How do you tell a friend who's convinced you're pissed with her that it's not her, it's the company she's keeping?
During a conversation last week, a friend (Mrs. X) mentioned she’d talked with another friend of ours (Mrs. Y). Mrs. Y asked if Hubby and I were angry with her and Mr. Y as we seemed to “blow them off” whenever we saw them, mentioning that Mr. Y felt somewhat snubbed by Hubby.
WTF? I didn’t understand the comments. We’ve rarely seen the Ys during the past six months. In fact, Mr. Y called the day before to invite Middle Child over (he’s good friends with their youngest), but with family holiday stuff to get done, we declined the invite, one of the first since the summer he's gotten from this friend. Let's face it, with sports, school, family obligations, and the holidays, most of us find weekends just as jam-packed as our weekdays.
There is another angle to this situation. We were all part of a group with kids in the same grades and ages that was once VERY close, a group with two rings - a few of us on the outskirts, and the Inner Core. Unfortunately, due to some backstabbing by two Inner Core couples, the group began to fracture. We’re still friendly with most of the group, even vacationing together in the summer, but not with the two couples who caused the drama.
I really don’t care who my friends are friends with. Honestly. That crap pissed me off in grade school. And in the real world, most adults have different groups of friends: the High School Friends, the Parents of the First-Kid’s-Friends, the Parents of the Middle Child’s Friends, the Work Friends, and so on. That’s fine. Would I like to be included in a Girls’ Night Out with the Ladies of the Inner Core, who still get together? Oh Hell Yes!!! But since I don’t want to deal with the Others, I’m okay with not being invited.
But how often are we supposed to suck it up when invited to a gathering at the Ys that includes people who've done us, and more importantly, our child, wrong? Who never had the guts to apologize even though they’ve admitted to others they were wrong? How do you approach it when your friends stand on the sidelines with these people, or sit with them at school functions, and expect us join in? We always talk to the Ys if we see them, but we don’t seek them out when they're with the Others. And as a coach for Middle Child’s team, Hubby was busy at practices and games… COACHING.
Hubby and I are civil, but try to limit contact with the Others. And in doing so, the Ys now seem to feel we’re ticked with them. On top of this, they had a recent loss in their family. I couldn’t go to the wake or funeral due to the distance and kids, while some, including the Other Two, made the journey. We did contribute to a floral arrangement, and a card is in the mail, but a small part of me feels I should call Mrs. Y and invite her out for lunch or a drink and discuss the situation. What’s holding me back? I have a suspicion that if I broach the subject, she’ll think I’m making her choose between friends. Hubby’s choice is to leave it alone and invite them over for Sunday dinner in the near future.
I want them to respect our decisions on who we’re friends with, just like we respect theirs, and understand we’re not angry with them. Any suggestions? Thoughts? Magic solutions?
17 Days to Go
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
96 pictures to review to find THE Christmas picture
67 Christmas cards to finish and send
52 emails received today alone containing sales and coupons to be reviewed
6 boxes of books being donated to our public library that Hubby is dropping off today
5 baskets of laundry to fold tonight
3 batches of cookies to make this weekend
1 newsletter to draft and send out today
and… 17 days to Christmas!
No wonder I’m dragging today. It may also have something to do with the cookie swap I was at last night – wonderful hostess, great food, fun time, got some great new recipes but didn’t get home until midnight.
Besides last night, I hate that every year my holiday season seems to be less about enjoying the season and more about checking things off my To Do List. Cookies made? Check. Yankee Swap gift wrapped? Check. House and tree decorated? Check. The stress level in my house rises a degree or two more (or twenty), as both the Middle Child and I have birthdays during the first two weeks of December. Throw in a meeting or two and a football banquet, and I’m doing nothing but running from Point A to Point B, and snapping at everyone.
Where did the joy go? And how do you find time for yourself and still get everything done?
"Mom, The House Next Door's On Fire!"
Sunday, November 15, 2009
I learned a very important lesson yesterday. All that disaster planning we’re told we should do? All those fire drills and how to call 911 that you’re supposed to cover with your kids? The Important Documents file you should grab as you run out the door? Screw that! In that moment, I panicked and grabbed my kids and... a pair of dirty underwear! From the hamper!
I had a very early start to my day, getting up to see Hubby and the Oldest off for a Swim Meet, and starting in on my mile-long To Do List. Around 10:30, the Baby goes in for a nap, and I decide to shower and get changed. Right after the shampoo hits my head, I hear a loud bang. I yell down to the Middle Child, asking what the noise is. He comes running up the stairs yelling “The house next door is on fire!”
Keep in mind, I have no contacts in (and am blind without), a headful of suds, and am butt naked and soaking wet. I throw on a robe, run downstairs, see the flames coming from the neighbor’s back porch, and reach for the phone. As I try to see out the window through the smoke while simultaneously yelling to Middle Child to get shoes on, I realize police and fire are already on scene. So I run back upstairs to grab the Baby and my clothes. Then a male voice, a police officer, yells from downstairs “You need to get out NOW! The smoke’s getting bad!”
I scoop the Baby, run downstairs, grab my purse, the diaper bag, and Middle Child and tear out the door. It dawns on me what I look like: wet, half-washed hair, glasses on (did grab my contacts!), and attired in a fashion-making statement of Hubby’s robe under my barn coat and shoes. Oh yeah, and underwear!
The officer wisely grabs two chicken hats to put over the kids’ face because the smoke is SO bad (yeah, felt chicken hats the kids had been playing with; Hubby wore them at some corporate team-building workshoppy thing). Yeah, he’s thinking, because he’s not panicking. And the smoke? Not a campfire-smelling wood stove nice smell. It’s thick, grey, acrid smoke that’s burning my throat. He offers me his cruiser to wait in. I tell him I’m taking my kids up the street to my friend’s house. All I can think of is to get the kids away from the smoke, and to find a place to shower, dress, and then maybe begin think logically. We don’t get that far. We end up in my other next-door neighbor’s house, where I meekly ask if I can borrow a towel and her shower. If I have to go back out there, I’d prefer to not look like the woman who may or may not have just flashed half the police and fire departments.
Thankfully, my cell is in my purse. I leave a message for Hubby, the kind you leave in an emergency: “Hi! It’s me. First of all, we’re okay! But, um, the house next door is on fire, so we’re over at ____’s house.” Then I do what most adults would do: I call my Mom. And tell her we may need her to come get us. Then I shower and dress. As I come down the stairs, I hear my parents’ voices. With the Middle Child’s asthma, my mother tells me that we need to get them away from the smoke. Which is great, but the Baby’s car seat is in my van. In my driveway. Right next to the fire. And which is now blocked by a pumper engine. And my keys are in my house.
I go out and ask one of the officers if I can get to my car. As I look at this guy’s face, I realize it’s… a kid I used to babysit. So now I’m wet, smell like an ashtray, and am old. And may be a flasher. Oh, is that a news copter overhead?
He checks with the Fire Chief, and I check in with other neighbors. We had all heard the same big bang. The resident and his dog are okay thanks to another neighbor, who ran into the house to get him out – he had no idea his house was on fire. The officer comes back and escorts me to my house. I run in and have that proverbial one minute to grab the important stuff. Do I grab the birth certificates and other important papers? Photo albums? No. Do I get a coat for the Baby? No, but I do grab some clothes and the animal he can’t sleep without. I grab Middle Child’s spare inhaler, and my external backup drive. That’s it.
I run to the car, grab the car seat and backup diaper bag, and work my way through the crowd to the neighbor’s house. From there, we go to my parents, where I realize everything on me and the kids, including my fabric purse, reek of smoke. Shower again, give the kids baths, and my mom washes our clothes, while I change into one of her sweat suits.
Then we wait. It’s a small town, so calls start coming in. Hubby and the Oldest return, with the Oldest immediately begging his grandfather to go online – he’s just got to update his Facebook status with this! He quickly learns, from everyone else’s posts, that they were all down at the fire. My aunt calls. She heard the call and called my house. When I didn’t answer, she got in her car and drove over to make sure we were okay.
My mother makes lunch, and asks what I want. My response? A really big margarita with salt. My mother tells me I need to eat something. At this point, I’ll eat the lime on the margarita. I just want to cry – the adrenaline rush is wearing off, and I’m realize how lucky we were. Four hours later, we get a call from a friend who’s on the call force, who says we can go home. Now that my bra is dry (something else I really should have grabbed an extra one of!), Hubby and I leave the kids and go to see how bad it is. Luckily, it’s been pouring all day, which helped keep the fire from spreading and the smoke down. The house has an odor, but should be able to be aired out today.
So, seriously, for those of you that have done your homework… have your Hubby yell fire while you’re in the shower. Or asleep. Give yourself one minute on the stopwatch. Can you grab what you need and go? For those of you as unprepared as I now realize I am, time to do some homework.
I had a very early start to my day, getting up to see Hubby and the Oldest off for a Swim Meet, and starting in on my mile-long To Do List. Around 10:30, the Baby goes in for a nap, and I decide to shower and get changed. Right after the shampoo hits my head, I hear a loud bang. I yell down to the Middle Child, asking what the noise is. He comes running up the stairs yelling “The house next door is on fire!”
Keep in mind, I have no contacts in (and am blind without), a headful of suds, and am butt naked and soaking wet. I throw on a robe, run downstairs, see the flames coming from the neighbor’s back porch, and reach for the phone. As I try to see out the window through the smoke while simultaneously yelling to Middle Child to get shoes on, I realize police and fire are already on scene. So I run back upstairs to grab the Baby and my clothes. Then a male voice, a police officer, yells from downstairs “You need to get out NOW! The smoke’s getting bad!”
I scoop the Baby, run downstairs, grab my purse, the diaper bag, and Middle Child and tear out the door. It dawns on me what I look like: wet, half-washed hair, glasses on (did grab my contacts!), and attired in a fashion-making statement of Hubby’s robe under my barn coat and shoes. Oh yeah, and underwear!
The officer wisely grabs two chicken hats to put over the kids’ face because the smoke is SO bad (yeah, felt chicken hats the kids had been playing with; Hubby wore them at some corporate team-building workshoppy thing). Yeah, he’s thinking, because he’s not panicking. And the smoke? Not a campfire-smelling wood stove nice smell. It’s thick, grey, acrid smoke that’s burning my throat. He offers me his cruiser to wait in. I tell him I’m taking my kids up the street to my friend’s house. All I can think of is to get the kids away from the smoke, and to find a place to shower, dress, and then maybe begin think logically. We don’t get that far. We end up in my other next-door neighbor’s house, where I meekly ask if I can borrow a towel and her shower. If I have to go back out there, I’d prefer to not look like the woman who may or may not have just flashed half the police and fire departments.
Thankfully, my cell is in my purse. I leave a message for Hubby, the kind you leave in an emergency: “Hi! It’s me. First of all, we’re okay! But, um, the house next door is on fire, so we’re over at ____’s house.” Then I do what most adults would do: I call my Mom. And tell her we may need her to come get us. Then I shower and dress. As I come down the stairs, I hear my parents’ voices. With the Middle Child’s asthma, my mother tells me that we need to get them away from the smoke. Which is great, but the Baby’s car seat is in my van. In my driveway. Right next to the fire. And which is now blocked by a pumper engine. And my keys are in my house.
I go out and ask one of the officers if I can get to my car. As I look at this guy’s face, I realize it’s… a kid I used to babysit. So now I’m wet, smell like an ashtray, and am old. And may be a flasher. Oh, is that a news copter overhead?
He checks with the Fire Chief, and I check in with other neighbors. We had all heard the same big bang. The resident and his dog are okay thanks to another neighbor, who ran into the house to get him out – he had no idea his house was on fire. The officer comes back and escorts me to my house. I run in and have that proverbial one minute to grab the important stuff. Do I grab the birth certificates and other important papers? Photo albums? No. Do I get a coat for the Baby? No, but I do grab some clothes and the animal he can’t sleep without. I grab Middle Child’s spare inhaler, and my external backup drive. That’s it.
I run to the car, grab the car seat and backup diaper bag, and work my way through the crowd to the neighbor’s house. From there, we go to my parents, where I realize everything on me and the kids, including my fabric purse, reek of smoke. Shower again, give the kids baths, and my mom washes our clothes, while I change into one of her sweat suits.
Then we wait. It’s a small town, so calls start coming in. Hubby and the Oldest return, with the Oldest immediately begging his grandfather to go online – he’s just got to update his Facebook status with this! He quickly learns, from everyone else’s posts, that they were all down at the fire. My aunt calls. She heard the call and called my house. When I didn’t answer, she got in her car and drove over to make sure we were okay.
My mother makes lunch, and asks what I want. My response? A really big margarita with salt. My mother tells me I need to eat something. At this point, I’ll eat the lime on the margarita. I just want to cry – the adrenaline rush is wearing off, and I’m realize how lucky we were. Four hours later, we get a call from a friend who’s on the call force, who says we can go home. Now that my bra is dry (something else I really should have grabbed an extra one of!), Hubby and I leave the kids and go to see how bad it is. Luckily, it’s been pouring all day, which helped keep the fire from spreading and the smoke down. The house has an odor, but should be able to be aired out today.
So, seriously, for those of you that have done your homework… have your Hubby yell fire while you’re in the shower. Or asleep. Give yourself one minute on the stopwatch. Can you grab what you need and go? For those of you as unprepared as I now realize I am, time to do some homework.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
