I had an interview this morning. It went well, thanks. At least I think it did. It remains to be seen how the interviewers feel about it. It's for a part-time job at our church. A job that I think I would be good at and would really enjoy. It's in God's hands now...literally!
It's funny to think about going back to work. It sounds a little bit daunting. A little bit scary. I haven't gone to work in over nine years. As in, I haven't walked into a building where other people are working to go to work myself in over nine years. And prior to this interview I thought, What am I going to talk about? When they ask about my organization skills, should I tell them how I have a specific way I like to load the dishwasher (and how my husband STILL hasn't figured that out)? When they ask about my experience recruiting volunteers, should I mention how I often ask my friends to babysit for free? When they ask about my comfort level planning and leading events, should I explain that just getting out of my house in the morning takes an immense amount of planning...and yelling. Maybe I'll leave out the yelling part.
At first, during the interview, I found myself relying on my teaching experience, which seems like a lifetime ago (my nine year old's lifetime, actually). But as I got more comfortable, I realized I have experiences from these last nine years that, even more so than my teaching career, have prepared me for a job out there. In the workforce. I, with my two co-chairs, run our school's book fair, the biggest fundraiser our school has. And we ROCKED it last year. That alone covers recruiting, planning and organization skills. For six years I was an organizational tutor. I was second in command at that same tutoring company, where I handled all of the day to day stuff. Yes, I sat on my couch with my computer on my lap while making and taking phone calls, entering hours to bill families and sending out paychecks. I may have been in my pajamas, but I was professional in every other way. And I was good at it. And I grew my Norwex business and built a team of 5 recruits. On any given day, I do more than just yell at my kids to turn off the T.V. and get their shoes on. Although, it's easy for me to forget that most of the time.
I'm not saying I do more than other stay at home moms. I'm saying just. the. opposite. I think stay at home moms, like me, don't give ourselves enough credit. We do work. And we work outside the home. We volunteer at our kids' schools, sporting events, churches and more. We may or may not get paid for our time and energy, but we do it nonetheless. We hold the mute button so the person on the other end of the phone can't hear the tantrum being thrown by our three-year-old because she wanted her pretzels in the purple bowl instead of the green one, but we make those fundraising phone calls anyway. And, like all moms, working or not, we run a household. That in and of itself should qualify us for just about any position we want.
I don't know if I will get this job (fingers crossed!) but I do know that I'm qualified. Being a stay at home mom doesn't have to be a death sentence for a career. Off to organize my dishwasher. Again (will he ever learn?).
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
Missing Sadie
If you know me, you know my dog drove me nuts. I complained about her daily. The way she was always standing in my way, no matter which direction I turned. The way she jumped, impressively high, straight up in the air at the screen door when she wanted to come inside. The way she would wait until no one was looking and then sneak a sandwich off the counter.
Sadie was not an easy dog. She had separation anxiety, which meant she could never be alone in the house. Whenever we left the house she had to go in her kennel until we returned. (For those who don't know what separation anxiety entails: animals get so nervous when left alone, they lose control of their bowels). She was a rescue, so it was understandable in the beginning, but rather than getting better over time, she got worse. She started having accidents at night even though we were home and sleeping in the same room she did. So we bought a kennel for our bedroom and kept her locked up at night. Eventually she started having accidents simply being alone in a room. I had to clean up after her once a week or so. Which, as you can imagine, led to a significant amount of frustration on my part. Like most dogs she would run to the front door (although, in the end it was a slow trot) barking at whoever was waiting on the other side. But unlike most dogs, Sadie could jump several feet off the ground. Straight up in the air. This was both frightening and impressive to everyone who visited us. And of course there was the dog hair. Always the dog hair.
I have always been pretty vocal about the things that bothered me about our dog. But I realize now that I wasn't always so vocal about why we kept her. Loved her. Sadie was gentle. She was timid and kind. You could take a bone right out of her mouth and she would let you. Dropping it and stepping back with a what's mine is yours look on her face. When Luna and Solei, her two best friends (who, together, are less than half of Sadie's size), were over, Luna would undoubtedly end up with Sadie's treat. Sadie would watch Luna chewing, never trying to take it back. Once, many years ago, I took Sadie to a dog park. I would throw her frisbee and she would bring it back. Until I threw it and another dog got to it first. Sadie watched that dog run away with her toy and then she ran back to me empty handed, but happy. The kids, when they were little, used her as a step to get up on the couch. Or they would sit on her back and pull on her ears. Or stick their fingers in her mouth. And she took it all with a smile. Quite literally, she would have a smile on her face. I always heard that you're not supposed to trust a dog with young kids, but I always trusted Sadie. And she never proved me wrong. Her eyes said "love me" and how could you look into them and not? We used to say she was a like a super model; pretty, but dumb. But she wasn't dumb. She knew she was loved and she loved us unconditionally in return.
The hardest park about loving a pet is knowing when it is time to end their pain and suffering. We could have come up with endless excuses not to put Sadie down, but in the end she was getting noticeably sicker every day. The growth in her throat made her cough and gag constantly throughout the day. And made eating difficult and possibly even painful. The cancer in her stomach made her once sleek 50 lbs. body look skeletal at only 34 lbs. As much as we hated to admit it, it was time.
I used to daydream about not having to sweep up the dog hair. Or vacuum the stairs several times a week. Or about taking the kennel out of our bedroom. There is still some dog hair around, I'm sure we will be finding it for a while yet. But the empty spot in our bedroom, where the kennel used to be, breaks my heart. And, so much more than I thought I would, I miss seeing this sweet face.
Sadie was not an easy dog. She had separation anxiety, which meant she could never be alone in the house. Whenever we left the house she had to go in her kennel until we returned. (For those who don't know what separation anxiety entails: animals get so nervous when left alone, they lose control of their bowels). She was a rescue, so it was understandable in the beginning, but rather than getting better over time, she got worse. She started having accidents at night even though we were home and sleeping in the same room she did. So we bought a kennel for our bedroom and kept her locked up at night. Eventually she started having accidents simply being alone in a room. I had to clean up after her once a week or so. Which, as you can imagine, led to a significant amount of frustration on my part. Like most dogs she would run to the front door (although, in the end it was a slow trot) barking at whoever was waiting on the other side. But unlike most dogs, Sadie could jump several feet off the ground. Straight up in the air. This was both frightening and impressive to everyone who visited us. And of course there was the dog hair. Always the dog hair.
I have always been pretty vocal about the things that bothered me about our dog. But I realize now that I wasn't always so vocal about why we kept her. Loved her. Sadie was gentle. She was timid and kind. You could take a bone right out of her mouth and she would let you. Dropping it and stepping back with a what's mine is yours look on her face. When Luna and Solei, her two best friends (who, together, are less than half of Sadie's size), were over, Luna would undoubtedly end up with Sadie's treat. Sadie would watch Luna chewing, never trying to take it back. Once, many years ago, I took Sadie to a dog park. I would throw her frisbee and she would bring it back. Until I threw it and another dog got to it first. Sadie watched that dog run away with her toy and then she ran back to me empty handed, but happy. The kids, when they were little, used her as a step to get up on the couch. Or they would sit on her back and pull on her ears. Or stick their fingers in her mouth. And she took it all with a smile. Quite literally, she would have a smile on her face. I always heard that you're not supposed to trust a dog with young kids, but I always trusted Sadie. And she never proved me wrong. Her eyes said "love me" and how could you look into them and not? We used to say she was a like a super model; pretty, but dumb. But she wasn't dumb. She knew she was loved and she loved us unconditionally in return.
The hardest park about loving a pet is knowing when it is time to end their pain and suffering. We could have come up with endless excuses not to put Sadie down, but in the end she was getting noticeably sicker every day. The growth in her throat made her cough and gag constantly throughout the day. And made eating difficult and possibly even painful. The cancer in her stomach made her once sleek 50 lbs. body look skeletal at only 34 lbs. As much as we hated to admit it, it was time.
I used to daydream about not having to sweep up the dog hair. Or vacuum the stairs several times a week. Or about taking the kennel out of our bedroom. There is still some dog hair around, I'm sure we will be finding it for a while yet. But the empty spot in our bedroom, where the kennel used to be, breaks my heart. And, so much more than I thought I would, I miss seeing this sweet face.
 |
| Thank you Michelle Trombetta for this beautiful picture. |
Monday, August 5, 2013
A Goodbye Letter to my Family
Dear Family,
I understand why you are leaving. If I were in your position, I would do the same. You are only doing what you believe is best. For your survival and mine. I wish it could be different, that we could handle this some other way. But alas, we cannot.
The Days Inn won't be so bad. I think they have a pool.
I will see you all on Friday morning. When my cleanse is over. And I start drinking coffee again.
With love,
Sara (or Mom)
I understand why you are leaving. If I were in your position, I would do the same. You are only doing what you believe is best. For your survival and mine. I wish it could be different, that we could handle this some other way. But alas, we cannot.
The Days Inn won't be so bad. I think they have a pool.
I will see you all on Friday morning. When my cleanse is over. And I start drinking coffee again.
With love,
Sara (or Mom)
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Join the Club
My kids are always creating clubs. Sometime it's a club with other neighborhood kids. Or it's a club for my older two, leaving out my little one. I usually butt in at that point and make them include her, but isn't that what clubs are all about? You're either in or you're out. My almost-fourth grader was in Student Council last year...which is kind of a club. She was also in a book club, which is definitely a club (it's right there in the name!). Once they reach middle school and high school there will be endless "club" options. It struck me earlier today that clubs don't end with childhood. As adults we might not call them "clubs" per se, but we all belong to some group or another
There's the Married Club. Babies Club. School-age kids Club. College Graduate Club. Oldest sibling club. Youngest and middle sibling clubs, too. Pet Owners. Home Owners. American Car Drivers. There are clubs within clubs. You're a Pet Owner, but do you have dogs or cats? You're in the Married Club, but what month did you get married? I'm in the "Married in October" club. Those of you that were also married in October just thought Oh, me too! because now you know we're in that club together. And that's just it, I think. Clubs are about feeling apart of something. Connecting.
Not all clubs are happy clubs. There's the Divorced Club. The Miscarriages Club. The Abuse Club. Almost three years ago my husband joined the "Lost a Father" club. A club he joined too early. But we find comfort in these clubs, too. When my father in law was dying, I was rushing to get to my husband, to be with him as he said goodbye to his dad. I called to cancel a playdate my daughter had with her friend. I had been friendly with this mom, we would chat for a while after setting up a playdate, but she wasn't one of my close friends. She wasn't apart of my inner circle. When I told her the situation, that I needed to get my kids to my parents and get myself to the hospital an hour and a half away, she swooped in to help. Within minutes of getting off the phone she was at my door with a card and a hug. She took my kids so I could get everyone packed without interruption. She even offered to get them to my parents. She told me later that a few years earlier her father had passed away. She knew that Wade would need me, so she wanted to do everything she could to make sure I was with him. That's what club members do.
Of course there is a reason I'm thinking about all of this. Three nights ago, one of my closest friends stood with her fiancé as his mother died. The funeral is tomorrow and their wedding will follow eight days later. I haven't lost a parent, but I have stood by as my husband did. I have held him as he sobbed, knowing there was nothing I could do or say that would lessen the pain. I can't tell my friend the magic words to say (because there aren't any) or that the pain will end (because it won't). But I can empathize. I have been in her shoes. I can listen and share and support.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is that whether it's a club you're in by choice (I chose to be a SAHM) or one you're in by circumstance, we're never really alone. We all need support, at times more than others. And when we know there are people we can turn to when needed, it can make the happy times happier and the hard times slightly...less hard. I guess all of the clubs my kids create and join are really just preparing them for the most challenging club of all. Being an Adult.
Friday, May 31, 2013
37 Blessings
Today I turn 37. I'm not ashamed of my age, and after hearing that another mom of three lost her battle with leukemia last night, I have realized that I am so very blessed to be turning one year older. Here are some of my blessings...
1.) A husband who loves and puts up with me.
2.) Kids who are usually well-behaved.
3.) Parents who are willing and able to take my kids for a night or a weekend.
4.) A sister who gives very good advice, even if I don't always listen to her.
5.) A brother who knows how to be a fun uncle (i.e. Uncle Funkel).
6.) A best friend who knows me better than anyone else on this planet.
7.) Friends with whom I can sit on the patio and enjoy a beer.
8.) A school my kids love.
9.) A preschool that has a drive-thru pick up and drop off.
10.) A church where we enjoy being involved and growing in our faith.
11.) Friends who, even though they have moved away, make an effort to see us on a regular basis.
12.) Friends who will take my kids for several hours...just because it's my birthday.
13.) Friends who like to go for walks.
14.) A home in a neighborhood full of great kids.
15.) A neighborhood in a town where I feel safe.
16.) A town in a state that lets everyone marry the one they love.
17.) A backyard full of trees.
18.) My garden.
19.) A neighbor girl who will watch my kids for an hour everyday so I can take a walk.
20.) The best nephew and sweetest nieces.
21.) Being a SAHM (most days)
22.) Sunshine...especially after months of cloudy days.
23.) Having coffee with a friend.
24.) A good book.
25.) Rabbit Lake.
26.) Costco.
27.) The fact that my husband could take two days off this week to go on fieldtrips with our kids.
28.) Pedicures.
29.) Friends who send me a gift, purely because they know it will make me smile.
30.) Kids who make pop-up birthday cards.
31.) A sectional sofa that fits all five us us, plus some.
32.) The promise of kitties in the next three weeks.
33.) The invention of the self-cleaning litter box.
34.)A son who is now old enough to pick up dog poop in the backyard.
35.) My minivan (this one was hard for me to write).
36.) Pinot Grigio.
37.) My health.
1.) A husband who loves and puts up with me.
2.) Kids who are usually well-behaved.
3.) Parents who are willing and able to take my kids for a night or a weekend.
4.) A sister who gives very good advice, even if I don't always listen to her.
5.) A brother who knows how to be a fun uncle (i.e. Uncle Funkel).
6.) A best friend who knows me better than anyone else on this planet.
7.) Friends with whom I can sit on the patio and enjoy a beer.
8.) A school my kids love.
9.) A preschool that has a drive-thru pick up and drop off.
10.) A church where we enjoy being involved and growing in our faith.
11.) Friends who, even though they have moved away, make an effort to see us on a regular basis.
12.) Friends who will take my kids for several hours...just because it's my birthday.
13.) Friends who like to go for walks.
14.) A home in a neighborhood full of great kids.
15.) A neighborhood in a town where I feel safe.
16.) A town in a state that lets everyone marry the one they love.
17.) A backyard full of trees.
18.) My garden.
19.) A neighbor girl who will watch my kids for an hour everyday so I can take a walk.
20.) The best nephew and sweetest nieces.
21.) Being a SAHM (most days)
22.) Sunshine...especially after months of cloudy days.
23.) Having coffee with a friend.
24.) A good book.
25.) Rabbit Lake.
26.) Costco.
27.) The fact that my husband could take two days off this week to go on fieldtrips with our kids.
28.) Pedicures.
29.) Friends who send me a gift, purely because they know it will make me smile.
30.) Kids who make pop-up birthday cards.
31.) A sectional sofa that fits all five us us, plus some.
32.) The promise of kitties in the next three weeks.
33.) The invention of the self-cleaning litter box.
34.)A son who is now old enough to pick up dog poop in the backyard.
35.) My minivan (this one was hard for me to write).
36.) Pinot Grigio.
37.) My health.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
A Goodbye Letter to my Cat
Dear Mona,
You were a good cat. Except for the snotty sneezes. And the fact that you mostly refused to use your litterbox. And the cat barf first thing in the morning. But somehow I was able to overlook all of that because you were sweet and soft and you always chose me over everyone else in the family.
Just a short 13 1/2 years ago it was you and I against the world. You made coming home to my one-bedroom apartment a joy each day. I remember pulling into my parking spot and seeing you sitting in the big picture window. By the time I made it to my door you were there, meowing on the other side, as I put the key in the lock. It's amazing how much has changed since then. We moved. I got married. We adopted a dog (you always thought she was such a sucker, wagging that tail and doing what she's told). You grumpily accepted each of the new members of our family as three children were born. And you grew to love them. Especially when they left just a little melted ice cream in the bottom of their bowls.
These last couple of years were tough, though. I often asked myself if you were still happy. Still enjoying your dark, quiet life. As a good friend said the other day, you were the Helen Keller of cats. Your soft fur was matted and the snot that landed on your face after a sneeze attack stayed there until I wiped it off. You wandered the house lost and confused, walking into walls and furniture. After searching and searching for the couch, you would slowly make your way up (I remember when you could jump from the floor to the top of the couch in one soaring leap) and hunker down for the day. As I came and went with my daily activities, the kids running and jumping around you, you never noticed. Never moved. The only time you raised your head was when one of their little hands would brush over you (Lily would say, "I pet your kitty, mom."). And you'd make that funny bird chirping sound you've always made when something surprised you.
But then, after the kids went to bed, the house would settle down and you would still manage to find my lap. We would cuddle and you would purr. And I would tell myself, maybe selfishly, that you were still happy. At least for those few moments at the end of the day. You were happy.
So when you were sick, and I had to lock you in the bathroom downstairs to keep you from making messes everywhere you went, I realized I had to face reality. I could fight to make you better, to cure whatever was wrong with your stomach, but for what? Cure you so you could continue to walk around, meowing in confusion, scared at every turn that you were going to walk into a corner or fall down the stairs?
You're better now. And I mostly believe I made the right decision. The one you would have wanted me to make for you. I don't miss the poop, or the puke, or the snot. But I miss you. And I love you. And you will always be my Mona.
Love,
Sara
You were a good cat. Except for the snotty sneezes. And the fact that you mostly refused to use your litterbox. And the cat barf first thing in the morning. But somehow I was able to overlook all of that because you were sweet and soft and you always chose me over everyone else in the family.
Just a short 13 1/2 years ago it was you and I against the world. You made coming home to my one-bedroom apartment a joy each day. I remember pulling into my parking spot and seeing you sitting in the big picture window. By the time I made it to my door you were there, meowing on the other side, as I put the key in the lock. It's amazing how much has changed since then. We moved. I got married. We adopted a dog (you always thought she was such a sucker, wagging that tail and doing what she's told). You grumpily accepted each of the new members of our family as three children were born. And you grew to love them. Especially when they left just a little melted ice cream in the bottom of their bowls.
These last couple of years were tough, though. I often asked myself if you were still happy. Still enjoying your dark, quiet life. As a good friend said the other day, you were the Helen Keller of cats. Your soft fur was matted and the snot that landed on your face after a sneeze attack stayed there until I wiped it off. You wandered the house lost and confused, walking into walls and furniture. After searching and searching for the couch, you would slowly make your way up (I remember when you could jump from the floor to the top of the couch in one soaring leap) and hunker down for the day. As I came and went with my daily activities, the kids running and jumping around you, you never noticed. Never moved. The only time you raised your head was when one of their little hands would brush over you (Lily would say, "I pet your kitty, mom."). And you'd make that funny bird chirping sound you've always made when something surprised you.
But then, after the kids went to bed, the house would settle down and you would still manage to find my lap. We would cuddle and you would purr. And I would tell myself, maybe selfishly, that you were still happy. At least for those few moments at the end of the day. You were happy.
So when you were sick, and I had to lock you in the bathroom downstairs to keep you from making messes everywhere you went, I realized I had to face reality. I could fight to make you better, to cure whatever was wrong with your stomach, but for what? Cure you so you could continue to walk around, meowing in confusion, scared at every turn that you were going to walk into a corner or fall down the stairs?
You're better now. And I mostly believe I made the right decision. The one you would have wanted me to make for you. I don't miss the poop, or the puke, or the snot. But I miss you. And I love you. And you will always be my Mona.
Love,
Sara
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Six
My son is a six-year-old first grader. Tomorrow morning I have to let him, and his older sister, go to school. I think it might be the hardest thing I've ever done.
I love our elementary school. We have amazing teachers and staff. It's an old building, and I love that when you walk in it looks straight out of the 70's, but when you stick your head in a classroom, the teachers are progressive and always striving to try something new, different. Better. Our principal is young and fun and up for anything. The kids love her and she knows them by name. The staff throughout the building is just as committed to the students as any teacher. And right now, I'm terrified of sending my kids to this place.
After we put the kids to bed this evening, my husband and I debated if we should have talked with our older two about what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary. While we were talking I thought it seemed like a good idea to at least mention it. I would want them to hear about it from us, versus kids at school or overhearing adults talking in the hallway. But now, as I'm getting ready to head up to bed myself, I am having a hard time formulating the words I would say. I don't think I can tell them, even in the barest of terms, of the horror that happened to those innocent children, and then send my precious babies off to school.
On the front page of the Star Tribune today were the pictures of the 20 children, six and seven years old, who were killed at Sandy Hook Elementary in Connecticut on Friday. I looked at those sweet faces, and then at my son, sitting at the kitchen table drawing. He came home on Friday afternoon and asked me if I'd ever been in a lock-down. My heart stilled as I tried to determine if he'd somehow heard about the shooting. I answered cautiously, saying that as a teacher I had been apart of lock-down drills, but I had never been involved in a real lock-down situation. Then I asked why he was wondering. He said that after lunch that day his teacher, a young, pregnant woman who my daughter also had two years ago, had them practice a lock-down. She shut her door, turned out the lights and had all of the students get under their desks. He knew nothing of the day's news, thankfully, but he knew that a lock-down means there is a bad person in the school. I asked him if it had been scary. He said no. And that he had tried very hard to make sure not a single part of him, not even a finger, was sticking out from under his desk. I hugged him and forced myself to say that his school is a safe place, even though I didn't believe the words coming out of my mouth.
I am not going to get into the gun control debate. Or the mental health debate. I have my views, but that's not what my post is about tonight. I am going to say, however, that I'm worried about the safety of our elementary students. Most high school have police officers on campus and podiums are set directly inside the front door, with staff requiring all visitors to sign-in. But I know our elementary school is not the only school where the only security measure is a sign on the front door that reads "visitors please sign in." I also know that fancy security systems, like Sandy Hook had just installed, won't stop someone who means to do serious harm. But there has to be a way to better protect these buildings, all across our country, filled with our most precious citizens.
I'm going to try to go to sleep now. So I can wake up, have my coffee, send my kids off to school. And pray.
I love our elementary school. We have amazing teachers and staff. It's an old building, and I love that when you walk in it looks straight out of the 70's, but when you stick your head in a classroom, the teachers are progressive and always striving to try something new, different. Better. Our principal is young and fun and up for anything. The kids love her and she knows them by name. The staff throughout the building is just as committed to the students as any teacher. And right now, I'm terrified of sending my kids to this place.
After we put the kids to bed this evening, my husband and I debated if we should have talked with our older two about what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary. While we were talking I thought it seemed like a good idea to at least mention it. I would want them to hear about it from us, versus kids at school or overhearing adults talking in the hallway. But now, as I'm getting ready to head up to bed myself, I am having a hard time formulating the words I would say. I don't think I can tell them, even in the barest of terms, of the horror that happened to those innocent children, and then send my precious babies off to school.
On the front page of the Star Tribune today were the pictures of the 20 children, six and seven years old, who were killed at Sandy Hook Elementary in Connecticut on Friday. I looked at those sweet faces, and then at my son, sitting at the kitchen table drawing. He came home on Friday afternoon and asked me if I'd ever been in a lock-down. My heart stilled as I tried to determine if he'd somehow heard about the shooting. I answered cautiously, saying that as a teacher I had been apart of lock-down drills, but I had never been involved in a real lock-down situation. Then I asked why he was wondering. He said that after lunch that day his teacher, a young, pregnant woman who my daughter also had two years ago, had them practice a lock-down. She shut her door, turned out the lights and had all of the students get under their desks. He knew nothing of the day's news, thankfully, but he knew that a lock-down means there is a bad person in the school. I asked him if it had been scary. He said no. And that he had tried very hard to make sure not a single part of him, not even a finger, was sticking out from under his desk. I hugged him and forced myself to say that his school is a safe place, even though I didn't believe the words coming out of my mouth.
I am not going to get into the gun control debate. Or the mental health debate. I have my views, but that's not what my post is about tonight. I am going to say, however, that I'm worried about the safety of our elementary students. Most high school have police officers on campus and podiums are set directly inside the front door, with staff requiring all visitors to sign-in. But I know our elementary school is not the only school where the only security measure is a sign on the front door that reads "visitors please sign in." I also know that fancy security systems, like Sandy Hook had just installed, won't stop someone who means to do serious harm. But there has to be a way to better protect these buildings, all across our country, filled with our most precious citizens.
I'm going to try to go to sleep now. So I can wake up, have my coffee, send my kids off to school. And pray.
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