Conditionally titled "Buying a Home in Heaven can be Hell"

Pretty much since the day I had my husband snagged, stapled down with a few babies, and completely and utterly under my thumb, I began to whine and beg to move out of the state of Maryland into the beautiful, utopic state of Anywhere But Maryland.   Now, before Marylanders get all bent out of shape, it's not that I hate Maryland-- I did manage to live there quite happily for 12 years-- it's just that there wasn't really anything that Maryland had that other states didn't have for cheaper and better.  And while I was raised in the Virgina mountains and my husband was raised in Maryland suburbs, one thing we agreed on was that if we did move, we'd want a small, idyllic town, straight out of the Andy Griffith Show, but with the added benefit of diversity, culture, and a good education system.  Sure, we knew it was a long shot, but we also knew that town existed somewhere within the US, it just was going to be a challenge to find a good job in that town.  But my husband is nothing if not excellent in his career, and he also manages to get what he wants (let's be honest, I was the one snagged and bagged).  And this time around, he found the mother lode-- Virginia Tech, based in Blacksburg, Virginia-- that town of which we had always dreamed.

A job being acquired, next step on the list was to find a home.  So with our pre-approval letter in hand, we embarked on three days of seeing dozens of homes with four children tired of the start and stop and "don't touch that!" that accompanies house-hunting.  And, almost too easily to be true, we fell in love with a beautiful house on the outskirts of the city:  great school, great location, great price.  Commence preparation!

We packed up our home in Maryland, waved goodbye to our friends, and moved to Virginia.  (I did not look back once.)  But first, my husband moved into a hotel, since he started work before we closed on our home, and the children and I moved in with my parents, to await settlement.  A week before settlement we got the "All Good!" from our broker.  We cheered, packed up the few belongings scattered around Grandma and Grandpa's house, drove to Blacksburg, and prepared to spend the night (all six of us) in Daddy's hotel room.

The next morning school started for the kids.  From breakfast at the hotel, I got each of them off to their respective schools, waving from my MD registered vehicle with the roof top carrier straining, "We're only drop off today!  Tomorrow the bus will bring them!"

Then we got a  request for another document.  No big deal. So settlement is delayed a day.
Microwave dinners, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made for lunch on the tv table, and another "Just car riders for the day!".

Then another request.  Soup in a bag.  Lunch money to celebrate Last day in the hotel!  Another day of rain on the car carrier, but not worth it to unpack all of *that* into the hotel room for just one more day.

Then...
-- Well, you see, the lender is a little nervous about the new job.
-Uh.... what?

-- And the contract position he had temporarily?  That shows job hopping.
-No... that shows that in between leaving one job and moving to start the next, he did a few weeks of contract work to pick up extra money for the move.  It's called financial responsibility and work ethic.
--Well, ten years with one company, then a new job in the middle of the loan process-- it just seems, well, questionable.
-Uhmmm... when we started the approval process we sent you an offer letter.  We are only moving BECAUSE of the new job.  You KNEW this.  What is the problem?

--Well, the lender.....
And it was One more day.

And we waited.... one more day.  Car rider for "today only!"; microwave dinners; four kids in a bed, the same five pairs of clothes for each of us.  (It's amazing how little you need to live.)

I had to fill out Parent Information sheets with "no address yet".
Kolbie had a school project to "draw a picture of your home".  She drew a seven story tall hotel.  She also told people repeatedly that we had "not one, but TWO swimming pools-- one indoor, one outdoor."  A lot of her new friends asked to come spend the night.
Micah asked if we would have to live in the hotel for ever.
The first question anyone asked me upon seeing me each day was "In yet?".  I answered this with a "no, not yet.... " at least forty times a day.
The cleaning staff knew us by name.
The hotel manager new us by name.
The front desk staff would see us coming and automatically extend our checkout by three days.
I habitually asked for my change in quarters for the laundromat.
We celebrated Kayton's 12th birthday by putting up streamers and balloons and eating at Olive Garden, but at night, after the kids fell asleep, I cried over the first birthday EVER for any of my kids that didn't involve a four layer birthday cake and a home made meal.
My son missed his dog, in exodus at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  He claimed he couldn't sleep without him.
The kids began to refer to the hotel as "home".
Each morning and afternoon in the car pool line I got pitying looks at my sopping wet, mold leaking, supposedly-water proof- but- not roof top carrier packed full of all the earthly belongings we had in our possession.
JMahl and I began to refer to the hotel as "home".
People stopped believing we were getting a home and offered to drive us to the nearest homeless shelter should we get kicked out of the hotel.
We DID get kicked out of the hotel and had to move into a different hotel. (over-booked!!!!  No, our kids are not that bad!)
Occasionally I drove past the house, looking longingly, in case a mistake had somehow been made and there was a big sign on the door "Welcome, Stewarts, to your NEW HOME!!!!"
I stopped driving past the house-- terrified I was building dreams that would be deflated.
The moving company holding our truck full of ALL our earthly belongings told me, as nicely as he could, to please stop rescheduling and not to call back until we were literally IN our new home.

Sometimes my husband and I would look at each other and laugh, but mostly we just reaffirmed to each other, with a confidence bordering on insanity, "it's just a delay!"

It felt like forever.  It was, in all honesty, only sixteen days, but each of those days we heard moans of "she's kicking me!" and "why aren't my clothes clean?"  and "when can we go to our new home?' from our children and we listened to their daydreams of "when we get our new house...!"  and "aren't you excited for when we are in our new house...?".  They spent their evenings designing furniture arrangements for their new rooms and determining the best spots for a tree house in the woods behind the house based on their memory of the home. They adapted to their new environment, with little fighting, despite (or maybe because of) the lack of toys and technology to argue over, but the eagerness to be HOME finally was bordering on desperation.  JMahl and I watched a lot of HDTV.

And finally, finally, we were handed the keys.  All the dots crossed, and we came rushing into our home, and the kids claimed their bedrooms and we ooh-ed and aah'ed over the yard and the space and the trees!!!.  And we decorated and lived and were happy and... wow....

And at night, my husband and I sit on our huge wrap-around sofa and watch the fire in our fireplace and the trees out the window and we say "do you remember when?"  and "all that was worth it".

And my kids come running down the stairs, screaming over boundaries crossed and possessions stolen, and then one quiet sweet child sits in my lap and says "Mommy, when can we go back to our *other* house?".  Which one?  I ask, "The one in Maryland?"
No!  She replies, with what may have been horror, "The one we lived in when we first moved to Virginia Tech.  The one with two swimming pools."

Just what are they teaching my kids?

One of the many dichotomies of parenthood is that we stress about what we are teaching our children and question whether or not we are raising them the proper way- only to send them off, for eight hours a day, to be taught by people we have never met, a manner of beliefs and texts the content of which we may or may not be aware.  Basically, as much as we talk about "how we raise our children", a good chunk of that raising is being done by someone else.  And we don't really have a choice in the matter-- unless we want to home-school; and I, for one, would rather have the government brain-wash my children a' la 1984 than do it myself.  As much as I love my children, it's all I can do to enforce a 45 minute homework time every night.  There's no way I could extend that another six to seven hours and still maintain what little sanity I have left.

So, my children go to public school.  And we are blessed that Howard County is still ranked among the top public school systems in the country, so I should be able to trust that the education the children are getting is top-notch.  And I shouldn't have to wonder just what is going on behind school walls...  but I do.

No, this post isn't regarding the math homework that is two grade levels above the last math course I took in college.  That's old news.  There's no way I'll ever be able to help middle schoolers with math homework--  I struggle over the second grade requirements.  And fifth grade Language Arts?  Uhm... now, I won't swear that the terminology has changed... I may have just either A/ never learned it or B/ forgotten it.. .but all I can tell Kayton is... "well, did you read it?  ok.... what was it about?  ok.... uhm.... well.... what do YOU think that means?"   And when it comes to Social Studies I'm eagerly learning right along with them, since social studies in small-town VA circa early 80's is very different from social studies in "Hub of Diversity, Maryland, 2012".   But, no, that's not what this post is about.  That stuff I'm all ok with.  I'm proud of it, even.  I LIKE feeling as though my kids may end up smarter than I.  I sure wouldn't want them any dumber.

However, a few weeks ago Mason and I were driving through Baltimore on the way to a doctors appointment.  It was a nice day, so the windows were down as we drove, looking at the sights, listening to NPR Science Friday, and feeling like life was good.  Then, out of the backseat, comes:  "Mom, Am I colored?"

This was one of those moments when I longed for a good old crank window, since the automatic window wasn't going up fast enough for me.  This was not one of those conversations that I wanted drifting on the wind throughout Baltimore.  Plus, I needed time to think this through and giving Mason a "put your window up- it's getting chilly" command bought me a few seconds.  I got a few more seconds by asking Mason to repeat his question.  It never hurts to be safe, since answering the wrong question can be even more dangerous.  I lost moments of my life a few weeks ago trying to figure out how to answer Kolbie when she asked me why I ate Daddy's peanuts.  (Related-- my mother gave JMahl a huge bag of peanuts on our last visit home, and I ate them all.  Unrelated-- I now lock the bedroom door.)

But repetition didn't change the question, and Mason recognizes evasion when he sees it, so he just insisted on an answer. "MOM- am I colored!!????"
We don't say "colored" anymore. We say "black" or "African-American".
They do in school.
Well... wait... what?  They say "colored" in school?
Well, they said that black people were called "colored" in the olden days, so am I colored?

This, of course, led into an explanation of what is now proper to say (does anyone really know anymore?), but Mason would not be deterred.  He kept repeating it over and over-- and who am I to say he can't call himself "colored" if he doesn't want to?  As he pointed out, "colored" is a lot prettier to say than "black".  Since, again, this came from HIM, people aren't BLACK, they are either colored or NOT colored--"like YOU, Mom", says he, "although you're pink, and pinks a color, too, so you're colored, too."

Once we got the semantics out of the way, I still had to answer his question, which was not nearly as hard-- a simple-- "You're both-- lucky you!"  Then we got to what his real point was:  "So, is Kayton colored?"  (Mason, stop saying colored!!!!  Kayton is both, just like you!"
What about Kolbie?  Is she colored?  (I decided at this point that focusing on the word was what was keeping him going, so I just ignored it and answered, if a little annoyed, "Yes.  She's your sister, too.  So she is just like you.)
But not Micah.
Uhm... Micah is half-Daddy and half-Mommy, just like you, Kayton, and Kolbie-- so she's both too.
No, she's not.  She's the same color as you.
Well, her skin may be lighter like mine, but she's still half-both, just like you.
No, she's not, Mom.  Micah is NOT colored.

*big sigh*  Mason, Mason, Mason.  You are completely undoing decades of civil rights with this conversation.  HEY!-- look at that statue!
(diversion accomplished)

But, no, that was not the extent of Mason's public school education.  A few days ago at bedtime, Mason was not happy with having to go to bed, and decided to be in a bad mood.  (Yes, I firmly believe he makes a conscious decision to be grumpy sometimes.)  I had made the conscious decision to remain in a good mood regardless of his mood, so I put my arms around him to hug and kiss him good night and received a
"STOP!  You can't touch me!"

I laughed-- what do you mean I can't touch you?  I'm your Mother.  I can touch you if I want to.

No, you can't.  They said at school that if someone made you uncomfortable and tried to touch you when you didn't want them to, you had to tell them to STOP and tell someone.

Mason, that does NOT apply to mothers trying to hug their sons.

YES, IT DOES.  At school they said NO ONE could touch you unless you wanted them to.

Mason, they were talking about if someone touches you in a private place or if someone hits you.
Well, you hit me.

I did?  When?
You spank me, and that's hitting.

Well, Son, first of all, I don't spank you nearly as often as I probably should; and second, spanking isn't hitting.
Yes, it is. They said so at school.
Really? Well.  I'll spank you if you need a spanking, and I'll hug you whenever I want to, and you tell whoever YOU want to.  I'm your mother.

I"m going to tell my teacher!!!!!
Good.  Then she'll know that I love you and that I'm a good mother.  And I proceeded to hug him for an overly extended, obviously annoying, length of time, just to prove to him that I could.  Hugging making him uncomfortable, bah!!!  Tell THAT to your teacher.

But all jokes aside, I do have to wonder sometimes if the lessons our schools give our children may backfire on our parenting techniques.  I know everything they say and do is for the safety and health and education of  our children.  I do understand this, but I sometimes wonder if the lessons that need to be learned eventually are sometimes learned too soon; or if the safety techniques necessary to protect some children just cause more problems for the parents of others.

I remember as a child being absolutely terrified of my mother when it came to spankings-- I probably got spanked at least once a day, although my memory may not be accurate.  I also know for a fact that had I told a teacher about my spankings they would have assumed I deserved it-- and I'm quite certain I did.  Heck, I got spankings from the teachers in school-- although I'm still not convinced I deserved those, since it was normally Johnny Nichols getting me in trouble and NOT MY FAULT.  And this is not an argument for spanking or not spanking your children.  I'm not going to say "I turned out fine, so spanking's okay."  (although I did turn out fine-- I think).  And to clarify, I seldom spank my children.  I've spanked Kayton a few times, and it worked so well I haven't needed to spank her since.  Mason?  HAH!  I could spank him for three days straight and he'd get up, turn around, and do whatever he did again.  So, what's the point?

And I absolutely recognize that the versions of truth you get from an eight year old boy are not always the way things really were said.  Kids (especially smart kids) distort things according to their desired results; but I do worry about when a supplied education starts to get in the way of good parenting-- or just, well, when we parents don't KNOW what their kids are being taught.

Spankings and Hugs are one thing.  Diversity and Civil Rights education is another.  I firmly agree that our kids need to learn history, but I wonder sometimes if maybe we are starting this education too early.  At this age, kids see kids.  Recognizing differences is something that is learned from other people-- from parents, from teachers, from society.  Well, let me clarify.  In Howard County-- Hub-of-Diversity, Maryland-- kids are so used to seeing kids of different nationalities, races, ethnicity, and mixes of all the above, that they don't look at the differences.  It IS natural to them.  Is it possible that by teaching these "born into diversity" children about the past, about racism, about segregation, about "colored", that we are stripping them of that innocence before it is necessary?  They have the rest of their lives to learn that "sixty years ago people who looked like you (or looked like your friend) weren't allowed to -----".  Do they need to learn that today?

I don't know.  I don't know, so I trust those who claim they do.  I just go with the flow, answering the questions posed, clarifying the lessons as best I can.  But last night, when four year old Kolbie walked into the kitchen with a smile on her face and said "Hey, pretty white Mommy!"  I looked at my husband, said "You handle this one", grabbed my wine, and walked out of the room, smiling as I heard my ultra-diverse-raised-in-the-Hub-Of-Diversity husband trying to explain why it's not nice to call Mommy "white".

Oh, take me from home, where my wild children roam...

A few days ago, a friend forwarded me a story about a man who came home from work to find his home a mess, his children acting like banshees, and his wife lying in bed eating ice cream.  When he asked her what was wrong, she replied "You always ask me what I do every day-- well, today I didn't do it."  It was a cute anecdote, and my friend explained that she'd thought of me when she read it.  My first thought was... so, does she think I lay around doing nothing all day?  Then my less-paranoid instincts set in, and I realized that she was implying that I actually DID do something all day.  Well, friend, let me set you straight here.  You see, some days I do... but some days I don't.  Some days I'm motivated, excited, and my house is top to bottom clean.  Other days, well, hey, the library is there for a reason, and my house is a disaster area.  (although these are the days that I claim to my husband:  "the kids were just ON me all day.  I couldn't get a THING done.")


The thing about being a stay-at-home mom (or SAHM, as we've taken to calling ourselves in order to pretend that we are still in the working world and, therefore, acronyms have meaning) is that it's boring.  Well, maybe I shouldn't speak for every SAHM out there, but for me- a person who has been training since the age of 4 (back when you could start kindergarten whenever your Mom felt like throwing you into class) to have a career and interact with other intelligent professionals- well, spending all day doing non-high-school degree necessary work is plain boring.  Before you think that I don't appreciate my position, I do.  I am immensely grateful each and every day that my husband is able to provide for us so that I can stay home with these children, but I sure do miss getting dressed in the morning.  And wearing a bra.  And brushing my teeth.  
I am even more grateful for my status as a SAHM since I worked full-time when my first two were younger.  I remember the anguish and guilt of leaving my son at daycare (not my daughter-- she loved daycare, but Mason?  every day for four years he clung/ clang/ clinged? to me and cried for me not to leave him.  And I honestly felt that I did no parenting, since we'd get home from work/ daycare, make and eat dinner, and then the kids would be in bed.  So I never saw them.  And despite how luxurious that (occasionally) sounds now, back then it killed me.  When my oldest was born and I was preparing to go back to work, I called my Mom, in tears, because I'd have to leave my daughter with a babysitter.  My Mom said to me "The less time you spend with them, the more you appreciate the time you have with them."   Boy, was she right.  I'd like to appreciate the time with them a little bit more these days...


But with the first two it just made more sense to have a two-income family and have them in daycare;  when kids 3 and 4 came- well, I don't make THAT much money- and luckily, by then, my husband made as much as we did combined back with kids 1 and 2.  So it worked.  Sure, we still have the same quality of life we had eight years ago (ie. budget), but it works.  And he works.  And I "work at home". Which is boring.  Do YOU get excited over laundry?  HEY! Look how clean these clothes are!  And now I get to FOLD them?  YEAH!  


But to get back to the original story--the primary difference between myself and the protagonist mother is that, well, when my husband gets home from work, I make sure he knows exactly what I did all day.  For example: yesterday I cleaned the bathroom, so after eating dinner and explaining to my husband, in detail, just how long it took me to get dinner on the table, I took him on a tour of the bathroom.  "See, I mopped behind the toilet.  I  took THIS scrub brush and cleaned off that nastiness.  Look here-- see how neatly the medicine cabinet is arranged-- Wait!  I haven't shown you the best part!  All the bathtub toys right here. And oh-oh- hold on!--  here's your extra deodorant-- and did you see your new toothbrush?"  He's a good husband.  He pretends to be impressed.


This is my rather pathetic attempt to have him think that I actually did something constructive all day other than play on facebook, send a few emails, and turn on the cartoons for Kolbie.  I'm not sure he's buying it, but I feel like it's essential.  As it is, we already tend to have "conversations" regarding which of us has the worse life.  And they normally go something like this:
"It's so BORING changing diapers all day.
Yeah, well, it's not like my office is any more fun.
But at least you get to have adult conversation.
That would imply I work with adults.
Come on- you know what I mean.
Uh huh.  And you know what I mean.
Geeze, do you think all I do is lay around and do nothing?
(at this point he usually says nothing and just takes a long slow look around the house)
Seriously?  YOU could not handle staying home with these kids all day.
And YOU couldn't handle working every day to provide for a family of six knowing that if you loose your job, you and your family are screwed!
at which point I grumble: I wish I could loose THIS job...
To which he replies:  Why don't you and get a real job?
I'm TRYING!  But it has to be the Perfect job (so I can still sleep in, spend a lot of time with the kids when I want to, go to all school activities, and still pay enough for us to afford daycare and a bigger house/ mortgage)."  He tends to zone out during this litany of excuses.  


Sometimes the conversation ends here.  Other times it turns into a fight over kids, money, why I don't have a job-- all depending on the mood.  Sometimes it ends with: Do you want to have sex?  uh, sure, when the kids move out.  


But he's right.  I'm desperate for a job that gets me out of the home, away from the kids-- and yet still allows me to be with the kids when they need me.  And it's a difficult tightrope to walk.  I'm sure a lot of mothers out there are in the same boat-- the desire to be using their education, experience, big words--- fighting with their desire to be with their children.  (Although I do have one close friend who has managed to convince her husband of the necessity of continuing to be a SAHM even though her children have been in school for the last two years.  Not sure how she does it- or what she's doing- to make that work...but she's definitely doing something right at home, I'm sure.)  


I remember my father saying to me once when I was a girl, complaining about having to help my mom in the kitchen while my brothers got to go chop wood:  "Just because a woman CAN do everything a man can doesn't mean she SHOULD".  (He may not remember or admit to saying this, but he did.)  And I understand what he was saying.  He encouraged me to get an excellent education (UVA!), has given me advice every step of the way, and has been a mentor throughout my career, and yet when I was pregnant he didn't hesitate to say "Your only job while pregnant is growing a healthy baby."  (Granted, this had nothing to do with career and was more a loving father's attempt to alleviate my guilt over my laziness with the house-cleaning.  And to clarify for my father's sake:  this is his outlook toward his wife/daughter/ members of family.  He absolutely does not oppose women in the workforce in any way, shape, manner, or form- pregnant, mothers, or not.)  He just felt that there is no shame in a woman staying at home with her children.  


But, you know, sometimes, for me, there is.  Maybe because I know I'm not the most interactive mother and could be doing more with them during the day.  Maybe because the more time I spend with my children, the less time I want to spend with them (oh, come on now-- it's normal to feel this way- right?)  Maybe because I can't help but compare myself to colleagues who have foregone having children (or four children) in order to get ahead in their careers, and I've seen "what could have been".  Or maybe it's those student loan payments looming over my head that I keep putting on unemployment forbearance-- student loans for an education I'm not using since none of my children seem all that interested in management theory.  But sometimes I just get tired of laundry, toilets, cooking dinner, and entertaining toddlers.  I didn't get a Masters degree in order to be Master of my own home.  Some days I feel like I should have just received a degree in Home Economics.  (It would have made my Great-Aunt proud-- she was one of the first PhD's in our family, back in the 60's- Professor of Home Economics at the University of Mansfield.)  


Speaking of Economics, another email forward went around a few weeks ago regarding what a SAHM would get paid if she translated her skills to the working world--based on salaries of accountants, CEO's, house cleaners, day care providers, etc.  They estimated at about $170k, I believe it was, annually.  It was over six figures.  I know they were trying to make moms feel better, but let's be honest here.  The majority of the day is spent doing tasks that even a high school diploma doesn't require-- so that's minimum wage.  A few hours a month we may do budgeting and bill paying... but really?  Enough to warrant an "Accountant" salary?  I think not.  And since we're only managing a bunch of uneducated, unskilled, non-employable children, well, I don't think we qualify for that CEO salary either.  The one thing I'll give them is the overtime, since our day does not end at 5:00.  But then again, neither does my husband's, since he helps with bedtime, discipline, entertainment, etc. when he gets home from work (sometimes... I'll give this to him sometimes).


So, I guess the only realistic way I can look at this is as an unpaid vacation.  A somewhat boring and redundant- no restaurants, beaches, or wait staff-- vacation; but a vacation none-the-less.  Because let's face it, my husband is right:  As annoying as it may be to deal with children all day, it's less annoying than dealing with adults who act like children.  
At least I can drink on the job.