a running theme

Hating my life is becoming a constant. [see here and here]

Today I got home and said something along the lines of I hate my life.

What is that, the 3rd time in the past week that those exact words have just tumbled out of my mouth? My jaw drops and the words literally fall out onto the floor for someone else to pick up and stare blankly at. I mean, what is anyone supposed to say in response to that?

Here are some options (none of which are recommended):
-Get help.
-You need therapy.
-Take your pills.
-Does that mean you hate us too?
-It can't be that bad...
-Get over it. You say this every day.
----

The thing is, I could come up with more imaginary responses, and none of them would make me feel better.

The thing is: I DON'T ACTUALLY HATE MY LIFE.

So, why do I keep finding myself saying this? Stumbling upon the desire to be an ostrich so that I can bury my head in a hole in the ground? Being overcome with the desire to drop it all and sleep for the rest of the day instead?

It's like vomit. It's uncontrollable. The lurching feeling in the stomach and throat- trying to keep it down... but suddenly, the words have splayed from my mouth and I want to gather them up and swallow them, take them back, but that is just GROSS. Suddenly, there are the words. Out there- filled with chunks of the disgust I've felt during the day- just sitting there for Joe to look at and try to pick out what it is composed of. WHAT DID I EAT TODAY?


Well, here is what I ate today, the chunks--- I had to wake up at 5:15 am. Let me repeat that: 5:15 AM. I had to drive for 2 hrs and 50 min to some small town past Orlando for an HR generic training that is required before I can start my new practicum position. Tolls. I'm 5 min late. I was told to not, for any reason, be late. I'm bored. stiff. I already know about human rights in relation to developmental disabilities. We are there to protect and serve blah blah blah. Important, but really, how many times do I have to receive the SAME training? I get an email from my professor-- advice on how to be more professional and ethical. I should have asked to miss class, instead of just telling him, because he would have told me to not miss. I HAD NO CHOICE. This ridiculous training was mandatory. This job is required for my Master's degree. Give me a break. I leave, drive with droopy eyes for close to 2 hours. Tolls. Drop the only change I have all over the road at one of the "Exact Coin" tolls (I'll be getting a ticket in the mail). Miss my exit. Get stuck in traffic- solely because I missed my exit. Get home. I am sure that starting the period today did not help.

"I hate my life. [awkward pause] I mean... not you and Eliza, but everything in the realm of school."

How does Joe take this. I wonder about this. I mean, it's definitely not a nice thing to say. It's selfish. He and Eliza are part of my life. I want them to be the only things in my life.

The semester ends next week. I can make it. Then breath. I'll be holding my breath until then, so I can cope with disappointed professors, demanding schedules, dramatic friends, and everything else. At least I have Joe, who holds my pieces together. At least I have Eliza to read bedtime stories with.

This will be somewhat simplified in another week.
Then- I will breath deep, enjoy Joe and Eliza, and wait for it to begin again.

you should probably ignore most of what i say

My alarm went off at 6:30 am. I almost typed "this morning" after that, but that would have been redundant (and this sentence was not). I don't remember my alarm sounding, of course. Somehow I woke up. Not at 6:30. Not near 6:30. I wouldn't remember, but it probably entailed Joe splashing water on my face, screaming, hitting, pulling, turning on lights, pulling off covers, and / or setting the fire alarm in hopes of getting me to wake up.

I didn't have to be to my client's until 10:30. I set my alarm for 6:30 am. Not because I have to blow dry my hair for 4 hours, but because I had a final exam today. A final exam I was up pseudo-studying for last night until 1:45 am.

I woke up around 9:00 am. This is VERY problematic, as it takes almost 30 min to drive to my client's house. Leaving me 30 min to get ready and study. Because, although I was up studying until 1:45 am at a freind's house I did not necessarily STUDY. I was supposed to wake up to study before going to my client's.

At 9:00 am: I threw off the covers, looked at Joe, and said, "I hate my LIFE."

Confessions of a Step-Mom

I think the original title of my blog was Confessions of a Step-Mom. This was changed to The Chelle Box after I realized I was writing about myself in general more than as my role and experiences as a step-mom. Sometimes writing about the emotions involved in this role are too difficult to discuss on my blog. Sometimes it would lead to me writing things I would regret. And sometimes, I just can't let it be my entire life. Eliza and Joe are my entire life, but the "step-mom" title is not. If that makes any sense. Well, today I divulge a bit.

Lately I feel sub-par filling this step-mom role. A little less patient. Busier, so a little less 'around.' But, as always, the disciplinarian. I'm suddenly no fun. Whenever she sees me she's in trouble for something (like hiding dirty socks under her bed) Or at least, that's how it feels for me.

It all makes the impending departure that much more dreaded. She's going to remember me as the Wicked Step-Mom while she's away with the Fun Mom. (enter the complex and conglomerate emotions of jealousy, love, and fear)

It didn't help that the birthday party wasn't as exciting as I had hoped. While panicking over whether any kids would show for Eliza's party (no one RSVPs in Florida), I had the following text messaging exchange with my hip, texting mama:
-Did you have those days that you just wanted a break from being a mom?
-More often than not.
-Thanks mom. I feel so overwhelmed by it today. I feel like I'm the only one who feels that way sometimes.
-You should [feel overwhelmed]. It's the most important job in the world. It will bring you the most joy- and the most pain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eliza's 9 now. She has accumulated 9 years of experience as of April 21st. Quite the accomplishment. This means that I have been in this step-mom / other-mom / sort-of-like-my mom role for close to 5 years. FIVE YEARS. That is 5 years of being a mom instead of the reckless 20-something. Five years of staying home to read stories. Five years of jealousy and heartache. Five years of loving someone more than myself. Five years of teaching and molding.

Stop. I can't breath.

Eliza's 9-years-old. This terrifies me. This means she is that much closer to wanting to be independent. That much closer to choosing where she lives (it might not be with us?!). Getting closer to those times when she will, without a doubt, undermine all of her parents between visits. That much closer to driving and crashing cars. Nearer to the age of boys. Closing in on the days of heightened drama and sassy-ness. I know, you are wondering how, HOW, could she become any sassier? It's coming. Watch out world. Eliza is COMING!!!

She is becoming beautiful instead of adorable. She is becoming witty. She is becoming.

And it is at once frightening, depressing, exalting, and exciting beyond words.


*the birthday post, birthday shopping pictures, and other recent photos are coming, I pinky swear*

you look like a monkey....

and you smell like one too.



She may have been born in the wrong era. I always imagine her singing with the Andrews Sisters-


It was my mom's birthday on Saturday, the 18th. It is important to note that it was on the 18th. Not the 17th, the date I called to wish her happy birthday last year. Nor the 19th, the date of my birthday in August. It was (and is every year) the 18th, the same date as Kelli's birthday in November (this helps me remember).

Invariably, thinking of my mom leads to songs popping through my head. Similarly, certain tunes bring to mind my beautiful mother.

I frequently peruse youtube to listen to The Andrews Sisters, The Blues in the Night (My mama done tol' me, when I was in pigtails, my mama done tol' me hon...), Popcorn Poppin' on the Apricot Tree, We're Different (with a fish hat on), any Raffi song, any blues song, any Lyle Lovett song, any church song, any song. I listen to music from my childhood on youtube, a shabby replacement for mom, the real thing. I am taken right back to the old piano. The wooden bench with the handmade cushion on top. It flipped up to reveal hidden piano music including The Entertainer, Makin' Whoopie, every Sonata you could think of. To a little girl this was magical- a bench that held all of the beautiful music my mom would play to wake us up. Music I did not yet know how to play. I would try-- she shook her head and muttered something about inappropriate one day when I was plunking out Making Whoopie. She would shout down to me That's supposed to be a sharp. or You've got to get the rhythm right on that part. I would argue ademently that I was playing it right. How did she always know?!? She would come down and help me play. She would play duets with me. My mom who could play anything would play elementary duets. It felt so cool.

Kelli and my mom would sing at the piano and a little jealousy would strike. (an aside: I also remember my mom telling Kelli, excitedly, that there are awesome acoustics in one specific corner of the master batch tub area). I was always embarassed when I sang, so I would listen. When I played the piano a little better I would play for them and they would sing. They would patiently slow down and speed up as my clumsy fingers would trip over the wrong keys or make up their own tempo.

I picture her dancing around in the kitchen. Me lowering my head, loving it but trying to be embarassed of her liveliness. She has a voice that makes me want to dance and curl up on my parent's couch at the same time. She has a love of this music that makes me wish I knew how to love that much.

I love you mom. Thank you for teaching us to love everyone, to love music, to love life.

Happy Birthday.

carjacks and farmers

I love quaint little roads made entirely of brick. Next time I drive to Orlando for work I just may take a picture to post on here. I was driving down a little, old, dirty alley way-- the kind you might be afraid to slow down to a walking speed on, because someone might just hop onto your car and hitch a ride. It was all brick, as many of the side streets downtown are. I almost stopped, just to admire its quaintness, even with the threat of being car-jacked while driving. It's the little things.

I will depart with a joke from 30 Rock (genius show):
--Why are you wearing a tux, then?
--It's after 6. What am I, a farmer?

post script

I realized that it sounds like I typically want to throw things at Joe, my husband.

This is not true. Once in a while, maybe.

Today (and many other days) he made a p.b. & j sandwich and put crackers in a ziplock bag and made coffee for me to take to school.

Yesterday he did the laundry.

The day before he washed the car.

The day before that.... something else wonderful.

lucky.


What I found waiting for me in the kitchen this morning.

things i shouldn't say out loud

I don't mean to freak anyone out, but I hate my life today.

Seriously.

Ok. NOT seriously.

I am so frustrated with people today. and yesterday. and the day before.

At least I am not wanting to throw things at my husband.

At least I actually love my life today.

gone baby gone

Eliza is in Utah with her Mom for Christmas. She flew out this past Saturday. Joe was working so I took her to the airport. She was so excited and nervous about flying alone that the day before....

That is a post I started to write way back when in December. I never finished the post because, no surprise, it's difficult to write about. I sobbed the entire way home from the airport. I could barely leave her at the gate with the attendant. You have my child!! GIVE HER BACK. She gets carsick. Make sure she has a puke bag. She has snacks in her back and a movie player and paper and markers and books and and and.... make sure she remembers to eat.

I sobbed and cried and called Joe to sob and say "I forgot to have her call you before she got on." sob sob sob. 

Joe had a hard time having her be away. (Once again, insert "real" Mom thoughts here: she is MINE. how do you think I feel?!? and insert my reply: I'm sorry. I love her too.)

Jump to today and why I am continuing a post I started 4 months ago.... a similar, but more difficult departure is rapidly approaching. She leaves for Utah FOR THE ENTIRE SUMMER after school ends at the end of May. That is less than 2 months away. OH MY GOD I CANNOT DO THIS OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER. (again insert the same imaginary dialogue from above).

I wish there was a way to impress upon you the beauty of Joe's relationship with his little baby Eliza Jane. He has cried when she had the flu. He cries when he has the slightest reminder about her upcoming absence. He may not like that I am disclosing his crying here. It is not obscene amounts of crying. He is manly, I swear. But, I wonder how he is going to enjoy life without her here. He teaches her to love bugs and to eat her dinner without taking a millennia to do it. He watches her baby her cat with a shake of the head and a tear in his eye. He encourages her astounding creativity and to get dirty. He wants to protect her from scrapes and mean friends, and silly boys-- but knows that he can't. So, he teaches her to understand the world instead. 

 

Eliza the photographer took this on one of their daddy-daughter beach trips

when you need a shopping list, use EXCEL

I love my dad. (and you too, Mom)

I mean, he taught me to put the toilet paper roll on the proper way. If you don't know which way that is, it is when the loose sheet hangs down in the front of the roll, opposed to the back. This way you do not have to reach and try to find the loose end. It is always, conveniently, appropriately, right in front of your face.

He taught me *try* to not worry about too many little things. I remember kneeling at my bed- trying to think about enough things to pray long enough- and then looking over at him to see if he was still praying about important things. If he didn't look finished I would think of more things to pray for (I was little, it was usually for things). Sometimes I would discover an important, urgent, mystery of life. Like, when we die do we get to (fill in the blank). His answer was often this: If you don't know you just put your question away, into a little treasure box. Then, when you get to Heaven you can ask your Heavenly Father. This was always comforting. Reassuring. Even if my perfect dad didn't have an answer to a question someone out there did!

I still worry about too many exacerbating and often ridiculous things throughout my day. I mean when am I going to find the time to organize the fridge? because it is not organized... well enough... right now. and that matters. to me. I created a bar graph instead of a line graph for a client. Is my professor disappointed in me? What if he talks to my old supervisor and tells him that I made a bar graph, not a line graph? What will happen to the world?! I worry about wearing the right outfit. I'm almost 28. Why do I care about the right outfit? I don't know, but sometimes I still change my clothes countless times before leaving (late) to a meeting or class or client session...

But, he has taught me to make a list. Tackle one thing at a time. Try not to perseverate on things that really are quite inconsequential. Focus on the important things. Cherish the beautiful moments. Find time to run a few miles, just for me and my sanity.

I may not tuck questions into a treasure chest for a Heavenly Father- but I do set the unknowns aside and recognize that it is o.k. I am o.k. I am o.k. I am o.k.

I was talking to him on the phone. I was tired and stressed. Full of angst. I just finished a research session with absolutely no results. I was feeling inadequate. a disappointment. I used to be a B student. I am now an A student in a Master's program. Now, I am on the verge of a B in physiological psychology due to spreading myself too thin. I am not achieving what I should. Even though I know my professors are still impressed, my husband, my dad, my mom, my friends are proud. I should do MORE. MORE ALL OF THE TIME.

He told me he had been crying because he was looking at pictures of Kristen. I do the same. I put away the pictures for a time. Then, when I feel brave, I look at the pictures all at once. and I cry. I cry, and cry, and cry. Sometimes it's a sob. Bordering on tantrum. IT'S NOT FAIR.

He was crying because he misses her. and us. I miss them too.

Then, he said something that made me stop- and think. I often stop to not think. He said that I almost know how he feels. I almost know how much he loves me, because I love Eliza. That I will fully understand when I have my own.

I think he's right. I can't imagine the love that parents feel. She's my step-daughter and I love her with my entire being. I love her so much it aches sometimes. I feel like I will never be normal again because of the fear and anxiety I have watching her grow up. Because of the joy I feel when she smiles or laughs or writes "mom" on a note to me. ME. her step-mom. To think that when Joe and I have our own children it will be more than this is unthinkable. but probably true.

It makes me miss my mom and dad. Instills refreshed gratitude to them for raising me. For struggling through my stubbornness and frequent silence and lack of gratitude. It reminds me how special Brigitta is to Eliza and how I will never fully understand what Eliza is to her. Even though I love her. Even though I care for her. Even though she is everything to me.

in case you didn't know...

... i'm crazy. more on this coming later. but- for now, this song reminds me that it's o.k.

because i can't get over it.

bump its. now you can purchase utah hair.

UNBELIEVABLE. AWFUL. HEINOUS. RIDICULOUS. REALLY?!