Say it again.
I've been feeling guilty lately.
Guilty that I've been working really hard and I'm so tired at the end of the day that I don't have it in me to re-enact Cinderella 3/play Polly Pockets/play peekaboo/or whatever other thing my girls would like to do at the end of the day.
Guilty that I've been bringing home a lot of carryout and not making dinner because I haven't had time to go the grocery store for nearly two weeks.
Guilty that I pass out on the couch at, like, 9:30 every Friday night because I'm just kind of fried from the week.
Guilty that I cringe every time I get a call from a certain client because I know it will be another new project or meeting that is great for business, but no so great for having a life.
Even guilty that I hadn't been writing in this blog.
And then I realized that I was just wasting my time.
There is no mother on earth who doesn't feel guilty about the choices she makes every day. If you work you feel guilty that you aren't at home more. If you have to leave work early during a really busy time to do something with your kids, then you feel guilty about that too. Heck, sometimes you even feel guilty about not feeling guilty.
But here's the thing I realized: no one is making me feel guilty except me. And even though I've been somewhat mentally consumed by a) work and b) guilt, the people around me are getting on with their lives. Grace thinks she's hit the jackpot because I let her watch Cinderella 3 for two nights in a row. Lauren is just fine playing with blocks by herself for a while. And Chad? Well, he's had a few Friday nights to watch a movie that I wouldn't have wanted to watch anyway.
Guilt is insidious. It's a living thing that, if we let it take hold, will prevent us from living in the moment, enjoying what we have and letting go of the things we can't control. A little guilt is good. It keeps us from checking our e-mail on Saturday when we should really be taking a walk with the kids. But too much can distort your view of reality. And no matter what extra stresses you may be experiencing right now, they will pass. And your kids will still turn out just fine. It's not our job to be 24/7 entertainment for them anyway.
So sing it with....Guilt...unh... what is it good for? Absolutely nuthin, say it again....
Monday, May 7, 2007
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
I'm at work right now and that 80s song "Our House" is on the radio. (We listen to internet-streaming radio all day, and not that crappy lite rock stuff that's approved of in most offices. We listen to some crazy stuff, and good stuff, and old stuff and sometimes my partner Chris likes to play latin music that makes me feel like I'm at Don Pablo's. But I digress.) You know how songs can call up a specific time and place in your mind? Here's the visual that, for me, always goes with this song:
A guinea pig funeral.
Yep. A funeral. For a guinea pig.
I was about 9 or so and I was going on a weekend trip with my somewhat friend Hillary to her family's lake house. But the first stop was a couple days at her house in Fort Wayne. This was my first real trip away from home with people who weren't my family and, frankly, once I got there I was not too excited about it. For one thing, Hillary was a raging brat, a fact that I couldn't help but notice even at age 9. For another, I was worried about what we would be eating because I was a fairly picky eater. I wrote in my diary my first night there that I really wanted to go home. (My diary!? Who travels with a diary when they're 9? What a dork.)
On the second day we went to the Fort Wayne mall, which, much to my surprise, had an ice skating rink inside. I still have the scar on my thumb from nearly shutting it into one of those lockers where you have to shut the door and pull the key out at the same time. So after an afternoon of skating and looking at earrings at Claire's we went back to her house only to find that Hillary's guinea pig had passed to the great beyond. Hillary was distraught. I could have cared less, but I was the guest, so I had to go along with the tragic grief.
We ended up out in the back yard with the guinea pig in a shoe box and the family (and me) standing in a circle around its tiny little grave. And here's where the music comes in. Up to that point I'd never been to anyone's house where they had speakers that played music OUTSIDE. Like, whatever was on the stereo in the house was piped outside. They seemed rich beyond imagination to me. I mean, not only did they live by a mall with an ice skating rink inside, they also had a lake house that we would be going to soon AND speakers that played music out in the back yard!
We had a swing set that wasn't anchored in concrete and a membership to the Moose pool.
"Our House" was on the radio during the funeral proceedings and I distinctly remember thinking that maybe I'd better not sing along during the actual funeral, even though it was one of my favorite songs.
Along with the gift of having an eternal link in my mind between "Our House" and a guinea pig funeral, there were a few other things I picked up from that trip:
• a love for Golden Grahams cereal
• the knowledge that I really don't want to eat venison again
• the ability to water ski
All in all, not a bad trip.
A guinea pig funeral.
Yep. A funeral. For a guinea pig.
I was about 9 or so and I was going on a weekend trip with my somewhat friend Hillary to her family's lake house. But the first stop was a couple days at her house in Fort Wayne. This was my first real trip away from home with people who weren't my family and, frankly, once I got there I was not too excited about it. For one thing, Hillary was a raging brat, a fact that I couldn't help but notice even at age 9. For another, I was worried about what we would be eating because I was a fairly picky eater. I wrote in my diary my first night there that I really wanted to go home. (My diary!? Who travels with a diary when they're 9? What a dork.)
On the second day we went to the Fort Wayne mall, which, much to my surprise, had an ice skating rink inside. I still have the scar on my thumb from nearly shutting it into one of those lockers where you have to shut the door and pull the key out at the same time. So after an afternoon of skating and looking at earrings at Claire's we went back to her house only to find that Hillary's guinea pig had passed to the great beyond. Hillary was distraught. I could have cared less, but I was the guest, so I had to go along with the tragic grief.
We ended up out in the back yard with the guinea pig in a shoe box and the family (and me) standing in a circle around its tiny little grave. And here's where the music comes in. Up to that point I'd never been to anyone's house where they had speakers that played music OUTSIDE. Like, whatever was on the stereo in the house was piped outside. They seemed rich beyond imagination to me. I mean, not only did they live by a mall with an ice skating rink inside, they also had a lake house that we would be going to soon AND speakers that played music out in the back yard!
We had a swing set that wasn't anchored in concrete and a membership to the Moose pool.
"Our House" was on the radio during the funeral proceedings and I distinctly remember thinking that maybe I'd better not sing along during the actual funeral, even though it was one of my favorite songs.
Along with the gift of having an eternal link in my mind between "Our House" and a guinea pig funeral, there were a few other things I picked up from that trip:
• a love for Golden Grahams cereal
• the knowledge that I really don't want to eat venison again
• the ability to water ski
All in all, not a bad trip.
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