Dreams vs. reality

Over the summer, I had occasion to do a bit of work-related research at the local bookstore. It soon became apparent that I'd arrived in the middle of Story Time, and quite a well-attended one at that, with at least twenty small children and their accompanying parents. This was shortly after my maternity leave ended, and I was feeling a little nostalgic about being at home with the kids. I idly thought, "Oh, how nice. I wish I could take my kids to Story Time midmorning on a weekday" and then went about my research and trotted back to work.

For a while, anyway. Be careful what you wish for, because you might up with plenty of time in your schedule for weekday Story Times. Right before Thanksgiving, I was on the receiving end of the "We're restructuring. Without you. Do you need some boxes?" speech. Well, yahoo! Happy holidays!

Now, overall, I think I am doing pretty well with all this. (It took some quiet reflection time and a lot of chocolate ice cream to get to that point, but still. Humor me.) Officially, the position was eliminated, so I am "unemployed," not "fired." I have severance through the end of the year, and there are certainly worse things than being unemployed with severance during the holiday season. Daycare is willing to be flexible with the kids' attendance schedule. And if I don't find another job by January (as seems most likely; I imagine most HR managers have their hands full with employees trying to blow through flexible spending accounts and accrued vacation time before the end of the year), I can collect unemployement benefits while I'm searching. Which is good, considering, you know, we just BOUGHT A HOUSE.

My subconscious, however, is freaking right the hell out, and has been tormenting me with anxiety dreams, each displaying new and exciting dimensions of inadequacy. In one dream, I was trying to explain to CPS that I did not let the children play in the basement, but they did not believe me and were threatening to take them away. In another dream, Dragon was yelling at me for not doing the dishes correctly; I didn't have anything else to do, after all. In yet another dream, I was attending a job fair (held at the office of my former employer, no less) and was offered a position that paid $5 an hour and involved rinsing a sidewalk with a hose. I was required to start immediately, and someone yelled at me for not using the hose correctly. So far, my subconscious has not provided me with visions of my kids shivering and crying for food, but I'm sure that one's coming soon. Maybe for a special occasion, like Christmas Eve.

I think my subconscious is right. About some things, anyway. I don't even let the kids go in the basement, we take turns washing the dishes, and I hope I would be considered way overqualified for a sidewalk-rinsing position. But overall, it's got the right idea. Finding a job isn't easy. It may take a while. Once I get another job, I'll have to adjust to a new workplace and loads of unfamiliar people. This is scary. And WE JUST BOUGHT A HOUSE. Boy Wonder loves his blue bedroom. The boys will probably have to go to a new daycare, because their current one? Was close to work, of course.

But for now, I'll have to let my subconscious do the heavy worrying. The boys are still attending daycare two days a week, to keep some sort of routine going, but on the days they're home with me, I can't be crouching in a corner tearing at my hair and wondering about how I'm going to support them if I don't find another job immediately. (You're welcome for that lovely mental image. It's a gift, really.) And on the days that they're at "school," as we call it, I'll be looking for that other job. I've always been proud of being able to leave work, and any bad moods associated with work, at the office. I don't let job stress come home with me. My job is not my life.

So, not having a job? That's not my life, either. For now, I'll live it. Sure, I'll comb the classified ads and every job-seeking website I know of, visit the local career center, and try valiantly to think of people I know who have contacts at other relevant companies. But I'll also spend time with the kids, enjoy having Christmas off without having to burn vacation days, and maybe get some things done around the house.

We might even go to Story Time.

Oh, deer

I live in Wisconsin, and it is November. Blaze orange jackets are everywhere, the term "hunting widows" shows up frequently in conversation, and The Hunting and Fishing Cookbook is being displayed prominently at local grocery stores and bookstores. In other words, it's deer-hunting season...and today I got a rather tangible reminder of that.

After a stroll to the library, the boys and I were heading back home. Boy Wonder, in the front of the stroller where he could see everything, was commenting on all of the houses we were passing.

"Look, some train tracks! A white house! Christmas lights! I wish we had some Christmas lights. With Mickey Mouse! And...Mommy, what's that?"

I looked, and was momentarily at a loss for words.

"Uh! Well, those are some men! And they're standing by their truck!" I said brightly. "Now, about those Christmas lights..."

"No, Mommy, that's a DEER on top of the truck! It's SLEEPING. And there are more train tracks! And pumpkins! Why are pumpkins on that porch?"

Well, there you go.

I can be your hero, baby

Tonight, as he was ascending the stairs to the playroom after dinner, Boy Wonder paused and turned around on the bottom step.

"It's all up to me now!"

...

"I need to a be superhero!"

Then he struck a grand pose, gracefully stepped down, and raced into the living room to look for a "cape" (we generally call them "blankets").

Further questioning revealed that he would like to be a green superhero. He will be big and strong, but he will not fly, or run fast like Dash Incredible, or shoot lasers from his eyes (whew), or be REALLY big and strong like Mr. Incredible. Just a green superhero, twirling around with a blue blanket around his shoulders.

Crash, rattle, and cold

So, tomorrow (or later today, actually, judging by the clock) I'm having a small housewarming-ish get-together. Just Mom, Grandma, and the aunts, and possibly a second cousin, but hey! It's a group of people, coming to see the new house! We can show them the two painted rooms! And the pantry Dragon built! And the playroom! There will be wine, and cupcakes! The air is vibrating with excitement, anticipation, and the scents of glass cleaner, dishwashing liquid, and citrus antibacterial wipes. Why, even the furnace is excited, merrily clanking and rattling away in the basement, and...

Oh, wait. Furnaces aren't supposed to do that, right?

Yeah. Dragon called me on Friday afternoon and said, "Just a warning...in case you see the repair truck in front of the house, the furnace made a godawful noise when I turned on the heat. The company will be out to check it presently." The noise was less godawful by the time the boys and I got home, but it still sort of sounded like there were some little model cars running around inside of it. Now, the furnace and AC are actually shiny and new, just installed in June by the local HVAC place down the street. The broker who sold us Charming Bungalow made much of the shiny-ness, but we noticed during our walkthrough that he hadn't exactly chosen the most energy-efficient model. As it turns out, it's the cheapest one. It needs a new motor, which should be along on Monday.

Dude. Shouldn't even the cheapest furnace perform well for more than a couple of months?

Fuzzy wuzzy

I am a dark-haired woman. Sometimes, this surprises me; I used to get blonde highlights in my hair, which made it look a lot lighter overall, and I got used to thinking of my hair as light brown. Until a blonde coworker and I were discussing hair color, and she said, "Oh, when I was little I always wanted red hair. Or a nice dark brown, like yours." I started to say, "Oh, my hair isn't that dark," but then I looked at a strand of it and, well, it is indeed dark brown.

In grade school, I was teased frequently. For many reasons, but one that showed up frequently was something that my blonde coworker probably never had to worry about: girls with dark hair have very prominent leg hair. In my case, I was doubly blessed, with lots of dark hair on my arms as well. I did not like this at all, but eventually I got over it. (Very eventually. Like, ten years later.) Every once in a while, someone whose brain-to-mouth filter was out of order would say, "Hey, you have a lot of hair on your arms!" OH REALLY? I NEVER NOTICED. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR LETTING ME KNOW.

Don't worry, there is a point to this.

Our current rotation of bedtime books includes one featuring Elmo, that fuzzy little red guy from Sesame Street. It's called My Fuzzy Valentine, and the images of Elmo are covered in something velour-ish, so kids can touch fuzzy Elmo. Anyway, Elmo gets this mysterious valentine, trots up and down Sesame Street, and finally discovers that it's from his mommy...because she loves her fuzzy little Elmo! Feeling cheesily maternal, I concluded my rendition of the book with, "Just like Mommy loves her little Boy Wonder!"

Boy Wonder smiled, and said, "But I'm not fuzzy!"

Then he looked at my arm, patted it, and said, "But you are, Mommy."

Somehow, it's OK coming from him.