Mountain Mama / Dirty Hermit

Revisiting and updating the ol' blog today, naturally as a mode of procrastination, when I should be working on some art. Sound familiar? Exactly like this post from 2012. And here we are in 2017. I have officially circled back to being a procrastinaty, pajama-wearing SAHM, aka Stay at Home Mom, otherwise known as  "saaaaaahhhhm".
I mean, what I tell people is that I'm a self-employed freelance professional legit artist and all that jazz, and I truly do have several projects I should be working on. I just have very little to show for it since moving.

Now my kids are in 2nd and 3rd grade. (How the bleep did that happen?) Since they both started being in school full-time I've been working, but now that we moved and I quit, I am "free".
Little did I know time flies when you're free. Like...the seven hours between the time I put them on the bus and the time I pick them up from the bus feels like two hours and I'm all whattheactualeffjusthappened.
The past couple weeks I've been unpacking and getting settled in the house, but now that is mostly done and I have no more excuses to put off working on artwork...except, oh wait, I need to spray paint this patio set and hang these solar-powered twinkle lights on the deck...and now I need to blog. My sister says so.
I've also been Instagramming the crap out of everything because everything up here is so IG-worthy:

My writing brain is broken, you know. All I have is this colloquial conversational text speak now. No artful articulate literature for you! I also fear that now that my kids are potty trained I am going to be desperately lacking in subject matter. "No poo stories??" you cry. Sadly not.

OH BUT WAIT! BUT WAIT! YOU'RE IN LUCK! It just so happens that today we are having the septic tank replaced at our new house. Apparently the old tank had a crack in it and failed inspection, but there wasn't time to replace it before closing so the sellers just cut us a check. Boo-yah. Anyway, we are between tanks--tankless, as it were--and aren't supposed to flush.
This morning, my 7-year-old girl had to go #2, right as we had to be leaving the house (OF COURSE), and she flushed.
I apologized to the tractor fella that one of us *might* have forgotten about the not flushing and he goes, "I noticed."
OOOHHH SHIT.
Literally.

On a related note, we have horses again. From a mustang rescue though, so they are wild and we can't pet them yet and it's killing me. But they poop SO MUCH OMG SO MUCH POOP so maybe I can blog about that. Luckily horse poo isn't nearly as gross as kid poo, and far less gross than dog poo, so I don't mind having to pick up an entire wheel barrow full of it every other day.
The kids named them Professor Petunia and Lady Mike. They are both mares. The Professor might be pregnant. The Lady is a jerk to the Professor, but I don't totally blame her because Petunia eats all the treats. The end.

We live in the mountains now. Not the prairie, not the burbs. The actual mountains. We have views (unfortunately obscured at the moment because of all the horrific wildfires in the North and West). We have trees: mostly the piney variety but also a few aspens, which I love. We have tree houses (yes, plural). We have a mother-forking zip line. We have weird grey stripey mountain squirrels with pointy ears. We have mule deer. We have elk...poop, anyway...haven't seen the elk themselves yet. (See how I worked the poop in? Look what I do for you.)

The mountains feel more like home than the prairie or the city ever did.

Living in the mountains works well with my old saaaaaahhhhm wardrobe of athleisure-pajama-wear. I've pretty much quit wearing makeup (except Wunderbrow because you only have to do your eyebrows like once every three days, so, duh), and only wear sports bras and flip flops--in addition to a t-shirt and yoga pants, of course. Don't make this weird.
I miss wearing my cute clothes, and I miss seeing people more regularly, but...BUT...not really. I am quite the happy hermit to be honest. I love having company, but only if they don't care that I'm a dirty mountain pajama hermit.

I already acquired the necessary mountain home accessories: a hummingbird feeder, a wind chime, a hammock. My husband already acquired the "necessary" tractor--I mean, skid loader. My bad. He's going to use it to build his "necessary" shop, which I am actually in full support of so he can move all his tools and stuff out of my studio. YES, I have studio. It's attached to the barn. It has heat and electricity and windows and it's MINE. For now I will continue my tradition of using the dining room studio.

Which reminds me...I have 7 weeks to do 18 illustrations and then 2 months after that to do 4 more paintings before Christmas. Perhaps I've adequately procrastinated for today?

If I had to walk out to the barn/studio it would be much harder to be distracted by things. Just sayin'.

In conclusion, we are all spoiled brats now.

A NEW ERA

Well several major life changes are about to happen. The biggest changes we’ve had since buying our first house and having kids. Even bigger than having someone else's baby (in terms of our lives, that is)...

--Starting late August, my kids will both be in school full-time. Kindergarten and 1^st grade, baby.

--I will be working full-time. For the first time in five years. At a job I’m actually very excited about.

--We will be moving. After almost seven years in this house, we are leaving our first family home.

I am such a crazy mixture of excitement, sadness, and fear. So much sweet and so much bitter I can’t even comprehend it. 

All these crazy years I’ve been staying home with my babies as they grew into walking, talking humans—whether I was working part-time or home full-time, I’ve been dreaming of the illusory freedom of some distant fantasy future. I didn’t think it would ever come. I missed adult interaction. I was tired of cleaning poo. I wished I had a reason to put on pants more often. Real pants. And maybe some cute shoes. I wanted to feel like I was doing something more important than being “just a housewife”. I often felt like my brain was draining away. I often felt trapped.

Of course I mostly loved being able to be home with them. It's definitely love-hate. I am so thankful I was able to be with them during their littleness. I love them more than anything. And I would never trade my time with them for any career, ever. As my older blog posts have demonstrated, it just made me batshit crazy at times. And lonely. And depressed. And into the most antisocial hermit ever.  But I recognize that there is nothing more important that I could have done with these years. Nothing. 

My son was born a month after we moved into this house. I was able to stay home with him for six months, after which I worked at a childcare center so I could still be with him all the time. When my daughter was born a year later, I took to waiting tables nights and weekends so I could be with them during the day. I also taught art classes at a couple places, part-time, and have the occasional commissioned painting. HowEVER, my new job will be my first experience being away from my babies, "full-time".

I am both heartbroken and elated.

Which is also how I feel about moving. Leaving this house. Our first home. The “needs work” HUD home with purple carpet that we were able to buy with first-time homebuyer incentives when I was 8 months pregnant. The house we tried selling twice before but weren't ready. The house on two dry acres of middle-of-nowhere prairie where the kids drove their little electric cars and we kept my in-law's horses. The house where my sister and I rolled out a tiny patch of sod so the kids could have a lawn. The house where they played in the mud as toddlers. The house where they grew from newborns into kids that read and write. The house where my husband finally built us a magnificent new deck. The house I’ve lived at longer than any one place in my whole life. The house where we’ve worked and cleaned and painted and mowed. The house where we screamed and yelled and laughed and cried and played as a family. Our home.

I hate how far we are from things and how some nearby dogs never stop barking, but I will really miss it here. I always thought I would be happy to move, but now that it’s a reality, I am torn. I had a completely unexpected nasty snotty sobbing breakdown a few days ago when we first listed the house for sale, and I’m still pretty sad about the whole thing, but I think I’m coming around.

I think I’m ready for new things. I've been looking forward to this for years in many ways. But I am scared of change. I’m scared of what we’re losing. I’m scared I will miss the kids. I’m scared I won’t be able to function in a real person job, using my long-dormant brain and social skills. I’m scared I won’t like our new house. I’m scared I will miss my sports bras and sweat pants. I'm scared of how much work packing will be. And I’m scared we’re making the wrong choice.

But the more I think about it, everything has fallen into place in such a way that it must be the right choice. Maybe I’m just telling myself that, but there are a few things that make me think so:

--My husband got a great new position at work that he’s very happy about, but he will need to commute more often. He already drives over an hour each way, but now it will be 5 days a week instead of 4 out of every 8 days. That alone is a good reason to move closer.

--I got an awesome job managing a new paint and sip studio in almost the same part of town where he works. I don’t want to spend 2-3 hours in the car every day. It really makes no sense for both of us to commute that far.

--The couple buying our house loves it. They have a baby boy of their own. They have horses. We listed our house for sale on the *same day* they got out of a problematic contract with another house. I’m told that the wife said something to the effect of “Everything happens for a reason…this is the one". This makes me feel good. I feel better about giving up our house to them, even though I’ve never met them. Almost like it's meant to be.

--They are willing to let us stay here for up to two months *after* closing, allowing us more time to find a new place. This is huge because we would have had to crash in a friend’s basement or our parents’ house if we closed on this house but had nowhere to go—with two kids, three dogs, and two cats, it would have been quite the hassle.

--Our house sold in four days. Four. Days. Over full price offer. Even a little bidding war.

--There is a little more inventory on the market now for us to buy. Although the options are still limited, it’s not so dire. And now we can take a little more time in finding one. Maybe we’ll find a place where we walk in and can say with confidence “This is the one”. Fingers crossed.

SO... On with being terrified and thrilled and happy and sad all at once.

This is a for real whole new chapter in our lives. My stay-home mommy time on the prairie is over. Sadly. But my art business boss in the city time is coming, which is super awesome. (Although we can’t totally commit to living in the city, so we’re looking in the mountains thirty minutes from the city.) So I guess my art business boss in the city-slash-mountains? Whatever. It’s exciting.

BUT CHANGE IS SO HARD. So much anxiety. So much. Both good and bad anxiousness. Letting go of the familiar is hard. Leaving your comfort zone is hard. I am mourning and rejoicing. It’s weird. So this is my new mantra:

 

Now begins the Great Purging of seven years' hoarding. Wish me luck.

Six Month Update

I know I’ve been a total slacker in keeping up with this blog. Not only have I been posting less frequently, I feel like I’ve let “you” (whoever YOU are reading this) down in terms of content and quality. HowEVER, I never really set forth any sort of mission statement or specific production goals, so never mind that sentiment. This blog’s very essence is a testament to my state of being at this phase in my life: random, disjointed, roller-coaster-rific. 

Organization was always the hardest part of essay writing for me in school anyway.

I thought I ought to document a little more about my surrogacy “journey” at this mid-pregnancy moment. I’m like 6-ish months along right now and everything looks good. It’s a girl. I’m sure the intended parents are “over the moon” (the customary and apparently only permitted phrase used to indicate happiness or excitement in the surrogate world), but it’s hard to know their specific moon proximity from emails that come every twenty days or so. They’re very busy people. And probably guarded about getting too close, which is fine, and totally understandable, but…it is odd going through a pregnancy with zero excitement. I’m excited on principle—that the pregnancy is going well and all—but obviously there isn’t the anticipation of bringing home a baby or anything. And since I don’t talk on the phone with the parents, there’s not really anyone to squeal excitedly with.

The parents are coming out here next month to attend an ultrasound, have the hospital tour and discuss our birth plan. I’m totally nervous about it because we haven’t seen them since LAST summer when we first met them, and that was in a supervised environment, like having a chaperone on a date. So that will be nice and awkward.

I’m watching Brother Bear 2 right now. Just put the kids down for nap and here I am, still watching the movie. I want to know if Kenai’s girlfriend is gonna turn into a bear, of course. Kids are surprisingly quiet for two little people who were still quite energetic a few minutes ago. It is so freaking windy outside, shaking the house with its fall-y-ness. I just had a bowl of cereal (my third since last night’s midnight breakfast of champions, aka Wheaties). Baby girl is kicking. I want to take a nap, but also need a shower, but also need to work on my painting…I don’t bother throwing exercise in the suggested pile of activities at this point. Same story different day.

I started the first in a series of pregnancy-related body image paintings last month but lost my momentum after I finished the underpainting, as I often do. I want to get one done each month, but self-imposed deadlines are way too easy to ignore. Plus there’s a few Christmas doggie portrait commissions on the horizon, and the nakey exhibit isn’t until next fall. 

At least I can stick it to the little boy about actually making art now. Sort of. 

A little while back, Dirt asked me what a studio was. I told him it was a place where creative people make things: music, art, movies, etc. He then asked, “Are we creative people?” I told him yes. Something to the effect of “You are very smart, imaginative, creative people. You are such good artists too, with your drawing and painting!” Without skipping a beat, he said “You’re not.” A tad taken aback, I asked him why he would say that, and he replied, matter-of-factly, “Well, Mom, you just never draw.” POW! Way to call me out on never doing art, son. But now he has to deal with my nude drawings, even though he told me I need to put a bra on them.

The end of this movie is totally making me cry. Not sure if I can blame it on preggy hormones, but that’s what I’m going with anyway. I called it, by the way. Girlfriend is turning into a bear. Also, I was wrong about at least one kid actually being asleep; Dirt just emerged, naked, eagerly asking me to check out his recent potty deposit. “Is that a huge pile?” (If you must know, the answer was yes.)

Do you know one frustrating way to spend an hour? Trying to take a nap with a little boy who says he just wants to cuddle but then is all wiggly and chatty and when you get stern with him and try to send him back to his room he runs off crying and says you hurt his feelings cuz he just loves you and wants to snuggle you so you end up feeling like a big ol’ meanie and got no actual nap at all. And the pointy-nosed dog keeps poking you with his pointy wet nose cuz he’s needy and shooing him away makes you feel even more like a big ol’ meanie.

Sooooo the husband is on a week-long hunting trip and I’m left to fend for us alone, keeping the kids, dogs, and horses fed. For the human variety, I stocked up on frozen dinners and mac’n’cheese (and cereal, as usual). I am enjoying the fact that the house stays fairly clean in his absence, but I am bored, and feel even more boring than usual in terms of hanging out with the kids. All I can say is, I’d better get a freezer full of delicious elk meat after being abandoned with all the beasts while 6 months pregnant.

“In other news” (as I’m prone to say), I swapped out one part-time art job for another in recent months. The great little local studio where I was working closed because the rural folk couldn’t appreciate its awesomeness, and sadly, the owner couldn’t garner enough business to stay open. So, now I’m working a little closer to Denver teaching painting classes to non-artist boozers. Kidding. But not really. It’s one of those “paint and sip” studios. They also have clay and glass art classes, as well as a whole separate area for kid stuff. It’s a super cool place too, and although the paintings are often overly simplistic and I get tired of reassuring patrons that they’re doing well, the people I work with are great and it’s really pretty fun. After I got over the awkward performance factor and learned how not to fall off the little stage, of course. (Don’t worry, B, surely I’m still plenty awkward to those who know me. Especially when I have to use the silly little microphone.) 

Although I loved the quiet solitude and private lesson setup at the other studio, the more social aspect of this job is excellent—especially considering the lack of adult interaction a prairie-dwelling stay-at-home mom typically gets. And once I’m done being pregnant I can even enjoy a beer while working, which I look forward to. More than you know. 

Speaking of pregnant (yes we’re back to that…see how outstanding my organization is?), you know what I hate? People telling me “You don’t even look pregnant!” I suppose they see it as a compliment of sorts, but seriously. That just means I look fat normally. If this belly does not even look pregnant, then that sucks for me. Cuz it’s plenty round. 

I actually got maternity pants this time around and I have no idea how I got by without them in my other two pregnancies. Really low-waisted and/or unbuttoned pants all the time?? I remember purchasing a single pair of pants at Motherhood (maternity store), and never ever wearing them cuz they were atrocious. Instead of the “full/extended panel” coverage I am currently so fond of, I couldn’t commit and got the half belly type, which is just a wide elastic band at the top of normalish pants ("demi panel"), causing both muffin top and hip puffage. Like putting a rubber band around a marshmallow. But now I’m totally digging the kind that goes all the way up to your armpits. 

The other day I took all our old baby stuff to the consignment store, with sudden OCD flourish. Dooley was cleaning out the garage (after two failed attempts in the past few months, and now we can see the floor and walk through without hopping over an obstacle course of black widow-infested hurdles), which prompted me to drag all things baby out of the basement and whisk them immediately away. I couldn’t even take the time to list them on Craigslist or think for two seconds if we know anyone that wants them. They. Had. To. Go. Now. Thankfully handling it that way didn’t allow for too much sentimentality, but it is a little bittersweet. I think I’ve accepted that two kids is more than I can handle anyway, and I’m anxious to see what I can do with myself once these guys are in school. 

[Incidentally, Dirt started part-time preschool, which he says he hates, but you can’t trust a four-year-old. I just hate having to get up in the morning to take him there. He is equally bad at mornings, and it’s really hard to motivate for something that no one likes. Allegedly. And it’s stupidly only three hours long. He can write his name now, though it doesn’t seem like he’s taking advantage of the socialization factor like we thought he would; in fact, our loud, crazy boy apparently turns into the shyest thing that ever was when he’s at school. Weeeiiirrrrd.]

Anyway, I wondered to myself, as I hauled in the bouncer and changing table and high chair, if the consignment clerks were wondering to themselves why a pregnant person would purge her baby items. Then I thought they probably think that I “don’t even look pregnant”. Those jerks. 


Now excuse me while I go outside and attempt to throw a pile of hay over a fence as tall as me in the cold hurricaney wind and get tons of itchy bits in my bra, then come back inside to clean up poo that has a stench so powerful it is filling the house but I don't want to open the windows because it's cold and windy.

I Love Jobs!

So I got a part-time job for fun. Yeah. For fun. I NEED forced kid-free time, even if that kid-free time comes at the cost of half my income. Plus, it’s a super sweet ART job in a peaceful setting. Can’t beat that in my book. It’s an amazing studio in an adorable house built in 1897 in adorable “downtown” Smalltown, USA that offers art lessons to all ages in a wide variety of media; they just opened a few months ago and I really hope the business succeeds. I only work on Wednesdays, and will be teaching painting and sculpting to adults and teenagers (Score! No little kids!). Right now it’s just private one-on-one lessons with hours between each one for me to work on various projects by myself. Alone. With quiet. Or music. Of my choosing.

Anyway, it’s lovely. Except…*sigh*…except. The kids have to go to daycare until after 7pm, and that means I’m paying to go to work. (Duh, so does every parent who’s ever worked.) So. The goal is not to make money—the goal is to get some me/art time. You would think it would be an obvious de-stresser.

And it is…mostly. Except that I can. not. handle. tutoring non-artists. Well clearly I can, because I did (with what I hope was perceived as patience and understanding), but O…M…G it is excruciating to restrain myself from grabbing the freaking paintbrush and doing it for them. I thought I was explaining things in the simplest of terms but the non-artist brain simply could not grasp and/or execute a right-to-left brushstroke or comprehend the deformity in their horse’s foot. How do they not see it? HOW? And it K-I-L-L-S me to sit quietly and watch the slow, painstaking progress. Loosen. the. hell. up. 

I know, I know. I’m being a big jerk. I am aware that it’s a matter of experience. What I was not aware of is my apparent lack of patience. I mean, I totally know I lack patience with my kids, but who knew it was actually absent in general? 

One of my “students” is a man in his 60s who’s never painted before in his life. Evidently he used to be a jockey of some renown, and is appropriately tiny. (Seriously those guys are tiny! I felt like a beast, and I’m only 5’4”!) I admire how much he’s thrown himself into this brand new pursuit, and it cracks me up how concerned he is with publicizing himself as both “jockey” and “painter”, now that he’s completed 2 ½ paintings. It is commendable how proud he is of his work though…whether it’s unfamiliarity or overconfidence I’m not sure. (Maybe there’s some residual fame-induced ego.) He is one of those cute old guys who speaks his mind, politely, seemingly oblivious to the chance that his thoughts could be offensive. He said my haircut was unusual and my daughter’s name was weird. Although he did say I looked too young to have kids, so that was nice. 

The other two I’ve had thus far are both teenage girls, both very nice, but the contrast between the two of them is stunning. They are the exact same age, but one is home-schooled and one attends the public high school, and they truly fit the stereotypes. Although I went to public school, I found the sweet, unassuming home-schooled girl much easier to relate to, as her counterpart is forcefully confident and fashionably dressed. Plus homegirl seems eager to create art, while the other acts like she’s too cool to show any enthusiasm. I’m not sure if my feelings speak to my distaste for seemingly self-involved girls in high school, or the fact that I am more introverted, generally speaking. 

Then it gets me thinking what environment I want to subject my kids to as they grow up, and how much those choices can shape the people they become, and I get all kinds of stressed out. I want them to be humble and self-assured; not overly sheltered but not fakely/prematurely mature. I sure as shoot don’t have the patience to home-school, but if our little rural town produces high school students of such worldly caliber I don’t know where to send them. 

But I digress. As usual. If nothing else my new diversion gives me more to talk about, eh? And gets me out of the house, away from the kids, and I get to do art. Woot woot! (What the eff is “woot”, anyway?) The jury is still out, however, on whether or not this job is a stress reducer. Because…

When I pick the kids up after leaving them at an in-home daycare for 8 hours, they are wound up and cranky and ready to let loose on Mom all their incessant questions and whining. I want to be happy to see them but they make it…challenging. They are hungry and tired, and so am I***. I don’t get home until nearly 8pm, when I set to making dinner, watering the garden and lawn, feeding the dogs, and cleaning the house (since the husband is working nights and was home unsupervised all afternoon…clearly he spent all that time making messes for me). 

Tonight I made the ultimate dinner of champions: macaroni and cheese with hotdogs in it. The epitome of health food. And class, of course. (Actually, it had whole wheat noodles and turkey dogs…does that help? Ooooo and I added peas! And real cheese! Win!) Then came the “take a friggen bite!” and the “stop picking your nose!” and the “no begging!” routine of dinnertime around the coffee table surrounded by dogs, then the toothbrushing and the “stop talking and sit still so I can read your friggen story!” routine of bedtime.

Just can’t win. On second thought, I’m totally winning. Pain-in-the-ass kids that I love, pain-in-the-ass husband that I love, great pain-in-the-ass house, and great pain-in-the-ass job(s). Yes, plural. My primary job is Mom, which, at risk of being cliché, encompasses maid, cook, teacher, nurse, referee, etc., etc. My other jobs are art instructor, freelance artist, and baby-grower. I have a huge mural project in the works, if the non-communicative engineering firm would get their stuff together. And the other huge project I have in the works is, of course, a baby. I get my first ultrasound for this surrogate pregnancy this coming Monday, to further verify the two positive ***pregnancy tests that were taken two weeks ago. “Cautiously optimistic” is the name of the game.

So that’s that.

P.S. "I love jobs" came from an SNL Weekend Update featuring James Franco that I find hilarious. Unfortunately I can't find the right video clip for you. So sorry.