Yesterday was a banner day for me. I wrote five articles for my new gig as a staff writer for several personal finance websites. I attended G's first parent/teacher conference at preschool. I managed to squeeze in a little "me" time during her evening dance class.
What I did not do is remember to take the dog outside. Not once.
Yes, I'm a bad, bad doggy mommy.
The truth is, our poor dog has slowly tumbled down my priority list. I remember vividly the final days of my first pregnancy, cuddling with my precious pup. "I'm not sure any baby can be cuter than this dog," I told my husband as I cooed at our first child.
How very wrong I was.
By the time my daughter was three seconds old, the dog was already second fiddle. When we brought G home from the hospital, we held her, fawned over her, baby-talked to her, ignoring the poor dog. We still allowed the dog (whose name is Ducky, by the say) to sleep on our bed, but even that right was removed when Baby C arrived two and a half years later.
These days, Ducky is lucky if she makes it outside before noon. My husband and I often turn to each other at 10 o'clock at night to ask if the other fed her dinner (usually the answer is no, with both of us assuming the other remembered). We've had to move her food and water bowls so often - away from G's and C's curious hands - that she sometimes forgets where they are anyway. We avoid taking her on walks - she's so unaccustomed to it that she drags us through the neighborhood as she pees every five steps, making it too much of a struggle when you've got two young children in tow.
The final blow? I even removed any mention of Ducky from the "About Me" section on my blog - an unintentional yet stinging slight.
When I hear an as-yet childless couple remark on the large place their pets occupy in their hearts and minds, I inwardly chuckle. If only they knew how far down the ladder their pups will fall once a baby arrives.
I came down the stairs this morning to find the closet door, three cupboard doors, the bathroom door and the dishwasher door wide open.
No, we hadn't been robbed - everything was still where it had been the night before... including the dishes from my husband's late night snack (who apparently doesn't believe that all calories consumed after 10pm go straight to your inner thighs).
My husband gets up every morning at 4:30. On good days, he eats breakfast, gets dressed and heads to the gym to hit the treadmill before work. On bad days, he falls back to sleep on the couch, only to wake up at 6:45am to the sounds of me screaming that he's going to be late.
It's no secret that I think my husband is the loudest person in the world. Whenever he talks on the phone, he basically shouts into the handset. Even if his family didn't live a thousand miles away, I'm pretty sure they'd be able to hear him - without the phone.
Having a private conversation with the man is impossible, especially in crowded locations (the types of locations that are ideal for "people watching"). He simply doesn't know how to whisper.
And you can forget the idea of him sneaking up on anybody. He blames his flat feet for his inability to walk quietly, as every footfall causes the floorboards of our not-very-old house to creak.
But my husband has over-estimated the noise factor involved with just about every one of his morning tasks. He's convinced that closing a door makes enough noise to wake up the kids... so he doesn't close them. He's convinced running the sink to rinse out his breakfast dishes is so noisy that it'll make our dog start barking... so he leaves them in the sink for me to take care of. He's convinced that putting his electric razor back in the medicine cabinet will disturb me... so it remains on the bathroom counter.
While I appreciate the steps to take to ensure that the kids and I can continue sleeping long after he's gone, I don't appreciate having to spend the first five to ten minutes of my day cleaning up after him. It's at times like these when I do, indeed, feel like his mother instead of his wife.
The fact of the matter is, he has no concept of what makes noise and what doesn't. Closing doors? Cleaning dishes? Putting his razor away? They don't really make a lot of noise. Grinding up beans for his morning cup of coffee? Pressing the snooze button on his alarm twice? Forgetting to turn off the security alarm before walking out the door? These are the real sources of noise pollution in our house every morning!
The winner of the Shabby Apple giveaway is...
Melissa, please email me no later than Wednesday, January 25th to claim your prize. If I haven't heard from Melissa by that deadline, I'll announce a new winner on the 26th.
I'm not a big fan of cliches. For instance, I hate the phrase, "That's like the pot calling the kettle black." Um, first of all, pots can't talk; and furthermore, my pots are silver, not black, so it doesn't even make sense.
I've felt particular disdain for the cliched saying about being a big fish in a little pond. The main reason why I dislike it so much, however, is because - at least in my experience - it's true. Scathingly true. When I was in high school, I thought I was a big shot - I was near the top of my class, and I thought that made me a genius. Then I got to college - Duke - a land of true geniuses, and BAM! I went from being a big fish in the little pond that is high school to being a small fish, struggling to stay afloat in the massive ocean.
The same was true of my favorite extracurricular activity, swimming. I thought I was the shit in the water; after all, I had amassed enough gold medals and blue ribbons by the time I was 16 to start my own trophy supply shop. But every year, I was reminded of just how average I was when I went to the district championship meet. Each year, the same girl - who, in all fairness to myself, went on to win not on, not two, but FOUR Olympic medals - whupped my butt: whupped it hard.
So when I said goodbye to swimming, I didn't look back. I was happy to be done with it, to put it in my life's rearview mirror.
Until this past summer.
Thanks to the 50 pounds I'd gained during my pregnancy with baby C, I was looking for a low-impact way to burn a lot of calories. Since we were already spending a lot of time at our swim club, I started spending the hourly 10-minute "safety" breaks to swim laps. At first, I swam painstakingly slow, and the ten minutes just about did me in. But by the end of the summer, I was once again feeling the need - the need for speed (sorry, another cliche).
That's when I took my swimming talents to our local Y. I devoted one hour, one morning a week to lap swimming. And that's when I realized something:
Because of the day and time during which I chose to swim, I was surrounded not by high school athletes or even masters-level swimmers, but by little old ladies who were aqua-jogging; elderly men who swam fast and furious for four lengths of the pool before calling it a workout; stay-at-home parents, like myself, who were looking for a way to keep in shape that didn't involve an elliptical trainer or a treadmill.
Once they realized I planned to become a regular, they started commenting on my technique. "You must have been on the swim team," they'd say to me. When I'd confirm their suspicions, they'd go on to tell me that their son/niece/granddaughter was on the swim team now, and how much dedication it took. I'd nod in agreement; after all, I spent 3-4 hours a day with my head below the water's surface for most of my teen years.
Soon, I found myself handing out advice to my new workout partners. For example, just last week a woman who joined our ranks only a few weeks ago asked me how I got my stroke so even, as hers was a little lopsided. I urged her to invest in a pair of hand paddles, which would help her slow down her stroke and isolate her movements, eliminating the hitch. She thanked me profusely. When I saw her this morning in the pool, she waved enthusiastically - in her hand was a paddle.
Sure, sometimes I find myself getting competitive with my just-for-fun swimming friends. Sometimes, I try to see how quickly I can lap them, or see if I can keep up with their full stroke while I'm just kicking.
But overall, I'm happy where I'm at. I've found peace with my swimming ghosts.
And I'm darn happy to finally, finally be the big fish once more.
These days, saying you're rooting against Tim Tebow is like saying you're rooting against God Himself.
It seems like just about everybody - casual and rabid sports fans alike - has jumped on the Tebow bandwagon. I think the only ones who haven't are those on the extreme political left (not me; I'm a moderate), atheists (not me, either; I'm a practicing Catholic) and Pittsburgh Steeler fans (my football loyalties lie in the Midwest).
Maybe my disdain for #15 stems from the fact that he plays for the Denver Broncos. After all, this week marked 25 years since John Elway - now the Broncos' general manager - led Denver 98 yards in the final five minutes to keep my hometown Cleveland Browns out of their first (and only) Super Bowl. Maybe it's because Tebow was instrumental in the University of Florida's upset of the Ohio State Buckeyes in the 2007 national championship game. Either of those would be solid enough reasons not to like the guy - but they'd be lies.
The fact of the matter is, I don't dislike Tebow; what I do dislike is the way fans laud and praise him.
Tebow claims to be a conservative Christian, and by all outward appearances, he seems to not only talk the talk but - more importantly - walk the walk as well. I applaud Tebow for living his faith out loud; it's something that I, as a Christian woman, struggle with from time to time. But I fear that for every casual fan he draws to the game of football, for every soul he either intentionally or unintentionally awakens to God's message with his ability to win a football game despite his inability to consistently throw an accurate pass, he's leading someone down a path of sin.
Yup, I said it - Tim Tebow is causing people to sin. Enter example number one, the first - and arguably, the most important - of the Ten Commandments:
you shall not have
strange Gods before me."
Now, I'm not saying that Tebow is breaking this commandment. But can you say the same for the man wearing this jersey?
I can't tell you the number of times I've seen a person wearing a #15 jersey with the words "Messiah," "Jesus" or "Savior" on the back. I can't tell you the number of times I've seen status updates on Facebook urging me to "Praise God for Tim Tebow!" after another Broncos win.
Let's be serious, folks: God doesn't care about the outcome of a football game. And if he did, I daresay the New Orleans Saints would be on the fast track to the Super Bowl every single year.
The glory and honor that so many football fans - and so many others drawn to the celebrity of Tim Tebow - should go not to the man, but to the Lord who created him. And while I know that many Tebow fans are well aware of this division between the human and the divine, with every surprise win on the football field, I think many are losing sight of this crucial fact.
So when the Broncos take the field this weekend against the New England Patriots (note: my Cleveland ties make me predisposed to dislike Bill Belichick, too), I'll be - for the first time in my life - cheering on Tom Brady.
Woo hoo. Go Pats.
Should we, shouldn't we? Will we, won't we? DH and I have been arguing - with each other and even with nobody at all - for the past two years about this very issue. And now, we've finally made a decision.
We're moving.
Yup, the realtor will be over to our house in about 33 minutes from now (meaning I should probably get out of my pajamas) to discuss a listing price for our current home. We'll be looking at two "new to us" homes on the other side of town tomorrow afternoon. We've already spoken to the folks at the bank, and are just waiting on last year's tax forms to arrive in the mail in order to proceed with the mortgage preapproval process.This is really happening, it seems.
And yet, in the dark of night, when nobody else is awake to hear me, I'm not so sure it's what I want. The fact is, I love our current home. Sure, I could use a fourth bedroom for my parents when they come to town, a dedicated office for my freelance work and a playroom to which I could just shut the door every night when the kids went to bed... but this was the first place DH and I bought as a couple. It's the house in which our children were conceived, to which we brought them home from the hospital. We've refinished floors, replaced countertops and even added an addition - we've made it our own. It's our home.
Furthermore, as much as I've talked about moving to the other side of town for the past several years, I've grown to like where we live just fine. Sure, I wish we were closer to some of the better schools in the district, but I love the preschool we've selected for G, the place where she takes dance classes, the local Y, our church... all things I know we'd have to give up by moving 25 miles west.
But moving to a bigger house, closer to better schools, with a bigger yard - this is what I've been dreaming about, right? This is what I want, right?
Right?
To tell you the truth, I'm not so sure. If you talked to me in person - and some of you have - you'd think I was gung-ho about this whole process, and in some ways, I am. But then I think about leaving this place, and I sober up a bit. I know it's always harder to say goodbye than it is to say hello - although I'm talking about a house here, not a person. I'm also notoriously anxious when it comes to change.
I've spent a lot of time asking God to guide us on this process. To let us know if we're making the right moves or not. Maybe I should do a little Tebowing as I attempt to hear His word; He certainly seems to be speaking to that Denver Broncos quarterback a lot these days (but that's another rant for another post). I just hope I won't be so busy repainting the kitchen and cleaning the showers in preparation for a showing to hear Him.
24 minutes until the realtor gets here... is it too late to change my mine?
I've always been a rather girly-girl: I love wearing skirts and dresses. In my opinion, they're just as comfortable as a good pair of jeans. And when it to buying those skirts and dresses...
...Shabby Apple is one of my favorite stores!
Today, I've got a giveaway AND a special discount for you, courtesy of Shabby Apple. I've selected this women's dress, which one of my lucky readers will win:
It's the "Azure Coast" dress - as you can see, it's a wrap dress, a style I think flatters just about every body type. I also think this gorgeous blue color suits just about any skin tone or hair color. And while one size won't exactly fit all - Shabby Apple's dresses actually run large, meaning you'll get an ego boost when your dress size is a little smaller than usual - one style and color actually does fit all.
The Azure Coast dress usually sells $82.00, but right now it's on sale for just $74! But wait, there's more! For the next 30 days, readers of my blog can get an additional 10% off their entire purchase just by entering this exclusive code, workingmom10off, at checkout.
In addition to the 10% off coupon, one of my lucky readers will win the Azure Coast dress from Shabby Apple - a $74.00 value!
Like Shabby Apple on Facebook, and leave a comment telling me you've done so. In addition to http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifgaining entry to this giveaway, liking Shabby Apple on Facebook will give you access to exclusive discounts and promotions. This entry method is mandatory - meaning if you don't complete this, your entry won't count!
You can also earn an additional entry by following me on Google Friend Connect - just leave me an additional comment to let me know you follow my blog.
No more than two entries per person; mandatory entry method must be completed or subsequent entries will be deleted. Giveaway open to U.S. residents only. Entries will be taken through Sunday, January 21st; a winner will be selected using a random number generator and will be announced on Monday, January 22nd.
FCC DISCLAIMER: I was not compensated in any way for this giveaway. The opinions expressed in this review are my own, and were not influenced by the sponsor company.
