Tag Archives: musings

The Joy of Ironing

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Today, I have Tatiana of Wonderland by Tatu as my guest. I have been following her blog for a while and enjoy it very much.

Tatiana graduated from the University of Brighton, UK with a bachelors in Management & Travel and worked as the Sales Manager at her father’s travel agency for 8 years. She left the agency a couple months before her first child was born. Tatiana and her husband N. have two children. The family lives in the suburbs of Athens.

She began blogging last August 2012. Her original intent was to share her crafts and recipes. However, her life took a bit of a turn, and she now writes about more personal everyday topics and finds it therapeutic and cleansing.
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In my previous (before kids) life, N. & I worked long hours and didn’t spend much time at home (apart from the weekends). Furthermore, the mess we created in a week was infinitely small in regards to THE MESS my kids create on a daily basis.

I am more than thankful for the cleaning fairy who comes once a week and tries to put my house back together. What she manages to do in 7 hours has earned my complete trust and utter respect. She has magic powers to make my house look impeccable. (By the way, please note if you are a friend feel free to visit us anytime. However, if you are a stranger and would like to be my friend, please schedule your visit us for Tuesdays after 3pm.)

Unfortunately her magic powers (and time) are used up before she has a chance to iron and therefore the much hated housework duty is left to me. I don’t consider myself to be an ironing geek or particularly talented in this field (my Greek grandmother would probably turn in her grave if she could see what I call ‘ironed’). So, I have decided that my time is too precious to waste on ironing everything, except for two things: N’s shirts & the family’s bedsheets (if you are an ironing freak please ignore the last sentence). You get the picture, right?

Woman IroningCourtesy of Google.com

Woman Ironing
Courtesy of Google.com

Being a stay at home mom and attending to my kids 24/7 has made me reconsider many things. In fact, sometimes I feel like a totally different person. I have matured and evolved as a person and my priorities have dramatically changed. Prior to being a mother, I was ignorant enough to think I had it all figured out because I had three adorable nieces whom I saw and spent time with for a couple of hours a couple times a week. HA! Please feel free to laugh. I couldn’t understand why Alex (my sister) was so absolute in denying me visitation rights when I came down with a cold. ‘So what?’ I thought to myself. Another thing I never understood was that there were times she wanted to flee the house and go do anything other than take care of her kids. ‘How could she?’ ‘They are so adorable’ I thought.

Well, I have stopped being such a-know-it-all considering motherhood bliss. Now, when reality punches me in the face, I often think back. You seem to know everything better up until the moment you go through a similar situation yourself.

I might not work anymore but I feel I am doing a pretty hard job at raising these kids 24/7. When I have to spend Mondays to Fridays practically alone (N. has been working a lot) I overdose on my kids. I am sorry but it is true. I need my time off. Everyone does. Therefore I wait for the weekend in full anticipation like any other working human being. I need to unwind and think of something else other than the kids. I never thought a time would come when I would say these words: ‘Sorry honey, I would rather iron.’

A Family Hike

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Last week my family and I went on a hike. Our different personalities come through on our hikes. So, I give you my family on a hike.

SJ

SJ (our 6 year old) is not quite your prototypical hiker. He is chunky, tires quickly, and is very content to watch television and play with his trains. He is, however, a good trooper and enjoys playing outside, so he is ultimately game for a hike.

Every time we take a hike I worry that at some point I will be carrying SJ. That was not a big deal when he was three and thirty five pounds but when last weighed, he registered 80 – the typical weight for a 10 year old.

My worries went unfounded. SJ showed great determination and finished the 2.5 mile hike all on his own. He asked to be carried a couple of times but instead gutted it out. In fact he kept repeating, “I am strong I am brave.”  I was proud of my little big guy.

BR

BR (who turns 9 on Tuesday) has never requested we go on a hike, and I am not sure he ever will. Yet, he seems to enjoy the hikes each time. I can imagine him being very into hiking when he is an adult.

At this point the future hiker enjoys finding walking sticks and insists on being first. What a typical first born!

BR moved briskly through the hike. While we took breaks, he never seemed to need one. His one goal seems to finish as fast as possible. Throughout the hike, BR told me repeatedly, “I’m doing things the hard way.” Then he would climb under a fallen tree, or over a massive branch, or through a space that were not meant to be gotten through.

BR leading SJ & me along the trail. Photography credit: Wife

ME

I feel no need to look at the map. I am content to simply follow the trail. I always start our hikes very energetic and think that we are making great time. Then, I am convinced the hike must be longer than what we were told because there is no way it could be taking this long. In fact, on the hike last week, I had SJ looking out for our car 20 minutes too early.

I have the job of facilitator.  I need to make sure BR does not get too far ahead. I need to make sure SJ and my wife are close behind. In addition, I need to be there to provide a hand should one be required.

WIFE

My wife searches out where to go hiking and is ultimately the map holder. Each hike always has at least one time where my wife whips out the map. I am sure based on the look of panic in her fact that during this moment of uncertainty my wife gives us no better than 50-50 odds of ever finding our way back to the car. I refuse to look despite her insistence and instead ask her afterwards what she learned from the map.

She is also the one who determines when we will take a break (unless SJ demands a drink). This only makes sense as she packs the snacks.

Another one of her jobs – self-appointed – is the photographer. She loves to take pictures and insists on cataloging every meaningful moment, attractive scene that comes along. The rest of us moan about it but then want to see the pictures.

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There you have my Swiss Family Robinson. Nature lovers we are. Maybe we should get rid of the car and hike everywhere. Naaah.

 

Old House, New House

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Today I have a guest post from a blogger whom I have been following for a while. No, I don’t mean in the stalker way. That blogger is Jessie Clemence, a talented writer. I look forward to her posts as her range of topics is so diverse. However, she often comes back to sharing bits of her odd self.

Jessie blogs from southwestern Michigan, where she lives with her husband and two children. She writes about parenting, marriage, and faith, all from a slightly nutty perspective. She has written a book on motherhood and faith titled There’s a Green Plastic Monkey in My Purse, which will be released on March 2, 2013.
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When our daughter was a baby, my husband and I bought our first house. The three of us moved into the tiny little farmhouse and were happy as clams for several years. Never mind that the washer and dryer were in the kitchen, European-style. Never mind that the basement was perfect for a horror movie, or that the stairs wound upward in a spiral, too tight to fit much furniture and terribly dangerous for toddlers. We made it work. We even had our second child and tucked him into the cozy space with us. Really, babies don’t need much space. Their clothes are tiny, they have itty-bitty shoes, and they are happy to snatch all the toys their siblings already own.
But when our son turned about four, things became overwhelming. Suddenly he had big versions of everything his sister already had. We found ourselves with multiple pairs of snow boots, snow pants, and winter coats. Toys spilled out of tiny bedrooms and covered the living room floor. Books covered every horizontal surface. Our stuff, even the stuff we needed to live, was smothering us. The children grew physically, and their friends with them. Having a group of kids over was like trying to fit a pack of dinosaurs into an elementary gymnasium. The floor shook, and the walls vibrated.
We hit our limit this past summer and made drastic plans. We had a new house built and rented out the old one. I am deeply grateful for every inch of this new house. The lovely basement has carpet, sun-filled windows, and space to shoo the children when they get rambunctious. We can have a sleepover for ten girls with room to spare if I ever get up my nerve for such a thing. A bubble of giddiness wells up every time I go to the utility room with a load of laundry. I no longer have to worry that the cookies will be infected by dirty socks somehow.
And yet, there are things about our tiny old house that sneak up and surprise me with longing. I miss the way the cement of the front porch felt on my bare feet when the summer sun warmed it up. I miss the bathroom window that I used to crack open for fresh air, even in the cold of January. Come spring, I will long for the beautiful, fertile dirt of my old flower gardens. I lived with those small blessings for so long that they worked their way into me somehow, and now I find myself without them.
Well, I guess I’m not really without them. I can still remember what they felt like, and being thankful to have experienced them means I still have them in some fashion. And I know that as I live in this new house over the years I will grow attached to it. I will work the dirt, I will feel the fresh air through the windows, and it too will become part of me. I pray my heart will always be tender enough to let new things become a part of me, and grateful for the things that are already there.

Handing it Down

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Today, I have a very special guest post. After many invitations, my wife, Ms. MMK has agreed to provide a blog post. I think it was easier to get her to marry me.

A little background if I may. My wife and I were set up through mutual friends. For our first date, we agreed to meet at a restaurant in Manhattan. Every time my wife recalls how we met, she jokes that when she walked up to the restaurant I was talking to a homeless woman. “Who knows things might have worked out for you two if I was late?” Ha ha ha.

While I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation with the homeless woman, I do recall what Sara and I talked about. We found that we had some common interests including writing. She did and still does work as a science writer for the National MS Society.

I have great respect for Sara’s writing and editing capabilities. I remember the first time I asked for her opinion and review of something I wrote. It was a cover letter for a job application. We disagreed on nearly everything. Not quite a match made in heaven.

Well, since then, I ask for her opinion and review of everything I write. And I wisely defer to her.

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I played about four games of chess with B.R. this weekend. I won all of them. I’m not used to that sensation.
The last man I played chess with was my Dad. He put the “R” in B.R., unfortunately, when he died 25 years ago. My Dad was the kind of smart that you don’t get in books – the kind of smart that thrives in figuring things out, making broken stuff work again. I lost every game except one – that’s when I knew that the brain tumor that had wrapped itself around his spinal cord had gone too far. I remember that moment so clearly because I felt so damn sad.
Fortunately, I’ve lost to B.R. for less painful reasons. Sometimes because I’m not focusing, sometimes because he’s that good. It’s weird to have this connection with him, because it’s not the one I expected to have with my children. You see, I was supposed to have quiet little girls who were awesome in school – goody two shoes, even. Excuse me while I snort with laughter. My two boys – B.R. & S.J.- literally remind me of that comedian who screams out all his jokes. I gesture to them in futility as if I’m turning down a radio, “Turn down the volume!” Sometimes it actually works.
You might be saying at this point, “Chess is a quiet, well-behaved sport. So if your son plays chess, how loud could that be?” Ha! You’ve never played chess with the ultimate chess-trash-talker – that would be B.R. Here’s a snippet.
“So that’s your move, huh…I’ll show you MY move…Take that, Queen! [the queen gets knocked off the table at this point, struck violently by the castle]…You think you got me with your pawn? Well I got YOU with my bishop…ha! You think you’re so smart coming at me with your horse…I’ll show YOU a horse move…..”
It just goes on. And on. And you have to see him in action. My little B.R. – in constant motion even when the ADHD medicine is high in his system – fingers winding up as he decides his next move, taunting me like we’re meeting in cleats on the 50-yard line of the Superdome. Sometimes he gets so wrapped up in it that I have to shout, “B! What’s your move?!”

I didn’t teach him chess – B.R. had one lesson from an ambitious aunt on Larry’s side of the family, and I played my first game with him one week later. He had retained all the rules – quite a feat for an 8-year-old, or for that matter, an any-year-old. He has yet to develop my Dad’s strategizing ways, but he’ll get there, I’m sure.
My connections with my two boys spring up when I least expect them. I like to think as I play with B.R. that my Dad’s expansive and intuitive mind is landing in my son. I’ll take it, even if it comes with a badass mouth.