My daughter has croup, and if you were to randomly stop by right now, you would see that we look like an official sick-house (after I drop kicked you across the street). Do not randomly stop over.
What I mean is, there are enough plastic bags strewn across our small house from various pharmacies to take down planet earth in five years. It is almost as if we thought that Walgreens would have something that CVS did not have but Rite-Aid might have, if we could just get her to stop coughing and please, please, please stop crying. And please sleep.
If you looked through our recent calls on our telephone you would see that we have called the doctor so many times that if they blocked our number forever, we would not blame them. In fact, they might just pick up the whole office and move.
My house is a filthy disaster and those sticky Motrin syringes are everywhere, collecting dust and cat hair. It is not that I am careless enough to leave them everywhere, it is because I have THROWN THEM ACROSS THE ROOM after an effort to get my daughter to take the medication that I promise will make her feel a little better for the next 4 hours. How does she do that, though? Scream while locking down her lips, so that the tiny syringe tip does not even stand a chance?
I am not complaining. This is parenthood. I can't tell you how many times I have held and rocked her, thinking dear God, just transfer this illness to me 100 fold and make her healthy now.
In doing this, I cannot imagine how insane I would get if I had a child that was chronically disabled or ill. I want to take all of those parents into my arms and say, dear God, give me their grief and pain 100 fold, just so they can have one moment of peace.
So there it is. My lesson that I needed to learn. My perfectly healthy girl is going to get taken down every now and then and I am going to have to learn how to deal with it better than I have in this past week. It could always be worse.
I am grateful for our health care, our warm house, and my husband who has witnessed my complete and utter childish reaction to this whole thing. He has has two babies to deal with.
What am I doing now? Listening to her cough in her crib over the baby monitor and of course, waiting for the doctor to call.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
17 months
To my little one:
The fact that your 17 month "birthday" fell on Thanksgiving did not go unnoticed. I was just too busy to write, which is okay, because I had you in the front of my mind as what I was most thankful for as I scrubbed floors for company.
I am thankful when you are cute and silly. I am also thankful for the times when you are not...when you are unbearable and make me want to rock back and forth in a corner. I am thankful for those times because it shows that you are a normal 17-month-old. I know we are in for it in the coming months, as you emerge into toddlerhood (read: tantrumhood).
You are going to push my limits, some days you may even push me over the edge. Daddy has stocked up on wine for those days.
I am thankful that it is you who is going to teach me about me.
Love,
Mom
The fact that your 17 month "birthday" fell on Thanksgiving did not go unnoticed. I was just too busy to write, which is okay, because I had you in the front of my mind as what I was most thankful for as I scrubbed floors for company.
I am thankful when you are cute and silly. I am also thankful for the times when you are not...when you are unbearable and make me want to rock back and forth in a corner. I am thankful for those times because it shows that you are a normal 17-month-old. I know we are in for it in the coming months, as you emerge into toddlerhood (read: tantrumhood).
You are going to push my limits, some days you may even push me over the edge. Daddy has stocked up on wine for those days.
I am thankful that it is you who is going to teach me about me.
Love,
Mom
Monday, November 19, 2007
Inspiration
I often get my writing inspiration from sadness. This sounds horrible, but let me explain. We are all inflicted with some type of sadness at least a million times a day. So when I write, I want to write about the get-down-and-dirty-real type of living. I want to connect people with one another, I want them to relate. Community is what saves us. I want my words to save.
Anne Lamott, in her book about writing, Bird by Bird, said to not be afraid to save people.
One of the women in my writer's group asked where I got the inspiration for the story I wrote in my last post. It wasn't hard because that situation actually happened to my nephew. Of course, much of it is fiction. He was in preschool, there was no newborn baby and stuff like that. However, here is the nonfiction part that I failed to mention:
My sister called me while I was in Borders doing some Christmas shopping. I was in the video section looking for something that I can't remember. Maybe an old movie for a friend or that Carmen Electra how-to-striptease video that my husband wants me to get. Who knows. Anyway, my sister told me over the phone about how her son couldn't go outside because another boy took his boots "by accident." She was telling me the story a day after the fact, so she was laughing a little through her tears. Her husband was in the background saying, "Oh, he'll get over it."
However the whole thing struck me. I listened and told my sister how sad it was and what a good boy he was to be forgiving...but after we hung up, I sat down on one of those little stools between the video shelves and sobbed. I cried so hard that the names of the videos on the shelves ran together into one big, teary blur. I remember wiping my nose and eyes with my gloves because I had no tissue. Go figure, I wasn't expecting to enter Borders for some gifts and get a good cry instead. I left empty handed because I knew my sadness would affect my gift choices. For example, if I was there for my husband he would have gotten a book on how we are killing our planet. No Carmen Electra for him that year.
At this time, I was childless. I remember thinking that I did not have the emotional stability to raise a child, that I would not be able to handle situations such as these. I knew that if I became a mother, my heart would crack a little every day and become so fragile that if it was touched in just the wrong way, it would shatter and I would spend the rest of my life trying to piece it back together while trying to figure out what the purpose of a heart even is before we have children.
Now that I am a mother, I look back on that thinking and realize that I was 100%, without a doubt, exactly right.
Anne Lamott, in her book about writing, Bird by Bird, said to not be afraid to save people.
One of the women in my writer's group asked where I got the inspiration for the story I wrote in my last post. It wasn't hard because that situation actually happened to my nephew. Of course, much of it is fiction. He was in preschool, there was no newborn baby and stuff like that. However, here is the nonfiction part that I failed to mention:
My sister called me while I was in Borders doing some Christmas shopping. I was in the video section looking for something that I can't remember. Maybe an old movie for a friend or that Carmen Electra how-to-striptease video that my husband wants me to get. Who knows. Anyway, my sister told me over the phone about how her son couldn't go outside because another boy took his boots "by accident." She was telling me the story a day after the fact, so she was laughing a little through her tears. Her husband was in the background saying, "Oh, he'll get over it."
However the whole thing struck me. I listened and told my sister how sad it was and what a good boy he was to be forgiving...but after we hung up, I sat down on one of those little stools between the video shelves and sobbed. I cried so hard that the names of the videos on the shelves ran together into one big, teary blur. I remember wiping my nose and eyes with my gloves because I had no tissue. Go figure, I wasn't expecting to enter Borders for some gifts and get a good cry instead. I left empty handed because I knew my sadness would affect my gift choices. For example, if I was there for my husband he would have gotten a book on how we are killing our planet. No Carmen Electra for him that year.
At this time, I was childless. I remember thinking that I did not have the emotional stability to raise a child, that I would not be able to handle situations such as these. I knew that if I became a mother, my heart would crack a little every day and become so fragile that if it was touched in just the wrong way, it would shatter and I would spend the rest of my life trying to piece it back together while trying to figure out what the purpose of a heart even is before we have children.
Now that I am a mother, I look back on that thinking and realize that I was 100%, without a doubt, exactly right.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
A First Attempt at a Writer's Group
Prompt: Compose a short story where the emotional climax is the result of a misspelling.
A mother enters Wal-Mart, squints as she searches through the blaring lights on the ceiling for the sign labeled SHOES. She grabs her son’s hand, dragging him away from the Christmas candy display and regrips the infant carrier that holds her 8-week-old daughter.
They are there on a last minute mission to buy her son some new boots. Not surprisingly, her son had outgrown last year’s boots. His kindergarten teacher sent home a note last week marking tomorrow as “play-in-the-snow day!” It is the last day before winter break and there is no chance of holding the attention of a class full of 6-year-olds.
She sits on the wooden bench between shoe racks and sighs at the relief of no longer hauling the infant holder. “Go ahead, James. This is your size. Pick a pair.”
Her breasts tingle as she glances over at her sleeping daughter. She needs to feed her but can’t imagine peeling off her own layers of clothing that are now making her sweat. They will make it home, she decides. James skips over holding a pair of blue holographic PowerRanger boots.
“Put them on really fast for me please. How do they feel?”
James shuffles around the row in the boots held together with a plastic connector.
“I love them!”
The mother smiles. Mission accomplished: they got out, new boots were purchased, and the mother feels a little awakened from the foggy loneliness she carries inside of her body. She knows this is the type of loneliness that slithers into your gut, curls up and sleeps. You nurture it as long as you nurture the young life of your children. The problem is, when your job is done, the loneliness does not slither away.
At home the next morning, James is dissecting his cinnamon Pop-Tart while his mother reads over the play-in-the-snow day checklist. Boots, hat, gloves, coat, snow pants. The note says in bold lettering that any missing items will result in the child having to sit inside with the classroom aide.
“You excited to go outside today?” She is satisfied now that she has marked his first name and last initial with a Sharpie on the tag of every item and placed them in his bag.
“Yup. Chris says he can build a bigger snowman, but mine will be bigger.”
The mother glances out the kitchen window.
“You know, kiddo, this snow might not be snowman snow.”
James looks at her with a crinkled brow.
“This snow is still a bit wet, because the air is a little warm. But give it a good shot.”
James nods. “I dreamt about it all last night. The snow was good enough for snowballs and angels.”
As she drops him off later that morning, she marvels at his height. When she hugs him, he buries his face into her belly. He barely makes it through the classroom door when she realizes that he is dragging his snow apparel bag and his book bag on the ground. The mother rolls her eyes. Boys.
After lunch, Sister Linda is waving her sweatered arms to direct the kids to their cubbies to dress for the snow. The students at table A go first. James waits until table B is called and runs to his cubby and slides into his coat that he just learned how to zip. He puts on his hat, but not his puffy gloves because they will slow him down. He looks for his boots in his bag, but they are gone. He is not worried now, because he saw them go into the bag this morning.
But they are gone.
“Sister Linda,” he waves his hand, “My boots are missing that we bought yesterday.”
Sister Linda stomps over to James and looks through his bag.
“Oh. James P?. I think that maybe your mother forgot your boots.”
He shakes his head. “No way. She put my name in them and they look like those.” He points to James O’s feet.
Sister Linda asks James O if she could look inside the boots.
“These are mine!”
“Okay, James O, but I just want to make sure.” she folds the boot openings down to search for a name. “James P is missing his boots and he says they look like these.”
“These are mine.” He claps his gloved hands together.
“Well, James P…” Sister Linda turns around, “These boots say James O. Look..”
James bends over. He recognizes his mother’s handwriting. The large, black block letters that label all of his school things. But they do say James O. The sharpie mark to complete the letter P looks like it has disappeared into thin air.
“Your mother forgot, dear.” Sister Linda rubs his head. “You have to stay inside today, but we will have play outside day again.” She smiles.
James can’t ignore the stinging he feels on the bridge of his nose moving to his eyes. He steps backwards into the classroom. The lights are off. There is one other girl at a table coloring. She looks sad, but this girl always looks sad to James. Every day her hair hangs long and tangled around her shoulders.
He turns to the window as he sees him classmates file out on to the large courtyard. The expanse of white is now freckled with them, some are running, some are rolling, most of the boys are throwing snow. The sun glare that makes the snow sparkle turns to bright, bleeding light. James surrenders to the stinging in his eyes and allows his large tears to fall.
The mother arrives at the classroom to pick James up, baby carrier in hand. All of the kids are wound up and leaving with their mothers. Sister Linda rushes over to her, holding James hand, looking stricken.
“Mrs. Peters, there was a mistake. We thought you forgot James’ boots, but James Orbitson put them on instead.” She reaches for the boots and holds them up. “Mrs. Orbitson picked her James up earlier and said that these were not his boots. But see,” she folds down the tongue of the boots. “Your P looked like and O to me. I am so sorry. Your James had to sit inside today and he was very sad.”
She ruffled James blonde hair. “James O said he was sorry, right?”
He nodded, looking away. He did not want more tears to fall.
The mother’s voice cracks, “Okay. It was a mistake. Thank you for telling me.”
Sister Linda smiles at baby Alison in her carrier. “I am so sorry again. James, you were such a good boy about it.”
He nods and follows his mother out the door.
When they are all finally buckled in the car, James reaches over and touches his sister’s pink nose. She opens her mouth to suck on his finger and whines when he takes it away. He laughs and makes a face at her.
He sees his mother has her forehead on the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking.
She is ashamed at the guttural sobbing noises she is making. She sounds like an animal, but she cannot stop. Her breasts are leaking. She has to pee. And she can’t stop sobbing.
“Mom?” James voice shakes now too, “Are you mad?”
“I am so sorry, James. I am so sorry that you didn't go outside today.”
“Mom? It was a mistake. I told James O it was okay.” He shifts under the seat belt, uncomfortable now. “Mom, I was sad, but it is okay.”
“It is okay.” Her breathing is stuttered. “No. No. It is not okay. I am so sorry honey. You were so excited, we talked about it all week. We went to buy special boots. We did everything right, but it was not enough. I am so, so sorry that it is not enough. It is never enough!” She bangs a fist on the steering wheel, then starts the car.
James sits silent on the way home, confused.
That evening, James is eating Spaghetti-Os alone at the table. His Dad will be home late from work, so he got to pick his own meal.
The mother stands at the counter and leafs through his homework folder. There is a page with instructions to identify the letter “M” in every bubble word on the sheet and color it green. There is a note about the New Year’s silent auction. Behind these is a crayon drawing of a large pink oval with a tiny face and two blue blocks sticking out from the oval.
She stares at the drawing for a long time before speaking.
“James? Is this Alison?” She holds up the drawing so it faces him.
“Hmm Mmm,” he swallows a mouth full. “She is wearing my boots there. I drew it when I was inside today. I think when she gets big, she will want to wear my boots.”
He closes his fist around his spoon, holds it high over his head before making a nose-dive into the bowl of bright orange Os, which splatter on his shirt. He looks up nervously.
“Sorry, mommy.”
The mother drops her shoulders and shakes her head. “I love you, kiddo.”
She feels giddy for the first time that day as she hangs the drawing under her favorite refrigerator magnet, which reads, We tried to childproof our house, but they keep coming back.
Crossing The Line
She commented!
I am talking about Michelle, who commented on my last post. Yes, the one who turned my pap test into a joke about cream cheese. See, that's who this friend is to me. She is really the only one who crosses the line in the way that I cross the line. Often we find our selves embarrassed about the words that come out of our mouths when we are with anyone else but each other. Sometimes we even report back to one another with our tails between our legs about the incident. Examples...
Michelle: "They didn't laugh at my joke about the stillborn"
or
Me: "They were not impressed at the fact that I had my own poop on my running shoes."
This friend is like me in so many ways: wacky, laughy, daring, curious. She is also very different. For example, she has a mild case of OCD that holds us up every time we need to take our bikes somewhere (we do triathlons together). She inspects every centimeter of the bike and what each centimeter is touching after it is mounted on the bike rack, while I am all like, "Throw 'em in the trunk, we'll put 'em back together later."
I love this friend. That line that we cross together is often because she pushes me across it...
Including her comment from yesterday's post and reminding me that our ugly times are transformative times, thanks to God.
I hope you all have friends like her. Someone to push you over the line when you need it. For a while, I have been seeking a Spiritual Director. This is someone who works with where you are spiritually and then challenges you to take it even further. I don't know how to seek out a spiritual director, but Michelle just made me realize that they are all around us and they always appear at the right time.
I am talking about Michelle, who commented on my last post. Yes, the one who turned my pap test into a joke about cream cheese. See, that's who this friend is to me. She is really the only one who crosses the line in the way that I cross the line. Often we find our selves embarrassed about the words that come out of our mouths when we are with anyone else but each other. Sometimes we even report back to one another with our tails between our legs about the incident. Examples...
Michelle: "They didn't laugh at my joke about the stillborn"
or
Me: "They were not impressed at the fact that I had my own poop on my running shoes."
This friend is like me in so many ways: wacky, laughy, daring, curious. She is also very different. For example, she has a mild case of OCD that holds us up every time we need to take our bikes somewhere (we do triathlons together). She inspects every centimeter of the bike and what each centimeter is touching after it is mounted on the bike rack, while I am all like, "Throw 'em in the trunk, we'll put 'em back together later."
I love this friend. That line that we cross together is often because she pushes me across it...
Including her comment from yesterday's post and reminding me that our ugly times are transformative times, thanks to God.
I hope you all have friends like her. Someone to push you over the line when you need it. For a while, I have been seeking a Spiritual Director. This is someone who works with where you are spiritually and then challenges you to take it even further. I don't know how to seek out a spiritual director, but Michelle just made me realize that they are all around us and they always appear at the right time.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Nothing to say except BLAH!
Also I could not bear to see the title "Pap Smear" as the first thing on my blog any longer. What do I have to say today?
Nothing.
It seems like all of the people I worship (in Blog land and other lands) are going through the same type of thing I am going through. Tired. Grieved. Overwhelmed. Angry. Lethargic.
Last week I was feeling and acting so awful that I thought I needed an exorcism.
I went to church on Sunday with my insides all jiggly and the brink of tears, like why am I here?
The priest gave a sermon about not dwelling on the horrible things that you do, but remembering and seizing the unlikely, wonderful things that happen every day.
And I thought to myself, yeah, why can't I laugh when my toddler is sick and throwing a tantrum with snot bubbling out of her nose and drool pouring out of her mouth because she refuses to breathe mid-scream? Why not?
I want to be that person.
I don't want to take myself so seriously anymore. I am really not that important.
Happy Birthday to my husband, by the way. Sorry to him for the pure evil that has been seeping out of every pore of my body for the last week. Thanks for loving me anyway.
Nothing.
It seems like all of the people I worship (in Blog land and other lands) are going through the same type of thing I am going through. Tired. Grieved. Overwhelmed. Angry. Lethargic.
Last week I was feeling and acting so awful that I thought I needed an exorcism.
I went to church on Sunday with my insides all jiggly and the brink of tears, like why am I here?
The priest gave a sermon about not dwelling on the horrible things that you do, but remembering and seizing the unlikely, wonderful things that happen every day.
And I thought to myself, yeah, why can't I laugh when my toddler is sick and throwing a tantrum with snot bubbling out of her nose and drool pouring out of her mouth because she refuses to breathe mid-scream? Why not?
I want to be that person.
I don't want to take myself so seriously anymore. I am really not that important.
Happy Birthday to my husband, by the way. Sorry to him for the pure evil that has been seeping out of every pore of my body for the last week. Thanks for loving me anyway.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Pap Smear
OK...after having a baby, a pap smear is not really all that bad.
In fact, I saw it as an exciting opportunity to see my OBGYN, the woman I fell in love with while I was pregnant. She smiled every time we found the baby's heartbeat during those 9 months. And when it was time for me to deliver, there were no stirrups and no bright lights like you see in the movies. She simply sat on the edge of my bed and asked, "remember how to push?"
Today, during the breast exam we discussed the increasing rate of cancer and the topic of few and far between bowel movements. After the vaginal invasion of KY Jelly, cotton swab, and mild cramping, I jumped off the table, grabbed her face in my hands and said, "OK, I can't take it anymore. I miss you so much, let's have another baby."
Then I thought about asking her for a prescription for an anti psychotic.
Instead I left with a prescription for another year of birth control, a maxi pad for the spotting and an insane jealously for all the women in the waiting room with swelling abdomens.
Sigh.
Hormones are dumb.
In fact, I saw it as an exciting opportunity to see my OBGYN, the woman I fell in love with while I was pregnant. She smiled every time we found the baby's heartbeat during those 9 months. And when it was time for me to deliver, there were no stirrups and no bright lights like you see in the movies. She simply sat on the edge of my bed and asked, "remember how to push?"
Today, during the breast exam we discussed the increasing rate of cancer and the topic of few and far between bowel movements. After the vaginal invasion of KY Jelly, cotton swab, and mild cramping, I jumped off the table, grabbed her face in my hands and said, "OK, I can't take it anymore. I miss you so much, let's have another baby."
Then I thought about asking her for a prescription for an anti psychotic.
Instead I left with a prescription for another year of birth control, a maxi pad for the spotting and an insane jealously for all the women in the waiting room with swelling abdomens.
Sigh.
Hormones are dumb.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Gina and Gratitude
I have to feature her gratitude list and I hope that this does not offend or embarrass her. The thing is, I miss this friend. She has moved away to earn an MFA, even though she is an exceptional writer already. She is caught up in the cyclone called grad-school, and is unable to post to her blog as much these days. I still check it about 400 times, while rocking back in forth in the corner like a crack addict.
Anyway, thank you Gina (and to everyone else) who comments. When Snickollet comments, I do back flips because I feel like I was just contacted by a celebrity. I mean really, do you see how many people comment on her blog? I guess that is the result of being amazing.
So, Gina's List (I will respond in bold):
1. My husband: To paraphrase the title of a Lee Abbott book - Everything to me. All at once. Strength. Intelligence. Wit. Love.
Yeah, at your wedding there was this vibrational connection between the two of you. I tried to escape it by drinking a gallon of the sangria you prepared for the celebration. I couldn't. I left feeling very, very happy for you.
2. My dream: Running after the writing dream is a difficult thing. I am challenged from the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep again. I get frustrated. I cry over teaching. I cry because I'm lonely for my husband. I learn of a college roommate, younger than I and already pregnant and I feel the incessant pulse of my ovaries. Sometimes I second guess these sacrifices and tell people that it might not be worth it. Sometimes I have delusions of grandeur. Sometimes I can't get out of bed. I have learned to struggle against struggle and simultaneously embrace it.
Oh, dear girl. I still think of the short story you let me read 6 years ago. I still think of the way the main character felt the cold stone through her jeans as she sad outside on a step. That makes you one impressionable writer. You struggle and second guess and sacrifice because you ARE a writer. When you embrace it all, art emerges.
3. My Cleveland home: I long for it. I have memory cycles about it. I imagine the driveway and the lawn and then I imagine the side door, the stairs up to the kitchen, the living room with newspapers and magazines everywhere, the stairs, the cats perched on the first landing, the bedroom that still looks new to me, the attic where I wrote the best literature analysis I've ever written. My Columbus apartment is all right. It's not my Cleveland home.
You know, that driveway of yours is STEEP. I do envy the haphazardly full bookshelves that line your living room. That room was made for you.
4. My imagination: I don't know what I would be doing without my daydreams and wild imaginings and the thought, "Whoa, better get that down on paper." Emotional rearrangement comes with wild imagination but it's worth it to feel so keenly. I write this now because I haven't spent the day crying over various things.
Sometimes I wonder if I have ever not been in a daydream. I make up stories constantly...about the man in Starbucks, the woman at the bus stop, the forlorn face of a friend. There is no reality for me. Thank God.
5. My breasts: I'm acknowledging physical body instead of lofty pursuit and challenge. My breasts are my best physical feature. Husband says that my eyes are but I've been inspecting longer than he has.
Me too! Me too! It has taken me 30 years to realize that I have something that every woman wants, no matter how many years I have spent hating them. I have never really been looked in the face by any man, though. Husband included.
Thanks, Gina. Like I said, I miss having you in the Cleveland area and hope you are writing the hell out of something.
Anyway, thank you Gina (and to everyone else) who comments. When Snickollet comments, I do back flips because I feel like I was just contacted by a celebrity. I mean really, do you see how many people comment on her blog? I guess that is the result of being amazing.
So, Gina's List (I will respond in bold):
1. My husband: To paraphrase the title of a Lee Abbott book - Everything to me. All at once. Strength. Intelligence. Wit. Love.
Yeah, at your wedding there was this vibrational connection between the two of you. I tried to escape it by drinking a gallon of the sangria you prepared for the celebration. I couldn't. I left feeling very, very happy for you.
2. My dream: Running after the writing dream is a difficult thing. I am challenged from the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep again. I get frustrated. I cry over teaching. I cry because I'm lonely for my husband. I learn of a college roommate, younger than I and already pregnant and I feel the incessant pulse of my ovaries. Sometimes I second guess these sacrifices and tell people that it might not be worth it. Sometimes I have delusions of grandeur. Sometimes I can't get out of bed. I have learned to struggle against struggle and simultaneously embrace it.
Oh, dear girl. I still think of the short story you let me read 6 years ago. I still think of the way the main character felt the cold stone through her jeans as she sad outside on a step. That makes you one impressionable writer. You struggle and second guess and sacrifice because you ARE a writer. When you embrace it all, art emerges.
3. My Cleveland home: I long for it. I have memory cycles about it. I imagine the driveway and the lawn and then I imagine the side door, the stairs up to the kitchen, the living room with newspapers and magazines everywhere, the stairs, the cats perched on the first landing, the bedroom that still looks new to me, the attic where I wrote the best literature analysis I've ever written. My Columbus apartment is all right. It's not my Cleveland home.
You know, that driveway of yours is STEEP. I do envy the haphazardly full bookshelves that line your living room. That room was made for you.
4. My imagination: I don't know what I would be doing without my daydreams and wild imaginings and the thought, "Whoa, better get that down on paper." Emotional rearrangement comes with wild imagination but it's worth it to feel so keenly. I write this now because I haven't spent the day crying over various things.
Sometimes I wonder if I have ever not been in a daydream. I make up stories constantly...about the man in Starbucks, the woman at the bus stop, the forlorn face of a friend. There is no reality for me. Thank God.
5. My breasts: I'm acknowledging physical body instead of lofty pursuit and challenge. My breasts are my best physical feature. Husband says that my eyes are but I've been inspecting longer than he has.
Me too! Me too! It has taken me 30 years to realize that I have something that every woman wants, no matter how many years I have spent hating them. I have never really been looked in the face by any man, though. Husband included.
Thanks, Gina. Like I said, I miss having you in the Cleveland area and hope you are writing the hell out of something.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Gratitude Journal, Day 2.
I am not going to list my gratitude entries every day because it could get quite boring. I am always going to be grateful for husband and daughter as #1 and #2, not necessarily in that order, depending on who whines at me the least that day. OK, my husband doesn't really whine. I whine at him, but it all depends on how he handles the situation. If he rolls his eyes...#2. If he pours me a glass of wine...#1.
However, one of my gratitude entries today was "A Good Night Sleep," and this refers to last night:
Husband had to wake really early to get to a meeting, and lately I have been complaining about his alarm clock, which is his cell phone that vibrates by registering 7.0 on the Richter scale. See, the thing is, this does not even wake him up. (I won't go into the nights when I was waking to a crying baby 5-22 times/night and he would wake up the next day and say, "did the baby wake last night?" Because I am totally over that. Really).
Back to his alarm clock...it usually takes me about 2-6000 pokes in his puffy shoulder for him to realize that the whole bed is shaking and I am hanging from the ceiling. He grabs the cell phone, and like any good husband, pushes snooze.
Oh dear God, this happens at least 3 times.
I also have to mention that our 2 cats stick to him like glue. They have given up on me since they have witnessed the bringing home of the loud extra animal that keeps growing and now has learned to tug on their tails. These 2 cats love to sleep by husband's head no matter what the price...even if it means shaping themselves into an unnatural S, or shoving out the person that is undoubtedly responsible for the loud extra animal that chases tails.
That would be me.
Sleeping has been a little awkward lately.
SO! The brilliant husband offered to sleep on the couch last night, which is where I usually end up by 2 am anyway. I begged and pleaded for him to come to bed, in a very unauthentic way, because I finally ascended the stairs alone and fell into a mass of tangled down and cotton, just the way I like it.
And I slept. Perfectly.
Tonight we will share a bed again. One night was all I needed. I missed his puffy shoulders and since tomorrow is Saturday, I will not have to worry about any 5 am earthquakes.
It was a wonderful gift he gave me though.
And that, my friends, is one good man.
However, one of my gratitude entries today was "A Good Night Sleep," and this refers to last night:
Husband had to wake really early to get to a meeting, and lately I have been complaining about his alarm clock, which is his cell phone that vibrates by registering 7.0 on the Richter scale. See, the thing is, this does not even wake him up. (I won't go into the nights when I was waking to a crying baby 5-22 times/night and he would wake up the next day and say, "did the baby wake last night?" Because I am totally over that. Really).
Back to his alarm clock...it usually takes me about 2-6000 pokes in his puffy shoulder for him to realize that the whole bed is shaking and I am hanging from the ceiling. He grabs the cell phone, and like any good husband, pushes snooze.
Oh dear God, this happens at least 3 times.
I also have to mention that our 2 cats stick to him like glue. They have given up on me since they have witnessed the bringing home of the loud extra animal that keeps growing and now has learned to tug on their tails. These 2 cats love to sleep by husband's head no matter what the price...even if it means shaping themselves into an unnatural S, or shoving out the person that is undoubtedly responsible for the loud extra animal that chases tails.
That would be me.
Sleeping has been a little awkward lately.
SO! The brilliant husband offered to sleep on the couch last night, which is where I usually end up by 2 am anyway. I begged and pleaded for him to come to bed, in a very unauthentic way, because I finally ascended the stairs alone and fell into a mass of tangled down and cotton, just the way I like it.
And I slept. Perfectly.
Tonight we will share a bed again. One night was all I needed. I missed his puffy shoulders and since tomorrow is Saturday, I will not have to worry about any 5 am earthquakes.
It was a wonderful gift he gave me though.
And that, my friends, is one good man.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Pre-Resolution Resolutions
Now that Halloween has passed, the holidays are looming. I don't mean to sound like it is such a dismal thing...it is not for me. However, I tend to get caught up in everyone's fury of trying to make the holidays special instead of noticing how they ARE special anyway. Imagine what the holidays could be without the traditional Thanksgiving stuffing that no one likes but can't bear leave out, or forgetting the 50 Christmas cards for $100+, or skipping the choosing, wrapping, under thinking and under budgeting of gifts. Not to mention the constant snapping of photos and oh shit, did we charge the camcorder?
I want to spend a holiday where I just exist and am mindful. This is terribly too much to ask right now, I know. I am now raising a human and must join the race of documenting. every. single. second.while.making.every.second.meaningful.
But this is all beside my point.
Beeecauuuse...I have this bad habit of doing the NEW YEAR RESOLUTION LOAD OF YOU KNOW WHAT. And I have the habit of failing these resolutions within days and casually thinking there is always next year. Is there? We don't know. So I must be prepared to break this habit.
Screw the New Year. It is the beginning of November, the feast of all souls, and my soul is at stake. I am starting the act of mindful living today.
I am starting here. And I am not going to describe it to you through my late-Thursday head static. I want you to read about it for yourself and get just as inspired as I am...static and all.
What a simple, transforming thing to do. I involved my husband and we started today.
Here is what we came up with:
Me:
1. My husband. My wing man. Thanks to Snickollet, I am aware of this gift every second. That awareness always leads me to a quiet prayer for her and her children as they trudge through the blessing/burden of everyday living. She has changed my life.
2. My daughter. My healthy, spicy, non-stop bundle of becoming.
3. The recent happiness of close friends. A first pregnancy, an engagement, a job offer. I want more for others more than I want for myself...thanks to this man.
4. An able body. No matter how difficult running has been lately. I had the good mind to take a week off to let some injuries heal. I am rarely so smart.
5. The closeness of family. The time that I spent with my parents last week. The fact that I talk to my sister every day. That my sister-in-law is crazy enough about my daughter that she drove to my house to see her in her adorable duck costume yesterday.
Husband:
1. Me. Uh, this may just be something he says to get me in the sack.
2. His daughter. What a ridiculous display of crazy, drop everything love he has for that child.
3. Our house. Very noble, but remember we are trying to sell it, dude. Don't get too attached. A roof over our heads is a very, very good thing, though.
4. The fact that Blogging is a hobby of mine that doesn't suck money out of our bank account. Okay. I will give him that. After triathlons, every diet on the planet and every workout gimmick on the planet, I will give him that.
5. Our cats. Yeah...they are cute and all, but they poop a lot and they literally kicked me out of bed at 2 am this morning.
See, good people? See why I am ready for that and not for this? I will save "this" for another time. Please comment.
I'd love to hear your list.
I want to spend a holiday where I just exist and am mindful. This is terribly too much to ask right now, I know. I am now raising a human and must join the race of documenting. every. single. second.while.making.every.second.meaningful.
But this is all beside my point.
Beeecauuuse...I have this bad habit of doing the NEW YEAR RESOLUTION LOAD OF YOU KNOW WHAT. And I have the habit of failing these resolutions within days and casually thinking there is always next year. Is there? We don't know. So I must be prepared to break this habit.
Screw the New Year. It is the beginning of November, the feast of all souls, and my soul is at stake. I am starting the act of mindful living today.
I am starting here. And I am not going to describe it to you through my late-Thursday head static. I want you to read about it for yourself and get just as inspired as I am...static and all.
What a simple, transforming thing to do. I involved my husband and we started today.
Here is what we came up with:
Me:
1. My husband. My wing man. Thanks to Snickollet, I am aware of this gift every second. That awareness always leads me to a quiet prayer for her and her children as they trudge through the blessing/burden of everyday living. She has changed my life.
2. My daughter. My healthy, spicy, non-stop bundle of becoming.
3. The recent happiness of close friends. A first pregnancy, an engagement, a job offer. I want more for others more than I want for myself...thanks to this man.
4. An able body. No matter how difficult running has been lately. I had the good mind to take a week off to let some injuries heal. I am rarely so smart.
5. The closeness of family. The time that I spent with my parents last week. The fact that I talk to my sister every day. That my sister-in-law is crazy enough about my daughter that she drove to my house to see her in her adorable duck costume yesterday.
Husband:
1. Me. Uh, this may just be something he says to get me in the sack.
2. His daughter. What a ridiculous display of crazy, drop everything love he has for that child.
3. Our house. Very noble, but remember we are trying to sell it, dude. Don't get too attached. A roof over our heads is a very, very good thing, though.
4. The fact that Blogging is a hobby of mine that doesn't suck money out of our bank account. Okay. I will give him that. After triathlons, every diet on the planet and every workout gimmick on the planet, I will give him that.
5. Our cats. Yeah...they are cute and all, but they poop a lot and they literally kicked me out of bed at 2 am this morning.
See, good people? See why I am ready for that and not for this? I will save "this" for another time. Please comment.
I'd love to hear your list.
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