21 August 2013

The Master of Disaster

Being that I like order - strive, live, breathe, and need it like I need air, chocolate, and Richard Chamberlain (not necessarily in that order) - to say that I have, in the past, hated disorder is an understatement.

In the past, if I planned something, I knew it would happen. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, if I had it in my calendar, it was goin' down, ya'll.

I'm fairly certain that if the apocalypse had occurred 12 hours before a hair appointment, past-me would have been pissed, not because the world was ending, but because my plan wasn't going according to plan.

The immature, irresponsible, kidless me of 1972 through 2005 got really pissed if we planned to have dinner and your kid was sick and you backed out. How dare they?!?! I would mentally screech, unbelieving that someone was messing with my plan and my calendar and my expectations. And, usually, I was angry with the kid, not the parent. Yep, I was even that college student who was irritated if the professor didn't show up to class and NOW WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR TWO HOURS?!?

(Go figure those bits of messed-up logic.)

I am such a routine girl. I mentioned that in my last post, but I'm not kidding when I say that if all I had to wear were purple t-shirts and flare jeans from Old Navy I would work that shit 'til the cows came home. Nothing but fried baloney and mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch? Forever? Bring it. I embrace routine like Kanye West embraces Taylor Swift's microphone.

But I'm learning that change will not kill me.

Figuring this out came slowly. When the twins were born in 2005, I still held on to a very regimented routine. Wake up babies. Change their diapers. Feed them. Burp them. Put on their clothes. Entertain them for 30 to 60 minutes until they fall asleep. Rinse. Repeat. And then, then, the little buggars went and grew up and developed Free Will and decided to blow my routine paradise all to Hell.

Mo-om! I don't feel so good!
Well, looks like we're not going to your grandmother's birthday party.

Mo-om! I just fell and hurt myself and I'm bleeding EVERY-WHERE!!!!!!
OK. Guess we're not going to the cook-out. ER, here we come!

Mo-om! I don't want to wear my hair in a braid! I want it DOOOWWWWN!!!!!
Well, there goes 20 minutes of work.

I take a lot of deep, cleansing breaths. And sometimes, I'm not proud to admit, I stomp off in a huff and take a few minutes in my closet, cursing at my purple shirts. But, I'm getting there. I've slowly become the woman who can accept change and not fear it.

For example, I always assumed I would be the mom who stayed at home and did nothing but kids/homework/housework. I planned on that being the norm. I planned on a graduate degree and career after I escorted the kids out the door to their futures. But last year felt so empty and meaningless. I didn't blog, didn't write, didn't create. That was a routine I didn't enjoy. This year, I'm still momming and kidding and cleaning and houseworking and -inging a lot. Add technical writing and that's a change I've been quite happy to suck up and deal with.

Leo Tolstoy once wrote, "Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself." I am here to tell you that I will never change the world. I am one woman who prefers the comfort of her routine and her home and her family. To change the world is too much change for me.

But changing me so that I can accept when the world around me changes? Yeah, that I can do just fine.


sybil law said...

You don't do that "just fine" - you do that fantastically!

(You *know* I am a routine girl, so... yep.)

Congrats on the job!!

Gavi said...

OMG, you've been spying on my life! The hardest change to make is within yourself.

whitegirl said...

Routines were never apart of my life, never have been.

I went to go work in a preschool because I actually was a crazy twenty year old that liked kids and wanted to hang out with 3 year olds all day long. I wanted a shift that wouldn't change and I wanted routine.

Guess what I got? A huge catastrophy...that's what I get for working with 3 year olds I guess? Boo :(