Strange encounters of the well-meaning kind

My life is a waste land of unrealized expectations and unfulfilled potential.

“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”

Ha ha! Only kidding, of course. I never really had that much potential. :P Must I admit that a few years ago there was a time, or at least there were days, when I could have uttered that sentiment in all seriousness—at least as much seriousness as melodramatic flair can convey?

But really, folks. When I chance upon acquaintances of yesteryear who learn that I’m “at home,” I’m amazed at how hard they work to ascribe to my life some scrap of significance that is quantifiable or comprehensible to them. They’d really like some evidence, for their own sakes as much as for mine, that my (dubious) potential and (ridiculously prolonged) education isn’t being squandered on story hour and finger painting.

The script for these encounters goes something like this:

Well-meaning Person or Persons (WMP): So I understand that you’re living pretty far from “civilization,” ha ha.

Me: Yes, ha ha, I suppose you could say that. Lots of great things about small town life, though!

WMP: So isn’t it wonderful how the internet is opening all sorts of possibilities for mothers to work from home?

Me: Mmm-hmm, yes, it certainly is.

WMP: So what are you working on?

Me: Me? Oh, I’m not working on anything really. Unless you count chasing these kids, ha ha.

[more laughter ensues; generally good-natured on my part, and uneasy on theirs]

I really shouldn’t be so surprised by these efforts to find some sort of “meaningful activity” in my life. Like a high school senior who suddenly realizes the need to repackage herself because colleges won’t be impressed with her extracurricular resume, I used to be prone to a sort of self-conscious glossing over exactly what I was doing with my life here at home. You know how it is: on the all-important transcript, hanging out with friends makes one a “social organizer;” dog sitting for the neighbor becomes “runs pet-care business,” etc.

But it's glamorous!
Can't you see how @@@@@ glamorous it is already!?

Sometimes I still entertain myself by mentally listing the socially acceptable titles people are awarded when they’re paid to do for strangers’ kids what I do gratis for my own (you know the list as well as I do: pediatric researcher, early childhood educator, behavioral development specialist, etc.). Nowadays, though, this little exercise is more to have something mildly amusing to do with my brain while I read Skippyjon Jones and the Dinosaur Bones aloud for the fifth time than it is to assure myself or random passersby that this kid thing is but a temporary aberration in an otherwise brilliant career (and again I say: Ha! Ha ha!).

These blasts from the past, encounters that I used to find rather excruciating, can still be rather embarrassing—but I’m now usually embarrassed not for myself, but for those well-meaning persons who want so badly for me (and for them) to feel like I’m doing something “significant.” Those poor souls must be getting cricks in their necks from straining so hard to overlook the significance clamoring about my knees. Can’t anyone really remember what a workhorse is for, after all?

Undeniably exotic, she’s a real looker but is hotblooded and trends skittish. If you’re looking for a model you can trust with your children, check out her more temperate cousin:


Powerful and intelligent, spirited yet gentle. And check out those lines: she’s a classic beauty, amazingly versatile, turning her hoof successfully to most any task that’s asked of her.