I would’ve been a really, really bad pioneer. We had a big storm yesterday that snowed us in. Not a huge deal, apart from being cooped up with the kids for another day after what can only be described as a difficult weekend. But then half of our heat went out (our house needs two furnaces — I know, wah, wah). So it’s about 58 degrees in here, and my keyboard is almost too cold to touch. Then my computer started freaking out and kept knocking me offline, causing me to actually kneel on the floor in front of it while I sobbed into one of the at least five nervous breakdowns I’ve had in the past four days. I think it’s the closest I’ve come to praying in years (and apparently god is in my computer).
So, yeah, pioneer girl, not so much. The kids and I are reading “Little House on the Prairie,” and the mother, Caroline Ingalls, actually irons their clothes on the seat of their wagon while they’re traveling west. That’s right. Because you’d hate to make a bad impression on any Indians or other travelers you might run into. My iron is currently broken. Today I bought a wrinkle-free shirt from Costco. I suck.
These days, I feel lucky to be getting everyone out of the house wearing clean underwear and semi-fitting clothes. I say “semi” because Newt’s pants are too short, Elfie’s pants make her look like she has plumber’s butt, Tenzin’s pants have “shrunk,” and I don’t have any pants at all. The other night, Tenzin and I had to go to a “grown-up” party and put on “grown-up” clothes, and we almost didn’t make it. It was like watching a Roadblock on The Amazing Race — the two of us, searching through a sea of clothes for something that fits, only to discover yet another piece that doesn’t work. As the time ticks away, I slowly become more and more edgy, while Tenzin attempts to solve the puzzle. Will we stay composed, or will we turn on each other in a fit of frantic befuddlement?
We did finally find something to wear, and as it turned out, our host answered the door dressed like Mr. Roper from Three’s Company. And one of my good friends at the party went through the exact same scenario at her house. In fact, she’s been feeling as crazy/overwhelmed as I have about the holidays and everything in-between. So why doesn’t this make me feel any better? It did at the time. It always does when I commiserate with friends and figure out that I’m not the only one who feels like she can’t pull it together and is perpetually hanging on by her un-manicured fingernails. But then I go home and convince myself otherwise. And suddenly I’m the sole person on the planet who’s unable to make Christmas fun and memorable for the whole family, and properly photograph the kids on a snow day, and find something appropriate to wear in public, and make working look like it’s no big deal, and keep the house stocked with everything that everyone needs (including hot glue-gun refills, white cheddar bunnies, and mint flossers).
And as if the weight of being a complete suburban failure isn’t enough, I’m still dealing with this ridiculous chronic pain problem that’s been exacerbated by my neuro-muscular dentist attempting to “fix” me by changing my bite. It’s been like poking a monster that was sort of irritable, and now the monster is just plain pissed. And to top it off (okay, this is me whining now, so feel free to skip to the bottom — I’d be telling my kids to “shut it” if they were doing the same thing) I’m apparently now being treated to a monthly bout of cramps that rival — not kidding here — labor pains. I thought we were going to be taking a trip to the hospital this weekend. Good thing I live with a doctor who’s not prone to panicking. Even Newt got in on the “calm and collected” bit. I was lying on the floor, looking not so good, and he stroked my hair while saying things like, “It’s gonna be okay, Mom,” and “Hey, did you finish Jew-ry and Jew-ria yet?” It’s how he pronounces Julie and Julia (we think it’s because he’s a quarter Chinese).
Anyway, I’m guessing Caroline Ingalls would’ve looked such trivialities in the face and laughed. Holiday “stress”? Ha. Children happy? Who cares. Epidural? As if.
But I doubt that chick and I ever would’ve been friends.
Tammy Soong is a writer, wife, and mom from Reno, Nevada. She takes an absurd amount of pain medication, but not enough to have actually named her children "Newt" and "Elfie." She spends most days stressing out over clutter, writing stuff for this place, and working on podcasts with her gal pals, the Blogging Betties.