Author: jenzug

too tired to think of a title

I just spent the entire evening doing nothing – something I long to do almost every minute of every day.

The kitchen is a mess, the laundry is unfolded, the bounty from Costco is still piled up on the table. Yet? I sat in my chair all night… doing… nothing.

And now that I’m moving this party to bed, do I feel refreshed? Relaxed? Rested?

Nope. I feel guilty, unproductive, and lazy.

What IS this crazy relationship I have with busyness, anyway? I got three hours of sleep last night, so yes – I’M A LITTLE TIRED. I fell asleep some time after 2am and my alarm went off at 5:30, so yes – I SAT IN MY CHAIR STARING AT THE WALL.

I think that’s grounds for not hauling a few laundry baskets up the stairs, don’t you? So why do I feel like such a jerk? It’s not like I stayed up until 2am on purpose – I simply couldn’t sleep.

And seriously. Laying around in my pajamas while someone else acts responsible is, like, the best fantasy I have right now. I don’t even dream of running away (anymore) – I just want a couple hours to remind myself what it’s like to have a couple hours.

My dysfunction is so fickle: I WANT! I DON’T WANT! I WANT!

Right now, though, I want sleep.

Neighborhood Watch

Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn’t have fucked with? That’s me. -Walt, Gran Torino.

Things are going awry in my neighborhood, and I don’t plan to be a passive bystander. I’ve been watching kids come and go from the house next door for a year now, during all hours of the day and night. One by one, in and out, coming from one direction, leaving in another.

I can’t say for sure what’s going on in there, but I have my suspicions. Actually, I think it’s pretty obvious what’s going on over there, even though all the grown-ups in that house think these are just kids being kids.

On June 8th we were burglarized while we slept, and my kids’ room was about six feet from the laptop they stole off the kitchen counter. The police tell us it’s the first owner-occupied burglary in five years, and it likely involves someone associated with the house next door.

This event was the tipping point re our tolerance of the shenanigans over there. I am no longer a casual observer, but a vigilant mama bear. Have you seen a mama bear around her cubs? She gets a little huffy when you look at her the wrong way.

The neighbors are obviously not excited about our sudden interest in their comings and goings. On Saturday one of the kids who’s over there a lot flashed his tattoos at Bryan, postured, and threatened him with some “you don’t know who you’re messing with” business.

(I’m shaking in my boots, kid. Your grandma dropped you off in the turquoise Astro van.)

Tomorrow I will be cleaning off my front porch and plunking a chair down next to a cooler full of beer, Gran Torino style. This is MY neighborhood, and you better believe I’m paying attention to it.

I’d Like to See Them Do “Worst Case Scenario: Preschool Mom”

I’ve become a Discovery Channel nerd. I find myself staying awake until ridiculous hours of the morning, sucked into some sort of survival drama.

I first realized I had a problem over Memorial Day weekend when Discovery aired a Deadliest Catch Marathon – I couldn’t stop watching even if I tried. The only thing that saved me that night was the sleep function on my t.v., which I finally set despite a strong desire to know whether Captain Sig & Captain Phil successfully swapped Jakes without killing either one of them in the process.

Because of the Discovery Channel, I now know how to bait a crab pot, land a Coast Guard rescue swimmer on a heaving ship without impaling him on the mast, cross a waist-deep rushing river, repel down an active volcanic mountain, out-smart someone who’s chasing me on foot, and escape a night club in the midst of a stampede panic.

Did you know you can hide from a sand storm in the Sahara Desert by crawling into a gutted camel?

I think Bear Grylls actually picked that one up from another survivalist.

Everything’s Amazing & Nobody’s Happy

Bryan played this video for me the other day and prefaced it with, “You’re going to be mad at me for about 5 seconds, but then you’re going to think it’s really funny.”

I’ll admit I wanted to be mad, but I know myself too well – I embrace my inner Eeyore and live it proudly. I complain loudly. I whine dramatically.

I know I’m the one who takes for granted all the blessings in my life – my house, my job, my kids, my gadgets, my amazing husband who beats me over the head with his optimism and grouch-crushing humor.

For instance, I complain DAILY about the shoddy wifi connection in my bed. IN MY BED. Oh poor me. I can’t access the internet on my iPhone in my bed for TWO WHOLE MINUTES. What a terrible tragedy of epic proportions. I remember when I had to plug my giant computer into the wall where I worked to get an internet connection – I didn’t even have the internet at home.

I’ve actually heard this rant a thousand times from Bryan’s own lips. In a glass-half-empty/glass-half-full kinda world, he’s more likely to say, “Isn’t it AMAZING that we have this AWESOME GLASS???”

And that’s what I get, now, whenever I Eeyore about something that isn’t going my way. I get Bryan all up in my face with his big grin and wild eyes yelling, “BUT ISN’T OUR LIFE AMAZING???”

I love that guy.

Hey Boss Lady

My assistant affectionately calls me the Boss Lady, which I find endearing. “Hey boss lady,” she’ll write in an email. “Here’s the weekly financial update. Did you send out the checks?”

Yeah, she may call me Boss Lady, but she’s always telling me what to do.

I find that I really like being the boss lady. I oversee three project managers and my assistant, as well as various illustrators and animators. I love working with this team. I learn a lot from this team.

And I’ve learned a lot about myself, being the boss lady.

I’ve learned that it really sucks when your team has to work a weekend because you have the gift of procrastination. I’ve learned that kindness builds bridges. I’ve learned that praise is a great motivator, and generosity breeds loyalty. I’ve learned that it’s okay to leave things undone at the end of the day… unless I’ve squandered my time. I’ve learned that I hired great people, so I can stop trying to do their job for them.

I’ve learned that I need to keep reminding myself of all that I’ve learned.

I’m not sure what it is about motherhood that I just don’t GET at first glance, but I feel like all the lessons I learn about being a mom I learn while being something else. I guess a detached perspective is the story God chooses to tell me – I’m just thankful he continues to crack a hard nut like myself.

But anyway, as I thought about how much I love to serve my team and see them succeed in their jobs and give them the tools they need to be awesome producers of great animations, I realized I fail so spectacularly at doing this for my own children.

I do not serve my children generously – I take what I need from them. I do not get excited to see them succeed – I want them out of my way. I do not always give them the tools they need to be awesome – I criticize them.

Surprisingly, I don’t feel guilty about this. Guilt is not from Jesus – he does not shame me to action. Conviction is from Jesus – he gives me clarity to see what I’m doing really looks like, and frankly I’m not all that impressed by it once I can see behind the curtain.

So I pray tonight for my hard, cranky, selfish heart to be as generous and kind and encouraging to my kids as it is to my team.

And maybe, just maybe I’ll make my kids call me Boss Lady, too.

lately

The sun finally came out, and I spent most of yesterday afternoon wrestling with the grass. And I say “wrestling,” because it was so long it grabbed me by the ankles and took me down.

We have a reel mower, which Bryan quit complaining about outright long ago. Now he just makes subtle comments like, “I’m heading out to mow the lawn a couple times!”

But even *I* have to admit that two foot tall crab grass does not cooperate with the rotating blades of a reel mower.

In other news, my fingernails are soft and keep tearing, a flat iron lengthens the time between hair cuts, and I’m terrible at returning phone calls (sorry Beth!).

Oh, and we were robbed.

What’s new with you?

Releasing my grip, one finger at a time.

This kitchen trash bag contains all the lunches Ruthie left at school over the last couple weeks that she finally remembered to bring home.

I estimate there were at least four lunches, and about ten tupperware containers. Inside those containers were half eaten sandwiches, untouched apple slices, some leftover taco meat, and an unopened package of string cheese.

“What DO you eat at lunch?” I asked, suspicious.

There was a Hot Lunch Incident earlier this year in which she threw away the lunches I sent and told her teacher I didn’t make one for her. Lies! All of it! She just wanted to eat the “free” hot lunch at school.

I discovered this fraudulent behavior when I received a bill for $25 and a strongly worded letter about feeding my child. Okay, well, there was actually no strongly worded letter, but this was the judgment I imagined everyone at the school was feeling toward me.

So when I see half eaten sandwiches, untouched apple slices, some leftover taco meat, and an unopened package of string cheese, there are questions.

But IF I am to believe that my daughter is, indeed, no longer stealing from the school district, this now begs the question, Why are you wasting my food?!

I am tempted to let her buy hot lunches using her own money. This has great potential to backfire on me, but in my imagination she’ll realize the value of her money and how it translates to the value of the food she’s wasting.

Things Ruthie draws onI’ve already started this lesson a bit.

Ruthie likes to draw on things – my walls, the car, her body, whatever. She’s destined to be a tattoo artist. Or graffiti artist. Or a member of a chain gain working off a minor misdemeanor charge for vandalism.

The last time she wrote on her pants I made her pay me a dollar for all the extra work I’d have to put into cleaning them. (You know, cuz sometimes the handle on the Spray-n-Wash bottle gets jammed and it’s a real pain in the neck). She slumped in her chair a little, but she didn’t argue.

I think she got the message.

Ruthie’s not the only one learning a lesson, though. I make every attempt to control her conscience, to dictate how she feels and responds, to make her GET THE MESSAGE.

But I can’t. I’m not the Holy Spirit. And seven years into this parenting thing, I’m finally getting it.

I can teach her discernment and shepherd her heart, but in the end she makes her own choices. And since that’s the scariest thing I can imagine as a control freak, I’m left to trust Jesus with her heart and her future.

The Socially Awkward Social Media Maven

It never ceases to amaze me how awkward I am at making small talk. You’d think I’d be versed in this skill for all the networking events I go to, not to mention I attend CHURCH, where “stand up and greet your neighbor” is my cue to get another cup of coffee.

So Bryan and I are at this event last night, and now that I’m a big shot Cheezburger blogger and Creative Director who’s out to pimp myself for business, he’s all You should go talk to So-And-So, and You should have Dude-I-Know introduce you to Dude-I-Don’t-Know.

But really I just want to sit in the corner reading twitter, acting like I’m just Bryan’s ride home or something.

Eventually I part with my second husband (read: iPhone) and head out to find Dude-I-Know, who’s always up for a good conversation. In passing, I ask if Dude-I-Don’t-Know is here, and Dude-I-Know points him out to me.

Then I proceed to:

  • Use the bathroom
  • Get another glass of wine
  • Circle the perimeter of the venue
  • Cross the diameter of the venue, thinking I see someone I know
  • Circle the perimeter of the venue again when I realize I was mistaken
  • Hover awkwardly near Dude-I-Don’t-Know
  • Wander over to see what Bryan is up to
  • Circle the perimeter of the venue…again.
  • Hover awkwardly near Dude-I-Don’t-Know…again.

FINALLY, now that security cameras are tracking me as a possible stalker, I step toward Dude-I-Don’t-Know with my hand out.

“Hi Jen,” he says, shaking my hand.

I am completely taken off guard that he knows my name, and smile awkwardly.

Then comes the awkward silence where I am supposed to state my intentions.

Did I mention I was awkward?

“I… uh… I write for Babysaur.”

“Yeah, I know.” he says.

“Ah. Okay.”

And I walked away.

SERIOUSLY.

THAT REALLY HAPPENED.

And while Jenny on the Spot thinks glitter spray is going to solve all my social phobias, I’m not altogether sure I haz the jenny-on-the-spot skilz to think on my feet.

Did I mention I got lost in the parking garage on the way home?

—

p.s. this awesome photo is by Randy Stewart.

Now Hiring: One Extrovert


Description:

Introverted mom seeking extrovert for translating communications with extroverted daughter.

Common misunderstood phrases include (but are not limited to):

“But I don’t want to be alone outside!” when asked to take out the recycling.

“But I don’t want to be alone in my room!” when asked to get dressed.

“But I don’t want to be alone!” when asked to stay in her room until 7am.

Requirements:

Ability to explain dislike for being alone; must be available on call.

Keeping the Wrinkle Cream Industry In Business

The other morning when Bryan brought me coffee in bed –

(yes, I said when, because that man brings me coffee in bed every morning)

– he handed me the cup then reached out and rubbed my forehead with his thumb.

“What are you doing?” I asked, still waking up.

“I’m wiping away your grouchy lines.”

“My what?”

“You look like you’re mad.”

“It’s 5:30 in the morning and there’s a light on in the room – I would call that squinting.”

“Well, you look mad.”

Now I’m paranoid about this ugly face I keep making and catch myself doing it all the time – driving into the sun, walking against the wind, thinking about what to say next, digging a hole to plant my tomatoes.

Even when I’m not thinking about it, my body expresses anger.

Let me tell YOU about duty, little padawan.

Mail Man Mail Man do your duty
Here comes a woman with an African booty

This is what they’re singing on the playground these days while jumping rope.

When I was a kid we sang about bubble gum and ice cream, but now it’s about getting laid by the mail man.

I once got in trouble for telling one of my parents’ friends I was going to sock him right in the kisser. I thought we were all kidding around, but apparently I was not the funny one. I was mortified that I had said something wrong, and cried DRAH MA TAH CLY before I finally apologized.

We were at Bridgeman’s Ice Cream on W. 66th in Richfield, Minnesota after church, in a corner booth opposite the kitchen door. THAT’s how clearly that embarrassing moment is etched in my mind.

So I asked Ruthie if she knew what that meant, and she was all, I don’t care.

And I was all, WELL YOU’RE GONNA CARE!

Okay, I didn’t really say that. But I THOUGHT that. And I also thought about my hands around her neck. And I also thought about locking her in a box.

But that’s normal, right? Please tell me you think about that all the time, too. Pretty please?

Anyway, what I REALLY said, was that the mail man is being told to treat a woman like she’s his wife, only she isn’t, and what does Jesus say about that? And how is a man supposed to treat a woman who is not his wife? And for that matter, how is a man supposed to treat ANYbody? And who is that man supposed to listen to – Jesus? or a bunch of first graders who are taunting him to sleep with the first woman he runs into???

Okay, I edited that part a bit for age appropriateness.

Maybe.

But we had our little conversation, and it was all just dandy. This was months ago. And just last week when I asked her again how that little jingle went, she rattled it off like an auctioneer and I was all, Wow, you still know that pretty well.

And she was all, Yeah.

And I was all, Sooooo, you’re still chanting that on the playground then?

And she was all, Kinda.

So we had that same conversation. Again.

And I realized parenting is not just about being a broken record, but about being THE LOUDEST BROKEN RECORD ON THE PLAYGROUND.

No one said it would be easy, but sometimes it can be.

IMG_3164

I’m pretty sure this was the best Mother’s Day EVER.

Breakfast at my favorite spot, church, sun, a nap, and time in the garden. It’s how we spend most Mother’s Days, but this year I felt like the party drunk hugging everyone and crying, “I LOVE YOU, MAN!”

Everything about this day felt perfect before it even started, and I didn’t even care what happened. I just knew it was going to be GREAT.

I attribute a huge part of this to the fact I really like Bryan these days. And when I say I really like him, I mean I REALLY like him. A lot. In fact, I like him so much right now I barely leave the house because I can’t imagine doing anything else besides snuggling up next to him.

This generally makes life bearable for a married couple, so I highly recommend doing whatever you can to really like your husband.

(Hint: attempts to change him will NOT make life bearable).

Really liking my husband has a trickle down effect because even though my kids are making me grate my teeth, I actually wanted to be with them today – a far cry from the Mother’s Day Escape Plans I tried to get away with the last couple years.

I also attribute the general success of today to the fact I totally forgot it was Mother’s Day weekend until late last week. This left no time for me to build up expectations, which gave me no reason to bitterly seethe when my expectations weren’t met.

Maybe I should only speak for myself, but I’m convinced marriages break down from a fatal cocktail of equal parts selfishness and unmet expectations. I know I’ve spent a lot of the last eight and a half years wanting what I want, expecting Bryan to give it to me, and growing bitter when I don’t get it.

Personally, I’ve never been happier than when I simply decided to like my husband again, for better or for worse.

Thanks for a great day, Babe. And kids? GET IN BED!

In which I whine just a little bit on a Friday night.

I keep thinking that parenting will get easier once the next thing happens – once they’re crawling, once they’re walking, once they’re out of diapers, once they’re in school, blah blah blah – and to some extent this is true.

It DOES get easier to fly on an airplane to grandma’s house when no one needs a car seat and everyone schleps their own stuff.

But parenting also gets harder.

The sassing is more sassy, the doors are slammed harder, and the testing is more… testy.

I have the same conversation over and over (and over and over) again with a certain strong willed child who shall remain nameless: when you do THAT, the natural consequence is THIS, so to avoid THIS you should try not doing THAT.

Just once. Please? Humor me. Just try it on to see how it fits. Who knows? You might like it.

I think the fatal error I keep making in my head is that I want this to be EASY. I don’t want to get off the couch, I don’t want to have this conversation right now, I don’t want to be inconvenienced.

In other words, I don’t want parenting to disrupt my life.

Wha-?

Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel.

Going back to work opened a new arena for dealing with my… issues.

Sometimes the stress of project deadlines carries over into home life, and I get short tempered with the kids for no reason. Or I can’t turn my brain off, and the fourteenth WATCH THIS MOM sends me over the edge. Or something is not going my way at work, so I over react when one of the kids gives me resistance.

One day I caught myself thinking, “I can’t do this job anymore – it’s making me too mad.”

It reminded me of my kids blaming each other for the graffiti on my lamp shade.

In the past I’ve blamed my anger problems on all sorts of things – because my parents are divorced, because I’m PMSing, because my kids are so challenging. It’s as if I thought I DESERVED to release my rage as payback for all the crap I have to put up with.

And then I end up thinking all these stupid thoughts like, Wow, this person or this situation is really pissing me off. What’s their deal?

Pretty soon I realized the only common denominator in all these scenarios was ME.

So my perspective has changed this year whenever I get pissy and rageful. Instead of lashing out and wondering, WHAT THE HELL? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? I’m actually turning it back on myself and asking, What is it about this situation that’s ruffling my feathers so much?

Usually it boils down to an issue of me trying to control stuff I can’t control.