Category Archives: marriage

Perfectly Imperfect

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

In sixth grade my locker was right next to Donna’s.  She was (and I’m sure still is) a very nice girl.  She was blond and had a good group of friends and never did anything weird or goofy that could have earned her a link to an urban myth or any unfortunate nicknames (which really is key to middle school survival).  Yet, despite her successfully unremarkable charter through the rocky tween years, I will likely never forget her.

That is because almost every single day, while I was simultaneously praying that I might finally get my boobies and remember my locker combination (36-24-36…for both), she would tell me that I was perfect.  Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect.  

Gag me with a spoon.

I was defensive and I never knew how to respond  to that.  Just like everyone else, I knew I was far from perfect.  I had goofy braces and glasses and an unruly cowlick and my Jordache jeans were waaaaaay too tight (damn the thighs, even back then).  I was fighting with my mom, my little sisters were a pain in my butt, my dad was always at work, and my extended family was the stuff that they make reality shows about before they even had reality shows.  I liked a boy who didn’t like me back, and the one who did like me was called “Booger.”  I was growing too tall, too quickly and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay on the gymnastics team much longer.  Algebra was getting hard for me to follow without a lot of effort.  I certainly felt flawed.  But when I told Donna that she was wrong, she would not listen.

Fast forward thirty years.

I was at our neighborhood pool on Sunday with Kids D and E.  They were starting to drive me bonkers in the house, so I decided – for their safety and my sanity – we should get out.  It was a beautiful, hot day, but not many people were in the water.  The boys had fun swimming.  I had fun catching up with friends.  I chatted with my next-door neighbor for a bit.  A little later on, the football house mom (“If You Have to Poop, Go Home,” posted on April 27, 2011) came down with her son.  We were discussing our kids and I was complaining about mine and you can guess what she said to me.

“Hmmm.  I always thought your kids were perfect.”  Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect.

Gag me with a spoon and call me Criss Angel.

I guess I am still defensive, but now I know what to say.  My kids are far from perfect.  I am far from perfect.  And my life is definitely not perfect.

Sheepdog was gone way more than he was home this summer, and single-parenting five kids is the pits.  I resented him a whole bunch this summer.  And I was passive-aggressive about it.

Kid A has apparently reached the highest level of enlightenment and is not stingy in sharing her extensive knowledge, especially with regard to mistakes I make while parenting.  She even wrote me a note about it.  I was very happy when she left for two weeks of camp.

Kid B had a texting relationship with a boy that, when subjected to an impromptu spot-check by mom, went from “OK, innocent-enough” to “Reading-this-is-gonna-make-me-blow-chunks-right-here-on-the-boardwalk.”  I have subsequently given her the title of My Kid Most Likely to Sext in hopes that it deters her.  Also, she can no longer send or receive photos on her phone (just in case).

Kid C continues to live life on a completely different planet, leaving behind a trail of glitter and other scraps from her latest craft projects.  And sometimes just one shoe.  Oh yeah, and it takes her no less than two whole hours to shave her legs in the shower; our water bill is going to be astronomical.

Kid D has now added martial arts to his sports obsessions.  Just from watching a new TV show he has decided that he can successfully karate chop a block of wood.  In fact, he can not.  He also still can not tie his sneakers.  Do they even make velcro shoes for adults?

Kid E was allowed to watch “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” and now he walks around saying things like, “You better red-neck-ognize!” and “Mamma might eat Glitzy.  She done ett ’bout e’ery thang else!” in a perfect southern drawl.  I threatened to send him back to speech therapy if he did not stop.

As for me, I am hormonal and cynical and I have very poor fashion sense and I continue to curse way too much.  Sometimes I pee a little when I cough really hard.  I occasionally yell at my family like a complete psycho.  I get mad at Sheepdog when he is gone and then again when he comes home.  I am making up every excuse in the book as to why we can not have Kid E’s birthday at the jumping place like he really wants because I absolutely hate that place.  I alienated a carpool mom by saying she was late.  Oh, and I have on at least one occasion pretended to have my period for a few days longer that I really did so I didn’t have to have sex.  Really, I am thankful for a husband who finds me attractive, but who wants to have sex every flipping day?

It still surprises me when people call me perfect, but it no longer makes me feel weird.  It no longer makes me micro-examine my flaws or overcompensate for my imperfections.  I am comfortable in my skin and I know that I am trying my best.  I’m making it up as I go along, day by day… just like you and just like everybody else.  I try to learn new things and grow as a person and to do things better the next time around, but I realize that I will never get everything right no matter how long I may live.

No, we are not perfect.  Not me, not my husband, not my kids.  I guess we are closer to perfection than some, farther away than many others, and about the same as most.  But I like to think we are pretty happy despite all of our imperfections.

And that’s why the tagline to this blog has always been, “a front row seat to my perfectly imperfect life.”  Sorry, Donna.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

NIPs and Fudge-inas

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Last night at the dinner table it was just Sheepdog, Kid C, Kid D, Kid E, and me.  The Olympics may be over, but… Let the Games Begin!  School, sports and activities are already in full swing.  Kid A was at ballet and Kid B was at soccer.  I was excited because it was the first test of the effectiveness and executability of my New and Improved Plan (NIP) to address school night meals that get all screwed up by the craziness.  Mine and the world’s in general, but mostly mine.

This year I am going to feed them all homemade (well, made in my home), healthy meals during the week!

This year no one will come home from a practice and have to eat a bowl of cereal or a Happy Meal because I forgot to save them dinner!

This year I will plan ahead!  This year I will have all the ingredients I need on hand!  This year I will take things out of the freezer in time for them to thaw!

I get so excited about the lamest things!

Let me explain this NIP… the beauty is in its simplicity.  On Sunday morning I print out a schedule for the upcoming week.  The family collaborated on a list of favorite meals, which I keep pinned to my bulletin board.  On the schedule I write down specific meals from the list for each night, Sunday through Thursday (and maybe even Friday if I’m feeling especially ambitious, but Saturday is my night off, bitches).  From that schedule I then create a grocery list of standard and meal-specific things I will need to prepare meals for the whole week.  Then I go to the store and start checking things off the list.  When I get back from the store, I post the schedule on a bulletin board inside my pantry (because I will most likely forget what I planned to make and when), where I will see it every morning and remember to take out or prepare what I need for that day.

With this kind of organization and service of regular, healthy meals, I can even get away with occasionally (or always) using cheaters and shortcut ingredients like organic frozen vegetables, prepared sauces and marinades, or meatballs not made from scratch.

My Slice-O-Matic sat, unused, in its original box for like 10 years until I finally sold it for 50 cents at a yard sale.

Last night during dinner I was patting myself on the back in reference to my NIP awesomeness.  Then Kid D rained on my parade by announcing that he would not be able to eat the “sweet potatoes” (which he hates) on his stir fry plate.  I clarified that they were actually carrots (which he loves) and he should gobble them right up.  He presumed I was lying to get him to eat something good for him, but I swore a courtroom promise.   Kid D still wasn’t convinced, so Sheepdog explained that their unfamiliar shape was due to the carrots being cut up julienne – style.  And while I embraced the parental back-up and the notion of a man who knows his way around the kitchen (or at least the Food Network), I immediately shot Sheepdog a look that silently implied, “Why do you even know that word and did you have to trade away your man parts when you were given such information?”

Kid D just said, “Well, that puts the fudge in fudge-ina!” as he finished his dinner.  I don’t really know what that means, or even if I should punish you for saying it, but I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

More Than Words

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

It was August of 1991 and I had just driven myself in my awesome Honda CRX down I-95/ 695 around Baltimore and then Westward, Ho along the I-68 into Morgantown, West Virginia.  I had spent the past three years rebelling against my strict parents by pissing away the $16,000 a year they were spending on my private college education.  I think during my final semester I was registered for three classes totaling 9 hours and I got a C, a D and an F on my report card.  Stellar work, genius.  But I sure had fun!

Actually, I did not have that much fun.  I was lost and trying to figure out who I wanted to be.  And I had no freaking idea how to do that.

I transferred to a different, much less expensive college that accepted such impressive transfer grades (fortunately I had a decent high school transcript), and hunkered down to actually get a tertiary education.

Now, I do not know if any of you remember West Virginia University and/ or it’s reputation in the early 1990’s.  Suffice it to say that the town was just beginning to come down off the high it brought to an entire state with superstar quarterbacks (and Heisman Trophy candidates) Jeff Hostetler and Major Harris.  There were endless stories of burning couches being a staple at the end of all-night or, more commonly, all-weekend block parties on Sunnyside.  The rumors and urban legends ran wild and almost every one involved raucous partying and drinking and almost unbelievable stories of ridiculous behavior.  I may have even attended one or two events that were remnants of the good ol’ days in my first days and weeks in Morgantown, but the locals lamented that it just wasn’t quite the same.  Many reckoned it never would be again.

Fortunately for me that was true, at least during my time there.  I needed to focus on studying for and passing my classes, not partying like it was 1999 (which was still cool because it wasn’t yet).  But I still found time to attend football games just down the stadium access road that meandered past my apartment.  I was earning a liberal arts degree – not training to be a nun – for goodness’ sake.

On one such Saturday (September 14, 1991, to be exact) South Carolina was playing at West Virginia.  My roommate and I held a small pre-game gathering in our apartment and then we eased on down the road with our friends to watch some football.  The way that WVU tailgating worked back then was pretty standard… there were rows upon rows of cars and trucks and trailers and tents set up with varying degrees of food and drink awesomeness for the enjoyment of the masses.  Fans would make our way down the access road and stop whenever we saw someone we knew to exchange pleasantries, meet new friends and partake in said food and drink.  It was under these magical conditions that I met Sheepdog.

He and his friends were running a keg about halfway to the stadium.  My friend knew him from high school days so we stopped and said hello.  Sheepdog smiled and offered me a solo cup and then he introduced me to his redheaded girlfriend.  My friends and I moved on.  WVU won that game 21 – 16.

A few days later I was taking a shower in my apartment and I walked out of the bathroom, through the common living area that lead to my bedroom.  I was honestly quite surprised to find Sheepdog sitting on my couch.  I was wearing nothing but a towel, which was surprising to no one.  He claimed to be there to “reconnect” with my roommate’s boyfriend, but I was no dummy.  I put on my best jean shorts and fluffed up my Jersey hair as big as it would go and we all went out to a bar called The Underground.

Immediately after that, the redheaded girlfriend got her walking papers.  Being emotionally immature (and chronologically immature… I was only 20 years old), I kept trying to push him out of my life.  But, damn if that boy was not tenacious.  We did the most logical thing and got engaged a few months later.

Our parents were actually supportive of the union (especially since I didn’t seem so lost anymore), as long as we waited to get married until after we had graduated from college.  Our WVU Graduation was in May.  We got married one month later, on Saturday, June 19, 1993.  We were both twenty-two years old.  And I wasn’t even pregnant.

Our wedding was a super fancy fairy tale. The horse even had a bag to catch his poop.

Today marks our nineteenth wedding anniversary.  I write that with such pride and joy that I almost want to use smiley emoticons.  But not really because they are so stupid.

There were times that we almost didn’t make it.  There was even a time before we had Kids D and E, when we had decided that divorce was the right option for us and Sheepdog planned to look for an apartment just after the holidays.  Then we had the most relaxed, fun Thanksgiving and Christmas break with the girls and with each other and we decided we were even dumber than our decision and we needed to fight to make our marriage work.  So we went to more counseling and we learned how to communicate better and listen better and how to just be better to each other.  We worked hard but we were also very lucky.

We are lucky to have found each other and lucky to have so many fundamentals in common.  We are lucky that we are both so very stubborn.  We are lucky that we are yin to each other’s yang and our parts fit together well.  And we are so lucky that we still like each other after all these years.  At least most of the time.

Cheers! to the most awesome wedding song ever. And to this timeless headpiece.

But the thing that I feel luckiest about is the wedding song that we selected to dance our first dance together as man and wife.  While our contemporaries were swaying to Real Love by Mary J. Blige, Can’t Help Falling In Love by UB40, and Nuthin’ But A “G” Thang by Dr. Dre, we chose a quirky little love ballad by the heavy metal band, Extreme, called More Than Words.

Family and friends, and even the emcee/ deejay during the ceremony, made fun of our choice.  I guess they wanted us to pick something more mainstream, like Knockin’ Da Boots by H-Town.  But we went our own weird way with it and – like our marriage –  it has stood the test of time.  More Than Words has become a kind of a classic.  I hear it all the time while I am out running errands, in elevators, in doctor’s offices, in the grocery store.  Every time I stop what I am doing to bust out the best lyrics of the song… “Hold me close don’t EV-AH let me go!”  And every time it reminds me that I am a very, very lucky girl.

Happy 19th Anniversary, Sheepdog. xo

Vacation Shoes

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

From April 10 – 17, 1999, with Nanny and Pop Pop happily in charge of a three-year-old Kid A and a five-month-old Kid B, Sheepdog and I set off for a week of some fun, sun and “Bow Chicka Wow Wow” time in the Guanacaste province of Costa Rica.  It was a fantastic vacation filled with good food and drink, exploration of fabulous beaches and restaurants and jungles in a rented jeep, hanging out with cool people and a bunch of wild monkeys watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean, and – best of all – time alone with my husband at a 5-star beach resort.  I loved every single minute of that trip (except maybe for the lizards in the shower).

It’s a good thing too because it turns out Sheepdog and I would not have another no work/ no kids week away together for twelve more years.  Seriously.  That is a very long time to wait to go on a real vacation, but there was always something more important to spend money on, or a sick and needy kid, or I was pregnant (it happened A LOT) or there was a work conflict.  Plus it turns out that not many people are capable or up for the challenge of watching five kids for an entire week.  Fortunately for us this time around, Sheepdog’s parents agreed (I presume they were not really sure what they were saying yes to when we begged them almost a full year ago to commit – NO TAKE BACKS!) to come down and wrangle the entropy in our absence.

Knowing that it was such a long time since our most awesome Costa Rican vacation together and presuming that our next trip could potentially be that far off in the future, I set out to make this the best trip ever.  I organized, scheduled, planned, prepared and set up the kids and the house to the absolute best of my ability, so it would not be such a burden on their caretakers and so I would not worry so much about them.  With Grandma and Grandpa in charge I knew they would be cuddled, loved, protected and they would play tons of card and board games with them (which is torture for me).  As far as my own preparation, I did P90X and got my hair colored and a mani/ pedi and I waxed and shaved and did all of the things that you need to do to lay around for a week half-clothed/ half-naked by the pool in front of other people.  I picked out and packed some cute dresses and several cute bathing suits.  And then I packed my vacation shoes.

"Are we going to a strip club when we get to Mexico?" - My brother-in-law, Brandon, when he got on the plane and noticed my choice of footwear for the flight to Cabo

It really is true that Sheepdog is a very simple man.  He requires only regular doses of food, sex and biking, and not necessarily in that order.  Anything else is bonus material.  I figured the least I could do to set the tone for our awesome week in Mexico was to wear some sexy shoes on the airplane.  I wanted the week to be special, and that meant the opposite of Sheepdog coming home every day to find me frazzled, tired, unkempt and, more often than not, barefoot and in sweatpants.

In addition to wearing the leopard shoes, I downloaded and read a very dirty book during our vacation week.  And when I say “very dirty” I actually mean there’s not enough Orbitz gum in the world to wash that dirt out.  I am sure I was blushing the whole time I was reading it.  It is very poorly written with a bunch of really cheesy euphemisms and clichés.  The stuff I read was disturbing on so many levels that I could not even wrap my head around most of it.  Yet, if I am being honest I have to admit that I read the whole damn thing.  Not that I got into all of the pervy stuff in the book, but it most definitely set a mood for our trip.

So the preparation and planning and even the twelve-year wait were all definitely worth it.  We didn’t worry too much about the kids and we enjoyed each other and Sheepdog got to golf three times and take a four-hour mountain bike ride and I lounged in the sunshine by the swim-up bar (we have very different ideas of what to do while on vacation).  By the end of the week I felt refreshed and recharged and ready to get back to the kids and our regular non-vacation lives.  I felt like I could deal with the temper tantrums and wash the dishes with a smile, at least for a little while.

It’s a good thing, too.  We came back to little kids who were mad, mad, mad that we had gone away and teenagers who needed this and needed that and everything was URGENT and it is a very good thing that I refilled my patience bowl on that trip because I sure have needed it lately.  Having all of these kids and trying to raise them without causing irreparable damage and running a family and a home can be incredibly rewarding but it can also be hard on your body and soul.

So every once in a while I’m going to think back to our fabulous week in Cabo and I am going to take out my leopard print platforms and I am going to put them on while I make the beds or fold the laundry or do some other menial chore.  I’m hoping that will get me through until the next time Sheepdog and I go away together.  That, and the dirty book is actually the first in a series of three.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Something in the Attic

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Sheepdog has been traveling for work way more often than he has been home lately.  The kids and I struggle when he is gone, both emotionally and schedule-wise.  I really hate it when he is gone.  We all miss him and I miss his second set of hands for wrangling kids.  Things run more smoothly when he is home and, conversely, they sometimes fall apart when he is gone.  That’s what happened last week.

Sheepdog left for an early morning flight last Tuesday.  I had a fitful sleep on Monday night (fretting over how I would possibly get all of the kids all of the places they needed to be on my own, plus Sheepdog was sick and snoring like a wild, angry bear all night long) and I was completely exhausted the next day.  I was so tired that I actually made the choice to have Kid E nap with me after I picked him up from preschool even though I knew it would result in him staying up (and thus driving me crazy) at bedtime.

I snuggled in with my bedside alarm set to wake me just in time to greet Kids C and D as they got off of the elementary school bus.  Kid E seemed game for a little winter’s nap, so much so that he drifted off before I did.  I started entertaining my worry-thoughts for a very brief moment but then crashed into a deep, dreamless sleep almost immediately.  It was like I had hit the exhaustion wall, but I rebounded into a pit of fluff and marshmallows.  It was one of those glorious naps that happen only once in a rare while.  Until I woke to hear the pitter-patter of little feet… directly over my head.

As I lay in my soft, warm bed with my eyes still closed I began to put the cold, hard information together.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter.  Skitter, skitter, skitter.
Maybe Sheepdog hired someone to fix a hole in our roof.  Yet we don’t have any holes in our roof.  Crap.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter.  Skitter, skitter, skitter.  
Maybe DirecTV is adjusting our dish so that we get more consistent reception.  That doesn’t even happen when you manage to get a tech out to your house for a scheduled appointment.  Double crap.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter.  Skitter, skitter, skitter.
Maybe my neighbor hired a company to power wash her roof and they came and power washed ours by accident (true story… that really happened).  But the odds of that happening twice are probably slim.  That’s a steaming pile of triple crap.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter.  Skitter, skitter, skitter.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter.  Skitter, skitter, skitter.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter.  Skitter, skitter, skitter.

So apparently there is some thing in my attic, the handling of which normally falls under Sheepdog’s domain.  Our deal clearly states that I take care of laundry, buying presents for all our relatives and talking to the girls about getting their periods.  Sheepdog gets rid of the unwanted varmints.  But he is in California until the weekend so I have only two choices.  I can crawl under my cozy covers and cry about it or I can get out of bed and take care of business.

So after remembering that Sheepdog said I wasn’t supposed to touch the guns while he is away, I got on the internet and did some quick research.  I called a couple of critter catchers and played the part of a damsel in distress.  My hero was able to come over immediately.

He headed straight up to the attic to check things out.  I started to hyperventilate at one point because he left the attic access open while he was investigating (I guess I expected he would shut himself in there instead), and all I could picture was a flying squirrel coming out of the opening and me having to trap it in a coat and smack it with a hammer.  Fortunately, the critters must have heard him coming and they dispersed like a bunch of underage drinkers at a fraternity party getting busted by the cops.  I reluctantly put my hammer back in the drawer.

A photograph direct from my imagination. This critter apparently trained with Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka.

Then the critter catcher tells me that no thing was up there at present but there was indeed evidence that some thing was recently exercising squatter’s rights.  Apparently it is common for southern builders to leave a gap under the eaves and soffits, which is just the right size for squirrels and such to sneak into our attics.  He went on to explain that this could all be remedied by having him install 190 linear feet of flashing that will essentially block the animals’ access.  And any thing that is still inside on installation day gets trapped in cages left behind and carted out by the critter catcher during random checks over the next couple of days.  No hammers necessary.

As the critter catcher goes out to his truck to go write out my estimate, I tell him in no uncertain terms that he “will definitely be installing whatever it takes to get rid of these things and I don’t really care what it costs.  But please, oh please, do not gouge me on price because I just said that.”  I was still out of my mind picturing the flying squirrel scenario.

Fortunately he came back with a very reasonable estimate for the work (my sisters had the job done on their houses and I knew approximately what it should cost) and suggested I talk it over with my husband.  I laughed out loud and told him that he got the job and to put me on the schedule ASAP.  The installation starts first thing tomorrow morning.

When I recounted the story to Sheepdog he kept apologizing for not being at home to handle it himself.  If he had been in town he could have done his sheepdog duties and rid the house of varmints.  He could have been my hero.  When I told him I spent $1700 to take care of the problem he just sighed, knowing he had no right to complain considering he was not here to do his job.  I think he may have even gone back to his boss and requested a little less travel in the future.

Mission accomplished.  No crap.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

 

Animals Gone Wild Kingdom

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Sheepdog quite possibly killed a rabbit.  Or maybe he did not.  He could just be hopping around totally unharmed.  We will never know.

This is what I do know…

For a decade Sheepdog has been working in Buckhead, which is the uptown district of Atlanta.  It is about 25 miles (approximately 3.17 hours in ATL real traffic time) from our house.  For at least a couple of years now Sheepdog has been taking public transportation to work.  This means that he wakes up during the 5 o’clock (Good Lord, I didn’t even know that was humanly possible) hour, drives his car to the MARTA bus stop at Windward, rides the bus to the northern-most Red Line MARTA train station at North Springs (exit 5C on GA-400N), then takes a train to Buckhead.  Finally, he walks the last block or so to his office.  It saves us a ton of money in gas and he is often able to work, make phone calls or read/ sleep during his commute.  According to Sheepdog this really sucks, especially when gas prices skyrocket and public transportation becomes SRO (standing room only).  But he is the ultimate team player, so he endures.

Then sometime around the end of October Sheepdog came home and announced that he wanted to start commuting to work on his bicycle.  And no, I’m not joking.  My immediate response was that he was certainly NOT riding a bike to work because he would surely make me a widow (with five freaking children!), especially given the fact that drivers despise cyclists around here and often try to nudge them off of the roads.  And it’s not just me that does this.  Soooooo… End of the Crazy Discussion.

Whenever Sheepdog talks about wanting (in fact NEEDING) to ride his bike, I always start singing the song "Bicycle Race" by Queen in my head. It is awesome (the song, not my singing)

As always is the case when I flex my muscles in the “And That’s Final!” way, the jokester that is my God immediately brought a new person into my life to expose me to a different perspective on things.  On Halloween night I walked around our neighborhood shadowing Kid C and her friends.  With me were a few of the friends’ parents, some of whom I did not know.  At some point during the night I talked to a dad who, as it turns out, does triathlons and is an especially enthusiastic cyclist and thought it was just the best thing ever that Sheepdog was considering a 2-wheeled commute to his office.  He proceeded to tell me all of the reasons why throughout the long evening.  Awesome.

I then went home and told Sheepdog that he could look into riding his bike to work.  As long as I was convinced that it wasn’t a suicide mission, I would consider endorsing his plan.

The word “tenacious” was brought up by my dad during a toast to Sheepdog and I at our wedding all those many years ago.  My dad explained that it takes tenacity to have a successful marriage, and I believe that Sheepdog took that sage advice to heart.  Moreover, he also applies that same tenacity to other aspects of his life.  When Sheepdog gets an idea in his head, he is more often than not tirelessly persistent until that idea comes to fruition.  I knew that once he started considering riding to his office, he would figure out a way to make it happen even if I wasn’t totally on board.  My dad also said during that same speech at our wedding, “Stacy’s personality is such that it takes a very special man to live with her,” but I forgave him for that because it is kind of true.

So Sheepdog promised that approximately 90% of this commute would take place on “very safe” bike path routes, and after he successfully dispelled my fears that he would be on said bike path routes when it was mostly dark outside (“…and do you know who is on bike path routes at these insane times?  Undesirables fleeing from the law, serial killers, sex offenders and vampires, that’s who!”), I agreed with the plan for him to ride his bike to work.  But I had some conditions.

1.  No intentional riding in the rain.

2.  Always be defensive and alert while riding, especially on the 10% of the ride that is not classified as “very safe.”

3.  He must text me every day when he gets to work to let me know that he has arrived safely so I can cross “call life insurance company” off my To-Do list (at least on that day).

I will have to say that the arrangement seems to be working out fine.  Sheepdog has gotten caught in some sudden and unexpected (Me: “Why didn’t you check the forecast, dummy?”) downpours, but he hasn’t melted yet.  He says he is very careful, yet he insists on listening to his iPod while riding, which I am less than thrilled about because it means he is not paying attention as fully as I would want him to.  But he wears a very bright, flashy light thing and he does text me that he is safe every morning, even though I forget I have a phone and often don’t check my messages until after 10 a.m. or sometimes not at all.

Then one day Sheepdog posted this on Facebook:

Rabbit run! Crazy commute this morning. Lots of rabbits on the bike path. Hit one but we are both okay (think he bounced off of the crank).
app.strava.com
commuted 21.9 miles by bike.

What the what?  A rabbit?  Here I am worried about angry drivers crashing into him, or murderers and the undead chasing him in the dark woods, and he gets attacked by Little Bunny Foo-Foo?  Then today I saw about eight deer running through our neighborhood around 7:00 a.m. when I was driving some kids to school.  And don’t get me started on the darting, schizophrenic squirrel population.  They could all easily hit my Sheepdog.  It is like Jumanji out there.  It just goes to show that you never know what dangers may be lurking, even in the “very safe” sections of the world.

Please be safe, Sheepdog.  And please take off the damn headphones. xo

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

More of an Indoor Girl

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Our family is composed of both extremes when it comes to the inside vs. outside debate.  I would live in a penthouse in the city if I could make it work with five kids; Sheepdog would live outside in a treehouse were it not called “homeless.”  Kid A loves taking pictures of things in nature; Kid B enjoys watching moving pictures on television.  Kid C leaps into the pile of leaves before she looks; Kid D wants to learn all of the facts about the tree on the internet first.  But both of them are up for almost anything in the out-of-doors, while Kid E complains about every last aspect of it.  Yet every once in a while the planets align and we nay-sayers cry uncle and we head out as a family to some remote place where the county flower is poison ivy but the views are spectacular and the air is piney (and DEET-scented) and we are all humbled by the awesomeness of nature.

This weekend we traveled to Tallulah Falls State Park for a picnic and some hiking and to watch the kayakers navigate the gorge.  It was perfect fall weather (sunny in the high 50s) and the leaves in northeast Georgia are experiencing extreme chlorophyll-deficiency, so the residual colors left us breathless.  An added bonus was that Georgia Power floods the dam every weekend in November so the crazies can ride the rush in their little boats of death (insane to do but extremely cool to watch).  The drive took over an hour and most of the kids watched “The Princess Bride” while Sheepdog and I talked uninterrupted like civilized people.  Almost before we knew it, we had arrived at a little cliff-side viewing spot/ antique store/ BBQ restaurant.

After a quick stop in the restroom, I was immediately approached by a bearded man holding a deep pot on the end of a five-foot pole.

“Bald penis?” he asked of me and the girls.  Sheepdog was still in the bathroom.

I protectively put my arms around the kids and moved them all behind me.  Simultaneously, my brain was calculating possible situational outcomes and I quickly realized upon looking into the pot that he was not some local pervert trying to harass the tourists.  He was offering us a soggy, cooked, traditional Georgia snack.

I honestly believe I might never figure out the whole deep-southern accent thing.  It throws me for a loop every time.  P.S.  Boiled peanuts are kind of gross.

The view from 1,000 feet

We checked out the view and decided to get back into the car so we could find the place where we could hike down the trails closer to the raging water.  It was conveniently just down the road as bellies were starting to grumble all around us.  We paid a minimal five dollars to park and soon set up our picnic lunch in a field next to some rocks.  They were perfect for sitting against or upon and also for having Kid E jump off and climb, thus guaranteeing that I would have indigestion for the remainder of the day.  Fortunately, no one got hurt during the meal and soon we were off, with nothing but a trail map, five kids, two adults, a backpack/kid carrier, a full water bottle, three pairs of extra sunglasses, sunscreen, bug spray, some light jackets, a packet of wipes, a couple of iPhones and a 35mm SLR camera.  Ah, the simplicity of nature!

First, we walked up from the information center to a place called Inspiration Point.  I was hopeful that this was more of a spiritual moniker as opposed to a carnal one.  I mean, hadn’t the peanut guy contributed enough depravity for one day?  Fortunately there were just a bunch of other people with cameras and dogs and walking sticks up there.  While at the point we got to see the remains of one of the towers that Karl (“The Great/ Flying”) Wallenda used to tightrope walk across the quarter-mile-wide gorge in 1970.  Crazy.  But the views were phenomenal, especially with my family safely behind the protective viewing fence.

After that we hiked down the mountain back past the main parking area and then continued on our downward trek toward the suspension bridge that sits just 80 feet above the rocky bottom, providing spectacular views of the river and waterfalls below.  To get there you have to climb down a little more than 300 grated metal stairs.  And unless you want to live out the remainder of your days like a troll under the bridge, you also have to climb back up.  Easier said than done.

By this point in the day we had hiked quite a way and some of the kids were getting tired.  But we didn’t drive all the way out here to hike just the easy part!   Kid E had toughed it out with minimal complaining and walked most of the trails so far, but he was definitely ready to ride in the backpack carrier for the remainder of our excursion.   Being no dummy, I offered to wear/ carry him down the steps.  It was no big deal except that after the first few sections I had to ask him to please stop chanting, “We are going DOWN the steps.  WE are going down the steps.  We ARE going down the steps.  We are going down the STEPS.”  He did not.

I then felt zero guilt when I asked Sheepdog to take his turn carrying Kid E on the way back up.  Even without a person on my back those steps were hard.  I refused to stop on the little resting benches.  I was panting like a dog.  To add insult to injury, Kid D ran the whole way back up.  Show off.  At least I beat most of the old people.  I considered it a great day all around.

If you pick 'em up, O Lord, I'll put 'em down. - Author Unknown, "Prayer of the Tired Walker"

The whole family had a fantastic time.  I even look forward to the next time we get back to the woods.  Maybe Sheepdog can make a nature lover out of this indoor girl yet!

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

My Husband Thinks I’m an Idiot

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

There are a few television shows that Sheepdog and I watch together after a majority of the kids are (fingers crossed) in bed for the night.  After the stories are read and the monsters have been sprayed and everybody gets in one last pee, we sneak down to the basement and go on a pretend date.  And they’re the best kind of dates, too, because we get to stretch out on a couch and we can go in our pajamas or eat cookies or sugar-free fudgsicles if we want.  And the kids know that they are not invited because it is our time.  And my fudgsicles… back off!

Sometimes we don’t even watch that much television.  There are many nights that we may start watching something and it leads to an idea which causes one of us to say, “Pause!” because we remembered something that happened earlier in the day that we want to share.  Or maybe there was something we have been meaning to discuss that we keep forgetting about, or we didn’t want to discuss it with kid ears listening in.  Whether we are talking or laughing or just watching TV, it is really nice that we get to hang out and spend some quality time together.

The other night we were watching a new show on CBS called “2 Broke Girls,” which has been fairly funny in a hit-or-miss kind of way.  It is still on our queue because one of the lead girls has an enormous rack and Sheepdog is always a little hesitant to stop watching big boobs.  We also watch another show on ABC called “Happy Endings,” which was a mid-season replacement last year and is fairly funny too.  Even when that show lost it a little bit we kept watching because all of the women on the show have qualities that Sheepdog finds redeeming (yes, boobs).  Plus, there is a shot of a really great butt in the opening, so I think this show may rank even higher for him.  I digress, because my point has nothing to do with the girls’ body parts.  The funny thing was that both shows had episodes about vision boards that aired in the exact same week.

Vision boards are those things that people associate with The Secret and Oprah or “Field of Dreams.”  You cut out pictures of things you want to have, be or do in your life (eight-pack abs, an Audi TT quattro, MLS#4219301, a successful writer, Ben Affleck) and you glue them onto a foam board.  Then you put the board in a place where you will see it every day and be inspired and passionate so that you can begin to manifest those things into your life.  Supposedly, by looking at these things every day you will put yourself in a better state of mind to achieve/ attain/ earn the things you desire most by activating the universal law of attraction.  Whether we believe in them or not (me: maybe, Sheepdog: you have got to be kidding), we both found it interesting that they were a major plot line in at least two shows that we had just watched.

Sheepdog had never really heard of vision boards before this so he pressed pause on the remote.  Then he posed the question, “How can it be that both shows are about the same random thing?”

I wiped the fudgsicle crumbs from my shirt.  “When you follow pop culture you are exposed to a myriad of information… on television, in movies, on websites, blogs, and in magazines, newspapers and books.  There is really only so much information you can be exposed to and when people see or read the same things it will inevitably lead them to draw similar conclusions and basically have a shared consciousness.  It is only logical that television writers are exposed to similar media input and are therefore influenced into a similar thought pattern.  I can not tell you how many times I have had what I thought to be a completely unique idea come to me, only to have it portrayed on television just a few weeks or months later.  I just figure I read the same “Glamour” article as the show’s writers and we then took our ideas to the same place.  I’m surprised that similarly themed episodes do not happen more often.”

Sheepdog’s jaw dropped to the floor and he sat up straight.  “Do you realize that was the most coherent, well-articulated and logical argument that you have put together in a really long time?”

I feigned offense, but I have been known to refer to my own “self-depriciating” humor on occasion.  Plus, I had those fudgsicle crumbs on my shirt.  I may have scored higher on the S.A.T.’s than Sheepdog, but pregnancies, motherhood and being married to him for eighteen years has definitely dumbed me down.  Maybe I should try making my own vision board with a picture of somebody really smart on it.

How exactly do I clarify to the vision board that I want to think like Einstein, but I don't want to have hair like his or date him?

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Happy Birthday to Me!

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Yesterday was my birthday.  It was also a Monday, so it was laundry day, grocery shopping day and Kid A had an interview in midtown at 7PM, so she and Sheepdog were not home for dinner.  Best birthday ever, you say?  Wait… it gets better.

The day started around 12:15AM when Kid E moseyed into our bedroom and asked to cuddle with me.  As I took him by the hand and led him back to his own room, I cursed him silently for waking me.  This back-and-forth routine continued over the next three hours.  The silent cursing did not last long.  Every time I would start to fall asleep again, Kid E would tap me on the shoulder.  By the hundredth time I felt like I was being tortured.  On one trip back to his bed I told him congratulations on giving me the worst birthday present ever.

His confused response was, “But I didn’t even get you a present.”

If somebody is up during the night I always try my best not to disturb Sheepdog, because he has to get up early and go to a real job.  By 3:45AM I was exhausted, infuriated, desperate, and on the verge of tears.  I no longer cared about Sheepdog and his stupid job.  So the next time Kid E came in I ignored him.  Sheepdog finally heard him (“Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom…”  Seriously, how does the man NOT wake up?) and he jumped out of bed.

“WHAT?” whisper-yelled Sheepdog.

“I have to pee,” said Kid E, very matter-of-factly, with a hint of “What would you have me do…urinate in my bed?  I’m no savage!”  So Sheepdog took him to the bathroom and then back to his room.  At last, the kid was sleepy enough to stay in there.

“Happy Birthday, ” Sheepdog whispered to me when he came back.  “I’m sorry you’ve had a crappy night.”

“I’m thinking of moving out,” was my very serious response.  I don’t remember if I dreamed over the next three hours, but if I did it was probably about locking myself behind multiple doors with heavy deadbolts.

I wish for world peace. And for skinny thighs.

I woke up later to Kid D screaming that his stomach hurt as he was running past me into my bathroom.  “I don’t feel so good,” he sighed as he crawled in bed next to me.  I didn’t even care if he had washed his hands first.

As I was zombie-walking down the hall to put Kid C onto the elementary school bus, I realized that Kid B had overslept and she would need a ride to school.  This keeps getting better.

Actually, it did get better.  Kids A, B and C went off to school.  Kid D felt fine, so I dropped him off as well when I was taking Kid E to preschool.  Then I went home and collapsed until I decided to make my own birthday cupcakes for dinner.

Sleep is a funny thing.  I am a girl who needs a good nine hours, so I rarely hit my mark.  I make up for it by sleeping in on the weekends (Shout out! Sheepdog for helping me do that) and taking occasional naps.  You’d think I would be used to interrupted rest after having five babies, but I never adjusted.  The cumulative effect of sixteen years of sleep deprivation has left an indelible mark on my personality.  I’m meaner and even more sarcastic.  I have even been known to growl on occasion.  I have to use more under eye concealer.  It is not a good thing.

It is a good thing that Kid E has some sixth sense thing happening, because he was one more sleepless night away from being put up for auction on eBay.  Last night he went to bed without incident and then slept through the entire night.  I am a different person today than I was yesterday.

Today I feel like I can take on the world.  Today I feel like I am a Disney Princess and everyone around me is a singing animal.  Today I am She-Ra, Princess of Power.  Today I feel like Wonder Woman and Laura Croft and Buffy the Vampire Slayer all rolled into one, except not all fit and and wearing some sexy ass-kicking costume because I’ve just been too tired to work out lately.

But today I have the energy to fix that!  I’m gonna go work out right now.  Then I’ll probably take a nap, because who knows what tonight will hold.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Who’s The Boss?

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I feel like I just gave birth.  I am disoriented and exhausted and a little bit sweaty, but I am on a crazy adrenaline high at the same time.  I haven’t slept in days.  I am excited and scared, confident and unsure.

But it is all for good reason… I had an actual writing deadline.  Yep.  Someone asked me to contribute to a local magazine and I just submitted my first article.

First, allow me point out a few things.  From the time I was fourteen and I got my first paying gig at Mister Donut (yes, I woke up at 4:30 a.m. for the 5 o’clock shift and I chanted “It’s time to make the doughnuts” as I put on my uniform and rode my 3-speed to work in the dark) until May 18, 2001, (the day that Kid C was born and the same day that I retired from my last job as a law office manager), I had legitimate bosses who told me what to do, reviewed and oversaw my productivity, and held me generally accountable in exchange for a paycheck.  Since that day more than ten years ago, I have been my own boss.  And while that means I bring home no bacon, it also means that I can pretty much do whatever I want, whenever I want to do it.

Now I could go off on the tangent about stay-at-home moms and the work it takes to run a household and raise a family and the shopping and cooking and cleaning and laundry and child care and shuttling kids around and how much you would have to pay if you hired someone for each of those jobs.  I read somewhere once that the figure was more than $500,000 a year when you calculate it like that.  I mean no disrespect to my fellow stay-at-home moms, but that’s whacked.  It’s definitely some fuzzy math and does not account for the fact that some days I could still be in my pajamas at 3:38 in the afternoon, but as long as I got the kids off the bus and I finally folded the load of whites that has been sitting in the dryer for days and I whipped up something that maybe resembles “dinner,” I did my work for the day.  Now, I don’t do it like that every day.  My point is that it is really nice to be able to slack off every once in a while and not have The Man looking over my shoulder all the time.  And Sheepdog knows better than to complain when I occasionally phone it in.

So, back to the writing thing.  I was asked to write something for a publication that goes out to wealthier neighborhoods in the Atlanta suburbs six times a year.  They don’t have a budget to pay me, but they can give my blog a shout out.  I was/ am extremely excited about it.  After a few e-mails back and forth I learned that I had a week to put together my first article.  It was a little fast, but I was convinced it would be no problem.  Man, was I wrong.

It just sits there blank, taunting me.

I have been writing this blog since March and I enjoy it very much.  In the beginning I forced myself to write every weekday because I had a compulsion to do so.  When the family schedule revved up I chose to write less often, even though I always had ideas whirling around in my head.  I had stories coming out of me that would almost write themselves.  I didn’t always have the spare time to write, but if I didn’t post it was no big deal.  This magazine thing is different.  I have actual deadlines.  For the blog I always had something to write about.  For the article I could think of nothing.  I must have started more than ten different stories and wasn’t happy with any of them.

Plus, I get an editor.  Somebody who is telling me to write in complete sentences, use proper grammar and spell check.  Someone who is not only going to read my writing, but review it and then critique it.  A “boss,” if you will.  No, I’m not handling it well at all.

What if I am no good at it?  What if I can’t find my voice?  What if people don’t like me or my writing?  Sheepdog keeps laughing at me.  He says it is good for me as a writer to have feedback (so true) and good for me as a person to be held accountable (also true).  He reminded me that it would take time to make the adjustments but I would probably figure it all out and have conquered my fears and uncertainty by the third article, maybe sooner.

On the day of the deadline I sat down at my computer and I cleared my head (as much as I can clear my head when all of the kids are home from school for a teacher workday) and opened my blog software program.  And the funny thing was that I just started to type, and it felt good.

Now I am still waiting for the editor to get back to me with notes and I’m sure I’ll struggle with getting back on the horse of accepting constructive criticism, but I look forward to learning and growing and listening to what my new boss has to say about my work.

But I’ll tell you right now – Sheepdog and the kids had better not complain about what I’m serving for dinner tonight.  I don’t get paid enough for that.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…