Time

I've been meaning to have a little crisis over turning 40, but I haven't had time. Which has led me to put a lot of thought into how I spend my days. And I've come to the uncomfortable realization that I've wasted most of my adult life doing things that didn't really get me anywhere. Cleaning and gaming and watching TV and obsessing over dumb stuff. That's pretty much the past 20 years in a nutshell.

I'm not saying this is a new, startling revelation. Or that no one else staring down 2 x 20 candles never felt that way. Just that, as I am realizing this, I'm thinking it's time to make some changes. For me, huge frickin' changes. Like this:

• I'm going to work on my dirty-house issues. Having a dirty/cluttered house makes me uneasy. Jumpy. Which makes me most unpleasant to be around. I don't have time to clean constantly, nor do I want to. And no matter how much I clean, or how much my loving babydaddy cleans, we simply can't keep this house as clean as I was able to keep our apartment pre-toddler. Keeping the house the way I want it would get in the way of the life I want to lead; I'd pretty much spend every free moment cleaning up after the kiddo, and it still wouldn't be clean-clean. So I can either hire a housecleaning service or get over it. And I can't afford a housecleaning service.
• I'm going to stop wasting my time doing nonproductive things. Sure, I enjoy playing video games, but that time would be better spent working towards my goals, playing with my kid, or even sleeping. 
• Similarly, I need to get over this feeling that I have to stay completely up to date with social media. There's too much, and I'm doing too much already, and really, is my life enriched by the content posted there? I'm going to narrow my focus, designate a time to check, and otherwise leave it alone.
• I can't say I'll cut down on the amount of TV I watch because I generally only have it on as background noise. But I do think I'll stop thoughtlessly turning the box on. Instead, I'm going to work on fleshing out my Spotify library and turn it on instead. I'd rather my life be filled with music than television.
• Within reason (I am not what I earn, after all), I'm going to try to foster hobbies that might generate income.
• Rather than doing the same things all the time, I'm going to seek out new experiences. These do not necessarily have to cost money. Something as simple as taking a new route home keeps things interesting.

I'm sure there are other ways I could make better use of my time, but this is a start.

Letting go

Last night I learned that my favorite social networking site, 43 Things, will be shutting down July 1. And I am in mourning.

When I discovered 43t, I was in a dark place. My marriage had imploded, as had an ill-advised relationship with my best friend that left me both single and mourning the closest relationship of my young adulthood. I was alone, directionless, and utterly lost. 43t gave me focus, friends, and hope. I am honestly a different, and better, person because of that site and the people on it.

Mine is not a unique story; other 43t-ers say the same. Only the details vary.

We are losing something very real. And while we are trying to recreate it, it won't be the same.

Life's that way. It changes. We change. That's how growth happens. It's just that growth hurts, and change is scary.

I have never been good at letting go. Even when the letting go was a blessing. Even when I initiated it. I'm more of a white-knuckle kinda girl.

This time, though, I'm going to do my best to honor 43t, its people, and my transformation because of them both by letting go gracefully.

Thank you, my friends, for being there for me these 8 wonderful, terrifying, crazy years. With any luck, I'll be able to stay in touch with many of you.

Thank you, Robot Co-op, for creating this site. Your work has meant more to more people than you can probably imagine. No grudges from me; I'm just grateful we had this time together.

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

My lioness

Because I suspect my daughter inherited my allergies, I take her with me to get my weekly allergy shots. I make an outing of it; after my shots, we do a little shopping and eat out. If her father is at work, it's a girls' night; if not, it's a family outing. And they're usually a lot of fun, except for the shot part.

It really distresses her to see me get shots. It hurts her more than it hurts me--no lie. And, being my daughter, she's ready to do battle with the nurses who give the shots.

This week, I tried leaving her and Daddy outside. It was a beautiful afternoon, and what 2-year-old can get enough time outside? No dice, though; as soon as she saw where I was heading, she followed me in.

Mayhem. She tried to bodily drag me from the room, scolding the nurses as we went. Her father had to come collect her before she had a complete meltdown.

And then she was mad at me! I suppose it's too much to ask that she'll outgrow these allergies without incident.

At first the nurses found her distress charming. When stickers and candy couldn't assuage her angst, though, their patience wore thin. Now I think they wish I wouldn't bring her.

I know she can be frustrating. I've carried her kicking and screaming so many times that I have perfected the hold that prevents her from kicking me in the head. But part of me is pleased she's so passionate and fierce, that she fights to protect her loved ones. That she remains unresigned. These are desirable traits in an adult. They're just not terribly convenient traits in a toddler.

Making a home

For several reasons, money not the least among them, I've done little in the way of turning our current house into a home. I was in my last apartment for 10 years. I had plenty of time to get things just as I wanted them. Here...well, I'm doing good to stay on top of the laundry and dishes. Even when we clean, it usually only stays clean for about 5 minutes. It's not shocking, then, that decorating just hasn't happened.

The bad part is that I only spent a third of my waking hours in my apartment. I spend all of them here. And the room in which I spend the most time, my office, has received the least amount of attention. (The room that has received the most is my daughter's. She occasionally plays in there, and every now and then she sleeps in her own bed. But it looks great.)

Though we do eventually want to buy a house, we plan on being in this one for a few years yet. I would enjoy those years more if we put some effort into making this place a home. I've started by working on the common areas (kitchen, living room, bathroom, hall), but it occurs to me that I should not skimp on "my" room--this office. Partly because I tend to ignore my own needs in favor of everyone else's. And partly because, deep down, I know neither of my housemates care about this as much as I do.

So I'm using my Pinterest account for the first time since I created it nearly 3 years ago. And am open to suggestions for good design idea boards, if you have any.

What's a mother for but to suffer?

I can now say I have had a first-degree burn on my boob. And like many other injuries, it came from my kid.

Ever since she hit me in the eye with a spiky light-up ball when she was 6 months old, my darling daughter has inflicted injury upon me. More than anyone else in her life, I have been slapped, kicked, bitten, punched. She's thrown things at my head. Kicked my c-section scar. Smacked me so hard I lost a contact lens. Punched me in the throat. Now we can add "doused me in hot tea" to that list.

Some of the assaults, like the tea incident, are accidental. Klutz happens, and she's a bit too young to think through her actions. Others, like the biting, are deliberate. She pulls her punches with everyone else, but not me.

She's always sorry afterwards. Ashamed. And I comfort her, reassuring her that nothing will make me stop loving her.

I think that's why she doesn't pull her punches with me: She knows that, of everyone in her life, I will always be there. No matter what she does. It's an indication of her faith in our bond that she feels safe enough to push limits with me.

As crazy as it makes me sometimes, I love that she trusts me that much. I consider it part of my job to ensure she always does.

Art therapy

I need some creativity in my life.

I have several craftsy hobbies, but I also have a 2-year-old who wants to meddle (steal my stuff) every time I break out the supplies. So that's out. I've not had a design job in close to a year, so that's out, too. And I don't have time (or a project, really) to design for me. So my creative outlet has been toddler-safe items like crayons and Play-Doh.

It helps, but it's not enough. I edit science and medicine for 10 hours a day. I need ART, dammit.

So I signed up for a class. In what, I am not sure. It came up on my latest meetups email, and I said "Why not?" Something called Zentangles. I dunno. At this point, I'm willing to try almost anything.

Because I also need friends. I really, REALLY suck at making friends. I'm more awkward than Sheldon, highly introverted, slightly antisocial, and have roughly 90 seconds of free time per day. Even if I manage to hold a conversation, someone has to really work to get on my radar. But lately the only people I talk to without an internet connection are related to me. I'm not sure that's healthy.

We'll see how it goes.

Perspective

Today has been an exercise in perspective.

1. Last night, I broke a crown. Eating popcorn -- the fluffy part.* So not only do I have to take time off from work (of which I have little, thanks to this spring's sinus plague) and go to the dentist (never fun), but my regular dentist is out for the foreseeable future due to shoulder surgery and his temporary replacement was maybe 2 when I got this crown in the first place. (She also, I've learned, doesn't believe in letting anesthetic kick in before beginning work, which is the real source of my hesitation. Dental work is traumatic enough as it is.) So I'm going to an out-of-network dentist an hour away to get this crown replaced. And paying for it up front. Mere months after taking out a loan to help me pay off the credit card I'm about to charge back up.

Perspective, though. This crown lasted nearly 20 years. If I get it fixed right, I'll be 60 before I have to deal with it again. Worth it.

2. My major freelance client is offering me additional work. Lots of up sides here: It's a compliment to my work -- an honor to be singled out and recognized this way. The first project is small, so it's easy to squeeze in. It's not much by itself, but it could lead to more work. More lucrative work. And while I'm stretched translucently thin as it is, this is one more step towards freelancing full time, on my terms.

So I'm not looking at this small (less than $100) payment in terms of the large ($1300) payment I'm about to make. I'm looking at it as an investment. Like the crown, spending more now will benefit me in the future -- time, in this case, instead of money. My goal is to eventually freelance exclusively, working 6 hours or less a day, so I can spend more time being a mom. Taking on jobs like this will go a long way towards that goal. So even if I have to lose a little sleep, it's also well worth it.

Not so long ago, I would have been fixated on that $1300; everything else would be echos in the tunnel. Now I'm more concerned with the upsides. I don't know if this is age or wisdom, but I'm happy for it either way.

UPDATE: Turns out I didn't have to get the crown replaced after all. A chunk is missing, but it's "in the best possible place," I'm told. So he smoothed out the jagged edge...for free. I'll have to replace it eventually, but not now. Maybe not for a few years.

Suddenly freed from the $1300 I had expected to spend, I took my family out for ice cream and a play session at the park. Because I am a firm believer in celebrating the little things.

*Popcorn is not my friend. I swore off it for years after an errant hull led me to gum surgery -- in this exact same tooth. I just started eating it again a month or so ago. Now I'm thinking I should swear off it again.

Popcorn communion

Anya asked for popcorn last night. It's one of the few foods she'll ask for by name: pop-pop. The rest she requests through a series of points and grunts, as I'm told her father did at her age. (Except for chocolate milk; chocolate milk is "pleeeeeeeeeease?") So I made her some.

She's extremely interested in cooking lately, so I allowed her to stand on a stepstool next to me and watch. It's part of the process. She's 2; we do not vary processes, ever. (I'm a bit OCD, so I'm cool with that. Routines comfort me, too.)

While the popcorn cooked, we did our usual song and dance. No, really. We stand there going "pop-pop-pop-pop" and making popping motions with our fingers, plus the occasional snap (from me) and tongue click (from her). Like we're trying to conjure popcorn. Oh, and butt wiggles, for sizzling oil. It's a lot of fun.

When it was ready, I put the popcorn in the usual bowl (stainless steel with a rubber coating outside to make it easier to grip) and set it on the floor in the living room. She sat down before it, like kneeling before an altar, and patted the carpet next to her. I wanted to sit in the recliner and elevate my sprained ankle, but I sat next to her for a moment. She immediately tried to feed me some popcorn.

"No, baby, Mama's too full," I told her. Dinner was a calzone roughly the size of my head. I'm still full.

She looked puzzled. We always feed each other popcorn. It's part of the ritual. She tried a few more times, hoping I'd change my mind. I fed her some instead.

I went to take a shower. When I returned, she resumed trying to feed me popcorn. Again, I politely declined. Again, the confused face. Finally she gave up and settled in with the bowl and The Last Unicorn. After drinking a cup of tea, I went to bed.

This morning I noticed that, while she and Daddy made a dent in the popcorn, there was more left than usual. And I realized that she hadn't asked for popcorn just because she wanted some, but because she wanted to share it with me. It's one of those things we do together, like clean the house and go shopping on Saturday. It's a bonding experience.

I understand communion a little better now. Motherhood, too.

What's my age again?

In 18 days, I'll be 40. I don't feel 40. Usually I feel about 25, though sometimes my kid runs me until I feel more like 60. Still, my middle-agedness tends to take me by surprise.

Like the realization that Dave Matthews Band is oldies now. I have no problem thinking of Guns N Roses as oldies/classic rock, because that was high school and high school was forever ago. But music from my college years is still contemporary, right?

Here's the problem with waiting to have kids: I consider music from the 70s old, but not that old. I remember listening to Tom Jones and Carly Simon and Helen Reddy with my mom. They're classic rock. The Beatles, the Stones, Elvis -- those artists predate me. They're true oldies. (Listened to on a Victrola, for all I know.) Well, by those standards, everything I listened to in college falls under the "true oldies" label. Gin Blossoms. Counting Crows. Goo Goo Dolls. DMB. All elevator music now.

Almost every song on my Spotify playlist predates my daughter by roughly 20 years. (And almost every one is tied to a boy or a broken heart, but that's probably  more indicative of my life at the time than the songs themselves.) I wear out-of-style clothing -- in fact, now that I work from home, it's mostly Mom yoga pants and 10-year-old t-shirts. I haven't changed how I wear my makeup since the current crop of high schoolers were in diapers, and my hair is hopelessly uncool.

Gray hair? Pfft. I started graying at 16. Fine lines? Whatever. This is the stuff that makes me feel old.

Also having to explain to my baby daddy what a B-side is, because he's too young to really remember vinyl. But that's a story for another day.