Everybody Wants You

(This is the one who will miss me most when I'm gone.)

Okay, maybe my life isn't quite a Billy Squier song (as much as my husband would like to say it is), but I did get multiple interviews and two job offers this week. After much nail-biting and hand-wringing, we decided that it was in our best financial interest for me to go back to work full-time now that the kids are all in school. But I decided that I would only do it if I could go back to doing what I love most. Yup--writing. So, after submitting numerous resumes all over the big city of Indy, I ended up with two job offers for corporate writing/editing positions. I accepted a contract position with a young, entrepreneurial company versus a Steady Eddie position with a large, conservative bank. The culture of the company I'm going to work for is young, exciting, vibrant, and creative. I like that. (Did I mention "young"? I think I might be trying to reclaim some of the lost days of my own youth by osmosis or something.) The other offer was a great one, but very predictable and corporate. I'm hoping the contract position turns into something permanent, but if it doesn't, I'm sure something even better is waiting out there for me.

The last week has been a crazy exercise in finding before and after school childcare for the Munchkins. Everything fell into place WAY too easily, so I believe the Big Guy is assuring me that this was the right decision. I start on Monday. Hooray! Yikes! It's been ten years since I've worked full-time. I feel like Sam must have felt starting middle school this year. He wasn't worried about the work--just about getting his locker open. I'm primarily concerned with getting into a parking garage downtown without driving the wrong way down a one-way street. The writing part is easy; it's the elevator that challenges me.

Sanford and Son

I was preparing to pick Mary Claire up from Brownies on Monday when George came running excitedly into the house. "Come see what we found!" he shouted. I was expecting a frog or a turtle or a really cool spider by the sound of his voice. Instead, what I found was a large pile of trash in my garage.

"We went dumpster diving," Gus explained.

Dumpster diving?! What?!

After a series of questions, I determined that Gus and George had revved up the old John Deere Hot Wheels tractor, hooked up the trailer, and proceeded to drive from house to house looking through all our neighbor's recycling bins. I was mortified (and more than a little grossed out).

"Where, exactly, did you go?" I questioned.

"Just to the Christianson's," Gus admitted sheepishly sensing my displeasure. "And to their neighbors. And to their neighbors."

"Gus..." I began, but he interrupted me.

"What?! George pulled me in! I couldn't help it!"

I then proceeded to explain to the boys that going through our neighbors' trash was:
A. Unacceptable
B. Gross
C. An Invasion of Privacy
D. A Punishable Offense
E. Gross

"But we found some pizza coupons," George argued as he dug out the Papa John's flyer.

"Put it all in the trash," I instructed. "And wash your hands. Twice."

I had clearly dashed their dreams of finding treasure in our neighbors' waste, but I was embarrassed and appalled. Imagine who saw them rummaging through recycling bins and throwing empy milk jugs into the back of the tractor! I called Chris to tell him what happened while the boys were cleaning up their mess. He was laughing so hard, I could barely finish telling him the story.

"Can you imagine them?!" he snorted. Then he proceeded to make Hot Wheels tractor noises. "Hey, Gus, let's have a look here. Oh! It's an empty baked bean can! We can use that for something." More Hot Wheels tractor noises followed by a squeaking brake noise. "Doesn't look like there's much here. Let's move on." More tractor noises. You get the idea.

I could tell by now that he had tears running down his face he was laughing so hard. Then he began to sing the "Sanford and Son" theme song. For those of you who remember the song and know how loud my husband is, you can imagine hearing this through the phone line. For those of you who need a refresher, visit this site: http://www.tvland.com/theme_songs/. I know there aren't any lyrics. Chris doesn't need lyrics. Just fill in the sound with "waana, waana." Loudly.

"Don't you dare let them know that you think this is funny," I warned.

"Oh, come on, Kat, you have to admit that's pretty ingenious! Did Gus really say that George 'pulled him in'?! HA! Which one should we call Fred and which one Lamont?!"

These boys (biggest one included) are going to do me in.

"You hear that, Elizabeth? I'm coming to join you, honey!"

A Sick Boy and a Dead Hamster

That pretty much sums up my day. George has been running a fever for three days. We went to the town Street Dance Saturday night and about two hours into the evening, I found George laying down on the brick street. He was white as a ghost, and we made a quick exit (much to the dismay of the rest of the Willis Tribe). We're doing the Tylenol/Motrin dance and he's sleeping a lot. No other symptoms, so we haven't made the trek to Greenfield yet.

Mary Claire noticed at breakfast this morning that Diane, the hamster, wasn't moving. After much prodding and poking by the rest of the kids, we determined that she had, indeed, passed away in the night. George is convinced that she ran too fast on her wheel and flew off, thus hitting her head on the glass aquarium. It's a viable hypothesis. Nobody seems to be in deep mourning. Of course, they didn't hold or play with Diane much. She was The Jumper. Jack is a much more compatible playmate. Well, I guess we won't be having hamster babies any time soon. My dear husband's reply was, "one down, one to go." He's not much of a pet rodent fan.

On another note, Chris was recently named High School Principal. It was a long, grueling month of interviews and unknowns, and I managed to gain 10 pounds. Blech. But, life is looking up. We don't have to sell our worldly possessions and move to Africa (that was Plan B). After resigning from my job four months ago, I finally completed my last day last week. Chris is so passionately excited about his new position, and I'm equally as excited about staying home with the kids and writing the Great American Novel. And so we venture into the next phase of our lives...

The Purge...aka the Shit Shift

My mom has recently been subjected (by my step-dad) to a home remodel that she wasn't all that interested in. Now, in my step-dad's defense, the house needed a pick-me-up. And my mom needed to purge. But she's overwhelmed by the process and the large amount of crap in her garage. So, yesterday, I hired my sweet cousin, Caroline, to babysit the kids and went to Mom's house to help her sort and purge.

The house looks really nice. Mom and Bob knocked out a wall separating two bedrooms and make a large master bedroom instead. The entire house has been painted, the driveway has been resurfaced, and the landscaping has been touched up. When I arrived yesterday, there were dishes and various and sundry knick-knacks littering the kitchen table and the sunroom table, but overall, the house looked bright, clean, and fairly well organized. The new bedroom is beautiful, and the closets were full of nicely organized clothes.

Then I saw the garage.

The two-car garage is filled to nearly overflowing with boxes, boxes, and more boxes. Apparently, when the remodel began, Mom just boxed everything up, took it outside, and decided she'd go through it when she unpacked. I, being a organizational junkie, agreed to help her sort through what was left. The first problem I noticed, though, was that the house already seemed reasonably full. There was no room for anything in the garage to come back in.

My niece, Amber, and I decided that the best approach would be to start in the kitchen and help Mom sort through her overstuffed cabinets and hutches to make room for the things in the garage that she wanted to keep. Mom was not thrilled with this approach. "That was not on my to-do list," she argued. We had to strong arm her a bit to convince her that nothing else could come in from the garage until there was more room in the house.

As Amber and I began the cleaning out process, we quickly realized we were in over our heads. We had Mom sit in a chair. She had three choices for every item we presented to her: keep, give away, or put in the "maybe" pile. After about ten minutes, we had moved everything from the cabinets into the "maybe" pile. It was not a purge; it was simply a shift.

Mom's response to everything we held up to her was, "...but don't you think that's pretty? That was given to me by (fill in the name of the friend, relative, co-worker of your choice). I got it for my (fill in the appropriate holiday, birthday, etc.)." We finally had to remind her that we weren't making judgment calls; we simply needed one of the three given responses. Inevitably, she'd look nervous and say, "maybe."

Here are a few of the more enjoyable finds of the day...

1. An unopened, unused food chopper. It had to have been in her cupboard for at least ten years; it was all the way in the dusty back corner under some cobwebs. She reasoned, however, that because it was brand new (10 years ago), she couldn't possibly give it away.

2. Five calculators. They all worked. We told her to pick one. She couldn't understand why she shouldn't keep all five if they were in good working order. I pointed out that one of them went through college with me. She argued that it had to be a fine calculator if it was still working.

3. Fourteen decks of cards; eight complete sets. We let her keep all the sets of 52. It wasn't worth the fight.

4. An unused basket with a microwaveable pouch to keep rolls warm. Again, she argued that she needed it because it was brand new. I argued that she didn't need it because she doesn't even know how to work the microwave.

For two hours, it went on and on and on. Finally, she broke for a cigarette, and we never resumed the battle. I threw as many things into the "give away" pile as I could while she wasn't looking. She promptly took 3/4 of it back out.

God love her.

Living the Dream

Well, I've officially resigned from my job. It's been a long time coming, and the loss of income is a very scary prospect. But it was time. After much soul-searching, I feel like I've made the right decision... even though we might be on the cusp of financial ruin. Okay, that's probably a bit dramatic, but still, we're going to take a financial hit.

When I first began this job two years ago, I thought that nothing about it could possibly be bad. We raised money for the schools, funded programs for the teachers, had fun events to help line our coffers. But soon enough, the bad reared its ugly head. I work with some of the most amazing volunteers. They're dedicated, humble, hard-working, committed to the cause of public education. But then, I have the other side of volunteerism. I have women who have more money than they'll ever know what to do with, who have never had to work a day in their lives, who live with a constant sense of entitlement. They're the tough ones. It's a situation in which there are way too many Chiefs and not enough Indians. The battles over napkin colors grew tedious. I even had one board member say that she was not thanked nearly enough for her efforts. And to top that off, many of them are very critical of what I do (or what they think I don't do). In sixteen hours a week, I'm supposed to be all things to all people. I am responsible for running the organization, raising money, serving as a liason to all educators, answering to my 15 board members, thanking all my donors, developing a vision for the organization, etc., etc., etc. It is a part-time job with more than full-time responsibilities. Although I strongly believe in the organization and what it does, I can no longer sacrifice myself and my family to its success. It was a wrenching decision, but one that I feel is right for The Willis Tribe.

People are lining up at my office door to submit their names for my position. I'm sure they think the same thing I did when I first took the job. What could possibly go wrong? Seeing them so eager to sit in my chair makes me doubt my decision and question my common sense, but then I remember how eager I was to sit in that chair two years ago. I suppose the grass is always greener.

I've painted a small closet (with a window) in my bedroom and have moved a desk into it. We've lovingly dubbed it the Closet Office. My plan is to write, write, write. I'd like to line up some freelance writing and editing gigs to help pay the bills and to work on the Great American Novel in the interim. It's a scary prospect, but it's my dream. My sweet assistant, Lynn, says I need to "feel the fear and do it anyway." Words of wisdom. My thirty-seven year old brain has been through four pregnancies and births and the Old Girl just isn't what she used to be. I'll probably take some classes; sharpen my skills; start remembering how to see the world through a different lens. I have to tighten up my grammar, boost my vocabulary, knock some of those synapses back into action.

Childhood dream, here I come...

I'll Look After You

The song by "The Fray" has been playing again and again in my head today. The line "you've begun to feel like home..." resonates in my heart and in my soul. Jody is moving to Chicago next week. I haven't cried until today. Today, I can't stop crying. I had a dream about lost friendship last night that has settled deeply into me today. I know it was just a dream, but the feeling it left behind is real. It is an empty, aching feeling, and all my girls are too far away today. Stacy is in Mexico, Jody is in Chicago, Andi is in New York. Sometimes I take my friends for granted, but I know that if I ever lost them, I would be lost. When they are away, my world is not right. Chris doesn't understand--and I don't expect him to. There is something between women that I don't think men necessarily share. I love my girls like I love no one else. I need them like I need no one else. It doesn't lessen or negate my love for my children, my husband, my family. It is a different kind of love. No one knows my soul like they do. No one understands my needs and my neuroses like they do.

I'm having surgery on Wednesday. It's not a major surgery, but I still have to have general anesthesia. My underlying and unspoken fear, however unfounded, is not waking up. What a sadness it would be to miss out on what life has left to offer. Stacy, Andi, and I often joke about outliving our husbands and moving to Boca Raton as old, sassy, crochety women together. We know that we'll bicker and fight and probably have too many cats, but we'll love each other with a ferocity that outweighs anything else. My dear friends, "you've begun to feel like home."

What (Not) Blogging Has Taught Me

I've blogged ten times since I began blogging. In the beginning, I had ambitions of blogging once a day. Ha! Here's what this experience has taught me: it's hard to write. The actual writing part isn't hard for me--it's the sitting down to write part that gets me every time. Once I'm here, I love to spew all my thoughts, ideas, and opinions. I think all the time about what I'd like to write. I just can't seem to get to my desk to do it. With four kids and all their activities, a husband who is working on his doctorate and who works all the time, a dog, two hamsters, a fish (named John), a house, never-ending laundry, and a part time job with full time hours, it seems that writing often ends up on the back burner. When the kids go to bed at 8:30, I have a choice to make. Should I start some laundry? Should I read a novel? Should I organize the paperwork that's taking over my kitchen? Should I read a book about improving my writing style? Should I scrapbook a few pages? Should I organize my scrapbooking area? Should I write some overdue thank you notes? Should I eat Oreos and watch mindless TV? Should I blog? Should I work on my own novel? Should I curl up in my bed and find some glorious shut eye? Too often, the Oreos and sleep win the debate. That's why I'm overweight and under-published. My life is not really suited to writing, but my soul needs to write like my body needs water. It's definitely a conundrum. I'd like to write about it more, but I need to go paint my daughter's newly refurbished vanity. And I need to hang her border. And I need to start some laundry...