Are men blind, or just oblivious? They don't notice the things around the house that make their wives nutso. These tips will help your man (and you!) overcome "male pattern blindness."
Self-improvement and I are old pals. At age 11, I decided to fix my thighs (aerobics); at 19, to fix my soul (daily mass). In my 30s, I vowed to fix my mothering (support group, too many books). I've spent considerable hours of my life delving into self-actualization, mindful growth, claiming my authenticity, expanding my horizons, seeking enlightenment, making positive affirmations, eating and being in some zone, and twelve-stepping to some new place that was always just another plateau. I took classes, joined support groups, journaled for peak performance. Then I realized that if I didn't stop the manic frenzy of trying to better myself, at age 95 I'd likely still never know the secret. Lately, I began to ask myself why was I behaving as if only the new, improved person I would someday be, mattered more than the me I was, the me I am, now? What was I showing my kids about judging oneself too harshly, about dissatisfaction as a default mindset? And did I really want my husband to think I wasn't pretty terrific as is? I decided to knock it off.
I love how calmly my husband reacts when his car is broadsided by a bicycle. I love how he’s ready to hug me well before I’m done yelling during a fight. But I don't love how his chill approach to life has him giving the kids a raised eyebrow and a head shake when I think they need a timeout. Honestly? Sometimes it sucks being the heavy. Every once in awhile, I'd like to be the one letting the kids off the hook while he enforces the discipline. It just never works out that way.
I determined that I wanted to be a writer when I was 5. At about the same time, I decided that I would also be a mother. 22 years later, I still wanted to be a writer... and a mother. And more than anything else, I wanted to be home to raise my children. So my husband and I sat down and hashed out how we could keep me at home full-time without going bankrupt, going into foreclosure, becoming homeless and perhaps resorting to cannibalism.
Here at LoveMom, we bring you the love. Our weekly Baby Bytes bring you everything else. Here are this week's 5 must-click mom links:
Last night my husband and I went out to dinner. Alone. This is about as unusual as pigs flying.
It's been so long. How would we really like it? Was it too close? Would we actually lose touch because we were no longer forced to get creative when it came to finding those small moments of intimacy? Um... the answer is no. Oh my goodness, no. No no no no no. This tiny bedroom feels like the most luxurious hotel.
About five years ago, just after enrolling in graduate school, I read that—for married women—attending graduate school is sometimes the fast road to divorce. Yikes. More than two years after finishing my degree, my husband and I are still together—it's been 22 years now—and the D word was only uttered once, in the pitch of (a stupid) battle.
Six weeks ago, I was cruising through my happily-ever-after in a mid-size SUV. I had one foot planted in soccer mom territory, the other firmly in "I’m still the cool chick I was before I had kids" land. My vehicle reflected this. But five weeks and three days ago came the news that the stork had us on his spring delivery schedule. This is when my husband suggested the mini-van.
My sex life isn't exactly fireworks and handcuffs and a regular reenactment of the Kama Sutra. In fact, when my husband and I first decided to throw away the birth control pills and condoms and try for a baby, I worried: I wanted to be a mom so damn bad, but the frequency with which we had sex was definitely lacking, and I often experienced pain during sex. Amazingly, babymaking sex has totally improved my sex life.