an essay on live-in maids

I fired my maid last week. It wasn't easy, and it was awkward. But it was the most liberating feeling ever. The next day I was walking around in my underwear. And it's really been kind of nice doing my own laundry and my own dishes again. I didn't even mind cleaning the bathrooms the other day and realized I hadn't touched a toilet bowl brush since 2008.

Having a live-in maid has been the hardest adjustment for me here in Mexico. Not the apartment living, not the traffic and pollution, not even the language barrier has been as hard. And I will never be able to explain why. It has to be experienced. Some people really love it and are much more deserving and appreciative than me. Maybe I am just too American, but I value my independence. I also value my space. And I didn't realize how much I valued the opportunity to work in my home. To be actively engaged in contributing to its atmosphere, cleanliness and order. There was a void in my life, because I wasn't doing those things anymore. I felt useless. It was also creating an awful anxiety and energy drain in my life to have another person in my home who was not family, lurking around every corner of my house and I couldn't bear it anymore. And it's not that she wasn't a hard worker or that she stole anything from us (except maybe my wedding ring for two weeks and some cleaning towels). But it always felt a little creepy having her around. (And maybe we had some severe personality differences and issues of passive aggressiveness.)

It's hard to keep up with the endless messes of little children and running a household. But I feel more appreciative now of the opportunity to take care of my home. It is my piece of stewardship in the world. Laundry, dishes, mopping, vacuuming, scrubbing, dusting... it all seems so mundane. And it's hard, because these are projects that all become undone in a matter of hours. That might be the hardest part about motherhood - everything you do is undone. Another meal needs to be prepared, another diaper changed, more laundry washed and folded. It is an unending cycle of upkeep.

But in reality, this work is not mundane. It is meaningful work. Our homes are meant to be havens from the world. Sacred places where we and our children learn to both play and work together as families. And just as my children need to be contributing, chore-doing members of our family, I do, too! How will they learn without an example? I'm the farthest thing from a supermom, and sometimes I need help. But I have been missing that sense of exhausted accomplishment that comes after cleaning and putting my home in order. I'm surprised by how much I missed it. So I won't mop my floors every day, but I'll at least do it sometimes. Here's to meaningful work and a messier house.

homecoming

When Tracy posted this video of Dan's homecoming (after being in Afghanistan for 7 months and meeting his baby girl for the first time) on Facebook last night, I may have watched it 546,789 times. And cried every single time. Tracy and Dan, you guys are amazing. There really aren't words. I am so happy for you that he is finally home.

Coming Home from Ryan Southwell on Vimeo.

You can also view it here. Note from the... filmographer, Ryan (is that what we call him?):

DOCUMENTARY: Lieutenant Dan has been deployed in Afghanistan since last October and is on his way home. But what makes it special is that he has a new baby daughter waiting to meet him for the first time. Watch as this journey unfolds throughout the day as the tension builds and the family reunites for the first time as three. It’s a crusher. You can’t help but feel some of the patriotism when he arrives home. As I said in a prequel to this post, this is the stuff life is all about.

I chose this song because it starts soft and subtle, with a little bit of mystery. But the end has a huge payoff that I love. Lifehouse – “Everything”.

mental instability

So last night I had a serious breakdown. And when I say "serious," I mean I was halfway to the insane asylum and "serious" does not come close to adequately expressing my level of, er... sudden mental dysfunction. The details of why are unimportant. Just know that last night was a night I felt like a really, really, really bad person. In fact, Bruce said later, "You know, for a moment there... I thought you were going to get physical." And not in a sweet love way, people. Let's have a moment of silence for the part of Bruce's heart that may have died last night after witnessing the spectacle and lessened his love for me.



Right. Anyway, moving on. I am better today and less of the psycho maniac I was last night (barely). I just want to thank Bruce for marrying me almost 10 years ago, and if he knew then what he knows now, he may not have. But I know that marrying him was the best thing I ever did. We'll give him a few more days to try and feel the same way...

On another note, this pregnancy is moving along just great. And when I say great, I mean that I am so large already that when I ran past a dark Luis Vuitton store the other morning and caught a glance at my reflection, I almost lost the will to live. The looks of disgust and appall thrown my way only solidify my insecurities of being a freak of nature, running at 6 1/2 months pregnant. Luckily, I have a knack for embarrassing myself and rarely am affected by it. Except for that time I got a mic wire stuck in my sports bra while teaching a kickboxing class (pregnant with M) and had to run out to go pee halfway through, and then it took so long for me to get the mic off that one of my class participants came flying into the women's locker room to check on me and found me stark naked from the waist up with my pregnant chichis hanging out, trying to untangle the wire... yeah. That was an uncomfortable 30 minutes rest of class. But life goes on, friends. Life goes on.

drama, drama, drama

Every day it's like she is bursting at the seams with fiery passion and just can't contain it. How will this translate 10 years from now? I'm frightened.

beauty secrets

The other day, my mom, Audrey, and I received this email from Dani:

Ladies,

I've officially completed my research of the ultimate concealor. It's taken five years, but I've finally found it.

Here's your solution:
[It has been deleted. I cannot tell you out here on the world wide web. So sorry.]

It's expensive, but AMAZING. A lady never gives up her beauty secrets, but I give them to you ....because you're me :)

P.s. Hard times ahead in the beauty department. I nominate myself as "the usher." I will usher us into old age, gracefully. Noelle, you're in charge of fitness. Audrey, you're in charge of nutrition. And mom, you herald our souls.

Everyone man your stations.

Love it so much. And I suppose I do feel bad at times that M will never have a sister. Girl cousins will have to do.

world cup fever

Sigh. It's over and I'm a little sad about it. Latinos don't mess around. I loved the hype around here leading up to it. I loved that L got to skip school for a kick-off party with his other five-year-old friends. I loved that Bruce has hardly worked the past month, because they were all busy watching the games from 8:30 - 10:30 a.m. and 1:30 - 3:30 p.m.. I loved that B got obsessed with the perfect predictions of Paul the Octopus and wanted to google about it all day long.

Plus, I just love the game. I always have. Like maybe a teeny tiny part of me married Bruce, because he can play a good game of futbol. A very small percentage, of course. There were other admirable qualities. But on one of our first dates, he brought me to one of his soccer games and scored seven goals that night. I shouldn't write these things out loud because he'll wave this banner 'til his arm falls off, but maybe his chances with me experienced a significant upswing that night.

American football players? Meh. Baseball players? More meh. Soccer players? They are hot. I think it's the shin guards. Speaking of...



Ay me. What was I saying? Sure, Spain was playing some great futbol all throughout the World Cup and they maintained some incredible ball possession (except in the final). But is it still perfectly acceptable to root for a team because I find them better looking? Iker Casillas, Fernando Torres, Jesus Navas... those Dutch men were gargantuous and awkward in comparison. Of course, there's also Puyol who defied some secret code of Spanish footballer hotness. But nobody's perfect (poor guy). Also, I can't stop watching it...



The tears. The freakin' tears of joy. And how he can't keep himself from kissing her in the moment to thank her, too. And how his hand lingers on her neck after that kiss. Like would Beckham ever be that impulsive with Posh Spice on live TV? Please. Those bloody English. It would be staged and contrived like her bony, orange spray-tanned body atop stilettos. Nobody does real drama like the Spaniards and Latinos. I wish the World Cup was every year.

daily affirmations

Cutest. Thanks, D. Made my day. xo.