There is nothing more terrifying than packing a family of five for a vacation. You doubt yourself right until the moment you arrive and realize you should have triple checked every single bag. You have nightmares about leaving someone behind on the days before departure (thanks Home Alone for all that nonsense).
Each child o' mine has their own suitcase special for this year's vacation. They were Christmas presents. I decided to start youngest to oldest in packing order this time. Why you ask? Because, my little blonde angel has more clothes than the next three of us combined...and that's without having busted into the stacks of her older sister's hand-me-downs. Lucky her.
She was interested, not in helping mind you; but in watching my efforts. I counted out undergarments and put them on her dresser. I opened the closet and two drawers. I pushed up my sleeves and thought, "Since I'm dressing her, she's going to match!" Hooray. She plopped down on her bed.
I pull out stretchy pants...as many as I could find. This because, as all moms know: stretchy pants take up the least amount of space in a suitcase. Oh, and they're most versatile. Wear 'em with a dress. With a cute shirt. A tank and a long sweatshirt. Yes. Stretchy pants.
I lay out seven pair that were at the bottom of her drawer. I put undies on top of each pair of pants. She looks up at me in wonder. "Mommy, whose stretchy pants ARE those?"
I stop. And stare. I'm completely dumbfounded. I hold up the pair I'm currently accessorizing.
"THESE stretchy pants?"
"Uh huh."
"Well, stretchy pants, while having ample amounts of give do not have enough, I fear, to stretch to cover the area of my backside...so, I'm going to go with: they're yours."
"Well...I've never even seen them before."
"Yes, I know. You have more clothes than the sum total of Kardashians, and I've pulled these all from the deepest recess of your wardrobe. Not only are you going on vacation, it's going to be like Christmas as I've unearthed seven brand new, (Ok, not new-new...they are hand-me-downs from friends), never worn by you before...outfits. My miracle work here is officially done!"
With that, I finished up matching outfits and accessorizing and closed her case. I zipped it shut to find she had scooted off the bed and ventured into the living room to interrupt her sister practicing piano.
"Hey, Mommy said she bought me a whole new set of clothes special for this trip. Wait until you see my fashion and all these new presents...but you didn't get any!" She giggled.
OH BOY...that is NOT what I said.
"MOOOOOOOM...."
And with that I made a mental note to pack duct tape and ear plugs into my purse for the insanely long impending car ride.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Friday, February 6, 2015
I Hope You Dance...Er, Um, Grow. I Hope You Grow.
Outsourced. It's an easy word to say, comprehend even. It's a hard word to grasp in concept, you know...when you've been the Outsourcee. I find myself quickly approaching the first anniversary of my Outsourcedness. It's a strange matter.
Like the 12 steps of AA, Outsourcing takes you through a myriad of emotions: anger, bitterness, numbness, and, if you're lucky...hope.
I found the hope in my new found job as Domestic CEO. I made a choice to tackle that like I tackle most everything in my way in life; with zest and fervor (truly, the only thing I may love more than tackling is headbutting - but that's a whole different story). I hoped [there it is again] that this would be the best job of my life, and with all things, I like succeeding so I gave it my all. I cleaned my house as if I was possessed. I repaired things. I remodeled. I grew tomatoes.
Tomatoes. Yes?
No. Whooooooa, no.
A friend gave me hope [oh boy!] that I too, could have a garden. "Let's start small," I said. "I've killed everything I've grown except my husband and kids to date." I took a class. I ran to various stores to purchase supplies. I threw some seeds in peat and put them on my porch in the glorious sunlight to thrive and be fruitful.
They were rotated. And watered ["BE CAREFUL NOT TO OVERWATER!" I told myself]. And then, sweet Baby Jesus...they grew! AND GREW! I took pictures. I texted friends. I believe, I posted it in social media. I was proud. In the back of my mind I spit on my Outsourcer, "Let me go, will you? I'll show you how miraculous I am...I'm growing tomatoes!"
It came time to transfer my seedlings into my containers. I mixed soils and composts and fertilizers in my garage. I readied my containers with love and care. I chose their new homes with precision and calculation - paying heed that the deer that love my yard would not get to them. Moving day came and went. ...And so did my babies.
Everyday I would check them. "They're not growing." I'd water them. I'd beg them. I scoured the internet and books from the library to see what I'd done wrong. "...they're...not...growing..."
"No, No, NO! This can't be happening." After all, I had hope.
And as the days passed into those first crucial weeks, my hope, like those poor, poor tomato souls - died. The day I had the strength to pronounce their death, my neighbor witnessed something horrifying. He stood behind me for God knows how long, and watched as I swore at my failed attempt at gardening. He watched me beg, and I think I heard his snort when I finally offered them money and/or drugs if they. just. grew. I kicked their bucket - literally, not figuratively or metaphorically - and stomped away.
I let go of hope of homemade ketchup and spaghetti sauce and salsa and pizza sauce and fresh Caprese salads. I pouted. I. Was. Hopeless.
That is, until this Christmas. I gave my husband a composter. And my friend tells me, "Your tomatoes are going to LOVE his compost. You can do it this year...I know you can!" ...and I purchased some seeds.
Like the 12 steps of AA, Outsourcing takes you through a myriad of emotions: anger, bitterness, numbness, and, if you're lucky...hope.
I found the hope in my new found job as Domestic CEO. I made a choice to tackle that like I tackle most everything in my way in life; with zest and fervor (truly, the only thing I may love more than tackling is headbutting - but that's a whole different story). I hoped [there it is again] that this would be the best job of my life, and with all things, I like succeeding so I gave it my all. I cleaned my house as if I was possessed. I repaired things. I remodeled. I grew tomatoes.
Tomatoes. Yes?
No. Whooooooa, no.
A friend gave me hope [oh boy!] that I too, could have a garden. "Let's start small," I said. "I've killed everything I've grown except my husband and kids to date." I took a class. I ran to various stores to purchase supplies. I threw some seeds in peat and put them on my porch in the glorious sunlight to thrive and be fruitful.
They were rotated. And watered ["BE CAREFUL NOT TO OVERWATER!" I told myself]. And then, sweet Baby Jesus...they grew! AND GREW! I took pictures. I texted friends. I believe, I posted it in social media. I was proud. In the back of my mind I spit on my Outsourcer, "Let me go, will you? I'll show you how miraculous I am...I'm growing tomatoes!"
It came time to transfer my seedlings into my containers. I mixed soils and composts and fertilizers in my garage. I readied my containers with love and care. I chose their new homes with precision and calculation - paying heed that the deer that love my yard would not get to them. Moving day came and went. ...And so did my babies.
Everyday I would check them. "They're not growing." I'd water them. I'd beg them. I scoured the internet and books from the library to see what I'd done wrong. "...they're...not...growing..."
"No, No, NO! This can't be happening." After all, I had hope.
And as the days passed into those first crucial weeks, my hope, like those poor, poor tomato souls - died. The day I had the strength to pronounce their death, my neighbor witnessed something horrifying. He stood behind me for God knows how long, and watched as I swore at my failed attempt at gardening. He watched me beg, and I think I heard his snort when I finally offered them money and/or drugs if they. just. grew. I kicked their bucket - literally, not figuratively or metaphorically - and stomped away.
I let go of hope of homemade ketchup and spaghetti sauce and salsa and pizza sauce and fresh Caprese salads. I pouted. I. Was. Hopeless.
That is, until this Christmas. I gave my husband a composter. And my friend tells me, "Your tomatoes are going to LOVE his compost. You can do it this year...I know you can!" ...and I purchased some seeds.
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