Raw Drip

At home with Tabitha yesterday I noticed something interesting about my coffee mug. First things first – I wasn’t drinking out of just any ordinary coffee mug. I was drinking from my Famous Democrats coffee mug (see crappy pic on the left).

Because I’m a believer in our democratic process you should know that I also purchased a Famous Republicans coffee mug with the Famous Democrats – they were a boxed set, actually. But unfortunatley, just after purchasing my mugs from NYC favorite Fishs Eddy, I tripped and fell along E. 16th street, crushing the Republicans under my handbag. Coincidence? I think not!

So, as I’m sitting in my pjs reading my book yesterday, I glanced down at my mug and noticed for the first time that Famous Democrat Barack Obama is on the top row of Democrats (nearest the rim of the cup) along the same line as Bill Clinton, JFK, and Eleanor Roosevelt. On the bottom row, just below Barack and to his left sits Hillary Clinton. Also on the bottom row are Al Gore, Jimmy Carter, and Jessie Jackson. Hm. Notice a pattern here? I did. Everyone on the top row is a highly succesful Democratic figure. Everyone on the bottom row of that mug has a failed presidential bid on their hands or, in Jimmy’s case, is generally regarded as having been unsuccessful in the role. Another coincidence? I think not!

So, behold loyal drips! I am convinced. My coffee mug see-eth the future! Go figure. Not since I got a 3 of a kind on the bottom of a poker coffee cup purchased from a street vendor in NYC, have I found such hope for the future in a cuppa.

For most people, the word “vacation” conjures images of road trips, beach getaways, sleeping in and relaxation. But almost any working parent will tell that their definition of a vacation involves mostly those last two elements – sleep & relaxation. These two elements are the most precious to parents because they are so elusive. With small children around, even if you manage to escape to a beach house, you’re still going to be up at the crack of dawn feeding finicky eaters and refereeing fights about who did what to whom. It’s hardly much of a break, really. This means, when your children are too young for sleep-away summer camp, the only true vacation days in your life are the ones you enjoy when you’re home from work while the kids are at school.

So when I tell you that I had a vacation planned for last week, you should understand that my vacation was of this, most perfect variety. My relaxation plan: during the week, with children at school and Dick at work it was just going to be me, the dog, and the luxuriously quiet house in which I would fit about 4 years worth of sleeping, reading, and housecleaning into my mostly open schedule.

I say “mostly open” because I started off my vacation at work. You see, at the last minute, I was forced to shorten my vacation day on Monday because of a mandatory meeting. Once the meeting ended around noon, I decided to execute on my relaxation plan but only after sqaundering a few precious hours running errands.

With errands completed and off my mind, I returned home with the intention of collapsing on the sofa for a nap in the late, rainy afternoon. Just as I started to drift into that rare deeply relaxed state where you feel as though your body is floating away – as though you’ve been slipped anti-anxiety meds or muscle relaxants – I was startled awake by the jarring barking of the dog and the sound of the front door flying open. I soon learned that Dick had been called to pick up Adam from school because of a high fever. Sure enough, his temperature was nearly 102. So much for that fabulous afternoon nap.

Those of you with children in daycare know that once a fever has been detected in your child, they don’t want to see his infectious little feet darkening their doorstep for at least 24 hours. That meant my Tuesday “off” was now going to be spent “on” as I desperately tried to entertain a bored (and not at all feverish) 4 year old boy.

Thankfullly by Wednesday, Adam was better, his fever having broken about 22 hours before. But sadly for me, Wednesday was the only day I absolutely could NOT take off from work because I had two critical project meetings that I needed to lead. So, no vacation on Wednesday. Thankfully, there’s always Thursday.

Thursday, July 3rd, was definitely going to be my day. No doubt about it. Thursday would be my day for sleeping in, taking it easy, maybe accomplishing a few things around the house. The world was my oyster. Naturally I slept in. Well, I slept until 7. Dick was running late for work so I volunteered to get the kids dressed, fed and off to school. A short while later at home, between bites of my bagel, my eyes scanned the room and settled upon a pile of unfolded laundry.

It’s really hard to relax while looking at a half finished project. You try to relax but your mind keeps drifting, imagining all of the stuff you can get done without the children around. Part of you screams, “NO! Are you crazy? Go get a pedicure, sleep, watch a Lifetime movie, anything! But don’t give in to the house work!!” The other part of you knows how utterly disgusting it feels to walk barefoot on your children’s bathroom floor and also knows what it’s like to try to mop with 2 bickering overly enthusiastic “helpers” shadowing you like the paparazzi on Branjelina. When faced with numerous glaring chores and the prospect of all that help, if you’re like me, you usually slap some tape over the inner voice that wants a nap and choose to clean, instead.

Just as I was about to move from laundry and into cleaning, I heard my phone ring. It was Dick reminding me about the 12 o’clock doctor’s appointment for Adam that I had completely forgotten about. CRAP! It was 11:57 as I tossed aside my cleaning supplies and bolted out the door.

My remaining Thursday afternoon was spent rushing from the doctor’s office, to the store, back home and then off to daycare by 6 o’clock to grab the children. With the babysitter due at 6:45 and me without a shower or a plan for feeding the kids some dinner, I felt as if I’d been mugged – my free time stolen by some thug who then had the gaul to leave me with his two annoying kids to take care of. But, wait, those kids are mine…

Friday, July 4th. Although the kids and Dick were home, I was still, technically, on vacation. I mean, it wasn’t going to be the kind of vacation day that was quiet or relaxing, but at least I didn’t have to “be” anywhere or “do” anything. Except now I felt an annoying, sore tickle in the back of my throat and later that day I found I was running a low-grade fever, suffering from body aches and developing a persistent sinus headache. I had caught Adam’s cold.

Saturday, July 5th. Someone please kill me because I don’t have the energy to do it myself. I guess the final insult here is that I spent my entire vacation either working or taking care of everyone else and now when I need to return to work, I’m sick. Oh well. Maybe I’ll try for another vacation week next year. By then, 5 years into this whole parenting thing, surely I’ll be too daft to notice or to care that vacations aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

Last Saturday I gained some insight into how I use my relationship energy. To steal Dick’s analogy, I run our life on an on/off switch. From the moment I wake at the crack of dawn, hitting the ground running with my endless plans and to do lists, I am switched on all the time. Then there’s Dick, who operates on something akin to a dimmer control, slowly working his way up to task as the day goes on, usually hitting the bright setting somewhere around 1 p.m.

First there’s me, operating on the on/off switch: My alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. set at this early hour on purpose so I can have time to tidy the house before the babysitter arrives at 9. Why am I tidying my house in my nightie at 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday for “the help”? Well for two reasons. First of all, the kids are up anyway and I might as well do something. Second, I don’t want the sweet, reliable, clean-looking babysitter it took me so long to find seeing how we really live – like crack addicts, but with more toys.

Then there’s Dick, operating on the dimmer control: It’s 6:30 a.m. and he’s asleep. Oh sure, the kids keep trying to jump on him and wake him up, but stubbornly he remains passed out in our bed, snoring softly. At 7:15, Dick rolls slightly to the left and coughs. By 8:30 he’s still in the same relaxed position, snoring through the sounds of me yelling at the children to keep their hands to themselves and threatening time outs. Sweaty and no longer able to tolerate his insistence on staying unconscious, I finally stormed into our room around 8:45 and insisted that he get up. If I could have walloped him over the head with a frying pan, screaming at him to get the fuck out of the bed, I would have. That’s how annoyed I was.

When we finally made it out the door at 9:45, I was still mentally and physically in the on position, chattering a mile a minute and harassing Dick to cast his vote for a dining establishment. Still looking sleepy and a bit disheveled he asked me, “Why are you planning out every moment of our day, dear? Can’t we just groove into it? It’s a Saturday. We’ve got a babysitter. You’re supposed to take it easy.”

My initial reaction was to think – where’s that darn frying pan when you need one. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that he’s right. I should be embracing the laziness of the weekend and allowing the day to unfold at will. Do I even remember how to do that? Note to self: Must stop constant planning and learn how to relax.

*****

Like most parents, nearly every weekday is about getting up to speed as quickly as possible. Dick hates it. His natural resistance to what he calls “rushing” was instilled in him by his parents, particularly his father. In fact, I think it’s a genetic trait. My in-laws are, perhaps, the slowest risers I’ve ever seen. Many a weekend is spent lounging in pjs until the early afternoon, before the shower, snack and late afternoon naps begin. Mind you, my in-laws are extremely hard working people, but once the weekend hits you’d be hard pressed to see the difference between them in a rush and them relaxing. They operate on a dimmer.

My family, on the other hand, is a bunch of early risers. Farmers made up of whatever rare minerals they put in the food in southern Ohio, it’s not unheard of for my 80 year old grandmother to be up at 4 or 5 a.m. Mind you, she is a widow who lives by herself in a retirement community so what she could possibly have on her to do list that’s so critical it needs to be started when it’s still dark outside, is unknown to me. Me, my mother, and her mother before her – we’re all operating on the on/off switch.

Undoubtedly, my mother (and her naturally conspiratorial nature) would chalk up the fundamental differences in our approach to life as completely related to our upbringing. Dick’s background was the more privileged, white collar one and mine, the less-privileged blue collar one. He was raised with the comfort that only a feeling of entitlement brings to the educated middle-class. But our family was far too poor, oppressed and overworked to embrace the joys of sleeping in or being unproductive for the pure pleasure of it. We had farm animals to feed, socks to mend and laundry to beat against rocks. In, reality, I grew up in a trailer park in Southern California, but we would’ve been beating our laundry on rocks if our trailer hadn’t come with that fancy washing machine in the kitchen.

I don’t think our different philosophies are a simple case of country mouse vs. city mouse. I think it’s something I, and many of us, are guilty of. I’m almost never able to switch off because I am firmly convinced that I am indispensible. Serving as the collective memory and task manager for an entire family is daunting and exhausting and someone’s got to take control! And that someone is me.

My conviction in my own sense of importance allows me to believe that being dim is not a luxury I can afford. Chalk it up to falling victim to gender role stereotypes or chalk it up to our dysfunctional, whacked-out relationship dynamic, but somewhere along the way I took charge and by doing so, afforded Dick my tacit approval to be only as dim or as bright as he wants to be because he’s got me for a partner – always picking up the slack, taking care of the house, the kids, and even the babysitter. He doesn’t need to think of all those annoying little details because I’ve made it clear that his contributions are inferior.

A well-paid therapist once told me that your loved ones only have the power over you that you grant them. It’s true. And when I think about how I’ve channeled all my power into maintaining a constant state of readiness, I also have to admit that I’ve duped myself into believing that all this sacrifice is a requirement of me because of my obviously stunning readiness for the task. Anyone who’s ever lived through a lay-off at the office knows that no one is indispensable. Who am I kidding? Heck, even you who’ve, perhaps, only known me through my writing for the past 6 months would have to agree that I’m far too self-absorbed to completely buy in to the belief that self-sacrifice is its own reward. That’s so not me.

So rather than continue to whine about my lazy husband, I’m going to channel some energy into reclaiming my lost power by refining a more robust power-sharing agreement with my partner. Power sharing will only get me so far, though. I’m going to have to try a little harder to find my inner dimmer switch from time to time and explore the less talked about side of being dim – the bliss that comes with ignorance.

Thanks for being dimmer than I am, Dick.