family

Stress Pools

~ Carie ~ 4 Comments

I work too hard. You may not believe that statement.

I come from a long, proud tradition of workaholics. We don’t know when to stop. We let work grind us into dust. We are so focused on what has to get done, we forget about the things which need to be done.

My father is a prime example. Aside from the two consecutive weeks each year he took off to drive around the U.S. with the family in tow, I don’t remember a day he didn’t go to work. He was gone before I woke in the morning. He walked in the door as dinner was being set on the table. Even today, he doesn’t stop. He’s retired, yet he’s unable sit down and relax. He has to be doing something. Anything. It’s go, go, go, until he sits down and passes out.

And then there’s his offspring. We’re not the best examples of how to live a full life. We try, but even the bulk of our travel is for work. Over the last year, I transferred to a new position, got a promotion, and dove in to the deep end of my personal pool of stress. It has paid off—in some ways. People love what I do. It’s a blessing, but confounding at the same time. I’m drowning, barely able to dog-paddle anymore, yet people stop me to compliment me. So hard work pays off. Right?

Would it pay as much if I worked a little less? Would people like it if I didn’t give it my all? I don’t know. Thing is, I have no right to complain. Every day on the news after filtering through all the extraneous celebrity hype, I’m reminded of people who have nothing, people who are hungry, people who are ill. I’m allowed to sit here and moan over work and stress.

A dear friend of mine is going through chemo. I can’t imagine that process. My descent at the office is nothing compared to her day-to-day. My closest experience was decades ago, and I was only radioactive. I couldn’t hold my nephew for most of the first year of his life. No skin to skin contact with anyone. No public restrooms. No reusable dishes. I hate to clean the bathroom today because I had to clean and wipe it down with bleach every day. I did do things I shouldn’t have, because I was only radioactive. I didn’t go to the doctor every week to have poison pushed into my body. I recovered and grew stronger. My friend suffers and grows weaker as she fights a cancer. This is supposed to make her stronger. So, my workaholic ways and the resulting stress are poppy-cock. She tells me my overwork and stress are real. I’m comparing apples and oranges. I disagree. They are both fruit.

It filters down to life is short. Our epitaph shouldn’t read, “I worked a lot.” No one would notice if I didn’t work into the middle of the night. Those things I’m killing myself to get done can wait. I need to reset my brain to understand it’s okay. I’m not a superhero. I’m not going to be the one to save the planet, especially as I sit in front of a computer putting together marketing plans and writing corporate blogs. My work is meaningful, but the world will continue to turn whether I’m stressed or not. My friends and family, on the other hand, may be happier if I spent more time with them. Maybe even on one of those two-week road trips.

Say It’s Not Your Birthday

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment
Image provided by Indi Samarajiva on Flickr Creative Commons
Image provided by Indi Samarajiva on Flickr Creative Commons

We recently celebrated a birthday in my family. Getting us together for a small fete like this is an ordeal—not because we’re a large group with complicated calendars, but because we’re all hermits in our own way. Let’s face it, I’m the outgoing one in this menagerie.

My parents tried to contact our new elder statesman, who didn’t respond. Well, who didn’t respond until the day before. So, as I am sitting at breakfast with my writing partner, I received a call from these same parents who told me we would be meeting at one for lunch. Oh, and they would be by at noon to pick me up. How’s that for planning?

Our circles and evasions must frustrate the bejeezus out of any in-laws. We’re not a gregarious “let’s-celebrate-life’s-little-moments” group. We’re more of a “I-won’t-bother-you-if-you-don’t-bother-me” set of people. We’d rather keep our nose to the grindstone, computer screen or book than deal with other people’s schedules. Not to say we won’t go out. We get the itch to embarrass ourselves often enough, but again, we like to keep that private, too.

So imagine in-laws, cousins, nieces, nephews, etc., who are more outgoing putting up with an opposing family who can sit around in silence reading books all day. That’s family togetherness to us. We’ll chat about work and the weather, but then it’s all questions about where the day’s newspaper was left. Here’s the kicker, the home we were gathered in for the birthday, doesn’t have spare reading materials. There’s no stack of The Economist or Time next to the sofa. No book shelves stuffed with first editions and random paperbacks. Nothing to thumb through for interesting pictures. It’s the opposite of my house—spotless and free of those pesky words in public spaces.

I know a stack of history and science fiction books are hidden somewhere, but my mother taught me it’s not nice to rummage through other people’s closets. I did consider sneaking a peek, though, as I sat in the kitchen watching an in-law prepare lunch. I wouldn’t have been stuck staring at them if I had something to read. I could have been tucked comfortably against the arm of the sofa with even a People StyleWatch if one could be found.

All my griping aside, the extended family brings many good things with them other than everything-has-a-place home organization. They teach the rest of us thoughtfulness and simple joys. Counter to my desire to escape with a bit of reading, they teach me how to be present and listen. There’s a lot of laughter when we’re together, and it may be because they’ve hidden the magazines.

Hit and Run Parents

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

Like the Blues Brothers, they were on a mission from God—or Cupid. I don’t quite know, but here’s what I can tell you. My parents planned their visit on Thursday when I called them during my evening date with traffic. The beauty of hands free calling in the car is I can fill my commute with conversation instead of commercials and chatty radio hosts. My mother and I moved through our daily back and forth. I heard my father puttering around in the background as he interrupted her. He spoke with his perfect, slow drawl, “Ask her where he works. What’s the name of that place?”

My mother continued with the obligatory, “You’re father wants to know where your brother works.”

“I know, Mom. I heard him just fine,” I said, laughing since my father doesn’t believe he has any hearing loss. I’m sure the people in the car next to me heard his questions even with my windows up. I answered, and answered again when my father didn’t understand. I spelled it out, listening to my mother repeat the words over and over with growing frustration. They were coming. They made plans. They strategized and worked out times while I was on the phone.

I cleaned the house in preparation, remembering to put the broom and dustpan in an easy to reach spot in the closet. The house was clean, but my mother would feel obliged to sweep. I should have known, though. They’re hit and run, and it’s not the first time.

My father once drove up with a trailer laden down with landscaping stones. The fact he unloaded it at my brother’s house was the only giveaway he had ever been around. My mother has driven in to see the grandkids and driven right back home, having told each of us that she might stay with the other sibling.

Maybe they were itching to brush off the recent round of cabin fever brought on by the cold weather. I don’t know. They did surprise me Friday afternoon when they brought me flowers for Valentine’s Day. I tried to get them to stay, but they insisted they had to leave. They don’t want to be a burden, so they take the long drive home. Putting all my frustration aside, I am reassured what they do is out of love—and no motive could be better.