Monthly Archives: March 2017

It’s just a house

When we moved nearly five years ago, we said, “UGH.  We’re never moving AGAIN.”  At least until the kids are off to college.  When we moved from the city to the suburbs in complete stereotypical fashion, we encountered all the problems one encounters when one moves.  Our house sold before we had one to move into.  We had to move in with a generous friend.  For more than just a few weeks.  Our first house fell through.  We had to search again. When we found this house, the appraisal came in low. All the things.  It was hard, to say the least.  Our realtor and family were kind and accommodating, but shit.  We were never doing that again.  Unless, I always modified, something happened.

That something in my head was always my spouse losing his job.  I don’t know why I went to this tragic place, for he is smart, kind, and unmatched in his integrity. Nevertheless, I always modified.  It never occurred to me the modification would come true, yet in a different form.

As the stay-at-home-parent, I feel like my spouse bought me this house.  It’s tragically old-fashioned, but I not only talked him into it, I also had zero income of my own at the time.  It was everything I thought I wanted.  Our home in the suburbs is large, with many bedrooms, almost an acre, and an attached garage.  (Does a more wonderful perk exist in these northern winters?) There is a pond.  Not a koi pond, artificial and round, but an actual large pond with ducks, geese, frogs, and skating in the winter.  It’s idyllic, really.

This week, my “dream home” will go on the market.

Because something happened.  My perfect spouse did not lose his job, as I feared. My mom died.  And she had a perfectly lovely mortgage-free house in my home town.  Having recently completed Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace University, we were looking forward to the day when we wouldn’t have a mortgage.  And now, bittersweet though it is, we have that opportunity.

We had always talked about moving home (mine, not his, though he lived there for nine years as he earned two degrees from the local university), but it didn’t seem realistic.  The niche market in which he works didn’t make it easy to imagine a future outside of the Twin Cities Metro.  But it’s happening.

Our kids will go to the same schools I attended as a girl.  The same public pool only a few blocks away.  Most of my family is still there and many of my friends.  It’s exciting and scary and beautiful and so, so very sad.  My mom died, and I’m going to go live in her house.

We are downsizing, 3,200 square feet down to 1,400.  Our 1998 modern home exchanged for an 1898 fixer-upper.  Fix it up we will, too, with a new kitchen, bath, mudroom, windows, siding.  Soup to nuts. We have a contractor we trust, and my spouse is as handy as he is cute. We will make another home together, our third in twelve years.  As someone who never moved as a kid, it is strange to me that our oldest is about to live in her third home.  My spouse never moved either; his mom still lives in his childhood home and has lived there now for almost 60 years. My mom topped out at 46 years in her home.  I have to keep telling myself, “It’s just a house.”

I cry every time I’m in the neighborhood of our old house.  I’m sure I’ll do the same with this one.  Because there are SUCH good memories.  But you know where else there are good memories? Every place in the world.  And with fewer bills to pay, we can travel more as a family.  We can have experiences instead of things.  That’s the real dream.

7 Ways to Find Focus While Working from Home

7 Ways to Find Focus While Working from Home

Please provide them in the comments section.  This is not a list.  This is a plea for help.

I’ve been an at-home parent for more than six years now, but I’ve only been a WORKING-at-home parent for two. Obviously I worked before, but on kid and house and dog and volunteer stuff.  When my obligation is to someone else, easy-peasy.  But as I had to find ways to parcel out my time to make room for business work, it got super hard.

I’ve found my way.  I’m not a total failure.  But I find myself making excuses way too often.  And I hate excuses.  I used to be a high school teacher.  I’ve heard alllllllllllllll the excuses.  I met my sister this morning, and I was nearly twenty minutes late.  Last week, I was fifteen.  The week before, ten maybe? But this morning I said, out loud, “I totally have a good excuse this time: my alarm didn’t go off.”  Which is true, but only because I use my cell phone as an alarm and it had gone dead.  Whose fault is that? Not plugging in her cell phone? Mine, you say? Interesting.

My alarm didn’t go off.  Absolutely juvenile.  It’s embarrassing.  Which is precisely why I’m writing about it: I need your help.  I can get time here and there, but each time I attempt an actual schedule, sticking to it is near impossible.  This needs to be done.  That takes priority.  Facebook beckons.  The three-year-old wants attention.  Kids.  Actually, that’s a list I CAN provide.

7 Ways to Distract Your 3yo So He’ll Let You Do Some MFing Work

  1. Paw Patrol. Obv.
  2. Play-Doh. Worth the clean-up time.
  3. Bouncy house. You think I jest, but ours is in the basement.
  4. A box. Tape it shut.  Just kidding! A box and masking tape.  Let him go nuts.  Worth the cost of tape, trust me.
  5. Cotton balls. As long as he doesn’t eat them, endless fun.
  6. Tell him you’ve hidden coins all over the house. Hide only one or two, so he thinks there’s hope.
  7. Actually spend some quality time with him.

Honestly, the last one works the best.  I frequently set the oven timer.  “Twenty minutes of play time, then twenty minutes [read: 40] of work time.”

Seriously. How cute are they? How’d I get so lucky?

But I don’t even blame the kiddos.  They are the REASON I work, not the excuse why I can’t.  In fact, my least productive times are when they aren’t around.  Because there’s SO much else I can be doing.  A list of household tasks more easily accomplished when kids aren’t around: all of them.

Other WAHPs, how DO you do it? Share your wisdom.

I’ve just outed myself as wild and carefree

So, picture me, driving at dusk, on a major freeway.  I’m free of children and husband, headed toward an important business meeting, which is also kind of social, because I only work with people I like.  I jam out when I drive.  Tunes are cranked, and you can bet I sing along.  I also dance.  Those people who dance behind the wheel? I’m one of those people. I was also driving my husband’s car, which is sportier and zippier than my mom-wagon, so I was feeling wild and free.  I mean, within reason.  I’m still ME.

I’m approaching my exit and this car rolls up next to me and matches my speed.  Now, as an excellent driver, I am super annoyed by not excellent drivers.   “Why are you matching my speed!?!?” Grrrrrrrr.  “Just PASS me already!” They were on my left, so it’s not like they were annoyed with my perfectly reasonable 65.  I refused to look over and make eye contact.

The thing about the car-as-personal-recording-studio is creepers.  When I’m at a stoplight and I’ve been “caught” rockin’ out to the Sing soundtrack with my kids, I often get the creeper stare.  This is different than the “I feel you” stare, which is total solidarity. The creeper stare is smarmy, gross, insinuating.  I’ve just outed myself as wild and carefree with my sweet steering wheel moves, so innuendo finds its way into the creeper stare.  I avoid it at all costs.

So, I’m approaching my exit and this jackass is still matching my speed.  I will not look.  My exit is almost here.  But then that joke of a driver CUTS ME OFF and takes my exit right in front of me! “Are you LOST are something!??!” WTH.  Fine.  We didn’t collide.  Whatever.  Stoplight at this exit.  Creeper turns left with me.  Goes REALLY slowly.  “So lost.  What an idiot.  Get a GPS, dude.”  Approaching next stoplight.  Creeper is weaving between the lanes to stay in front of me.  All I can think now is that I need to just get past this crazy person.  Another stoplight.  Creeper stops a good twenty yards before the light.  I see this as my opportunity to get past. Creeper creeps up on me AGAIN.  Green light.  I go.  Hard.  “I just have to lose this whackadoo.” Another red light.  For the love of Pete.  This time, Creeper almost hits me, as he crosses the center line to stop me.  Window is rolled down. Hand motions are active.

It’s not a creeper.  It’s a woman.  She is smiling and kind.  Waving frantically, but still kind-faced.  I roll my window down, agape.

Her:  “HONEY! Your lights aren’t on!”

Me: “OHMYGODTHANKYOU!!!!!!!!!!”

Her: “You’re welcome!”

Me: [weird stare as she has no idea what I’ve been thinking for the last four minutes]

It’s a black car. With no lights. It’s some kind of miracle I didn’t get hit. (Kids just for cuteness factor.)

At the next stoplight, she hangs a U-turn.  As I silently curse the auto technician who changed the lights on my husband’s car that afternoon from Auto to Off, the whole realization starts to sweep over me.  She just turned around.  And headed back to the freeway.  My creeper was actually my savior.  She LEFT the freeway, diverting herself what ended up being probably eight to ten minutes, almost crashed into me, just to SAVE MY SORRY ASS from either getting a ticket or in an accident.

Holy Hannah. Not only did I want to chase her down (I didn’t; talk about creeper) to thank her, I was so mad at myself.  When had this become the default? When did I start assuming the worst in people? I was so damn sure that person creeping on me and weaving all over the damn place was a weirdo who needed a map or some manners. But the whole time, she was trying to help me.  And if I just would’ve looked over on the freeway, I would’ve known that.  And saved her the trouble.  But she WENT to the trouble anyway.  So, to the woman on the freeway, who chased me down to warn me my lights weren’t on, thank you.  Thank you for being so good that you went out of your way to serve a stranger.  Thank you for persisting, as I very obviously tried to shirk you. Thank you for reminding me to assume the GOOD in people, instead of the worst.

I wonder if she didn’t go to the extra effort because she was impressed with my sick beats? I look reallllly good when I’m rockin’ out.  She must’ve seen the wild look in my eyes indicating a recent break from domestic captivity.  She knew I needed some guidance.  Thanks, freeway friend.