sueeeus

Somebody, please write something happy and joyful about gumdrops and lollipops! Google reader has been sparse of late, and I’m teetering on the brink of emotional meltdown.

Yes, I’m hiding out in my room, while the rest of the family is sprawled on the couch watching TV. I’m in and out of tears, and can’t be around them. I think it’s safe to say that my limits have been exceeded.

The two teenagers were rough-housing this afternoon, and I could hear yelling and slapping or something like that going on. Part of me wanted to just scream at them, but I didn’t want to give such a display around my little guy, so I squelched it and just kept him away from them, distracting him with a book. Transformers. There’s a picture in the table of contents with an array of Transformers across the bottom of the page, and he pointed to and correctly named every single one. He’s a smartie, my little guy. I’m very impressed. And proud of him.

Tonight I made pasta with two sauces. Some prefer red, some prefer white. But I’m wicked, and I minced two whole onions and cooked them into the sauce. Because both kids hate onions.

Two days ago, while the teenagers were putting the dinner leftovers away, I noticed that Bubba, who has been loudly and expressively coughing into his hands, use those very hands to put the chopped onions in a container. I told him that the reason I have tongs out is so that the foods don’t have to make contact with people’s germy hands. “Then I’ll eat them,” he said. A flat out blatant lip serving lie. He hates onions, and would not in a million years eat them. I almost told him to eat them NOW, in front of me, to make good on his word, and teach him a lesson in not giving lip service. If he were my kid, I would have. But if he were my kid, surely he wouldn’t be such an ass. I’m just so tired of it. But I refrained.

Yesterday I made a salad with peas, kidney beans, corn, peppers (the more civilized peoples of the earth call them capsicum), and chopped red onions. Mostly for me (I know, high carb, but relatively good carbs), because I can’t be eating the junk they prefer. I made them a diabetic’s nightmare of baked beans, red beans and rice (which I actually love, but can’t have), and hot dogs. So Bubba took a good sized portion of the salad, even though I told him it had onions in it, and he proceeded to pick out each and every fragment of onion, and expressively gulp and laboriously choke down the remainder. He also claimed to have discovered three short pieces of hair in his beans and rice, and comment on how disgusting that was.

I know it does little to no good to go to such length in describing and reliving these irks, but I need to vent, for my own sanity.

Last night, we gave them a huge bag of candy to take home with them, which delighted them immensely. I had only one caveat. Please don’t eat any of that in front of BB. So tonight, here comes Bubba, chomping on candy, right in front of BB. So I reiterated that I asked that he not do that. “I didn’t hear you say that.” It’s infuriating. He apparently hears NOTHING I say. I could scream. But instead I’m just cold, and try my best to ignore him, not look at him, not be in the same room with him, and not speak to him. He’s a leper.

Every day I look for something good. Some kind words. Something. Anything. But every day I hear only sarcasm, ridicule, criticism, and an endless array of exaggerated body noises. Smacking lips, loud gulping of liquids, coughs, hacks, and on and on and on. Screaming for attention.

The sad thing is, I could go on and on with two or three times as many examples of things that have transpired. But this is exhausting, and I hate that I’ve stooped to such a low level of humanity to take the time and trouble to spew this forth. I could be the better person, and just suck it up. But I’m not the better person. Not today.

For as long as I can remember, I haven’t considered myself a career-person.  The word itself put a sour taste in my mouth.  I’ve let it be known that the work I’ve done has been just that.  Work.  A job.  But not a career.  I’m not sure what I thought the word career implied.  Maybe to call my line of work a career is in some way to call myself some sort of conformist.  One of them.  I don’t know.  It all seems a bit silly now.

I never wanted to define myself by the work I do.  Had I found a line of work that I’d have considered worth defining me, well, then perhaps I’d have called that a career.  But that line of work hasn’t materialized (yet).  And now, here I am, forty three, about to have my second child.  It’s been twenty two years since I graduated from university and entered the engineering work force.  Twenty two years.

Although I’ve always just called it a job, of course I’ve done my best and given it my all.  And now that I’m over forty and have a family, suddenly my perspective is somewhat different, and I’m almost willing to accede that I am, in fact, a career woman.  I’ve grown up in this company.  I’ve spent the better part of my life here.  The people are like family in many ways.  We’ve lived our lives here together, day in and day out.  We’ve been there for marriages, divorces, children, graduations, retirements, tragedies, victories, sorrows and joys.  There is history there.  Upswings, downturns.

Where I used to be arrogant and considered that the company was lucky that I chose to grace it with my presence, now I am grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to live my life in the presence of some very fine people and partake in some interesting and rewarding work.  The company has afforded me the roof over my head and the clothes on my back.  I’ve been blessed to have decent health benefits and good working conditions.  There have been some troubled times along the way in which I worked with difficult people in a difficult organization, but even so, the rough spots opened doors to brighter pastures.  It’s all been worth it.  I have a great position now.  I’m settled.  I get to do a variety of things, and I’ve made it to a good place.  I’m respected among my peers and by my management.  There’s no glass ceiling here.  I am very content.  I think I’ve made it.

Until I became a mother, I never imagined I’d want to stay with this company until I retire.  But now that I’m a mother, with the responsibility of raising and nurturing two boys to (God-willing and hopefully) grow into fine upstanding men, the prospect of working until I’m fifty five is no longer unthinkable.  What is another twelve years in the scheme of things?  Or more than twelve years, even.  These boys won’t even be through high school in another twelve years.  I can easily imagine working through their high school graduations, and perhaps even beyond.

I’ve given this company my life, and this company has given me my life.

Twenty two years today.

Happy Anniversary.