This weekend Bruce and I were planning on going to our friend Denny's house to celebrate his birthday. He has a kid-friendly house that Emmie loves to explore, so we would all go.
Yesterday morning, on the phone, Bruce asked me if I recalled anything about his parents going to visit his sister this weekend. They never said anything to me. They never said anything to him, either. But his mother played it off like, "Oh, I swore I told you."
We had plans, but now we have to take care of their dog.
The thing is, we would have absolutely no problem helping them out - lord knows they've helped us a bunch. But they never asked. Not once. Every time we've needed anything, we have asked. That's the difference. So finally tonight Bruce's mom popped her head in Emmie's bedroom and asked, "So you will be able to take care of the dog while we're gone?"
"Yes," we responded. "We'll figure it out."
"Okay," she said, and walked away. So far, we haven't heard a thank you.
The Madwoman on the Second Floor
I spend almost the entire day upstairs. Except for breakfast and lunch in the kitchen, when Emmie is strapped into her highchair and I sit in the chair - Dad's chair, technically - next to her. Otherwise we usually spend a minimum of 6 hours in her room or my room. The hallway is gated off, so the baby is free to roam between the two rooms. We don't hang out downstairs because nothing is babyproofed, and I need to get work done during the day. She plays and reads while I grade papers, write lesson plans, or do homework for the class I'm taking. It's not terrible, but it sometimes feels like I'm the princess in the tower, going crazy, waiting for her true life to begin.
Bruce and I were looking at houses for sale online. With each one I imagined the baby playing freely, me working at a real table, instead of on a bed or a floor. One house had a finished, fully carpeted basement - I could build bookshelves and have a desk, and Emmie could have her own play corner. Or, we could have a kitchen where I could cook and she could roam, within eyesight. As it is right now, when I cook, I strap her in the highchair and try to keep her from getting restless.
Oh, I can't wait until we rescue ourselves!
Time=Money
I gave my two weeks notice to the purse store. They had asked me to stay on past my 90-day seasonal employment term; however, at the last minute I had a Sunday class added to my teaching schedule. If I continue to work at the store on Saturdays (it's required to work one day on the weekend), I would never have a day off together with Bruce. The extra money is nice, the discount is better, but it's a sacrifice I'm not willing to make.
I realize there are millions of people in this world who have no choice but to work all the time. I feel blessed that I am able to choose. Our living situation is not the best, but I have never had to worry about going hungry, either.
Ultimately, none of us know how long we will be here. That notion is always near the top of my thoughts. It makes tough decisions for me. It calms me down when I want to scream at Bruce's parents. It also makes me want to accomplish everything I dream - yesterday. It creates conflict. Not working more means earning less means less monetary power. Working more means more money and less family time.
I choose family. No regrets. Even when I'm living with too many of them!
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