My husband and I put the house on the market today. The realtor just left, the sign is out front, and we now enter the agonizing wait to see when and if this place sells. The past few weeks have been a flurry of painting, cleaning and general mayhem. My poor husband probably wants to vote me off the island, because I am downright obsessive when I am in project-mode. However, as I start to imagine my life without the 45 minute ride to work, I can’t help but get excited.
Keep your fingers crossed, because it is sure to be a long few weeks…
Seriously, women everywhere want to push me off a cliff, so that they can get their grubby hands on him. My husband works his tail off, comes home, plays with the kids, helps with the housework, and treats me like a princess. He regularly cooks, cleans, bakes, fixes and does just about everything you could wish for. Don’t get me wrong, he is still an Alpha-guy, and keeps me grounded. And after about 9 years of living together, I am sure there are now some things he wishes he knew before he married me:
It is his job to investigate all mysterious sounds I hear at night.
He must kill all bugs, like now…not in a minute, NOW.
He must reach all high things, as I am too lazy to drag out the step stool.
I am allergic to yard work, plumbing issues, and anything else I label as gross.
This includes cleaning out the Tupperware with the unknown, month-old forgotten food in it.
A southern lady does not open her own beer or wine. It’s also his job to open jars, carve meat and handle raw poultry…because that’s gross too.
I am not a morning person…and not just mildly. It’s almost a disability. I am so grouchy and snarly in the morning, that you must maintain a safe perimeter until I’ve emerged from my psychosis. Maybe that is where Demon Baby got it?
My luck with automobiles is so bad that it also may be classified as a disability (did I mention that I got rear-ended at Wal-Mart last month?)
I will stick my cold feet on him when he least expects it, because after all, it is also his job to warm me up when I am cold.
With a list like that, it’s a wonder HE hasn’t pushed me off a cliff either. That’s why I am a lucky girl, I guess!
After having two sick heathens last week, I have contracted their plague, and I have spent my day cursing my sinuses, sneezing and hacking up my left lung. Fun times…
To make it even better, cold medicines NO LONGER WORK. Apparently, people did bad things with the old cold medicines, and now we only have wimpy concoctions that do no more than shake their fists at our symptoms and grumble half-heartedly.
Sure, you can find a few old-school cold medications out there…if you want to wait in the pharmacy line for 30 minutes, show valid photo ID and sign a document that says you solemnly promise not to turn your NyQuil into illicit drugs.
Although, looking back, I was in line behind a nefarious-looking group at Wally-World once; they were trying to buy 67 boxes of Sudafed, and didn’t understand why the checker would not sell it to them. Maybe there is a reason why we shouldn’t sell cold medication like popcorn, but as I sneeze for the 1,285th time today, I am not too happy that it’s easier for me to buy booze than it is get for four to six hours of sweet sinus relief.
Just one year ago, I decided to get less fat. Unlike every other time I’ve decided to change my gluttonous, hedonistic ways, I was pretty serious about not facing 30 in absolute misery. Unfortunately, I am fundamentally lazy, and I like to eat more than I like just about anything else; hence, the baby weight that stayed long after my babies became toddlers, and finally little boys. I am sure my husband can tell you how many times I “started” to diet or exercise, and he can also tell you how quickly thereafter I told him to pick me up some ice cream on the way home. Mmmmmm…..Dublin Mudslide…..
But I digress. After figuring out just how to approach my inner-sloth, I started to see some forward progress. I was doing great, but when I started work, I worried that the weight I’d lost would hop back onto my thighs faster than you can say “fruity pebbles.” Luckily, my glacially slow approach to changing my lifestyle seemed to keep me under some semblance of control.
Well, heck if it didn’t pay off, because Bayou-Mama started this year a full 52 pounds lighter! That’s right sister, I am down into the jeans I wore as a sophomore in high school. Nothing like sweet, skinny victory to make staring down the big “3-0” a little less traumatizing.
While I bask in my scale-happiness, I have also come to realize some disturbing realities:
Even after losing the baby weight and more, childbirth has ensured that some things just DO NOT go back to the way they were before I gave birth to my 10-pound heathens. I am seriously rethinking my stance on plastic surgery as I stare down a stomach that looks like a blob Freddy Krueger took a turn at it. I would have to win the lottery first…oh well….
My skin is not as elastic as I thought, and parts of me look downright weird and floppy. You should not be able to play with your skin like Silly Putty.
Losing weight in my face also left some skin to spare, so my smile-lines now look like smile-canyons. Now rethinking Botox as well….
I still like to eat more than I like just about anything else…but once I conjure up how good it feels to buy another pair of size 8 jeans, I can usually exercise some self-control. Except at the Drive-Up Daiquiri…
I may be a ding-bat in just about everything thing else I do, but as I look at my scale, I get to have a few moment to think, “I Rock!”
I am home with my Youngest, who is sick…and I am not feeling so spry either. While I wish I was on the couch being a lazy bum and enjoying a day off, we both know that ain’t gonna happen. Remember my laundry pile that mocks me? Well, if you turn your back on it, it breeds!
Oh, it looks innocent enough…but it is as devious as it is sneaky. I thought I had contained this gremlin to the laundry room. I should have known better. This is my bedroom:
See? It’s just a spore of the original beast, but it has the potential to explode. Wait…… Holy Moly, it already has!!!!!
My dresser has been infected as well!!! This is a crisis. Will Merry Maids do pro bono work?? I’ll just have to escape to the kitchen…
My holiday weekend rocked. We had tons of fun, repainted our bedroom, and I had a glorious day off with my little heathens. I even made a cake:
Yep, I am proud of that cake, seeing as I have been getting a big, fat “F” in the whole domestic diva department lately. In fact, somebody feels the constant need to show me up:
That is, in fact, my husband….in front of the stove…making said heathens a four-course lunch…the nerd. Sometimes, he is so perfect, I want to smack him.
Anyway, Youngest, in his OCD-like way, has become unnaturally attached to this hat:
He is supremely offended that I will not let him sleep in it. Granny is not helping. She encourages this cuteness at every available opportunity. When I try to remind her that she would not let me sleep with hats on, she laughs maniacally and reminds me that grandparenthood is a whole ‘nother ballgame. And how can I say no to this face?
Since I went back to work, life around my house has been a series of adjustments and restructuring, liberally sprinkled with a few mental breakdowns. While this whole transition has been smoother than I hoped, even my most manic optimism cannot combat some simple truths I am learning to accept.
There is no such thing as “caught up” on laundry. There is simple “behind,” “farther behind,” and “send in a backhoe-to-uncover-the-hamper behind.” If I happen to find a free second to spare, it’s not really free…because that damn laundry pile sits in the corner and mocks me.
No matter how early I go to bed, I will still feel like crying when the alarm goes off at 5:15. It must be some genetic encoding that science has yet to acknowledge.
My kids will complain about every dinner I make, and they could care less if I rushed home and cranked out a hot meal while still in heels. Apparently, I will only get my cool-mom points later, as they remember these years fondly….but for now, they are simply miffed they didn’t get a Happy Meal.
I owe my husband an apology for laughing when he suggested that the robotic vacuum would be a great gift for me a few years ago…now, I would give anything to have one less chore to do.
Even I didn’t realize how much I did as a SAHM. As little things like oil changes, license renewals and school meetings pop up, I am still baffled that I now have to take great effort to squeeze them into my schedule, instead of just getting them done…sometime this century.
There is a reason they call it “Crackberry.”
I am surprised my husband did not slap me upside me head on those days when I complained about being at home….he clearly has the patience of a saint.
I still have a long way to go before I can say that I’ve got this working mom thing down, but I’ve managed it for almost six months and that ain’t bad.
While these simple truths are just now sinking in, my husband and I are about to start on our next big adventure: moving! We have been painting, scrubbing, hauling and fixing, and we plan to put our house on the market at the end of the month. Stay tuned for what I am sure will be a hilarious tale of house selling/hunting/buying as we finally leave our starter home and head to town.