Exercises in Futility

A multi-dimensional title to be sure. I had grandiose plans of daily journaling. I had even grandiose-er plans of being a rational human being. And yet I find myself failing dismally on both counts.

Assumption is a funny thing. The only means of making a decision is to make an assumption about the outcome. The whole "nothing in life is a guarantee" holds true for most things, so we do the best we can to project a reasonably formulated cause-and-effect scenario. If I make this decision, this will be the outcome. Even for those unexpected events, we have some sort of pre-ordered sense of how it will all go down. If this happens, then this is how I will respond (physically at the very least, as I am intelligent enough to know the absolute intangibility of emotional response.)

Anyway, I have decided that assumption is a psychologically catastrophic practice. For example, I -- and most everyone else out there -- assumed that life would be a manageable undertaking. And it is no such thing. But Ok, you get to a point where you can accept that. It happens sometime in the mid-20s I would venture to generalize. Of course, that hurdle isn't jumped until you've gotten screwed over, been lied to, endured countless disappointments and have accumulated enough emotional baggage to fill the cargo hold of a 747. But there -- it's out of the way. So next you begin the tedium of daily life with the knowledge that while it's unpredictable and not likely to go like you thought in the big picture, at the very least you can handle small steps and occasionally larger ones.

It goes like this. You narrow down the range of possibilities. You lay out the logical results based on a careful analysis of all circumstances both immediate and extenuating. Then, based on the laws of probability, you choose the one that will a) bring you closest to your goal, be that what it may and b) do so in a manner that is bearable even if it is not idyllic. And the reason you can handle Part B is because you have the shining, glimmering mirage of Part A. And as my mom said to me in a conversation today, the idea of something is always so much more romantic than the reality. I.e., Part B looks a lot better when viewed through the fog of Part A. I suppose it's true with everything. Getting married, having kids, careers, etc. And while that's true, I somehow really, really thought I could get through this school thing without falling apart.

And yet, I can't even manage that. I knew that supporting my husband's decison to come back to school (emotionally if not financially), would be hard, especially with three kids. But good Lord. This is ridiculous. I expected mind-altering poverty, but I did not expect a complete loss of self -- that was supposed to come as an after effect of childbirth. Instead, I am raging against this academic environment because I feel worthless and menial in the midst of it. I swear if I have one more conversation that revolves around "Well, my husband says..." or "my husband is studying this topic...." I will scream. I despise vicarious existence and yet it's all I have in order to feel relevant. I think it's some sort of regression into adolescent angst. I can't control my own life, so I'm rebelling against the restraints -- but unlike sneaking out of my parents house, I'm the parent here. There's no one to rebel against except myself. I made this choice to support his decision -- and he's living the dream. Ain't that a bitch.

I suppose the answer is to swallow the pill and keep waking up every morning in spite of it. I am having a hard time living my life for other people, because really, what's the point? And how do I raise daughters to believe that they can be anything they want to be when their role model is someone who is anything but what she wants to to be.

Well that was melodramatic.

Ok, I am going to find an activity that will, ideally, give me a semblance of mental health. Like cooking dinner. *%&$&.

Prologue

I am normally the last one to catch on to everything. I get the joke a few minutes too late, I invent the internet after Al Gore has the market cornered, I discover new technology days before it becomes obsolete. With that being said, I am sure there are a millions of blogs (what a funny word that is) out there that outline in mundane detail the daily happenings of moms and their oh-so-unique offspring. I will try to not to do that. Ever. Not that there's anything wrong with sharing -- other people care, really they do. But not that much. Instead, I will try to offer reflections on universal truths, humorous antecdotes and maybe even a little inspiration. By "inspiration" I, of course, mean proof that your life isn't so bad after all.

I suppose I should start by telling you a little bit about myself. I have 3 kids, girl-children no less. They are sweet girls and they are pretty girls. They are also girls that people describe as "having personality." That means they are loud. I blame their father.

I also have no job except the one-off, freelance writing gig now and then. I did not mean to be someone who does not have a job. I meant to be a high-powered, influential something or other. Unfortunately, one cannot be high-powered or influential and wear sweat pants all day. Surely, you see the dilemma.

Finally, I have a husband in school. And that means, he, too, is sans employment. It went something like this:

Me: I am going to quit my job to stay home with our 2 children!
Him: Great! I'm going to quit my job, too! And go back to school! And sell
our house! And move our whole family to a small town in Southwest Virginia!
Me: Awesome! How soon can we leave?!
Him: Right away! Why don't we have another baby, too?!
Me: What a great idea! I love you!
Him: I love you more!

(NOTE: actual conversation has been changed to protect the innocent, as well as to remove all obscene language and unnecessary, and possibly overdone, hysteria.)

And so it went...and so here we are. Don't get me wrong, I am happy. Truly I am. I question my sanity, but we all do that from time to time. I fall well within the range of "normal."

I know I promised not to divulge the tedium of my daily life, but I feel I owe to everyone to explain (briefly) how I came to be in the predictament in which I currently find myself. I was not born a housewife. Now before you argue that no one is, I would like to say that, yes, some people are. I played with dolls and liked babies just as much as the next girl, but when I thought of the future, I didn't have visions of myself surrounded cherubic babies wearing matching plaid rompers and oversized hairbows. (No offense to babies with hairbows. Or plaid.) Instead I saw myself doing something meaningful and corporate ....an oxymoron, as I discovered long ago. At any rate, a family, a sensible vehicle and a reasonably-priced house in a planned suburban community had no relevance, appeal or place in my social, single mind. So where did I go wrong?

I guess I fell in love. It happened in college -- much to my surprise and to the surprise, I can say with a fair amount of confidence, everyone who knew me...ever. But there it was, this love thing. And before I knew it, we were approaching graduation and the real world. As I had not yet defined my extremely important carreer beyond it involving things such as "power lunches", "executive decisions" and "expensive shoes", I told my then-boyfriend that where he went, I would follow. His degree was in engineering. He could go anywhere.

And so San Francisco became our destination. San Fran was a long way away from Virginia and since it really didn't make sense to have seperate apartments and it would horrify our parents if we lived together, we landed on a brilliant solution. "Why don't we get married?!", we said. It was rhetorical question. I've often wondered since if it should have been left as such, but next thing you know, we got our diplomas and later that summer, we got married.

And so off to California we went, in love, full of Great Hopes and Ambition and legally bound -- forever or some variation thereof. We started in a rental house East of the city. It was ugly, but small and old. Of course, compared to our friends who lived in 50-square foot closets that doubled as janitorial supply closets for people with actual apartments, we thought we were doing pretty well. We bought a new car, got a couple of dogs (another display of spectacular decision-making skills) and began married life. It was great -- traveled, we ate out, we shopped. I got a job as a copywriter at a small advertising agency and was so proud of myself I could have burst.

Following a trip back to Virginia, six months or so after the wedding and just a month after my 23rd birthday, I started feeling a little funky. One day after work, I stopped by the drugstore, bought a test and the rest is, as they say, history. Turns out that when they say you are supposed to take your birth control pill every day, they meant EVERY day. It's the damndest thing.

Anyway, after the stick turned blue or started beeping or burst into flames or whatever it is that the sticks do, the world stopped. So I did what people have done for thousands of years after discovering that they were about to experience the Greatest Joy of Life, I went outside and smoked a cigarette. It seemed logical at the time. Now before anyone begins shrieking about the dangers of tobacco, the problems with big government and/or oil prices, I would like to point out that I did throw away the rest of the pack. As it turns out, it's hard to cry hystercially and smoke at the same time.

Keeping to my promise of bypassing the details, suffice it to say that 8 months later, Baby Girl 1 was born. I loved her desperately and wanted to the best I could, but I wanted my job, too. And so I kept working. Over the next year, we felt the distance from family more and more. The chance to transfer back to the east coast came up and we took it. We settled back in Virginia, my husband in a VA branch of his CA company and me as a telecommuter with my CA ad firm -- which meant I could stay at home with the baby, but work at the same time (I will expand on the stupidity of this plan at another time). We bought a house, settled in, had great friends, went out frequently thanks to a readily available source of reliable babysitting options (a.k.a., grandparents) and life was good.

Then 9/11 happened and advertising went to hell and took my nice little at-home job with it. But it was Ok, we just had the one baby. She had just turned 2 and we weren't even considering another one for a couple of years -- if at all. I could find a job in an office, get a much-needed break from the monotony of at-home work, she could go to preschool to socialize with other kids and participate in stimulating academic activities and everything would be fine.

Don't get me wrong. I was sad that my old job was going away. In fact, sometimes the thought of going back to work and leaving the baby made me a little nauseous. Until I realized it wasn't so much work-stress as pregnancy that was making me nauseous. That was a neat day. This time I peed on the stick and went straight to the month long crying jag, skipping cigarettes altogether. Clearly, I had matured in my emotional responses since the last time I'd been face-to-face with the Glowing Blue Stick of Fate.

I was now working in an office full-time and after a few months, came to peace with a new baby. I knew the outcome. I would bitch and moan about being pregnant, labor would suck and at the end, I'd love the new person desperately and completely and it would all work out. Sure enough, Baby Girl 2 came along and we made it work. We found a good babysitter, I was doing well at work and wheeeee, off we went. 2 kids, 2 dogs, 2 cats, 2 cars and 2 incomes. And that worked...for awhile.

And that just about brings us to where I began. Baby Girl 2 was almost a year and a half, we had landed ourselves in marriage counseling thanks to bad schedules and bad communication. Part of diverting the crisis of a disintegrating relationship was deciding where we could cut back. Like the beginning of our relationship, I made the decision to let him lead. And so we saved up some money, I quit and next thing I knew, I was at home -- no job, no schedule and no clue what the hell to do next.

I've been home for three years now. That first year, I took about six months to do nothing but go to the park, wander aimlessly from one shopping mall play area to the next and learn to cook. My brain rapidly turned to a soggy mess, so I started picking up freelance work. Thanks to a good friend who was a graphic designer and much more motivated than me, I had a steady stream of work. The girls went to preschool 2 full days a week so I could work. I made enough money to pay for childcare and have a little extra but most of all, I got to feel moderately useful --and wear sweat pants all day.

Then, of course, came the decision to go back to school. After 8 years of talking about it, my jobless state was the catalyst that made him actually apply. I guess I just made unemployment look good. I can't complain too much. He does get paid....a very small, teensy, oh-so-tiny amount, but it's money all the same. And truly, it's amazing what you can live without...or with for that matter.

After the BIG DECISION was made to return to school, we made the subsidiary decision to stick with the stay-at-home thing. Despite popular opinion, kids don't get easier as they get older. You do not become less busy. If anything, life gets more hectic with ballet classes, soccer practices, school functions and never-ending doctor appointments. In fact, despite the looming poverty, I made no efforts to continue much freelance. It just seemed like too much in the midst of everything else. Did I mention that we "planned" Baby 3 right after we moved and her due date conveniently landed in the midst of final exams? Truly brilliant. We also rented a house at first, buying a lovely little fixer-upper in the suburns when I was a good 7 months pregnant.

At any rate, here we are...for another 3 years most likely. And that, in a very large nutshell, is why I am writing this blog. (Oh, that is a funny word.) 3 kids, no job, and a husband in school. It's funny what life does when you're not looking.