Can I just tell everyone how lucky I am? I have spent the last two days just feeling so incredibly thankful for all that I am blessed with in my life, and isn't that what Christmas is all about? I know, it is all horribly cliche to be talking about this now, but if Christmas helps put everything in perspective ... well, so what? I will be the cliche.
So, here is my little list of things I am thankful for this beautiful holiday season:
My totally materialistic items:
1. The fantastic new computer I got that I am typing away on right now with its lightening fast connections, beautiful monitor.... oh, I could go on for days!
2. My cool new Sony walkman which I have no clue how to work, but I soon will. I plan to be downloading music and joining the world of current technology just a bit more.
3. The new luggage we got from Ron and Helen. Thank you!
The really important items that cannot be bought:
1. My daughter, Isabelle for:
a. wanting to give Santa a pink gift for Christmas because isn't everyone supposed to get a gift on Christmas, even the big man?
b. noticing every single ornament on the tree and making me feel like all the hours I spent decorating were completely worth it.
c. being the one person who wants to watch the Polar Express as many times as I do.
d. giving me a hug good night for the last month and telling me, "it's almost Christmas time, Mommy."
e. driving back from Grandma's on Christmas and singing "Jingle Bells" to her Daddy and I . "Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, JinGUM all da way... oh DA fun it is to wide a one horse Oooopen Swwweighhhhhh."
f. "Santa brought me dollhouse.... ooh, how bootiful!"
g. asking where the gifts were the day after Christmas, looking at the empty space beneath the tree. Isn't everyday Christmas now?
h. pointing out baby Jesus on all the Christmas cards taped to the fridge and telling me he "pwobably needs a hug."
i. wishing me Merry Christmas two dozen times in the last two days.
2. My hubby for being such a fantastic father and making my heart melt every time I see him with Isabelle, (for buying such an awesome computer. Did I mention I love this?!), for playing personal shopper for his parents this year, and for still loving me despite all my little imperfections and annoying habits.
3. For the amazing family I have. (and I mean everyone. Yes, I know it is sorta Brady Bunch-ish, but it is true. Clay and I have great families.)
4. For snow on Christmas.
5. For Kurt. Let's not go 9 years again between Christmas's, okay?
6. Our good friends, Cindy and Len, for always making us laugh and treating our child like she is theirs.
7. My cats curled up under the tree like two presents.
8. Girls Nights out and cookie exchanges... it was fun ladies!
9. My snow globe collection because it still makes me see the magic of Christmas and makes me feel like a little girl all over again.
10. Mostly, that everyone I care about is happy and healthy and safe because at the end of the day that is all that really matters.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Oh, Christmas Tree!
So, in true Peterson fashion we have continued our tradition of the annual tree falling. What, you ask? Well, during the last two years our Christmas tree has taken a nose dive onto the living room carpet, typically when fully decorated. By some small miracle I have managed to avoid breaking any precious/sentimental/expensive ornaments. This year, determined to avoid another explosion of pine needles, my husband decided to purchase a new stand for the tree. Because we buy rather big trees, we felt our old brass stand just wasn't managing the weight, and it is also a very difficult stand to adjust when it comes to straightening the tree.
We spent a lovely afternoon with Isabelle's grandparents, Helen and Ron, choosing, cutting and bringing home the tree and putting it into the stand where upon we all remarked at the ease in which it went up. That evening I managed to get all the lights on as well as the garland and tree topper and went to bed feeling comfortable with the knowledge that I would just have ornaments to do in the morning. At 4:30 a.m. a crash was heard and while Clay left the bed to investigate I stayed put, fearing the worst, but honestly already thinking at least the ornaments were not on it. He came back cussing, swearing and blaming my fat cat Nib, who he had seen running from the scene of the crime. (Let me just say that Clay has developed a rather intense dislike for Nib, one stemming I believe from Nib's poor hygiene habits, sloth-like appearance, and inability to take a hint and just leave a person alone. Therefore, if Clay could blame Nib for terrorism, high gas prices, and say .... the media's negative impact on children, he would.) Needless, to say I did not believe Nib did anything other than get the crap scared out of him when the tree fell over; he is just too lazy.
The next morning, Clay, amidst a lot of swearing and railing against the world about the unfairness of having trees continually fall over, went out and bought a piece of plywood which he secured to the bottom of the tree stand. Back in the living room once more we surveyed the tree upright in the corner, while Isabelle danced among the pine needles, carpeting my floor. Clay left to clean up the garage and I had just begun to think of cleaning up the mess when the spruce once more started tipping in my direction. Out of a sheer desperation I put out my hands and managed to grab the tree, preventing it from falling on me and crushing me into the floor, only to realize I was not strong enough to push it back upright. Oh, the scene we must have made if someone had looked in the window! Me awkwardly embracing a mangled up Christmas tree, while my 2 year old capers around the room, sing-songing "the tree fall over, the tree fall over!" Yelling for Clay, he comes back into the house to discover me, and instead of rushing to my aid, pauses to swear some more. I tell him to get mad later and help me now and we manage to push the tree back into the corner. At this point Clay lost it. In what can best be called a barely controlled rage, he yanked the tree out of the stand and carried the stand (along with attached plywood) out the door into the garage. I listened as crashing, banging, and general mayhem was heard and decided it would be best to stay right where I was.
Isabelle and I sat among the wreckage that was our tree until Clay came back inside and asked what I wanted to do. In as calm a manner as I could possibly manage (picture a hunter trying to soothe a black bear ready to charge) I told him I would do whatever he wanted, whether that was trying to make this tree work, getting a new tree, getting a fake tree or not having a tree at all, so long as he would calm down. Of course, being a yooper guy there was not going to be a fake tree in this house and ultimately we determined to buy a new one. (By this point we had examined our current tree closely and concluded its trunk was most closely shaped to the letter "S" so that if the bottom of the tree looked straight the top was crooked, and if the top was straight the bottom was crooked.) Clay left to get the new tree, and I spent the next hour untangling lights from the spruce that had now fallen over twice in one day. Before he left I tried my best to remind him, that Isabelle, who ultimately this was all for, didn't care if the tree fell over and was, in fact, having a grand time playing in the pine needles and calling the tree beautiful, despite it being on its side in our living room.
Ultimately, Clay came back with a new tree stand and a new tree. This one was a balsam and I must say it has the straightest trunk you have ever seen. The new stand works perfectly, being a more expensive version of the other one, without any plastic gears to strip when adjusting the tree. We are now well over a week with the tree remaining upright and Clay has finally ceased starting all of our phone conversations with "Is the tree still standing?" (On a side note, the din being heard from the garage was Clay destroying the tree stand attached to the plywood. I will be finding little green plastic pieces in every corner of the garage for the next year, I am sure. I pulled one out of a boot left next to the door just two days ago. And he wonders where his daughter gets her temper!?!) The old Christmas tree is now lighted and put outside where it manages to stay upright due to the healthy amount of snow we have on the ground. It actually looks quite nice, and I tell myself it gives some pleasure to the neighbors, so it is not a complete waste of money. For those of you wondering we are at a grand total of 120 dollars for two trees and two tree stands this year. However, money aside, I laugh to think of telling Isabelle about this when she is older. This year is her third Christmas, and we have yet to have a tree since she has been with us that has not fallen over. But there is always next year!
We spent a lovely afternoon with Isabelle's grandparents, Helen and Ron, choosing, cutting and bringing home the tree and putting it into the stand where upon we all remarked at the ease in which it went up. That evening I managed to get all the lights on as well as the garland and tree topper and went to bed feeling comfortable with the knowledge that I would just have ornaments to do in the morning. At 4:30 a.m. a crash was heard and while Clay left the bed to investigate I stayed put, fearing the worst, but honestly already thinking at least the ornaments were not on it. He came back cussing, swearing and blaming my fat cat Nib, who he had seen running from the scene of the crime. (Let me just say that Clay has developed a rather intense dislike for Nib, one stemming I believe from Nib's poor hygiene habits, sloth-like appearance, and inability to take a hint and just leave a person alone. Therefore, if Clay could blame Nib for terrorism, high gas prices, and say .... the media's negative impact on children, he would.) Needless, to say I did not believe Nib did anything other than get the crap scared out of him when the tree fell over; he is just too lazy.
The next morning, Clay, amidst a lot of swearing and railing against the world about the unfairness of having trees continually fall over, went out and bought a piece of plywood which he secured to the bottom of the tree stand. Back in the living room once more we surveyed the tree upright in the corner, while Isabelle danced among the pine needles, carpeting my floor. Clay left to clean up the garage and I had just begun to think of cleaning up the mess when the spruce once more started tipping in my direction. Out of a sheer desperation I put out my hands and managed to grab the tree, preventing it from falling on me and crushing me into the floor, only to realize I was not strong enough to push it back upright. Oh, the scene we must have made if someone had looked in the window! Me awkwardly embracing a mangled up Christmas tree, while my 2 year old capers around the room, sing-songing "the tree fall over, the tree fall over!" Yelling for Clay, he comes back into the house to discover me, and instead of rushing to my aid, pauses to swear some more. I tell him to get mad later and help me now and we manage to push the tree back into the corner. At this point Clay lost it. In what can best be called a barely controlled rage, he yanked the tree out of the stand and carried the stand (along with attached plywood) out the door into the garage. I listened as crashing, banging, and general mayhem was heard and decided it would be best to stay right where I was.
Isabelle and I sat among the wreckage that was our tree until Clay came back inside and asked what I wanted to do. In as calm a manner as I could possibly manage (picture a hunter trying to soothe a black bear ready to charge) I told him I would do whatever he wanted, whether that was trying to make this tree work, getting a new tree, getting a fake tree or not having a tree at all, so long as he would calm down. Of course, being a yooper guy there was not going to be a fake tree in this house and ultimately we determined to buy a new one. (By this point we had examined our current tree closely and concluded its trunk was most closely shaped to the letter "S" so that if the bottom of the tree looked straight the top was crooked, and if the top was straight the bottom was crooked.) Clay left to get the new tree, and I spent the next hour untangling lights from the spruce that had now fallen over twice in one day. Before he left I tried my best to remind him, that Isabelle, who ultimately this was all for, didn't care if the tree fell over and was, in fact, having a grand time playing in the pine needles and calling the tree beautiful, despite it being on its side in our living room.
Ultimately, Clay came back with a new tree stand and a new tree. This one was a balsam and I must say it has the straightest trunk you have ever seen. The new stand works perfectly, being a more expensive version of the other one, without any plastic gears to strip when adjusting the tree. We are now well over a week with the tree remaining upright and Clay has finally ceased starting all of our phone conversations with "Is the tree still standing?" (On a side note, the din being heard from the garage was Clay destroying the tree stand attached to the plywood. I will be finding little green plastic pieces in every corner of the garage for the next year, I am sure. I pulled one out of a boot left next to the door just two days ago. And he wonders where his daughter gets her temper!?!) The old Christmas tree is now lighted and put outside where it manages to stay upright due to the healthy amount of snow we have on the ground. It actually looks quite nice, and I tell myself it gives some pleasure to the neighbors, so it is not a complete waste of money. For those of you wondering we are at a grand total of 120 dollars for two trees and two tree stands this year. However, money aside, I laugh to think of telling Isabelle about this when she is older. This year is her third Christmas, and we have yet to have a tree since she has been with us that has not fallen over. But there is always next year!
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Mommy Guilt
Ya, know all you hear about is working moms and the guilt they feel because they are off working and are away from their children all day. There are entire talk show programs devoted to helping mothers alleviate this guilt, complete with pointers on how to spend quality time. I got news for ya: there is such a thing as "stay-at-home-mom guilt" too.
In fact, it rears its ugly head for me every single year at about this time. Why you ask? Well, it all comes down to purchasing Christmas presents for my husband. You see I come up with ideas, comb through catalogs, scour the stores and think endlessly on what he wants/needs. Then, when I finally make my decisions I proceed to buy these gifts....... with money he has earned from HIS job. Now, call me crazy, but doesn't this defeat the purpose of a gift? I mean really he is buying himself a gift. Now I know (those of you who would defend me) I, too, have a job even if it is one that does not receive financial compensation, and there is that whole song and dance that his money is also my money and yada, yada, yada, but it just FEELS so wrong. I have thought of making him gifts instead, but lets face it; they just are not as nice. Knitted cap (if I could knit) or new driver for his golf bag? Hmmm, let me think, which would he like more? So, every year at this time I feel even more guilty for not working outside the home. As if I do not get enough guilt about that from outside sources. I mean society these days is all about how busy you are, how many activities, appointments, and plans you have scheduled, and some people make you feel like a complete loser because you are choosing to stay home and "only" raise your daughter. You know who you are, people.
Oh, and then there is the other guilt. You know what I am speaking of other S.A.H mommies. It appears whenever you decide to actually ask for a few minutes/hours of time for yourself to say go shopping with a friend or perhaps out to lunch. For me, I ask my husband if he can watch Isabelle for a while (and to his credit he is always willing to, although I tend to obviously work around his schedule so I know there are no conflicts). As soon as I drive off I am feeling somehow like I am shirking my duties, or if I am gone for more than a couple hours that I am taking too long. I even miss my daughter! Not that I think that is a bad thing, but it is a little nuts isn't it? I am so used to having this little shadow 24/7 that even when I really need the time away (for my own mental health and sanity) I am anxious to get back to her and feeling, yes, guilty, for being away. This is the guilt of not measuring up to perfect mommy standards. See, the perfect mommy never needs a break or her own timeout (because if she doesn't take it she might prove to be an example of why some animals eat their young). The perfect mommy never sits her kid in front of the tv to watch an episode of Diego, so she can maybe read the mail or start dinner. The perfect mommy always makes healthy meals, never loses her temper, always knows just the right way to stop a tantrum, and makes every moment a teaching moment. I hate the perfect mommy, and while I hope she is a fictious creature in my mind, she still remains the unrealistic standard by which I continually find myself lacking. Do all mothers do this or am I just neurotic?
In fact, it rears its ugly head for me every single year at about this time. Why you ask? Well, it all comes down to purchasing Christmas presents for my husband. You see I come up with ideas, comb through catalogs, scour the stores and think endlessly on what he wants/needs. Then, when I finally make my decisions I proceed to buy these gifts....... with money he has earned from HIS job. Now, call me crazy, but doesn't this defeat the purpose of a gift? I mean really he is buying himself a gift. Now I know (those of you who would defend me) I, too, have a job even if it is one that does not receive financial compensation, and there is that whole song and dance that his money is also my money and yada, yada, yada, but it just FEELS so wrong. I have thought of making him gifts instead, but lets face it; they just are not as nice. Knitted cap (if I could knit) or new driver for his golf bag? Hmmm, let me think, which would he like more? So, every year at this time I feel even more guilty for not working outside the home. As if I do not get enough guilt about that from outside sources. I mean society these days is all about how busy you are, how many activities, appointments, and plans you have scheduled, and some people make you feel like a complete loser because you are choosing to stay home and "only" raise your daughter. You know who you are, people.
Oh, and then there is the other guilt. You know what I am speaking of other S.A.H mommies. It appears whenever you decide to actually ask for a few minutes/hours of time for yourself to say go shopping with a friend or perhaps out to lunch. For me, I ask my husband if he can watch Isabelle for a while (and to his credit he is always willing to, although I tend to obviously work around his schedule so I know there are no conflicts). As soon as I drive off I am feeling somehow like I am shirking my duties, or if I am gone for more than a couple hours that I am taking too long. I even miss my daughter! Not that I think that is a bad thing, but it is a little nuts isn't it? I am so used to having this little shadow 24/7 that even when I really need the time away (for my own mental health and sanity) I am anxious to get back to her and feeling, yes, guilty, for being away. This is the guilt of not measuring up to perfect mommy standards. See, the perfect mommy never needs a break or her own timeout (because if she doesn't take it she might prove to be an example of why some animals eat their young). The perfect mommy never sits her kid in front of the tv to watch an episode of Diego, so she can maybe read the mail or start dinner. The perfect mommy always makes healthy meals, never loses her temper, always knows just the right way to stop a tantrum, and makes every moment a teaching moment. I hate the perfect mommy, and while I hope she is a fictious creature in my mind, she still remains the unrealistic standard by which I continually find myself lacking. Do all mothers do this or am I just neurotic?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Computer Woes!
I am having computer issues today. Of course, this computer is like a dinosaur, so it is not exactly a surprise. Combine that with the fact that I have been asking for a new one for at least three years and you see my frustration. My husband, of course, has his work computer, so has little need or desire to spend more time on one when at home. Consequently, he does not see a new computer as much of a priority. I, on the other hand, whose primary conversation companion happens to be a two year old, see the computer as my link to the outside, adult world. I chat with the other mother's from Isabelle's play group; keep in touch with my friends across the country, and of course, shop. Needless to say at this time of year it might as well be attached to me physically. So, take note: All I want for Christmas is a new computer!
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Mine!
About two weeks ago, Isabelle began what I call the "Mine" phase of her toddler years. I imagine it is what most people refer to as the terrible twos. It goes something like this:
Me: "Belle? Do you want me to help you?" (watching her shake her doll furiously, trying to get the plastic brush out of it's tangled hair)
Isabelle: "NO!!!!!! It is MINE!"
Me: "Yes, I know the doll is yours, but can I just help you get the brush out?"
Isabelle: "NOooooooooo!!!!! MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (getting red in the face and starting to hyperventilate, still flinging doll around and tugging on hair)
Me: "Isabelle, calm down. Will you let Mommy show you how to get the brush untangled, please?" (Me reaching for the doll while trying to maintain my cool)
Isabelle: "NO, NO, NO!!!!! (collapsing on the floor into a full fledged kicking and screaming tantrum)
Me: "Fine then, you let me know when you are done throwing a fit and want some help." (me walking from room, which further escalates Isabelle into new throws of passion)
Now before you believe my child to be one of those maniac, zero-disciplined children that run their parents into the ground let me reassure you, she is not. Frankly, by most people's standards I am fairly old school and am more firm with my child then many other mothers I know. I believe in a schedule, regular bed times, please and thank you, balanced meals, and a house that is first and foremost run by the parents. Above all whining will not be tolerated. However, many times lately it just has to be ignored. Belle has a stubborn, bull-headed side (I mostly blame her father for that) and never does things the easy way. And as any parent will tell you, it is real easy to stand on the side lines and watch a tantrum happening and pass judgement, but once that child is your kid, the game changes and you have a new appreciation and understanding. I have come to realize that I can put her in time out and try and show her other ways to manage her anger, and can explain repeatedly that not everything is hers, and that screaming "MINE" at the top of her lungs might put some people off, but she also just has to out grow it. So, I guess it is just the terrible twos.
In the mean time I should invest in some ear plugs or maybe a sensory deprivation chamber!
Me: "Belle? Do you want me to help you?" (watching her shake her doll furiously, trying to get the plastic brush out of it's tangled hair)
Isabelle: "NO!!!!!! It is MINE!"
Me: "Yes, I know the doll is yours, but can I just help you get the brush out?"
Isabelle: "NOooooooooo!!!!! MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (getting red in the face and starting to hyperventilate, still flinging doll around and tugging on hair)
Me: "Isabelle, calm down. Will you let Mommy show you how to get the brush untangled, please?" (Me reaching for the doll while trying to maintain my cool)
Isabelle: "NO, NO, NO!!!!! (collapsing on the floor into a full fledged kicking and screaming tantrum)
Me: "Fine then, you let me know when you are done throwing a fit and want some help." (me walking from room, which further escalates Isabelle into new throws of passion)
Now before you believe my child to be one of those maniac, zero-disciplined children that run their parents into the ground let me reassure you, she is not. Frankly, by most people's standards I am fairly old school and am more firm with my child then many other mothers I know. I believe in a schedule, regular bed times, please and thank you, balanced meals, and a house that is first and foremost run by the parents. Above all whining will not be tolerated. However, many times lately it just has to be ignored. Belle has a stubborn, bull-headed side (I mostly blame her father for that) and never does things the easy way. And as any parent will tell you, it is real easy to stand on the side lines and watch a tantrum happening and pass judgement, but once that child is your kid, the game changes and you have a new appreciation and understanding. I have come to realize that I can put her in time out and try and show her other ways to manage her anger, and can explain repeatedly that not everything is hers, and that screaming "MINE" at the top of her lungs might put some people off, but she also just has to out grow it. So, I guess it is just the terrible twos.
In the mean time I should invest in some ear plugs or maybe a sensory deprivation chamber!
Monday, November 5, 2007
Alternate universes and your DNA
In an alternate universe I am some music groupie, chasing my favorite rock band across the country from concert to concert. I drive a jeep wrangler with my dog riding shotgun and spend my evenings dancing to a band like Three Doors Down or Five for Fighting. Of course, money is no worry as I either have some huge inheritance or get odd jobs along the way to pay for gas and food. You know, like all the people on tv shows, who live outrageously while never working a day in their lives. Yup, that is me.... maybe I even have a tattoo.
In this universe though I am a stay at home mom, own two cats, live in a small town in a nice neighborhood, and I am sure (by most people's standards) live a quiet, uneventful life. My daughter, Isabelle, is two years old and pretty much runs my day to day. And of course, no tattoos.... my husband would kill me! (and I cannot imagine ever liking something enough to permanently affix it to my body anyways).
Yeah, the truth of the matter is that you cannot escape your DNA. While I love my little alternate universe and periodically fantasize about being someone compeletely different (mind you that rocker version of me does actually exist in a small form inside my conservative self), I am truly who I am meant to be. When I first started college, I had this idea that I was going to shake things up a bit and be more social, more outgoing and not focus so much on grades (yes, I was the classic bookish, slightly nerdish one in high school). Well, for the first semester I met lots of people and had fun and did not study as much as I probably could have. Then the grades came in, and I discovered that I had earned all B's and one A. I remember being pissed off. Granted most of the people I was hanging with thought that was great and would have killed for those grades. Especially since most of them flunked out and did not return for my sophomore year. Yet, I was ticked because I knew those grades were not reflective of my intelligence. I couldn't be relaxed about school because that just wasn't me. Just like I never drank a drop of alcohol until I was 21 years old (yes, it is true and now you believe me to be a total Polly Anna) and I wouldn't date someone just so I wasn't dateless. What can I say? It is in your DNA; at your core you are who you are, and while you might fight it and tweek it here and there, ultimately you will always return to your basic values, beliefs and predispostions.
So, I embrace my conservative, obsessive-compulsive, slightly boring, bookish, self and find plenty to laugh and rejoice about in my day to day. And why not write it down for my own amusement... with luck you will find it amusing too.
In this universe though I am a stay at home mom, own two cats, live in a small town in a nice neighborhood, and I am sure (by most people's standards) live a quiet, uneventful life. My daughter, Isabelle, is two years old and pretty much runs my day to day. And of course, no tattoos.... my husband would kill me! (and I cannot imagine ever liking something enough to permanently affix it to my body anyways).
Yeah, the truth of the matter is that you cannot escape your DNA. While I love my little alternate universe and periodically fantasize about being someone compeletely different (mind you that rocker version of me does actually exist in a small form inside my conservative self), I am truly who I am meant to be. When I first started college, I had this idea that I was going to shake things up a bit and be more social, more outgoing and not focus so much on grades (yes, I was the classic bookish, slightly nerdish one in high school). Well, for the first semester I met lots of people and had fun and did not study as much as I probably could have. Then the grades came in, and I discovered that I had earned all B's and one A. I remember being pissed off. Granted most of the people I was hanging with thought that was great and would have killed for those grades. Especially since most of them flunked out and did not return for my sophomore year. Yet, I was ticked because I knew those grades were not reflective of my intelligence. I couldn't be relaxed about school because that just wasn't me. Just like I never drank a drop of alcohol until I was 21 years old (yes, it is true and now you believe me to be a total Polly Anna) and I wouldn't date someone just so I wasn't dateless. What can I say? It is in your DNA; at your core you are who you are, and while you might fight it and tweek it here and there, ultimately you will always return to your basic values, beliefs and predispostions.
So, I embrace my conservative, obsessive-compulsive, slightly boring, bookish, self and find plenty to laugh and rejoice about in my day to day. And why not write it down for my own amusement... with luck you will find it amusing too.
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