dar liomsa (in my opinion)

Often when I am struggling with a blog topic, the 11-year old in me, begs to write about other people. You know pajama clad,  dentally challenged people I meet in my daily travels.

I know it's not nice, but it is so easy.

It's my go- to topic that never seems to fail.

It's much better than owning up to whatever challenges I may be facing in my own life.  It's the spoke and mirror trick I like to use to distract from what's really happening.

My daily rants about laundry, dishes, and dinner can grow tiresome.

Complaining about having and caring for three children is trite. I wouldn't trade those three little blog topic inspirations for the world. Sometimes I jokingly complain about the torture they put their father and I through, but it is all in jest. I can't imagine a day without them, also it would make my title of stay-at-home -mom sound rather silly.

I hate when I hear other moms complain about their kids who will soon be home all summer, and where can I find a sleep away camp for them so I don't have to deal. I smile as if I agree, then quietly judge them. Are you for real? You would really ship your kids off for the summer if you had the chance? Soon enough they will be gone for summer and fall and spring and only returning with dirty laundry.

For now, I plane to cherish these summers with my children, with day trips to the beach, the park and anywhere else I can take them.

I may compalin here and there, but only for the sake of this  blog, of course.

 

I'm not sure where or when I started tuning in to people's conversations.

I can't put my finger on the exact  moment it began.

I do recall, at a young age, being intrigued by 'party talk.'

I also recall being quite annoyed, as a young child, when the alcohol was flowing, and the stories  spinning, suddenly being whisked away, sent off to a child's bedroom to play with naked, headless Barbies or rehearse an impromptu skit.

That did not interest  me. I wanted to be with the adults. The roaring laughter, clinking glasses, and loud stories, beckoned. There was 'party talk' happening and I wanted to be a part of it.

I always found my way back to the circle of chatter. Sneaking away from the kiddie group, into the kitchen where smoke rings formed a halo over the grown ups. I elbowed my way through the overflowing ashtrays, glasses filled with ice and brown liquids, an unforgettable atmosphere. I knew how to stay under the radar,  a sleepy head on mom's lap would go unnoticed. The grown ups would spin their stories, not knowing my tiny sponge of a brain was soaking it all in.

Who knew I would one day write about it all?

Now that I am on the other end, now that I am in the grown up circle, I am so onto my children when they attempt ot do the same.

'Children, please leave the table and let mommy finish her story. You've got naked Barbies that need to be clothed.'

Lazy Sunday

Lazy sundays are a welcome gift, after a hectic week of run around, get the kids where they need to be activities.

And by lazy Sunday I mean a day where you can barely muster the energy to drag the trash to the curb, fold the last load of laundry, or clean up the breakfast dishes before the dinner.

A lazy day spent watching your next door neighbor cut the grass, trim the hedges, and wash both vehicles. And you, all wrapped up in your laziness,  try to exhibit your sense of humor by wittily saying, "Hey when you're done there, you can come over and wash my car." To which your neighbor gives an awkward chuckle, as if it's the first time he has heard that un-funny joke.

Then you head back to the couch to finish watching your favorite reality tv marathon as you countdown the hours to the kids' bedtime.

At which time you totally try to convince them, that yes we always go to bed at 7:00 PM on Sundays, duh.

One of those lazy Sundays.

Some things bother us so much, we make our opinion known every chance we get.

Every time we see this bothersome thing, we are reminded how much we are annoyed and we let it out.

And by 'we' I totally mean 'me'.

Of course, I mean me. Who else would I be speaking for?

Don't you love those people who say, 'personally speaking', well how else would you speak, who else's opinion are you able to give, but your own?

So, back to this annoying thing.

Take for example a husband who grows a beard every fall for hunting season.

Each morning I awake, to ugh that beard, I hate that beard. Why don't you just shave that beard?

Complain, nag, whine, day after day.

Until one day, the beard is gone.

Completely shaved. Shaven?

I even complain about the razor stubble in the sink, cursing him as I clean it up.

Yet, I don't actually notice the beard is gone.

I don't, right away, know that the annoying facial hair has been removed.

Yes, it bothered me so much, and now that it's gone, nothing.

Does this happen to you?

Maybe it's just me.

Guilty as charged, I am a chronic complainer, apparently.