County Fair

In my case, the annual 4-H "youth" fair has always been a source of anxiety and excitement for me. I wasn't a farm-kid, growing up. My grandparents on my mother's side were farmers in their young years, but none of that really carried over when they married and had children. On my father's side, my grandparents had a farm with cattle. While I enjoyed the occasional opportunity to visit the cows out in the field and feed them ears of corn, and certainly loved the adventure of dodging cow patties along the way, I never entered any of them in the fair.
Growing up in a rural farm community only meant that about 70% of the school population was composed of farm-kids. I don't know what the other 30% did; maybe they were the "gamers" of our time. I never got in to that, either. Looking back, I don't know what the heck I did with my time. Let's continue.
The farm-kids spent full weeks at the fair, hanging out in barns with their livestock, riding all the rides a hundred times, eating fair food and forming, whether they knew it or not, this ultra-cool secret society that someone like me, a non-farm-kid, would never understand. I recall meandering through the barns with my parents (lame, because none of them had to walk with their parents, but mine still believed someone would steal me), and casually encountering farm-kids in each barn. I always felt envious of them, and their freedom to interact until late-night, wander the fair grounds in happy little packs, make ill-fated attempts at summer romances and be patted on the back by the teachers in school, a few weeks later, for their ribbons and achievements.
I never went away to camp either. I'm sensing a trend. This is why there are therapists.
I spent the past week at the same 4-H fair, except now, of course, I'm (supposedly) all grown-up and (supposedly) looking at life from a different perspective. I was hosting my own booth for lia sophia, my jewelry company. When representing my company, I feel it's necessary to look my best, whatever that means, and present myself as a professional. So, I made all attempts to achieve just that, and stood proudly behind my booth all week. I did, however, still feel that little twitch of anxiety. I knew, for certain, that in a small town like this, I would surely run in to people from high school. Farm-kids. And on top of that, other kids, now (supposedly) all grown-up too, and looking at life from a different perspective.
Anxiety. And maybe a little curiosity.
Right away, they started filing through the commercial building. Every hour or so, I'd see another familiar face. At one point, a boy from high school walked in. This boy, in particular, is one that I drooled over, back then. I thought he was the cutest, funniest guy. It was common practice for seniors to bring their wallet-size pictures to school and pass them out to friends. If you were a close friend, maybe the back of the picture would have a personalized message, too. Anyway, I happened to be standing in a random group of people when this boy was handing out his pictures one day. He handed me one. There was no personalized message, but I ain't complainin.' I hung that picture on my bedroom mirror, convinced that there was a divine reason he handed me that picture. Of course, it wasn't just because I had been standing there. Surely he intended for me to have it.
Boy, I ramble.
So he walked in, pushing a darling little baby girl in a stroller, and his wife and older daughter were close behind. I immediately felt a pit of anxiety in my stomach. Now would be the time to remind you, readers, that I am not suggesting that I have any desire or attraction to someone outside my marriage. I'm simply recalling the oddness of the past working in the present. It is not because I've thought of this boy at all in the past 10 years, or because I harbor any lingering feelings, but at that moment, I remembered, keenly, what it felt like to be 15 years old, uncool, and awkward. Turns out, while those feelings dissipate over the years, they never actually go away. Right away, I was astonished (as I was when I saw many old schoolmates) that he looked so normal. I guess, back then, I thought all of the "cool kids" were cool because they were somehow better than me. More attractive, popular, charismatic.
And then life happens. And things go the way they go. And almost 12 years later, we're all sort of on the same page.
So I stood up straight, grinned my toothiest grin, and mustered up all the confidence a nearly-thirty-year-old mama can muster. I did my best to shush all those old feelings. I applauded myself, internally, of course, for wearing heels, because Clinton Kelly says they lengthen the leg and make you appear thinner. I stood, nonchalantly glanced in the direction of his family, and....never made eye contact. He didn't pay a lick of attention. Hmph...doesn't he remember, he gave me his senior picture!?!
What does it matter, anyway. I'm glad his family looked so happy and I'm proud of mine as well. Why do I care if he recognized me?
It's just that inner-kid. The non-farm-kid, relatively awkward, out-of-place girl making her way to the surface. The girl I've worked for years to improve, suddenly shouting "still here!"
Will she ever just go away?
Do I really want her to?

Just then, the guy in the booth next to me says, "Hey, do you know that guy with the two little girls over there? He keeps looking over at you, like he knows you or something."

Ha.

How do you do it?

I am asked that question all the time, and friends, I don't get it. How do I do what? Watch my kids? Stay at home? Cook three meals-a-day, wash, dry and fold laundry, vacuum, dust and pay bills? I just do. Because it's my job. And yes, contrary to popular belief, it is a full-time job...but unlike those of you who get a paycheck each Friday, I am perpetually waiting for the crew from Publisher's Clearinghouse to show up at my door and reward me for all of my hard work. I mean, I would be waiting if I actually did that Publisher's Clearinghouse stuff. I just don't...because I'd probably become addicted to those bonus item things they send ya.

Anyway, I regress....as I typically do....
The other day (I say "the other day" a lot, as if there is some week in my subconscious, comprised of "other days") I was in the grocery store with one kid. I have decided that one kid is my max for grocery store trips. More than one comes along, and they fight like rabid raccoons. One, I can handle. Usually. It's just important that I never underestimate the volume of even just one little mouth. And the word "want." A kid can say something as politely as possible, but when it comes to the part when they say they "want" something, it is always at least 30 decibels louder than anything else they've previously said. E.g.: "Mommy, can you please buy those Danimals (or if you're my kid, you embarrassingly pronounce it "damnanimals") crush-cup yogurts? I WANT them!!!"

So.

I had a pretty successful trip, on this other day, when I went to the store. Things stayed mellow, I bought what I needed, took advantage of some good deals. Then there's the checkout. And I think we should really give a tongue-lashing to people who market checkout lanes, because they clearly do not have children who WANT all those little pocket-size toys, gum, and intriguing cans of Binaca. Nonetheless, my boy was not too hard on me this day. Yes, he asked for every last little item there, as I was distractedly emptying my cart onto the belt, but he did not scream or cry, or do anything that would have surely happened if there had been more than one child present. It was the lady behind us who made the trip memorable...she kept eyeing my purchases, making concerned faces. Finally, as she placed the little "order separator" between our cart-loads, she said "How do you do it?!"
I stopped, dead in my tracks.
"Do what?" I said with a half-smile, expecting the worst...imagining that she perhaps saw my child pocket the Binaca when I wasn't looking, and I'd have to make some horrible example of why we do not steal even if it's small and fits in our pocket...(can you tell I've had to do that before?!)
"I mean," she says, "do you have a big family? Or do you at least have someone to help you unload all this stuff at home? Who do you make all this for?" as she sweeps her hand across the grand pile of chicken, toaster waffles, spaghetti sauce, dog treats and produce on the belt. "And all those paper products," pointing to the paper towel and toilet paper, (listed as PT and TP on my grocery list)"must cost you a fortune!"
I chuckled. It's what I do when I don't really know what to say.
"It does, actually, but you know...coupons...and..."
"But how do you do it? How many kids do you have?"
Now this woman looked about 65. From what I know about her younger years, back in the 40's and 50's, it wasn't atypical to have a big family. So what gives? I've only got 3. 4 when my stepson is over...I didn't think that was a lot. Yes, it's hard, and yes, they're young. But it isn't horrible. So I told her something along those lines, and she gave me this half-smile of pity. Which is when I started mentally going over my outfit and hairdo without actually looking away from her. Did I brush my hair? Am I wearing earrings? Did I spill Diet Coke on my shirt in the car? My only guess is that I look like a destitute woman at her wits-end.
And something odd comes of this situation.
Instead of feeling bad about her revelation that my life must be terribly difficult, I suddenly feel a little bit gleeful. I stand a little taller. I grin at my little boy, now engrossed in a National Enquirer. Heck yeah, this is a tough job. Finally, someone sees, it's a job. No weekends off. 24 hour shifts. No paycheck, no bonus, no vacation. No company car, just a hideous minivan with a mysterious odor and the occasional french fry wedged in the seat cushion.
Clearly, even if just for a moment, I've debunked the myth that stay-at-home moms are these perfectly pedicured Betty Crockers, lounging about on the patio with an Arnold Palmer, awaiting their Ward Cleaver to return, briefcase in hand, to sit down to a lovely gourmet meal.
So I shrugged my shoulders, wiped the pretend-sweat from my brow and did one of those little, "well ya know..." things while playfully shaking my head as I handed the cashier my credit card.
All in a day's work.

...and thanks for listening all the time.

Dear God,

I know I talk to you all the time. Probably to the point of annoying, but, I figure, hey, you're God, things aren't supposed to annoy you. So I keep talking. And hoping that some of it is making its way to your ears.
Today I am putting it in writing. And then I'm gonna post it to this blog forum. I don't know if you're in to blog forums at all, but I suppose as long as I keep it clean, and I make sure everybody knows how I feel about You, it's probably okay. Besides, the only reason I'm writing this in the first place is because there might be another mom out there who needs it. So she doesn't think she's alone in her crazy world. Because as I've told you, it's easy to feel alone.
So here's the gist of it: I need a break. Relief, from somewhere. I've done it all myself, and I know you tell me not to. I've tried not to bother you with all my woes. I've been very thankful for all you've already done for me. But right now in life, I feel like I need someone bigger and stronger than me to take over for a little while. Or at least give me a good boost. Yeah. A boost would be good - like when you know you can't possibly reach the next level by yourself, and someone comes up and makes that little foothold by locking their hands together, and they say "here, step up," and you're thinking oh my word, but I'll break your arms off, but you giggle nervously and take the lift because you really needed it and then you realize it wasn't so awful to trust for a second, that someone else, bigger and stronger than you, could actually help. There I go rambling again to you. See, I even do it in writing. Sorry.
You know the stuff I need. You know the relief I'm asking for, so I won't blare that all over this blog forum thing.
But I will post it....because maybe another crazy person out there needs You too, but they're too afraid to ask.
Love,
Sara