Just Shy of Hallmark

The old adage, "Self-employment means working 80 hours a week for yourself so you don't have to work 40 hours for someone else" rings true in our house, more often than I would prefer.  One of my worst battles in our upholstery journey is the war between family togetherness and success...because I often feel like a single parent in order for that success to flourish.  And this introvert craves breaks that go well beyond the two-hour, child-free doctor appointments that act mostly as a bandaid on a bleeding artery. 

 I am not trying to complain.  I love my husband, though I've never considered myself to be a clingy person.  Prop me up in front of a book, and I'm content for hours with zero social interaction.  However, throw a few night-waking, early-rising, forever-fighting children into the mix during a week when every fixture in the house seems cursed by Murphy's Law, the grocery supply dwindles (in stark comparison to the dishes in the sink that have succumbed to the Quiverfull movement), and each "Payment Due" date jumps out of the calendar like a starving lion, combined into a toxic brew of husband-consuming customers expecting their furniture to be stamped out like a factory (and priced like it, too), and I find myself tempted to run to the upholstery shack, slam the door, and initiate some real adult conversation.  Usually something mature and articulate, like:

"Hello, Love.  Just wanted you to know:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGGHH!!!
I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!!!
See you at supper...I hope."

 Just a thoughtful token of expression to let him know I really care.

On the days weeks when a time crunch demands his absence dawn through dusk, the battle for harmony in our home can climax into a real blood bath.  Pacifists like me don't handle mealtime wars very well.  More often than not, I'm tempted to raise two bowls of maple syrup-laden oatmeal in a white flag of surrender to my children's preferential eating habits, and then leave the room so the sounds of their open-mouthed chewing don't grate on me like the gourmet cheese I wish we could afford.

Sometimes I feel selfish and wonder if I am the only woman with this struggle.  I know I am not, but I always hesitate asking, for fear of sounding ungrateful.  I know there are widows, soldiers wives, and women with lacklustre spouses who would view our situation as pure cake.  And I know my husband works hard for us, loves us, and keeps us afloat.

But I still struggle.  Commonly, when I am asked how the upholstery business is treating us, an honest response of "Great, though overwhelmingly busy.  We've hardly seen each other all week," is always met with the immediate reply, "Well, busy sure beats the alternative!"

Fabulous.  I had completely forgotten my near panic attack last time the mortgage was due and the phones had been painfully silent for weeks.

Like most modern-day women browsing websites for information and calling it "research," I did try to google for answers once, hoping to hit upon a sympathy blog or perhaps a snarky little tidbit to make me laugh.

I typed:  "wife of self-employed husband"

Top ad?  "Stop Your Divorce!"

No kidding.

Don't get me wrong, I really do love our business.  When I think of my husband going to work for someone else, it feels so wrong.  And when I think of not having an endless supply of free fabric scraps at my disposal, it feels downright sinful.

There is just this selfish, immature little part of me that craves for a sense of understanding from the outside.  A validation that feeling so beat down from woman-powering the daily grind alone, from spending hours tripping over toys and tots to whip up a halfway delicious feast...only to have an appointment-challenged customer pull in the driveway the second we all sit down to dinner, or from everyone's cars, trucks, snow plows, mowers, blowers, chainsaws, weed whips, furniture, and appliances taking precedence every Saturday when it feels like this old house is crumbling to the ground with every tumble of the toddler, really is a legitimate reason to feel overwhelmed or insignificant.

When I am too exhausted to formulate a prayer other than "Help!", I sometimes feel like my spirit prays and refreshes me when I am at my absolute worst.  If there is one thing we are discovering along this pathway we are attempting to carve, it is that God will take care of us, many times in ways more nail-biting and painful than we'd rather endure, but also in ways more cry-your-heart-out meaningful than we could ever imagine.

This is a card we received in the mail, the very next day after one of our late-night "vomit sessions" (a typical spill-our-guts conversation after a period of high-stress.  Fantine [Les Mis] was right...the tigers really do come at night.  Mine happen to come around 2 a.m.).

The card was addressed to the handsome upholstery guy, from a man whose mower he occasionally repairs.  Quite a few months ago, he had spent a Saturday repairing the mowers of a needy family this man knew.  The cover of the card says:

Thank You

The goodness

and generosity

you share so happily

are wonderful reminders

of the true meaning

of God's love.

The inside script:

Thank you for being

the blessing you are

to all who know you.

Inside were two gift cards to a family restaurant, along with a handwritten note:



"Just a token of love to share for you & family.  The card says it all, what a Blessing.  The reason I said family is because there has to be times your wife has "lost" you hrs. on end, due to you helping out others.  The [P_____'s] are a good example of how you went out of your day to help me, help them out, fixing the steering on their riding mowers.  So no excuses, you & family go out & enjoy the day."

And so tonight, we made no excuses.  The upholsterer and his wife shut off the cell phone, locked up the house, and drove our little family of four out to dinner.  We sat in an isolated corner and ordered our kids pancakes and chocolate milk.  We let them drink the syrup straight from the little personal bottles.  We reached across the table to sample each other's food.  We allowed ourselves the grace to enjoy each other's presence without feeling the need to leave the room or jump up and serve the entire world.

And while my grilled chicken salad was only a bed of boring iceberg lettuce and the yellow-dyed cheese less than gourmet, the peace of validation for togetherness felt like pure success.

Photographic Memories of a Childhood Obsession

When I feel overwhelmed with life, I enjoy browsing through photos of my childhood.  My dad was (and still is) a photography nut (hey, I come by it honestly), so events of my younger years were snapped, developed and stuffed into albums that would probably put my facebook profile to shame.  Being the youngest of three, my albums don't quite rival the Gone With the Wind size bestowed to my older two siblings, but I still have a collection of prints decent enough to make me realize why we could never afford to pay for my dream of one day becoming Olympic gymnast Shannon Miller.

This was before digital, of course, so relaxing with this photojournaled history of my childhood is truly an aesthetic experience that blends classic memories with the scent of processed film and PVC-coated plastic.  A balm for the anxious mind as well as a treat for the olfactory senses (I confess, I love that plastic-y smell of baseball cards and new toys at Christmas.  Mom didn't call me "Miss Nose" for nothing.).

I'm not sure if it's the need to escape a stressful day or the secret desire to sniff synthetic materials and still feel Christian about it that prods me to open my closet and pull out an album, but I always revel in the flood of simple memories that gives me hope that I am not permanently damaging my children for life.

Today was one of those days that sent me running for the closet and reaching for an album.  As I was turning the pages with a happy sigh (and sniff), a few photos in particular made me smile.

You see, when I was a little girl, I used to be obsessed with steering wheels. 

My Kool-Aid stained face says it all--I was in heaven...and I wasn't going to share it.  Missing from this snapshot is the accompanying photo...the photo stuffed in one of my siblings' epic-sized albums that pictures my brother and sister in the back seat of the truck, scowling because I had insisted on hogging this giant wheel of wonder to myself.  They simply didn't understand my need.  I wouldn't be surprised if my sister's flip-flop in the upper right corner of this photo was really intended for my head.

I remember one Christmas when I received a Smurf-Around, the 1980's commercialized spin (ha ha) on the popular "Sit-n-Spin".

It was a marvelous toy, as most toys were in those days.  I smurfed around on it a few times like little Johnny and Susie on the box coaxed me to, then promptly tipped it over to create an instant steering wheel for my new "car".  Oh, the places I drove!

The obsession didn't stop there.

Whenever asked to choose which park we would visit as a family, I always cast my vote for "the park with the steering wheel."  (Yes, there were parks without steering wheels in those deprived days, and I can't wait to tell my kids about it).  Nevermind the swings, slides, and spring-loaded metal critters...I staked claim on that glorious wheel mounted to the wooden wall, and drove to my heart's content until dusk called us home.

People who accuse my generation of having no imagination obviously never ate breakfast at our house.

If they had, they would've marveled how one barely-awake child could polish off a piece of toast for the sole purpose of utilizing her now-empty plate for the steering wheel of an Indy race car.  In my world, obeying the speed limit was never a requirement.

I remember one Christmas when the top toy on my list was yes, you guessed it--a steering wheel.  Who would've thought a piece of black plastic, molded in the shape of the Knight Rider wheel (with Kitt, too!) would make a little girl's dream come true, but I was wild with excitement.  No more tipped plates or toppled Smurf-Arounds for this driving diva.  Those served their purpose well, but now I was a real class act, cruising in style with all the latest battery-powered sound effects.  There was no stopping me.

When I grew a little older, my family visited amusement parks like Cedar Point and King's Island.  Sack slides and junior roller coasters were all good and fine, but my heart staked claim on any attraction resembling an automobile.

However, once I wised up to the gimmicks of this merry-go-round-in-disguise, I sought fulfillment elsewhere.  Faux steering wheels can only pacify for so long, and I quickly followed my instincts to the real rumble of power:  the Model T's.  These beauties had steering wheels that actually steered, pedals that actually worked, and real gas that emitted a deliciously noxious fume not for the faint of heart.  Since I was still too small to drive by myself, my dad would push the pedal while I would "help" steer the wheel.  I was content in this designated driver arrangement for a few summers, but oh, the joy that filled my heart when I finally surpassed the yardstick's mandatory height requirement to reach both steering wheel and pedal and could officially drive solo.  I had the power!  And I couldn't wait to exercise my freedom.  Which brings me to another memory:

Those Model T's can jump the track if you try hard enough.

The safety experts might tell you otherwise, but I distinctly remember testing my theory of vehicular freedom on a sharp left bend in the track with a hard right yank of my wheel.  For three glorious seconds, I tasted the thrill of victory...until the safety wheel keeping the bottom of the car riding smoothly along the boundaries of the road's metal rail lodged directly on top of the rail which, quite shockingly, rendered me stuck. 

Had I not turned around and noticed the pile-up of cars behind me, I may have reveled in the woes of betrayal by my circular instrument of power, but I had no time to mourn.  Fortunately, my dad was in the car behind me and eventually jumped out to lift my Judas Car back onto the track before the scary, half-hung-over summer employee ride operators could chastise me for something they secretly wished they had had the guts to try.

Those were the days.

Today, I find myself wondering why on earth I used to be so obsessed with steering wheels.  As an adult, I certainly don't tip my breakfast plate, topple my children's sit-in-spin, or even relish any bonus thrill in the reality of driving my car place to place.  In fact, hiring a chauffeur sounds rather heavenly in this overwhelming time of life when I believe that M.A.D.D. really ought to stand for Mothers Are Drowsy Drivers (and need to get off the road).  I have often joked with my siblings that perhaps my steering wheel obsession was symbolically a quest for power and control.

But I think in many ways, I envy that little girl.  The little girl who loved, imagined, and created for the sake of loving, imagining and creating.  The girl who attempted to jump the track of the ordinary, just to see if it could be done.  The girl who did not feel the need to offer an explanation to spend the time doing the things she loved the most.  When life feels like an endless onslaught of mundane routine, I find myself missing her.  Not because I want to shirk responsibility or somehow turn back the clock.  But because today I need to remind myself that somewhere, she is still a part of me.

And I really need to find her again.