Friday, October 29, 2010

Doing the laundry is like raising a family

Washing laundry is kind of like raising a family. 

You have all different sorts of clothes to deal with just like you do personalities.  
Some people are like jeans, rough and tumble yet laid back and comfortable.
Others are like sweaters, a little heavy and restrictive but generally nice and warm.
There are always a few dressier clothes.  They're a little higher maintenance but they sure  can make a good impression.
Towels are like the family members who hang back and just soak it all in while washcloths are the ones who come in and clean up the messes.
Then there are all those delicate items that take special care but with whom you have the most intimate relationship.
And every family has a red sock once in a while, a trouble maker who needs sorted out and dealt with individually.


When doing the laundry or raising a family, it's important to know the following things.
Temperature matters...not everyone is the same, some can handle the heat and others shrink under it.
Picking the proper setting for the situation is important.  Some situations will require a gentle cycle while others will demand something a little more aggressive.
Detergent is like love.  It filters out the dirt and covers up the smell.  Every load needs it.  So does every person.
Sorting is optional but just because you can put everyone together at once doesn't mean you should.
And no matter what, there will be agitation. 

So next time you're turning the kids' clothes right side out and picking tissue pieces from the dryer vent and you're feeling overwhelmed by the pile spilling out of the hamper, just remember that someday, when the kids are grown and gone, the loads will be lighter.  But you may just be surprised to find that you miss it. 









 

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Gravity

I have this love hate relationship with Gravitational Pull...Gravity for short.  When I was younger, I hardly noticed him at all.  He was always just there, wherever I went, keeping my feet on the ground.  I guess I took him for granted mostly, knowing he'd keep doing his thing while I was doing mine.

But apparently Gravity doesn't much appreciate not being acknowledged.  He makes himself known quite a bit now, and not always in the nice, gentle ways he did before.  All the sudden, I notice Gravity playing tricks on me. 

Back in the 80s, Gravity was so passive he didn't even put up a fight against a big can of Aqua Net.  No matter how much I defied him with a teasing comb and sticky aerosols, he didn't do a thing to stop it.  But he's getting his revenge now.  Even my hair is flatter than it used to be.  It's as though he's tugging on it, refusing it let it bounce like it once did. 

Used to be that I'd never think twice about sitting on the floor.  Now, knowing that Gravity isn't going to let me up without a fight, it's a whole different story.  Getting off the floor these days looks likes a sad game of Twister.  I end up on all fours, literally pushing against Gravity to escape his powerful grip.  When he's especially clingy, I must resort to using the furniture to climb my way back to my feet.

Worst of all, he thinks it's funny to yank my flesh downward in the most unflattering ways.  I think it's his version of that classic high school prank, 'de-pantsing'.  His not so funny antics have everything settling just a little lower these days from my eyelids to my thighs and everything in between. 

I remember when bras and panties not only served their intended purpose, but they could do so while looking super cute.  Now, 'foundational garments' need extra hooks and wires and lycra control panels just to hope to hold things somewhat in their original places.   My hair may not bounce, but everything else sure does. Go figure.

It's amazing how Gravity can sneak up on a person, how quickly he can turn on someone and how cruel he can be.  And yet, given all that, the pros of my relationship with him so far outweigh the cons that I still am quite glad he sticks around.  

I appreciate you, Gravity...I really do.  Now will you please give me a break!?!

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Visiting the Old Folks Home

I had an interesting visit with my Grandpa today.  I stopped in while he and his friends at their independent living facility were involved in a rousing game of BINGO.  My Grandpa is your pretty typical old fella.  He's lived a lot of life and has the stories to prove it.  Today was no different.  I heard about how he'd gotten the measles immediately followed by scarlet fever in the fifth grade.  He missed a good chunk of the class, but his teacher passed him on to the sixth grade anyway.  He said he struggled in school from then on.  He brought up a trip my sisters and I took to St. Louis with him and Grandma when I was about eight or nine years old.  Now that was a trip to remember!  He talked  about his love for gambling but how Las Vegas just wasn't the same since it became a family town.  He liked it better when it was for adults only.  Of course, he added that not having Grandma with him anymore just made taking those kinds of trips seem pointless.  That was really the point of the story. 

Some of my grandpa's stories are repeats, stories I've heard him tell before.  He tells them with fondness and great introspection.  Stories about his military service, growing up playing high school football, dropping out of college.  He tells of his world travels with my grandma.  They went just about everywhere and did just about everything.  He talks occasionally about his father, a man small in stature but stout of heart who loaded boxcars for a living.  Sometimes they're stories I wonder why he's sharing, seeming to have no connection to the moment we're currently experiencing.  But I listen just the same. 

I sometimes think he's reliving the past through his autobiographical history lessons.  Other times I am certain he's hoping I can learn some valuable life lesson from his personal experiences. His stories are often told for pure entertainment and other times as cautionary tales. No matter the motivation, the result is the same.  My grandpa is leaving his fingerprints on this world, making sure something of his life succeeds him, guaranteeing his memory outlives his body.

I think we all have that thing inside of us that causes us to want to preserve some part of ourselves for posterity.  It's the reason we take pictures, keep journals, blog.  It's the reason we procreate, invent and 
proselytize.  We want to send some part of ourselves into a future world we won't be actively participating in.  We want to stake a claim to a moment in time, put our mark on it, make it our own.  We want to take our place in history and make sure someone knows we existed. 

None of us want to pass through this life unnoticed.  We want to leave something behind that proves we traveled this path on our journey.  Whether through the transfer of knowledge or through passing on of our genetic material or through sharing the milk of human kindness, whether through fame or talent, in small ways or monumental ones, whether through acts of great bravery or sacrifice, through conquests or accomplishments, whether for all the world or just our little one, we all seek to leave an indelible mark that says, "I was here".

I want to know when I am gone that some part of me still remains.  I want be in the hearts of the people who knew me.  I want the people who love me to love me still, to talk about me with genuine affection.  I want my legacy to be a good one, that I was a good wife and mother, that I gave more than I took, that my influence was powerful and positive.  As I live and die, as we are all living and dying daily, may our fingerprints be firmly and forcefully left behind on a life embraced and lived exceedingly well.

Monday, October 25, 2010

In the beginning...motherhood.

A young woman I used to babysit when she was a child just delivered twin sons this week.  I babysat for her and her twin sister when my own twins were early elementary students. It's interesting how the life events of someone else stir up the memories of one's own past.

It almost seems like yesterday that my own twin sons were born.  In fact, it was over twenty years ago.  Amazing how quickly twenty years go by!  

I was just a twenty year old girl myself when I was introduced to motherhood for the very first time.  I use the word 'girl' because that is certainly what I was.  I was young and green and almost painfully naive about the impact two newborns was going to have on my life.  

When my husband and I married, we said we'd wait five years to have children, but there we were.  Just two and half years in and expecting not one but two babies.  I remember vividly the day we found out we were going to be doubly blessed. 

At twenty-four weeks along, I was still clueless as to what was coming my way.  Then an ultrasound tech put the fear of God in us by asking if my doctor had mentioned an enlargement of my uterus.  No, he hadn't.  And now my husband and I waited anxiously as she went to track him down and discuss whatever she had just witnessed on her little magic screen. 



When she returned, she angled the monitor so we could see it and began with the words, "Here, you can see head #1."  A statement like that is quite the attention getter.  My husband moved promptly from his cushy little chair to my side, leaning over my now shockingly imposing belly to get a better look at the magic screen.  She quickly followed with the words, "And here you can see the head of twin B."

Those were the names of my sons for quite some time, Twin A and Twin B.  Of course at the time, we didn't know they would be sons.  Back then, we were hoping for a boy and a girl. Imagine me with a daughter.  That seems so completely inconceivable now, both literally and figuratively.

The very same day we discovered we were having twins I was also put on complete bed rest.  Bed rest sounds like a good thing in theory, but in reality, it stinks.  A person can only lay around doing nothing for so long before restlessness sets in.  Insanity seems only a short distance beyond that. Since we lived an hour away from family and long distance phone calls were out of our budget with just one income, I found myself bored half out of my mind and counting the days until I'd have my normal life back.  That makes me laugh now as it's twenty years later and I'm still waiting for 'normal' to return.  

My mother had informed me there was only one day she hoped the babies weren't born on, September 12.  My sister Michelle had an appointment with a specialist that day.  So of course, at about 5:30a.m. on September 12, my water broke.  It was nearly a month before my due date and took me completely by surprise.

My husband was a spastic mess.  He was rushing around our little rented house, doing what, I'm not exactly sure.  I just remember telling him to calm down.  We knew this moment was coming and I was as prepared as one could be.  I had a bag packed.  We knew our route to the hospital.  We were pre-registered.  Take a breath, hon.  

After just one short, generally uneventful hour, I found myself in a delivery room surrounded by my doctor, a handful of nurses and a neo-natal intensive care team.  In the dark shadows of the room were also about fifteen young student doctors, there to observe their first delivery of multiples.  My husband asked me later why I had agreed to let the students watch.  I told him at that point they could have rolled me into the lobby with feet in the stirrups and all just so long as someone was going to the catch the kids and get the whole labor process over.

Twin A made his arrival at 9:11a.m.  He weighed four pounds and eleven ounces and was completely covered in what appeared to be cottage cheese.  The nurse held him close to my face so I could get a good look before starting on round two. It was love at first sight even though he had an alien-like little head and squinty little eyes. I remember saying he was just beautiful, and my husband saying I should look again. Falling in love isn't quite as instant with all dads.

It was a full fifteen minutes later and with the help of a nurse literally pushing on my abdomen to force him into the birth canal before Twin B made his debut. He came out screaming, his skinny little arms and legs flailing wildly.  All five pounds and two ounces of him rebelling right out the womb.  Interesting how some things never change. And yet again, I was head over heels in love.


The boys were whisked off the intensive care unit and I was back in my labor room waiting to get into a regular room, after which, I could go be with my babies. I then remember hearing my mom's voice as she was frantically looking for me.  Getting three teenagers up and ready, canceling that appointment for my sister, picking up my Grandma on the way and making the hour drive had caused them to miss the whole delivery.  It didn't take away from anyone's excitement though.  Two new babies...the first grandbabies for my parents, the first great grandbabies for my grandma and the first nephews for my siblings.  It was a grand day!  


Fast forward two days, and I found myself being discharged from the hospital with two babies and no idea what life had in store.  As I sat in a wheelchair, one baby in each arm, waiting for Dan to bring the car around, it hit me that no one was going to stop us from just leaving.  They were really just going to let us go.  No one had figured out that we were just two stupid kids who thought we could be parents and who had just possibly bitten off way more than we could chew.  No one was questioning our ability to step up to the plate and deliver...no one but us.  Could we really be good parents, good providers, good role models?  Could we give these two precious little creatures the love and security all children deserve?  Could we grow up fast enough to be parents rather than mere playmates?  Could we figure it all out well enough to raise good, decent, wonderful young men?  


Yes, yes...we did it.  Kyle and Zachary Wyant are the tangible evidence that we did indeed do it.  I love them both so very much.  And I'm thankful for who they have grown to be, whether because of us or in spite of us.

Congratulations Amanda and Vince on your own double blessing! Welcome Logan and Stryder, seen below with their mom, dad and big sister Emmie. Thank you for letting your birthdays give me an excuse to reminiscence for a few minutes. 









 

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Unsolicited Marriage Advice

I pretty much consider myself an old married person.  I think anyone who had been married more than half their life qualifies.  I hit that milestone when I was 36.  Being an official old married person, here are some things I have learned over the years.

1.) Pick your battles.  Some things are worth fighting for.  A few things are worth going to war over.  Almost nothing is worth dying for.  Everything cannot be important.  Don't try to make it that way. Whiskers in the sink and dirty underwear on the floor really aren't grounds for divorce.  


2.) Honesty is always the best policy, but make sure you can afford the premiums if you're going to buy into that. When your wife asks how she looks, the answer should always be 'beautiful'.  It really shouldn't be about her hairstyle or the dress she's wearing anyway.  When your husband asks if there's something he can do to help you, you should be aware he probably isn't interested in the truth.  He is most likely just being polite.  So while you can give him a to do list, don't expect him to be genuinely thrilled about it. 


3.) Money isn't everything, but it is something. Having money won't make you happy...neither will being broke.  Being on the same page about money makes it better.


4.) Kids are work. If you don't like work, you won't like having kids.  If you must have sleep, money, privacy when using the bathroom or peace and quiet, you probably won't like having kids either.  


5.) Marriage is work.  If you don't like work, you won't like marriage either. 


6.) Marriage and children are awesome!!  If you don't mind the work, the benefits are phenomenal. 


7.) Great communication is 10% talking and 90% listening.  The best communication usually involves little or no words at all.  A look, a touch, an unexpected expression of appreciation and adoration...they all have the ability to speak louder than words.

8.) If you're always waiting for the 'perfect' time to do something, you'll waste a lot of 'perfectly good' time in the meanwhile.  The desire for absolute perfection has been the downfall of many a perfectly good life. 

9.) Love should always have less to do with feelings and emotions than it does with deliberate, purposeful choices.  'In love' is fickle.  It comes and goes over the course of time, influenced by external conditions and the circumstances of life.  If you want to have the giddy, butterflies in your stomach, kissed by cherubs  'in love' feelings every single day, marriage may not be for you. The kind of love that makes a marriage work relies very little on those kinds of feelings.  


10.) And last but not least, in a new marriage, be extremely thoughtful about what you do first.  When you do something first, it becomes your job forever.  My mom told me this when I was getting married, and she was totally right. 

 







Friday, October 22, 2010

Is this really what middle aged looks like?

Welcome to middle aged.  Really?  When did this happen to me?  Wrinkles.  Gray hair.  Reading glasses.  The start of jowls.  Seriously...jowls.  Moisturizing is no longer for silky soft skin.  It's a necessity to keep the sheets from snagging on my nasty cracked old lady heels.  Ice cream gives me a belly ache, which in the middle ages is defined as being lactose intolerant, not to mention it bothers my sensitive teeth.  My knees creek louder than a rusty hinge.  I sometimes feel like the Tin Man's sister.  Suddenly I think everyone in my family mumbles.  They all think I need a Beltone.  Oh, and am now in a race with my fourteen year old son to see who can grow a mustache first.

Forty is not the for the faint of heart.  It isn't that it's the end.  It's that it's just the beginning.  It's realizing that time is marching on faster and faster.  The things I thought I'd have plenty of time for later now are either dead dreams or pressing matters.  As I stand on the cusp of the hill, (you know the hill...the one we all aspire to climb only to discover going over it makes us old), as I stand on the cusp of that hill, I look over to survey what lies ahead.  It isn't all bad.  But there's always some level of anxiety that goes along with the unknown. 

I wonder if I'll age beautifully like my mother and her mother before her.  Will I act my age or will I still be able to find my inner thirty-something when I'm getting a senior citizen's discount?  Will I have a gaggle of grandkids while I'm still young enough to enjoy them but after I'm old enough to feel comfortable being called granny, memaw or nana?  Will I grow old gracefully or will I fight it every step of the way...or is it possible to do both?

So while I don't particularly feel middle aged or think of myself as middle aged, I resign myself to the fact that I am indeed middle aged.  And I'm going to do my best to embrace this time in my life, to celebrate it, marinate in it and with great fondness, reflect on it as I would my own face in the mirror. In that reflection, I hope to see the me I used to be merged into the me I am and easing into the me I'm destined to be. If this is what middle aged looks like, I think I'm ok with joining the club.