Wife Stuff

Just Let Us Run

~ Kaitlyn @ Doing Dishes Making Wishes ~ 1 Comment

Dear men of the world,

Stop catcalling women. Let us walk down the street. Let us finish our workout in peace. Let us enjoy our run. Stop honking your horns. Stop whistling. Stop acting like predators. Stop being predators.

STOP. Just let us run.

I have complained about the catcalls and inappropriate behavior of the male race before. Usually it is met by an eye-roll or two. So many insist that,

“Deep down, women actually love that shit.”

Yes. Outrageous as it seems, I have been told that we actually love this unsolicited attention. I have had a conversation with a group of men, during which my girlfriends and I pleaded with them to never, ever harass a woman jogger again. We promised these men that no, deep down, women do not love being catcalled. We actually all have a festering, deep-seeded rage that threatens to boil up to the surface every single time it happens. I personally have fantasized about taking a substantial tree branch to a catcaller’s rusted pick-up truck, and busting the ever-living crap out of it. I would be lying if I said I have never had to stop myself from walking up to a guy and round-housing him right in the neck. One man, a good friend actually, asked me,

“If you don’t like the attention when you workout, why don’t you just cover up? Wear baggier pants and stuff?”

Here’s a post-workout selfie, showing an example of typical workout clothes I wear. This picture wasn’t taken because I was feeling sexy or wanted sexual attention. This picture was taken because I felt strong and proud of myself.

That pisses me right the hell off. Why do I have to cover up on an 80-degree day, while men can run around wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts and Nike’s? They get to feel safe. Nobody yells at them out car windows and makes them feel self-conscious about their bodies. The chances of them getting grabbed off a path and raped in the bushes are quite low. They don’t have to focus on making eye contact with every passer-by to lower their chances of being attacked. They don’t have to secretly turn off the music in their earbuds when they pass a stranger to make sure they can hear if somebody decides to approach from behind. They don’t need to worry about sticking to busy streets so that there are plenty of eye witnesses and help available in the event that their personal space is violated. I wonder what that is like? To just throw on your shorts and go? Focus 100% on your workout? Not have a tiny jar of mace in your waistband? I can’t even fathom that freedom.

I got ready for a run today. I threw on a sports bra, tank top and a pair of fitness capri leggings. I tossed my hair into a ponytail, slipped on my running shoes, popped in my earbuds and took off. I didn’t look in a mirror. I didn’t consider my appearance, because why in the hell would what I look like matter in that moment? I had no make up on and put zero effort into how I looked. My thoughts focused solely on the practicality of my run, yet it’s my fault that I got catcalled because my clothing was tight? Here’s the thing: Baggy clothes make it hard to run. Cotton sweats hold in heat and get bogged down with sweat. Why in the hell do women need to think twice about what they wear during a workout?

Reasons I wear tight clothes to workout:

  1. Moisture-wicking fabric keeps me cool as I sweat LIKE ANY OTHER HUMAN BEING.
  2. My sports bra holds my boobs up. It has one legit job and it doesn’t fail me, provided it fits properly. Proper fit for a sports bra requires it to be tight to the skin.
  3. The leggings are like a second skin, moving with my body and allowing me full range of motion.
  4. These leggings, unlike bulky sweatpants, also reduce thigh friction. The thigh friction struggle IS REAL. Am I right, ladies? Nobody wants to end an hour of running with raw thigh skin. Nobody.
  5. Leggings designed for running also have a pouch that securely holds a cell phone in the waistband, so I can take it along for my run without it being cumbersome to hold or knocking around loosely in a pocket.
  6. Bright colors and reflective material on the clothes keep me safe by allowing me to be spotted from a distance by the bikers and drivers that share the sidewalks, streets and paths with runners.

And that is just to name a few! Workout and running clothes have practical purposes. In fact, my workout clothes cover more of my body than some other everyday outfits I have seen people wearing out in public. I am fully covered when I workout, from chest to knee. I am not wearing these clothes to be sexually suggestive. In fact, looking sexy is the absolute LAST thing on my mind when I am running. I’m mostly focused on my time, form, distance, trying not to sound like a freight train while gasping for oxygen, and most importantly, the amount of extra food I’ll be able to eat after burning off these 300 calories.

Until, that is, some asshole decides to hang his stupid head out a car window and start the inevitable bullshit that every woman alive is all too familiar with.

“Hey blondie! Who you runnin’ from!?”

“Damn girl! Look at that body! Keepin’ it tight!”

“Owwww owwwww!”

Orrrrr there’s always the traditional whistle and horn honk, if they are passing by without time to articulate one of the oh-so-eloquent sentences above.

One of my girlfriends was running, and had to stop at a cross walk. She was innocently stretching her calves while waiting for the traffic signal to change. (This is a completely normal behavior while running, may I add. Nothing sexually suggestive about calf stretches.) This was when a guy stuck his arm out the car window and snapped a picture of her. He followed that up by screaming, “DAMN, GIRL! SPANK BANK!” before the light changed and he drove off. So now there is a picture of her, in a vulnerable position, taken without her permission, on a stranger’s phone. If you don’t know what a spank bank is, I’ll let you google that on your own time. Are you offended for her? Because I certainly am.

Now I cannot speak entirely for her, but I can tell you that the minute anything like that happens to me, my mind snaps back from whatever enjoyable, relaxing place it has gone during my run. My thoughts are then focused purely on my personal safety. I now know those men noted my presence. They know what I look like, what I am wearing and what road I am running down. They went out of their way to target me and call out. If they took the time to call out, how many other men noted my presence and didn’t call out? Did any of them take a picture? What if they did? How do you think that makes me, or any other woman in that position, feel? I’ll tell you what, we certainly are NOT flattered. We definitely are NOT secretly loving it.

WE EFFING HATE IT.

This is why I cannot run the same routes day-to-day and week-to-week. This is why I have to make sure my husband knows my routes and how long I should be gone. This is why I wear a GPS tracker on my runs. This is why I carry mace in my waistband. Women runners are told to ALWAYS change our routes and times of our runs. Don’t be predictable. It makes you a target. Somebody could note the route you are running and the time of day, and they might return to that spot at that time tomorrow, or a week from now. They could watch you for a day or two, and then you are prey. You are no longer simply training for your half marathon or 5k. Now you are a victim. Some will call you paranoid, but if you don’t do all this? If you think you can just leave your house wearing a sports bra and leggings for a run, and God-forbid, something terrible happens?

On some level, society will view that as your own fault. You will have to carry some of the blame for what a man has done to you. YOU wore the tight clothes. YOU forgot the mace. YOU took the same route at the same time every Saturday morning. How could YOU be so stupid? You silly girl. You made yourself vulnerable, and YOU let the bad guy catch you.

So, men in my life, I need you to understand all of this. I need you to look at how you are able to walk around, every day, feeling safe and secure. I need you to realize that all the women you know do not have that same freedom and security. Take a minute and think about it. I need you to help us get there some day. I don’t want to produce another generation of boys that think this behavior is acceptable. I don’t want my little girls to know what it feels like to be catcalled. I don’t want them to EVER have to look at their own clothing, body, appearance, routine or actions and think that it must have been their own fault that they were sexually harassed. I don’t want our generation of adults to shrug it off as “boys being boys” and “that girl was asking for it”.

Please start with setting the example. I need you to stop catcalling women. Stop thinking it’s okay for other men to catcall women. Stop telling us to cover ourselves up. Stop taking pictures of us without our permission. Stop leering at our bodies. Stop insisting that we love being sexually harassed.

Stop rape culture.

Just let us run.

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The Plight of a Feminist Stay-At-Home Mom

~ Kaitlyn @ Doing Dishes Making Wishes ~ 2 Comments

There are those questions that every stay-at-home parent dreads to hear:

“What do you do all day?”

“How can you guys afford anything?”

“Don’t you go crazy just sitting at home?”

Or even better, the unsolicited advice based on nothing:

“You’ll someday regret these years you aren’t paying into retirement.”

“Your job as a parent is to provide as much financial security as possible to your family.”

“This is doing irreparable damage to your career.”

Then there’s a whole lot of the “well-meaning” comments from people who have “good intentions”:

“I could never do what you do.”

“You don’t have to do this. There are so many good childcare options these days.”

“I would be in great shape too, if I had all that extra time to go to the gym.”

“You’re so lucky that you get to watch TV and drink wine all day!”

How exactly can I explain to these people that I do what feels like, basically, everything!? How can I tell somebody that I do, in fact, sometimes feel like I’m going nuts, yet it is worth it? Why is my family’s financial situation such an anomaly to them? Why are they so worried about the future of MY career?

Aside from all of that, the fact that they think I get time to myself? Suuuure, people. I can work out at the gym for hours, then come home, sit around, drink wine and watch TV alllllll day! #livingthedream

^That is just plain hilarious. I’m always in stitches over those assholes.^

This topic is a tricky one. I cannot simply explain my decision to become a stay-at-home mom to families with two working parents. It is legitimately, damn near impossible. They either:

1. Get offended. Maybe they think that in some way talking about the hows and whys of my decision in turn means I look down on their own? I’m not sure, but it has happened more times than I can count.

-OR-

2. They look at me like I have 3 heads. I am no longer allowed to be an independent, educated feminist. How dare I not earn my own paycheck and pay my own bills!? How could I let my husband do that for me!? I am the problem! Down with domestication!

I am going to try to explain this life and why I chose it. My point here is not to offend, my point is to educate. Maybe you are one of those people above? Perhaps some of those words have come out of your mouth? If you didn’t say them to me, maybe you said them to another parent who decided to take a few years off work to focus on their kids. Maybe you decided you would crack a joke about the sad and pathetic stay-at-home moms of the world. I have heard it all, trust me. During conversation at a dinner party, there was a man who once said to me,

“If my wife wasn’t helping to contribute financially, she better be waiting for me in a sexy outfit with a cold beer every day. Cody’s a lucky man.”

I’m going to take a stab at what he assumes about stay-at-home moms like me… You assume that I barely made it out of high school and had no future. My only option was to trap the first guy with a decent salary I stumbled upon into marrying me and pop out a few kids. Now I’m just another one of the mommies who bake cookies, wear mom jeans and drive minivans full of screaming kids to the grocery store. I’m forever lumped into the “housewife” category. I’m not worth the dirt on the fancy, designer heels you bought for your own glamorous wife to wear as she clip claps into her corner office. Your wife is better than me because she chose to put her career first. (Or did she? Sounds like maybe you weighed in on that matter, sir!) I am a lost cause to the feminist movement, a failure who could have done better for myself. May God have mercy on my soul.

Well. I would answer him plain and simple: YOU. ARE. WRONG.

Turns out, like so many other stay-at-home parents, I graduated high school with honors and have a bachelor’s degree in kinesiology. I have experience training college athletes and educating patients in cardiac rehabilitation. I also have two kids. And when my oldest was born, I decided none of that was as important as she was. Plain and simple, everything else in my life could wait.

You know what won’t wait?

My kids. They are going to keep growing up. Nothing can slow that down, and I feel like if I blink I am missing something. They were only babies for two years. That’s it. Two. That is all you get, and it goes by way too fast.

I opened my eyes one day and my daughter was running around on chubby legs and asserting herself in her own little voice. She wasn’t a baby anymore, she was a toddler. Then I was dropping her off at preschool and watching her climb on the playground, and before I knew it, we had a kindergartener. This kindergartener is in cheerleading, dance, gymnastics and soccer. She is her own person. She lost all her baby fat. She has her own smell, and it’s no longer the scent of my baby. She has long blonde hair, instead of wispy baby fuzz. She chooses her own outfits, does her own homework and gets herself snacks. Next year she will be in school full-time as a first grader, and she won’t need me during the day anymore. Coming up, just as fast, behind her is my youngest. I have a couple of years left at home with my babies, and then I’ll go back to work.

A job and a big, fat paycheck will always be there. I might have to work a little harder to gain the ground that I lost. I’ll have to do some continuing education to bring myself current and stay competitive in my field. I may never climb as high as some have, but then again maybe I still will, despite this self-inflicted “career suicide”. I have well over thirty years to devote to my career at this point, so I really don’t have FOMO. Promise. I don’t waste time crying myself to sleep over the job I could have had, mainly because I have so many other productive things to do with my time right now. Oh! Which reminds me, you have been wondering what I do all day? Here’s your answer!

I do everything you pay your childcare to do. I do everything you pay your cleaning lady to do. I have never paid anybody to come into my house and do a single thing. I get it done myself, because it’s my job to get shit done. More important to me than all of that – I am the only one who raised my kids. Nobody else ever tagged in. It was all me. I kissed every single boo-boo. I wiped every single tear. I was the only one to hold them every time they were scared, hurt or sick. I read all the stories, did all the puzzles and built all the legos. I potty trained them myself. I sleep trained them myself. I taught them how to count, write and read. I know exactly what nutrition they took in, how much activity they do and how much screen time they get. I manage their schedule and know the exact amount of time they napped, and the exact time they went to bed. Me. I was in charge of it all. Nobody else. And I’m damn proud of every single part of it. Scoff at that if you want to, but it won’t change my mind. If you can be proud of a successful and productive few years at your job, then why can’t I?

Every minute of this eight total years home with my kids will be worth all the financial and career sacrifices. I feel like these years of my kids’ lives were not something I ever wanted to miss. They were only little once. I’ll never, ever look back on this time of my life and think, “Man! I wish I had put those kids in daycare and gone to work!” I couldn’t imagine trusting somebody else to do as good of a job as me. I wanted it done my way, so I did it myself.

Does all  of this mean I think working parents are wrong? Am I any better at being a mom than anybody else?

HELL NO! Each family has the freedom to choose what is best for them. They can manage their own finances, their own careers and their own children. They make choices that benefit themselves and their families in whatever ways they see fit. So let’s stop weighing in on each other’s lives, because in the end what really matters is that everybody is happy and taken care of. MY choice wasn’t YOUR choice, and that’s perfectly okay.

Feminism is about equality. Feminism is about people having freedom to choose their own life, rather than anyone else making those choices for them. I had the freedom to make my choice. I agree with that man from the dinner party – My husband is a pretty lucky guy! Cody often tells me he appreciates everything I do, even on the days (ahem…every day….) he gets home to find me with unwashed hair in a messy bun and my painting sweats on. If he wants a cold beer, he gets it for himself because he happens to be a grown-ass man who understands when his wife is busy. I wasn’t forced into this life by anyone. I consciously thought it through and decided to stay home with my kids while they are little. This doesn’t make me less of a woman than anybody else.

Now let’s all go #dowork, whatever that work may be!

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Eleven Things Only Type A People (And Those That Love Them) Understand

~ Kaitlyn @ Doing Dishes Making Wishes ~ 1 Comment

During a recent, heated conversation with my husband, I got slightly wound-up. It is totally standard for him to be cool as a cucumber while I flip out. I always tell myself I am going to stay calm, but it never really happens. He turned around, with an amused smile on his face and goes, “So, you know how hard it is to love you sometimes, right? Kait, just calm down.”

Calm down!? CALM DOWN?! If there is one phrase that will instantly make it impossible to “calm down”, that is probably it! However, I started laughing right along with him. I actually had to sit down on the floor with tears in my eyes from uncontrollable laughing. Because I know he loves me no matter what, plus, I am super-annoying and high-strung. And he is totally right. (Hey, sometimes you just need to laugh at yourself to get a new perspective.)

Competitive people can’t help it. I annoy myself right along with everyone else, if we are being honest. I want to just turn off the constant list of potential failures running through my head. I wish I could comfortably go to bed and fall asleep after coming in second place, but instead I will lay awake and analyze every move I made that landed me behind somebody else. I check off those boxes of various failures, agonizing over each one, vowing to never allow that to happen again.  I will fall asleep eventually, promising myself to be the best next time. Then I wake up the next day and begin holding myself to that promise. It is exhausting.

Welcome to my type A life. #thestruggleisreal

I have matured to realize that some people just hate my confrontational nature. I think my personality is misunderstood. I am not trying to knock anybody else down, I am just trying to muscle my own way up. I get that this rubs people the wrong way, but I’m not changing anytime soon. I can’t sit back and let things play out. I can’t let go of the reins. It is too difficult for me to watch a train wreck unfold before my eyes, knowing that a little bit of effort on my part might have changed the outcome. I so badly want to be a super-cool, laid-back, type B who doesn’t give a crap – but it’s never going to happen. I am too much of a control freak, and I am waaayyy too competitive.

So without further ado, let’s get to the bottom of why us type As are just so hard to love:

 

Eleven Things Only Type A People

(And Those that Love Them) Understand

1. You have to win. At everything. EVERYTHING.

GPS time of arrival? Nope. That’s time to beat.

Fitbit’s Daily Showdown? A.k.a. I run on the treadmill until I am in first place, or die trying.

Fantasy football? If Freeman isn’t cleared on that concussion for another week, I will personally take down the entire Atlanta Falcons organization.

Mini golf? I NEED to get a hole-in-one, just so I can tell you to suck it.

Bake sale? My brownies better disappear like lightning. Please, God, let people buy all my brownies!

Foot race? Don’t make me laugh. Enjoy the taste of dust.

I could go on, but I am sure you get the point. Daily life is a contest, and losing is failure.

2. You cannot rest until your daily to-do list is checked off.

Husband: Why don’t you stop folding laundry and relax?

Me: Because I need to finish it.

Husband: Why can’t you finish it tomorrow?

Me: Because it is on TODAY’S to-do list, idiot.

Husband: Now that you are done folding laundry, why don’t you stop pacing the room and watch this show with me?

Me: I only need 628 more steps to overtake Tiffany R. in the Workweek Hustle! I am too close to victory to sit! (See item 1.)

Husband: You need help.

3. Throwing parties consumes your life.

My youngest is turning 4 in July = CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!

I will not rest until our backyard is transformed into an ice palace, the cake is a perfect depiction of Olaf, all the guests have become real-life replicas of Elsa and childhood dreams have come true.

4. Same goes for any holiday, really.

Christmas spirit, Pinterest valentines, Easter magic, leprechaun mischief, Halloween overkill…..When it’s holiday game time, you GO BIG OR GO HOME!

5. Home renovations = convincing yourself your home will someday be featured on HGTV.

My poor husband actually thought our bathroom reno was finished. I whipped my head around at this statement in disbelief! (Is he even looking at this unfinished room?! The walls are bare!) Then I informed him he would be installing crown molding and assisting me while I agonized over where to hang which pieces of wall decor….for 3 straight days….until I snap:

Me: Get the kids ready, we have to go back to HomeGoods IMMEDIATELY. NOBODY can enter this house until this room clicks, because it simply cannot be seen like this!

Husband: You still need help.

6. You count your calories, and hate yourself for it.

Well crap. That glass of wine just put me over my caloric budget today. Looks like I am now faced with the choice of burning extra calories at 9:30 pm, or going to bed with a belly full of wine and extra helpings of self-loathing. Decisions, decisions….

7. A trip the gym is actually your own personal Olympics.

When your body combat instructor tells you to bring it up to level 3, you actually do it. Even though you think one of your arms fell off 10 minutes ago. Then you start walking for your treadmill cool down, but somebody hops on the treadmill next to you and starts running. Naturally, now you have to crank it back up and run another mile too. You have no other choice! You can’t look weak in front of your fellow fitness peers! That’s a gold medal, ladies and gents! Only the strong win the gold! (Again, see item 1.)

8. When people ask you to sign up for a “run/walk 5k”, you simply cannot.

Ummm….So it’s a race? But you don’t try to beat your best time? You let people pass you? Some people just walk?…..I’m confused. (Again, see item 1.)

9. Casual debates become a matter of life and death.

If you come at me trying to change my mind on an issue, I will unleash a rapid-fire rebuttal that probably contains statistical data and fact citations. If I care enough to research said issue in the first place, I also care enough to make sure I can support my stance when it is questioned. Just remember not to take it personally. It isn’t about other people being wrong, but entirely about me being right. (Again, see item 1.)

10. If company is coming over, your home must be perfection.

Click the video below to watch how I freak out every single time we host company.

“There cannot be any sign of LIVING in this house!”

So funny. So accurate. Borderline sad.

11. Your kids are on a schedule, and you LOVE it.

Every time someone comments how annoying your strict household schedule is, you laugh in their face as your kids go right to sleep at their assigned bedtime annnnd don’t wake up until the next morning. Yup. I just threw a *tiny* bit of shade. Couldn’t help it. Schedules are where it’s at!

(12. You are slightly annoyed that this is a list of eleven, instead of a nice, round number like ten. Apologies.)

 

So there you have it! My whole long list of competitive crazy. I get that I drive you nuts. I might even insult you on occasion. (It’s called tough love, my dears.) All of us control freaks know you would like us to calm the heck down, but we probably won’t be relaxing anytime soon!

Just know that if you are lucky enough to love one of us type A’s, we are going to pave the way for you (through some micromanagement) and cheer for you (as long as you’re doing it the way we instructed you) just as much as we annoy you! It’s not nagging, it’s actually encouragement – just with swear words and deadlines. 😉

Confessions of a Fantasy Football Housewife

~ Kaitlyn @ Doing Dishes Making Wishes ~ Leave a comment

Fantasy football.

The mortal enemy to wives everywhere. It makes our husbands essentially useless for 1 full day and 3 full evenings per week. It encourages gambling, smack talk, beer drinking and sports bar frequenting. If your husband is nice enough to avoid those shameful activities, then he is most likely zoned out on the couch at home with (at least) 2 tablets or laptop computers monitoring fantasycast and the TV tuned in to the most important game of the hour. Hey, at least he is home to help if you need it, right?

HA! Such bullshit. It annoyed me to no end.

funny-fantasy-football-meme-61

There I was, in the throws of new motherhood, just trying my best to keep the infant and toddler alive. The house was looking acceptable at best, I was exhausted from getting up four times the previous night and my nipples were throbbing from this morning’s cluster-feeding. My toddler spilled her juice (for the second time) while simultaneously pooping her diaper mid-lunch. The infant was screaming to be fed yet again, (Are you kidding me?! How can she possibly be hungry?!) and it turns out I DON’T CARE IF IT’S NOON ON A SUNDAY IN SEPTEMBER! If he so much as checks his phone for football scores, I will file for divorce so fast the papers will be served by 1:00.

I didn’t used to be this way. We used to enjoy football together. We attended games and sports bars on Sundays. We celebrated big fantasy wins as a united front (His win was my win!) and watched games live instead of from the DVR. I even wore cute Bears apparel instead of spit-up-stained yoga pants.

I was a different girl before I became a mommy. Parenthood roared her sometimes ugly head, and turned me into a “momster.” How dare my husband care about something other than our children?! Those kids consumed every waking (and sleeping) minute of my life – so they damn well better consume his too. Nothing should be allowed to take away from someone’s shared responsibilities as a parent. It is definitely not fair to expect your wife to spend half her weekend working just as hard as she does during the week while you loaf around checking scores and ripping on your friends. Man up, husbands of America!

With that being said, I am going to let my fellow momsters in on a little secret:

Those years of Sunday Hell are limited! There is light at the end of the tunnel, and eventually your Sundays will be fun again. So turn your tired faces up to the autumn sky and let that cool sunshine fall upon them!

In a few short years your kids will be able to eat real food without assistance. They will be fully potty trained and sleeping through the night. They will even be capable of entertaining themselves for an hour or two. You will have time to get some laundry done and straighten the house before the games start at noon.

It will get better, and when it does, join a fantasy league.

I know what you are thinking, “Say what?! Start playing fantasy football? But I loathe fantasy football!” Girlfriend, you are wrong. You hate your husband playing fantasy football. YOU playing fantasy football, however, is amazing. Now you can care just as much about the games as your husband. You are going to have to take turns tending to the kids.

“Babe, don’t you hear Emmy screaming for a snack? I have Foster and Lacy both playing right now, so you better go take care of that.”

Magic.

You get a little secret thrill when your team wins, because you did that. You researched your players and pulled an amazing second-stringer off the waiver wire as soon as his first-string counterpart was declared out for the season. You get to sit back and watch with pride when your quarterback throws touchdown receptions. Suddenly, all the games are important – not just the Chicago game. You have to keep an eye on your whole team. Thursday night? Bring on the hot wings and beer! Sunday? There will be chili in the crock pot all day! Monday night? Can I get a repeat on the hot wings and beer?! There are football games to watch, babe! Fantasy football brings marriages together – Unless it is the week you play each other, in which case I recommend declaring the kitchen as neutral territory, because the living room is a battlefield where shame is left at the door – Other than that week, your husband and you can cheer each other on during wins and support each other through some tough losses.

For example: There I was on a Sunday morning, projected to win 120 to 88. I swaggered into the living room at 11:55 AM, sat back and put up my feet, feeling confident and ready to soak in my impending, glorious victory. Suddenly, to my horror, I was watching in hopeless despair as both my best running back and quarterback went out in the first quarter with injuries. Then, choking back tears of frustration when I saw the final score for my defense was NEGATIVE FREAKING FIVE. That sealed the deal on this unforeseen loss. My quarterback, running back and defense combined scored me a whopping -1 points that day. My total score that week was 37 damn points. I am shuddering with embarrassment thinking about it: The worst loss ever recorded in fantasy football history. That was a bad time for me, but you know what? It just brought Cody and I closer. He was there to pat my back while gently murmuring, “It’s OK, babe. You can’t win ’em all. You can hit the waivers Tuesday morning and pick up some good replacements. Don’t worry. You can still make the playoffs with a couple losses under your belt. Here you go, have a glass of red. I’ll order pizza for dinner.”

I felt so much better after that. He really knows what to do to cheer me up. I just love him.

Sooooo, momsters…..Are you still hating on fantasy football??? Didn’t think so. Go ahead. Join a league. Fulfill your competitive needs. High five your husband as you bask in your hard-earned victories and come together as a couple in your losses. You never know, you might even win some cash in the end.

science
(Photo: found on pinterest.com via fantasysportsicon.com)

Cash you can use to buy a new football Sunday outfit that doesn’t have spit-up stains on it. Ahhhh. Sweet victory.

Ten Things Only Chicago Fans Who Married Detroit Fans Will Understand

~ Kaitlyn @ Doing Dishes Making Wishes ~ 2 Comments
Photo by Michelle Goeppner
Photo by Michelle Goeppner

I am a Chicago girl at heart. I just love this city. I had to move away from it for a few years in college, and it pained me to be so far away. I moved back ASAP! I grew up in the southwest suburbs, and like any respectable south side father would, my dad raised us to be loyal White Sox, Bears, Bulls and Blackhawks fans. My Uncle Matt chipped in, and would regularly quiz my cousins, brothers and me as kids:

Example:

  • Q: Who is the best basketball player to ever live? A: Michael Jordan
  • Q: Who is Da Coach? A: Mike Ditka
  • Q: What was the best year ever recorded in football history? A: 1985
  • Q: Who will always get booed? A: The Cubs, The Packers and any team from Detroit

We were also taught to proudly sing the following songs:

I grew up to attend many a Blackhawks, Bears, Bulls and Sox game. Real life encounters with superfans is a daily occurrence in Chicagoland. Where else can you walk through the grocery store in a Blackhawks T-shirt and receive multiple high fives from fellow shoppers? There is no feeling quite like drinking a toast to Ditka with strangers at a tailgate. Nobody in this city is ever going to let go of saying “DA BEARS” and “DITKA” and “DA BULLS” – and in my opinion, it is glorious.

This stuff will always inspire happiness in my soul – And if that doesn’t sum up the extent of our South Side Chicago brainwashing – I don’t know what else will. So I am going move forward with this post and assume you get the picture.

As a born and bred Chicago fan I have done the unthinkable:

I married a Detroit fan.

I don’t even know what possessed me, but it is too late to turn back now. We are a household divided. If you also live in such a home, you will understand. So this one’s for you, my fellow cross-breeders!

Ten Things Only Chicago Fans Who Married Detroit Fans Will Understand:

1. Your spouse despises all the songs posted above, and mocks them constantly. Especially when Chicago is losing.

Nothing gets your blood boiling like your beloved’s rendition of “Suck it, Suck it White Sox”. Nothing.

2. They can’t stand your happiness when the Blackhawks are YET AGAIN playing to bring Lord Stanley home.

They mutter the words “nobody cares” every time the playoff highlights are on the news. They aggressively turn off the car radio when “Chelsea Dagger” starts playing. They will even go out of their way to change the channel “accidentally” during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Jealous much?

3. Every time you talk about the Bears winning the Superbowl, the love of your life asks you how long ago 1985 was.

IT DOESN’T MATTER, YOU ASSHOLE!

4. They pretend like it is a fun family rivalry, while secretly brainwashing your children with blasphemy the minute your back is turned.

My 4-year-old child: “Go Tigers, Mommy! Daddy says you are going to be devastated when the White Sox lose. I will be happy though, because me and Dad cheer for the Tigers now.”

Me: “Oh sweet pea, you got mixed up. You really mean Go Go White Sox! RIGHT?! WHITE SOX!!!” (WTF?! Where the Hell is her father? He will burn for this. Burn.)

5. They declare war on the entire city of Chicago when their team is in town.

Some examples: Running into sports bars shamelessly wearing a Lions away jersey. Randomly yelling “DETROIT!” while walking the streets. Frantically texting buddies back home about how much Chicago fans suck. Getting carried away and telling Chicago fans how much they suck to their face, and then having to be saved from imminent death by their wife who is (luckily) a Chicago fan.

6. They desperately cling to Detroit sports memorabilia, and try to sneak that crap into the nice, Chicagoland home you share.

Over my dead body will he mount that Detroit sign in the living room. And why does this Tigers blanket keep ending up on the couch when I have put that stupid thing away like twenty times?! GOD DAMN IT, CODY! For the hundredth time: NO! The dancing Lions man absolutely CANNOT live on our bedside table!

7. They tell anyone who will listen that Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” is actually a Detroit song.

Maybe it was….Before 2005. Sorry, Michigan. Did we ever tell you about the time the White Sox won the World series?

8. When they see other Detroit fans in Chicago they get way too excited.

My husband almost crashed the car on the Stevenson. He cut across 2 lanes of traffic and endangered the lives of his wife and children. Why? So he could drive next to “his allies” – a.k.a. random dudes in another car wearing Detroit hats.

9. No matter how cute your kids are, they just look like crap in Detroit gear.

Sure, the girls can wear their Redwings T-shirts today. Around the house. For the hour that you are home from work. No pictures.

10. They begrudgingly admit Michael Jordan was awesome, despite the fact that he played for the Bulls.

Thank God I didn’t marry a complete imbecile.

We may be a household divided, but I love my husband despite his obvious flaws…

Until the next White Sox vs. Tigers series, that is.

Love conquers all, right?

Mrs. Cody Yoder

~ Kaitlyn @ Doing Dishes Making Wishes ~ 1 Comment

Do you like that title?

I don’t. Where is MY name? Oh, that’s right! I am married now, and according to the traditional rules of society, I am no longer Miss Kaitlyn Novak. (Remember her? The name I was able to use my whole flipping life? Like 29 years of it?)

Why in the heck do women even get married anymore?

This isn’t about love. Of course I love my husband. It isn’t about disrespect. I respect him too. It is about being an individual in a relationship. Go talk to some married couples, and I will rest my case. With at least one of those couples the whole conversation will go:

“WE think…”

“WE support…”

“WE believe…”

“We don’t like…”

“WE are available…”

Ugh! Get out of each others rear ends! Go find yourselves some different opinions! What do some of you married couples even have to talk about if you already agree with everything that comes out of your spouse’s mouth?!

As far Cody and I go, the two of us have VERY different opinions on pretty much everything. I swear. You name it, we disagree about it. Politics. Food. Religion. Picture frames. The kids. Money. The house. Sports teams. TV shows. Decorative pillows. How to drive. How to sleep. How to breathe. And probably eight hundred other things that aren’t even coming to mind right now. We debate and roll our eyes at each other pretty constantly. It is just what we do. It has been that way for as long as I can remember. I like it that way though. It keeps us both interested and on our toes. I don’t need him to agree with me on everything. It has worked out so far. We challenge each other, and usually end up finding a middle ground that works for both of us.

This was not the case when it came to my name change.

Before the wedding, we briefly discussed it. I said I was going to hyphenate. He said that it would mean a lot to him for me to take his name and blah, blah, blah. I think I muttered a “mmhmm” in a noncommittal way, and avoided the topic after that.

I know. Real mature, Kaitlyn.

Truth is, I don’t get it. The whole name change excitement. I saw a girl I knew from college post a selfie on Facebook literally seconds after saying “I do” with a caption that read:

“You can now address me as Mrs. So and So! (excessive hashtagging and emoticons)”

This post was immediately followed by the “official” name change on her Facebook profile. (What marriage license? What social security office? NOTHING is official until it’s posted on flipping Facebook. NOTHING.) Now her profile reads a completely new name that I won’t remember, because the whole time I knew her with her maiden name. I will probably delete her by accident, because I will see her name pop up on my news feed and not know who the heck she is. Oh well. But it begs me to ask questions:

Why are women so eager to lose their individuality the minute they get married?

Who gets a secret thrill when being called “Mrs. So and So” like their mother-in-law?

Can we still live happily ever after without our husbands overshadowing our own identity?

Cody and I got married last June, despite that vague name change discussion. I wore the dress, said the vows and toasted the champagne.  We came home and resumed our lives. I remember being relieved that we had managed to keep our same daily rhythm after it was over. Prior to getting married, I had been afraid that marriage would upset the happiness we already had. Some of that happiness, at least on my part, came from the independence of not always being identified with my husband. I was just me, not the other half of someone else. I was afraid I was going to lose myself to my marriage. I think the name change was symbolic of that fear. The woman I once was would die the minute we were pronounced as Mr. and Mrs. Yoder.

I remember opening our wedding cards and finding checks made out to “Cody and Kaitlyn Yoder.” I hadn’t run out to change my name the minute the wedding was over, so I endorsed them twice (once as Kaitlyn Yoder and again as Kaitlyn Novak) so that the bank could put the deposit through. The teller cheerily reminded me that all I have to do is bring in my marriage certificate and updated driver’s license next time, and they could take care of the name change for me. That way I wouldn’t run into this problem again. Then finished it off with a “Congratulations, Mrs. Yoder!” and a wink. That poor, bubbly girl. I think I actually scowled at her. I was only two days post-wedding and this crap was starting!? I drove home muttering profanity.

One month after the wedding, joking started on Facebook in regards to the lack of the “official” name change. Cody’s family started asking him why I hadn’t changed my name yet. Friends and family casually brought it up. It was a constant discussion. Some agreed with me. Others didn’t.

“I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

“It’s just a name.”

“It’s just the way things are.”

“I changed my name. It wasn’t hard.”

“I was actually happy to take my husband’s name.”

Well…..La-Di-Da for you.

Of course, Cody thought they all made valid points. Being the (only slightly) stubborn individual I am, I decided then and there during that conversation that I would probably never, ever change my name. I would be Kaitlyn Novak for all eternity. I dug in my heels, and clung to my name for dear life. The rules of society are stupid, and I was not going to be another one of those idiot girls flaunting the fact that I gave myself to a man in holy matrimony. I was one prying question short of a full-on bra burning! Feminism! Equality!

The months went by. Cody would bring it up on occasion, and then I would promptly unleash an angry diatribe about the oppression of women. (I might have a flair for dramatics.) He would get mad. I would already be mad. It wasn’t pretty. What I had feared was happening. We were losing our happiness to this dumb marriage. I’ll be darned if I was going to lose my name too!

Finally, Cody took a different approach. He asked me to explain the real feelings behind my hesitation to change my name. Once I was finished, he told me he would still like me to be Kaitlyn Yoder someday. He told me how much it would mean to him. Then he told me he would try to understand where I was coming from, and that he was okay with me taking my time. He promised to never bring up my name change again, as long I promised to think about it and tell him if I honestly wasn’t going to be able to go through with it. I remember feeling relieved. We didn’t have to talk about it anymore. I didn’t have to be treated like a science experiment because I got married wanting to live happily ever after with my husband and my maiden name. Seven months after the wedding, we had found our middle ground.

Once I didn’t feel so cornered and pressured, I was able to think about the name change a little more rationally. It would be easier to be identified as a family of four with the same last name. I wouldn’t have to explain any confusion on legal or financial documents. Most importantly, it would make my husband really happy. I didn’t have to lose my sense of self, just my maiden name. I came to terms with it, and I sucked it up. I went to the social security office. I went to the DMV. I went to the bank. I updated my credit cards, library card, insurance cards, gym membership, and whatever the heck else. I made a new email address, because my regular one had my maiden name in it. I practiced my new signature so that I would stop accidentally signing “Kaitlyn Novak” on everything. The cherry on top of this pain in the neck? I changed my Facebook profile name. Because it just isn’t official until it’s Facebook official.

My husband was over the moon, and my kids were pretty excited too. I will never forget the day I taught Avery my new last name, because it was too cute.

“Mommy, now you are Kaitlyn Yoder? Just like I am Avery Yoder? And daddy is Cody Yoder? And Emmy is Emmy Yoder? We are all the same!”

Leave it to my four-year-old to melt my heart over an issue that a few months prior was driving me to lead a feminist movement!

I will never be as thrilled as my college Facebook friend that I changed my name, but I am glad I made the sacrifice. After all, marriage is about sacrifice and compromise. Finding the middle ground where both of you can comfortably stand. It is a good thing Cody and I had plenty of practice debating everything else over the years, otherwise we might not have known how to find our middle ground.

Love,

Mrs. Cody Yoder

Where the heck is my fairy godmother?

~ Kaitlyn @ Doing Dishes Making Wishes ~ 7 Comments

If there was ever a chore tdirty-disheshat I hated…And there are many, let me tell you…

I hate doing dishes! H.A.T.E. those dirty D.I.S.H.E.S!!!

Thank the good Lord for dishwashers, and the fact that he saw fit to bestow one of those lovely machines on me! (Actually – I went out and bought one. Then I flat-out REFUSED to move into our current home until my husband had installed it. So maybe I bestowed it on myself. Hallelujah! Amen!)

Seriously. What is worse than cooking a meal for 4 people, sitting down to eat it, and then looking around the kitchen at that mess 3 times a day?!

Oh right, being the one who has to clean it too. I feel you, Cinderella!

And so I digress….CK 8

Welcome to my blog! It is a special little slice of the internet that leads you right into my sarcastic brain. I’m Kaitlyn, the stay-at-home mom of 2 beautiful and super-silly girls and wife to a pretty darn good-looking yet completely maddening man. After sharing little bits of my daily life on Facebook, random people started asking me if I had a blog. When they found out I didn’t have one, their response usually went something like:

“OMG! You have to start a blog! Your life is hilarious!”

Ummm….thank you? I’m glad the mundane details of my life desperately shared on a social networking site in a shameless attempt to get some adult interaction (How many likes?!) during the long, lonely day have acquaintances of mine so darn entertained! Adult interaction achieved! Soooo…Here I am…Starting said blog. Yikes. I am totally new to the blogging world, and I have no idea what the heck I am doing. I normally get annoyed by all the “Mommy Blogs” out there, so I am sincerely hoping this will not be one of those! Feedback welcome – but please be nice! Constructive criticism, people!

A little bit about me:

I am currently a stay-at-home mom, but I certainly do not aspire to that as my only life purpose. Quite frankly, if I had to do this for the rest of my life I would end up in the nuthouse. It was a horrific adjustment period to become a stay-at-home mom. The feminist in me screamed and clawed to escape her 1950’s suppression! I absolutely HATED financially relying on someone else. I hated living on a budget. I hated having little to no contact with the outside world. I hated being the maid, cook, nurse, and secretary. I didn’t get a college degree so that I could decorate our house with budget-friendly decor and clean the toilets! I joked that I should be called Cinderella. When was my fairy godmother coming along to wave her magic wand so I could begin my dream career and escape this never-ending cycle of cooking and cleaning? My old self hid in the depths of my subconscious while I halfheartedly tried my hand at cooking dinner and folding laundry. She begrudgingly emerged, accepting the inevitable, after a little talk with my grandmother. My lovely Grammy departed some useful and harsh words of life wisdom on me that day. I am paraphrasing, but will never forget the gist of it. It went something like this:

“Katie, you have made the decision to stay home for the benefit of that baby. This IS your everyday life now. You could continue to be miserable, or you could embrace it. When you wake up every morning you need to tell yourself that YOU are the one who can make your daughter’s life what it is. YOU need to make her meals and keep the house clean. Nobody else is going to come do your dishes or fold your laundry while you sit here and whine. It doesn’t matter if you think it’s below you, because your baby needs you now. YOU are the one who has control of that household, so you better start running it. I love you, and I want to see you happy. Being happy in life is a choice, Katie. Be happy to be home with your family.”

Boom. Just like that. The way to admonish my misery in one little sentence: “Choose to be happy.”

Mind. Blown.

Believe it or not, I instantly felt better! I didn’t need a fairy godmother, just a suck-it-up-buttercup pep talk from my grandmother. Needless to say, that snapped me right back to reality. I woke up the next day and embraced my current situation. I have been trying to make the best of things ever since. Organizing, cleaning, reading stories, cooking, setting routines, scheduling play dates, singing nursery rhymes, administering time outs, checking fevers, decorating the house, grocery shopping and gardening right with the best of them. Some moms would want nothing more than to be home raising their kids, and I was lucky enough to be living their dream! I have learned to love being home right now. I have been there for each and every first moment. I have been the one to kiss every boo boo. I have been the one to teach our daughters their ABC’s, 123’s, shapes, colors, manners and essentially all they know about the world. I know where every single thing in this house is, because I am the one who put it there. Organization has become my middle flipping name. I have embraced my inner-Martha, and she is good friends with my inner-feminist. They get along really well now, in fact! This household works because I make it work, damn it! I am woman, hear me roar!

I have made this sacrifice for the good of my family, and I firmly believe it was the right choice for us – Even though it probably wasn’t the right choice for the old me. Once my youngest daughter is in school full-time, (Only four more years!) I can resume the pursuit of my dreams and start granting some of my own wishes! Because who needs a fairy godmother to grant wishes when you know you can do it yourself?! I am already on the way there, despite this whole stay-home-mom detour. I have a B.S. in Kinesiology from Northern Illinois University (Goooo Huskies!) with an emphasis in Preventative and Rehabilitative Exercise Science. I tell you this because it is something I am proud of, something that defines me, and something that will be guiding me to bigger and better things. Hence the “wishes” while I do my dishes:

Oh! Medical school, how I wish to someday attend thee!

Oh! Career of my Cardiology dreams, how I wish to someday attain thee!

I joke about making wishes, but I truly believe that you get nothing out of just wishing upon a star. (Disney be damned with its fairytale lies and happily ever after deception!) Good things don’t come to those who wait, they come to those who work for them! Right now I am channeling all my energy into making my home the best it can be for my kids, but keeping these wishes simmering on the back burner of the stove helps get me through the everyday tasks. I allow myself to stir this pot while I gaze out the kitchen window, spending (God only knows how much!) time – you guessed it – doing the dishes.

🙂 Kaitlyn

P.S. Are you a mom too? You might enjoy reading this post!