First, a confession: I like Taylor Swift songs. Not all of them, but a handful of them, which I gleefully crank up in my car as I did on my way into work Tuesday.
Given that the kid is barely old enough to order a cocktail, I expect wisdom from her songs. I just like the catchy tunes and the fact that she actually plays and writes her own music. So I was surprised to find myself getting philosophical (at 8:30 in the morning, no less) in response to this five-word phrase from the song Ours: life makes love look hard.
In my experience, love is hard. Loving someone else (a spouse, a child, a sibling) means you love yourself a little less, and human beings aren't hardwired to do that. Whether you believe it's a product of evolution or the Biblical fall from grace, people have an innate tendency to look out for No. 1.
The Wikipedia definition of love includes words like kindness, compassion, and "the unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another." Love is, by nature, unselfish, and people are, by nature, selfish.
Think I'm a pessimist? Think of all the times you've been angry at your spouse or significant other. Why were you upset? If you dig deep enough, I'd be willing to wager that it stemmed from the fact that your needs weren't met. You didn't get "your way."
Even loving your kids can be a challenge of epic proportions. No one on the planet is needier and greedier than young children. According to Parent Further, most kids are still self-centered at the age of nine. I would argue that most of us never completely outgrow that tendency toward self-absorption, we simply learn to keep it hidden from the outside world.
Yet it always rears its head in some fashion.
For instance, my husband and I struggle to accept the loss of freedom that comes with being a parent. We envy those people who can do what they want to do when they want to do it. We don't get to do what we want to do. No fair! So we lose our tempers (with the kids and each other), and then we realize that we're modeling the very behaviors that we're trying to teach out of our kids.
Love is not simply a feeling. It is a choice, a daily decision to prioritize the needs and well-being of another person ahead of your own.
The good news is, when you make the choice to love other people they're probably going to love you back (even when you're cranky and critical.) By virtue of the fact that we're all innately self-centered, we all have moments when we're a little bit difficult to love, and circumstances of life - slim budgets, sleep deprivation, stress at work - don't make it any easier.
So for the record, Ms. Swift, I say love is hard. But worth every difficult second. I hope my loved ones would agree.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Help Wanted
Salary.com has a fun Mom Wizard tool that helps moms - both stay-at-home and "working" - calculate their hypothetical average annual mom salary based on how many hours each week they devote to duties associated with traditional roles from janitor to psychologist. Based on what 6,000-plus stay-at-home moms reported in a 2012 survey, they're worth an average of $112,962 per year and earn most of that by clocking some serious overtime. Since I'm a "working" mom, my fictitious annual paycheck is slightly higher at $121,000 and change.
While you don't apply and interview to be a mom (consider the impact on population if that was, in fact, the process), I would envision the posting looking something like the following:
Position Title: R.E.M (Results Everywhere Mom)
Description: The R.E.M. serves as Subject Matter Expert on all topics and utility player for home and away teams.
Responsibilities: Space restrictions prevent posting here. See Addendum for details.
Required Skills: Must be able to multitask, think on your feet, sympathize (with children who've scraped their knees, husbands who've 'had a rough day', etc.) and operate on fewer than five hours of sleep. Mastery of these skills qualifies applicants to perform all tasks associated with said position as well as Executive Leader of Any Country in the World. Responsibilities may differ. See specific Executive Leader postings for details and application requirements.
Preferred Characteristics:
While you don't apply and interview to be a mom (consider the impact on population if that was, in fact, the process), I would envision the posting looking something like the following:
Position Title: R.E.M (Results Everywhere Mom)
Description: The R.E.M. serves as Subject Matter Expert on all topics and utility player for home and away teams.
Responsibilities: Space restrictions prevent posting here. See Addendum for details.
Required Skills: Must be able to multitask, think on your feet, sympathize (with children who've scraped their knees, husbands who've 'had a rough day', etc.) and operate on fewer than five hours of sleep. Mastery of these skills qualifies applicants to perform all tasks associated with said position as well as Executive Leader of Any Country in the World. Responsibilities may differ. See specific Executive Leader postings for details and application requirements.
Preferred Characteristics:
- Able to execute all tasks (see Addendum) with one hand. In addition to responsibilities associated with the role, this preference applies to conducting personal activities, including hygiene and electronic communication.
- Agreeable to time and temperature constrictions on mealtimes. Specifically, must be able to consume meals while standing, walking, driving or breastfeeding anywhere from 30 seconds to 30 minutes after the food has been served.
- Adept at teaching complex concepts (e.g. time, space, appropriateness, etc.) and answering questions from the routine (are we almost there?) to the uncomfortable (how did that baby get in your belly, and how is it going to get out?)
- Possessed of a superhuman immune system, ensuring that all job responsibilities, as outlined in Addendum, are executed 24 hours per day, seven days per week through viral, bacterial and previously unidentified family epidemics.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Energy monsters
Just when I think I've made peace with the long list of areas in which I'm under-performing (have you seen my laundry room? Read my post about how my kids watch TV before bed?), I am reminded, this time by my local utilities company, that the list is, apparently, infinite and now includes "responsible energy consumption."
That's right. We're energy hogs, and as the self-appointed lights police of our household I took the news very personally.
According to our Smart Energy Profile, Louisville Gas & Electric Co.'s (LG&E's) latest initiative to shame, er, educate people on the topic of energy stewardship, we used 42% more energy than similar homes in the last two months. Our ranking last month? 89 out of 100.
Had it not looked like our monthly bill, I probably wouldn't have opened the envelope, as I have reached my saturation point with their pleas for us to enroll in demand conservation programs (relinquish control of my thermostat to the powers that be at LG&E? I don't think so.) And were I not hyper-competitive, I probably wouldn't be at all bothered by these statistics. But 89 out of 100? Seriously? We're doing that badly?
So I read the profile, which included a personalized action plan for beating some of our neighbors, I mean, operating a more energy efficient household. Our tips included closing the shades in the summer (wouldn't this necessitate turning on more lights? Or maybe we should invest in head lamps?) and testing and sealing any leaky ducts (our house is over 80 years old. Everything leaks! Ducts are probably the least of our concerns.)
Indignation quickly replaced my embarrassment over our abysmal ranking. While certainly a nice reminder that little changes can make a big difference, the profile didn't reflect the converse of that theory: little people can also have a gigantic impact on energy consumption.
Though our home was originally designed to accommodate a family of four, by today's standards we're packed in like sardines. I would be willing to bet that we are one of few five-person families living in a same-size house. So there, LG&E!
To compound the situation, our kids are always here. Daycare is in our living room, which is wonderful in so many ways but costly in terms of energy consumption. Unless we ask our parents to strap on one of those head lamps and bundle up in the winter, I'm afraid we'll have to keep hogging it up until our youngest enters kindergarten. In the fall of 2016.
Feeling compelled to justify our wastefulness, I went to LG&E's Web site to further customize our home profile with the number of adult and child occupants. While there, I also sifted through the company's full suite of recommendations for reducing energy use.
Wash clothes in cold water. (Mostly) already doing this, though primarily to preserve clothing quality rather than conserve energy, but since the site didn't require me to state my motive it counts.
Unplug appliances and electronics when not in use. No can do. Besides the fact that unplugging our TV and Dish receiver would reset the entire system each time, one of my OCD hang-ups is when the clock on a small appliance is flashing the incorrect time. Constantly resetting clocks on everything from coffee makers to iPod docking stations would drive me mad. It's not worth the $16 we'd save each year.
Host "fancy dinner" nights. Let your kids trick out the table with linen cloths, bedazzled centerpieces and candles, then turn out the lights. Okay, this wasn't an official recommendation, but we did it last night at the kids' request. Saving money while setting the stage for a semi-peaceful dinner scenario? Now that's what I call a smart tip.
That's right. We're energy hogs, and as the self-appointed lights police of our household I took the news very personally.
According to our Smart Energy Profile, Louisville Gas & Electric Co.'s (LG&E's) latest initiative to shame, er, educate people on the topic of energy stewardship, we used 42% more energy than similar homes in the last two months. Our ranking last month? 89 out of 100.
Had it not looked like our monthly bill, I probably wouldn't have opened the envelope, as I have reached my saturation point with their pleas for us to enroll in demand conservation programs (relinquish control of my thermostat to the powers that be at LG&E? I don't think so.) And were I not hyper-competitive, I probably wouldn't be at all bothered by these statistics. But 89 out of 100? Seriously? We're doing that badly?
So I read the profile, which included a personalized action plan for beating some of our neighbors, I mean, operating a more energy efficient household. Our tips included closing the shades in the summer (wouldn't this necessitate turning on more lights? Or maybe we should invest in head lamps?) and testing and sealing any leaky ducts (our house is over 80 years old. Everything leaks! Ducts are probably the least of our concerns.)
Indignation quickly replaced my embarrassment over our abysmal ranking. While certainly a nice reminder that little changes can make a big difference, the profile didn't reflect the converse of that theory: little people can also have a gigantic impact on energy consumption.
Though our home was originally designed to accommodate a family of four, by today's standards we're packed in like sardines. I would be willing to bet that we are one of few five-person families living in a same-size house. So there, LG&E!
To compound the situation, our kids are always here. Daycare is in our living room, which is wonderful in so many ways but costly in terms of energy consumption. Unless we ask our parents to strap on one of those head lamps and bundle up in the winter, I'm afraid we'll have to keep hogging it up until our youngest enters kindergarten. In the fall of 2016.
Feeling compelled to justify our wastefulness, I went to LG&E's Web site to further customize our home profile with the number of adult and child occupants. While there, I also sifted through the company's full suite of recommendations for reducing energy use.
Wash clothes in cold water. (Mostly) already doing this, though primarily to preserve clothing quality rather than conserve energy, but since the site didn't require me to state my motive it counts.
Unplug appliances and electronics when not in use. No can do. Besides the fact that unplugging our TV and Dish receiver would reset the entire system each time, one of my OCD hang-ups is when the clock on a small appliance is flashing the incorrect time. Constantly resetting clocks on everything from coffee makers to iPod docking stations would drive me mad. It's not worth the $16 we'd save each year.
Host "fancy dinner" nights. Let your kids trick out the table with linen cloths, bedazzled centerpieces and candles, then turn out the lights. Okay, this wasn't an official recommendation, but we did it last night at the kids' request. Saving money while setting the stage for a semi-peaceful dinner scenario? Now that's what I call a smart tip.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Here comes the space ranger bride
To my future daughter-in-law (whoever you may be),
Eschewing the standard band or DJ entertainment options, he's decided it would be more interesting to feature a giant waterslide and inflatable bounce house. Okay, forget the flats. Buy a nice pair of flip-flops.
Again bucking tradition, he's decided the wedding party will be costumed in Toy Story apparel and has already assigned everyone in our family characters. His older sister will be outfitted as Jesse the Cowgirl, your future father-in-law as Rex the dinosaur, and yours truly will appear as Evil Dr. Porkchop. S will, of course, wear his Buzz Lightyear costume, which may be a bit short in the inseam unless you take the plunge within the next six months.
When I asked him what his wife would be wearing, he seemed puzzled as he replied, "My wife?" Don't worry. His sister and I explained that you come with the cake, and once we got that cleared up he agreed to let you wear a white dress. I simply advise you look for one that works with a space ranger helmet since you will be Mrs. Buzz Lightyear.
I'm sure it will be a lovely affair and hope you're just as eager to join our family as we are to have you in it. I'll save my letter on the topics of his enthusiasm for picking up toys and dirty clothes and, um, selective eating habits, for after the nuptials.
I'm writing today to let you know that you have snagged the rare breed of fiancée who has already taken the lead on wedding planning. For years, the debate has raged as to whether it's a good thing for men to have an opinion about the wedding details. While one side bemoans the fact that their soon-to-bes don't seem to care at all about the wedding (um, they don't, but that doesn't mean they don't want to marry you. They simply don't care about aisle swags and party favors.), the other wonders why you'd want their input. What if that opinion you say you want differs from your own? Then you have to figure out how to tell him no without coming across as a battle ax before you even say "I do."
At any rate, your beloved falls into the camp of having an opinion, and it surfaced after his first bite of "deee-licious" wedding cake this past Saturday, when he seemingly decided that the cake alone would be worth getting married for. Yours, by the way, will feature Buzz Lightyear.
Your parents will be thrilled that they're inheriting a thrifty son-in-law who will save them hundreds of dollars on the wedding venue by hosting the affair in his Grammy and Papaw's backyard. You may want to consider flats so you don't sink into the grass.
Again bucking tradition, he's decided the wedding party will be costumed in Toy Story apparel and has already assigned everyone in our family characters. His older sister will be outfitted as Jesse the Cowgirl, your future father-in-law as Rex the dinosaur, and yours truly will appear as Evil Dr. Porkchop. S will, of course, wear his Buzz Lightyear costume, which may be a bit short in the inseam unless you take the plunge within the next six months.
When I asked him what his wife would be wearing, he seemed puzzled as he replied, "My wife?" Don't worry. His sister and I explained that you come with the cake, and once we got that cleared up he agreed to let you wear a white dress. I simply advise you look for one that works with a space ranger helmet since you will be Mrs. Buzz Lightyear.
I'm sure it will be a lovely affair and hope you're just as eager to join our family as we are to have you in it. I'll save my letter on the topics of his enthusiasm for picking up toys and dirty clothes and, um, selective eating habits, for after the nuptials.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Brother B and the lady who lunches
According to our fridge, it's officially commencement season. Our eldest even got in on the action earlier this month and is now the proud owner of a preschool diploma. Open house invitation to follow.
Along with said diploma, her bright red two-pocket folder contained a progress report (seemingly the only skill she needs to master to officially be "kindergarten ready" is tying her shoes. Do kids really still wear shoes with laces?), a few worksheets her teacher must have thought we'd want for posterity and a long list of questions that you ask young kids for the sole purpose of prompting amusing responses.
For instance, C thinks a Happy Meal costs $25. She knows without question that I am 35 and my husband is 36, which is fortunate because she keeps me straight when I round up (most days I feel 135, so what's another few months?) or forget how old I am.
She wants to be a teacher and "maybe a mom" when she grows up, and it wouldn't surprise me if that's exactly how things played out. She definitely enjoys being in charge and seemingly loves the academic process.
If she had 100 legs she would walk with them (what else are you supposed to do with legs? Shave them?), and she claimed that she would "like it" if she had 100 sisters. I guess she's envisioning our house as a salon and spa, as she asked me last night when her baby sister would be old enough for them to give each other makeovers.
Except for the miscalculation on the Happy Meal, there was nothing exceedingly funny about any of C's responses. Until I got to page four and learned that my daughter fancies my husband a saint and me a socialite. Specifically:
"My dad likes to . . . help people."
"My mom likes to . . . go to dinner with her friends."
What?!? My jaw literally dropped when I read those phrases. Now, there's nothing inherently untrue about either statement. My husband, a teacher, coach and all around good guy, does like to help people (ahem, so do I.) And I do enjoy catching up with friends over dinner (double ahem, he also enjoys hanging out with grown-ups every now and then.) However, those words in isolation on the funny questions paper imply that he is selfless and I am selfish.
I tried not to read more into her response than was there. Just a few weeks before the preschool graduation packet was compiled, I went to Boulder for a few days with my best college girlfriends, two of whom I also meet for dinner, oh, once a quarter if we're lucky. The weekend trips occur every 730 days.
C was miffed that she didn't get to join me on my girls' trip, especially since she thought that, as a girl, she qualified for the outing. Perhaps reiterating how important it is for grown-ups to have play dates stuck with her and manifested itself on the funny questions paper.
Or maybe I'm doing something wrong. Maybe I'm not showing the kids how much I enjoy playing Octonauts and chasing them around the yard while toting their 17-pound sister in my arms. Perhaps I should temper my enthusiasm when I'm heading out for an adults-only evening (perhaps if they happened more frequently I wouldn't be so daggone ecstatic when they did) and pour more into the kids.
Nah. I just need to save that paper and bring it out of the vault when her daughter accuses her of being a lady who lunches.
Along with said diploma, her bright red two-pocket folder contained a progress report (seemingly the only skill she needs to master to officially be "kindergarten ready" is tying her shoes. Do kids really still wear shoes with laces?), a few worksheets her teacher must have thought we'd want for posterity and a long list of questions that you ask young kids for the sole purpose of prompting amusing responses.
For instance, C thinks a Happy Meal costs $25. She knows without question that I am 35 and my husband is 36, which is fortunate because she keeps me straight when I round up (most days I feel 135, so what's another few months?) or forget how old I am.
She wants to be a teacher and "maybe a mom" when she grows up, and it wouldn't surprise me if that's exactly how things played out. She definitely enjoys being in charge and seemingly loves the academic process.
If she had 100 legs she would walk with them (what else are you supposed to do with legs? Shave them?), and she claimed that she would "like it" if she had 100 sisters. I guess she's envisioning our house as a salon and spa, as she asked me last night when her baby sister would be old enough for them to give each other makeovers.
Except for the miscalculation on the Happy Meal, there was nothing exceedingly funny about any of C's responses. Until I got to page four and learned that my daughter fancies my husband a saint and me a socialite. Specifically:
"My dad likes to . . . help people."
"My mom likes to . . . go to dinner with her friends."
What?!? My jaw literally dropped when I read those phrases. Now, there's nothing inherently untrue about either statement. My husband, a teacher, coach and all around good guy, does like to help people (ahem, so do I.) And I do enjoy catching up with friends over dinner (double ahem, he also enjoys hanging out with grown-ups every now and then.) However, those words in isolation on the funny questions paper imply that he is selfless and I am selfish.
I tried not to read more into her response than was there. Just a few weeks before the preschool graduation packet was compiled, I went to Boulder for a few days with my best college girlfriends, two of whom I also meet for dinner, oh, once a quarter if we're lucky. The weekend trips occur every 730 days.
C was miffed that she didn't get to join me on my girls' trip, especially since she thought that, as a girl, she qualified for the outing. Perhaps reiterating how important it is for grown-ups to have play dates stuck with her and manifested itself on the funny questions paper.
Or maybe I'm doing something wrong. Maybe I'm not showing the kids how much I enjoy playing Octonauts and chasing them around the yard while toting their 17-pound sister in my arms. Perhaps I should temper my enthusiasm when I'm heading out for an adults-only evening (perhaps if they happened more frequently I wouldn't be so daggone ecstatic when they did) and pour more into the kids.
Nah. I just need to save that paper and bring it out of the vault when her daughter accuses her of being a lady who lunches.
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