After procrastinating for as long as possible under the guise of fully celebrating Thanksgiving, I am now faced with the prospect of lugging all of the tubs of holiday fare out of storage and starting to make ready for Christmas. Not to be offensive, but if the Virgin Mary had nine months to prepare for the Birth of Christ, why should I be expected to make ready in a mere 24 days? Granted, there are some zealots who "keep Christmas in their hearts" by scooping up discounted wrapping paper on December 26th and shopping all year for carefully selected gifts. However, I am not one of those people...in fact, those folks frighten the hell out of me.
The older I get, the less driven I become and more days than not, I feel like I have been driven over. On the rare days when I am in the driver's seat, I still drive my life a whole lot slower. I also experience what I like to think of as symptoms of Adult ADHD which render me incapable of focusing on more than one day at a time. In reality, these are likely bouts of plain old forgetfulness, brought on by aging and the fact that I destroyed a gazillion brain cells during those years that I lived in Chapel Hill. Fortunately, I have spent a lifetime surrounding myself with overachievers and planners. I also happen to have a husband who actually wakes up happy and rarin' to go. So, most days, I am too ashamed to succumb to the mediocrity that would inevitably ensue if I just stopped trying.
In stark contrast to everything I have just written, I also have a tendency to overindulge in nearly every aspect of my life during the holidays. I overeat, I overspend, I over...(fill in your favorite vice). And every year I solemnly vow that THIS will be the year that I exercise restraint. Heaven knows, I am not exercising anything else. But once the proverbial tubs have been opened, I roll like an economically-stimulated snowball towards the Day of Epiphany. Which is actually code language for the fact that I allow myself the entire 12 Days of Christmas to dismantle the holiday wreckage.
The holidays, like life in general, is about 95% preparation for about 5% of pure magic. The trick is, the magic comes in the most inane moments, and if you are too focused on the work of preparing, you may miss it altogether. So, as my Mamaw would say, You'd better be ENJOYING the preparation! As the mother of two boys, I have slowly weaned myself from the Hallmark-Lifetime-Martha Stewart envisioning of the holidays, and learned to live by a very simple rule...Do What Works. When they were younger I was insistent that they have traditions and rituals, which would translate into holiday memories and happy childhoods. The only problem was, by the time we got to Christmas morning I was a screaming banshee who hadn't slept in nine days. Memory That.
As a firm believer that children are often sent here to guide their grown-ups, I am proud to say that over the years Jackson and Braeden have successfully begun to re-train me. I am now a disciple of Doing What Works. One year that might mean Roasted Turkey and Paula Deen's Bread Pudding, but another year that might mean Cranberry Margaritas and Dominos. My boys don't care if the neighbors get homemade baked goods, they care if they get to make fun of me while I try to play the Wii. It is the Spirit of the Season rather than the Sanctity of the Traditions that they remember most. And so, I am off to start the lugging...and then the hanging and the ornamenting and the shopping and the baking and the wrapping. But I am committed to enjoying as much of the process as possible. And to knowing from the start that some of what I would like to accomplish, simply will not get done. Which could create space for magical memories that I can't even imagine yet. Happy Holla-Days!
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Art of Living
Unbelievably, it has been eight weeks since I have written a word, which feels disappointing in some ways. As a person inextricably tied to the changing of seasons, inevitably, I become less "visible" and more burrowed during the fall and winter. But honestly, I feel as if I have been living more artistically in the past few months than at any other time in recent memory. In my absence from the page I have been cooking and traveling and taking hundreds of photographs. Put simply, I have, gone to seed in the past few months. But, I am back....at least for today. What follows is a wordy, somewhat disjointed, collection of thoughts....so consider yourself forewarned.
When I lived in Chapel Hill many years ago there was a home furnishings/art notions store in University Square called T'boli, where one of my most beloved friends worked. It was a quirky, peaceful space with an amalgamation of postcards and pillows and toys that delighted me. At the time my life was tumultuous and intense and beautiful and complicated. It was populated by smart-assed waiters who are now credit union managers, dark brooding musicians who are now laughing parents, grad students who became professors and me. I was emotionally ambitious but seemingly aimless. Wandering day-to-day accumulating life experiences and embezzling personality traits from my compatriots.
One winter afternoon while browsing at T'boli, I bought a series of handmade, watercolor cards. One of them was a panel with a glitterly silver moon and the phrase, "My barn having burned to the ground, I can now see the moon." Another showed a circle of brightly dressed children dancing, with the phrase, "I am an Artist of Living." Throughout the cycles of my life and evolving incarnations, through multiple moves, innumerable storage buildings and infinite trips to Goodwill, those two cards have survived internment and remain relevant. And so, while I have not been writing of late, I have been baking casseroles and exploring historic cities and capturing these experiences on "film". I have been an Artist of Living.
If you read this blog in its' infancy, then you know that it was largely inspired by my friend, David C. Smith. My love for him is boundless and his influence on my life has been profound. In addition to being an accomplished writer, David is also an incredibly gifted photograper. The veracity of his words made me want to live more honestly in print. And now, the allure of his images has altered the way I see every aspect of the world around me. The juxtaposition of architecture and nature...the adjacent duality of history and progress...the exquisite beauty present in "flaws" and irreverence. Of course, all this inspiration has also caused me to want new, more expensive camera equipment and cost me irretrievable hours spent moodling. But, I am feeling fulfilled and nourished and awash with gratitude.
So, today, as always, thanks for listening. How you live your life and share your experiences, matters. Your choices and interactions influence and inform others in unimaginable, often unintended ways. The mere act of Being Present is dynamic and rebellious. Occupy Your Own Life.
When I lived in Chapel Hill many years ago there was a home furnishings/art notions store in University Square called T'boli, where one of my most beloved friends worked. It was a quirky, peaceful space with an amalgamation of postcards and pillows and toys that delighted me. At the time my life was tumultuous and intense and beautiful and complicated. It was populated by smart-assed waiters who are now credit union managers, dark brooding musicians who are now laughing parents, grad students who became professors and me. I was emotionally ambitious but seemingly aimless. Wandering day-to-day accumulating life experiences and embezzling personality traits from my compatriots.
One winter afternoon while browsing at T'boli, I bought a series of handmade, watercolor cards. One of them was a panel with a glitterly silver moon and the phrase, "My barn having burned to the ground, I can now see the moon." Another showed a circle of brightly dressed children dancing, with the phrase, "I am an Artist of Living." Throughout the cycles of my life and evolving incarnations, through multiple moves, innumerable storage buildings and infinite trips to Goodwill, those two cards have survived internment and remain relevant. And so, while I have not been writing of late, I have been baking casseroles and exploring historic cities and capturing these experiences on "film". I have been an Artist of Living.
If you read this blog in its' infancy, then you know that it was largely inspired by my friend, David C. Smith. My love for him is boundless and his influence on my life has been profound. In addition to being an accomplished writer, David is also an incredibly gifted photograper. The veracity of his words made me want to live more honestly in print. And now, the allure of his images has altered the way I see every aspect of the world around me. The juxtaposition of architecture and nature...the adjacent duality of history and progress...the exquisite beauty present in "flaws" and irreverence. Of course, all this inspiration has also caused me to want new, more expensive camera equipment and cost me irretrievable hours spent moodling. But, I am feeling fulfilled and nourished and awash with gratitude.
So, today, as always, thanks for listening. How you live your life and share your experiences, matters. Your choices and interactions influence and inform others in unimaginable, often unintended ways. The mere act of Being Present is dynamic and rebellious. Occupy Your Own Life.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Moderate Disarray
It is 4:21 AM and I am awake in my house full of people, feeling very alone. I am awake because the past thirty-five hours have been chaotic and tumultuous. I am awake because I feel raw and vulnerable. I am awake because the best way for me to cope with these periods of life is expose the emotions in print and then set about organizing the chaos. The naming of the fears diminishes their ability to paralyze me. And making lists, packing lunches and paying bills is a small, human act that defies the Universe by saying, "You may have me reeling now. But even in the midst of this, Life will go on."
I am realizing that the older I get the more delicate my constitution becomes. I can't see as clearly as I once did without the assistance of reading glasses. I require more sleep and less alcohol than I ever have. And at a minimum, the effort it takes for me to feel balanced, steady and purposeful has quadrupled. Ideally, I would be awakened by my internal clock after six to eight hours of restful sleep. My morning would begin with a long, quiet walk through my tropical surroundings; just me, my thoughts, and occasionally, a companion, canine or otherwise, meandering through the streets and villages, speaking to strangers and absorbing the uniqueness of the glorious day. Blah, blah, blah. My Utopian life would be characterized by healthy food, fulfilling work and of course, smiling, loving friends and family who revel in my company without questioning my decisions and enter/exit my presence in a flow of precision and synchronization.
Damn. No wonder I feel so far off course. My Perfect Life is UNATTAINABLE! And apparently, dependent upon a race of gracious, smiling friends and relatives with unparalleled rhythm and perfect timing....HAHAHA! Instead, I am wide awake at 4:56 AM on a Tuesday morning, avoiding my bank balance and re-arranging my calendar so that I can take my 8-year old to an appointment with an Orthopaedic Hand Specialist. (Because in Utopia if your Mother tells you not to climb the fence in the backyard, you would listen. But in the reality of Mayodan, North Carolina, you would ignore your Mother and fracture your wrist in two places.)
Which inevitably means that I am going to disappoint people. The clients I will not be able to see today who will now have to wait two or three more weeks to settle their custody disputes. My 10-year old who is in need of extra attention because his brother is absorbing most of mine right now. My sweet, dear husband who is struggling to understand I probably can not get on a plane and fly away from my children this weekend. Granted, they will both be at their dad's house and will likely go the entire four days without needing anything from me. The problem is, the decision has very little to do with them and everything to do with my own feelings of vulnerability.
Walking into an Emergency Room with 72 pounds of my heart broken, literally, and waiting for someone to tell me how to put it back together, leaves me reeling. It also makes me eternally grateful that my children are healthy and that I don't have to swallow that cocktail of bile mixed with fear very often. Realistically, I understand that "boys will be boys and these types of things are going to happen." After all, bones get broken....and healed....every day. But if you know me well, then you know that "being there" is one of the foundation stones of who I am as a Mom. So staying close by might make me more safe while also helping me assauge the lingering guilt from days when I was not where I should have been. And secretly, I love how much my baby needs me to be his right arm right now...pun intended.
The Universe feels moderately unsteady for me today. The Dow has plunged, our Heroes are being killed by the dozens a million miles from home and there are riots in the streets of London. And beyond prayer, charity and compassion, there is little that I can do to alter any of those situations. But here on my homefront, I can pay the bills, pack the lunches, wake people up kindly and write the answers to the homework questions. In essence, I can manage my own chaos and.... Do What I Think Is Best. Period.
I am realizing that the older I get the more delicate my constitution becomes. I can't see as clearly as I once did without the assistance of reading glasses. I require more sleep and less alcohol than I ever have. And at a minimum, the effort it takes for me to feel balanced, steady and purposeful has quadrupled. Ideally, I would be awakened by my internal clock after six to eight hours of restful sleep. My morning would begin with a long, quiet walk through my tropical surroundings; just me, my thoughts, and occasionally, a companion, canine or otherwise, meandering through the streets and villages, speaking to strangers and absorbing the uniqueness of the glorious day. Blah, blah, blah. My Utopian life would be characterized by healthy food, fulfilling work and of course, smiling, loving friends and family who revel in my company without questioning my decisions and enter/exit my presence in a flow of precision and synchronization.
Damn. No wonder I feel so far off course. My Perfect Life is UNATTAINABLE! And apparently, dependent upon a race of gracious, smiling friends and relatives with unparalleled rhythm and perfect timing....HAHAHA! Instead, I am wide awake at 4:56 AM on a Tuesday morning, avoiding my bank balance and re-arranging my calendar so that I can take my 8-year old to an appointment with an Orthopaedic Hand Specialist. (Because in Utopia if your Mother tells you not to climb the fence in the backyard, you would listen. But in the reality of Mayodan, North Carolina, you would ignore your Mother and fracture your wrist in two places.)
Which inevitably means that I am going to disappoint people. The clients I will not be able to see today who will now have to wait two or three more weeks to settle their custody disputes. My 10-year old who is in need of extra attention because his brother is absorbing most of mine right now. My sweet, dear husband who is struggling to understand I probably can not get on a plane and fly away from my children this weekend. Granted, they will both be at their dad's house and will likely go the entire four days without needing anything from me. The problem is, the decision has very little to do with them and everything to do with my own feelings of vulnerability.
Walking into an Emergency Room with 72 pounds of my heart broken, literally, and waiting for someone to tell me how to put it back together, leaves me reeling. It also makes me eternally grateful that my children are healthy and that I don't have to swallow that cocktail of bile mixed with fear very often. Realistically, I understand that "boys will be boys and these types of things are going to happen." After all, bones get broken....and healed....every day. But if you know me well, then you know that "being there" is one of the foundation stones of who I am as a Mom. So staying close by might make me more safe while also helping me assauge the lingering guilt from days when I was not where I should have been. And secretly, I love how much my baby needs me to be his right arm right now...pun intended.
The Universe feels moderately unsteady for me today. The Dow has plunged, our Heroes are being killed by the dozens a million miles from home and there are riots in the streets of London. And beyond prayer, charity and compassion, there is little that I can do to alter any of those situations. But here on my homefront, I can pay the bills, pack the lunches, wake people up kindly and write the answers to the homework questions. In essence, I can manage my own chaos and.... Do What I Think Is Best. Period.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
A Parrothead Looks at Sunday
Today has been absolutely grueling and gut-wrenching. I got up at 4:15 AM to journey north, leaving behind my husband of 367 days and the carefree anonymity of our tropical paradise. Nine hours previous, we had sailed into the sunset, the annual tradition on our last night in the Keys. And as the masts of the Schooner Western Union turned starboard, from the point where the Gulf of Mexico meets the Atlantic Ocean, the wind carried us back towards the lights of Mallory Square. And I wept. Quietly. Standing at the ships' rail. Wrapped in the arms of the most amazing man I have ever known.
I wept because we were leaving and I wept because I wanted to be back home, with my children, in that instant. I wept for the beauty of a town built on the legacy of pirates and shipwrecks and outcasts, whose vision is now to be "One Human Family." I wept for the Hemingway "Papa" I had met at Sloppy Joe's on Thursday, who traveled from Norway to "experience Key West." When I saw him again on Friday, his wife Molfrid conveyed to us that their city, Oslo, had been terrorized by a bombing, while a mass of teenaged campers had been slaughtered on an island nearby.
But I also wept for the laughter and the revelry and the memories of so many friends over the years who have journeyed with us to drink, swim, walk miles and miles, and to capture some of our most incredible days (and nights) on film. Conch fritters at Alabama Jacks and sunset swims in the Gulf at Key Largo. Rumrunners with our bartender, Bonnie, and cheese omelets at the Schooner Wharf Bar. Kino sandals and Margaritaville t-shirts. Fast Buck Freddies and B.O's Fish Wagon. The Roosters at Blue Heaven and the Drag Queens at the Bourbon Street Bar.
Memories that soak into your pores with the searing sun and buoy you through long, frigid winters. Carefree adventures where you flirt with the invincible feeling of the wind in your hair and your whole life stretched out ahead of you. Laughter to tears, mixed with the bittersweet knowlege that the price of escape will be waiting to be paid in the morning light.
Eleven hours and many miles later I arrived at our North Carolina house, sitting tidy and hollow in a steady afternoon rain. It wasn't just leaving my husband that shattered my heart and left me queasy, although that alone would certainly be enough. It was the reality that most of my days are spent either being away from him or being away from my kids; it is a rare occasion when we are all four together in the same locale for extended periods of time. But that is the life we lead and the love we have chosen. The same life that gives us two homes, an abundance of family, friends from both our lifetimes and more adventures than I can count. Truly, we are blessed beyond measure.
So, tomorrow morning I will wake up in my own bed in a quiet house and I will return to a desk stacked high with work left undone. By 2:30 PM, Jackson and Braeden will be home from school and the chaos of our "normal" lives will resume. And for that I am grateful down to my soul. Because the reality of my life is infinitely more satisfying than my adventurous escapades. Besides, I can always drink Rumrunners and watch the sunset, no matter where I am!
I wept because we were leaving and I wept because I wanted to be back home, with my children, in that instant. I wept for the beauty of a town built on the legacy of pirates and shipwrecks and outcasts, whose vision is now to be "One Human Family." I wept for the Hemingway "Papa" I had met at Sloppy Joe's on Thursday, who traveled from Norway to "experience Key West." When I saw him again on Friday, his wife Molfrid conveyed to us that their city, Oslo, had been terrorized by a bombing, while a mass of teenaged campers had been slaughtered on an island nearby.
But I also wept for the laughter and the revelry and the memories of so many friends over the years who have journeyed with us to drink, swim, walk miles and miles, and to capture some of our most incredible days (and nights) on film. Conch fritters at Alabama Jacks and sunset swims in the Gulf at Key Largo. Rumrunners with our bartender, Bonnie, and cheese omelets at the Schooner Wharf Bar. Kino sandals and Margaritaville t-shirts. Fast Buck Freddies and B.O's Fish Wagon. The Roosters at Blue Heaven and the Drag Queens at the Bourbon Street Bar.
Memories that soak into your pores with the searing sun and buoy you through long, frigid winters. Carefree adventures where you flirt with the invincible feeling of the wind in your hair and your whole life stretched out ahead of you. Laughter to tears, mixed with the bittersweet knowlege that the price of escape will be waiting to be paid in the morning light.
Eleven hours and many miles later I arrived at our North Carolina house, sitting tidy and hollow in a steady afternoon rain. It wasn't just leaving my husband that shattered my heart and left me queasy, although that alone would certainly be enough. It was the reality that most of my days are spent either being away from him or being away from my kids; it is a rare occasion when we are all four together in the same locale for extended periods of time. But that is the life we lead and the love we have chosen. The same life that gives us two homes, an abundance of family, friends from both our lifetimes and more adventures than I can count. Truly, we are blessed beyond measure.
So, tomorrow morning I will wake up in my own bed in a quiet house and I will return to a desk stacked high with work left undone. By 2:30 PM, Jackson and Braeden will be home from school and the chaos of our "normal" lives will resume. And for that I am grateful down to my soul. Because the reality of my life is infinitely more satisfying than my adventurous escapades. Besides, I can always drink Rumrunners and watch the sunset, no matter where I am!
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Age Before Beauty
Well, it is official.....I am Old. In my mind. In my spirit. In my bowel irregularity. In my vanishing ability to starve myself for three days and fit into a skimpy outfit.
My descent into ancient-ness started slowly with hangovers that lasted for days and the purchase of reading glasses. Then blue, bulging veins began to criss-cross my thighs and I reached the highest level of non-prescription Retinol available at the Wal-Mart Pharmacy. But the undeniable proof of my "old lady-ness" came at the hands of my hairdresser last week when I sulked out of her salon with a chin-length bob, layered for "body and movement." New Beginnings, my ass. Look around folks.....90% of the women between the ages of 50 and 150 have chin-length bobs with layers. The other 10% have that grown-out Marine style that is stacked in the back. But don't blame my hairdresser or her optimistically-named salon. At one point in the process of transforming me from Tammy Wynette to Barbara Walters, she very aptly observed that "maybe, this is not about your hair."
Now, if you have a penis and you read this blog then these words may seem like Greek to you, but the vaginas in my audience know this song verse by verse. Most women I know can catalogue their lives by the fashions they were wearing and the hairstyles they were sporting at various ages. Page-boy with straight bangs, 1965-70. Growing Out Bangs, Straight Shoulder-Length 1970-75. Piss Poor Attempt at Farrah Fawcett Hair with Feathered Bangs 1975-79....And the list goes on.
As the child of an appearance-obsessed mother who came from a tribe of appearance-obsessed women, it is my birthright and familial obligation to scrutinze every detail of my appearance. And as Glamour magazine has said for decades, "Hair is the ultimate accessory." I was the freak who got up early at summer camp to curl my hair before breakfast. I spent years avoiding cute boys with convertibles, motorcycles or cars without air-conditioning. I could have owned the Clairol company for the amount of money I spent on ClairMist Ultimate Control in high school. It is a sad, but true, legacy. And despite all the efforts expended at the altar of those with fine, straight hair, I still ended up where 90% of the older women reside.....with a layered chin-length bob.
Please understand that I am intelligent enough to know that there are bigger problems on Earth than my hair. Famine. Drought. Natural Disasters. The lines between my eyebrows and the inner-tube around my
mid-section. In all seriousness, I could have cured cancer and discovered the formula for world peace in the hours, days, months and years I have spent worrying about how I look. My Wonder Twin and I have often fantasized about how happy we could be... just the way we are... if only people would stop taking photographs of us!
I am encouraged by the fact that the standards of beauty are beginning to change. Women like Queen Latifah, Helen Mirren and Ina Garten are bringing a foundation of strength and talent to the concept of what is considered to be beautiful. The Dove Soap, "How Do You Define Beauty", campaign has allowed women of all shapes, ages and ethnicities to step into what was once the exclusive domain of thin, buxom blondes. And the most beautiful women I encounter have faces lined with wisdom, bodies scarred by challenges survived and an age-defying zest for living that shines their eyes.
So the reality for me is that my shorts are longer and fuller than they were last summer. I can no longer afford sleepless nights, pointless drama or huge credit card bills. I am more Ford Explorer than '65 Corvette, more Old Navy than Victoria's Secret. Granted, it doesn't feel great to be called "Ma'am" by the teenaged bag boys at Food Lion. Or to accept how I am slipping behind the wall of invisibility that cloaks women my age. But in a zillion other ways my life feels more comfortable.
I am strengthened by the pride of watching my sons grow into respectable, bright, capable young men and knowing that I have had a hand in shaping them. I revel in moments of laughing out loud with friends who know me well, and love me, flaws and all. In essence, my life is becoming smaller and less interesting, but more meaningful.
Recently, Gerald and I took the boys to Great Wolf Lodge for a mini-vacation during the thirty-six hours that we were not scheduled to be at a baseball field. We spent most of our time at the indoor water park sliding, tubing, swimming and chill-axing in the wave pool. The rest of the time we spent eating sugar cookies with sprinkles and playing air hockey in the arcade. I didn't take one proper shower the entire time we were there, I smelled faintly of chlorine for two days and I wore a ball cap with a wet ponytail, no makeup. I snidely remarked to my brother that once again, being among the masses had proved that "We are STILL the Beautiful People." Which I am now ashamed to admit.
Because the renewal of the vacation had not one thing to do with how our looks and our lives stacked up when compared to those around us. The re-energizing effects came by crawling out from under the expectations and measurements that weigh me down in my daily life. The un-beautiful truth is that I am the biggest obstacle I have to happiness and peace of mind; while those closest to me are fighting battles that are much more grueling and not of their choosing.
My husband left at 3:47AM to go back to our house in Florida for a few weeks. He is going back to a job he loves, that affords us a lifestyle of ease and adventure. When he gets there, he will be greeted by our healthy, vibrant grandchildren who have all they need, some of what they want and incredible parents who keep them safe. After a self-prescribed Mental Health Day, in which I have 24 hours to do anything (or nothing) as I choose, tomorrow I will return to being a Mom, a mediator and a Woman on the Verge. But maybe I will choose to be on the verge of sanity and peace-of-mind instead of frustration and ill-temper. I know what needs to happen. I need to rest, work, laugh, walk, eat a tomato sandwich and be grateful.
Because contentment and grace are beautiful....by any definition, in any situation.....and at any age.
My descent into ancient-ness started slowly with hangovers that lasted for days and the purchase of reading glasses. Then blue, bulging veins began to criss-cross my thighs and I reached the highest level of non-prescription Retinol available at the Wal-Mart Pharmacy. But the undeniable proof of my "old lady-ness" came at the hands of my hairdresser last week when I sulked out of her salon with a chin-length bob, layered for "body and movement." New Beginnings, my ass. Look around folks.....90% of the women between the ages of 50 and 150 have chin-length bobs with layers. The other 10% have that grown-out Marine style that is stacked in the back. But don't blame my hairdresser or her optimistically-named salon. At one point in the process of transforming me from Tammy Wynette to Barbara Walters, she very aptly observed that "maybe, this is not about your hair."
Now, if you have a penis and you read this blog then these words may seem like Greek to you, but the vaginas in my audience know this song verse by verse. Most women I know can catalogue their lives by the fashions they were wearing and the hairstyles they were sporting at various ages. Page-boy with straight bangs, 1965-70. Growing Out Bangs, Straight Shoulder-Length 1970-75. Piss Poor Attempt at Farrah Fawcett Hair with Feathered Bangs 1975-79....And the list goes on.
As the child of an appearance-obsessed mother who came from a tribe of appearance-obsessed women, it is my birthright and familial obligation to scrutinze every detail of my appearance. And as Glamour magazine has said for decades, "Hair is the ultimate accessory." I was the freak who got up early at summer camp to curl my hair before breakfast. I spent years avoiding cute boys with convertibles, motorcycles or cars without air-conditioning. I could have owned the Clairol company for the amount of money I spent on ClairMist Ultimate Control in high school. It is a sad, but true, legacy. And despite all the efforts expended at the altar of those with fine, straight hair, I still ended up where 90% of the older women reside.....with a layered chin-length bob.
Please understand that I am intelligent enough to know that there are bigger problems on Earth than my hair. Famine. Drought. Natural Disasters. The lines between my eyebrows and the inner-tube around my
mid-section. In all seriousness, I could have cured cancer and discovered the formula for world peace in the hours, days, months and years I have spent worrying about how I look. My Wonder Twin and I have often fantasized about how happy we could be... just the way we are... if only people would stop taking photographs of us!
I am encouraged by the fact that the standards of beauty are beginning to change. Women like Queen Latifah, Helen Mirren and Ina Garten are bringing a foundation of strength and talent to the concept of what is considered to be beautiful. The Dove Soap, "How Do You Define Beauty", campaign has allowed women of all shapes, ages and ethnicities to step into what was once the exclusive domain of thin, buxom blondes. And the most beautiful women I encounter have faces lined with wisdom, bodies scarred by challenges survived and an age-defying zest for living that shines their eyes.
So the reality for me is that my shorts are longer and fuller than they were last summer. I can no longer afford sleepless nights, pointless drama or huge credit card bills. I am more Ford Explorer than '65 Corvette, more Old Navy than Victoria's Secret. Granted, it doesn't feel great to be called "Ma'am" by the teenaged bag boys at Food Lion. Or to accept how I am slipping behind the wall of invisibility that cloaks women my age. But in a zillion other ways my life feels more comfortable.
I am strengthened by the pride of watching my sons grow into respectable, bright, capable young men and knowing that I have had a hand in shaping them. I revel in moments of laughing out loud with friends who know me well, and love me, flaws and all. In essence, my life is becoming smaller and less interesting, but more meaningful.
Recently, Gerald and I took the boys to Great Wolf Lodge for a mini-vacation during the thirty-six hours that we were not scheduled to be at a baseball field. We spent most of our time at the indoor water park sliding, tubing, swimming and chill-axing in the wave pool. The rest of the time we spent eating sugar cookies with sprinkles and playing air hockey in the arcade. I didn't take one proper shower the entire time we were there, I smelled faintly of chlorine for two days and I wore a ball cap with a wet ponytail, no makeup. I snidely remarked to my brother that once again, being among the masses had proved that "We are STILL the Beautiful People." Which I am now ashamed to admit.
Because the renewal of the vacation had not one thing to do with how our looks and our lives stacked up when compared to those around us. The re-energizing effects came by crawling out from under the expectations and measurements that weigh me down in my daily life. The un-beautiful truth is that I am the biggest obstacle I have to happiness and peace of mind; while those closest to me are fighting battles that are much more grueling and not of their choosing.
My husband left at 3:47AM to go back to our house in Florida for a few weeks. He is going back to a job he loves, that affords us a lifestyle of ease and adventure. When he gets there, he will be greeted by our healthy, vibrant grandchildren who have all they need, some of what they want and incredible parents who keep them safe. After a self-prescribed Mental Health Day, in which I have 24 hours to do anything (or nothing) as I choose, tomorrow I will return to being a Mom, a mediator and a Woman on the Verge. But maybe I will choose to be on the verge of sanity and peace-of-mind instead of frustration and ill-temper. I know what needs to happen. I need to rest, work, laugh, walk, eat a tomato sandwich and be grateful.
Because contentment and grace are beautiful....by any definition, in any situation.....and at any age.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
This Magic Moment
It has been a little more than 5 weeks since the last time I posted a new blog. That is, in part, due to the fact that it takes me an average of 90 minutes to compose an entry and in the past five weeks I have not had an hour and a half to myself, while I was awake. I was starting to believe that I had forgotten to pack my creativity in one of the brown, rectangular boxes and put it in the back of the U-Haul truck. Of course, I have been busy unpacking, cleaning, weeding, mowing, painting, unpacking and cleaning. I have planted a few flower beds and made a few (thousand) trips to Target with my husband's credit card. (Thanks, Honey!)
I have transitioned from the mother of a Dixie Youth baseball player to the mother of a Dixie Youth All-Star and I have discovered that "All-Star" is really just a code word meaning "write us another check for 100.00 and drive at least 50 miles one-way every weekend to play in tournaments against major league baseball players who are allegedly 8 to 10 years old, but have corporate sponsors, tour buses and pitching coaches." To summarize, I have been really busy.
But I have also been lacking the energy and inspiration that is necessary for me to write. Typically, when I sit down to compose, it is on a day when I don't have the children and I have had several random ideas churning inside my head for a few days. Like most Kevin Spacey movies, the broad brain-bound themes seem unrelated until I am in front of the keyboard and then they start to weave themselves together in ways that often amaze and surprise me. After a few edits to make certain that the words I have typed precisely reflect what I am trying to convey, I hit "post" and then obsess for a few hours over how many people are taking the time to read what I have written and what kind of feedback they are providing.
But when your days are 14 to 16 hours long and you collapse into bed with over half of your to-do list still un-done, there is no brain space for random ideas to trickle in, much less flow out. Honestly, I have felt moderate levels of anxiety about the lack of thought and feeling in my days, fearing that it might be a long while before I could re-connect with myself on a note-worthy level. But somewhere in the midst of the last seven days it occurred to me that maybe I was worrying too much and trying too hard. Like an epiphany I once had in the Madison Food Lion late on a Friday night, this thought struck me in a moment of absent-mindedness. That particular Friday I was wandering the aisles sans a grocery list, when the teenage baggers commandeered the store's sound system and began blasting Metallica's "Enter Sandman." I don't remember the particular issue at that point in my life but I remember having been teary-eyed for days and pleading to the Universe for an unmistakable sign that would point me in the direction I needed to go. And so it was that during the second chorus of "Ex-it light.....En-ter ni-ight..." the store manager awoke from his stupor and right there in the middle of the pickle aisle, the Universe sent me, "Let It Be....Let It Be....Let It Be, Oh, Let It Be....." Verily, I say unto you, that the angelic voice of the Young Paul McCartney whispered words of wisdom to me under the Friday night lights on the outskirts of produce!
I have told you all that to tell you this....last week it was not the voice of Paul McCartney or James Hatfiled in my ear, but the feeling of being awestruck was exactly the same. This time, I was standing at my kitchen sink rinsing out the plastic snack containers from Jackson's day camp lunchbox and the word that undeniably struck me was, "Accept." As in, accept what is, rather than resist what is (or isn't.) Hmmmm.....accept that I feel anxious and irritated a lot of the time lately. Accept that it will take me a very long time to settle in to this house because I am only beginning to discover who I will be in my next incarnation. Accept that my husband snores most nights and it will affect my sleep. Accept that right now I feel like I have nothing of value to share. Accept. Breathe in. Accept. Breathe out. Accept.
And the more I allowed myself to acknowledge, accept and breathe, the more space I was able to free up inside my head. Which led me to the thought that I didn't need to tackle every challenge in my creative life all at once; and that trying to do so was robbing me of the joy and appreciation I generally feel for the life I have. Instead, I decided to try just tuning in as completely as possible to one magic moment in my life each day. I knew that if I could focus on the finding the goodness and absorb the preciousness of even one moment every twenty-four hours, then I could string those moments together and change my perspective.
Here are a few of the moments that have composed my life lately:
Last Sunday, my 8 year old struck out four times out of four at-bats, during the third tournament game of the weekend. Saturday night he had gotten his first base hit as an All-Star and even though his team had not won that game, he was happy with his contributions to their effort and satisfied that he could not have done more to change the outcome. Of course, by Sunday, I was growing more anxious each time he stepped up to to home plate. But after all the seasons the two boys have spent participating in sports, I certainly had more sense than to go within 100 yards of the dugout, for fear that he would slap me with a restraining order! So I dutifully switched empty Gatorade bottles for full ones and kept my mouth shut. Astounding, I know, to those of you who know me well, but I sincerely try not to embarrass the boys on purpose. Apparently, my efforts in this regard are completely futile, as I have been indirectly informed that I am often an embarassment to them, even without trying. I wondered and worried about how he would feel following the game, because this kid is Mount Rushmore on the field. No emotion, no anger, no expression of negativity whatsoever. But in true Braeden fashion, the only thing he said after the game was "Mom, not very many kids make All-Stars their first year of kid-pitch." I wholeheartedly agreed and told him that his swings were level and his stance looked great....but he needed to keep his head lowered and jump on the pitch a little faster. And that was it. He ate ice cream, took a shower and went to bed. But when he got up on Monday, he wanted to go hit a bucket of baseballs because somewhere in the night he had decided that he would "be a hitter". It was another incredible lesson for me in positive thinking and taking a course of action. It was also magical and rewarding to be taught this lesson by my 8 year old.
Another night this week, my 10 year old began to hug his brother before he goes to bed at night....and trust me, that is a M-I-R-A-C-L-E, plain and simple. I am not at all sure what prompted this behavior but I make notice of it every night that it happens and let them both know how rewarding it is for me to see them be kind to one another. I think this was the same night that I was standing in the kitchen eating a giant, soft chocolate chip cookie that Braeden brought me from Subway, while my husband was grilling himself a steak, the TarHeels were winning their College World Series game on ESPN, and both of my boys were playing catch, TOGETHER, in the backyard, without trying to kill or maim each other.
And these are just a few of those type of magical moments. We are headed to Great Wolf Lodge tomorrow for a one-night, two-day, mini vacation. There are sure to be pictures you don't care to see posted on Facebook by Monday, so status-checkers be forewarned. I guess the reality is that I write this blog as much for myself as I do the reader(s). It is a way for me to organize my thoughts, float my feelings out into the great unknown and create a history that might one day interest my children. Nothing more, nothing less. And I thank you all for the opportunity to share....even sporadically. Happy Weekend!
I have transitioned from the mother of a Dixie Youth baseball player to the mother of a Dixie Youth All-Star and I have discovered that "All-Star" is really just a code word meaning "write us another check for 100.00 and drive at least 50 miles one-way every weekend to play in tournaments against major league baseball players who are allegedly 8 to 10 years old, but have corporate sponsors, tour buses and pitching coaches." To summarize, I have been really busy.
But I have also been lacking the energy and inspiration that is necessary for me to write. Typically, when I sit down to compose, it is on a day when I don't have the children and I have had several random ideas churning inside my head for a few days. Like most Kevin Spacey movies, the broad brain-bound themes seem unrelated until I am in front of the keyboard and then they start to weave themselves together in ways that often amaze and surprise me. After a few edits to make certain that the words I have typed precisely reflect what I am trying to convey, I hit "post" and then obsess for a few hours over how many people are taking the time to read what I have written and what kind of feedback they are providing.
But when your days are 14 to 16 hours long and you collapse into bed with over half of your to-do list still un-done, there is no brain space for random ideas to trickle in, much less flow out. Honestly, I have felt moderate levels of anxiety about the lack of thought and feeling in my days, fearing that it might be a long while before I could re-connect with myself on a note-worthy level. But somewhere in the midst of the last seven days it occurred to me that maybe I was worrying too much and trying too hard. Like an epiphany I once had in the Madison Food Lion late on a Friday night, this thought struck me in a moment of absent-mindedness. That particular Friday I was wandering the aisles sans a grocery list, when the teenage baggers commandeered the store's sound system and began blasting Metallica's "Enter Sandman." I don't remember the particular issue at that point in my life but I remember having been teary-eyed for days and pleading to the Universe for an unmistakable sign that would point me in the direction I needed to go. And so it was that during the second chorus of "Ex-it light.....En-ter ni-ight..." the store manager awoke from his stupor and right there in the middle of the pickle aisle, the Universe sent me, "Let It Be....Let It Be....Let It Be, Oh, Let It Be....." Verily, I say unto you, that the angelic voice of the Young Paul McCartney whispered words of wisdom to me under the Friday night lights on the outskirts of produce!
I have told you all that to tell you this....last week it was not the voice of Paul McCartney or James Hatfiled in my ear, but the feeling of being awestruck was exactly the same. This time, I was standing at my kitchen sink rinsing out the plastic snack containers from Jackson's day camp lunchbox and the word that undeniably struck me was, "Accept." As in, accept what is, rather than resist what is (or isn't.) Hmmmm.....accept that I feel anxious and irritated a lot of the time lately. Accept that it will take me a very long time to settle in to this house because I am only beginning to discover who I will be in my next incarnation. Accept that my husband snores most nights and it will affect my sleep. Accept that right now I feel like I have nothing of value to share. Accept. Breathe in. Accept. Breathe out. Accept.
And the more I allowed myself to acknowledge, accept and breathe, the more space I was able to free up inside my head. Which led me to the thought that I didn't need to tackle every challenge in my creative life all at once; and that trying to do so was robbing me of the joy and appreciation I generally feel for the life I have. Instead, I decided to try just tuning in as completely as possible to one magic moment in my life each day. I knew that if I could focus on the finding the goodness and absorb the preciousness of even one moment every twenty-four hours, then I could string those moments together and change my perspective.
Here are a few of the moments that have composed my life lately:
Last Sunday, my 8 year old struck out four times out of four at-bats, during the third tournament game of the weekend. Saturday night he had gotten his first base hit as an All-Star and even though his team had not won that game, he was happy with his contributions to their effort and satisfied that he could not have done more to change the outcome. Of course, by Sunday, I was growing more anxious each time he stepped up to to home plate. But after all the seasons the two boys have spent participating in sports, I certainly had more sense than to go within 100 yards of the dugout, for fear that he would slap me with a restraining order! So I dutifully switched empty Gatorade bottles for full ones and kept my mouth shut. Astounding, I know, to those of you who know me well, but I sincerely try not to embarrass the boys on purpose. Apparently, my efforts in this regard are completely futile, as I have been indirectly informed that I am often an embarassment to them, even without trying. I wondered and worried about how he would feel following the game, because this kid is Mount Rushmore on the field. No emotion, no anger, no expression of negativity whatsoever. But in true Braeden fashion, the only thing he said after the game was "Mom, not very many kids make All-Stars their first year of kid-pitch." I wholeheartedly agreed and told him that his swings were level and his stance looked great....but he needed to keep his head lowered and jump on the pitch a little faster. And that was it. He ate ice cream, took a shower and went to bed. But when he got up on Monday, he wanted to go hit a bucket of baseballs because somewhere in the night he had decided that he would "be a hitter". It was another incredible lesson for me in positive thinking and taking a course of action. It was also magical and rewarding to be taught this lesson by my 8 year old.
Another night this week, my 10 year old began to hug his brother before he goes to bed at night....and trust me, that is a M-I-R-A-C-L-E, plain and simple. I am not at all sure what prompted this behavior but I make notice of it every night that it happens and let them both know how rewarding it is for me to see them be kind to one another. I think this was the same night that I was standing in the kitchen eating a giant, soft chocolate chip cookie that Braeden brought me from Subway, while my husband was grilling himself a steak, the TarHeels were winning their College World Series game on ESPN, and both of my boys were playing catch, TOGETHER, in the backyard, without trying to kill or maim each other.
And these are just a few of those type of magical moments. We are headed to Great Wolf Lodge tomorrow for a one-night, two-day, mini vacation. There are sure to be pictures you don't care to see posted on Facebook by Monday, so status-checkers be forewarned. I guess the reality is that I write this blog as much for myself as I do the reader(s). It is a way for me to organize my thoughts, float my feelings out into the great unknown and create a history that might one day interest my children. Nothing more, nothing less. And I thank you all for the opportunity to share....even sporadically. Happy Weekend!
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Happily Ever After
It is 11:28 PM and I really should be going to bed. But instead, I am listening to my children tossing and turning in the bedroom that they share at 212 S. Wilson Street. For those of you that have never visited this happy little house, comically referred to as The Leaning Pine Plantation, you can't possibly appreciate the smallness of this dwelling. Literally, we crawl over top of each other to brush our teeth or pee, and we have not had an indoor place for all three (or four) of us to sit and eat together at home in more than five years.
But back in 2006 when I moved here, the lack of size was just what I needed. Because I had been more responsible for calling an end to our sputtering marriage and because I had been the parent who packed the car and drove out of the driveway, I wanted to be as close to my grieving children as possible. This house was newly renovated, affordable, close to their school and cheerful. It represented all the possibility of who the three of us could become. And thankfully, their Dad was gracious enough to come with the boys and me on their first visit here; to help ease their transition and to remind me to get chain locks for both of the doors.
It was Jackson who first described our miniscule residence as "The Happy Little House." I have pictures of the first weekend the three of us ever spent here, when there were snowflakes falling outside and they had a picnic, complete with chicken nuggets, on the kitchen floor because there were not yet any barstools at the counter. I also remember crying for hours while I put the barstools together, sitting in the doorway of their bedroom and praying to an invisible force that they would sleep through the night. At the time it seemed perfectly reasonable to assume that if they had a place to sit and they could find the peace to rest here when they were tired, then assuredly, we would somehow find a way to survive the path I had started us down.
They were 5 and 3 at the time, and the mistakes I made, both personally and parentally, in our first weeks and months here were innumerable.
Imagine the depth of delight that danced in my soul tonight as we sat on the couch together, just the three of us, and talked about all the memories we have made in the five years we have spent here. The first thing they remembered was the snow and the picnic. After that, it was the summer day when we planted the Crepe Myrtle Family Tree the first time Mr. Gerald came to visit us in NC. We laughed about the days spent on the Slip n' Slide (truly an instrument of death given the slope of our backyard) and the friends who have become "chosen family" during our time here. We discussed the gratitude we feel to be moving on because of happy circumstances, when so many around us have been relocated because of floods and earthquakes. Not once did they bring up the mistakes or the sadness or the fear that enveloped us all in the beginning. And they even refrained from pointing out the fact that I still haven't achieved parental perfection :0.
Sincerely, I am proud that history will show that we not only survived the years on Wilson Street, but that we also thrived in every imaginable way. By the time we have been at 798 West Jackson Street for this long, they will be 15 and 13. But given how late in life I waited to birth them, I will be old and crazy(ier) and hopefully, more mellowed by then. As Florida Jefferson would say, we are definitely "Movin' On Up". Each of them will have their own rooms and there is a space they call the "clubhouse" where they can escape my watchful eye. We will actually have a sit-down bathtub and a new dining room table that seats eight (or more) is being delivered at 10:15 on Friday morning. There is an enormous kitchen, a fenced-in backyard and a deck big enough to celebrate life with all comers, chosen and biological.
Most importantly, the House I Have Not Yet Named will one day hold the experiences of who we were as we melded into a family of four. Ultimately, it will become the Home of Our Choosing, with no previous memories or ghosts or energies from the lives we led before we joined together. Of course, their Dad will continue to have a spare key so that he can come and go as necessary. And hopefully, both of the boys' families will continue to defy the odds by genuinely liking each other and cooperating for their benefit at nearly every opportunity. Ironically enough, sometimes the only way to continue to "love and cherish" is to create enough space that both parents can live as they choose.
And so it is the last night that Jackson and Braeden will ever spend here. Tomorrow, they will go home to their Dad and the gigantic house we had "back in the olden days when we all lived together", as Braeden says. Except now it is simply, Dad's House....where the memories of how the three of them forged a family are kept, along with the bikes and the basketball goal and the neighborhood friends. Life has truly turned out beautifully for all involved. Definitely not the Hallmark version and maybe a little warped, but we are truly blessed to have all lived...Happily Ever After.
But back in 2006 when I moved here, the lack of size was just what I needed. Because I had been more responsible for calling an end to our sputtering marriage and because I had been the parent who packed the car and drove out of the driveway, I wanted to be as close to my grieving children as possible. This house was newly renovated, affordable, close to their school and cheerful. It represented all the possibility of who the three of us could become. And thankfully, their Dad was gracious enough to come with the boys and me on their first visit here; to help ease their transition and to remind me to get chain locks for both of the doors.
It was Jackson who first described our miniscule residence as "The Happy Little House." I have pictures of the first weekend the three of us ever spent here, when there were snowflakes falling outside and they had a picnic, complete with chicken nuggets, on the kitchen floor because there were not yet any barstools at the counter. I also remember crying for hours while I put the barstools together, sitting in the doorway of their bedroom and praying to an invisible force that they would sleep through the night. At the time it seemed perfectly reasonable to assume that if they had a place to sit and they could find the peace to rest here when they were tired, then assuredly, we would somehow find a way to survive the path I had started us down.
They were 5 and 3 at the time, and the mistakes I made, both personally and parentally, in our first weeks and months here were innumerable.
Imagine the depth of delight that danced in my soul tonight as we sat on the couch together, just the three of us, and talked about all the memories we have made in the five years we have spent here. The first thing they remembered was the snow and the picnic. After that, it was the summer day when we planted the Crepe Myrtle Family Tree the first time Mr. Gerald came to visit us in NC. We laughed about the days spent on the Slip n' Slide (truly an instrument of death given the slope of our backyard) and the friends who have become "chosen family" during our time here. We discussed the gratitude we feel to be moving on because of happy circumstances, when so many around us have been relocated because of floods and earthquakes. Not once did they bring up the mistakes or the sadness or the fear that enveloped us all in the beginning. And they even refrained from pointing out the fact that I still haven't achieved parental perfection :0.
Sincerely, I am proud that history will show that we not only survived the years on Wilson Street, but that we also thrived in every imaginable way. By the time we have been at 798 West Jackson Street for this long, they will be 15 and 13. But given how late in life I waited to birth them, I will be old and crazy(ier) and hopefully, more mellowed by then. As Florida Jefferson would say, we are definitely "Movin' On Up". Each of them will have their own rooms and there is a space they call the "clubhouse" where they can escape my watchful eye. We will actually have a sit-down bathtub and a new dining room table that seats eight (or more) is being delivered at 10:15 on Friday morning. There is an enormous kitchen, a fenced-in backyard and a deck big enough to celebrate life with all comers, chosen and biological.
Most importantly, the House I Have Not Yet Named will one day hold the experiences of who we were as we melded into a family of four. Ultimately, it will become the Home of Our Choosing, with no previous memories or ghosts or energies from the lives we led before we joined together. Of course, their Dad will continue to have a spare key so that he can come and go as necessary. And hopefully, both of the boys' families will continue to defy the odds by genuinely liking each other and cooperating for their benefit at nearly every opportunity. Ironically enough, sometimes the only way to continue to "love and cherish" is to create enough space that both parents can live as they choose.
And so it is the last night that Jackson and Braeden will ever spend here. Tomorrow, they will go home to their Dad and the gigantic house we had "back in the olden days when we all lived together", as Braeden says. Except now it is simply, Dad's House....where the memories of how the three of them forged a family are kept, along with the bikes and the basketball goal and the neighborhood friends. Life has truly turned out beautifully for all involved. Definitely not the Hallmark version and maybe a little warped, but we are truly blessed to have all lived...Happily Ever After.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
My 1st Day on Earth Day
In less than 24 hours I will begin my 46th revolution around the sun. Typically, my birthday is great cause for celebration for at least a week or two, but honestly, tonight, I feel like shit. Earlier today, I had to leave my husband and thankfully, that is a task that never gets easier. In this moment, I am burdened by the knowledge that we have both spent the last seven days and innumerable dollars, trying to create happy memories for my children during their Spring Break recess. Our efforts have been rewarded by two boys who fought almost continuously, periodically talked back to us in disrespectful tones and cried every night for their daddy in a way that I doubt they ever cry for me.
Of course, during the last seven days we also managed a trip to the Hard Rock Cafe, a Jimmy Buffett concert and our first major league baseball game, the Tampa Rays vs. the Chicago White Sox. In between these events, we slept late and rode bikes and laughed and ate huge, juicy, locally grown strawberries every morning for breakfast. And today, I have safely traveled back "home", started washing the dirty clothes and begun to make the to-do lists that will direct the next few days of my re-entry. And I have posted the undeniable proof of our most excellent Spring Break Trip on Facebook. But there are parts of me that still yearn for perfection, or at least a more reasonable facsimile of perfection.
I want to be thinner and smarter and a better manager of money. I want to exercise more, worry less and be more appreciative of the blessings of my life. More than any of that, I want to stop hearing hurtful words coming out of my mouth when I am rebuking my children. I want to protect them from certain phrases and tones, yet it is those voices that reverberate on my worst days. I wonder if they will ever know that I cry for them on nights like tonight? I wonder if they will ever know, deep in the recesses of their hearts, that none of my 16,425 days thus far would be as meaningful if I had not had the chance to be their Mom? Because sometimes, even on the night before my birthday, I feel very frightened.
But if I have learned anything at all in the past 45 revolutions it is this: The only defense we have against fear is gratitude. And the only thing we can control is our response to the happenings in our lives. Tonight, my beautiful boys are healthy and their tummies are full and they are warm and sleeping in peace. And tonight, my amazing, generous husband is healthy and cool and sleeping in peace. I am the only one of us who is still awake worrying and fretting...and that makes me the lucky one.
I once read a story about a mother who stressed over the details of creating an absolutely perfect birthday party for her one-year old....the cake, the decorations, the guest list, the gifts. Except that when the party started her daughter was sleeping. And then, when she did awaken to a house full of strangers and her mother's expectations, she was overwhelmed and fussy. However, there was one picture from the party where the Mom was holding her daughter as she blew out the candle and in her mind, that picture was perfection...or a reasonable facsimile. To wit, the mother concluded that parenting was going to mean that 95% of her time would be spent in preparation and planning for the 5% that would be pure magic. I tend to agree with that assessment, although having been working this gig for more than ten years now, some days I am actually able to appreciate what a privilege it is to be planning for magical beings!
The most spectacular moment of our vacation occurred Sunday night when my daughter-in-law and son-in-law prepared a birthday feast for me. The food was unbelievable and my only job was to drink a most excellent glass of wine and be served at a beautifully set table. Before dinner, my granddaughter, who is 3, sang the blessing she learned at pre-school. After dinner my grandson, who is almost 2, actually gave me a kiss and sang "Happy Birthday" to me. And my own sons, 10 and 8, wore clean polo shirts and behaved with their best manners for the entire 2 1/2 hours that we were there*. I had cake and ice cream and thoughtful presents that were given to me by people who know me well and love me unfailingly. It truly felt as if my very existence in their lives was being celebrated. Which is more than some people get in an entire lifetime, much less during the course of one dinner.
I sincerely thank each of you that takes the time to read the ramblings that chronicle what I think, feel and ponder and I deeply appreciate the weight of the emotions you absorb for me as I unload them in these posts. You allow me to travel more lightly and live with a level of perspective that can come only from sharing and examination. It is my hope that 46 will be the year that I focus more on gratitude and peace than worries and weight. But alas, these are the gifts I must learn to give myself.
* I know that on paper I appear to be a mathematical mystery. Suffice it to say that my husband is considerably older than me and that my grandchildren have been graciously shared with me by his daughter and her husband.
Of course, during the last seven days we also managed a trip to the Hard Rock Cafe, a Jimmy Buffett concert and our first major league baseball game, the Tampa Rays vs. the Chicago White Sox. In between these events, we slept late and rode bikes and laughed and ate huge, juicy, locally grown strawberries every morning for breakfast. And today, I have safely traveled back "home", started washing the dirty clothes and begun to make the to-do lists that will direct the next few days of my re-entry. And I have posted the undeniable proof of our most excellent Spring Break Trip on Facebook. But there are parts of me that still yearn for perfection, or at least a more reasonable facsimile of perfection.
I want to be thinner and smarter and a better manager of money. I want to exercise more, worry less and be more appreciative of the blessings of my life. More than any of that, I want to stop hearing hurtful words coming out of my mouth when I am rebuking my children. I want to protect them from certain phrases and tones, yet it is those voices that reverberate on my worst days. I wonder if they will ever know that I cry for them on nights like tonight? I wonder if they will ever know, deep in the recesses of their hearts, that none of my 16,425 days thus far would be as meaningful if I had not had the chance to be their Mom? Because sometimes, even on the night before my birthday, I feel very frightened.
But if I have learned anything at all in the past 45 revolutions it is this: The only defense we have against fear is gratitude. And the only thing we can control is our response to the happenings in our lives. Tonight, my beautiful boys are healthy and their tummies are full and they are warm and sleeping in peace. And tonight, my amazing, generous husband is healthy and cool and sleeping in peace. I am the only one of us who is still awake worrying and fretting...and that makes me the lucky one.
I once read a story about a mother who stressed over the details of creating an absolutely perfect birthday party for her one-year old....the cake, the decorations, the guest list, the gifts. Except that when the party started her daughter was sleeping. And then, when she did awaken to a house full of strangers and her mother's expectations, she was overwhelmed and fussy. However, there was one picture from the party where the Mom was holding her daughter as she blew out the candle and in her mind, that picture was perfection...or a reasonable facsimile. To wit, the mother concluded that parenting was going to mean that 95% of her time would be spent in preparation and planning for the 5% that would be pure magic. I tend to agree with that assessment, although having been working this gig for more than ten years now, some days I am actually able to appreciate what a privilege it is to be planning for magical beings!
The most spectacular moment of our vacation occurred Sunday night when my daughter-in-law and son-in-law prepared a birthday feast for me. The food was unbelievable and my only job was to drink a most excellent glass of wine and be served at a beautifully set table. Before dinner, my granddaughter, who is 3, sang the blessing she learned at pre-school. After dinner my grandson, who is almost 2, actually gave me a kiss and sang "Happy Birthday" to me. And my own sons, 10 and 8, wore clean polo shirts and behaved with their best manners for the entire 2 1/2 hours that we were there*. I had cake and ice cream and thoughtful presents that were given to me by people who know me well and love me unfailingly. It truly felt as if my very existence in their lives was being celebrated. Which is more than some people get in an entire lifetime, much less during the course of one dinner.
I sincerely thank each of you that takes the time to read the ramblings that chronicle what I think, feel and ponder and I deeply appreciate the weight of the emotions you absorb for me as I unload them in these posts. You allow me to travel more lightly and live with a level of perspective that can come only from sharing and examination. It is my hope that 46 will be the year that I focus more on gratitude and peace than worries and weight. But alas, these are the gifts I must learn to give myself.
* I know that on paper I appear to be a mathematical mystery. Suffice it to say that my husband is considerably older than me and that my grandchildren have been graciously shared with me by his daughter and her husband.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The Hardest Thing
"I'm learning to fly...but I ain't got wings...and coming down...is the hardest thing." - Tom Petty
According to The One Who Knows Me Best, my biggest problem is with Acceptance....in the beginning it was accepting what I did not have, and would not be given because of the inability of those around me to provide it. And now it is accepting that I have built a life where I have all that I need, most of what I want and people around me who stay there by choice. Yet, sometimes, like today, I still struggle mightily with how to accept the abundance and the love, and to determine precisely where I fit in the midst of the life I am creating. I am almost constantly trying to balance between being gracious, giving and grateful enough that I don't throw it all away or become too much for the people I need and want.
In my natural state, graciousness is not my calling. I am loud and brash and too often I speak in the native tongue of my ancestors....negativity and sarcasm. But, life experience and more than a few loving mentors have shown me that negativity and sarcasm are best served in miniscule amounts...and then only when they are dressed in humor and a heartfelt intention to be truly helpful. To say that I like being at the center of things is a gross understatement. I feast on the organization and construction of events, ensembles, dwellings and relationships. All of which is useful to the fact that I am currently moving my household, fighting for the funding of my profession, shepherding two boys through spring-sports and helping to plan a major fundraiser for a most deserving agency! The trick is not making those around me, especially my children, pay the price for my obsessive need to control all aspects of my world....I mean, my desire to be where the action happens.
Another Person Who Knows Me Pretty Well once very sweetly described me like sunshine...drawing people out of themselves and bringing them together in the open where they can celebrate and enjoy their lives. Of course, the sun is also a gaseous ball of fire that will burn the skin off your bones if you don't occasionally take shelter and slather on protective lotions. So I guess the analogy works regardless of the viewpoint! Certainly, I am not afraid to be open...or outspoken...or wrong. What I am afraid to do is stagnate and stop growing. Or to have those I love and the things I care about be anything less than they were intended to be. Of course, that often means that what I need to do most is stop and listen and trust that they know for themselves what they need to be. Often, I need to assist rather than direct.
Thus far, all I need to know in life, I learned from experience, and so I try to tune into the music beneath the chaos and dance through my days. Moving between the dark and the light, between the bitter and the sweet, between the taking it all for granted and knowing better than to take any bit of it for granted. I dance loudly and brashly and without rhythm a lot of the time, but I don't quit moving and I keep on trying. Trying so hard. Somedays trying too hard. So if you should happen to see me traveling life's by-ways, or at the center of a whirlwind, it is likely that I will be wearing this sign:
Caution Fellow Travelers:
According to The One Who Knows Me Best, my biggest problem is with Acceptance....in the beginning it was accepting what I did not have, and would not be given because of the inability of those around me to provide it. And now it is accepting that I have built a life where I have all that I need, most of what I want and people around me who stay there by choice. Yet, sometimes, like today, I still struggle mightily with how to accept the abundance and the love, and to determine precisely where I fit in the midst of the life I am creating. I am almost constantly trying to balance between being gracious, giving and grateful enough that I don't throw it all away or become too much for the people I need and want.
In my natural state, graciousness is not my calling. I am loud and brash and too often I speak in the native tongue of my ancestors....negativity and sarcasm. But, life experience and more than a few loving mentors have shown me that negativity and sarcasm are best served in miniscule amounts...and then only when they are dressed in humor and a heartfelt intention to be truly helpful. To say that I like being at the center of things is a gross understatement. I feast on the organization and construction of events, ensembles, dwellings and relationships. All of which is useful to the fact that I am currently moving my household, fighting for the funding of my profession, shepherding two boys through spring-sports and helping to plan a major fundraiser for a most deserving agency! The trick is not making those around me, especially my children, pay the price for my obsessive need to control all aspects of my world....I mean, my desire to be where the action happens.
Another Person Who Knows Me Pretty Well once very sweetly described me like sunshine...drawing people out of themselves and bringing them together in the open where they can celebrate and enjoy their lives. Of course, the sun is also a gaseous ball of fire that will burn the skin off your bones if you don't occasionally take shelter and slather on protective lotions. So I guess the analogy works regardless of the viewpoint! Certainly, I am not afraid to be open...or outspoken...or wrong. What I am afraid to do is stagnate and stop growing. Or to have those I love and the things I care about be anything less than they were intended to be. Of course, that often means that what I need to do most is stop and listen and trust that they know for themselves what they need to be. Often, I need to assist rather than direct.
Thus far, all I need to know in life, I learned from experience, and so I try to tune into the music beneath the chaos and dance through my days. Moving between the dark and the light, between the bitter and the sweet, between the taking it all for granted and knowing better than to take any bit of it for granted. I dance loudly and brashly and without rhythm a lot of the time, but I don't quit moving and I keep on trying. Trying so hard. Somedays trying too hard. So if you should happen to see me traveling life's by-ways, or at the center of a whirlwind, it is likely that I will be wearing this sign:
Caution Fellow Travelers:
I am trying to learn to step more gently and with greater Acceptance....
and it is an awkward, human process.
The Monkey Went A-Courtin'
Phase I of the Season of Transformation has been completed and the Monkey has wedded the Ballerina. For those of you who may think that sentence was written in Gaelic, or that I have been hitting a crack pipe, let me re-phrase......Along with all of the other important changes happening in the next few weeks, Tom and Angie's wedding has been accomplished.
Like most of the big events in life, this wedding had all the trappings of a cliche. A greying bearded bagpiper named J.V. (who actually held his fingers in a "V" when he introduced himself). Grown men in varying types of plaid skirts ordered off the Internet. A family tartan originally to be woven by hand in Scotland that ultimately had to be shipped UPS from a supplier in Charlotte. We had sweeping updos and kids in tuxedos and a picture frame with no picture where the guests could write messages by the front door. And yet, when Highland Cathedral began to ring through the rafters and the nine year-old she had longed for so many years waited at the foot of the staircase, every person present sat transfixed. Her beloved and his kilted/sashed children stood waiting beneath the Grant family crest that was draped with the fabric of their ancestors. And just as it does every moment of every day for someone somewhere, Love transformed Life.
I remember talking to her after their first date and thinking how "alive" she sounded. A ride on his motorcycle, dinner, time at his apartment sharing the stories of how their lives had arrived at this point in time. I remember that he had asked her out when she was wondering if Love would ever find her again....and how exactly that might happen to an overworked, divorced single Mom in scenic Mayodan, NC. Laughing, I remember re-assuring her that if I could find a Love eighteen years my senior, living three states away while living that same life in scenic Madison, NC, then it truly could, happen to anyone. I remember how nervous we both were when not two years later, he sank to his knee in New Orleans and asked her to promise him "forever", one more time.
During the past five years, their courtship and the blending of their families has been rough around the edges and more work than romance, if you look only at the details. That is true of all of our lives. But if you take a step back, and adjust your lens, you see the Hope and Joy of five individuals who have formed a family circle large enough to include all members, past and present. You see newlyweds, moving into their first new house together; a structure large enough to encircle all five of them as they journey towards the memories waiting to be made.
He had always wanted a traditional, Scottish ceremony...he is kind of cheesy that way and the cheesi-ness is a huge part of his charm. She didn't really care, she just wanted him to be happy. Making the people she loves happy is central to everything she does. She is the zen-artist Ying and I am the charts and lists Yang....she paints the big picture in broad, beautiful strokes and I research the types and qualities of the brushes she should be using. She drives me insane because she rarely says "no", pushes herself much too hard and takes way too much crap from people...especially from me. But just when I lose myself in exasperation, there she is... taking care of the kids so that I can battle my to-do list...texting me pictures of the shoes/hats/jewelry she is buying me at SteinMart for our next great adventure...staying up way too late helping me edit the blog I started only because she wanted us to do it together. We are literally the Best of Friends because we had both "trialed-and-errored" our way to being grown-ups before we came together; our interests were similar, our paths were parallel and our struggles were conjoined.
And so, I coordinated and graphed and employed my Wonder Twin brother to help me execute their plan. Our favored photographer captured the event on film, our preferred DJ spun tunes we were too tired to dance to and our ex-husbands sat with their families from a former life making conversation about our children and the loves of their current lives. Folks, we are not talking Hallmark Channel or Royal Wedding etiquette here. But, nonetheless, the room was filled with laughter and fellowhip and Rowdies and the kind of happy endings that can only come from unsteady beginnings. Because last night, while I watched to clock and packed up the decorations, she smeared cake icing on his bald head and watched boys, young and not-so-young, break dance. Last night, Love transformed Life...and the Monkey married the Ballerina.
Like most of the big events in life, this wedding had all the trappings of a cliche. A greying bearded bagpiper named J.V. (who actually held his fingers in a "V" when he introduced himself). Grown men in varying types of plaid skirts ordered off the Internet. A family tartan originally to be woven by hand in Scotland that ultimately had to be shipped UPS from a supplier in Charlotte. We had sweeping updos and kids in tuxedos and a picture frame with no picture where the guests could write messages by the front door. And yet, when Highland Cathedral began to ring through the rafters and the nine year-old she had longed for so many years waited at the foot of the staircase, every person present sat transfixed. Her beloved and his kilted/sashed children stood waiting beneath the Grant family crest that was draped with the fabric of their ancestors. And just as it does every moment of every day for someone somewhere, Love transformed Life.
I remember talking to her after their first date and thinking how "alive" she sounded. A ride on his motorcycle, dinner, time at his apartment sharing the stories of how their lives had arrived at this point in time. I remember that he had asked her out when she was wondering if Love would ever find her again....and how exactly that might happen to an overworked, divorced single Mom in scenic Mayodan, NC. Laughing, I remember re-assuring her that if I could find a Love eighteen years my senior, living three states away while living that same life in scenic Madison, NC, then it truly could, happen to anyone. I remember how nervous we both were when not two years later, he sank to his knee in New Orleans and asked her to promise him "forever", one more time.
During the past five years, their courtship and the blending of their families has been rough around the edges and more work than romance, if you look only at the details. That is true of all of our lives. But if you take a step back, and adjust your lens, you see the Hope and Joy of five individuals who have formed a family circle large enough to include all members, past and present. You see newlyweds, moving into their first new house together; a structure large enough to encircle all five of them as they journey towards the memories waiting to be made.
He had always wanted a traditional, Scottish ceremony...he is kind of cheesy that way and the cheesi-ness is a huge part of his charm. She didn't really care, she just wanted him to be happy. Making the people she loves happy is central to everything she does. She is the zen-artist Ying and I am the charts and lists Yang....she paints the big picture in broad, beautiful strokes and I research the types and qualities of the brushes she should be using. She drives me insane because she rarely says "no", pushes herself much too hard and takes way too much crap from people...especially from me. But just when I lose myself in exasperation, there she is... taking care of the kids so that I can battle my to-do list...texting me pictures of the shoes/hats/jewelry she is buying me at SteinMart for our next great adventure...staying up way too late helping me edit the blog I started only because she wanted us to do it together. We are literally the Best of Friends because we had both "trialed-and-errored" our way to being grown-ups before we came together; our interests were similar, our paths were parallel and our struggles were conjoined.
And so, I coordinated and graphed and employed my Wonder Twin brother to help me execute their plan. Our favored photographer captured the event on film, our preferred DJ spun tunes we were too tired to dance to and our ex-husbands sat with their families from a former life making conversation about our children and the loves of their current lives. Folks, we are not talking Hallmark Channel or Royal Wedding etiquette here. But, nonetheless, the room was filled with laughter and fellowhip and Rowdies and the kind of happy endings that can only come from unsteady beginnings. Because last night, while I watched to clock and packed up the decorations, she smeared cake icing on his bald head and watched boys, young and not-so-young, break dance. Last night, Love transformed Life...and the Monkey married the Ballerina.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The Fine Line
It seems that all around us people in various positions are trying to walk a fine line. The fine line between "military intervention" and an undeclared war. The fine line between radiation "exposure" and nuclear disaster. The fine line between Hating Dook and Loving Carolina. Now, even I realize that the last example is not within the same realm as the first two, in terms of magnitude. Nonetheless, this time of year for the TarHeel Nation, it is a VERY FINE, OFTEN FLUCTUATING, LINE.
As is typical of most folks I know, the boundaries we struggle with most often involve those closest to us. When does brotherly bonding become physical aggression between Jackson and Braeden? How do I know when to coddle, when to converse and when to kick ass? Is it really okay for me to harp on my husband about snacking late at night when my" fat" shorts from last summer are still eight pounds away? Am I really "happy" when my Rowdies complete a 5k or am I just "as happy as I can be" about it?
According to Henry Grayson, described by O magazine as imminent New York psychologist (so by God, he should know shouldn't he?), the degree of "specialness" we attribute to a relationship makes loving the "special" person more difficult. Which makes perfect sense when you think about it. Our society bombards with images and ingrained notions about how partners, lovers, best friends, siblings, parents and offspring ought to behave. But here in the Real World (and no, I don't mean the one on MTV where five complete strangers come together to see what happens when ....), in this Real World, our partners disappoint us, our lovers betray us, often with our best friends or our siblings, our parents continuously fall short and our children scream profanity at us in public. Not MY children, mind you, but other children I have seen and heard at Wal-Mart and Food Lion and on various sporting fields.
The eminent psychologist goes on to point out that it is not necessarily the actions of others that create our negative emotions. Rather it is that we have such unrealistic expectations of the role our loved ones will fill that we set ourselves up for heartbreak and pain. These expectations literally blind us to the love we once felt, or distance us from the bridges we are all seeking to build.
Which sounds great unless your lover/partner actually did run off with your nineteen year old sister and now they are pregnant with your seven year old daughter's step-sister/cousin. These kinds of scenarios have actually happened in a number of mediation cases I have had over the years...which always makes me grateful to come home to my "uncomplicated" life! Sounds like those folks are need of an "eminent" psychologist, but I doubt their particular means of transportation would make it as far as New York City.
And so, according to Henry Grayson, it is normal and natural that I walk a fine line with my best friend Angie. She is thinner than me, more fashionable than me, more patient than me and she writes a blog that is funnier and comes out more frequently than mine does. She also just bought a big house with a pool and a hot tub....all of which makes me feel "Tickled Green with Pride". Because we are best friends and we talk about EVERYTHING (word to the wise, and to our husbands!), I, of course, told her how happy I was for her and then blurted out that sometimes I felt soooo jealous! Not about the house so much as the blog and the fashion and the fact that the Bitch is SO SKINNY! She also happens to be more understanding and concerned for the feelings of others than I am so she was immediately went empathic and tried to convince me that there was nothing to be jealous of...how we would have great pool parties and she would help me shop for some cute summer things, blah, blah, blah. Then I reminded her of how she felt when my kids made the Honor Roll (again!) and her son struggles with learning issues that make him have to work twice as hard as the other kids in his class. She agreed, that she had felt happy and proud and envious, all at the same time.....Tickled Green with Pride.
So, I am wondering, if the unrealistic expectations we have of others affects how we perceive our relationships with them, how damaging are the unrealistic expectations we have for ourselves? To be SuperMoms, Ageless, Cellulite-less with Life-Changing Careers and Spotless Mansions? Are we really so angry at ourselves for being imperfect that we expect our loved ones to make us feel better about our lives by being more perfect? As I am not an eminent psychologist or an ageless, cellulite-less, supermom, I don't have the answers. But occasionally, I do have these moments when I can transcend all the bullshit that plagues me and I forget to try so hard.
Like when I am riding with Angie in her Red VW Convertible with the top down in the dark and we are singing Ke$ha songs...loudly. Or when my boys snuggle up to me, one on each side, clean and sweet after their showers, to watch WipeOut. Or when I have had just the right amount of Landshark (with lime), and I am swaying on the lawn with 20,000 other Parrotheads listening to Jimmy warble about being off the Coast of Carolina. My Perfect Life is made by stringing together enough of these moments that even for just a little while, I get over myself.
So, if you see me smiling and relaxing and feeling good about my life, I just have one request. Please DO NOT take my picture...I don't WANT to see how I look in print right now...and if you MUST take my picture...please make sure I am not standing next to Angie!
* if you want to read a hilarious, pee-your-pants kind of a blog, visit ettiquetteofirreverence@blogspot.com
As is typical of most folks I know, the boundaries we struggle with most often involve those closest to us. When does brotherly bonding become physical aggression between Jackson and Braeden? How do I know when to coddle, when to converse and when to kick ass? Is it really okay for me to harp on my husband about snacking late at night when my" fat" shorts from last summer are still eight pounds away? Am I really "happy" when my Rowdies complete a 5k or am I just "as happy as I can be" about it?
According to Henry Grayson, described by O magazine as imminent New York psychologist (so by God, he should know shouldn't he?), the degree of "specialness" we attribute to a relationship makes loving the "special" person more difficult. Which makes perfect sense when you think about it. Our society bombards with images and ingrained notions about how partners, lovers, best friends, siblings, parents and offspring ought to behave. But here in the Real World (and no, I don't mean the one on MTV where five complete strangers come together to see what happens when ....), in this Real World, our partners disappoint us, our lovers betray us, often with our best friends or our siblings, our parents continuously fall short and our children scream profanity at us in public. Not MY children, mind you, but other children I have seen and heard at Wal-Mart and Food Lion and on various sporting fields.
The eminent psychologist goes on to point out that it is not necessarily the actions of others that create our negative emotions. Rather it is that we have such unrealistic expectations of the role our loved ones will fill that we set ourselves up for heartbreak and pain. These expectations literally blind us to the love we once felt, or distance us from the bridges we are all seeking to build.
Which sounds great unless your lover/partner actually did run off with your nineteen year old sister and now they are pregnant with your seven year old daughter's step-sister/cousin. These kinds of scenarios have actually happened in a number of mediation cases I have had over the years...which always makes me grateful to come home to my "uncomplicated" life! Sounds like those folks are need of an "eminent" psychologist, but I doubt their particular means of transportation would make it as far as New York City.
And so, according to Henry Grayson, it is normal and natural that I walk a fine line with my best friend Angie. She is thinner than me, more fashionable than me, more patient than me and she writes a blog that is funnier and comes out more frequently than mine does. She also just bought a big house with a pool and a hot tub....all of which makes me feel "Tickled Green with Pride". Because we are best friends and we talk about EVERYTHING (word to the wise, and to our husbands!), I, of course, told her how happy I was for her and then blurted out that sometimes I felt soooo jealous! Not about the house so much as the blog and the fashion and the fact that the Bitch is SO SKINNY! She also happens to be more understanding and concerned for the feelings of others than I am so she was immediately went empathic and tried to convince me that there was nothing to be jealous of...how we would have great pool parties and she would help me shop for some cute summer things, blah, blah, blah. Then I reminded her of how she felt when my kids made the Honor Roll (again!) and her son struggles with learning issues that make him have to work twice as hard as the other kids in his class. She agreed, that she had felt happy and proud and envious, all at the same time.....Tickled Green with Pride.
So, I am wondering, if the unrealistic expectations we have of others affects how we perceive our relationships with them, how damaging are the unrealistic expectations we have for ourselves? To be SuperMoms, Ageless, Cellulite-less with Life-Changing Careers and Spotless Mansions? Are we really so angry at ourselves for being imperfect that we expect our loved ones to make us feel better about our lives by being more perfect? As I am not an eminent psychologist or an ageless, cellulite-less, supermom, I don't have the answers. But occasionally, I do have these moments when I can transcend all the bullshit that plagues me and I forget to try so hard.
Like when I am riding with Angie in her Red VW Convertible with the top down in the dark and we are singing Ke$ha songs...loudly. Or when my boys snuggle up to me, one on each side, clean and sweet after their showers, to watch WipeOut. Or when I have had just the right amount of Landshark (with lime), and I am swaying on the lawn with 20,000 other Parrotheads listening to Jimmy warble about being off the Coast of Carolina. My Perfect Life is made by stringing together enough of these moments that even for just a little while, I get over myself.
So, if you see me smiling and relaxing and feeling good about my life, I just have one request. Please DO NOT take my picture...I don't WANT to see how I look in print right now...and if you MUST take my picture...please make sure I am not standing next to Angie!
* if you want to read a hilarious, pee-your-pants kind of a blog, visit ettiquetteofirreverence@blogspot.com
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Takin' Care of Busy-Ness
"Hello Darkness, my old friend....I've come to talk to you again...Because a vision softly creeping...Left it's seeds while I was sleeping" - "Sounds of Silence", Simon and Garfunkel
Well, not exactly. Actually I am up at 3:58 am this Saturday morning because my youngest child tried to "sleep"-over at a friend's house and only manged to "sleep" until 3:07 am. How ironic that when he was three months old and he woke me up at 3:00 am to rescue him from hunger and the wooden bars of his crib I never felt as honored as I do now that he is 8 1/2 and wants me to come galloping up in my Ford Explorer to rescue him from the emptiness of waking up away from home. Just proves that it is all in your perspective isn't it?
I have been AWOL from the blogosphere for thirteen-plus days while the screaming demands of my day-to-day drowned out the whisperings of my creativity. Honestly, it is pretty damn hard to hear the voice inside your soul over the sounds of dinner waiting to be cooked, homework waiting to be checked, oil waiting to be changed and the roar of Monster Jam II for Wii. Imperceptibly, my creative voice is like a foreign film with sub-titles; she requires total focus and intense concentration if you want to understand what the hell she is trying to! And so, dear reader, I dedicate this blog to Braeden Thomas Miller, my baby (but don't tell him I called him that), who found a way to provide me with the solitude and silence I find necessary to write.
According to Webster via the World Wide Web, the word "busy" can be either an adjective or a verb, meaning, "engaged in action: occupied" or "full of activity: bustling"; both off which describe the state of my life the past two weeks. But Webster goes on to also offer "foolishly or intrusively active: meddling" or "full of distracting detail: busy design", which also describes my life during the past two weeks. According to O magazine, purveyor of wisdom for the modern woman, "busy-ness" is actually a state of mind that can be overcome or re-framed by focusing exclusively on one activity at a time and breathing through the valuable experience of each moment of your day. RIGHT! The reason I receive snippets of O magazine via e-mail is because I do not have time to focus on one activity....and because it would take me a month to actually drive to a store, purchase a paper copy and find time to read any magazine.
And lately, I have spent the valuable experience of each moment trying to CATCH my damn breath! But Oprah, or more accurately, Oprah's staff writers, make an excellent point. Life can easily get to a stage where you are Doing more than you are Being. Where you are Doing For those you love rather than Being With those you love. And if I have learned anything from being the mother of male children, I have learned that they don't care about clean floors, or folded laundry or paying the water bill. They care about shooting hoops, riding the go-kart and grilling hot dogs. They most certainly do not care that between now and Mother's Day, I am helping to plan a wedding, a pre-wedding party, a Spring Break trip, two Buffett concerts and a non-profit fundraiser. Oh yeah, and I am moving. And I also need to show up at my paying job occasionally, because according to Webster, one definition of "business" is "the principal activity in your life that you do to earn money: occupation."
I feel certain Oprah would tell me that my life is "full and abundant"...or, more likely, she would have one of her zillions of staff members post the message on her web magazine and forward it to my e-mail. Honestly and sincerely, I am not complaining and I know that I am not alone...everyone around me seems to be juggling as fast as they can right now. I also know that when I am at my busy-est with no time to breathe is the exactly when I should be making time to slow down and breath. But somedays I don't put "first things first" as Stephen Covey would say, rather I take the Ms. Pac-Man approach and gobble up energy and comfort where I can find it.
For instance, while this blog has been marinating in my head for the last few days I have been surviving on protein shakes and Sweettarts. Protein shakes because I don't want to look like Jabba the Hut in the wedding photos and Sweettarts because they are sweet and tart and I can eat five million of them before bedtime without ruining the "cleansing effect" of the protein drinks. (Sidebar: If you drink Atkins protein drinks on even a semi-regular basis, stay close to a well-ventilated toileting facility.) I have also been listening to the new Rihanna song, "S&M", very loudly, when the boys aren't in the car, not because I truly love the smell of "sex in the air", but because it makes me feel Rowdy to sing the line, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me." For posterity's sake, please note that chains and whips do not excite me...but the taboo of singing that line at the top of my lungs while racing from work activity #437 to Mom activity #876 sure does!
I know that I must be exactly where Fate intends me to be right now, because I stumble across inspiration in the oddest places. A t-shirt that reads, "If Karma doesn't hit you....I will." A Facebook message reminding me of a carefree springtime in Chapel Hill twenty-one years ago. My dearest friend finding comfort and peace in the new home he is making for himself and his children. A phone call at 3:07 am saying that someone wants to come home...to me...and the life I am making for mine.
I saw a bumper sticker on the back of a beat-up Ford pick-up last Monday. It said, "Just Because You Have One Doesn't Mean You Have To Be One." Immediately, I laughed at loud, realizing all the possibilities that captured by that one phrase. Since then, I have realized that just because I HAVE a To-Do list, doesn't mean I have to BE a To-Do list. So, as always, I am grateful for your concern and thank you for missing me. I have been missing me too. Starting now, 5:31 am, I am going to try to breathe...and smile...and give myself permission to do whatever it is I need to do in order to accomplish what I can get done. Full and Abundant....Full and Abundant....that sounds and feels so much better than "Busy." Go Heels!
Well, not exactly. Actually I am up at 3:58 am this Saturday morning because my youngest child tried to "sleep"-over at a friend's house and only manged to "sleep" until 3:07 am. How ironic that when he was three months old and he woke me up at 3:00 am to rescue him from hunger and the wooden bars of his crib I never felt as honored as I do now that he is 8 1/2 and wants me to come galloping up in my Ford Explorer to rescue him from the emptiness of waking up away from home. Just proves that it is all in your perspective isn't it?
I have been AWOL from the blogosphere for thirteen-plus days while the screaming demands of my day-to-day drowned out the whisperings of my creativity. Honestly, it is pretty damn hard to hear the voice inside your soul over the sounds of dinner waiting to be cooked, homework waiting to be checked, oil waiting to be changed and the roar of Monster Jam II for Wii. Imperceptibly, my creative voice is like a foreign film with sub-titles; she requires total focus and intense concentration if you want to understand what the hell she is trying to! And so, dear reader, I dedicate this blog to Braeden Thomas Miller, my baby (but don't tell him I called him that), who found a way to provide me with the solitude and silence I find necessary to write.
According to Webster via the World Wide Web, the word "busy" can be either an adjective or a verb, meaning, "engaged in action: occupied" or "full of activity: bustling"; both off which describe the state of my life the past two weeks. But Webster goes on to also offer "foolishly or intrusively active: meddling" or "full of distracting detail: busy design", which also describes my life during the past two weeks. According to O magazine, purveyor of wisdom for the modern woman, "busy-ness" is actually a state of mind that can be overcome or re-framed by focusing exclusively on one activity at a time and breathing through the valuable experience of each moment of your day. RIGHT! The reason I receive snippets of O magazine via e-mail is because I do not have time to focus on one activity....and because it would take me a month to actually drive to a store, purchase a paper copy and find time to read any magazine.
And lately, I have spent the valuable experience of each moment trying to CATCH my damn breath! But Oprah, or more accurately, Oprah's staff writers, make an excellent point. Life can easily get to a stage where you are Doing more than you are Being. Where you are Doing For those you love rather than Being With those you love. And if I have learned anything from being the mother of male children, I have learned that they don't care about clean floors, or folded laundry or paying the water bill. They care about shooting hoops, riding the go-kart and grilling hot dogs. They most certainly do not care that between now and Mother's Day, I am helping to plan a wedding, a pre-wedding party, a Spring Break trip, two Buffett concerts and a non-profit fundraiser. Oh yeah, and I am moving. And I also need to show up at my paying job occasionally, because according to Webster, one definition of "business" is "the principal activity in your life that you do to earn money: occupation."
I feel certain Oprah would tell me that my life is "full and abundant"...or, more likely, she would have one of her zillions of staff members post the message on her web magazine and forward it to my e-mail. Honestly and sincerely, I am not complaining and I know that I am not alone...everyone around me seems to be juggling as fast as they can right now. I also know that when I am at my busy-est with no time to breathe is the exactly when I should be making time to slow down and breath. But somedays I don't put "first things first" as Stephen Covey would say, rather I take the Ms. Pac-Man approach and gobble up energy and comfort where I can find it.
For instance, while this blog has been marinating in my head for the last few days I have been surviving on protein shakes and Sweettarts. Protein shakes because I don't want to look like Jabba the Hut in the wedding photos and Sweettarts because they are sweet and tart and I can eat five million of them before bedtime without ruining the "cleansing effect" of the protein drinks. (Sidebar: If you drink Atkins protein drinks on even a semi-regular basis, stay close to a well-ventilated toileting facility.) I have also been listening to the new Rihanna song, "S&M", very loudly, when the boys aren't in the car, not because I truly love the smell of "sex in the air", but because it makes me feel Rowdy to sing the line, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me." For posterity's sake, please note that chains and whips do not excite me...but the taboo of singing that line at the top of my lungs while racing from work activity #437 to Mom activity #876 sure does!
I know that I must be exactly where Fate intends me to be right now, because I stumble across inspiration in the oddest places. A t-shirt that reads, "If Karma doesn't hit you....I will." A Facebook message reminding me of a carefree springtime in Chapel Hill twenty-one years ago. My dearest friend finding comfort and peace in the new home he is making for himself and his children. A phone call at 3:07 am saying that someone wants to come home...to me...and the life I am making for mine.
I saw a bumper sticker on the back of a beat-up Ford pick-up last Monday. It said, "Just Because You Have One Doesn't Mean You Have To Be One." Immediately, I laughed at loud, realizing all the possibilities that captured by that one phrase. Since then, I have realized that just because I HAVE a To-Do list, doesn't mean I have to BE a To-Do list. So, as always, I am grateful for your concern and thank you for missing me. I have been missing me too. Starting now, 5:31 am, I am going to try to breathe...and smile...and give myself permission to do whatever it is I need to do in order to accomplish what I can get done. Full and Abundant....Full and Abundant....that sounds and feels so much better than "Busy." Go Heels!
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Morning Musings
It is 6:53 AM on an overcast Saturday morning in scenic Madison, North Carolina. Baby LeBron* is sleeping peacefully in his Carolina bed and I am listening to the sound of birds chirping in the backyard while floating lazily in a river of Gratitude. Grateful for the return of Spring, grateful for the stretch of "normal" we have been experiencing lately, grateful for all of the adventure that lies ahead. I am delighted to be awake, alone and writing. During the activity of "normal" life I lose touch with the stillness and thought that my writing voice requires. Fleeting worries will dance through my mind while I am driving the kids to school or washing dishes....do I have anything of value to say today? When will my "voice" return? Will my voice return? Oh shit...did I just MISS MY TURN? Isn't it ironic how my artistic voice speaks to me in italics but my oh-shit voice screams at me in capital letters?
I view writing as a gift given to me by the Universe so that my head and heart will not explode from carrying around the lessons of my life. Truly, my life internal expresses itself solely at the times and places of its' choosing. Otherwise, why would I be up at 6:53 on a Saturday morning when the Early Riser is at a sleepover and the SleepyHead is still asleep? Undoubtedly, I am in the employ of the creative flow and not vice versa. But honestly, I feel deeply blessed when the life internal calls me to do her bidding.
For the majority of my life I have submitted my thoughts, feelings, anxieties and hopes to the Great Beyond by detailing them on lined paper in journals of every sort. I have amassed boxes of composition books and themed hard covers that I kept inconsistently since I was eleven years old. Putting the chaos on paper has provided me with the structure, perspective and mental storage space to keep moving through my experiences. And there are two trusted individuals who know where the boxes are kept in the event of my untimely demise. Although if I were to expire on a timely schedule I suppose these two would also know what to do. When I am gone the journals will either be publishable or perishable...but that won't be my decision as I will have moved on to my next form and I will either be helping or haunting some one else, depending upon the situation.
I have had a few folks wondering what I have been doing since the last post and the Mother of one Rowdy in particular seemed to be quite worried about my emotional state. As is typical for me, periods of calm follow my periods of storminess. The last week has been filled with dentist appointments, custody mediations, basketball practices and worries about fitting into my clothes from last spring and summer. There have been many productive conversations about an upcoming wedding ceremony, a Kentucky Derby fundraiser, Spring Break travel plans, budget cuts and soccer sign-ups. We have made the A Honor Roll for fourth grade, the A/B Honor Roll for third grade and been told that we are now "just friends" with a certain pink-haired girl. To overuse a Hallmark phrase, it has been Blissfully Normal. And to paraphrase The Carpenters, there is still "so much of Life ahead."
So we have "found a place where there's room to grow." Which, for those of you who don't speak in phrases from 1970's love songs, means that we are going to be moving to a bigger house with a fenced in backyard and room for the boys to ride bikes. And each one of them will have their own bedroom which will exponentially increase the potential for World Peace. We moved to our Happy Little House (less than 1000 square feet!) over five years ago when their family was in transition and it has been perfect for us...cozy, comforting, convenient and manageable...all dire necessities during times of transition. But their families with each of their parents have now been reincarnated and we need a space that will take them in the next phases of their lives...where their friends can spend the night, they can have a basketball goal for shooting hoops and more than one person can pee at a time. As often happens, the new house fell into our laps at the most opportune moment. And while I was once was a person who declared that "the next time I move, they will be putting me in the crazy house or a hole in the ground", I now view "home" as wherever the people I love gather and rest their heads. During the last five years I have traded trying to establish enduring traditions for doing what works best for most of us at any given time....a lesson I have painstakingly and repeatedly been taught by my three male companions. (Don't panic....I mean my husband and my sons...I am no longer allowed/required to have multiple male companions!)
So, between now and June 1st there are two Buffett concerts, the Harlem Globetrotters, a family wedding, End-of-Grade tests, Spring Break, Derby Days and we are moving. Oh yeah, and I will turn 46 in the midst of all that. In case you are interested, I have decided to have a Pink Pirate theme this year...if you know me at all, you know that I relish the day set aside to Celebrate Me and I will eagerly embrace any excuse to eat store-bought cake slathered with Crisco-powdered sugar icing! For those of you planning ahead, there are only 46 shopping days left! But, I digress....Suffice it to say, that life is going to be busy. And that is just the stuff I know about so far! I have lived long enough to know that when you are cruising along on the "normal" road, Fate will throw a few unexpected curves and detours at you just to teach you flexibility while you travel. But as of this morning, Spring is starting to unwind, and the Sun is preparing for her grand return. As Karen and Richard would say, "We've only just begun...to live..." Again!
* Braeden has secretly nicknamed himself, "Baby LeBron" for his basketball prowess. I have learned from two unpleasant experiences that I am not allowed to refer to him that way in public. And someday he will learn the hard way that when your Mom blogs, no one's secrets are safe! For now, shhhh....it is our little secret and he is asleep!
I view writing as a gift given to me by the Universe so that my head and heart will not explode from carrying around the lessons of my life. Truly, my life internal expresses itself solely at the times and places of its' choosing. Otherwise, why would I be up at 6:53 on a Saturday morning when the Early Riser is at a sleepover and the SleepyHead is still asleep? Undoubtedly, I am in the employ of the creative flow and not vice versa. But honestly, I feel deeply blessed when the life internal calls me to do her bidding.
For the majority of my life I have submitted my thoughts, feelings, anxieties and hopes to the Great Beyond by detailing them on lined paper in journals of every sort. I have amassed boxes of composition books and themed hard covers that I kept inconsistently since I was eleven years old. Putting the chaos on paper has provided me with the structure, perspective and mental storage space to keep moving through my experiences. And there are two trusted individuals who know where the boxes are kept in the event of my untimely demise. Although if I were to expire on a timely schedule I suppose these two would also know what to do. When I am gone the journals will either be publishable or perishable...but that won't be my decision as I will have moved on to my next form and I will either be helping or haunting some one else, depending upon the situation.
I have had a few folks wondering what I have been doing since the last post and the Mother of one Rowdy in particular seemed to be quite worried about my emotional state. As is typical for me, periods of calm follow my periods of storminess. The last week has been filled with dentist appointments, custody mediations, basketball practices and worries about fitting into my clothes from last spring and summer. There have been many productive conversations about an upcoming wedding ceremony, a Kentucky Derby fundraiser, Spring Break travel plans, budget cuts and soccer sign-ups. We have made the A Honor Roll for fourth grade, the A/B Honor Roll for third grade and been told that we are now "just friends" with a certain pink-haired girl. To overuse a Hallmark phrase, it has been Blissfully Normal. And to paraphrase The Carpenters, there is still "so much of Life ahead."
So we have "found a place where there's room to grow." Which, for those of you who don't speak in phrases from 1970's love songs, means that we are going to be moving to a bigger house with a fenced in backyard and room for the boys to ride bikes. And each one of them will have their own bedroom which will exponentially increase the potential for World Peace. We moved to our Happy Little House (less than 1000 square feet!) over five years ago when their family was in transition and it has been perfect for us...cozy, comforting, convenient and manageable...all dire necessities during times of transition. But their families with each of their parents have now been reincarnated and we need a space that will take them in the next phases of their lives...where their friends can spend the night, they can have a basketball goal for shooting hoops and more than one person can pee at a time. As often happens, the new house fell into our laps at the most opportune moment. And while I was once was a person who declared that "the next time I move, they will be putting me in the crazy house or a hole in the ground", I now view "home" as wherever the people I love gather and rest their heads. During the last five years I have traded trying to establish enduring traditions for doing what works best for most of us at any given time....a lesson I have painstakingly and repeatedly been taught by my three male companions. (Don't panic....I mean my husband and my sons...I am no longer allowed/required to have multiple male companions!)
So, between now and June 1st there are two Buffett concerts, the Harlem Globetrotters, a family wedding, End-of-Grade tests, Spring Break, Derby Days and we are moving. Oh yeah, and I will turn 46 in the midst of all that. In case you are interested, I have decided to have a Pink Pirate theme this year...if you know me at all, you know that I relish the day set aside to Celebrate Me and I will eagerly embrace any excuse to eat store-bought cake slathered with Crisco-powdered sugar icing! For those of you planning ahead, there are only 46 shopping days left! But, I digress....Suffice it to say, that life is going to be busy. And that is just the stuff I know about so far! I have lived long enough to know that when you are cruising along on the "normal" road, Fate will throw a few unexpected curves and detours at you just to teach you flexibility while you travel. But as of this morning, Spring is starting to unwind, and the Sun is preparing for her grand return. As Karen and Richard would say, "We've only just begun...to live..." Again!
* Braeden has secretly nicknamed himself, "Baby LeBron" for his basketball prowess. I have learned from two unpleasant experiences that I am not allowed to refer to him that way in public. And someday he will learn the hard way that when your Mom blogs, no one's secrets are safe! For now, shhhh....it is our little secret and he is asleep!
Thursday, February 24, 2011
F*&^%(n' Perfect
For the past week or so I have been in a funk. Not your average, I-have-too-much-to-do-and-not-enough-time-to-do-it chaos, but a REAL FUNK. For days now, the voices in my head have launched an all-out assault on my self-esteem. Simultaneously, I feel fat, exhausted, angry,sad and inept. Granted, there is the ever-present foundation of gratitude for my children and their continued good health, but beyond that lies a vast sea of bitchiness. And quite frankly, I have been drowning in it.
This happens to me occasionally, usually in the abyss between the darkest days of winter and the fleeting promise of the first days of spring. Ironically, my answer to the criticisms has been to sedate myself with carbs, take to my bed and let my obligations pile up around me. Certainly, I get the kids to school, get the homework done, make an occasional appearance at the office, etc. But the bulk of my waking hours is spent berating myself and mining my psyche for enough energy to get a shower. It isn't a pretty picture and believe me. I am certainly intelligent enough to know I need exercise, accomplishment and distraction until the fog clears. But somedays, hell, some weeks, the demons win and you look for relief in box upon box of Girl Scout Cookies.
Perhaps you are wondering why I would choose to blog about this now. Or perhaps you are realizing that just reading this dribble is bringing you down! Wholeheartedly, I confess that sharing my funk is a self-serving act. For the majority of my life when I was not able to perform to my own standards, I would slink away from the world and hide. Very few people were allowed to see behind the curtain with the Powerful and Mighty Wizard of Melanie was not up to par. But nearly forty-six years of fighting demons has taught me that isolation is precisely the fuel they require to continue their rants. And that reaching out....and carrying on....is the best way to fight back.
My sedation of choice was once alcohol...but then I reached an age where being sedated in that way cost me dignity and the entire next day (or two). I am a vivacious, funny, acerbic person when I drink....until I crash and get sad or mean. I am proud to say that my children have never seen me in that light and at this rate, hopefully, they won't ever. Prior to alcohol, throughout my childhood, food was my best friend; and the only comfort that did not require me to seek permission or approval from others. Unfortunately, I have now reached an age where being sedated in that way also costs me a day (or two, or three), trying to undo the damage, physical and psychological. Having been a fat child, I am enslaved by the all powerful number on the scale. Once you have been a Fat Chick (or Chicklet, as the case my be), you are always a Fat Chick....at least in your own mind.
So, I know that my thinking is Funked Up. I have heard the Pink song and seen the Today show segments about how women constantly berate themselves and other women the way men exchange sports scores. At this moment the demons are actually protesting my inability to Believe in Myself More....how ironic that they taunt me for giving them so much power! In case you are frightened for me, fear not, I am medicated. And I know that if I continue to put one foot in front of the other, this too, shall pass. I have a seventy-two hour stretch of few commitments and capability to check things off my "to-do" list. I should be back on track in a hundred different ways by Monday!
But you should also know that if you ride with me you get it all, the Great, the Not-So-Great and the Demon-Possessed....It is called Being Human. In this life all you can really offer others is your willingness to carry a pound of their load when their arms are weak and the path goes uphill. I know I have tremendous support both seen and unseen; I know that I have carried loads when others felt the way I am feeling. So, fear not, go about your lives, and thanks. Demons absolutely abhor being shoved out into the open....I am feeling lighter already.
This happens to me occasionally, usually in the abyss between the darkest days of winter and the fleeting promise of the first days of spring. Ironically, my answer to the criticisms has been to sedate myself with carbs, take to my bed and let my obligations pile up around me. Certainly, I get the kids to school, get the homework done, make an occasional appearance at the office, etc. But the bulk of my waking hours is spent berating myself and mining my psyche for enough energy to get a shower. It isn't a pretty picture and believe me. I am certainly intelligent enough to know I need exercise, accomplishment and distraction until the fog clears. But somedays, hell, some weeks, the demons win and you look for relief in box upon box of Girl Scout Cookies.
Perhaps you are wondering why I would choose to blog about this now. Or perhaps you are realizing that just reading this dribble is bringing you down! Wholeheartedly, I confess that sharing my funk is a self-serving act. For the majority of my life when I was not able to perform to my own standards, I would slink away from the world and hide. Very few people were allowed to see behind the curtain with the Powerful and Mighty Wizard of Melanie was not up to par. But nearly forty-six years of fighting demons has taught me that isolation is precisely the fuel they require to continue their rants. And that reaching out....and carrying on....is the best way to fight back.
My sedation of choice was once alcohol...but then I reached an age where being sedated in that way cost me dignity and the entire next day (or two). I am a vivacious, funny, acerbic person when I drink....until I crash and get sad or mean. I am proud to say that my children have never seen me in that light and at this rate, hopefully, they won't ever. Prior to alcohol, throughout my childhood, food was my best friend; and the only comfort that did not require me to seek permission or approval from others. Unfortunately, I have now reached an age where being sedated in that way also costs me a day (or two, or three), trying to undo the damage, physical and psychological. Having been a fat child, I am enslaved by the all powerful number on the scale. Once you have been a Fat Chick (or Chicklet, as the case my be), you are always a Fat Chick....at least in your own mind.
So, I know that my thinking is Funked Up. I have heard the Pink song and seen the Today show segments about how women constantly berate themselves and other women the way men exchange sports scores. At this moment the demons are actually protesting my inability to Believe in Myself More....how ironic that they taunt me for giving them so much power! In case you are frightened for me, fear not, I am medicated. And I know that if I continue to put one foot in front of the other, this too, shall pass. I have a seventy-two hour stretch of few commitments and capability to check things off my "to-do" list. I should be back on track in a hundred different ways by Monday!
But you should also know that if you ride with me you get it all, the Great, the Not-So-Great and the Demon-Possessed....It is called Being Human. In this life all you can really offer others is your willingness to carry a pound of their load when their arms are weak and the path goes uphill. I know I have tremendous support both seen and unseen; I know that I have carried loads when others felt the way I am feeling. So, fear not, go about your lives, and thanks. Demons absolutely abhor being shoved out into the open....I am feeling lighter already.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Stream of Consciousness
I am a writer simply because I write. Of course, that doesn't make me a prolific writer or even a readable one, but I have enough experience with those who read my writing to know that sometimes my words strike a chord. I have enjoyed a lifelong love affair with words on the printed page and I revel in the company of people who are precise with language. Throughout my life books have instructed me, shaped me, comforted me and without embellishment, contributed significantly to my healing.
Recently I read a memoir that was described by the author as being "creative non-fiction." She didn't offer a Webster's definition of the genre but I laughed out loud while reading her book, so I am almost sure she meant, "my life, only dressed up in funnier words." Which aptly describes the way I approach this blog; the exception being, my words sometimes describe my life only dresssed up in words that are more glamourous, chaotic, sarcastic, judgmental, inspirational....fill in the blank.
It feeds my experience of writing, and often my ego, when people tell me they like what I write. As my artistic muse, David Smith, recently addressed in his blog, 1000 Words (shameless plug for David!), the balance of ego and humility is an ongoing and precarious process. But I feel very privileged to be able to swim in the river of life and relate my experiences in words that sometimes resonate. Undoubtedly, I would be a writer even if I had no readers. But the swimming is richer, more meaningful and a hell of a lot mre fun when you jump in the water with me! I am humbled and abundantly grateful for your time, you support and your feedback.
Recently I read a memoir that was described by the author as being "creative non-fiction." She didn't offer a Webster's definition of the genre but I laughed out loud while reading her book, so I am almost sure she meant, "my life, only dressed up in funnier words." Which aptly describes the way I approach this blog; the exception being, my words sometimes describe my life only dresssed up in words that are more glamourous, chaotic, sarcastic, judgmental, inspirational....fill in the blank.
It feeds my experience of writing, and often my ego, when people tell me they like what I write. As my artistic muse, David Smith, recently addressed in his blog, 1000 Words (shameless plug for David!), the balance of ego and humility is an ongoing and precarious process. But I feel very privileged to be able to swim in the river of life and relate my experiences in words that sometimes resonate. Undoubtedly, I would be a writer even if I had no readers. But the swimming is richer, more meaningful and a hell of a lot mre fun when you jump in the water with me! I am humbled and abundantly grateful for your time, you support and your feedback.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Aerial Introspection
I cherish the quiet and anonymity of the time I spend alone in airports. They are one of only a few places where I allow myself to merely sit, breathe deeply, eavesdrop, read, eat salty snacks and do nothing else. Occasionally, I will make a list or return a call or text. But even these small tasks occur in the expanse of nothingness that fills my head. Quietly sitting among the noise and activity surrounding me makes me keenly aware of how many hours I spend bustling and multi-tasking; which inevitably leads me to conclude that these feelings of peace and contentedness may be available to me practically anywhere I am, if only I would slow down long enough to court their presence.
For the majority of my life P.C. (pre-children) I was a "together" kind of person...arrived early, dressed fashionably, highly organized and prepared to tackle whatever tasks might lay ahead. Then I was graced with two incomparable boys who, with each passing day grow less interested in joining my Cult of Effectiveness. So, now, most days I am running behind, low on gas, with no idea how I will cram in one more commitment. I tell my most critical self that these things are true because I shoulder so much responsibility and simply have too much to do. But honestly, the lateness and chaos represent a more personal rebellion.
Stealing moments to linger and accomplish things that matter only to me is a form of revolution against the unrealistic expectations that live inside me. Realistically, on any given morning, all three of the men in my life could be up and out the door in less than twenty minutes and still consider themselves prepared to meet most anything life might send their way. Curling my hair, making all of our beds, choosing a particular pair of shoes or trying on three different sets of jewelry consume quantities of valuable time and seemingly serve little to no purpose.Yet I firmly believe that I am constantly reflecting not only who I am now, but also who I want to become in the next moment. To my way of thinking this reflection shines outwardly towards other, but perhaps more importantly, it also shines inwardly for my consideration.
Granted, these days my thoughts are less about judging myself against others and more about creating the life I want by virtue of my own choices. Which means that often I choose to stay under the blankets and watch the weather instead of hopping out of bed the first time the alarm clock rings. Or that I wear my pajamas when taking the kids to school so I can have privacy while getting ready for work when I return to the house. And frequently, these choices are responsible for my tardiness and lack of "togetherness". But somehow they also help gird me for what life might throw my way during the sixteen hours before I am crawling back into bed. Literally, hitting the snooze button in the A.M. and eating Hershey's kisses in the P.M. are counter-revolutionary choices that help me cling to my sanity!
And to think I unraveled the clues to these great mysteries, all while sitting in an airport today.
Footnote: I also relish that after all of the technological advances of my lifetime and a thousand flights in the past five years (not literally a thousand...but lots), I am awed (literally) that I can have breakfast in Florida and lunch in North Carolina. However, I don't fancy the people in the airport who talk too loudly on their cell phones, complain too strenuously to strangers about the delays or stare too disdainfully at the hapless parents of screaming babies. And I abhor flying away from the people I truly love most...on either end of my journeys.
For the majority of my life P.C. (pre-children) I was a "together" kind of person...arrived early, dressed fashionably, highly organized and prepared to tackle whatever tasks might lay ahead. Then I was graced with two incomparable boys who, with each passing day grow less interested in joining my Cult of Effectiveness. So, now, most days I am running behind, low on gas, with no idea how I will cram in one more commitment. I tell my most critical self that these things are true because I shoulder so much responsibility and simply have too much to do. But honestly, the lateness and chaos represent a more personal rebellion.
Stealing moments to linger and accomplish things that matter only to me is a form of revolution against the unrealistic expectations that live inside me. Realistically, on any given morning, all three of the men in my life could be up and out the door in less than twenty minutes and still consider themselves prepared to meet most anything life might send their way. Curling my hair, making all of our beds, choosing a particular pair of shoes or trying on three different sets of jewelry consume quantities of valuable time and seemingly serve little to no purpose.Yet I firmly believe that I am constantly reflecting not only who I am now, but also who I want to become in the next moment. To my way of thinking this reflection shines outwardly towards other, but perhaps more importantly, it also shines inwardly for my consideration.
Granted, these days my thoughts are less about judging myself against others and more about creating the life I want by virtue of my own choices. Which means that often I choose to stay under the blankets and watch the weather instead of hopping out of bed the first time the alarm clock rings. Or that I wear my pajamas when taking the kids to school so I can have privacy while getting ready for work when I return to the house. And frequently, these choices are responsible for my tardiness and lack of "togetherness". But somehow they also help gird me for what life might throw my way during the sixteen hours before I am crawling back into bed. Literally, hitting the snooze button in the A.M. and eating Hershey's kisses in the P.M. are counter-revolutionary choices that help me cling to my sanity!
And to think I unraveled the clues to these great mysteries, all while sitting in an airport today.
Footnote: I also relish that after all of the technological advances of my lifetime and a thousand flights in the past five years (not literally a thousand...but lots), I am awed (literally) that I can have breakfast in Florida and lunch in North Carolina. However, I don't fancy the people in the airport who talk too loudly on their cell phones, complain too strenuously to strangers about the delays or stare too disdainfully at the hapless parents of screaming babies. And I abhor flying away from the people I truly love most...on either end of my journeys.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Sweet Indulgences
It is 6:43 AM and a balmy 39 degrees in scenic Bartow, Florida. I am sitting in bed propped up by pillows wondering why I am awake so early on a day when I could be sleeping late? In a few hours Gerald and I are off on another wondrous adventure....taking the grandkids to the park and out to lunch! Ella, our granddaughter,who is 3, is a delight; she adores her Papa, she is very loving to her Gigi, and she indulges my sweet tooth for all things pink and princess-like. For you newcomers, Gigi is me. The name is derived from the fact that when she was born I was not yet married to her Papa. Thus, at my request, I became known as the Grand Girlfriend...G.G. In the written form, Gigi...a way to show deference to her "other" grandmother and to pay homage to the idea that I am way too young to be a Mamaw! Tucker, our grandson who is 21 months, is another chapter. He, too, adores his Papa, but he is in that phase of life where his favorite pasttime is clinging to his Mama's leg. Which makes it imperative that we take them out for a while, to give him a chance to exercise his independence and to give his Awesome Mama a few hours of alone time. Later tonight we are headed to Tampa to the Gasparilla Night-time Pirate Parade with a raucous bunch of scalywags...sure to be a night of memories made and tales recounted.
Being in Bartow is one of the most luxuriant aspects of my life...like having a vacation home that someone else maintains and cleans and stocks with all your favorite things before each arrival. After 5 years of coming and going I have made deep connections with a few friends who arrange to spend time with me when I am here. I know my way around town, there is always something new to discover and I don't feel the pressure to work my checklist the way I do when we spend time in North Carolina. The first time I came here my life was in a state of chaos and I was running from it. This town and our Towhead friends gave me laughter, acceptance and a place to come to sort through the jagged pieces of my life, one weekend a month. In this bed, I sleep more soundly than in any other place in the world, so far. But as peaceful and replenishing as it may be, the renewal I receive here is also bittersweet and wrapped in a thin sheet of guilt. Some of the guilt is residual...a reminder of those I crawled over to get to this point in my life. But the bulk of the guilt is perpetual. Because most often, when I am here, my kids are not.
To most folks in the outside world, the specifics of our family life are peculiar, and therefore subject to scrutiny. "Let me get this straight", people will say, "you are married.....but you live separately?" Pause, pause pause...."Like a long-distance kind of thing?" Then they look at me befuzzled. "Yes", I inevitably reply, "exactly like a long-distance kind of 'thing' (with air quotes)." And it has been this way for our entire relationship. Ironically, when we were dating, people would look at me with empathy and talk about how hard it must be to be so far from someone with whom you are in love. Now that we are married, almost without fail, people will think for a second and then say "Wow! That actually sounds like a Perfect marriage!" And most days, it is nearly perfect; heavy on the NEARLY, at least for us.
I have my job and my Rowdies, a few relatives and the bulk of my life in North Carolina where the boys have their dad, their school, their sports and their buddies. Gerald has his job, his friends, his daughter and grandkids and a lifetime of memories here in Florida. More simply put, I am and forever will be, a Carolina Girl, and he is Grizzly Old Gator to his core. We are both fiercely independent people who liked most parts of the lives we were building before we met. But we also came to love each other in the deepest way I have ever experienced; in a way that gives me the only real contentedness I have ever had outside of parenting. So having everything we want out of our lives with our children and doing everything we need to do to keep our family ship afloat requires us to live in different states.
Will it always be this way? I don't know. Just like I didn't know five winters ago that I was walking off a plane and into the next phase of my life. Is it complicated? Sometimes. This weekend I am missing Jackson's first sleepover (is that what you call a pajama party for boys?) and both of the kids have basketball games today. A part of me feels anguish to be there only via text and the sparse details they will report if they feel like talking tonight when I call. Constantly, I juggle the work to be done before I leave and the work that is piled up when I get back. But everyone I know has a life that is complicated by some circumstances...illness, job loss, heartbreak, financial troubles, etc. We just happen to wear our complications on our lapel for all the world to gaze at....like a Modern Family Freak Show. So I am definitely not complaining....most days my life is a Sweet Indulgence. Instead, I am going to haul my widening butt up, make the bed and hop into the shower...okay, I will lumber into the shower. Because it is now 7:31 AM, a balmy 40 degrees and there are adventures afoot. Happy Saturday!
Being in Bartow is one of the most luxuriant aspects of my life...like having a vacation home that someone else maintains and cleans and stocks with all your favorite things before each arrival. After 5 years of coming and going I have made deep connections with a few friends who arrange to spend time with me when I am here. I know my way around town, there is always something new to discover and I don't feel the pressure to work my checklist the way I do when we spend time in North Carolina. The first time I came here my life was in a state of chaos and I was running from it. This town and our Towhead friends gave me laughter, acceptance and a place to come to sort through the jagged pieces of my life, one weekend a month. In this bed, I sleep more soundly than in any other place in the world, so far. But as peaceful and replenishing as it may be, the renewal I receive here is also bittersweet and wrapped in a thin sheet of guilt. Some of the guilt is residual...a reminder of those I crawled over to get to this point in my life. But the bulk of the guilt is perpetual. Because most often, when I am here, my kids are not.
To most folks in the outside world, the specifics of our family life are peculiar, and therefore subject to scrutiny. "Let me get this straight", people will say, "you are married.....but you live separately?" Pause, pause pause...."Like a long-distance kind of thing?" Then they look at me befuzzled. "Yes", I inevitably reply, "exactly like a long-distance kind of 'thing' (with air quotes)." And it has been this way for our entire relationship. Ironically, when we were dating, people would look at me with empathy and talk about how hard it must be to be so far from someone with whom you are in love. Now that we are married, almost without fail, people will think for a second and then say "Wow! That actually sounds like a Perfect marriage!" And most days, it is nearly perfect; heavy on the NEARLY, at least for us.
I have my job and my Rowdies, a few relatives and the bulk of my life in North Carolina where the boys have their dad, their school, their sports and their buddies. Gerald has his job, his friends, his daughter and grandkids and a lifetime of memories here in Florida. More simply put, I am and forever will be, a Carolina Girl, and he is Grizzly Old Gator to his core. We are both fiercely independent people who liked most parts of the lives we were building before we met. But we also came to love each other in the deepest way I have ever experienced; in a way that gives me the only real contentedness I have ever had outside of parenting. So having everything we want out of our lives with our children and doing everything we need to do to keep our family ship afloat requires us to live in different states.
Will it always be this way? I don't know. Just like I didn't know five winters ago that I was walking off a plane and into the next phase of my life. Is it complicated? Sometimes. This weekend I am missing Jackson's first sleepover (is that what you call a pajama party for boys?) and both of the kids have basketball games today. A part of me feels anguish to be there only via text and the sparse details they will report if they feel like talking tonight when I call. Constantly, I juggle the work to be done before I leave and the work that is piled up when I get back. But everyone I know has a life that is complicated by some circumstances...illness, job loss, heartbreak, financial troubles, etc. We just happen to wear our complications on our lapel for all the world to gaze at....like a Modern Family Freak Show. So I am definitely not complaining....most days my life is a Sweet Indulgence. Instead, I am going to haul my widening butt up, make the bed and hop into the shower...okay, I will lumber into the shower. Because it is now 7:31 AM, a balmy 40 degrees and there are adventures afoot. Happy Saturday!
Monday, February 7, 2011
Monday Rants and Ramblings
Why is it that my 10 year old can get up 10 minutes BEFORE he needs to and complete his morning routine in 7 seven minutes when he wants to hang out with his friends but it takes 45 minutes for him to drag himself out of bed and put on a pair of pants on the days I have 8:00 AM meetings with the Judges?
What is the proper response when you say "Good Morning" to your 8 year old and he greets you with a guttural, "AAAAAGH!"? I thought he was the happy go-lucky one? Does this mean that all three of us neurotic, grumpy people now? Am I being punished for letting him stay up to be bored-to-death by the Black Eye Peas at halftime? (Today he said he was the only one in his class who knew Slash...that's my boy!)
Did I just pass a goat on the side of the road? ( Probably so, I am flying through Stokes County on my way to scenic Dobson, NC...) And was he really wearing a red dog collar with a tag on it?
Is there really a man standing outside 1987 Trans Am at the Surry County Courthouse smoking a cigarette while he talks to a frail woman wearing an oxygen mask? Are we all going to be blown to Hell when he throws the smoldering butt on the ground near her tank? "AAAAGH!"
Does the man wearing the red wife beater and the American flag headband inside the Courthouse really believe he was Willie Nelson? And was it 31 degrees when he came in? Because I was just outside and it felt like 31 degrees to me. Perhaps he should sell some of his excess body hair and buy a jacket?
Why does it cost me $56.08 at Food Lion when the only thing on my list was Goldfish, Cheezits and yogurt to use for school lunches this week?
Is it possible to do a math worksheet, write spelling words three times each, study the 7's multiplication table, correct a math test, study for a vocabulary test, read for 15 minutes, practice recorder, eat a snack, take a shower and eat dinner in a 3 hour time span? On a related note, why does Mom fall asleep during "snuggle time" watching Dukes of Hazzard re-runs on CMT?
Does it ruin a day of fasting if you eat 5 oreos and two handfuls of Chex Mix? Should a 46 year old woman be this consumed by her weight when she can't get to work on time and she falls asleep at 8:30 PM at night?
It has been an interesting day...
Thank Goodness it is only 68 hours until I am sipping Boat Drinks at Bahama Breeze on Tampa Bay and partying with some pirates, 61 days until Jimmy and I are reunited in Margaritaville and 165 days until I am at HOME on my barstool at Sloppy Joe's..... even on an interesting day, it's a damn good life!
What is the proper response when you say "Good Morning" to your 8 year old and he greets you with a guttural, "AAAAAGH!"? I thought he was the happy go-lucky one? Does this mean that all three of us neurotic, grumpy people now? Am I being punished for letting him stay up to be bored-to-death by the Black Eye Peas at halftime? (Today he said he was the only one in his class who knew Slash...that's my boy!)
Did I just pass a goat on the side of the road? ( Probably so, I am flying through Stokes County on my way to scenic Dobson, NC...) And was he really wearing a red dog collar with a tag on it?
Is there really a man standing outside 1987 Trans Am at the Surry County Courthouse smoking a cigarette while he talks to a frail woman wearing an oxygen mask? Are we all going to be blown to Hell when he throws the smoldering butt on the ground near her tank? "AAAAGH!"
Does the man wearing the red wife beater and the American flag headband inside the Courthouse really believe he was Willie Nelson? And was it 31 degrees when he came in? Because I was just outside and it felt like 31 degrees to me. Perhaps he should sell some of his excess body hair and buy a jacket?
Why does it cost me $56.08 at Food Lion when the only thing on my list was Goldfish, Cheezits and yogurt to use for school lunches this week?
Is it possible to do a math worksheet, write spelling words three times each, study the 7's multiplication table, correct a math test, study for a vocabulary test, read for 15 minutes, practice recorder, eat a snack, take a shower and eat dinner in a 3 hour time span? On a related note, why does Mom fall asleep during "snuggle time" watching Dukes of Hazzard re-runs on CMT?
Does it ruin a day of fasting if you eat 5 oreos and two handfuls of Chex Mix? Should a 46 year old woman be this consumed by her weight when she can't get to work on time and she falls asleep at 8:30 PM at night?
It has been an interesting day...
Thank Goodness it is only 68 hours until I am sipping Boat Drinks at Bahama Breeze on Tampa Bay and partying with some pirates, 61 days until Jimmy and I are reunited in Margaritaville and 165 days until I am at HOME on my barstool at Sloppy Joe's..... even on an interesting day, it's a damn good life!
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Love, El-e-men-tar-y Style....Revisited
I have always heard that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover....and apparently, you shouldn't judge Unnamed Fourth-Grade Girls by their hair color. The blog I wrote last week was written purely in jest....if you know me, then you also know that sarcastic humor is my native tongue. Obviously, I was really writing about the angst I feel when I realize that my child is growing up so fast. Since then it has occurred to me that my child would be mortified, and possibly hurt, if he ever read it.
Also, I met Her face-to-face for the first time this wee and she is adorable...big blue eyes, a sprinkling of freckles, and nice manners. She looked me in the eye and talked to me directly when I asked her questions and she smiled at my True Lover like he was the yummiest thing since Reese's Cups! I chatter with her Mom who seems great; "no-nonsense" and very straightforward. We agree that we don't mind them spending time together under close supervision, but we want to be clear that they are not "dating." Jackson and I have started discussing what it means to be respectful of women and keep personal information private; the whole experience has deepened our mother-son relationship.
Some people think I am taking the who thing too seriously and they can't believe I am so "permissive" with my child. But that's okay, I try to take the praise, criticism and advice as graciously as possible. I don't think Kate and Wills have to worry that these two will be distracting the world from the Royal Wedding. I just know that I was wrong....even though it was in jest...and for the record, I needed to say so.
Also, I met Her face-to-face for the first time this wee and she is adorable...big blue eyes, a sprinkling of freckles, and nice manners. She looked me in the eye and talked to me directly when I asked her questions and she smiled at my True Lover like he was the yummiest thing since Reese's Cups! I chatter with her Mom who seems great; "no-nonsense" and very straightforward. We agree that we don't mind them spending time together under close supervision, but we want to be clear that they are not "dating." Jackson and I have started discussing what it means to be respectful of women and keep personal information private; the whole experience has deepened our mother-son relationship.
Some people think I am taking the who thing too seriously and they can't believe I am so "permissive" with my child. But that's okay, I try to take the praise, criticism and advice as graciously as possible. I don't think Kate and Wills have to worry that these two will be distracting the world from the Royal Wedding. I just know that I was wrong....even though it was in jest...and for the record, I needed to say so.
One Miraculous Night
It is 3:07 on Wednesday afternoon and I am at home in my fleece Valentine's pajamas. No, the Hot Cable Guy is not here. I am watching "Dr. Phil" and eating the last piece of chocolate chip birthday cookie with vanilla ice cream. The sun is shining through the blinds and I am breathing deeply....breathing in gratitude, breathing out peace. Today is one of the two most miraculous days in the History of Me.
Ten years ago yesterday I woke up at 5:31AM with a fierce need to pee. I grunted, rolled and thrust my body upward...weighing 53 pounds more than "normal" made moving cumbersome...and off I went to the bathroom. Before I had taken my first step towards the door, my water broke. I awakened my husband (at the time....hereinafter referred to as HATT) and said, "It's time! My water just broke!" He didn't even roll over as he said, "Are you sure?" I looked at the puddle under my feet; I was pretty damn sure.
The drive to the hospital was absolutely the worse part of the entire birthing experience. Every time a contraction would start I would scream for HATT to stop the car so I could breathe and focus. Then every time a contraction ended I would demand that HATT "HURRY UP AND F*(&ing GET ME TO THE HOSPITAL." (This scene was also repeated when I went into labor with our second son but he knew the drill by then so it didn't faze him.) As it turned out, there really was not a need to hurry. We were at the hospital dealing with contractions for another seventeen hours before Our Groundhog came out of his hole.
I am proud to say that I handled the first nine hours of labor without pharmaceutical intervention. Every seven or eight minutes I would simply quiet my mind, assume my stance and do the "hoo hoo hoo...hee hee hee" breathing. Unfortunately, this required everyone around me to be quiet too and oddly enough, the nurses, doctors and techs at the hospital didn't see the necessity of stoppping their work each time I had a contraction! Finally, I got tired, started to cry and gave in to the epidural....and that may have been my first lesson as a parent: Sometimes you have to re-think the "plan" and do whatever works in the moment!
By this time my mother and my brother had arrived. So after the anesthesiology resident, which in Greek must literally mean "inexperienced and shaky", stuck the foot-long needle into my spine, while I was having a contraction, the lower quadrant of my body went numb. And this may have been when I learned my second lesson as a parent: Modesty was going to be a thing of the past. Because every time I had to shift positions or sit up or drink water through a straw, my legs would splay off the sides of the bed. Granted, I could not feel this happening but I could feel the cold air as it whipped up under my hospital "gown". And dutifully, my brother and/or my HATT, would come over, pick up my trunk of a leg and put it back under the covers. Ah! The joys of giving birth!
Did I mention that I was giving birth on the night that Carolina played Dook at Cameron in 2001? Or that multiple family members bet money on this very date in the "Delivery Date Pool"? (Actually, one of these same relatives also won $50 from my mother when my first marriage didn't last five years....to their credit, they didn't tell me about this wager until after the divorce and I think they gave me the money...but I digress.)
By 2001, our beloved Dean Smith had retired and ascended to Mount Olympus. His hand-picked successor Bill Guthridge had also retired and the Powers of Infinite Basketball Wisdom had hired former TarHeel Matt Doherty when the Heir Apparent Roy Williams turned them down. Poor Matt never stood a chance....the Rebound Guy never does. He complied an 8-20 record that season and we finished seventh in the ACC.....behind Florida State and Clemson. It was only the second time in the history of the Atlantic Coast Conference that we finished with a losing conference record (4-12). But as I lay there in the delivery room preparing to birth my first child, I swear, there was a TV positioned on top of the cabinet and we were watching the Heels beat Dook at home!
I kid you not. My HATT was there on my left leg encouraging me to PUSH, PUSH, COME ON, PUSH and my baby brother was there on my right leg saying things like...."Okay...we are up by three...we have the possession arrow....and THEY HAVE JUST FOULED BRENDAN HAYWOOD!" In all honesty, I don't remember if it was Brendan Haywood. It may have been Joseph Forte or Jason Capel. I was busy giving birth. But I do remember that we won the game 85 to 83 and it saved Matt Doherty's job for another year...all while I was pushing out my child's giant head!
As soon as we got past the head, he slipped right out of hiding and they held my wondrous miracle up for me to admire. His dad was crying as he cut the umbilical cord. My mom was circling like a buzzard, waiting to get her hands on MY baby and my brother had tears in his eyes because we had just beaten Dook at home (just kidding, Uncle B!) It was at this moment that I learned parenting lesson number three: Boy babies will pee on you if you don't cover up their private parts! Literally, I gave my child the gift of life and when he saw me for the first time he peed all over me! Immediately, I laughed out loud, told my mom to back off and sent my brother to find me a grilled cheese sandwich. Even without the instruction booklet, I knew that raising this Miracle was going to require something stronger than popsicles and ice chips!
And so, today marks ten years since the day Jackson Robert Miller made his appearance on Groundhog Day. In the years since he arrived, we have weathered harsh winters and hoped for early springs and every day he makes me confront my shadows. So each year when we eat the cake and sing the song and celebrate his "First Day on Earth Day", I am mindful to take a moment to breathe in gratitude....and breathe out peace.
Ten years ago yesterday I woke up at 5:31AM with a fierce need to pee. I grunted, rolled and thrust my body upward...weighing 53 pounds more than "normal" made moving cumbersome...and off I went to the bathroom. Before I had taken my first step towards the door, my water broke. I awakened my husband (at the time....hereinafter referred to as HATT) and said, "It's time! My water just broke!" He didn't even roll over as he said, "Are you sure?" I looked at the puddle under my feet; I was pretty damn sure.
The drive to the hospital was absolutely the worse part of the entire birthing experience. Every time a contraction would start I would scream for HATT to stop the car so I could breathe and focus. Then every time a contraction ended I would demand that HATT "HURRY UP AND F*(&ing GET ME TO THE HOSPITAL." (This scene was also repeated when I went into labor with our second son but he knew the drill by then so it didn't faze him.) As it turned out, there really was not a need to hurry. We were at the hospital dealing with contractions for another seventeen hours before Our Groundhog came out of his hole.
I am proud to say that I handled the first nine hours of labor without pharmaceutical intervention. Every seven or eight minutes I would simply quiet my mind, assume my stance and do the "hoo hoo hoo...hee hee hee" breathing. Unfortunately, this required everyone around me to be quiet too and oddly enough, the nurses, doctors and techs at the hospital didn't see the necessity of stoppping their work each time I had a contraction! Finally, I got tired, started to cry and gave in to the epidural....and that may have been my first lesson as a parent: Sometimes you have to re-think the "plan" and do whatever works in the moment!
By this time my mother and my brother had arrived. So after the anesthesiology resident, which in Greek must literally mean "inexperienced and shaky", stuck the foot-long needle into my spine, while I was having a contraction, the lower quadrant of my body went numb. And this may have been when I learned my second lesson as a parent: Modesty was going to be a thing of the past. Because every time I had to shift positions or sit up or drink water through a straw, my legs would splay off the sides of the bed. Granted, I could not feel this happening but I could feel the cold air as it whipped up under my hospital "gown". And dutifully, my brother and/or my HATT, would come over, pick up my trunk of a leg and put it back under the covers. Ah! The joys of giving birth!
Did I mention that I was giving birth on the night that Carolina played Dook at Cameron in 2001? Or that multiple family members bet money on this very date in the "Delivery Date Pool"? (Actually, one of these same relatives also won $50 from my mother when my first marriage didn't last five years....to their credit, they didn't tell me about this wager until after the divorce and I think they gave me the money...but I digress.)
By 2001, our beloved Dean Smith had retired and ascended to Mount Olympus. His hand-picked successor Bill Guthridge had also retired and the Powers of Infinite Basketball Wisdom had hired former TarHeel Matt Doherty when the Heir Apparent Roy Williams turned them down. Poor Matt never stood a chance....the Rebound Guy never does. He complied an 8-20 record that season and we finished seventh in the ACC.....behind Florida State and Clemson. It was only the second time in the history of the Atlantic Coast Conference that we finished with a losing conference record (4-12). But as I lay there in the delivery room preparing to birth my first child, I swear, there was a TV positioned on top of the cabinet and we were watching the Heels beat Dook at home!
I kid you not. My HATT was there on my left leg encouraging me to PUSH, PUSH, COME ON, PUSH and my baby brother was there on my right leg saying things like...."Okay...we are up by three...we have the possession arrow....and THEY HAVE JUST FOULED BRENDAN HAYWOOD!" In all honesty, I don't remember if it was Brendan Haywood. It may have been Joseph Forte or Jason Capel. I was busy giving birth. But I do remember that we won the game 85 to 83 and it saved Matt Doherty's job for another year...all while I was pushing out my child's giant head!
As soon as we got past the head, he slipped right out of hiding and they held my wondrous miracle up for me to admire. His dad was crying as he cut the umbilical cord. My mom was circling like a buzzard, waiting to get her hands on MY baby and my brother had tears in his eyes because we had just beaten Dook at home (just kidding, Uncle B!) It was at this moment that I learned parenting lesson number three: Boy babies will pee on you if you don't cover up their private parts! Literally, I gave my child the gift of life and when he saw me for the first time he peed all over me! Immediately, I laughed out loud, told my mom to back off and sent my brother to find me a grilled cheese sandwich. Even without the instruction booklet, I knew that raising this Miracle was going to require something stronger than popsicles and ice chips!
And so, today marks ten years since the day Jackson Robert Miller made his appearance on Groundhog Day. In the years since he arrived, we have weathered harsh winters and hoped for early springs and every day he makes me confront my shadows. So each year when we eat the cake and sing the song and celebrate his "First Day on Earth Day", I am mindful to take a moment to breathe in gratitude....and breathe out peace.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
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