First, this is not a bowling blog. If you were drawn here via Google while searching for all things bowling and you are now feeling betrayed, we offer you our apologies. Sorry. Go bowl. You’ll feel better.

There is a bowling metaphor being used here though, in case that counts for anything. It’s a bit of an inside joke with us, so first, just to get you acclimated, a little bit of setting the pins.

From about the time we had our first child in 2005 right up until just a few months ago, we were the pins. On a typical day, we were up at 5:30. We’d see each other for only enough time to complain about the time of day and make the bed. Then I would go down to start the breakfast while Elisia would put on her makeup. By 6:30, the mugwumps would be up, hungry, and wired for sound. A flurry of activity would then ensue. Clothes were fought over and eventually put on, teeth were cleaned, mouths were fed and wiped, fed again, wiped again. That food spilled on the floor would have to wait until evening because Elisia would have just run downstairs and by God, we needed to be out that door by 7:15 to catch that damned train.

Lest you think this is a typical bitching rant, there was also sweetness in our life as cowering bowling pins. For instance, let’s assume the train was caught. If so, Elisia and I used the 5 minutes it takes to drive to the station to gather a brief summary of what each other’s day looked like. We would often laugh at something cute that Duncan had just said, or we’d listen and sing along with some god-awful Raffi song for the boys’ pleasure. We cherished these little moments together. I’d try to remember to comment on how beautiful Elisia looked (it wasn’t that hard). She’d always give me an electric kiss on the cheek as she ran for the train.

But, just like that, the train would whisk her away. I’d deliver the boys to day care and race to get to work on time. Elisia would work on the train for an hour or so until she got to her office. We wouldn’t see each other again until 6:30 that evening, sometimes later, depending on whether she had to work late and, therefore, catch the evening train.

Our reunion was typically a sweet one. Everyone was happy to see Mommy. Hopefully, I was able to get dinner together before the train arrived, otherwise it promised to be a long night. Boys were fedded and bedded, bathed, tickled, read to and under covers by 8:00ish. But only if all went according to design. That left our two heroes with a house to clean up and probably some work to do that we’d brought home. If we got to sit with each other for an hour or if we could get into bed before midnight, we called the day a success. I’d then spoon with my beloved and slide off to sleep. Elisia would have been asleep since before the word “spoon” in the last sentence.

Our one respite was Saturday, when we would lie in bed well beyond 5:30, until the kids would come in and crawl/jump all over us. We would both pretend to be asleep as our bedroom door creaked open. When we finally admitted that we were awake, to each other and ourselves, we’d recall the boys in from wherever their mumbled place of exile was for a family cuddle. Songs would be sung (often the boys’ favorite: Travellin’ Band by Creedence), plans for the day would be made, and a big, coma-inducing breakfast would be outlined but probably not accomplished until 11:00 or so. Naps were mandatory. And, before we knew it, Saturday was in the books.

Sundays were the days we had to reset the pins. They were inevitably spent doing all the things we had no time to do during the long work-week; sexy and exotic activities, like grocery shopping, paying bills, home repairs, vacuuming, and laundry. Needless to say, there was never time enough to catch up on all the things that had been tabled and neglected. There was barely enough time to do all the things we needed to do to get ready for the upcoming week.

image courtesy of Alamo Drafthouse Rolling Roadshow

We were fast becoming one of the chaos-encrusted families from an early Steven Spielberg film. All I needed to complete the picture was a steaming pile of sculpted mashed potatoes.

I’ll bet this sounds familiar to many of you.

It’s possible that there was a tipping point; a specific moment in time when enough was enough and when the proverbial genie not only came out of the bottle but was hard at work writing postcards to us from St. Lucia. If there was such a moment, I was too busy to notice it. Elisia, however, could probably point it out. Her schedule was such that she felt as if her only function in the family was to brush Duncan and Tobin’s teeth on either end of our hectic days. She realized that what she was getting out of work was not worth the sacrifice being made at home. We both felt as if we were working harder and harder just to ensure that our boys could spend more time in the care of others while we languished in our respective jobs. We both felt as though we were sliding further and further away from the lives we had imagined for ourselves and for our kids. The cost of living (the way we were) was just too high.

So we decided to make a change. While the larger economy imploded around us, our ever-growing children exploded upwards. And we resolved not to miss any more of it. Elisia left her job of 13 years and turned her attention to starting her own calligraphy and quilling business (Curliqus.com, for those of you who wish to support this endeavor).

And so a typical married couple, living a typically hectic modern life, made an atypical decision to slam on the brakes. This blog is the story of a conscious choice to shake off some of the craziness and clutter. We wanted to simplify.

Simply put, this blog is the story of how we reset the pins.