On Monday, I was a reporter for an innovative new space launch to Mars. Somehow, I was able to report first hand what happened when aliens attacked the astronauts, and was there to support Mission Control to bring them home safely.
On Tuesday, I was an artist, drawing a seascape complete with a railroad station, teaching another artist how to draw jellyfish.
On Wednesday, I was a packhorse. Carrying a tired princess on my shoulders, a hello kitty bicycle with my free arm and pushing an exhausted bank robber down the road with my foot while we trekked the 8 blocks home from the library.
On Thursday, I was five years old again, jumping in a bouncy kingdom and helping a three year old do backflips. I tried my best to shoot small balls through a cannon into a net that seemed impossibly far away. I climbed up giant inflatable slides and rushed down clinging onto Hannah's small hands, giggling the whole way.
On Friday, I was the slide, letting four year old Evan slide down my legs while I laid off the side of his bed silently — because slides didn't talk.
On Saturday, I slept. I read books and cooked good food. I made homemade ice cream and took a yoga class. I danced to my favorite songs. I remembered how great it is to be a grown-up. But, 8 hours in, I miss my kids, my adventures, the chaos that ensues when toddlers are around. I miss the finger paints, the joy in the little things, the goldfish crackers. I miss stains on my shirt from half-eaten Nutrigrain bars and the bruises on my feet from preschoolers who have yet to have awareness of their bodies. I miss the laughter, the smiles and even the tears. I miss my kids.
And this is why I'm a nanny.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Right Now
I love mornings.
I love homemade lattes and cold grapes.
I love dancing in the living room to Adele.
I love swimming laps early in the morning with men who actually know how to swim (which stands in noted contrast to my terrible swimming form that has resulted from a 10 year hiatus of swimming... in high school I did whatever I could to get out of swimming. Now I do laps in the morning. Who would have guessed?).
I love peanut butter. Any way. Always.
I love being a nanny and starting late in the day —Why did no one tell me that 11 am is the best start time for a job ever?
Right now, I'm incredibly happy.
Just sharing.
I love homemade lattes and cold grapes.
I love dancing in the living room to Adele.
I love swimming laps early in the morning with men who actually know how to swim (which stands in noted contrast to my terrible swimming form that has resulted from a 10 year hiatus of swimming... in high school I did whatever I could to get out of swimming. Now I do laps in the morning. Who would have guessed?).
I love peanut butter. Any way. Always.
I love being a nanny and starting late in the day —Why did no one tell me that 11 am is the best start time for a job ever?
Right now, I'm incredibly happy.
Just sharing.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Truth about the Economist
Sometimes, I read the Economist because I want to know what's going on in the world.
Sometimes, I read it because I want to feel like I care about what's going on in the world.
I read some days so that other people will think I care about what's going on in the world.
Other days, I read it so I don't feel guilty that I have a subscription I don't read.
Some days, I read it because I miss high school and miss reading "smart" things.
But somedays, like today, I flip open the Economist, half out of boredom, half out of guilt and read it for the pun-y titles and witty captions.
Man, I miss smart humor.
Sometimes, I read it because I want to feel like I care about what's going on in the world.
I read some days so that other people will think I care about what's going on in the world.
Other days, I read it so I don't feel guilty that I have a subscription I don't read.
Some days, I read it because I miss high school and miss reading "smart" things.
But somedays, like today, I flip open the Economist, half out of boredom, half out of guilt and read it for the pun-y titles and witty captions.
Man, I miss smart humor.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Two Anti-Chicago Tales from the Emerald City
I was proud.
I had successfully and independently navigated myself from gate A15 to baggage claim 11, found my hefty piece of plastic luggage and walked what seemed like miles to the Light Rail. I purchased my ticket, without calling for help, got on the correct train and sat down, gazing out the window on this strange monorail-like contraption admiring the mountains and the trees, wondering if there was any possible way I looked like a local.
A young family, eagerly heading to the Mariners game downtown, boarded at the next stop and sat in the seats surrounding me. I gazed out the window at the mountains and the trees and wondered if there was any possible way I looked like a local. I tried not to emote with every surprising thing they said as I shamelessly eavesdropped into their conversations.
Expectedly, their conversations moved to favorite baseball teams. An all-too-common slam on the Yankees is followed by a subsequent hatred for the Red Sox, teams that are despised simply because they win. Then, in a far too mocking tone for my liking, one of the young boys, somewhere between 7 and 10, retorts, "Yeah, my favorite team is the Cubs."
A chuckle emerges from the mouths of all 3 adults in the group. The other young boy, who at 5 or 6 is too young to understand sarcasm, responds, "But they haven't won a game in over a hundred years! They're terrible!" Smiles and laughters escalate, as everyone gains a bit of confidence in their mediocre baseball team. I gaze out the window at the mountains and the trees and wonder if there is any possible way I look like a local. I try not to emote with every surprising thing they say as I shamefully eavesdrop on their conversation.
----
It was the wrong bus. Tara was mostly certain of this fact, but Ben trusted google more than he should. We boarded the 17 and Ben stopped to ask if the bus would turn into the 2. Tara and I could not hear the driver, but judging by the long response that followed this question, it was obvious that the bus would not be morphing into a different route.
It was a cold Seattle night, and at 11:30 pm, the crowds were intriguingly bizarre. A rambling man complimented Ben's coat, a woman with a Jersey accent vocalized the question we all had in our heads.
Only 4 people boarded the 2. The three of us sat in a cluster, and the lone stranger sat directly across from us, looking us over and fiercely maintaining eye contact whenever we gazed back in his direction.
"It's warm on here." I said, making small talk mostly to myself.
"It certainly is."the lone rider retorted. When I looked shocked at his response, he mistook my surprise as a request for explication and continued, "What? It's nice. I like it warm on here."
I nodded and smiled, looking back at Tara and Ben for reassurance that this city was as crime-free as Tara believes.
The stranger takes these exchanges as an invitation to attack political leadership and begins a twenty minute attack on Obama. As three Obama voters, we were amused by his ignorant attacks followed by the occasional reference to the Wall Street Journal he had found on the floor for validation of his position.
When we became less amused with his insults, he became more belligerent.
"He's from Chicago! Nothing good comes from Chicago. It's one damn corrupt city."
Ben laughs and glances over to me. "Now that's true," he says, "People from Chicago are nothing but trouble."
I smile. So this is what people think of my city.
I had successfully and independently navigated myself from gate A15 to baggage claim 11, found my hefty piece of plastic luggage and walked what seemed like miles to the Light Rail. I purchased my ticket, without calling for help, got on the correct train and sat down, gazing out the window on this strange monorail-like contraption admiring the mountains and the trees, wondering if there was any possible way I looked like a local.
A young family, eagerly heading to the Mariners game downtown, boarded at the next stop and sat in the seats surrounding me. I gazed out the window at the mountains and the trees and wondered if there was any possible way I looked like a local. I tried not to emote with every surprising thing they said as I shamelessly eavesdropped into their conversations.
Expectedly, their conversations moved to favorite baseball teams. An all-too-common slam on the Yankees is followed by a subsequent hatred for the Red Sox, teams that are despised simply because they win. Then, in a far too mocking tone for my liking, one of the young boys, somewhere between 7 and 10, retorts, "Yeah, my favorite team is the Cubs."
A chuckle emerges from the mouths of all 3 adults in the group. The other young boy, who at 5 or 6 is too young to understand sarcasm, responds, "But they haven't won a game in over a hundred years! They're terrible!" Smiles and laughters escalate, as everyone gains a bit of confidence in their mediocre baseball team. I gaze out the window at the mountains and the trees and wonder if there is any possible way I look like a local. I try not to emote with every surprising thing they say as I shamefully eavesdrop on their conversation.
----
It was the wrong bus. Tara was mostly certain of this fact, but Ben trusted google more than he should. We boarded the 17 and Ben stopped to ask if the bus would turn into the 2. Tara and I could not hear the driver, but judging by the long response that followed this question, it was obvious that the bus would not be morphing into a different route.
It was a cold Seattle night, and at 11:30 pm, the crowds were intriguingly bizarre. A rambling man complimented Ben's coat, a woman with a Jersey accent vocalized the question we all had in our heads.
Only 4 people boarded the 2. The three of us sat in a cluster, and the lone stranger sat directly across from us, looking us over and fiercely maintaining eye contact whenever we gazed back in his direction.
"It's warm on here." I said, making small talk mostly to myself.
"It certainly is."the lone rider retorted. When I looked shocked at his response, he mistook my surprise as a request for explication and continued, "What? It's nice. I like it warm on here."
I nodded and smiled, looking back at Tara and Ben for reassurance that this city was as crime-free as Tara believes.
The stranger takes these exchanges as an invitation to attack political leadership and begins a twenty minute attack on Obama. As three Obama voters, we were amused by his ignorant attacks followed by the occasional reference to the Wall Street Journal he had found on the floor for validation of his position.
When we became less amused with his insults, he became more belligerent.
"He's from Chicago! Nothing good comes from Chicago. It's one damn corrupt city."
Ben laughs and glances over to me. "Now that's true," he says, "People from Chicago are nothing but trouble."
I smile. So this is what people think of my city.
Friday, June 3, 2011
A New Kind of Busy
I have been busy lately.
Not the bad kind of busy where you sit in an office from 7 until 6 and type away somewhat meaningless documents for little pay.
And not the kind of busy that has you coming home at night exhausted and stressed and stops you from sleeping well.
No, I have been the happy kind of busy, which I have yet to decide if it is good.
I have had dinners with friends, hosted small dinner parties, tried out new recipes, taken dance classes, went to the beach, celebrated engagements, bought beautiful clothes. I've tried out new coffee shops, read delightful books, watched tidbits of movies I'd always hoped to see and planned outings with friends I've missed. I've made new friends over meals and planned future careers. I've booked flights halfway across the country and discovered new bands worthy of being obsessed over.
I've had a lot of fun and loved a lot of people and been happy.
But that pessimist in me, that little girl who thrives off of elegies and dirges, wonders if this isn't all an illusion, if maybe grown-up life is supposed to be something other than coffee dates and dinner parties. For the moment, however, I'll soak in the summer sun and smile with glee, because this week has been delightful.
Not the bad kind of busy where you sit in an office from 7 until 6 and type away somewhat meaningless documents for little pay.
And not the kind of busy that has you coming home at night exhausted and stressed and stops you from sleeping well.
No, I have been the happy kind of busy, which I have yet to decide if it is good.
I have had dinners with friends, hosted small dinner parties, tried out new recipes, taken dance classes, went to the beach, celebrated engagements, bought beautiful clothes. I've tried out new coffee shops, read delightful books, watched tidbits of movies I'd always hoped to see and planned outings with friends I've missed. I've made new friends over meals and planned future careers. I've booked flights halfway across the country and discovered new bands worthy of being obsessed over.
I've had a lot of fun and loved a lot of people and been happy.
But that pessimist in me, that little girl who thrives off of elegies and dirges, wonders if this isn't all an illusion, if maybe grown-up life is supposed to be something other than coffee dates and dinner parties. For the moment, however, I'll soak in the summer sun and smile with glee, because this week has been delightful.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
So this is what love feels like.
Yesterday, after building a hopscotch that went to 42 and impressing Evan, my favorite 4 year old, with jumping backwards the whole way, we ate popsicles and made up songs about ladybugs and butterflies.
When his sweet younger sister woke up, we trekked off to the park for an afternoon of monkey bars and tire swings underneath the rumbling train tracks.
2 blocks from our destination and 8 from home, the sky darkened and raindrops starting falling on their toes and my face. With a quick turn around and and a walk that bordered on a jog, we headed home, hoping that the storm would wait for us to get inside before it turned torrential.
"ri-SSSSA," Evan screamed, "I'm getting wet!"
"I know, kiddo. But I promise you, I am getting more wet than you are."
After a quick explanation of the benefits of a roofed stroller and what it means to be without an umbrella, Evan began to understand that I was, in fact, experiencing more of the rainstorm than he was.
"I hope the rain doesn't get any heavier until we get home!" I exclaimed, half to myself.
"Why, Rissa? Why do you hope that the rain doesn't get any heavier until we get home?" Evan, unusally articulate but appropriately curious for his age, asks me matter-of-fact-ly.
I, also unusually articulate for my age, begin to detail the difference between our two similar situations. We might be together in the same storm, but Evan is curled up in a ball under the hood of the stroller, gazing at me through those strange clear patches above children's heads in most commercial strollers, and I am briskly walking down the street in a white dress that has turned almost entirely clear. I also explain to him that I have no spare clothes at his house, while he has plenty of dry outfit choices, hoping that my plight will be made clear to him.
Evan does not understand.
He understands even less when, after I tuck the stroller in the lobby of their condominium, I suggest we go play in the rain and take their hands and dance in the front yard while rain soaks every garment and piece of exposed skin that we have.
"Rissa." He says sternly. "I'm getting wet. I don't want to be wet anymore." And begins to pout.
I pick up his little sister, who has her face to the sky and rain dripping down her chin, and place her on my hip while I hold Evan's hand and we trek ourselves and the rain back into their condo.
Two hours later, complete with a change of clothes, a time out, a few cat scratches, a game of tag that ended in his sister being knocked to the ground and both kids crying, a healthy snack, a sing along of Veggie Tales, and series of spinning circles that seemed to last forever, Evan and I sit down to play a game of Hi-Ho-Cherry-Oh while his mother makes dinner.
"Rissa, I had fun with you today." He says, and I know he means it.
"Me too, Ev. Me too."
When his sweet younger sister woke up, we trekked off to the park for an afternoon of monkey bars and tire swings underneath the rumbling train tracks.
2 blocks from our destination and 8 from home, the sky darkened and raindrops starting falling on their toes and my face. With a quick turn around and and a walk that bordered on a jog, we headed home, hoping that the storm would wait for us to get inside before it turned torrential.
"ri-SSSSA," Evan screamed, "I'm getting wet!"
"I know, kiddo. But I promise you, I am getting more wet than you are."
After a quick explanation of the benefits of a roofed stroller and what it means to be without an umbrella, Evan began to understand that I was, in fact, experiencing more of the rainstorm than he was.
"I hope the rain doesn't get any heavier until we get home!" I exclaimed, half to myself.
"Why, Rissa? Why do you hope that the rain doesn't get any heavier until we get home?" Evan, unusally articulate but appropriately curious for his age, asks me matter-of-fact-ly.
I, also unusually articulate for my age, begin to detail the difference between our two similar situations. We might be together in the same storm, but Evan is curled up in a ball under the hood of the stroller, gazing at me through those strange clear patches above children's heads in most commercial strollers, and I am briskly walking down the street in a white dress that has turned almost entirely clear. I also explain to him that I have no spare clothes at his house, while he has plenty of dry outfit choices, hoping that my plight will be made clear to him.
Evan does not understand.
He understands even less when, after I tuck the stroller in the lobby of their condominium, I suggest we go play in the rain and take their hands and dance in the front yard while rain soaks every garment and piece of exposed skin that we have.
"Rissa." He says sternly. "I'm getting wet. I don't want to be wet anymore." And begins to pout.
I pick up his little sister, who has her face to the sky and rain dripping down her chin, and place her on my hip while I hold Evan's hand and we trek ourselves and the rain back into their condo.
Two hours later, complete with a change of clothes, a time out, a few cat scratches, a game of tag that ended in his sister being knocked to the ground and both kids crying, a healthy snack, a sing along of Veggie Tales, and series of spinning circles that seemed to last forever, Evan and I sit down to play a game of Hi-Ho-Cherry-Oh while his mother makes dinner.
"Rissa, I had fun with you today." He says, and I know he means it.
"Me too, Ev. Me too."
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