At our first meeting of this school year, our MOPS coordinator (and a good friend of mine) asked us to fill out a brief questionnaire about our backgrounds and families, all of which would be compiled into a MOPS directory to be shared with the group. Straightforward enough, right?
There are few other ways to make me feel like the most boring human walking the planet than to ask what my hobbies and/or interests are. Um.... I like the satisfaction of a clean load of laundry with not one leftover, unmatched sock?.... I like to go to bed early?.... I like to put my feet up in the recliner and sip a Diet Coke? Doing my best not to look like I was cheating on a test, I covertly peeked over my survey and glanced at a few questionnaires of moms sitting near me... I got the impression that everyone, absolutely each and every other mom, had some fancy schmancy claim to fame-- "world-renowned scrapbooker," "accomplished, master gardener," "aspiring singer/songwriter; will sign with label next month."
I'm not someone who works well under pressure. The introvert in me needs ample time to absorb, process, and formulate some sort of cohesive response to even the simplest of questions; otherwise, a great big truck load of social awkwardness ensues. How do moms have time for choir practice, cooking classes, AND a gym membership??? ... Does taking taking hot showers count as a hobby??? ... If I left the activities section blank, would I get the 'Biggest, Dullest Hermit' paper plate award at the end of the year??? My heart was beginning to race, so I grabbed a donut on my way out and headed to the bathroom. P.S. If you're wondering if I'm an emotional eater, allow me to remind you that I'm pregnant. I'm an "Anywhere, Anytime, Anything" sort of eater :)
In the end, I painstakingly scribbled a few rather vague interests on my questionnaire-- "spending time with family" (duh; I'm a stay-at-home mom-- family, poop, and Kraft singles pretty much encompass 3/4 of my day). I think I also wrote, "writing," which is as close to a therapist as our budget affords, as well as "spending time outside."
And for all my MOPS moms who may be reading this post, as well as any other friends who may now be inclined to perceive me as Jane of the Jungle (by the way, don't google that... just take my word for it), I feel convicted to clarify this specific hobby:
I like to sit outside, sometimes go for a stroll outside, and I wouldn't at all be opposed to hiring someone to dig a lazy river for my backyard for me to float outside. But honestly, if it involves...
A) breaking a sweat
B) heavy equipment
C) bugs
... you can just go ahead and count me out. While you're rolling your eyes and clicking the "submit" button for your application of your fifth triathlon of the year, allow me to entertain you with an illustration of a recent, glorious weekend Eric, Margo, & I spent in the oh so great outdoors--
We had been invited to an annual fall party at the property of some family friends. In terms of outdoor space, these folks have really done it right-- tree house, out house, trails to walk, mini amphitheater, space for volleyball and ultimate frisbee, you name it. But we've been to this party a time or two in years past, and we sort of had a hunch that "party" should be renamed, "gargantuan gathering in which aforementioned family invites everyone they know... and then encourages guests to extend the invitation to everyone they know." I mentioned that I'm an introvert, so an invitation to an event like this is something that must be mulled over and played out, best and worst case scenarios in mind, for a solid 9-12 business days before committing. At the end of the deliberation period, I decided that we'd attend so long as two criteria were met...
1. The weather was decent
2. We knew at least two other families attending
... I know, I know. You're thinking that I'm shallow and that real friends would have been there rain or shine, with or without the mutual acquaintance safety net. I don't disagree. But for the sake of full disclosure and transparency, cut me a little slack. Besides, as I mentioned, I'm pregnant, which in my book, is a fair card to play whenever I darn well please ;) On any given day, there's at least a fair chance that I will wake up and decide that my entire stretchy maternity pants wardrobe makes me look like an elephant wearing Grandma's hosiery, in which case, the only place I'm going is to Dairy Queen to wallow in my enormity over a peanut butter/hot fudge sundae, thank you very much.
The weather, however, looked to be perfect mid-70s, and many of the families from our church were planning to attend. Prospects looked good that I would not, in fact, wake up feeling like a beached whale in Shakira's skinny jeans, so when the big day rolled around, we packed the mini van with 14 cans of bug spray, our cushy, Colts-themed camp chairs (by the way, we've never been camping), and a crock pot of macaroni and cheese (one of two items I bring to pitch-ins; the other is fruit, but once again, I'm pregnant, and slicing up a watermelon the size of my belly just didn't appeal).
When I say that this family lives "out the country," what I really mean is that the drive there is almost long enough to require a potty break and a stop for a bite to eat. Unfortunately, though, the long haul takes trail blazers up and down, through twists and turns and bends in the road for what seems like 7 or 8 hours. In actuality, it's probably only 45 minutes from our house to theirs, but when you're scanning the floorboard for a stray Wal-Mart sack to heave into, it's possible for one to lose track of time ;)
The party didn't officially begin until 2pm, but we arrived there at 1:53. Eric and I like to be punctual. My dad taught me that tardiness was rude... and Eric's mammoth family has always run late, so for him, I think punctuality is either about mixing things up and trying something new... or proving that you really can teach an old dog new tricks ;) So yes, we're typically the annoying guests who arrive just early enough to stand in the way of a host's final preparations.
I was still feeling the effects of the car ride, so while my initial plan was to eat a snack when we arrived, I opted out. We unpacked all of our outdoor gear, which compared to what everyone else trickled in with, probably had our hosts wondering if we planned to stay until Thanksgiving. The good news is that Margo was happy and toddling around, chewing on twigs and repeatedly pointing to the trees, which she calls "trucks" (Margo actually calls anything outside and larger than she is a "truck." We praise her big time when she points out a pick up truck, a semi, or a flatbed.... and then like all other "She must be gifted!!!!" parents, we pretend we didn't hear her when she calls a "house" a "truck."). Anyway, the bad news is that while the motion sickness was subsiding, I was beginning to feel the effects of not eating in a few hours. I've always had some weird blood sugar quirks. As a child I was a "grazer," who could easily snack the day away. Now that the doctors are saying it's actually healthier to eat several, smaller meals a day, I'd like to think I was just way ahead of my time... ;) As a result, I can also tell you that crash dieting and/or cleanses definitely are NOT for me... unless, of course, you want to scrape me off the floor and provide me a scoop of peanut butter and a couple slices of lunch meat :)
Per the admonishment of my husband (read: Eric didn't want a crabby, unfed pregnant wife with a low blood sugar headache), I snuck into some pizza that some friends of ours brought, once again citing the pregnancy clause. By this time, I was starting to miss carpet and air conditioning, but since we'd only been to the outdoor extravaganza a grand total of probably 23 minutes, I figured we'd better stick it out awhile. Eventually, we feasted on a smorgasbord pitch-in buffet, in which I more than compensated for the couple of hours I'd gone without munching. ;) Three dinner plates and two desserts later, I was certain my baby was hitting a growth spurt right in front of my eyes ;)
Eric strapped Margo into her stroller and headed for a few trails to hike, while I planted my keister firmly into a lawn chair to soak in the great outdoors for which we'd come so far. At one point, I realized the chocolate cookie I was nibbling was attracting a few honeybees. Being that I'm allergic (another reason that, just like some dogs are made for indoors and some for out, I think I was made to be an "indoor human"), it was time to toss the cookie and wrap up my dessert-course, which was quickly becoming every bit as large as my main course. Oops!
Evening was approaching, and several families and young people from our church were planning a few musical performances. We were hoping to make it for some of those festivities before the switch was flipped and I transformed into anti-people, reclusive Sara. My daughter was still quite content to entertain herself, pulling grass & weeds and loading them into a plastic, toy bus we'd brought. My eyes once again fixated themselves on the dessert portion of the buffet line (everyone was finally cleared out, so I was scoping out what items needed finished off), and when I turned back to check on Margo, she was trying out a dessert of a different variety--namely, poison ivy. We were unsure how much, if any, she had ingested. But we rushed her to the house and scrubbed her, head to toe, in the family's kitchen sink, just in case she had gotten the oil from the plant onto her skin. Did I mention that we make awesome party guests?!
Had we been at home, I probably would have settled for the impromptu bath, as we live a mere 3 minutes from the hospital. But unfortunately, we were a good 45 minutes away from anything remotely close to civilization. Having had a couple of scary allergic reactions, myself, the last thing I needed was a nonverbal toddler to swell up like Violet Beauregarde in the middle of nowhere; I'm not positive, but it's probably safe to say that these friends of ours, who get bonus points for digging and building an outhouse, didn't plan for an attached "squeezing room." However, a few other party goers had caught wind of our situation and offered advice ranging from bizarre home remedies (my mother is a nurse, so anything labeled as a "natural remedy" always meets my ears with a tad bit of skepticism) to an old wive's tale suggesting that people who ingest poison ivy actually become immune to it (still not sure if I believe this... so experiment at your own risk).
I finally decided it would be best to call the Poison Control Center, just to make sure Margo wasn't knocking on death's door. Admittedly, I was a tad reluctant to make the call. Had I been the representative on the other end of the line, most likely I would have honed in on the words "party," "woods," and "toddler," and assumed I was speaking to a drunken redneck who had neglectfully allowed her little one, probably dressed in just a diaper, to roam unsupervised while her parents played Euchre and listened to Garth Brooks. Thankfully, the woman was far less elitist than I and actually complimented me for the kitchen sink scrub-down. Margo would need to be monitored for a few days, mostly for a rash on her skin, but otherwise, the lady didn't seem overly concerned..... which made me imagine the nature of a typical call to the Poison Control Center, and I was relieved that I had just phoned in about a little poison ivy, not a tube of toothpaste or a cup full of bleach.
That said, both my husband and I still felt it best to head back into town, just so we'd be near the doctor, a hospital... and maybe a Rallyburger ;) In the end, Margo showed no signs of an allergic reaction, which does make me reconsider the thought of the wive's tale, now that I think of it. I can't imagine being lured back out into the great outdoors anytime soon to test this theory.... unless of course, I get wind of a buffet line :)
