Punky had an overdue milestone moment this weekend: her first sleepover.
Alone. Well, not alone alone. Just without me.
And she liked it.
My sister really enticed her. She set up a cool tent in the living room for an indoor camp out, complete with a bouncy air mattress and two crazy cousins begging her to stay. I wasn't sure she'd go for it, and she hesitated right up till the last second, but finally decided to give it a shot. She ultimately ended up in her aunt's bed early the next morning, but she made it through the night with no tears, no fears, and no phone calls begging me to come get her at three a.m.
I'm not going to lie: leaving her for the night was tough.
Yes, I know she's four. Yes, I know she was with my sister, not some stranger off the street. Yes, I know my nephew and niece have spent the night at my house many times. But I've never spent the night without her. She still sleeps with me often, and when she doesn't I still wake to check on her at least once a night, if not twice. Sometimes even three times.
Her dad's rotating work schedule means Punky and I are alone together more often than not. She's really attached to me, and I to her. I love that we have such a close relationship and I hope it always stays that way. Maybe it will keep her from locking herself in her room and totally ignoring me when those dreaded teen years hit. Okay, probably not, but I can hope.
I figured I wouldn't sleep a wink without her under the same roof, but my sister loaded me up on port wine before I left. Two glasses later I was warm, fuzzy, and having trouble keeping my eyes open. I was asleep in no time flat. I didn't even wake up once during the night to worry about my little peanut. Come morning, I felt a bit guilty for sleeping so soundly.
I'm so proud of her for making it through the night, but I must admit I was happy to hear she asked for me first thing in the morning. Baby steps, people, baby steps.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Workin' for a Livin'
Ah, work. The topic I shy away from more than any other in this blog.
Lately it's been causing me some fairly high stress levels and quite frankly it's starting to piss me off. It was even the main cause of my few-and-far-between posts towards the end of the year. While it's true I struggled with writing most of last year as I waded through what I considered a mid-life crisis at its finest, work sealed the deal in the final months. I was writing at home almost every night for weeks, but obviously not on this blog.
On November 1st, a drastic price hike on a raw material sent my boss and those above him just reeling. Before I could say boo, I was leading a team of plant managers, supervisors, and production planners on a project with one specific goal: to reduce our costs come hell or high water. Time was of the essence and I had to turn in the final report before Christmas. My initial response to his request was shear panic, but I rose to the challenge, met the deadline, and actually really enjoyed the ride.
My current position doesn't allow for much of the work I truly enjoy doing. I love analysis, I love problem solving, I love burying myself in data and sorting my way to the answer one long, complicated spreadsheet at a time. In fact, that's exactly what I was originally hired to do. When the loss of business resulted in some restructuring almost three years ago, I was moved into a different position that can mostly be described in one word: dull. It's littered with repetitive daily tasks that require very little brain power, if any. There is a whole world of issues and problems that can be tackled in relation to my position, however I don't have the power to do any of it. I'd say 90% of my current job can adequately be performed by a high school dropout whose only previous work experience involves some sort of fast-food uniform.
Once I settled into this position a few months in, it was actually a breath of fresh air for a while. Punky was only eighteen months old at the time. I was still struggling to find the right balance between my role as a parent and the demands of working outside the home. Once my job suddenly required less focus, less attention to detail, and less stress and aggravation, it became easier to achieve that balance. Work simply became work. Just a job and nothing more. I did what I needed to do from eight to five and easily left it all behind me when the day was done. I had more energy, clarity, and patience to tackle the really important things in life, and I was okay with that. For a while.
It's funny because my former boss warned me that a year into this position I would be bored to tears. It actually took about a year and a half - six months to learn all I needed to, and then a full year bask in its mundanity. Given that it's now just two months shy of three years in this job, I can safely say I'm over it and the point really hit home on the heels of this recent project. For two months straight I was up to my eyeballs in analysis, research, organization, meetings, and writing the report. I was busy. I had to think. I had to focus. I was reminded how I always do my best work under pressure, and just how long it had been since I've felt any on the work front. The whole experience was so refreshing, so invigorating, and so satisfying.
Come January, it was back to business as usual. And it brought with it feelings of dread and discontent. Since business still hasn't improved much, I fear I'll be stuck in this seat forever.
Some people experience a seven-year itch in relationships; I tend to suffer a five-year itch when it comes to employment. December marked my five year anniversary with this company, and recent events have ignited the itch. It's conflicting, really. Half of my brain is calling me an idiot. Why do I want more stress? Why do I want work to consume so much of my life again? I'm getting a decent salary without having to over-exert myself. Why do I need to think so much anyway?
The other half of my brain is yearning to do more. It's simply not satisfied with the boring, daily routine. It wants to make a difference. It wants to think outside the box again. It wants to be used, and challenged, and exhausted at the end of the work day.
One half needs to shut up. I'm not sure which yet. I wish business would pick up and settle the argument for me. If I continue to wallow in this state of mind, a career change is eminent. And as much as I'd love a new opportunity, starting over sucks. Period.
Lately it's been causing me some fairly high stress levels and quite frankly it's starting to piss me off. It was even the main cause of my few-and-far-between posts towards the end of the year. While it's true I struggled with writing most of last year as I waded through what I considered a mid-life crisis at its finest, work sealed the deal in the final months. I was writing at home almost every night for weeks, but obviously not on this blog.
On November 1st, a drastic price hike on a raw material sent my boss and those above him just reeling. Before I could say boo, I was leading a team of plant managers, supervisors, and production planners on a project with one specific goal: to reduce our costs come hell or high water. Time was of the essence and I had to turn in the final report before Christmas. My initial response to his request was shear panic, but I rose to the challenge, met the deadline, and actually really enjoyed the ride.
My current position doesn't allow for much of the work I truly enjoy doing. I love analysis, I love problem solving, I love burying myself in data and sorting my way to the answer one long, complicated spreadsheet at a time. In fact, that's exactly what I was originally hired to do. When the loss of business resulted in some restructuring almost three years ago, I was moved into a different position that can mostly be described in one word: dull. It's littered with repetitive daily tasks that require very little brain power, if any. There is a whole world of issues and problems that can be tackled in relation to my position, however I don't have the power to do any of it. I'd say 90% of my current job can adequately be performed by a high school dropout whose only previous work experience involves some sort of fast-food uniform.
Once I settled into this position a few months in, it was actually a breath of fresh air for a while. Punky was only eighteen months old at the time. I was still struggling to find the right balance between my role as a parent and the demands of working outside the home. Once my job suddenly required less focus, less attention to detail, and less stress and aggravation, it became easier to achieve that balance. Work simply became work. Just a job and nothing more. I did what I needed to do from eight to five and easily left it all behind me when the day was done. I had more energy, clarity, and patience to tackle the really important things in life, and I was okay with that. For a while.
It's funny because my former boss warned me that a year into this position I would be bored to tears. It actually took about a year and a half - six months to learn all I needed to, and then a full year bask in its mundanity. Given that it's now just two months shy of three years in this job, I can safely say I'm over it and the point really hit home on the heels of this recent project. For two months straight I was up to my eyeballs in analysis, research, organization, meetings, and writing the report. I was busy. I had to think. I had to focus. I was reminded how I always do my best work under pressure, and just how long it had been since I've felt any on the work front. The whole experience was so refreshing, so invigorating, and so satisfying.
Come January, it was back to business as usual. And it brought with it feelings of dread and discontent. Since business still hasn't improved much, I fear I'll be stuck in this seat forever.
Some people experience a seven-year itch in relationships; I tend to suffer a five-year itch when it comes to employment. December marked my five year anniversary with this company, and recent events have ignited the itch. It's conflicting, really. Half of my brain is calling me an idiot. Why do I want more stress? Why do I want work to consume so much of my life again? I'm getting a decent salary without having to over-exert myself. Why do I need to think so much anyway?
The other half of my brain is yearning to do more. It's simply not satisfied with the boring, daily routine. It wants to make a difference. It wants to think outside the box again. It wants to be used, and challenged, and exhausted at the end of the work day.
One half needs to shut up. I'm not sure which yet. I wish business would pick up and settle the argument for me. If I continue to wallow in this state of mind, a career change is eminent. And as much as I'd love a new opportunity, starting over sucks. Period.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
The Valentine Tattoo of Death
Sometimes I simply don't understand my child. Once in a while I allow myself to smugly think I have her all figured out, and then she does something so unexpected that for a brief second I have absolutely no clue who she even is.
On the heels of her big Valentine's party at school, I could tell she was on a bit of a sugar high when I finally picked her up after work. As we sat and ate dinner together, we read all the Valentines she got and separated the candy and trinkets into containers. Mixed in with the pile of cards, lollipops, tootsie rolls, pencils, candy hearts, and rubber bracelets, we found several temporary tattoos. She thought they were stickers at first and I tried to explain the difference.
After dinner I innocently asked if she'd like me to put one of the tattoos on her leg. From her reaction, you'd think I asked if I could chop her leg off with a butter knife.
Anyone reading along knows that 'fearless' is a term I've used often to describe Punky. She is not afraid of, well, anything. As a baby she wasn't too keen on her bare feet touching the grass and that's about the biggest fear I've seen her exhibit in the last four years. She's not intimidated by people, she's never been scared of the doctor, she has no fear of water or jumping into swimming pools ten feet deep, she hugged and kissed the totally scary and disgusting zombie dummy her dad made for a Halloween decoration this year, she happily rode every single amusement park ride she's been tall enough to ride thus far, she has no fear of heights, no fear of speed, no fear of monsters, no fear of the dark, and normally no fear whatsoever to try something new. She's never even had a nightmare that's scared her enough to wake me up in the middle of the night.
Yet, for whatever reason, she carried on like I was trying to kill her when I suggested the tattoo thing, and I spent the next hour trying to calm her down and reason the fear out of her little head. At one point, she actually ran in her room and hid under her covers. She was genuinely terrified, and crying, and begging me not to do it. And I was fairly clueless on how to handle the whole situation. I'd never seen her so scared, and let's be honest, fearing a temporary tattoo is simply absurd.
I finally decided to take the 'lead by example' approach and put one of the tattoos on my right calf. She watched in total horror, like I would drop dead at any second, and ran out of the room the minute I pulled the paper off to reveal the little car on my leg. She refused to look at it, all the blood drained from her face when I had the nerve to suggest she touch it, and she sternly instructed me to keep it away from her.
I had no choice but to accept complete failure on this parenting challenge and admit defeat. All the reasoning in the world wasn't landing in her head and putting one on myself made the situation worse, not better. I even attempted bribery: unlimited candy consumption for the rest of the night. She wouldn't even bite when I offered to fork over the rest of the money to buy the American Girl doll she's been saving for so diligently. I threw in the towel.
I gave her a big hug and solemnly swore I would never bring up the tattoo topic again. I assured her it was her body and she has every right to dictate what others are allowed to do to it (that message can't be reinforced enough in my opinion), and also reminded her that she can trust her mommy wholeheartedly, and that I would never, ever, ever do anything to hurt her, and that I would never lie to her. And I couldn't resist telling her that I hope she remembers this tattoo discussion when she's a teenager and decides she wants a real one. Hey, something good has to come from this, right?
She stopped crying and we got on with what was left of our evening. I sat down to pay some bills and she lost herself in the world of Barbie dolls currently taking over our entire living room floor. About twenty minutes later, she was at my side.
"Mommy?" she asked in her sweet 'I want something' tone. "Can you put a tattoo on me now?"
This is one of those moments in parenting where you struggle to resist the urge to stab yourself in the eye with a fork while verbally expressing utter pride and encouragement for your child's sudden burst of bravery.
The tattoo application went off without a hitch. It didn't hurt, sting, burn, or result in the loss of a limb as Punky previously envisioned. In fact, she requested another. And another. I drew the line at three and she happily danced around in the living room, flailing her inked arms this way and that way, and she instructed me to choose a short-sleeve shirt for school tomorrow so she could show off her pretty arms.
I have no clue what caused her abrupt change of mind, but I'm glad she found the courage to face and conquer her fear. It's a valuable lesson that will serve her well in the future, even if it means begging and pleading with her not to get a real tattoo when she's a teenager.
On the heels of her big Valentine's party at school, I could tell she was on a bit of a sugar high when I finally picked her up after work. As we sat and ate dinner together, we read all the Valentines she got and separated the candy and trinkets into containers. Mixed in with the pile of cards, lollipops, tootsie rolls, pencils, candy hearts, and rubber bracelets, we found several temporary tattoos. She thought they were stickers at first and I tried to explain the difference.
After dinner I innocently asked if she'd like me to put one of the tattoos on her leg. From her reaction, you'd think I asked if I could chop her leg off with a butter knife.
Anyone reading along knows that 'fearless' is a term I've used often to describe Punky. She is not afraid of, well, anything. As a baby she wasn't too keen on her bare feet touching the grass and that's about the biggest fear I've seen her exhibit in the last four years. She's not intimidated by people, she's never been scared of the doctor, she has no fear of water or jumping into swimming pools ten feet deep, she hugged and kissed the totally scary and disgusting zombie dummy her dad made for a Halloween decoration this year, she happily rode every single amusement park ride she's been tall enough to ride thus far, she has no fear of heights, no fear of speed, no fear of monsters, no fear of the dark, and normally no fear whatsoever to try something new. She's never even had a nightmare that's scared her enough to wake me up in the middle of the night.
Yet, for whatever reason, she carried on like I was trying to kill her when I suggested the tattoo thing, and I spent the next hour trying to calm her down and reason the fear out of her little head. At one point, she actually ran in her room and hid under her covers. She was genuinely terrified, and crying, and begging me not to do it. And I was fairly clueless on how to handle the whole situation. I'd never seen her so scared, and let's be honest, fearing a temporary tattoo is simply absurd.
I finally decided to take the 'lead by example' approach and put one of the tattoos on my right calf. She watched in total horror, like I would drop dead at any second, and ran out of the room the minute I pulled the paper off to reveal the little car on my leg. She refused to look at it, all the blood drained from her face when I had the nerve to suggest she touch it, and she sternly instructed me to keep it away from her.
I had no choice but to accept complete failure on this parenting challenge and admit defeat. All the reasoning in the world wasn't landing in her head and putting one on myself made the situation worse, not better. I even attempted bribery: unlimited candy consumption for the rest of the night. She wouldn't even bite when I offered to fork over the rest of the money to buy the American Girl doll she's been saving for so diligently. I threw in the towel.
I gave her a big hug and solemnly swore I would never bring up the tattoo topic again. I assured her it was her body and she has every right to dictate what others are allowed to do to it (that message can't be reinforced enough in my opinion), and also reminded her that she can trust her mommy wholeheartedly, and that I would never, ever, ever do anything to hurt her, and that I would never lie to her. And I couldn't resist telling her that I hope she remembers this tattoo discussion when she's a teenager and decides she wants a real one. Hey, something good has to come from this, right?
She stopped crying and we got on with what was left of our evening. I sat down to pay some bills and she lost herself in the world of Barbie dolls currently taking over our entire living room floor. About twenty minutes later, she was at my side.
"Mommy?" she asked in her sweet 'I want something' tone. "Can you put a tattoo on me now?"
This is one of those moments in parenting where you struggle to resist the urge to stab yourself in the eye with a fork while verbally expressing utter pride and encouragement for your child's sudden burst of bravery.
The tattoo application went off without a hitch. It didn't hurt, sting, burn, or result in the loss of a limb as Punky previously envisioned. In fact, she requested another. And another. I drew the line at three and she happily danced around in the living room, flailing her inked arms this way and that way, and she instructed me to choose a short-sleeve shirt for school tomorrow so she could show off her pretty arms.
I have no clue what caused her abrupt change of mind, but I'm glad she found the courage to face and conquer her fear. It's a valuable lesson that will serve her well in the future, even if it means begging and pleading with her not to get a real tattoo when she's a teenager.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Reflections on Thirty-Nine
I'm back.
And I'm forty.
Well, technically I have about twelve hours left to enjoy thirty-nine and I plan to milk every last second before admitting defeat and facing the big four-o. But, to my surprise, I'm not as upset as I anticipated. Yet, anyway.
Looking back, it's easy to see I've already weathered my mid-life crisis. It began before I even turned thirty-nine, hence the total body transformation this past year, and continued chugging along through the end of 2012. I think I'm securely at the tail end of it now and the worst is over.
Thirty-nine was a great year for me. I was determined make changes. I had a vision of who I wanted to be at forty and for the most part I accomplished those goals. While there's always room for more improvement, life is surely different than it was a year ago. I learned a great deal about myself this year and, though it stings a bit to admit it, I think I finally grew up in a sense.
Somewhere over the course of this transformation, I've finally gained the wisdom to accept what I cannot change and focus my energy on the things I can. This tidbit of knowledge has greatly reduced the stress of daily life and given me a new freedom of sorts. I can't change people, I can't change situations, I sure as hell can't change the world, but I have the power to choose how I react to life's blows and I've learned the only way to remain standing is to focus on my own two feet. I'm not sure why this lesson took nearly forty years to learn, but now that it finally sunk in I feel a thousand times stronger, both physically and mentally.
While I spent much of this year reorganizing, prioritizing, and cleaning up some messes from years past, I realize now that life is a work in process. There's still more to do, more to face, more to tackle, but I'm up for the challenge. I spent most of my life plagued with self-doubt, but somehow I managed to kick it's ass this year. I'm confident, I'm tough, I have faith in myself and my abilities. I know my strengths, I know my weaknesses, I know what makes me tick. I'm happy being me, even if that means turning forty today.
And yes, my writing hiatus is over and I fully plan on picking up the pace a bit. I have lots to catch up on, but it's time to get ready for work and psych myself up to face forty with grace. I hope I make it through the day without bursting into tears at my desk. I think I can, I think I can...
And I'm forty.
Well, technically I have about twelve hours left to enjoy thirty-nine and I plan to milk every last second before admitting defeat and facing the big four-o. But, to my surprise, I'm not as upset as I anticipated. Yet, anyway.
Looking back, it's easy to see I've already weathered my mid-life crisis. It began before I even turned thirty-nine, hence the total body transformation this past year, and continued chugging along through the end of 2012. I think I'm securely at the tail end of it now and the worst is over.
Thirty-nine was a great year for me. I was determined make changes. I had a vision of who I wanted to be at forty and for the most part I accomplished those goals. While there's always room for more improvement, life is surely different than it was a year ago. I learned a great deal about myself this year and, though it stings a bit to admit it, I think I finally grew up in a sense.
Somewhere over the course of this transformation, I've finally gained the wisdom to accept what I cannot change and focus my energy on the things I can. This tidbit of knowledge has greatly reduced the stress of daily life and given me a new freedom of sorts. I can't change people, I can't change situations, I sure as hell can't change the world, but I have the power to choose how I react to life's blows and I've learned the only way to remain standing is to focus on my own two feet. I'm not sure why this lesson took nearly forty years to learn, but now that it finally sunk in I feel a thousand times stronger, both physically and mentally.
While I spent much of this year reorganizing, prioritizing, and cleaning up some messes from years past, I realize now that life is a work in process. There's still more to do, more to face, more to tackle, but I'm up for the challenge. I spent most of my life plagued with self-doubt, but somehow I managed to kick it's ass this year. I'm confident, I'm tough, I have faith in myself and my abilities. I know my strengths, I know my weaknesses, I know what makes me tick. I'm happy being me, even if that means turning forty today.
And yes, my writing hiatus is over and I fully plan on picking up the pace a bit. I have lots to catch up on, but it's time to get ready for work and psych myself up to face forty with grace. I hope I make it through the day without bursting into tears at my desk. I think I can, I think I can...
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