Selective Snoozing

My husband really likes to watch tv. Although my Netflix watching has increased immensely since Covid began, I am in general more of a book reader and can leave the tv off.

I know he uses the one-eyed monster to help him relax and unwind. Sometimes, I can be in the bed cuddled up with a book and he’ll just plop down and start with a series as if I wasn’t there first and in a self-created oasis of my own. (Rude) Or I can be in position for some good sleep, calling it an early night and then I’ll get a: “Do you mind if I watch tv for a little bit?” As if I want to fall asleep dreaming of drug smuggling and dealing from his Narcos show. Sometimes I’ll put my foot down and ask that he go downstairs so I can have pleasant, unriddled dreams.

He can stay up for long periods of time watching nonsense shows that he will complain to me about the next day of how lame they were. “Good thing you didn’t watch it, it would have made you mad,” he’ll say. And there has been occasions where I will wake up hours later after sending him away and find him still in the throes of some movie.

So, here is what I don’t quite understand: How is it that he can stay up ridiculous hours into the night watching television when I am reading or getting my beauty sleep, but if we plan to watch something together, he is asleep within half an hour?

Image from clipart-library.com

On the flip side of his staying up all night watching the boob tube, whenever we settle in to knock out some episodes of a series or the kid isn’t around so we can finally watch the good movies, he is snoring before our bodies have even found the sloth position. I wake him to see if he just wants to call it a night or if he wants me to rewind the parts he missed. Or he will wake up later asking me to fill in the gaps that he fell asleep on to help him understand what is happening.

This occurs even with family night. We will finally agree on a movie and get all settled with popcorn, snacks and drinks … just for him to be asleep soon after the opening credits. With those movies, I don’t mind so much. (Yes, I hate that he isn’t engaged for family night, but age-appropriate movies for the kid can really suck sometimes.) But when it comes to adult couple time, it can really grind my gears.

Do any of you wives experience this? Or any guys out there who can explain?

Spoiled Rotten

We recently took a first-class trip to Aruba and took our 12 yo with us. When we returned home, I surprisingly had many people ask why we took such a young kid to a tropical destination. Folks asked me if she was spoiled.

I can tell you that she is not spoiled.

Well, not deliberately. She does not get everything she asks for. She is put on punishment any number of times in one week and she does her work/chores without any bribing. We do not go out of our means to get her things that she wants. And she is told “no” to so many things that I’m surprised she ever asks for anything else. So, no spoiling going on over here.

Image from quotesgram.com

However, what exactly is it called if your kid gets a lot of things because they are benefiting off things you as the parent get for yourself?

Let me give you some examples:

1. The trip to Aruba. We were finally comfortable to travel and took the kid because we had all been locked up for three years and it was where my husband wanted to soak up some sun. The only reason it was first-class was because we were using up an airline voucher before it expired from a trip we were supposed to take the first year of covid. So, she got to tag along and reap some pretty cool benefits.

2. My husband is a huge tennis shoe freak. He tames it down a little so that I won’t fuss too much. But he is all about designer tennis shoes. Because of that, my daughter gets designer shoes every year when he gets his. I’m not even sure how much interest she has in tennis shoes. She may just go along with it because it’s something he’s going to do regardless.

3. The two of them love Chipotle. Like, they love it to an unnatural degree. So, whenever the kid mentions that she wants some, they are on their way to get it. Not strictly because she asked, but because he’ll go there multiple times in one day himself. Her asking is just a good excuse for him to go.

On the outside, it may seem like she gets a lot of things that she wants. But it’s really just that she benefits off what we are interested in. So, what do we call this? Is it still spoiling? Can it be classified as such even though she doesn’t always get things to satisfy her own desire?

I really don’t know. But I do hope that our allowing her to experience these things along with us doesn’t lead to a sense of entitlement. I feel like I should go in her room and just start taking things from her. Just to be sure she knows she can’t have everything she wants! lol

Stranger Danger

Image from totallybuffalo.com

This past winter I took the kid sledding a few times. One time in particular there was a little boy who was there with his parents and two younger brothers. He hit a weird bump that was in the middle of the hill and flipped off his sled busting his lip and getting ice burn on his cheek. My daughter and I were at the bottom of the hill, standing right near where he landed. He stood up and screamed bloody terror from the pain on his face. But both of his parents were at the top of the hill trying to get the other two boys settled in their sleds to follow.

I wanted to help the little fella and walked toward him to console him. His eyes grew as large as the steak dinner plates at Ruth’s Chris restaurant. His fear of my approaching him overtook the pain and burn of his injuries. So, instead of being able to sooth him, I could only grab his sled to kindly carry it back up the hill as his dad worked on getting the younger boys off their sleds, so he could ride it down the hill to tend to the injured son.

It bothers me that we have to teach our children Stranger Danger and limit the folks they can trust to the point that they are afraid even when they need help. And that I, as an adult, have to be slow to help a child if I see them in need.

The same thing happened on a recent trip to Aruba. A kid was playing with his sister on a raft in the pool and she elbowed him in the face. There was no blood, but he was stunned and crying for his parents who were sunbathing in their lounge chairs. I was the closest adult to him but had to let him be so that no one would be offended by my approaching their child.

My kid is a little older now, but I am sure I would have been leery and a little cautious of a stranger tending to her needs at that age as well if the tables were turned. I would want someone to help but I would be wary at the same time. Is the person a pervert? Are they touching her inappropriately on the sly? Will she now think they are safe and when I turn away my attention for a mere second, they now snatch her? I would have so many other things to consider rather than just her getting the help that she needed.

But that is what is so sad about the whole thing. That we live in a time such as this – that we can’t help a child in distress. That they would have to be careful who they ran to for assistance.

I am not saying that we need to lighten up the grip we have on our children. They definitely need to be aware of strangers. It’s just sad to me that it has to be this way.

Journal Jottings

I started keeping a diary as a kid when either my mom or an aunt bought me one of those cute little books with the lock and key. It began with accounts of whatever I did that day. “Dear Diary, today I ate a pack of grape Now and Laters”. “Dear Diary, I played with my Lite Brite today.” Nothing too fancy. It may have been junior high when my entries started to be a bit more emotional and less literal.

I don’t journal as much as I used to nor as much as I would like. I still love it and all, but it just doesn’t seem like I can find or make the time for it to happen. I still have reason to do it and when I get the chance, I feel so good afterward. Like a small weight has been lifted off of me.

But a few months back — actually, it may have been about a year ago — I went through the box of all my old journals and decided to read through a few. Although I laughed at some parts, I cringed at some of the immaturity. And I actually had a hard time reading through some of the content and refreshing some of the pain and angst that I described and experienced.

I figure some of that could be because it was the start of low self-esteem and the beginnings of trying to understand myself, maybe. Things that I still struggle with today. But it got me to thinking of how things will be in say, another ten years if I look back at the things that I write about right now? Will I be embarrassed by my current way of thinking? Will I cringe at my expressions? Or could I perhaps read it and feel that I finally sounded like I had things together and was right on target in how I handled life?

LOL

Okay. That may be a bit much. But I wonder if there will ever be a time that I am content with my musings and start to see any wisdom or knowledge in it.

I doubt it. But I guess I’ve got to get to journaling so we can see.

The Gender of Weltschmerz

I was talking with a guy from work about my daughter. Fussing about the perils of raising a kid now-a-days; and I told him that I wasn’t looking forward to the “teen angst” stage. He stopped me mid-complaint to ask me what that was.

He is from Ukraine, and I at first thought that this was a national difference — that they call it something else where he’s from. He’s also much younger than I am, so I figured that perhaps they term it differently in his age group. I explained it to him the best I could, and he just stared at me like a baby doe caught on the road in traffic. (I felt it cliche’ to say “deer in headlights”)

I dropped the entire subject once I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere.

When my work husband showed up, I asked him if he knew what “teen angst” was. He said that growing up with two sisters and now having daughters of his own, he was certainly aware of it; but couldn’t say that he himself ever experienced it.

This added a different perspective to the conversation.

After I got home, I asked my legal husband the same — and he also said he knows what it is, does not look forward to our daughter starting it, but never had it himself. His suggestion: “I think it’s a female thing.”

Mind. Blown.

Is that true? Is it considered a thing that only females go through?

Now that I think back, I’ve never heard a guy reference it. They never really expound on when they felt insecure or just angry all the time and misunderstood. But it happened! Males have hormonal spurts and growth the same as females. So, why isn’t it titled the same? Is it more severe for a girl to go through it than a boy — therefore given the name; while a boy’s change is just “puberty”?

I am not sure that I’m okay with it being a “female condition” so to speak. It seems biased. But without a focused study group to interview, it seems like it may just be that way for now.

Your thoughts?

[P.S. I still don’t know why my coworker from UA hasn’t heard of it. It can’t be a gender and national misconception, can it?]

Kid Drift

Image from iheartradio — Kid Young

When the kid was little, I’d try to keep her entertained some sunny afternoons by sitting on the patio and cuddling up on the outdoor chaise lounge. I would tell her to pick three items and I would then make up a story to include her choices. She used to love it. As did I.

As she got older, I’d have her do the same, with three items of my choosing. We enjoyed this activity so much that I started doing it more. When I would wash her hair, we’d play the game. Sometimes, to introduce a little variation, after picking three items, I’d start the story, and then she’d add onto it. We would go back and forth piggybacking different parts to the story until her hair was complete.

We don’t sit outside to waste time that much anymore, and she’s getting older and washes her own hair most of the time now. But there are occasions where she still needs help.

Yesterday was one of these times that I needed to step in and wash her hair for her. Before I could even approach the sink to get started with the task, she called out to Alexa to start her music playlist.

I don’t want to impose any ill intentions onto my kid, but I really feel I saw a small snigger of knowledge of what she was doing. Like a purposeful plan to avoid our story time.

Even if it wasn’t really there and I imagined it, she didn’t suggest the activity or ready herself for it. And the fact remains that we didn’t narrate a good story that night and probably won’t do so too many more times in the future. Unless I force her. And then there will be crying and yelling and irritation.

Moral of this blog? This is yet another item I have to scratch off of my imagined mother-daughter tradition list.

Insert sad face and thumb down emoji.

Catalysts for Writing

Photo courtesy of pinterest.co.uk

If you were to ask the genre that I write, I’d say it’s Crime Fiction. I am always wondering how someone being attacked or murdered would play out and then figure I’d like to write about it. My husband asked me why I always write about crime or negative topics. The thing is, I don’t feel like I’m able to write about happy subjects.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m more of a pessimist. I tend to walk through life expecting the worst. I hope for the best, sure. But doubt that things will happen the way I’d like them to.

I’ve tried to challenge myself and write a happy story. But if it isn’t a quick little fable that I make up to entertain my kid while washing her hair or doing some chore, then I quickly lose interest. I can’t think of what would happen next in a love story or a “feel good” novella. I can sometimes draw a blank with a scene of one of my crime stories … I can’t imagine how long I’d be staring at the screen if I tried to write a romance!

This makes me wonder how your daily attitude affects the genre you write in. Does the Debbie Downer write the best emotionally captivating drama? Does a nympho write romances that will melt your underwear off? Does a closet sociopath write crime novels that are adapted into box office movies? Or vice versa? Does my interest to write crime force me to be more skeptical of folks and distrusting? I wonder: Is the emperor of horror, Stephen King, a major drag to be around socially?

I start to question if I should be sad about this. Am I locked into this genre and not allowing myself space to grow? Or is it best to write what interests me?

What is your genre? Do you think it affects your attitude? Do you think you could change it up and be successful? Let me know your thoughts.

Clean-Up in aisle 4

It never ceases to amaze me when I see a couple grocery shopping together. This awe that I feel isn’t for couples shopping at a clothing store, or a mattress warehouse or even a shoe store. Only couples buying food stuff.

Buying groceries can be a time-consuming task. Add in price matching of brands, searching for items to match your coupon, or looking for odd ingredients for some odd recipe and you can be walking aisles for over an hour. I don’t find this fun. So, if you were to add my husband in with this — adding beef jerky or Vienna sausage to the cart, instead of helping with the items on the list — we would have a big problem! Even his standing near me quietly would probably annoy me. Like, why are you just standing there and not saying anything? I can’t really think of any scenario where I wouldn’t get irritated. Maybe the problem lies only with me. . . ? :-0

When I see couples leisurely walking the aisle, examining canned bottom round roast beef in a beef broth, I wonder how they are doing it without arguing or throwing bags of rice at each other. Have they reached some deeper level of maturity than my spouse and me? Is there a higher level of love that he and I have not achieved?

If we were to go grocery shopping together, I’m pretty sure we would end up stopping off at an Office Max at the end of the strip mall to pick up divorce papers.

Not to say we can’t handle a quick run to the store, or maybe even a one-off time of grocery shopping together, but this for sure couldn’t be a routine thing for us.

Is it just us? Are there others like us out there?

What’s the secret, people?

Holding Back The Years

Photo taken from IG post of bestbitchquotes.vn

I recently had to go through google photos to find an old picture for a project. I didn’t know the year of the event I was looking for, so I had to scroll through plenty of pictures to find the one I was looking for.

All the pictures that I went through, I’ve viewed before. If not the same moment or day they were taken, then for sure, the very next day they were seen and critiqued. And at none of those times did I look at the picture and feel that I looked extraordinary or exquisite. I am sure I looked at those pictures and negatively assessed the blending of my makeup or lamented at the way my butt was shaped in my jeans, or any such criticism on my looks.

I have never felt that I looked exceptionally well, even when dressed up. I always feel that I’m “passable”. And I’ve always felt that I can lose a few pounds. Tone up the body. Get rid of these unwanted love handles. So, why was I so surprised that I was pleased at how I was looking on the older photos of myself? How does such a thing happen? How are you so displeased with how you look at the present time, but love it when you look back later?

Repost from Higher Perspective

One photo in particular, I remember quite well being upset at how my makeup turned out that day. Yet, looking back at it, I thought it looked really nice and wondered if my husband was proud to have me on his arm that night? But again, why this sudden change in judgement? Whenever I wear makeup now, I never look at it and say: “Wow, you did great with these shadows and contouring today!” And I don’t take a selfie and confirm my fabulous blending techniques. So why does a year or two add admiration?

Why do I look back and say: “Look how skinny I was?” when I didn’t feel I was skinny back then either? I can remember the struggle it was to smooth out rolls in a dress or the popping of seams when pulling up those leggings. Yet, I can look back at a photo of those events and approve the way I looked.

It’s a crazy phenomenon. I really hope that I can learn to be satisfied with the “me” of right now. Take that selfie and applaud the way I look in that moment. Stop having to wait three years before I think I pulled it all together.

Mean Girl

Getting the kid ready for school in the mornings has been and continues to be a task that I could live without. Her ADD doctor suggested we place reminders in her bathroom to help her remember what to do everyday to lessen the anxiety of the mornings. And this is just to cover the basics — brush her teeth, wash her face, put on deodorant. And although those reminders are literally vinyl-ed to her mirror (thanks Cricut) — I have to ask her if she completed those tasks Every Day. And most times, the answer is no. Even when I call out to her beforehand: “Don’t forget to do the things on your mirror.”; and she replies with a slump shouldered: “okayyy.”

This transaction happens every morning. You would think that I would become prone to them. Learn how to handle them better. But what can I say? I am not an easy student. And I get mad and fuss every friggin day that she has to go to school!

But here is the kicker. The kid can cry and argue with me about washing her face; cry and argue about the one size too large boot I will not allow her to wear; and cry and argue about the apple, raisins and clementine she wants to take for lunch — but will still call me 15 minutes later once she arrives to school, to talk with me before her classes start. Just this morning, she was mad at me about a clothing discretion. She hugged her dad and the dogs and gave them kisses before the bus came and only waved me a goodbye. But like clockwork, the phone call came.

This sounds like the basis for a great and forgiving relationship, right?

Then, why am I such a mean girl and don’t want her to call me some mornings? She is great for letting things go within that 15 minute bus ride, whereas I’m still holding a grudge. It takes me a bit longer to let go of the irritation and frustration of some of these particularly disagreeable mornings. Sometimes I wish I could tell her to call her grandparents or her aunt instead. Just let me be and I’ll see her when she gets home. But that would be callous, right?

I need to actually take a lesson from her in this area and just let the stuff go, because the day she stops calling me, I know my feelings are going to be hurt. And there is nothing fetch about that at all!