It’s kinda funny how things happen.
Sometimes you see it coming a mile away and other times it hits you like a
freight train.
I’m a driven person, apparently I
always have been (those are my husbands words, not mine). I used to be driven
to complete “projects” in terms of “home improvement projects”.
I’ve reroofed a couple of houses,
tiled just about every surface imaginable, and painted anything within a
three-foot radius of my arms reach. I’ve laid hardwood floors for my sister and
Pergo for my girlfriend. I’ve refurbished just about every known surface with
paint, stain or whatever materials I’ve found that could be creative.
I had an addiction to HGTV.
A friend who thought it was funny
after watching a Jessica Simpson “newlywed” episode has deemed me “secretary of
the interior”. I’ve been given creative freedom in designing a youth room twice
at a local church.
I’ve laid sod, sprinklers and re-landscaped
my entire yard. I’ve built fences, moved cinder blocks for support under decks
and then built decks. I’ve built a shed with my husband and sons and they
lived.
I’ve mowed more lawns that I’d
like to admit and even fought and won with the weed eater.
I’ve repaired electrical problems
and gotten shocked in the process. I’ve successfully installed sinks and faucets
without having leaks. I’ve ripped apart dryers and washers to repair them and
they worked for years afterwards.
I’ve pulled out carpets while the
house was still furnished and lived in (won’t do that one again, never moved so
much furniture in a short amount of time in my life). Torn out vinyl flooring,
which put up a good fight but lost, hung curtains, sewn curtains, made quilts
and duvet covers. Completely created a bedroom set for my newborns and used
them until they wore out.
I attempted to make a few items of
clothing and decided it was easier to buy them . . . they looked better also.
I’ve hung upside down on a two-story
house so I could paint the trim while my strong husband kept hold of my legs
and my mother-in-law watched on in horror from below. I’ve been accused of
pushing my father-in-law off a ladder while assisting on the re-roofing job on
our house (it’s not true . . . I swear), and I’ve also been accused of later
that same summer of throwing a hammer in his direction while dismantling his
fence. Right here and now I will attest to the fact that my gloves were too
large for my petite hands and the gripper handle on the hammer was too worn . .
. it slipped. Luckily no one sustained any injuries from that accident.
I’ve my own shop in my garage
filled with every imaginable tool available. My husband no longer wants to
claim the territory. I would get excited when he’d purchase me a new saw for my
birthday; a table saw that is . . .
I’ve canned peaches and dried
peaches; made strawberry jam and make my own spaghetti sauce. I can cook with
the best of them and create my own dishes that my family demands more of. I’ve
won a chili-cooking contest and gotten the “best homemade ice cream” award. I’ve
baked and failed to make anything close to what my husband calls gooey and
yummy like his mother makes. That’s okay; he doesn’t need the extra sugar
anyway.
With all of this said . . . I do
none of the above said items now. In the last two years I haven’t picked up a
hammer unless it was for dramatic effects to get the point across (I was quite
impressed on the reaction I received). I’ve reluctantly painted and mostly
supervised the repainting of the interior of my house recently.
My family has learned how to cook
and clean up after themselves for the most part (we still have issues there).
They’re in awe when I do cook, as I like to keep them guessing on when it will
occur again.
My oldest son, who was my major
project assistant, misses me. He tells me that his “old” mom was fun, but is
learning to accept the “new” me. My youngest blondie could really care less.
He’s just happy that he doesn’t have to hide now when I say a “project” needs
to be done. And my husband? He’s happier to have a calmer wife who doesn’t come
up with things for him to do on the weekends. He actually finds reasons to be
home on the weekends now instead of saying, “uh, I think I have some extra work
at the office that needs to be taken care of.”
What this all boils down to it that
being the driven person I am, it was hard for me to let go. It was hard for me
to realize that I didn’t need to run myself ragged for everyone else. What it
really came down to is that I’m not “Supermom” and I’m happier for it.
The yard is now mowed by my two
boys, haven’t done it once this summer. The pool would not have gotten filled
if it weren’t for my husband and older son. The weeds in the flowerbeds would’ve
reached out and slapped them as they walked past with the mower if they hadn’t
been pulled by them.
The dust bunnies tried to overtake
the cleaning fairies in a coo, but I called in the spiders to shut them down.
We’re now in negotiations, it’s moving along slowly.
It’s okay for the dishes to pile up
in the sink and the laundry to attack as you pass through to the garage. It
teaches them good fighting skills that may be used later in life (always
thinking ahead, I am).
And the mold on the cheese in the
fridge, well . . . I’m making sure my family is supplied with penicillin.
I’m still driven, that part of me
will never go away. My focus is just different now. For all those years that I
stuffed the books aside because I didn’t have time to read, have been dusted
off and now I read with a passion (over 45 books in a 8 month period). The one thing that I never once though I
would list as being accomplished is writing a book. I wrote eight books in an eighteen-month
period. Yup, still driven.
A soft knock is heard at my bedroom
door. “Mom? Are you still in there?” my little blondie says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Now leave me
alone. I’m driving!”
