The years are literally ticking by. Mar is three? Xav . . . six? Really? And my role is so . . . traditional. Ok, not in the "I'm a housewife" sense -- if that's the tradition, then I'm not it. But I do all of the traditional things. I vacuum mindlessly in the middle of the day. I slip over Mar's head her favorite princess dress (why oh why must daughters like princesses?). I color and color and color -- Xav loves to color. I mediate arguments and play games of Uno, do the Little Bill "I Got A Letter" dance and wipe poop. I do all of this and more. And I've been doing it for a long time now.
I got a Christmas card from my old boss the other day. It was nice. We got along 90+% of the time, really good for a boss-employee relationship, I think. I liked my job 90% of the time as well.
And this job? I like it as well, though I'm not quite prepared to put a % on how much I do. But that's parenting, right? Some days -- just so very solid. The love they give just drowns out everything and makes it all so very worth it. Others . . . the love they give couldn't extinguish a match let alone the frustration building in my chest. But that's parenting, right?
My ace-in-the-hole? Doc. Heck, she's the one up before 6am and home just before 7pm. She's draining infected boils all day. I'm boiling eggs. She's telling a 60 year old on every med known to man that if he doesn't quit smoking soon he's going fall down and die. I'm telling two kids that if they don't stop standing on that bench, they're going to fall down and die. And yet she stares at me EVERY SINGLE NIGHT when she gets home with this look of sympathy like it's me who has had the rougher go of it. And I appreciate it. I don't deserve it, but I appreciate it. Men like feeling appreciated too, in case you haven't heard.
Mar turned three today. She's so beautiful. Funny as hell, too. I think it's in my best interests to keep doing this SAHD thing until she hits four. At least.