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Garage Sale Christmas

I am a frugalista, there is no doubt. But for some reason, I'm struggling with my decision to give my son a kitchen set that I bought at a garage sale for Christmas. This, I realize, it the stupidest thing I have ever written.

A) My son doesn't know what Christmas is.
B) My son doesn't know what a garage sale is.
C) My son thinks a Pottery Barn magazine is the best present ever.
D) My son thinks a Duplo block is a phone. ("Hi... hi. HI HI HI.")

I bought the (adorable, wooden, high-dollar) kitchen set from a friend at her garage sale last summer and left it at Kalli's because Johnny was way too young for it then. I have noticed that he likes the kitchen set at daycare, so it's time to bring ours home. VOILA. SANTA. It all makes perfect sense, especially given HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW ABOUT CHRISTMAS YET.

But, I have a nagging feeling that I am a total a-hole of a parent, for pulling this gift charade over on my unsuspecting baby. Will I have to tell him one day that Santa brought him a used refrigerator for his second Christmas? Will he hate me for it later, and tell his therapist about it?

My son has very few things that have come to him shiny and new. Which is great. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Cheap. Love it all. But, sometimes is something new worth it? If so, when? Or, is it a good message to him? Shall I raise him on garage sale Christmases, so he learns to respect items and money and value?

Or am I just using recycling and "lessons" as an excuse to be myself: namely, the cheapest bitch in town?

Spanking

A few days ago my three-year-old daughter tried to take her big red guitar out to play at bedtime.  I told her "No".   She continued.  I told her "No, its not time to play guitar, it's time to..."  She continued, with a gleam in her eye.   The third time I said "NO", I stood up from my seat and walked over to her, picked up the guitar, and returned it to it's rightful place.   At that moment, Grace yelled defiantly, "You hitted me!  Don't hit me!!". 

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!    Wha?

Within reason

I find myself worrying far too much, far too frequently, about what other people will think, about living up to, or even exceeding, "their" expectations.

I do it regarding my mother. She worked full time, had three kids, cooked dinner every night, and kept our house spic and span. I had clean sheets once a week, and my Keds were never dingy. She's a tough act to follow. She was active in her church, responsive to my grandparents' needs, and even managed to do some socializing, although probably not as much as I'd want to do. The woman ironed our jeans.

And with friends. I keep mental track of all the nice things my friends have ever done for me, and I want to make sure I "pay them back" adequately. I think about all the talents my friends have, be they crafty, sporty, cook-y, musical, or otherwise, and I think I should be able to do all that stuff, too, as well as all the stuff my mom did (I need to learn to sew so I can make Johnny's Halloween costumes!).

Even strangers. I look at the women I see online, and while I know that what I see online is only a "persona", I figure I better be as witty, savvy, and clever as they are, or even moreso. I look at how they take care of themselves, how their kids are in private schools, how their homes are full of just the right objects d'art, and I think I better get a move on. I see how they are feeding their families "unprocessed" foods and how they are managing their gardens and making daily bread from scratch. I feel bad for the box of Kroger Brand 'Nilla wafers on my shelf.

The trouble is, I say to myself, "WHEN?" I leave the house at 7:00 every morning, baby in tow. I get home after 4:00, usually closer to 5:00 because I have to do the shopping, and then I have to cook dinner, do laundry, bathe the kid, and pick up our messes. I need to spend some time just playing with the baby, and talking to my husband. By the time all that happens, it's 7:30, and I'm sitting down to watch a TV show while I upload and edit photos, or fold the last load of laundry for the evening. And dinner? It might have been Kraft Mac and Cheese, or it might have been homemade chicken and noodles, but I guarantee you even if it was the latter, those noodles came from a bag. I DO NOT HAVE THE TIME.

I do not have the time to get my eyebrows waxed, let alone get a facial. I do not have the time to bake a pie from pumpkin in a can, let alone roast and puree my own. I want to make all of my family's food from scratch, I want to do it more than anything, but it is not reasonable.

So, reasonable. That is what I'm going for these days. I can't keep our sheets clean all the time, and there will probably be a spill on the floor, and my outfit won't be the most fashion forward, and my cooking will only be semi-homemade. My blogs will contain unedited photos and my laundry will be sitting on the dresser instead of hung up neatly.

But we'll be clean, fed, and dressed. We'll be relatively healthy and I'll force a vegetable on us every night. It is reasonable to expect that sometimes my car will reach critical mass, and reasonable to assume my friends will be better than me at a lot of things. It is also reasonable to allow myself to go out now and then, to say "yes" to a beer and "no" to the laundry.

What I need most is to remember that while it may feel like everyone is judging me, that mostly comes from within. No one is spending time thinking about how my walls need better art, or how my outfit is from last year. And if they aren't thinking about it, why am I? I cannot do it all. I can't work, be super-mom, crafty-girl, homemaker and journalist. It's not reasonable. So I pick. I sometimes pick television over clean floors. I'll have to forgive myself, because I'm probably the only one who cares.

Let It Be

When my kid is angry or sad or anxious, it literally makes my stomach hurt. As a child, I felt that I had to measure the “temperature” (mood) of the room at all times, and therefore I continue to do it as an adult. I can sniff out others’ unhappiness like a droopy old hound.

Little things...

Enjoy the little things in life…for one day you will look back and realize they were the big things.

I saw this quote on a wall hanging at the florist when we went to order flowers for my grandmother’s funeral. I’ve been having what I refer to as “4th Quarter blues”… the last 3 months of the year are upon us… the holidays are approaching, bringing food, emotional baggage, a “Gammie” sized hole, and lots and lots of “STUFF”.

Taking off

I am trying to travel more.

It goes against my frugal sensibilities to travel, seeing as it means a bunch of eating out, a bunch of gas-use (or worse - plane tickets), and paying to sleep in a bed when I'm already paying the mortgage on my house.

Everybody's Free...to be Well

I embrace the concept of wellness. Not just from a grammatical standpoint. When people ask me how I am, I tend to say, “I’m well!” (Exclamation point intentionally included, I’m a very enthusiastic person.)

My husband, the English major, whom we fondly refer to as “The Editor” (with emphasis on the third syllable, like a comic book hero or villain) tells me I’m presumptuous in my remark. “I’m good,” is more conversational and acceptable. (He would also now tell me I have used too many parenthetical asides.) Meh.

I work with a lot of massage therapists and personal trainers. Through osmosis, I have absorbed the concept of total wellness and seek it in my life. “Wellness” means “healthy,” and “healthy” includes mind, body and spirit.

I digress...

WTF, October?



I saw a tree today that was completely yellow. Every fall I have this moment… a yellow or red tree, the slant of the sun, the blue of the sky…it momentarily takes my breath away and I think “Hey, when did this happen?? It’s fall?”

The word "positive" takes on a whole new meaning

This is the first post (of hopefully many) by Stephanie, who is here to talk to us about a unique challenge and her process of meeting the kind of goal that isn't entirely up to her. No budget can really solve this problem. Thank you, Steph, for showing up with this.

I was one of those girls that was always ‘really careful’ when I was younger because I didn’t want to get pregnant. Every time I thought that though, something else went through my mind – watch me not be able to get pregnant once I’m ready. Fast forward a few years to present day –

Leaving the pity party

On Tuesday night, I fell apart.

I walked in the door and set down my purse, barely able to mumble a hello to my husband who was patiently feeding our teething and temperamental baby his dinner.

I had been at The Yacht Club, having a beer with some co workers as a farewell to my boss. My beloved boss. The nicest, most supportive, funniest, sweetest boss on the face of the entire planet.

I left the party early because I found myself sitting there with my mouth twisted into a grimace, trying to talk with the others about my boss's new job, where he'd live, and what our office plans to do in his absence - all the while feeling like I might have to make a mad dash to the bathroom.

When I got home, I laid on the couch and a few tears escaped. What was this? Was I crying for my boss? Seemed unlike me. I like him a lot, will miss him, but really? This overwrought show of emotion? A little overly dramatic for my taste.

Growing Pains

I walked across my living room floor, strewn with textbooks, Chuck Taylors, Sun Chips, and a dizzying mix of settling hormones and Smith’s songs. My thoughts? Maybe I should have had more children. Earlier, teenagers had filled the house. Laughing, eating, joking about school, comparing stories about classes and teachers, and exuding the powerful force of rawness and youth.

I floated on the periphery, in the kitchen on a rare evening off, cooking some meals for the week so the leftovers wouldn’t go bad. I soaked up their energy. I worked five feet away, yet they seemed unaware I could hear them.