Numbers and Rates and Graphs, Oh My!

I had another epiphany.

I know. After sharing my last epiphany my readership fell about 10%. I realize I'm taking my chances here.

As much as I love being at home full time, I miss work. I miss earning money. I miss time away from my children to go hang out with other people's children. Which is kind of ironic. Alannis Morrisette ironic, at any rate. Stay with me, I'm heading somewhere with this.

Besides for missing working with some really cool kids, I miss the numbers and graphs and concrete evidence all rolled up in a lovely package of a binder or clipboard or a pocket PC. I loved being able to see that what I was doing was making a difference, and it all being confirmed with numbers and climbing graphs. Or on the flip side, seeing what wasn't working and figuring out how to change our teaching strategy. And it occurred to me in the wee hours of the night that perhaps that is why I have become obsessed with Google Analytics.

Google Analytics has graphs. Lots of graphs.

There are numbers. Percentages, rates, averages, and oh my gosh, overviews, and my goodness gracious, there are lots of graphs.

I love being a mom, but let's face it, there's not a lot of immediate feedback on whether I'm screwing things up....I mean, other than the fact that they're all still alive and I haven't had to visit the principal's office this week. Some days feel like I'm coasting through this role, hoping I'm not messing up too badly.

And I love writing, but it's a lonely place. But I've discovered that blogging gives me immediate feedback on what I'm doing. Kinda like work. The epiphany that Google Analytics is filling in for my work high is really not that surprising.

A thought has occurred to me. Maybe I should start keeping data and graphing my mothering successes and failures.

No. Just the successes.

I'll have to start small. I most certainly want to build success into my new system.

I'll start with some basics.

• The number of consecutive hours I go without swearing under my breath.
• How many loads of laundry I do each day and an analysis of the correlation between the day of the week and the number of missing socks.
• Tally the number of minutes preparing meals per week. Make sure to post this one on the fridge. Include highlighting and a really fancy graph. In red.
• Keep track of kilometers driven in the new van and gasoline purchases and figure out gas mileage (kilometerage?). Use this as direct evidence when explaining to teenagers in the house the reason why you won't drive to Tim Horton's to get them a double double.

Well. That's a good start.

Tune in next week when I analyse the direct correlation between my mood and the number of chocolate eggs I haven't eaten.

And please tell me you obsess over Google Analytics, too.

Life of a Griswold

I had a profound moment yesterday.

Super profound.

Like, epiphany profound.

I'm serious.

I was driving off the Albion Ferry, feeling all warm and cozy. Because of the heater issue in the minivan, not my state of mind.

I've been thinking a lot about life lately. Life. Writing. Vehicles. Turning 40. Engine lights. Whiny children. Walls closing in. Engine lights. Endless laundry. Sick children. Money. Engine lights. Getting away for our 20th anniversary. What the heck is the big deal over that Bachelor show and why so many people are enraged that he turned out to be a creep. Not working. Engine lights.

Oh. Did I mention that the engine light came back on in the car today?

The car that we just have repaired for the third time? Ya. That engine light came back on. Again. For the 4th time.

It started a whole little ball of thought to start unraveling in my brain. When I got to the end of that long thread of thought, there was a note attached.

And the note said:

"Epiphany. {Angels singing}
You are a Griswold.

Roll with it."

It was pretty awe inspiring.

I continued to drive off the ferry and headed home.

And I had a new thought.

"I wonder if there's an exorcism for getting rid of my kind of luck....."

An Epiphany

They strike at the oddest of moments. A realization that hits you like a shovel to the side of your head. Not a little plastic shovel, either. I'm talking about the kind of shovel that makes a metal pinging sound after the said head wacking.

I had an epiphany last night at 10:46 pm. Sitting on the couch, reading my latest book find from a used book store in Victoria (A.J. Cronin, one of my favourite authors). Kaitlyn finally headed to bed.

"Night. Love you," she said, and went downstairs to sleep with the spiders (that's another post).

"Night. Love you too," both Heath and I replied. And that's when I heard the pinging sound.

She didn't ask me to come tuck her in. PINGGGGG.

Exactly how long long has this been going on? I've tucked her in for years. YEARS I tell you! 16 and a half if a person was counting. I'll admit that there were nights when I covered up a sigh and groan at the nightly request. But the more I thought about it, the more I couldn't pinpoint when the requests had stopped. Then came the realization that yet one more part of raising her is done.

One of the hardest parts of parenthood is the endless feeling of the long road in front of you. So many days blending into each other, doing the same things over and over, with your brain leaking out your left ear as you listen to Barney the Dinosaur and some sugar coated children singing about remembering to brush your teeth and the thought of ramming Barney's massive toothbrush down that large mouth of his and picturing the children's horrified faces gets you through just one more video. Time seems on your side but then one day you discover that Barney is gathering dust and now you want to shove a toothbrush down Hannah Montana's mug.

Perhaps these realizations are what makes motherhood a wee bit easier with subsequent children. You know that the latest phase will eventually end. You learn to savour the moments more, enjoy the wet kisses, love being the recipient of a spontaneous leg hug, smile at walking in on the toddler who has discovered the art of undressing down to her birthday suit, laugh at the 13 year old who whines at the suggestion of taking a shower. These moments will end and be replaced with other moments, and at the end of the day, you'll be left rocking in your rocking chair knitting a pair of booties for your 18th grandchild and reminiscing about the snow of '98.

So I will savour tucking in the young ones tonight. Perhaps I will go and tuck in Kaitlyn for old time's sake, and imprint the moment in my mind. As it will be the night before she goes on her first date, this seems fitting. God help me.

Pingggg.