The dogs are constantly full of mud, and my floors are a swamp 5 minutes after mopping.  Can't a girl get some sunshine down here?

Yeah.

It has been that kind of day.