Ambition....

I have none.

Seriously. I do blame it a tad bit on my upbringing. There is something about the expat life, especially in the late 60's/early 70's that creates a real desire to um, be waited on. I mean, is it my fault that as a child, I was given the "golden pass" (ie, the last four digits of my dad's social security number...which I still remember, by the way), to sign away everything from steak dinners at the golf club to tennis lessons at the tennis club and everything in between (riding at the riding club, cricket at the cricket club and movies at the arts club...oh, and bowling too.)? I was very young when I first understood that all-important phrase, "We're on expenses", and knew that meant room-service, ordering kiddie cocktails before expensive meals, and while on very long flights? First class, baby.

That all translated into "we think we're rich, but we're not" and when we were back in the US (never for long, if my dad could help it), it was quite a shock to be told to order water and to see what passed for accomodations if my DAD were paying for it (motels with blinking neon lights advertising a/c, for one...often with a "kitchenette", so Mom could cook--met with a blank look and an order for burgers from Mom, by the way...).

But, the thing I remember most about being an expat in Iran? Leisure time. I guess it became ingrained in me to crave it, expect it, and demand it. Other people were busy making my bed, doing the dishes, mowing the grass. I was swimming, playing golf and tennis, or even better...sitting on a swing, drinking a cold bottle of coke, reading Enid Blyton.

When I got married, and mr. herewegoagain got his first real job (having been a room-service waiter on our wedding day--'nuff said about that...)...I never actually intended to put my college degree to use. I intended to work on my TAN. Are you kidding? I might have lost a degree or two of brown pigment in the five days it took to move from Austin to a hotel room in Dallas (where HE wouldn't let me run up expenses..."they" might not like it--and I developed a taste for peanut butter on squishy bread) to an apartment across the street from the Dallas Cowboys Stadium--and Irving mall.

Poor mr. herewegagain. He had married a girl who was working on her tan, while his friends married engineers, doctors, lawyers, and Mary Kay super-salespeople (the latter made the most money). While I was trying my best not to have to actually wake up to an alarm, they were all out there building nest eggs, buying real estate, going to graduate school, and more.

So, of course, we had Perfect Daughter and my days didn't change terribly much. First order of business? Teach that baby to sleep late in the morning. Second order of business? Teach that baby to love all things relating to malls/shopping/food courts and dressing rooms. Third order? Get on a plane to Connecticut to visit nice Grandparents who would provide horseback riding, expensive nursery schools, and trips to NYC for summer vacations.

Real life finally arrived at about year ten. I had started homeschooling Perfect Daughter, and while our ambition was still tied closely to not having to be anywhere before 10 am, we were rather industrious during the day. I never did understand the "super homeschool" moms who were schooling seven kids, pregnant with the eighth, gathering eggs from chickens they raised, grinding wheat to make actual wholesome bread while running a business selling that same bread on the side, along with curriculum and entire how-to-homeschool-your-child books that they wrote themselves during the baby's nap time and before teaching the other seven kids conversational French in the afternoon.

Oh, and loving their husbands through it all. And talking about THAT in every conference or radio talk-show I tuned into.

Our ambition comprised getting schoolwork done, then figuring out something fun to do. Shop? Tennis? Movies? It wasn't so different from the expat life, but I really did miss Hyatt (our cook) and his fabulous homemade bread. Sigh.

So, fast-forward 19 years later. I'm still homeschooling and this is what Sweet Girl said to me today.

"Mom, what do we have going on tomorrow?"

"Well, it looks like you have a dentist appt. at 10, and then we have to drop the car at the dealer's for some maintenance work. So, we'll be home without a car for the rest of the day and all day Tuesday". (Notice I did not say, "And then we can get the eggs from the chicken coop, grind our wheat and sew next year's wardrobe while learning plane geometry and trig in fifth grade.")

"Seriously?" (said with great joy) "Then we can be in our jammies all day after we get home, and then stay home the next day--in JAMMIES!". We know for an absolute fact that the brain can tackle schoolwork quite well regardless of the sleepwear involved, or time of day started.

Yes, a perfect day is not only one in which you can be in your jammies all day, but one in which you only get out of your jammies to put on clean ones for the NEXT day!

(PS...somehow, even with my non-instilling of any work ethic whatsoever--other than chores and such...Perfect Daughter is perfectly successful in her law school career and I have to brag a teeny bit that she just snagged the job of Editor-In-Chief of her law journal. I'm pretty sure she never spends a day in jammies and is generally half-way through her morning's work while I'm still fixing my first morning cup of tea. I tried and tried, but what can I say? She's just so rebellious.)

It's going to be a great week.