i heart mimi

It’s been a rough week in our house. I started a new job, and it has completely upended us. I have worked from home for more than a year, but freelance work hasn’t been steady enough lately. So I had to get a real job.

I have cried every day this week. Tears of loss. Until this week, we were able to keep our daughter completely out of daycare of any kind. I worked and took care of household business while she was away, and thoroughly enjoyed taking care of her before and after school. We had a nice routine, and this new schedule has been tough for everyone. And a reminder that we now have even less family time than before.

The bright spot has been my husband’s “save the day” mentality this week. He has been a complete saint. From taking over parenting duties in the morning so that my focus can be on getting to work and not worrying, to fixing dinner last night so I could have healthy food before roller derby (and putting the wheels on my new skates while I ate).

He didn’t just catch the ball; he slam-dunked it.

Next week will be easier. But an e-mail I got from him this morning perfectly illustrates the chaos that has ensued this week, and also how our best efforts to do what is right and good can go completely awry. I laughed so hard when I read this, and I know every parent has had these moments. Enjoy!

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From: Mimi’s Husband
Sent: Friday, March 05, 2010 8:54 AM
To: Mimi Ruse
Subject: Grrr

I *JUST NOW* got to work (8:41), and my 8:30 meeting was canceled because of the “10-minute rule.” My boss would normally be mad, but he pulled into the parking lot at the same time as me, and missed the same meeting.

I tried so hard to be a good dad this morning. Take my little girl to McD’s for a little brekky. The sun will shine, the birds will sing, everyone will be happy and well-adjusted. Just like on the commercials.

Here is what actually happened:

The line at McDonalds was 9 people deep. There was one person on the register. She was about 40 years old, and seemed to be intelligent. If she would have been able to speak English I am certain the line would have moved a little faster. I think the only thing she understood was the last half of “Breakfast Burrito.”

Daughter wanted to sit by the aquarium. That’s cool. The darkness in my heart made me secretly wish I was eating a fish sandwich in front of them, so the fish were somewhat entertaining to me for that reason alone. Daughter kept waving to them. Talking to them. Poking at them. Basically, doing everything except eating her food.

Did I mention they didn’t have any hashbrowns up, and had to bring them to us? Why have hashbrowns ready? Surely nobody will want hashbrowns for breakfast at a McDonalds located by the Interstate, right? Whoa … Mr. Sarcasm just showed up …

Daughter eats. Slowly. She wants to put her own butter on her muffin. I allow her to. She does. Slowly.

Fish Break! Take a picture, send it to Mimi!

Daughter has moved on to her gray little sausage disk. Normally she wolfs it. Not this morning.

I am looking at my watch, not terribly concerned, but the next two weeks for me are lined up with meetings and all except one starts at 8:30, and I am required to attend them. Plenty of time.

Fish Break! Wave to the Fishies! DAUGHTER! ATTENTION! – Please eat your food. Please. Please!

Time for yellow sludge (scrambled eggs). She is picking at them. Slowly.

Oh geez, I had almost forgotten about them! Here come our hashbrowns! Daughter’s eyes light up at the sight. Hooray!

They are 30 seconds fresh out of the fryer, still dripping with grease and my conservative estimate is they had an internal temp of 340 degrees. WAY too hot to eat. The lights in Daughter’s eyes start to dim as we wait for them to cool.

Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock (That’s what my watch would sound like if it made noise)

Daughter doesn’t have to speak it. She just looks at me. She wants ketchup.

K-E-T-C-H-U-P.

I get ketchup, and we both take a fish break.

The nuclear hashbrowns are finally cool enough to eat. Daughter nibbles. Slowly. I am looking at my watch and getting nervous. I still need to get gas. My car computer says I have 9 miles till empty. But I am a good dad, right?

FISH BREAK! I am beginning to dislike the fish. And I smell cucumbers for some reason.

On the way to the babysitter’s house, daughter proudly announces that she has zipped her own coat! Hooray! Good for her!

Our Town gets a rescue call. I wave as they pass the intersection. Firemen are cool.

Okay, the ambulance went by, then the light turned red on me. I wait for it to cycle back to green. Daughter is babbling with her imaginary class about zipping her coat. I am waiting for the light to turn green. Waiting. 7 miles till empty. It’s 8:05. I am nervous. WHY IS THE LIGHT STILL RED??? Daughter is still babbling. I take a mental fish break.

I pull into the babysitter’s driveway. I rush to get daughter’s backpack. I go to open her door. Daughter has a look of panic on her face. 3 – 2 – 1 WAAAAAHH!!!! She starts WAILING! WTF???

She had zipped her coat up over her seatbelt! So instead of unzipping her coat, she found it easier to scream and cry and flap around like a.. well.. like a fish out of water… (My dark heart emerges once more).

I got her calmed down and released from the Ford prison. I shove her through the babysitter’s front door and tear off down the road. OMG – 5 miles till empty. I still need to get gas!

Casey’s. Gas. $38 worth. It’s 8:20. Ugh. 359 miles till empty. I still smell cucumbers. Is it me?

So here I sit, typing out this email instead of working. Frustrated because I feel life has punished me for trying to be a good dad.

I gotta go. Fish break.

TR
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1 Comment | In: Family Matters | tags: Breakfast, Daughter, Frustration, Hashbrowns, Hot, Husband, McDonald's, Seatbelt. | #

The soccer moms have hated me for 18 years.

That’s how long I’ve been a mom. And that’s how long the perfect moms with their perfect houses and perfect children and perfect cupcakes have been rejecting my ass.

I used to care. I used to try to get them to like me. To engage them in conversation and find things in common and make friends.

I have given up. It’s stupid.

After in-depth analysis, I have surmised that the first time around none of the soccer moms took me seriously because I was the step-mom. I didn’t labor for 26 hours per child, they never found nourishment at my breast. I wasn’t a real mom.

Oh yeah?

Well it’s a good thing I never had to comfort a child after a nightmare, or stay up all night monitoring a climbing fever. I’m glad I never had to talk a kid through first-day-of-school jitters, or hold down a tiny body that was unwillingly receiving a vaccination.

Whew. Good thing I’m just a step-mom.

All sarcasm aside, I just didn’t fit the mold. I’m not skinny. I don’t drink lattes. I don’t drive an SUV, wear designer labels, or live in a house that has me in debt up to my eyeballs. I just don’t freaking care what people think of me. And that’s my big problem. Or rather, their big problem.

Because, apparently, to be liked by the soccer moms, one must be judgmental, uptight, and impossible to get along with. Oh, and perfect in every way. And by perfect, I mean unhappy.

I don’t know how these women live these lives in which their children are in every activity know to man, and the only “family” time spent together is in a mini-van at the McDonald’s drive-thru. Dinner comes from a bag between soccer practice and dance class, and there is no time to talk because someone is always yelling, “Hurry up … we’re late!”

No thank you.

Call me lazy, but the pace of life I choose is one in which my child can come home from school and supremely chill out. She starts by retreating to her room for 45 minutes, and I honestly have no idea what she does up there. I leave her alone because I know she needs that time. Then she comes down and reads, does a few chores, and then starts pestering me for food. Sometimes there’s homework, sometimes there are ridiculous amounts of American Idol. There is almost never a fast-food dinner in the back seat of the car (which is not an SUV).

I’m stepping on toes here. I know I am. I don’t mean to. I’m really just pointing out that I have been rejected for ridiculous reasons. Because someone else needs to feel superior, and doesn’t want to be seen talking to the fat step-mom with a nose ring and a kid with Down syndrome.

It makes me mad.

The second time around (this time I’m the bio mom, which hasn’t helped at all), the moms have “accepted” my child and love to flash their big smiles when the kid with Down syndrome speaks in complete sentences. But they continue to snub me. They looooove my darling little girl, tell me how sweet and loving she is, and then walk away. They don’t ever invite us to do anything. Never. (Conversely, I don’t ask them to do anything with us — mostly because I don’t relate to them either, and no longer want to try).

I have true friends that don’t care that I buy 70% of my kid’s clothes at Goodwill (which is where she got her kickass t-shirt collection), or that I have pink(ish) hair and play roller derby. I have real friends. I don’t need to be friends with these women simply because our kids go to school together.

So I just wanted to say out loud that I’m over it. It used to really upset me that the soccer moms don’t like me. Not any more. I think it’s funny, and I purposely make eye contact and say hello to them just to make them uncomfortable.

Perhaps it’s not very Christian of me to feel this way. I’m probably breaking a commandment or two. Most likely.

But I can’t find self-worth through the opinions of others. I must find it by being myself in every situation, no matter how I am received. I have spent 38 years trying to please others, hiding my real self because I didn’t fit the mold. Can’t do it another day.

Go ahead. Reject me. Life goes on.

12 Comments | In: My Unsolicited Opinion | tags: Cupcakes, Daughter, Down syndreom, Drive-thru, McDonald's, Nose pierced, Perfect, Pink hair, Roller derby, School, Self worth, Soccer mom, Soccer moms hate me. | #