Difficult decisions

Again.

Again I am faced with a decision I do not want to make.

Going back to work.

Again.

I've done this twice since I left the full-time workforce in 2004. I was home with Little Lady and, three years later, Tator too, until we returned to Vermont in 2007. At that time, Hubby was making minimum wage while finishing his graduate internship and it was obvious I needed to do my part. As we were living with my parents for a brief interlude I was able to work three days a week with no need of daycare. I was incredibly lucky to find a job in the same facility as Hubby and which ran like a laid-back family. But it was a 40-minute commute up a treacherous mountain road, and with winter looming, Hubby's new "real" job in the offering, and my writing calling, I decided to leave at the same time as Hubby's internship ended.

As Hubby's clientele was growing he was making enough for us to live on but little enough to qualify us for the state insurance plan. But when he reached his full client-load we were over income level and suddenly we had no insurance for us or the children. Having never in my life gone without insurance, and definitely not feeling comfortable leaving the kids uncovered, I began the job search again. My plan was to either find a part-time job that offered insurance or paid me enough for us to buy private insurance. Well, I found a job, part-time, and exactly the kind of thing I wanted to be doing (newsletters, grants, PR), and with access to a group insurance plan. One problem: during the discussion with my new employer she informed me the monthly plan would be $500/month, but it turned to be over $900!

For a few months I worked extra hours in order to pay our insurance premium (and the extra daycare) while facing the insane paradox of not actually being able to afford to use our plan because every trip to the doctor was $30 and many things weren't even covered (Tator's EEG, for example, which we are still paying off nine months later). Finally, after bout after bout of Kindergarten/daycare contracted illnesses and no paid sick days, plus a very high winter oil bill, we just could no longer pull the premium amount together. We canceled the policy and sought out a high-deductible ($5,000) private plan. That was over $500/month and everything came out of pocket, so once again we were had to make the decision with each illness/injury if it was really that bad.

By this time school vacation was around the corner and I didn't know what I was going to do with Little Lady if I was still working. Hubby was bringing home a good wage at this point and we made the decision that I should leave my job - which I had only gotten for the now useless insurance anyway - and stay home with the kids. Also, I was recently certified as a journal workshop instructor and I was anxious to begin my new career.

Then Hubby's paycheck began to shrink. And then bottom out. We had no choice but to cancel our new insurance policy. We were once again eligible for state insurance - financially - BUT, and here's the baseball bat to the head: Because we purchased private insurance we are not eligible to receive help for ONE YEAR.

Once again we are insurance-less and rapidly becoming penniless.

I have begun to look for jobs, but here is the conditions I (and a future employer) have to consider:
1. I can't get there until 9 (Little Lady gets on the bus at 8:40)
2. I have to skip out at 11:30 every Monday and Wednesday to transfer Tator from pre-school to daycare.
3. I have to leave at 3:30 to get the kids from their various school/daycare establishments
4. I will be called away from work to collect a sick child from school every couple of months
5. I will have to stay home with a sick child (for up to four days) at least once a month
6. I myself will have to call in sick on the fifth day because I have contracted the snotties from my children
7. I have another life as a mother, wife, writer, and teacher so I won't be emotionally invested in your company (unless it's a writing job) - I have dreams and passions which WILL be pursued!
8. I will leave as soon as things get on track again so I can be those above-mentioned things (unless it's a writing job)

Needless to say, it is with little joy or confidence I look at the classified job listings. I am wracking my brain trying to think how I can help our little family. I feel so helpless! I have a new online writing gig - for pennies probably - and I'm trying to get my workshops going. On the one hand I believe in my dreams and the absolute need to pursue them:

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you've imagined
(Henry Thoreau)

But on the other hand you have to make decisions with proper consideration of risk and timing. If you can't buy food for your kid's lunch your dream to be a soap-opera star may need to be put on hold.

So, that's where I am right now. Stuck between my dreams and a hard place. Do I keep on plugging along my honest, authentic path, hoping it will open up soon onto a sun-lit meadow of success? Or do I take another U-turn back into the working world knowing it won't be forever and as long as I don't abandon my dreams they will still be waiting up ahead?

Goethe said,

... the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too.

I guess I better make a decision...

The Drink of Silence

... as I gaze out over the suburban yardscape, teacup in hand, half-awake, choosing whether the newspaper or my journal will get my first half hour of waking attention.
Christina Baldwin, Life's Companion: Journal Writing as a Spiritual Quest

When I read a sentence like this I mentally throw in the towel and want to cry out of frustration. I envy the life that allows for early morning gazing and the freedom to choose my next activity rather than have it decided for me by whiny, hungry children and work schedules. I remember the days when I sat every morning with my journal in the silence of my rented room or amongst the morning bustle of a downtown coffee shop. Those days gone and I miss them so much I almost feel angry at my innocent children for stealing them from me.

That's a feeling I try not to give voice or credence to. A mother should never regret her choice to have children, and definitely not over a little morning writing time. But it's the principal of it; it's not just my journal that I'm no longer allowed time with - it's me. My life as I knew it has been sucked into a vortex of laundry for four, preparing meals, and toy-resettlement... I spin wildly, the pieces of my life battering me from every side. When I finally step out of it for even a moment, I'm too dizzy to even know who or where I am (let alone where my journal may be).

*****

I began this blog entry a few months ago when school, daycare, and work schedules all conspired to make me go mad. It is hard for me now to even read those words. But I believe in writing down everything we feel even if it is painful to acknowledge - and the truth of one day may not be the truth of the next.

I couldn't think of what to write tonight so I dug up this draft thinking it was a good one based on my hectic day. But I'm realizing I can't write these things in true honesty - not today. Maybe tomorrow I will feel the chaos taking over again, but tonight I am calm. I am calm because I got to have a day with me and I actually had the opportunity to, "choos[e] whether the newspaper or my journal [got] my first half hour..."

It did not begin well, however. The kids, who for the last week have been waking up after 9AM (a miracle? No, just too many late nights), decided 5:30 was a good time to jump (literally) into bed with Hubby and me. Although we needed to be out of the house at 7:30AM for the first day of camp, 5:30 was a just little too much lead time. Summer morning sun was blazing through the slightly askew curtains for the first time in days and it apparently shone giggle-juice on my children. As heart-warming as kiddy giggles are, being forced awake by it an hour earlier than desired was more than this mommy could take. So when the cozy covers were ripped off for a game of duvet spelunking, I have to admit I lost it. Ahem.

Two hours later, all was forgiven (I hope) and Little Lady was putting on her name tag ready for a day at camp. I then left for home, minus a son as well as a daughter (thanks, Mum!) and settled at the picnic table with my laptop for a day of work.

I sent out press releases, emailed potential host bookstores, coffee shops and a senior center, I hung out two baskets of laundry, filled out an application form, called various insurance companies (which resulted in some good old fashioned cussin'), and of course, wasted some time on Facebook. A full day. A full productive day.

I needed today. I drank up the silence and absorbed the stillness. I was able to concentrate and focus. I wasn't a mother today, I was Me, and I loved it!

I do long for the days when I will be able to decide my own schedule while gazing out over the rim of my (hot) coffee cup. But for now I will take these rare moments - oases in the desert of motherhood - and try to stockpile the peace for the days when I get caught in the maelstrom of kitty haircuts, lost shoes, exploding diapers, black-marker-eye-shadowed daughters and flower-bed-thrashing sons.

I am not willing to compromise!

Disclaimer: This was written very late at night (for me) when my eyes were beginning to burn and mental acuity melt. I do believe the lack of style and grace (she says as if she usually has some) will prove my very point: I need my sleep.
-----

I believe I have mentioned before that I'm partial to sleep? Sleeping is an occupation I excel at. It's not something I believe should be compromised for the sake of children, work, and definitely not exercise, hell no! I have a great work ethic when it comes to sleepy-eye: in at 10PM, out at 7AM, no exceptions!

Of course, I exaggerate. Just as I was with my "real" jobs, I was a hard worker - once I got there. A start time of 9AM usually meant an arrival time of 9:10, and thankfully, I have had jobs that allowed me this slack. So, my stated bedtime of 10PM actually means that I turn off the TV at 10PM, and after turning off all the lights, letting in cats, glancing in the kitchen long enough to know I don't want to enter because I left the dishes in the sink again, and then ascending to the bathroom to brush, pluck, and fuss, it's usually 10:24 when I collapse in the bed.

From then on it's a guessing game. Guess how many times a child will appear by my side (or climb directly over my face) wanting either new pajamas or multiple bed partners? Guess how many times the cat will meow or scratch the wall (which sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard) in a not-so-subtle attempt to get some human's attention? Guess how many times Hubby will do "The Whale:" his half-asleep, annoyed flopping from side to side which shakes the whole bed and causes my sleeping heart beat to increase to marathon speed? (I seriously need one of those wine-glass-stays-still-when-you-jump-ing beds.) On a given night any (or all) of these events can happen, and yet sometimes I can wake to discover some kind of fairy dust has been sprinkled and I have been allowed to peacefully dream the night away.

One of my greatest joys (before bringing schedule-challenged children into this world) was to rise early (6AM) and write in the silence of a sleeping house. Since having children I have attempted to re-establish this habit countless times and found it be as elusive as sticking to a diet. I blindly stumble out of bed, hit the alarm clock, and strain against the powerful urge to crumble back into the bed. It physically hurts. But I do it for the sake of my writing and my sanity... for about three days. Then I have a bad night and, thank god! an excuse not to get up!

Hubby and I have an on-going fight about my inability to rise in the mornings. He's one of those irritating people who, the second the radio comes on, can get out of bed and into the shower, and even be awake doing it. I, on the hand, have to wake slowly. I set the alarm for 1/2 hour before I need to get up, even if it means listening to stupid djs telling stupid jokes and playing "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" at dawn. If I intend to get up early to write, it means Hubby wakes up sometimes two hours before he needs to and this, rightly, pisses him off. So, I've given up. I just get up when Hubby's out of shower and I've had time to come to my senses.

Do you see a problem here? I do.

Bed at 10PM (OK, 10:24), up at 7AM... when the hell am I supposed to get my work done? I am now officially Self-Employed, but I am also officially Mother. Mother to two, who are awake from 7AM to 7PM and wanting something from me every five minutes of that 12 hours. When they finally go to sleep I can summon up barely enough strength to crawl to the couch and press the power button on the remote. Oh, I know, I could be using that three hours to work instead of watching TV, and sometimes I do, but most of the time I just can't.

I love the quiet of the evenings (Hubby is an early-to-bedder) but they are mostly wasted. Once I am awake, I am a morning person. Give me a day on my own and I start running from the moment I (finally) wake up. But once the sun goes down I'm a gonner (along with, I fear, my ability to form good sentences).

I have a whole summer ahead of me with both kids home, summer camps and swimming lessons to drive back and forth to, a household to run, and workshops to plan and promote. All the while essays and blog topics are banging around in my head begging to be given voice.

What gives? Sleep? Never!

I'll figure something else out.

Nanny.com?

Let's Talk About Me

I had no patience with the children's antics tonight, and while I would like to turn to a glass of wine for solace, the bottle is dry. So, here I am hunkered over my laptop instead. Writing is my drug of choice and thankfully I don't have to put on a bra to go out to get it.

But, unfortunately, my bottle is also dry and I need to borrow a blog topic. This one is from Noble Savage: visit her - she's a working/writing mother who is intelligent, opinionated, and funny.

Here goes...

15 years ago today I would have been:

• Finishing up my thesis for my History Honors Degree (comparing the fashions of Renaissance and Victorian Europe... don't ask when I thought I would use that in real life.)
• Living at home.
• Driving around in a 1984 Subaru (the first car I purchased with my own money) with the license plate "Yeovil."
  

10 years ago today I would have been:

• Suffering through the death throes of a seriously wounded relationship.
• Living in a large house with two exotic dancers (not by choice).
• Working in the Trust Department of a bank but actively searching for something less boooorING.
  

5 years ago today I would have been:

• Fighting off fire ants and casserole-bearing church ladies in Mississippi after moving there a month earlier.
• Loving being a stay-at-home mom to 15-month Little Lady after leaving the Youth Orchestra where I had worked as Marketing Assistant for the last five years.
• Wondering what the hell I was doing 1,500 miles away from my parents and four seasons.
  

1 year ago today I would have been:

• Celebrating the first anniversary of being back in Vermont and two months in our own home.
• Walking from home to the coffee shop, library, book store, and park.
  
• Finishing a course in Children's Literature.
• Beginning a instructor-certification course in Journal-Writing.
• Laying out a program for a local theatre group.
  
• Starting Tator in playschool for two mornings a week so I could write...(ha! laundry had a way of ruining that plan.)
• In disbelief that Little Lady was finishing pre-school and headed to Kindergarten in a few months.
  

This year I am:

• A certified instructor of Journal to the Self through the Center for Journal Therapy.
• A published writer... finally!
  
• Working part-time in a 45-female-only gossip tank (there are two males but they sit there quietly enduring the catty-ness) and wondering every day if I'm crazy not to leave well enough alone.
• Writing whenever, whatever I can and trying to make (and stick to) writing goals.
• Attempting to overcome my "impostor syndrome" and schedule journal-writing workshops.
  

Today I:

• Actually got up early enough to write in my journal before the kids woke up.
• Walked to work.
• Endured another (extra) gossipy-catty-entitled-employee day at work (and I admit I was part of it).
• Did a Walmart diaper run (why are boys so hard to potty-train?).
• Talked to/got emails from three people interested in my workshop.
• Am watching American Idol (Adam, that should have been you!).
  

Next year I hope:

• Not to be working outside the home.
  
• To have a regularly-scheduled workshops and plenty of word-of-mouth advertising.
• To be more comfortable with submitting essays and queries.
• To have time to write (and actually using it to write).
• To have more readers on my blog (and maybe making money off it).
  
• That Hubby is settled in a job he really loves (and that we don't have to move because of it).
• To be balancing motherhood and me-hood better than I am now.
• Have the money to re-do our kitchen, build a sunroom, and fix up the "guest house" (converted garage) to make it "The Writer's Retreat" (and pigs might fly).
  

In five years I hope:

• To be Joanna: Freelance Writer and Certified Journal Therapist.
• To have a real group of friends.
• To be a (contributing) part of this community.
• That both kids are happy in school (but not participating in every extra-curricular activity).
• That I don't have three children.
• That I'm aging graciously and that my 40s are the new... ME!
  

And then I started thinking...

I wrote last time about needing to leave my job. I was ready to walk into my boss's office and give the word. So ready. But then Ding Dong! this annoying little thing called Responsibility rang the door bell.

• The CEO created my position especially for me.
• I told my boss I was committed (should be committed??)
  
• No one else (with my qualifications) would work for so little pay.
• No other boss would be so incredibly flexible with my hours.
• I get discounted child care.
• I can teach my journal workshops through them.
• I can network within the human services/non-profit world for my own purposes through them.
• I am learning a valuable skill.
• I get to gossip with all the "girls" over coffee and free donuts.
• I have a reason to put on make up and wear something other than jeans.
• It gets me out of the house and away from Facebook.
• I can justify buying another pair of shoes because I earned it.
• With two days off and most of the summer free, I have NO excuse not to keep my house clean, write or market the journal workshops.

Responsibility? Egoism? No-brainer? Dream-sabotage?

They don't NEED me, I'm not irreplaceable. But she gave me a chance when I needed a job - is it now fair to run out just because I don't need them? Am I wasting precious energy that could be spent pursuing my personal goals? I like being needed. Do I also "like" having an excuse for not succeeding in other areas of my life???

Damn. I need to give this some more thought.

Just add it to the pile

No, not the laundry pile or the pile of bills; the guilt pile. We all know about the mother of all guilt - mother's guilt. It's an all invasive emotion that rob us of our self-confidence, self-esteem, and "selfish" sojourns in the bathtub when we should be watching them watch a movie, shouldn't we? Well, now I have added another source of funding to my guilt account... my blog and, damn it, your blog too.

I haven't fallen in love with too many blogs out there. I'm afraid to go out and look, frankly. It's too overwhelming to know just how many fish there are in that sea. I have found a few and I am happy with my little collection of blogs who live on the bottom of this page faithfully updating every few days or so. Problem is, I can't give even these few my full attention. My first love, this blog, is even feeling my the effects of my distraction... and the guilt, oh, the guilt!

I had a new year's goal of updating this blog at least twice a week and having a blog-reading session once a week. Well, haha. I feel that I have a responsibility to those I have added to my blogroll. I'd want them to keep up with my blog (I'd really feel bad if they missed out on one of my daily, um, I mean tri-weekly gems) and it only seems right to reciprocate, especially when some have even openly expressed their blog-love to me. What right do I have to spurn them?

But I have to admit, I have filled my little black book too full. Trying to start a business while working part-time, mothering full-time and writing in-between-time is more than this cassanov-ette can handle.

This blog was my refuge in the beginning, where I'd come for some self-indulgent me-love. But now, six months on, it's seeming a little needy, pulling on my time like everything and one else in my life.

And the rest of you... staring at me from my blogroll, with your big, tempting titles, making me wish I could click on you... I resist! For now, my hamper is the only place you're going to get dirty laundry on me. But I still feel guilty and I promise to come visit real soon.

The Sob Fest

Two days ago I had a sob fest. Ya know, the kind that hits a woman once in a while when every day life becomes so overwhelming and so unfair that the pressure building since the last meltdown finally blows open the gates. The kind that makes your husband want to run for cover until his calm wife who usually handles everything with goddess-like power returns.

Now, before I rant on about my so-called hard life, I must throw in a disclaimer. I work at a non-profit in a town that has its unfair share of drug addicts, homeless people, and teen mothers. I spent most of Thursday morning sorting out coats and snowsuits that were to be given away to those who don't even have the ability to clothe their children (or themselves) adequately for winter's brutal hand. I receive phone calls asking where a mother can get diapers because she doesn't have the $10 to buy a pack. I see children down in our childcare center who are dirty, disheveled, ramen-noodled, and most likely not walking at 18 months due to a mother who drank in her pregnancy.

I, therefore, write this post with the knowledge that I am fortunate, very very fortunate and blessed to even have a house that needs cleaning, to have enough money for the groceries that need buying, and to have the healthy children who can demand food and receive it.

Until 3 months ago, I was leisurely (haha) at home with my children, grocery shopping whenever we ran out of even just one item, putting away laundry while watching Project Runway, and making nutritious meals for when my husband came home. We all sat around the table together and discussed our day. When I had a few hours alone, due to naps and/or preschool, I was either writing or working on my journal instructor certification.

Of course, it wasn't remotely that easy. Life is hard as a stay-at-home mom but I have to say that life as a working mom is HELL.

I have already bemoaned this fact in this post but now I have to add the stresses of work itself. I work 24 hours a week; six hours a day for four days. I do not have enough time to do everything that gets thrown at me in that time. And I can't work overtime; I have to leave at 3:30 on the dot to get my son from daycare and my daughter off the bus. My job is starting to keep me awake at night. Three grants due by the time we close down for two weeks for Christmas... I don't know how I will ever pull it off. I try not to care quite so much, but I don't handle failing so well.

So, that's one part of the sob. Another: Groceries.

Over the summer I devised a wonderful system where I got a healthy menu together for the week and using a pre-printed shopping list I found on the internet, I would get all the ingredients I would need for the whole week. I didn't have to think about food (I hate cooking) and it made my husband happy to be greeted at the door with a steaming hot plate of sauteed tofu (I'm not kidding, I actually converted him!) But those days are gone. There is ZERO time to grocery shop. If you recall my grocery-shopping tale, you'll know why I can no longer shop with my children. And definitely not after school. Little Lady practically falls off the bus and onto the couch with only enough energy left to whine for a snack. And Tater Tot no longer appreciates the fun of sitting high in the front of the cart when he knows the potential of running full-speed through the aisles with mom hot on his tail. He has recently discovered his spoiled brat cry which he only employs in public; the one that goes, "IIIIEEEEEEEEE WAAAAAA CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDYEEEEEEE!'

No, grocery shopping needs to be done on the weekend using the buddy-system (Buddy=Daddy)immediately following a long nap (mine). Which means we frequently run out of meals - not food, meals. There is always a can of something starchy and sodium-filled in the back of the cupboard, but the greens don't hold up quite so well in the back of the fridge. The kids don't care, but I do, and it makes me feel that I am failing in one of my duties - filling my family with nutritious fodder. And so I sobbed about that.

And then there's the never-ending housework. I, who loves a well put-together house, does not appreciate the overflowing baskets of laundry on the chair and the randomly tossed toys that have replaced the perfectly placed, beautifully tasteful antiques. Sob, sob, sob.

And then there's my writing, journalling, and coursework. By the time the kids are finally bathed and ensconced in their beds, I, following my daughter's lead of a few hours earlier, crawl to the couch and whine. It is at this time that I pay the bills, check email, and maybe write this blog. Beyond that I'm useless, completely useless.

By the time Friday rolls around - which I scheduled off from work in order to write and study - my to-do list is longer than the day itself. They are so full of errands, chiropractor appointments, and housework I don't even have a chance to get to my favorite coffee shop for a sip of latte. Major sob.

I'm not even going to mention Christmas. Any woman knows the insanity of Christmas. We know there would not even be Christmas if it was not for us. No pressure.

Finally, I think my body is giving up on me. My back is always stiff, my sinuses are perpetually stuffed, and my lungs are sore. Sob, sob, cough, cough, sob.

This stress is unhealthy and something's gotta give.

Squeezing me in between

The honeymoon's over.

Me and this blog, we don't talk so much anymore.

My life has radically changed from when I was a stay-at-home, wannabe writer. Even though the last of those days are barely a month gone, I have already made them into golden nuggets. I catch myself thinking, remember when I could put Tater down for a nap while Little Lady was at summer camp, and I could sit and think and write? Of course, my memory has blotted out the crazed insanity of the hour prior to getting her out the door.

The first morning I put Little Lady on the school bus was the also the first day I put on some make up and clocked into my new 22-hour a week life. Four hours a day... oh, poor me, right? But listen, here's the reality of how four hours of work morphs into a whole day:


7AM - 8:30AM: Kids up, breakfasted, dressed; make lunches; squeeze in a couple of chores

8:30: Walk to bus stop; wave off Little Lady

8:40: Walk or drive to work; grab a coffee if time

9:00: Kiss Tater Tot goodbye downstairs in toddler room; walk upstairs to office or return home to do laundry, dishes or bills, or run into town to grocery shop

11:00: Return to work

3:30: Leave work

3:45: Meet bus

4:00-4:15: Disperse snacks, check backpack, go through mail

4:15-5:00: Workout while watching Oprah (who am I kidding? I'm mostly just standing in front of the TV, doing the occasional leg lift to justify watching TV for a few moments.)

5:00-6:00: Prepare and eat dinner

6:00-7:00: Clean up dinner and kids

7:00 - 7:30: Put kids in bed, read story, sing song, say good night, go downstairs, come back upstairs, put Tater back in bed, kiss goodnight, go downstairs, come back upstairs, put Tater back in bed, kiss goodnight, walk downstairs... (this can go on for 5 minutes or, like last night, 1/2 hour).

7:30 - : At this point I collapse on the couch and try to push my brain into writing mode, usually unsuccessfully, until I can keep my eyes open no longer.

Needless to say, I left out of the schedule the 6 circles I make around the house looking for the left shoe, or the 7 minutes I spend debating with Little Lady whether she should eat the soggy cereal of which she gave herself too big a helping, or the 11 minutes I am chasing a giggling Tater trying to grab his soupy diaper.

And there you have it - Monday to Friday, 7AM-10:30PM, poof!

I ask you, where's the me in there? Where are the great tomes I'm meant to bring forth?

I know this is a time of transition and I will eventually settle into my new life. I plan to take three mornings for myself - schedule in my writing. No housework. No errands. No excuses.

NO excuses.

Think I can do it?

The many hats of me

I need a haircut. The shaggy, steel wool mop that haloes my head is reflected in the screen of my laptop as I sit on the deck this glorious late summer morning.

I also need to finish organizing the new office which until 3 days ago was the kids room. Boxes of books, old files, and decades-old computer stuff, retained "just in case" (or rather "just too lazy") were crammed away in a closet. Now, due to the room rearrangements, they have resurfaced and are demanding my attention. I need to make curtains for the new kids' room. I need to hang out the laundry that's slowly rotting in the washer. I need to put away the clothes that have been sitting in a basket for a month. I need to empty the dishwasher. I need to put two years worth of photos in the kid's albums. I need to listen to another session of my journal workshop instructor training. I need to dig through the heap of shoes on my closet floor and take half of them to Salvation Army (so I can justify buying more). I need to be brainstorming article ideas and getting out queries. I need to pay the bills...

I need to not be sitting here writing this blog.

Ever since I began this blog-ourney I have neglected everything else around me. I send my husband to bed with a "I'll be there soon," and then not show up for another 2 hours. I don't even give the TV my full, undivided attention. And next week I start work. I wonder how I can possibly divide a 24 hour day into so many increments. I feel writing this blog is important (I'm not sure exactly why yet) and I don't want to give it up. But, really, how does one wear so many hats?

The Mom Hat: The shabby one with the unidentifiable stains. It has a big brim and droops in various places. It's worn out and really needs to be replaced but no other hat will ever fit quite as well.

The Wife Hat: The one most often forgotten in the closet even though it is nice-looking and can be fun to wear. It should be worn more frequently.

The Housewife Hat: This one's dusty; hard to get clean. It's very large and kind of overwhelms the wearer. It gets in the way of other more agreeable hats.

The Administrative Hat: The one decorated with numbers and letters. It's an annoying but essential little hat worn for protection of one's assets.

The Employee Hat: This one's new and very smart. It is a good one to wear in public due to it's professional appearance and lack of accouterments.

The Writer/Artist Hat: The one with a veil behind which one can hide. This hat fits the wearer well and is the preferred one in the selection, but other more practical hats are usually (or should be) worn instead. It is very colorful but does have some ink stains.

The Single Gal Hat: Rarely worn, or ownership even acknowledged. It is bright, stylish, shapely and attractive. If worn more often it could revitalize that which is dull, monotonous, and all together too blah.

I really do need a hair cut... maybe then I can cram two (or three) hats on my head at once.

September Sentiments

September has always been my favorite month. It is a month of beginnings. I came into the world in September and as a child in England, it meant the beginning of a new school year. I actually turned 5 on my second day in Mrs. Goddard's class at Huish Infant School, Yeovil, Somerset.

I have always loved school. While my classmates dreaded those first signs of an oncoming school year - cooler nights, stores with the oh-so-subtle signs blaring "BACK TO SCHOOL" - I felt excitement instead. In high school I would start buying my notebooks and pens in July. That annual trip to Ames was a high light for me. New sturdy spiral notebooks with crisp, bright white pages, colorful coordinating folders, multicolored pens... oh, makes me want to run out to Walmart right now.

As an adult, September holds a new joy for me. Fall. That first telltale kiss of a crisp breeze, the first splash of red on the mountain side, apple trees heavy with fruit. And of course, my birthday. I don't avoid the commemoration of my birth; I like parties, I love gifts, and I particularly enjoy being the center of attention. You can blame this little egocentricism on my mother who has always venerated birthdays as a true cause of celebration; the celebrant is duly honored with gifts, a card, a meal of their choice, and a cake. If said birthday-girl (or boy) is not within hugging distance, then a phone call first thing in the morning must suffice, complete with a harmonized rendition of "Happy Birthday" (thanks to Dad's willingness to oblige his dear wife).

This September, the one that is amazingly only one week away, holds particular significance for me and our family. September 2nd, 2008 will mark two milestones: 1) I am going back to work after 4 years at home, and 2) H is starting Kindergarten.

Yes, I am starting a real, wake-up-to-an-alarm-clock, take-a-shower, wear-a-bra job. And my little baby girl, the one who had no hair until she was 18 months, will, with pony-tail bobbing, board a big yellow bus and drive away from me. She'll be back 6 hours later, but that disappearing back-end of a bus marks the beginning of her full departure from home; from me.

Um... corny! Yes, I know, but true. This is where she'll start to hear and learn things from other kids that I may not be so pleased about when she brings them to the dinner table. And I don't just mean those words we have protected her young ears from; the attitudes, the bad manners, the commericial world of Bratz and Hannah Gag-tana... she may be entering the structured world of school, but it will be a world I can no longer control. My precious baby will slowly grow up whether I like it or not.

If she's anything like me (which I believe she is) she will love school because she loves to learn. I can only pray that school does not turn into a place of bullying or boredom. I hope September becomes a month of happiness for her aswell and that together we can look forward to the trips down the stationary aisle (and I'll try to just breathe real deep and let it go when the Cinderella folders are exchanged for those showing some 14-year-old blue-eyed hunk with a basketball. Lord, help me now.)

Exposing and disposing the Fear

I saw my name as a byline for the first time today.

I submitted three tiny pieces to AssociatedContent.com a couple of days ago just to see how the process works. While it is exciting to have my own words there for the world to see, it is also a little disconcerting. Strange that I would feel this way when my dream has always been to see my name in print. It is like the scraped-surface feeling I get when I send off a job application and resume - raw, vulnerable, exposed.

But at the same time, I am supposed to be promoting myself so I can begin to make money at this writing game. Just like that resume and cover letter, it is about strutting your stuff without being pompous or arrogant - just honest and healthily ambitious. Reaching out for what you need for your own well-being.

For the past two weeks I have been reaching out so far I'm hanging off the edge off my comfort zone. I applied for three jobs, none of which I really wanted but felt I needed to help our family through this coming heating season. Out went those soul-exposing letters and resume. One rejection (OK, I've never actually been an executive assistant), one "you'll be hearing from us soon," and one complete blow-off (the utter lack of professional etiquette on that one has me composing passive-aggressive emails in my sleep.)

Yes, I've been home for four years but I haven't stopped "working" during that entire time. I drew enough people's precious pets and big-eyed babies to pay for one Christmas, taught a journal-writing workshop (and am about to get certified to do another), written 6 chapters of a children's book, completed a literature course, laid out newsletters and theatre programs...

Hey, wait a minute... I don't need a damn job!

I think Fear sent those resumes out, but something else started a blog, submitted three stories, revised a full-length article, and sent a query letter to a "real" magazine all in a matter of 48 hours.

I don't know how the heating will be paid this winter but I'm exposing myself to all the possibilities.