Last week was the most memorable in recent history. The kids left for six days with the Jersey grandparents. We’ve never been apart for longer than a weekend, and I worried a full week might be too much for the little ones. Thankfully, I had enough on my plate to distract from my guilt.
What’s Wrong with the Woods?
First up, the parade of workmen that entered our home on Tuesday. Ted and I had planned to retile the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms for over a year, and the project was finally happening. The downside: early mornings and next to zero privacy for three days. Our master bath offered the only working toilet, and I spent 20 minutes folding laundry, waiting for one of the workmen to do his business. Then I remembered the embarrassing state of my bathroom—underwear strewn over the side of the tub, dried toothpaste on the counter and a wastebasket full of dirty diapers. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that the tile guys would need to use the facilities. But now they were very familiar with my personal space.
Later Alligator
In addition to renovations, last week included my final 3 days in the office. Everything at my workplace is done quietly, in a reserved and matter-of-fact way. On my second to last day, the copy team treated me to lunch at a favorite deli. They gave me a card with a four-leaf clover inside and the messages included, “good luck,” “stay in touch,” and “you’ll be missed.” But after five years, I was surprised that more people didn’t stop by to bid adieu. Milestones are big in our society—birthdays, graduations, anniversaries, etc., but completing five years at a corporation, not so much. To be fair, when my parting was announced in an email, I don’t think my boss mentioned an official last day. But still. My final day at work was depressing and validating all at the same time. Sad because no one outside of my cubicle village seemed to care that I was leaving, and happy because damn it, if I was just a warm body in a desk, then I made the right decision.
Do I Have a Good Side?
With all of these events going on, I received an email from the editor of Raising Maine magazine, offering a feature story for fall. It’s great to have an assignment, especially given the timing. I could tell co-workers, yes, I do have an upcoming project! I am not “just” staying home (this was a constant and annoying phrase I heard during my last few weeks, as in, “I heard you’re just staying home with your children, good for you!” but that’s another post altogether). Coupled with the gig from RM, the editor requested a professional picture for the web site. I agreed, but I felt like an awkward middle school student. I did all the primping a person would expect—make-up, an attempt at styling my unruly hair and selecting a color (I hoped) would do my pale face justice. Little did I know the photo shoot would include a full body shot (I would never have chosen my jean skirt if I’d known this, featuring my bug bitten, bruised legs in all their glory). The photographer asked me to position my hands naturally, and I obliged, placing them on my hips with elbows pulled back, like I was mulling something over or about to shout at someone. When the photo shoot ended, the photographer never showed me any of the pictures. I’m scared to death of looking like a candidate for What Not to Wear.
The Great State of Vermont
After all of this weirdness, I was ready to hightail it to Vermont. My parents have a second home there, and planned to meet us on Saturday with the kids. Two full days in Vermont seemed like the perfect ending to a crazy week. Ted and I slept in, went out for lunch, talked and sipped local beer, spent some time at our favorite farmers’ market and went to see Funny People. And just when I thought, man, I am relaxed, I could use a few more kid-free days, my parents arrived. Lauren ran to me like in a romantic drama, arms outstretched, shouting, “Momm-meee!” and Will yelled, “This is the house!” This is the house!” The two of them were one happy pair. And my parents appeared unscathed. We celebrated our reunion with a farm dinner, polished off two bottles of wine and enjoyed grandpa’s favorite oatmeal cookies and ice cream for dessert. The kitchen was a mess. Toys were all over the floor. The kids were covered in ice cream. But everything was as it should be.
Meet the Hazards 