There's too much pressure in this post, the last of the year. I feel as if I need to make some profound summary of the past twelve months, proclaiming lessons learned from the good and the bad that 2011 dished out. But I'm only here out of obligation...and fear of regret that I didn't ceremoniously wrap it up. So I'll give it a go.
When I lived alone, I would take great pains to reflect and resolve at New Year's. I would enjoy the silence and settle in under the luxurious weight of another year that was devoted to...me. I would look forward to the next cycle with renewed optimism and go to bed happy that the chalkboard had been erased and was ready for new scribbles. Now? I don't really have the energy. I am happy to just go to bed with that chalkboard illegible and dusty, as long as I'm in bed putting the day behind me.
I spend most of my days wishing for tomorrow. If I'm at work, I'm counting the minutes until I can go home. When I'm home, I'm picking out clothes and lunches for the next work day. If it's a day off, I'm looking for the next one to get to the end of the never-ending to-do list. It's appalling how much of my time is spent wishing it away. And now that the year is a mere 93 minutes from its end, I'm looking for the ball to drop so I can get on with the new one already. Control issues are a wondrous thing, no? I've tricked myself into thinking I can be prepared for anything if I just spend all my time waiting for it to get here.
My daughter may have picked up this bad habit. Every night as I tuck her in she asks, "What's tomorrow?" She needs to go to bed knowing who will be with her the next day, who will play with her, teach and protect her. I always answer and she goes to bed assured that she has another day coming, one that won't surprise her because she has a handle on it. I will put another deposit in her future therapy fund.
I have no idealistic projections for the new year. No lofty goals in the spotlight of squeaky-clean optimism. My only resolution is to not ignore today. I know I will keep up my prep work. I will always try to be ready for tomorrow, provided that I'm fortunate enough for it to come, but not at the expense of the here and now. Forget the erasers; I'm losing the chalkboard altogether. I won't be tempted to be lost in a haze of chalkdust from frantic list-making.
I am still looking forward to going to bed just after midnight. But I have this minute right here to sign off and sit with my husband, listening to my girl snoring in the next room. What's tomorrow? We'll have to wait and see...
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Gratitude...
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, hands down. There are no gifts to buy, no budgets to break, no religious overtones. There are no Thanksgiving carols to hear incessantly or horrible photos of silly outfits or bad pajamas and morning hair. It's the stripped-down, acoustic version of holidays, where we all just get together and talk and eat. The best thing about it is the sentiment behind the day, the stop-everything-for-two-seconds-and give-thanks part. Everyone groans when that one relative suggests taking time to go around the table and say what we're all thankful for...well, yeah, we just want to eat. But I'm secretly clapping under the table because, as much as I want to dig my fork into that stuffing, I'm a true believer in keeping the "thanks" in Thanksgiving.
I know it's a few days early, but us retail workers get pretty overwhelmed this time of year. So I'm going to make my gratitude list now while I have the time and energy. Everyone always lists their friends and family as the things they are thankful for; I always felt people should dig deeper. (And if you aren't grateful for your friends and family, you probably need them more than you know.) Everyone's experiences and daily lives move along because of such personal, relative things. Our Thanksgiving lists should reflect them, no? But when I originally sat down to make my list following my rules, I realized why people stick with the old tried-and-true answer...it's a challenge to come up with anything else. It's worth trying, so here goes:
I'm thankful for...
my village. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and for two working parents, this couldn't be more true. I am eternally grateful for my mother- and father-in-law, who give me the ability to work without worry. I am grateful to my mother, who makes my daughter light up with joy. And grateful for the countless others who help my husband and I guide our girl along with their encouragement and love. (Maybe this counts as cheating by listing my family as one of my blessings, but when they go above and beyond, they need a shout-out.)
my cheerleaders. Everyone needs them, no matter how self-sufficient you think you may be. I realized this year that I need them more than I cared to admit. An encouraging word goes a long way,
whether it comes directly from a friend or inspirationally from a stranger. I am thankful for the kind inquiries when my girl wasn't feeling well, which reminded me I was not helpless. Thankful for the interest and compliments on this little blog, which made me feel validated. Thankful for strangers' blogs, for giving me inspiration and fresh approaches to old issues. And thankful for the unsolicited, sincere how-are-you's from new voices, that made me feel especially cared for.
my conveniences. Mother Nature has played a little rough this year. Although in our house we have been very lucky, there are a lot of my friends and neighbors who weren't so fortunate. I no longer disregard the simple things that become not-so-simple when they are gone, like lights and water. I am thankful for electricity, transportation, and basic infrastructure. For my computer, my television, my cellphone, my car. And I am knocking on wood as I type.
my town. I've made mention of it before, but having a sense of home is so important to me. To take a walk and greet my neighbors, to know landmarks and history, and to watch my daughter discover the streets where we stroll and the forests where we hike. Roots are beautiful things, wherever they are. I'm glad mine are here.
my simple miracles. They're all around, every day. My daughter's morning breath. My husband's hand resting on my knee as we watch tv. The smell of my first cup of coffee and Bean's cinnamon apple oatmeal in the morning. The softness of my bed's sheets and pillow after a particularly long day. The shelter of my car after running through the rain. The sound of my girl splashing in the bathtub. The squeak of the back door when my husband arrives home safely. I could list a thousand more. We are all blessed to have our small things, that aren't really so small, that fill each day and routine. I'm grateful to have the day to think about them.
My grandmother used to say the most beautiful word in the English language is compassion, and really, who could argue? But I think gratitude could maybe place just ahead of it on the list. The act of focusing on what we have to be thankful for can instantly hush all the unruly noises in our heads. Anything that can do that these days is truly something for which to be grateful. Now let's start eating...
I know it's a few days early, but us retail workers get pretty overwhelmed this time of year. So I'm going to make my gratitude list now while I have the time and energy. Everyone always lists their friends and family as the things they are thankful for; I always felt people should dig deeper. (And if you aren't grateful for your friends and family, you probably need them more than you know.) Everyone's experiences and daily lives move along because of such personal, relative things. Our Thanksgiving lists should reflect them, no? But when I originally sat down to make my list following my rules, I realized why people stick with the old tried-and-true answer...it's a challenge to come up with anything else. It's worth trying, so here goes:
I'm thankful for...
my village. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and for two working parents, this couldn't be more true. I am eternally grateful for my mother- and father-in-law, who give me the ability to work without worry. I am grateful to my mother, who makes my daughter light up with joy. And grateful for the countless others who help my husband and I guide our girl along with their encouragement and love. (Maybe this counts as cheating by listing my family as one of my blessings, but when they go above and beyond, they need a shout-out.)
my cheerleaders. Everyone needs them, no matter how self-sufficient you think you may be. I realized this year that I need them more than I cared to admit. An encouraging word goes a long way,
whether it comes directly from a friend or inspirationally from a stranger. I am thankful for the kind inquiries when my girl wasn't feeling well, which reminded me I was not helpless. Thankful for the interest and compliments on this little blog, which made me feel validated. Thankful for strangers' blogs, for giving me inspiration and fresh approaches to old issues. And thankful for the unsolicited, sincere how-are-you's from new voices, that made me feel especially cared for.
my conveniences. Mother Nature has played a little rough this year. Although in our house we have been very lucky, there are a lot of my friends and neighbors who weren't so fortunate. I no longer disregard the simple things that become not-so-simple when they are gone, like lights and water. I am thankful for electricity, transportation, and basic infrastructure. For my computer, my television, my cellphone, my car. And I am knocking on wood as I type.
my town. I've made mention of it before, but having a sense of home is so important to me. To take a walk and greet my neighbors, to know landmarks and history, and to watch my daughter discover the streets where we stroll and the forests where we hike. Roots are beautiful things, wherever they are. I'm glad mine are here.
my simple miracles. They're all around, every day. My daughter's morning breath. My husband's hand resting on my knee as we watch tv. The smell of my first cup of coffee and Bean's cinnamon apple oatmeal in the morning. The softness of my bed's sheets and pillow after a particularly long day. The shelter of my car after running through the rain. The sound of my girl splashing in the bathtub. The squeak of the back door when my husband arrives home safely. I could list a thousand more. We are all blessed to have our small things, that aren't really so small, that fill each day and routine. I'm grateful to have the day to think about them.
My grandmother used to say the most beautiful word in the English language is compassion, and really, who could argue? But I think gratitude could maybe place just ahead of it on the list. The act of focusing on what we have to be thankful for can instantly hush all the unruly noises in our heads. Anything that can do that these days is truly something for which to be grateful. Now let's start eating...
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Shoosh...
Well, hello. I know--it's been awhile since I've been here. I think my subconscious was telling me to shoosh for a bit. There are so many of us out here, blogging away, that it just gets too noisy for me. We all get stuck in our heads and rattle around in our thoughts so much that everything becomes a set-up for the tale we plan to tell when we sit at our keyboards...and we forget to just relax and enjoy.
So I shooshed and enjoyed.
I spent quality time with my family, trick-or-treating and playing in leaves, hiking and imagining. A best friend gave birth to a miraculous baby girl and we celebrated with so much joy our cheeks hurt from smiling. Prep work has begun for the holidays and a certain sweet girl's third birthday party, which is coming faster than her mama can wrap her head around it. We were blanketed in a surprise snowfall, and surrendered to the reality of winter's fast arrival. And, as always, I ran errands, cleaned, worked, and shopped...usually with a patient toddler in tow.
In the midst of all this, I found some old friends waiting to entertain me: books, music, and television. I missed those friends. Staying away from the blogosphere gave me time to invest in them, and they welcomed me back with open arms and didn't disappoint. I listened to the Civil Wars, who gently guided me home after work each night. I read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, which made me aware of things I suppose no one wants to learn but, after the last page, you feel grateful for having been taught. Smart, short new sitcoms like "The New Girl" and "Up All Night" took the place of reality tv, and made me laugh after long days of chores and work and little tantrums. (These shows may be more enjoyable because they are accompanied by a cup of cocoa and a slice of shoo-fly pie. Maybe the ratings people should come up with a way to market that.)
But now I am back clacking away on the keys because I started this thing and I will keep it going. I realize it's important to share when something is felt to be worth sharing, but it's equally important to shoosh and savor the moments. Not everything has to be stated or explained right away. Once again, it all comes down to balance. Equal parts shooshing and sharing. Except for the pie and cocoa...they're all mine.
So I shooshed and enjoyed.
I spent quality time with my family, trick-or-treating and playing in leaves, hiking and imagining. A best friend gave birth to a miraculous baby girl and we celebrated with so much joy our cheeks hurt from smiling. Prep work has begun for the holidays and a certain sweet girl's third birthday party, which is coming faster than her mama can wrap her head around it. We were blanketed in a surprise snowfall, and surrendered to the reality of winter's fast arrival. And, as always, I ran errands, cleaned, worked, and shopped...usually with a patient toddler in tow.
In the midst of all this, I found some old friends waiting to entertain me: books, music, and television. I missed those friends. Staying away from the blogosphere gave me time to invest in them, and they welcomed me back with open arms and didn't disappoint. I listened to the Civil Wars, who gently guided me home after work each night. I read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, which made me aware of things I suppose no one wants to learn but, after the last page, you feel grateful for having been taught. Smart, short new sitcoms like "The New Girl" and "Up All Night" took the place of reality tv, and made me laugh after long days of chores and work and little tantrums. (These shows may be more enjoyable because they are accompanied by a cup of cocoa and a slice of shoo-fly pie. Maybe the ratings people should come up with a way to market that.)
But now I am back clacking away on the keys because I started this thing and I will keep it going. I realize it's important to share when something is felt to be worth sharing, but it's equally important to shoosh and savor the moments. Not everything has to be stated or explained right away. Once again, it all comes down to balance. Equal parts shooshing and sharing. Except for the pie and cocoa...they're all mine.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Minding the gap...
My sweet Nana, who lived well into her nineties, used to tell me how she would forget how old she was until she caught herself in a mirror. Her reflection would surprise her, she said, because in her mind she was always decades younger. She would forget how time was tracking her down and changing her outside of her thoughts...that is, until an ailment or trip to the doctor would remind her. Then she would always sigh and say "Don't ever get old. It's terrible." None of this made sense to me. I would wonder how one could not always be absolutely aware of her age, and, really, why wouldn't I want to get old? We get older every day, every minute. What's the alternative? Yep, death. And who wants that?
Ok, Nana, you win. I get it.
Today is my birthday. My forty-second birthday, to be specific. And while I certainly don't want to stop the aging process for fear of the alternative, I would like it to slow down a bit and let me catch up. Give me a minute to absorb the fact that I can't stay up until one a.m. and not regret it the next day. Let me have a few days to wrestle with the fact that I have no idea what certain slang terms mean, or who half of the "celebrities" on the pages of my InStyle magazine are (I will assume most are from the Disney channel or vampire shows and will rely on my daughter to fill those gaps for me in the years to come.) I will need at least a month to stop doing before-and-afters in the mirror, pulling my neck up tight to remind me of what it used to look like. Give me a mourning period for my youth, and let me attempt to embrace where I am now.
I, too, forget how old I am until I see my reflection. I am perpetually twenty-something until I catch myself in the eyes of the girls shopping next to me in Forever 21. Then I am painfully reminded that I am not one of them. I need to move along to Chico's with the rest of the moms while the kids feed that youth demographic all the consumer reports talk about. I'm not quite there yet, girls. But I get it. I'll stick to my side of the generation gap. Just remember to listen to your grandmothers.
Ok, Nana, you win. I get it.
Today is my birthday. My forty-second birthday, to be specific. And while I certainly don't want to stop the aging process for fear of the alternative, I would like it to slow down a bit and let me catch up. Give me a minute to absorb the fact that I can't stay up until one a.m. and not regret it the next day. Let me have a few days to wrestle with the fact that I have no idea what certain slang terms mean, or who half of the "celebrities" on the pages of my InStyle magazine are (I will assume most are from the Disney channel or vampire shows and will rely on my daughter to fill those gaps for me in the years to come.) I will need at least a month to stop doing before-and-afters in the mirror, pulling my neck up tight to remind me of what it used to look like. Give me a mourning period for my youth, and let me attempt to embrace where I am now.
I, too, forget how old I am until I see my reflection. I am perpetually twenty-something until I catch myself in the eyes of the girls shopping next to me in Forever 21. Then I am painfully reminded that I am not one of them. I need to move along to Chico's with the rest of the moms while the kids feed that youth demographic all the consumer reports talk about. I'm not quite there yet, girls. But I get it. I'll stick to my side of the generation gap. Just remember to listen to your grandmothers.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Classes have begun...
Here we are, September at last. The time of year where everyone asks where did the summer go, how did it pass by so quickly? I am always ready for it. In June, I am excited for summer and the beach, sunshine and bare toes. By mid-August the trip to the beach is far behind me, my feet are mad at me for mistreating them in flip flops, and I am finished with sleeping with the windows closed for fear the air-conditioned air will escape. Everyone seems cranky and panicked, trying to get the last few days' worth of quality summer fun before it's too late. I say pack up the inflatable pool and bring on the pumpkin-flavored coffee, the fresh night air, and fisherman sweaters.
August was a month of uncontrollables, of a multitude of events and occasions that proved to be challenging from all angles. A family reunion of sorts, a baby shower, christening, sickness and recovery, and too much weather kept me filled with nervous energy. I moved from day to day, finishing one task or challenge to move on to the next, and crawled into bed tired and low on motivation. So goodbye, August. You've worn out your welcome.
Even though my last first day of school was too many years ago, I've never lost that back-to-school vibe, that smell of potential in the air. Potential to start fresh and be that go-getter I just know is in there waiting to burst out all over everyone and everything. Armed with new clothes and blank pages in composition books, I will take it all on. I will raise my hand in class every day at least once, I will not hide behind third base in gym class praying the ball doesn't reach me. I will stop letting life just happen to me.
It's still there. I'm more cynical than that idealistic schoolgirl, and I'm a little worn from wear, but I still feel like I fueled up on optimism somewhere and am getting ready for the new year. September is my birth month and I look at my new age as my next grade or semester in the "school of life". And just like when I was in school, my enthusiasm will fade quickly, only this time I have a daughter to help me kickstart it back up again. I want her to pick up on this feeling, to look forward to new beginnings and fresh starts. To not dread the experience of learning, be it in a classroom or elsewhere.
So I'm saying farewell to summer, even though there are technically a few weeks left, and I'm gearing up for the new season. I'm making my mental lists of books to read and looking for a new haircut. I am preparing for the onslaught of birthdays and holidays by setting a budget. I am looking forward to potty training (well, sort of. Let's say I'm looking forward to no diapers.). I am taking charge of the things I can control and making this life thing a collaboration instead of a one-sided affair. I will sit in the center of the classroom instead of the back row. And I will start daydreaming of next year's summer vacation...
August was a month of uncontrollables, of a multitude of events and occasions that proved to be challenging from all angles. A family reunion of sorts, a baby shower, christening, sickness and recovery, and too much weather kept me filled with nervous energy. I moved from day to day, finishing one task or challenge to move on to the next, and crawled into bed tired and low on motivation. So goodbye, August. You've worn out your welcome.
Even though my last first day of school was too many years ago, I've never lost that back-to-school vibe, that smell of potential in the air. Potential to start fresh and be that go-getter I just know is in there waiting to burst out all over everyone and everything. Armed with new clothes and blank pages in composition books, I will take it all on. I will raise my hand in class every day at least once, I will not hide behind third base in gym class praying the ball doesn't reach me. I will stop letting life just happen to me.
It's still there. I'm more cynical than that idealistic schoolgirl, and I'm a little worn from wear, but I still feel like I fueled up on optimism somewhere and am getting ready for the new year. September is my birth month and I look at my new age as my next grade or semester in the "school of life". And just like when I was in school, my enthusiasm will fade quickly, only this time I have a daughter to help me kickstart it back up again. I want her to pick up on this feeling, to look forward to new beginnings and fresh starts. To not dread the experience of learning, be it in a classroom or elsewhere.
So I'm saying farewell to summer, even though there are technically a few weeks left, and I'm gearing up for the new season. I'm making my mental lists of books to read and looking for a new haircut. I am preparing for the onslaught of birthdays and holidays by setting a budget. I am looking forward to potty training (well, sort of. Let's say I'm looking forward to no diapers.). I am taking charge of the things I can control and making this life thing a collaboration instead of a one-sided affair. I will sit in the center of the classroom instead of the back row. And I will start daydreaming of next year's summer vacation...
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Arms out for balance...
I am not an easy person to live with. If there were report cards given for the ability to cohabitate, mine would read "does not share well with others" and "must work on compromise and control issues". I would get failing grades for taking too much time in the bathroom, eating ice cream out of the container, and not sharing the remote. I need my space and my time, and I need things to be put where and how I want them. Some days are better than others, when I really make the effort to rein in my selfish habits, but other days I just don't have the energy to try. I am moody and demanding, a lot of take and not so much give.
My husband and I celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary last week. This sounds like a small thing, not a huge milestone. And I hope that years from now, looking back, I laugh at how I thought four years was worth mentioning after reaching more significant numbers. To me, though, four years seems pretty darn remarkable right now. Given what I just told you about me in the above paragraph, mixed with the fact that I despised my husband when we first got to know each other, plus the daily trials of raising a toddler...well, four years may as well be twenty.
Marriage is hard work. I used to hear this from couples on talk shows and I would think what's so hard? You love each other, you make each other happy. Easy peasy. (This from a girl with divorced parents, no less.) Well, marriage is hard work. So is parenting, and earning a paycheck, and maintaining friendships, and keeping a house. Unfortunately the marriage gets shoved to the end of the line too easily; it's easy to assume a spouse will just be there when you get a minute, because they promised to be around forever. I am sometimes reminded of this a little too late, when neglect has gone on a little too long, and I have to make amends.
My husband is more than I could have asked for. He is patient and giving, helpful and strong. He is a master of compromise. He is quietly loud. He is centered and calm. He is my daughter's father, my teammate, my best friend. I do not take him for granted. I work hard to keep him at the top of the list, with failures and success. Sometimes my efforts are obvious; sometimes too subtle to be worthy.
Maybe there are many keys to long, happy marriages; maybe it's as simple as love and happiness. Who knows. Right now it's all about balance. Putting as much "give" on the one side of the scale as there is "take" on the other. I'm learning, just like my daughter in her gymnastics class. She's been very focused on mastering the balance beam. "Arms out for balance", she says, her latest mantra. I'm borrowing it and very much looking forward to year five...
My husband and I celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary last week. This sounds like a small thing, not a huge milestone. And I hope that years from now, looking back, I laugh at how I thought four years was worth mentioning after reaching more significant numbers. To me, though, four years seems pretty darn remarkable right now. Given what I just told you about me in the above paragraph, mixed with the fact that I despised my husband when we first got to know each other, plus the daily trials of raising a toddler...well, four years may as well be twenty.
Marriage is hard work. I used to hear this from couples on talk shows and I would think what's so hard? You love each other, you make each other happy. Easy peasy. (This from a girl with divorced parents, no less.) Well, marriage is hard work. So is parenting, and earning a paycheck, and maintaining friendships, and keeping a house. Unfortunately the marriage gets shoved to the end of the line too easily; it's easy to assume a spouse will just be there when you get a minute, because they promised to be around forever. I am sometimes reminded of this a little too late, when neglect has gone on a little too long, and I have to make amends.
My husband is more than I could have asked for. He is patient and giving, helpful and strong. He is a master of compromise. He is quietly loud. He is centered and calm. He is my daughter's father, my teammate, my best friend. I do not take him for granted. I work hard to keep him at the top of the list, with failures and success. Sometimes my efforts are obvious; sometimes too subtle to be worthy.
Maybe there are many keys to long, happy marriages; maybe it's as simple as love and happiness. Who knows. Right now it's all about balance. Putting as much "give" on the one side of the scale as there is "take" on the other. I'm learning, just like my daughter in her gymnastics class. She's been very focused on mastering the balance beam. "Arms out for balance", she says, her latest mantra. I'm borrowing it and very much looking forward to year five...
Monday, July 18, 2011
Give me a minute...
I want a do-over. The days when I was scanning websites for the items to put on our baby registry-yeah, I want those back. I spent too much time looking for gear with the highest ratings and gadgets that no one said would be completely useless. I would sweep the whole list clean and simply ask for more minutes. Not the Verizon-more-minutes...I mean more minutes.
They say time is a gift. I don't know who "they" are but I agree. Time is indeed a gift. I won't go into more cliches about making every second count and seizing the day, yadda yadda. Those phrases make me crazy; of course we should live it to the fullest. But when you're like me (and most folks, I imagine) and you're plugging away putting in forty hours a week somewhere you'd never be if it weren't for that paycheck...well, those sayings instill a lot of feelings of guilt and failure. Failure to honor the gift of time.
So I'm turning the tables on that and saying the lack of time is also a gift. When you only have so much time to actually start seizing anything, let alone a whole day, you are forced to prioritize. To figure out what's truly important at that moment. Children, spouses, chores, friends, errands, health...big stuff or little, what comes first? What comes last? Does the laundry need to get done or do we go splash in the creek for the afternoon? Do we get up at 6 am to walk off those extra ten pounds or do we sleep that extra hour to have energy for the day? Do we blog because we haven't done so in a month or do we read that library book that's overdue but not finished yet?
No one can answer those questions but me. I am doing what I can to keep everyone and everything in my sights and on my radar but there will always be something that falls behind. It's regrettable but necessary and coming to terms with that is my challenge. So forgive me for not being here contributing to my project lately. I will move it up a few notches on my priority list and be more consistent with the scribbles here. Just give me a minute...or five...
They say time is a gift. I don't know who "they" are but I agree. Time is indeed a gift. I won't go into more cliches about making every second count and seizing the day, yadda yadda. Those phrases make me crazy; of course we should live it to the fullest. But when you're like me (and most folks, I imagine) and you're plugging away putting in forty hours a week somewhere you'd never be if it weren't for that paycheck...well, those sayings instill a lot of feelings of guilt and failure. Failure to honor the gift of time.
So I'm turning the tables on that and saying the lack of time is also a gift. When you only have so much time to actually start seizing anything, let alone a whole day, you are forced to prioritize. To figure out what's truly important at that moment. Children, spouses, chores, friends, errands, health...big stuff or little, what comes first? What comes last? Does the laundry need to get done or do we go splash in the creek for the afternoon? Do we get up at 6 am to walk off those extra ten pounds or do we sleep that extra hour to have energy for the day? Do we blog because we haven't done so in a month or do we read that library book that's overdue but not finished yet?
No one can answer those questions but me. I am doing what I can to keep everyone and everything in my sights and on my radar but there will always be something that falls behind. It's regrettable but necessary and coming to terms with that is my challenge. So forgive me for not being here contributing to my project lately. I will move it up a few notches on my priority list and be more consistent with the scribbles here. Just give me a minute...or five...
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The first day of summer...
Well, here we are...almost at the end of June already. My annual beach trip has come and gone, and I am harrassing my husband into planning our next adventure just so I have something else to look forward to...taking Bean to the zoo, an amusement park, a museum...or should we go explore another city, like Boston or Providence or Honolulu? Okay, maybe not Honolulu. But give me a little something to hang my hope hat on. I fold shirts all day for messy tourists, remember?
My girl has had a rough time lately, which means Mommy has been having a rough time lately, too. Seems she's in a bit of a 'mommy' phase and, while it blows my ego up like a balloon to know I'm the only one who can soothe her, it is exhausting. I strive to be that wheeee-anything-goes mom, the one who is always silly, always attentive, always "on". But instead of always, we'll have to settle for mostly. The more she clings, the more challenging it is. This, too, shall pass. When the ego balloon pops because she's turned her affections to her Daddy, I will know that I did what I could during my turn, for better or worse. And then make another deposit in her future therapy fund to make up for my shortcomings.
With vacation over and a cranky, clingy daughter, the outlook for summer is grim. Throw in my disdain for my once-beloved traditional summer thrill, cycling's Tour de France, which has been tainted by scandal and cheaters, and I don't have much going for me for the next couple of months. But why complain? Well, because I'm quite good at complaining, thank you...but I won't. I will turn once again to the things that are providing a pleasant distraction from the sound of the sad trumpet playing in the background (can you hear it? wa wa waaaaaaa...) and make a happy list. Here goes:
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My girl has had a rough time lately, which means Mommy has been having a rough time lately, too. Seems she's in a bit of a 'mommy' phase and, while it blows my ego up like a balloon to know I'm the only one who can soothe her, it is exhausting. I strive to be that wheeee-anything-goes mom, the one who is always silly, always attentive, always "on". But instead of always, we'll have to settle for mostly. The more she clings, the more challenging it is. This, too, shall pass. When the ego balloon pops because she's turned her affections to her Daddy, I will know that I did what I could during my turn, for better or worse. And then make another deposit in her future therapy fund to make up for my shortcomings.
With vacation over and a cranky, clingy daughter, the outlook for summer is grim. Throw in my disdain for my once-beloved traditional summer thrill, cycling's Tour de France, which has been tainted by scandal and cheaters, and I don't have much going for me for the next couple of months. But why complain? Well, because I'm quite good at complaining, thank you...but I won't. I will turn once again to the things that are providing a pleasant distraction from the sound of the sad trumpet playing in the background (can you hear it? wa wa waaaaaaa...) and make a happy list. Here goes:
- I've discovered a new-found love for all things coconut. Mocha coconut lattes, coconut M&Ms, Whole Fruit coconut popsicles, even coconut-scented moisturizer for after the shower. Just the word makes me happy: coconut. I may need an intervention.
- Speaking of interventions, the new season of "Intervention" has just started on A&E. Along with "Hoarders". My husband wants to know why I insist on finding entertainment in shows that portray people at the lowest points in their lives, and so now has given literal meaning to "guilty pleasure". Sheesh, I love those shows. But the new season of So You Think You Can Dance has me daydreaming about twirling around barefoot, receiving high-pitched squeals from judge Mary Murphy for my brilliant interpretations of choreographer Sonia Tayeh's routines...oh, yeah. That's the stuff. I may even text a vote this season.
- Have you heard that I'm not so fond of my job? I try to make the best of it but it's particularly hard in the summer months, when my friends are free and living life, and I'm left behind picking up after busloads of bargain-seeking shoppers. Closing shifts are the toughest, but the drive home is always a relief. To meander home in the dark with the windows down, listening to Bon Iver, is the perfect antidote. Haven't heard? You should. At night. Accompanied by stars.
- I haven't the time or the funds for pedicures, and I am jealous of all of those pretty toes peeking out of cute sandals (which I also can't afford). Especially since I had my first spa pedicure last summer and crave another like no one's business. But we women must maintain ourselves, musn't we? So I fake it with Essie nail polish in "Too Too Hot". It makes me smile. And it's the color of Bean's kick-off into the world of polish, brushed onto her little toes for the first time, much to her father's dismay. Don't even think about removing it, and every morning she checks to make sure it's still there.(Psst...hey, folks at Essie, did you like that little commercial? Maybe some samples could be arranged?)
- I promised myself I would put some time and energy into my neglected creative side so I am toting around my new Olympus E-P1 camera everywhere and trying to remember to actually use it. I'm far from a genius photographer and will probably never use the thing to its full potential, but it sure looks cool in my bag.
- My bossy girl enjoys playing hide-and-seek in our backyard, which is fun for no one but her. She tells whoever she's playing with where to hide, and counts while watching you "hide" so she can run right to you saying "FOUND YOU!" as if you are just no good at hiding. So when she asks for bubbles instead, I am more than happy to oblige. I could blow bubbles all afternoon. She pops one or two and is finished, but I would keep on keepin' on until the bottle's empty if she'd let me. Maybe one afternoon at naptime I'll do just that.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Oh! I do like to be beside the seaside...
Nothing suggests "home" as much as a mailbox at the end of a driveway. It says this is where we live, here is where you can find us. It's not a common sight in a town by the shore, in a grid of streets lined with houses that rotate their residents weekly. But there it was, a big black mailbox in front of the house across the street from our rented beach cottage. I can never remember all of the seven big bad sins, but if envy is one of them, then I was guilty of that every time I saw that mailbox. (I believe gluttony is another so we won't mention all of the M&Ms and mocha coconut lattes that passed my lips all week.) While we packed up the car to return home and leave the sand and surf behind, that mailbox taunted me. Those folks didn't have to leave. They could store their suitcases and not worry about keeping track of all their kids' toys so they wouldn't leave any behind. They could get up and head to work knowing they would return to their ocean view at the end of the day. Can you imagine? I can. And it makes my brain hurt with envy.
I find a whole lotta inspiration at the beach. What is it about the sound of the waves and the feel of sand in our toes that makes us feel reflective and stripped down to our bare bones? Maybe it's being at the edge with nowhere else to go, who knows. It just feels right. When it's time to leave after our week's stay, I am not someone you want to sit next to in a car for four hours. I am miserable. But once I'm home and unpacked, and have slept in my own bed with the sounds of my neighborhood outside the windows, I feel revived. I want to improve everything. My house, my job, my attitude. (This will last for a day or two, usually fading with the first grumpy soul I have to face when I return to work...) I wonder if I would hang on to that fresh, positive feeling every day if I lived near the shore? And will I get the chance to someday find out? Do I want it badly enough to make it happen?
I chose the path I'm on. I chose to not go to college, to work where I could and get the bills paid. I chose to rack up some credit card debt that I'm still paying for, and I chose to live in the moment and not the future, which is now. I chose to have a child, and I choose to do what it takes to keep her healthy and happy, which for now means settling for a unremarkable job that helps put the food on the table. I'm responsible for where I am, and I'm okay with that most of the time. I will keep on doing what I have to do to get my life and family in order. But sometimes...oh, sometimes. The if-onlys creep in and my mind bounces around in the coulda's, shoulda's, and why-me's. They bring out the worst in me, and I let them for a few minutes, and then they are gone. It's so easy to make ourselves victims and forget that we choose our own endings, like those books we read in junior high. I want my chapters to lead to a mailbox that has fewer bills and maybe some sand inside.
I find a whole lotta inspiration at the beach. What is it about the sound of the waves and the feel of sand in our toes that makes us feel reflective and stripped down to our bare bones? Maybe it's being at the edge with nowhere else to go, who knows. It just feels right. When it's time to leave after our week's stay, I am not someone you want to sit next to in a car for four hours. I am miserable. But once I'm home and unpacked, and have slept in my own bed with the sounds of my neighborhood outside the windows, I feel revived. I want to improve everything. My house, my job, my attitude. (This will last for a day or two, usually fading with the first grumpy soul I have to face when I return to work...) I wonder if I would hang on to that fresh, positive feeling every day if I lived near the shore? And will I get the chance to someday find out? Do I want it badly enough to make it happen?
I chose the path I'm on. I chose to not go to college, to work where I could and get the bills paid. I chose to rack up some credit card debt that I'm still paying for, and I chose to live in the moment and not the future, which is now. I chose to have a child, and I choose to do what it takes to keep her healthy and happy, which for now means settling for a unremarkable job that helps put the food on the table. I'm responsible for where I am, and I'm okay with that most of the time. I will keep on doing what I have to do to get my life and family in order. But sometimes...oh, sometimes. The if-onlys creep in and my mind bounces around in the coulda's, shoulda's, and why-me's. They bring out the worst in me, and I let them for a few minutes, and then they are gone. It's so easy to make ourselves victims and forget that we choose our own endings, like those books we read in junior high. I want my chapters to lead to a mailbox that has fewer bills and maybe some sand inside.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I really should start packing...
And so it begins, the annual gathering of way too much stuff to be crammed into suitcases and bags for our week at the beach. After twenty-plus years of doing this, you'd think I'd have it down. I guess I do, but there's always the second-guessing. Do I really need to take three pairs of black flip flops? (Um, yes.) There's the last-minute do-I-have-enough-music panic, loading up the playlists with songs that don't get listened to because I end up hooked on one that I can't get enough of. There's the packing of the whole wardrobe--because you just never know--only to wear the same uniform all week. So why am I sitting here typing when I literally should be getting my crap together? Good question.
I look forward to the week at the beach all year, starting the moment we pull out of the rented beach house driveway to head home. Some years have been better than others, when the long year between trips didn't seem so endless and mundane, and I didn't dread going home so much. But I always couldn't wait to get back, and this year is no exception. Except...
Our family has changed, for better and for worse, and so must tradition. My aunt, the grand dame of our beach babe quartet, will...well, I was about to type that she won't be with us. But that is far from true. She will be with us more than ever. We will quote her when we go out for ice cream, when we search the horizon for dolphins, when we open the refridgerator and see how much food we have left. We will see her strolling the shoreline, head down, looking for shells. We'll hear her up first in the morning, making her cup of coffee, trying not to disturb anyone. She will be helping with the jigsaw puzzle, showing us her finds from the antique shops, guiding us to the least crowded spot in the sand for sunbathing.
Our clan owes our love of the sea and shore to our mothers. From our Nana to my aunt and my own mother, from Manasquan, New Jersey to Bethany Beach, Delaware. Get us all together and you will be sure to hear a beach story or three. It's a part of who we are, and I hope I can uphold the legacy and instill the same fondness for sea air in my daughter. This will be her third year going, and I think the brainwashing is working. She has been talking about it for awhile now, and I hope she bores everyone to death with stories of her trip when we return. But for the endless photos, she won't remember much of Bethany. We want to start looking for new adventures and places to discover and share with our Bean, so she can have her own sense of tradition and family trips to pass along one day, and always tying up one week of limited vacation time with the same destination hinders that plan. And so we move on.
So, in my rambling way, I suppose that's why I'm using this as an excuse to not deal with the beginning of the end, the packing and the prep work. But here is where I will try to lay to rest my thoughts on this being the final trip. I will now start looking forward to my annual week, and all of its usual activities like puzzles and bicycling and dolphin-watching and shopping. And I will go fill up my iPod with good intentions...
Monday, May 16, 2011
My date with Alexander McQueen...
As I attempted to watch a bit of CBS Sunday Morning yesterday, in between trying to feed my daughter breakfast and keep her from tripping over her own feet for the fourteenth time in as many minutes, I caught a glimpse of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the banner for the Alexander McQueen exhibit. Suddenly, my kid's clumsiness and short-attention span were not at all amusing. I imagined a Sunday free from work, free from parental responsibilities, just...free. I missed the days when I could see a reminder for a museum exhibit and not have to think of the list of reasons why that exhibit is off-limits. Child care and grocery lists would be someone else's Sunday problem.
When people mull over the do-we-or-don't-we-want-kids quandary, the fear of lack of freedom almost always rears its head. We won't be able to take that trip to Rome, the motorcycle will have to go on Craigslist, how will I ever find time to write my novel? All of our dreams and possibilities will get thrown out with the baby's dirty diapers. But if we dig a little deeper, maybe we'd see that the motorcycle was getting a little rusty anyway. Maybe our hopes and dreams aren't always things we literally aim to fulfill. Maybe they are just hopes and dreams of who we want to be: someone who could write a novel or be adventurous enough to hop on a plane and see Rome the way the locals do. But, to quote When Harry Met Sally, "the thing is, Joe, we never do fly to Rome on a moment's notice"...
And the thing is, I wouldn't go see that exhibit before I had my Bean. I would talk about going, and maybe even see who else wanted to go. And it would leave the museum without me having been there, and I would shrug it off. But gone is the possibility of that girl who could afford to dream of going, who could add it to the endless options on the "what to do on Sunday" list. Once I realized this, I felt both foolish and hopeful. Foolish for being so cranky over something so small (forgive me, Mr. McQueen...but really, in the scheme of things in my life, your fabulous creations have to be placed far down on the list) and hopeful because why do I have to let that girl go? If anything, I should be resurrecting her for my Bean. She should see me as I see me, and that's impossible if that "me" stays in my head.
When I returned home from my solo trip to the grocery store, my girl's eyes lit up and she gave me her usual "Mommy! You came back!" Yep, little one, I sure did.
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My husband and I have made plans for a date to go see the works of the late, great Alexander McQueen. But in the meantime I did what I could. I went to that exhibit...on the Met's website. And it was amazing.
When people mull over the do-we-or-don't-we-want-kids quandary, the fear of lack of freedom almost always rears its head. We won't be able to take that trip to Rome, the motorcycle will have to go on Craigslist, how will I ever find time to write my novel? All of our dreams and possibilities will get thrown out with the baby's dirty diapers. But if we dig a little deeper, maybe we'd see that the motorcycle was getting a little rusty anyway. Maybe our hopes and dreams aren't always things we literally aim to fulfill. Maybe they are just hopes and dreams of who we want to be: someone who could write a novel or be adventurous enough to hop on a plane and see Rome the way the locals do. But, to quote When Harry Met Sally, "the thing is, Joe, we never do fly to Rome on a moment's notice"...
And the thing is, I wouldn't go see that exhibit before I had my Bean. I would talk about going, and maybe even see who else wanted to go. And it would leave the museum without me having been there, and I would shrug it off. But gone is the possibility of that girl who could afford to dream of going, who could add it to the endless options on the "what to do on Sunday" list. Once I realized this, I felt both foolish and hopeful. Foolish for being so cranky over something so small (forgive me, Mr. McQueen...but really, in the scheme of things in my life, your fabulous creations have to be placed far down on the list) and hopeful because why do I have to let that girl go? If anything, I should be resurrecting her for my Bean. She should see me as I see me, and that's impossible if that "me" stays in my head.
When I returned home from my solo trip to the grocery store, my girl's eyes lit up and she gave me her usual "Mommy! You came back!" Yep, little one, I sure did.
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My husband and I have made plans for a date to go see the works of the late, great Alexander McQueen. But in the meantime I did what I could. I went to that exhibit...on the Met's website. And it was amazing.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Family is my favorite word right now...
You can't choose your family. This, for me, is a good thing. I am a poor judge of character and almost always make the wrong assumption after a first impression. So to say I have been richly blessed and fortunate to have received the family of which I am a part is an understatement. I have had to spend more time than usual with my relatives these days, and although the circumstances for these gatherings have been most heartbreaking, it has been time well spent. It has reminded me of who I am, where I come from, and my good fortune in this family lottery.
My Aunt Colleen was more than just my aunt. It's hard for me to write about her, because I don't want this to get too mushy to the point of incredibility. We tend to over-romanticize our loved ones when they leave us, but she was a sweet place for me to feel comfortable and loved. She was family, the one person (second only to my Nana) that I would mentally picture if I was talking about relatives or family reunions. She was a witness to most of my life's happiest moments, from vacations and holidays to my wedding and my daughter's birthday. She always looked at me with love, and always greeted me with a warm hug and soft laughter. She was my mother's constant closest friend, despite their age difference-a relationship that continues in their daughters, as my cousin, who is a decade older, is like a sister to me. She was an artist who probably would never have called herself one, despite much evidence to the contrary. She fretted too much, but giggled more. She was quietly strong, brave. She deserved to be looked up to, and I obliged.
There are so many physical reminders of my aunt, from old Hollywood musicals to used books found for a quarter in a thrift store, vintage tablecloths and handkerchiefs to a tin pail filled with seashells. These were things she loved and collected, and her apartment was her treasure chest. But the real reminders are in her children and her grandchildren, who have managed to absorb all the best of her character into their own. They are all confident and funny, strong and respectful. I seldom heard my aunt call attention to her accomplishments, but I hope she was able to take a minute or two and appreciate what an influence she has been and will continue to be. She'll be missed, but she will never be far.
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This is one of my favorite pictures of my Aunt Colleen, and she would maybe hate me for showing it off. She had just finished chemo, and was enduring its nasty side effects. But her spirit is all over this moment, from her flip flops and her scarf to her smile. I hope she is at the beach now, and I hope she leaves us some sea glass...
My Aunt Colleen was more than just my aunt. It's hard for me to write about her, because I don't want this to get too mushy to the point of incredibility. We tend to over-romanticize our loved ones when they leave us, but she was a sweet place for me to feel comfortable and loved. She was family, the one person (second only to my Nana) that I would mentally picture if I was talking about relatives or family reunions. She was a witness to most of my life's happiest moments, from vacations and holidays to my wedding and my daughter's birthday. She always looked at me with love, and always greeted me with a warm hug and soft laughter. She was my mother's constant closest friend, despite their age difference-a relationship that continues in their daughters, as my cousin, who is a decade older, is like a sister to me. She was an artist who probably would never have called herself one, despite much evidence to the contrary. She fretted too much, but giggled more. She was quietly strong, brave. She deserved to be looked up to, and I obliged.
There are so many physical reminders of my aunt, from old Hollywood musicals to used books found for a quarter in a thrift store, vintage tablecloths and handkerchiefs to a tin pail filled with seashells. These were things she loved and collected, and her apartment was her treasure chest. But the real reminders are in her children and her grandchildren, who have managed to absorb all the best of her character into their own. They are all confident and funny, strong and respectful. I seldom heard my aunt call attention to her accomplishments, but I hope she was able to take a minute or two and appreciate what an influence she has been and will continue to be. She'll be missed, but she will never be far.
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This is one of my favorite pictures of my Aunt Colleen, and she would maybe hate me for showing it off. She had just finished chemo, and was enduring its nasty side effects. But her spirit is all over this moment, from her flip flops and her scarf to her smile. I hope she is at the beach now, and I hope she leaves us some sea glass...
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Life is like a box of crayons.
An hour ago, I organized a box of 96 Crayola crayons in ROYGBIV order. For those of you unfamiliar with that acronym, it's like putting colors in alphabetical order. The colors of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Earlier in the evening, as I played "Bad Mommy" and let the Wonder Pets babysit my daughter while I vacuumed and gathered laundry, she dumped the full crayon carton all over the coffee table. When my husband started to clean them up, I yelled at him to stop...as I did when my girl attempted to put them away. What kind of person tells a two-year-old who's voluntarily cleaning up her mess to stop? A control freak whose life has been completely out of her control, that's who. Apparently I needed to be in control of something, and those crayons were going to be it.
Out of control. Things this year so far have been crazytown, as they say. Bad news after bad news keeps finding my doorstep, as well as those around me. I believe it's all in how you handle it--that if you accentuate the positive then you'll eliminate the negative or whatever other Pollyanna cliche about turning that frown upside down you can think of--well, the hope is that it will all even out in the end. And I am trying. Really. I've been in self-preservation mode, hunkering down like a beaten puppy and trying to just wag my tail in hopes of getting that next treat. I know it's coming...someday. Tired of hearing me whining? Me, too. It's why I haven't had much to say lately. If you can't blog about anything good, don't blog at all...is that how it goes?
Those crayons didn't know what hit them. I had them all sorted by reds and blues, purples and oranges, laser lemons and burnt siennas. I could put them where I wanted them and they wouldn't give me any trouble. No Oscar-winning tantrums about socks that are falling down or the wrong kind of breakfast. No flat tires on Easter or dead car batteries in a downpour. No unexpected financial obligations, no missing loved ones. And, above all, no illness threatening to take them away from me. I could fix them, and so I did. I know tomorrow or the next day my girl will dump them again. I'm just going to look forward to putting together another rainbow.
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Speaking of rainbows and my girl, she graduated from pre-preschool this week. Yes, you graduate from pre-preschool...and yes, there is pre-preschool. Here she is with her "diploma". Now if I could just get her to stop dumping crayons, maybe Harvard will take her.
Out of control. Things this year so far have been crazytown, as they say. Bad news after bad news keeps finding my doorstep, as well as those around me. I believe it's all in how you handle it--that if you accentuate the positive then you'll eliminate the negative or whatever other Pollyanna cliche about turning that frown upside down you can think of--well, the hope is that it will all even out in the end. And I am trying. Really. I've been in self-preservation mode, hunkering down like a beaten puppy and trying to just wag my tail in hopes of getting that next treat. I know it's coming...someday. Tired of hearing me whining? Me, too. It's why I haven't had much to say lately. If you can't blog about anything good, don't blog at all...is that how it goes?
Those crayons didn't know what hit them. I had them all sorted by reds and blues, purples and oranges, laser lemons and burnt siennas. I could put them where I wanted them and they wouldn't give me any trouble. No Oscar-winning tantrums about socks that are falling down or the wrong kind of breakfast. No flat tires on Easter or dead car batteries in a downpour. No unexpected financial obligations, no missing loved ones. And, above all, no illness threatening to take them away from me. I could fix them, and so I did. I know tomorrow or the next day my girl will dump them again. I'm just going to look forward to putting together another rainbow.
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Speaking of rainbows and my girl, she graduated from pre-preschool this week. Yes, you graduate from pre-preschool...and yes, there is pre-preschool. Here she is with her "diploma". Now if I could just get her to stop dumping crayons, maybe Harvard will take her.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Butterflies and landslides...
It's been a week since my last post, and what a long, trying week it was. I could make a list of all the trials and tribulations that happened, the bits of bad news received, and the battles with my daughter (of which there were many) and I'm tempted to dump it all out here and let you have it. Apparently April showers don't just mean the weather; we've been rained on all over with a black cloud of bad news and bad behavior since this month began. But today the sun is actually out and I'm going to put all that away. I was blessed enough to have a good venting session with a friend the other night and I'm going to let that be the end of the discussion. What's done is done; some of it will continue and will have to be dealt with but I'm looking a fresh start today.
So far, so good.
Whenever things start going downhill, it seems like an avalanche. It all happens at once, and it's a trap to start taking inventory of the components of the disaster. If there was any good in the mix, it gets lost in the rubble and buried under the boulders of bad news. And then comes the search and rescue mission--the looking for answers so we can figure out why we deserved it all in the first place and save ourselves from more of the same. We vow to be better, to do more good and save ourselves from another landslide of bad. If it's a you-get-what-you-give system, what to do when the getting is all bad while the giving is all good?
You do nothing. You keep giving because it's the Golden Rule and you get what you get. And that's that. Handle it all to the best of your ability and move along. If you stand on the hillside, yelling about all the injustices of being dumped on, the rocks are going to start coming loose again and knock you right down on your arse. Quiet and calm is the way to go. This is what I'm telling myself these days.
So amidst all the rubble this week, I did have some flowers peeking through the cracks. I bribed my daughter into behaving at Old Navy by buying her some butterfly wings. She adores them, and her best moments were when she was wearing them. Maybe they are angel wings in disguise? They work wonders. The sight of her sitting in her wagon as her dad was gearing up to take her for a walk, wearing those wings over her coat and grinning from ear-to-ear, will be my go-to memory of the week. It is the bulldozer that clears the remains of this latest landslide. Maybe I should see if those wings come in my size...
So far, so good.
Whenever things start going downhill, it seems like an avalanche. It all happens at once, and it's a trap to start taking inventory of the components of the disaster. If there was any good in the mix, it gets lost in the rubble and buried under the boulders of bad news. And then comes the search and rescue mission--the looking for answers so we can figure out why we deserved it all in the first place and save ourselves from more of the same. We vow to be better, to do more good and save ourselves from another landslide of bad. If it's a you-get-what-you-give system, what to do when the getting is all bad while the giving is all good?
You do nothing. You keep giving because it's the Golden Rule and you get what you get. And that's that. Handle it all to the best of your ability and move along. If you stand on the hillside, yelling about all the injustices of being dumped on, the rocks are going to start coming loose again and knock you right down on your arse. Quiet and calm is the way to go. This is what I'm telling myself these days.
So amidst all the rubble this week, I did have some flowers peeking through the cracks. I bribed my daughter into behaving at Old Navy by buying her some butterfly wings. She adores them, and her best moments were when she was wearing them. Maybe they are angel wings in disguise? They work wonders. The sight of her sitting in her wagon as her dad was gearing up to take her for a walk, wearing those wings over her coat and grinning from ear-to-ear, will be my go-to memory of the week. It is the bulldozer that clears the remains of this latest landslide. Maybe I should see if those wings come in my size...
Saturday, April 2, 2011
There's no use crying over no milk...
It all started with a stupid song. A stupid song that I happen to like and wanted to just enjoy, on our way to do a hundred errands I was in no mood to do. So my family of three piled in the car and as I started to drive I pressed play on my iPod. The song's not very long and was over before I knew it. I missed most of it because of all the chatter going on in the backseat between my husband and daughter. No worries, I pressed play again, only to hear my husband complain that it was on again. And then give his ten-second review of the song, telling me how awful he thought it was. Well, thank you very much. I slammed my hand on the power button, shutting it off, and that set the mood for the rest of the day. Oh, did I mention that when I came downstairs this morning to the smell of coffee I was told that, after my daughter's cereal and my husband's cup o' joe, there was no more milk for me to enjoy a cup of my own?
If I sound like my two-year-old crying because things didn't go my way, I apologize. I'm aware that there are bigger problems in the world. I am also aware that I shouldn't let such trivial things ruin my day, that I am in control of my happiness. But it's been a rough week, with drama and chores and a steady migraine all around me. There's been a whole lotta give and not a lotta take, and guess who's the one giving? Yep. That would be me. And I guess today was the end of the my rope.
On my last birthday I visited a psychic on a whim. I'm not saying I believe in those things (after all, why isn't she rich from winning the lottery if she's so smart?) but she said one thing that rang true: I treat people good and they don't treat me so good back. (Pardon the grammar; it's what she said.) I never really gave that much thought before she said it and I almost wish she hadn't. I don't want to know that people don't want to return any kindness, to me or to anyone. And when I spend a week trying to be all things to all the people I love, I don't want to be aware of how little I get in return. Mind you, I'm not always that deserving of getting much of anything. But after shopping, laundry, diapers, school, dishes, more laundry, listening, reading, cheering, consoling, working, more laundry, chauffering, mopping, dusting, sweeping...did I say laundry?...I guess I was hoping for some milk for my coffee.
I do count my blessings. My family is generous with their love and laughter, as are my friends. But sometimes I get lost in the shuffle of daily life and forget to ask for a helping hand when I'm overloaded or when I'm slipping. When I wonder why help or support wasn't just offered without my asking, I get resentful. I'll figure out how to stop doing this someday. Until then, please forgive me if you are on the receiving end of my frustration or if you have to suffer through my ranting about it.
Tomorrow is a new day. We bought a fresh gallon of milk and I will have my cup of coffee. I will have forgotten my grievances and gripes; they will be gone in the morning. Which, coincidentally, is the name of the stupid song that started all of this in the first place.
If I sound like my two-year-old crying because things didn't go my way, I apologize. I'm aware that there are bigger problems in the world. I am also aware that I shouldn't let such trivial things ruin my day, that I am in control of my happiness. But it's been a rough week, with drama and chores and a steady migraine all around me. There's been a whole lotta give and not a lotta take, and guess who's the one giving? Yep. That would be me. And I guess today was the end of the my rope.
On my last birthday I visited a psychic on a whim. I'm not saying I believe in those things (after all, why isn't she rich from winning the lottery if she's so smart?) but she said one thing that rang true: I treat people good and they don't treat me so good back. (Pardon the grammar; it's what she said.) I never really gave that much thought before she said it and I almost wish she hadn't. I don't want to know that people don't want to return any kindness, to me or to anyone. And when I spend a week trying to be all things to all the people I love, I don't want to be aware of how little I get in return. Mind you, I'm not always that deserving of getting much of anything. But after shopping, laundry, diapers, school, dishes, more laundry, listening, reading, cheering, consoling, working, more laundry, chauffering, mopping, dusting, sweeping...did I say laundry?...I guess I was hoping for some milk for my coffee.
I do count my blessings. My family is generous with their love and laughter, as are my friends. But sometimes I get lost in the shuffle of daily life and forget to ask for a helping hand when I'm overloaded or when I'm slipping. When I wonder why help or support wasn't just offered without my asking, I get resentful. I'll figure out how to stop doing this someday. Until then, please forgive me if you are on the receiving end of my frustration or if you have to suffer through my ranting about it.
Tomorrow is a new day. We bought a fresh gallon of milk and I will have my cup of coffee. I will have forgotten my grievances and gripes; they will be gone in the morning. Which, coincidentally, is the name of the stupid song that started all of this in the first place.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Home, sweet home...
It's Sunday. For a retail worker bee, a work-free Sunday is a blessing. (If I were to ever be elected president, I would mandate that everything be closed on Sundays and we will all be forced to come up with ways to entertain ourselves that don't involve purchasing things. Of course, the economy would fall apart and people would panic in the streets...which is why I should never be elected to anything.) And a sunny, slightly warmer Sunday off is even more of a gift. So today I am thankful. We did our obligatory errands but we are making a real effort to keep it unscheduled and choreless. It's usually a good day when this is what you find when you finish in the shower and look for the rest of your family:
It's naptime, which is why I am on the computer, in case you were wondering. I've just read the Sunday paper with my cup of coffee, and now is the calm before the Beanstorm returns. The Beanstorm is my daughter's never-ending chatter and energy, which I love more than anything but breaks are much-appreciated. (You have never heard a girl talk so much. EVER. She even rehearses aloud what she is going to say, so we hear everything at least twice. Yes, really.) We will let the little one hatch from her nap for a few minutes, then it's out into the sunshine for a walk to her great-grandmother's house a few blocks away in our little neighborhood. She will narrate the entire journey, from the color of the birds in the yards to the shapes of the melting snow. And we will listen intently, but we will also be admiring our neighbors' houses, wishing for one of our own someday.
My husband and I are always window-shopping for a house. We are not ready to buy anything, but we hope that we'll find the one that makes us be ready. The perfect price, the perfect size and condition, and the perfect location. We each installed an app on our phones that gives us all of the real estate listings surrounding us wherever we are at a given moment, but we find ourselves always checking them right here in our neck of the woods. I think our subconsciouses are telling us something. They're saying, "Stay put."
I grew up here. I was born in the hospital across the bridge over the creek, and was brought home to a house a few blocks away. I found my independence in an apartment even closer. My mother was raised a couple of streets in the other direction, and my husband's father spent his youth in a house another few blocks to our east. This place is in our genes. Of course there was a period when all I could do was storm around saying how much I couldn't wait to get out of this boring, stupid town...but we can't be held responsible for what we say when we're teenagers. (Ummm...right?) But I'm still here. I'm not saying if someone offered me a free house in Hawaii I wouldn't be on a plane faster than my cat runs when he sees my kid coming, but I'm over trying to "escape". Us locals get some ribbing for being born and raised here, but I can take it.
We went to a local pizza place for lunch this afternoon, and as we walked outside to get a cup of coffee and dessert next door, my husband said to our daughter, "This is your town, little girl." And I realized how important that is to me. The guy making our pizza commented on how big our girl is getting. We recognized half of the people in the coffee shop. My husband knew whose car was parked next to ours in the lot. How fortunate we are to live in a place where a large part of the population is familiar and friendly, where we can give our daughter a sense of place, no matter where she may go in the world. She can always come home to her town...even if her parents have taken off for Hawaii...
_________________________________________________
The only things I've managed to get rid of this week are 11 magazines and catalogs. And since today is supposed to remain chore-free, I don't think the list will grow before bedtime. So here's to more progress later in the week and getting closer to that 1,000 things...total so far: 684
It's naptime, which is why I am on the computer, in case you were wondering. I've just read the Sunday paper with my cup of coffee, and now is the calm before the Beanstorm returns. The Beanstorm is my daughter's never-ending chatter and energy, which I love more than anything but breaks are much-appreciated. (You have never heard a girl talk so much. EVER. She even rehearses aloud what she is going to say, so we hear everything at least twice. Yes, really.) We will let the little one hatch from her nap for a few minutes, then it's out into the sunshine for a walk to her great-grandmother's house a few blocks away in our little neighborhood. She will narrate the entire journey, from the color of the birds in the yards to the shapes of the melting snow. And we will listen intently, but we will also be admiring our neighbors' houses, wishing for one of our own someday.
My husband and I are always window-shopping for a house. We are not ready to buy anything, but we hope that we'll find the one that makes us be ready. The perfect price, the perfect size and condition, and the perfect location. We each installed an app on our phones that gives us all of the real estate listings surrounding us wherever we are at a given moment, but we find ourselves always checking them right here in our neck of the woods. I think our subconsciouses are telling us something. They're saying, "Stay put."
I grew up here. I was born in the hospital across the bridge over the creek, and was brought home to a house a few blocks away. I found my independence in an apartment even closer. My mother was raised a couple of streets in the other direction, and my husband's father spent his youth in a house another few blocks to our east. This place is in our genes. Of course there was a period when all I could do was storm around saying how much I couldn't wait to get out of this boring, stupid town...but we can't be held responsible for what we say when we're teenagers. (Ummm...right?) But I'm still here. I'm not saying if someone offered me a free house in Hawaii I wouldn't be on a plane faster than my cat runs when he sees my kid coming, but I'm over trying to "escape". Us locals get some ribbing for being born and raised here, but I can take it.
We went to a local pizza place for lunch this afternoon, and as we walked outside to get a cup of coffee and dessert next door, my husband said to our daughter, "This is your town, little girl." And I realized how important that is to me. The guy making our pizza commented on how big our girl is getting. We recognized half of the people in the coffee shop. My husband knew whose car was parked next to ours in the lot. How fortunate we are to live in a place where a large part of the population is familiar and friendly, where we can give our daughter a sense of place, no matter where she may go in the world. She can always come home to her town...even if her parents have taken off for Hawaii...
_________________________________________________
The only things I've managed to get rid of this week are 11 magazines and catalogs. And since today is supposed to remain chore-free, I don't think the list will grow before bedtime. So here's to more progress later in the week and getting closer to that 1,000 things...total so far: 684
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Motivationally speaking...
Okay, so I have writer's block. (Or some kind of block, since I don't know if I could call myself a writer.) It's been over a week since my last post and I still really don't have much to type about. So I'm here out of obligation, since I started this thing and should at least try to maintain it, right? So here goes...
The other day, a blog post (http://www.kellehampton.com/2011/03/patty-whack.html) challenged the reader to come up with a name for their "inner badass", the alter ego that makes us get up off the couch when all we want to do is sit. The one who forces us to get the to-do list done, or gets us out of the comfort box we've been stuck in. Some readers posted their "badass" names, like Sasha or Carla or Betty. So I gave it a brief try and came up with nothing. My inner badass was apparently not in the mood to introduce herself.
I went downstairs and let my daughter entertain me. She has taken to making up songs about anything and everything that moves her at that moment and, of course, I could listen to this creative brilliance all day. (Go ahead, roll your eyes.) Her greatest hit is "You Can Do Anything". That is the lyric: "You can DO! ANY! THING!", repeated over and over. Sometimes she will improvise, and list things you can DO!, like JUMP! and FLY! and PAINT! Nothing makes me happier than to hear my toddler sing these words. And then I realized...she is my inner badass.
She is my motivation. She is my coach. She knows how to get it done, she sits around for no one. If she has toys to play with, she will play. If she has a floor to sweep with her toy broom, she will sweep. If she has a naked doll, she will dress her. There is no laziness, no hesitation. She bounces from task to task at lightning speed and makes me tired just watching. If we all attacked life with the determination of a two-year-old, who knows what we could accomplish? We can DO! ANY! THING!
So my inner badass is named after my daughter. I will call on her daily to get me up and running. Now if only I could just arrange for her to get a midday nap like her namesake...
____________________________________________________
That inner badass has kept me motivated to keep cleaning and discarding, moving up into the attic where I found another craft supply box and random junk. So here's a new list of things I've gotten rid of:
2 pairs of earmuffs
4 pairs of gloves
6 hats
1 headband
3 maternity shirts
1 maternity dress
1 travel cosmetic bag
2 vases
6 purses
11 pairs of shoes
6 tee shirts
1 sweatshirt
13 handkerchiefs
4 cans of Playdoh
1 package of envelopes
2 desk calendars (from 1998 and 1999...really?!)
1 blank journal
1 package of stickers
2 packs of confetti
1 tube of crazy glue
2 glue sticks
1 rubber stamp
1 inkpad
18 pens
13 pencils
1 pack of markers
1 White Out pen
5 tubes of glitter glue = 111 + previous 562 = 673 things...
The other day, a blog post (http://www.kellehampton.com/2011/03/patty-whack.html) challenged the reader to come up with a name for their "inner badass", the alter ego that makes us get up off the couch when all we want to do is sit. The one who forces us to get the to-do list done, or gets us out of the comfort box we've been stuck in. Some readers posted their "badass" names, like Sasha or Carla or Betty. So I gave it a brief try and came up with nothing. My inner badass was apparently not in the mood to introduce herself.
I went downstairs and let my daughter entertain me. She has taken to making up songs about anything and everything that moves her at that moment and, of course, I could listen to this creative brilliance all day. (Go ahead, roll your eyes.) Her greatest hit is "You Can Do Anything". That is the lyric: "You can DO! ANY! THING!", repeated over and over. Sometimes she will improvise, and list things you can DO!, like JUMP! and FLY! and PAINT! Nothing makes me happier than to hear my toddler sing these words. And then I realized...she is my inner badass.
She is my motivation. She is my coach. She knows how to get it done, she sits around for no one. If she has toys to play with, she will play. If she has a floor to sweep with her toy broom, she will sweep. If she has a naked doll, she will dress her. There is no laziness, no hesitation. She bounces from task to task at lightning speed and makes me tired just watching. If we all attacked life with the determination of a two-year-old, who knows what we could accomplish? We can DO! ANY! THING!
So my inner badass is named after my daughter. I will call on her daily to get me up and running. Now if only I could just arrange for her to get a midday nap like her namesake...
____________________________________________________
That inner badass has kept me motivated to keep cleaning and discarding, moving up into the attic where I found another craft supply box and random junk. So here's a new list of things I've gotten rid of:
2 pairs of earmuffs
4 pairs of gloves
6 hats
1 headband
3 maternity shirts
1 maternity dress
1 travel cosmetic bag
2 vases
6 purses
11 pairs of shoes
6 tee shirts
1 sweatshirt
13 handkerchiefs
4 cans of Playdoh
1 package of envelopes
2 desk calendars (from 1998 and 1999...really?!)
1 blank journal
1 package of stickers
2 packs of confetti
1 tube of crazy glue
2 glue sticks
1 rubber stamp
1 inkpad
18 pens
13 pencils
1 pack of markers
1 White Out pen
5 tubes of glitter glue = 111 + previous 562 = 673 things...
Friday, March 11, 2011
Watching birds fly...
My small world is in the midst of a baby boom. Two co-workers gave birth on the same day this week, another has a sweet seven-month-old boy. My sister and brother-in-law are the proud parents of a four-month-old son and three more friends are expecting wee ones before the year is done. I don't envy them; my pregnancy was probably my favorite time in my life but I do not have any desire to relive those newborn baby days. (The only thing I really miss are the teeny clothes, and, with all these new babies around, I still get to shop for those without having to think about all the laundry they will create.) The journey is just beginning for them, and I wish them all well.
A couple of months ago I wrote that being a parent isn't as hard as I thought it would be. That remains true, even though we're getting deeper into the 'terrible two's'. There are days that my daughter and I are in sync and move along together easily, and days when she declares her independence and wants to hear nothing from her mother. When the sun sets on either kind of day, I can rest peacefully, more or less. Mornings bring new opportunities and we start fresh. But that's not to say I don't go through periods when I worry, or worse, second-guess myself. Am I good for my daughter? Do I teach her enough, do I let her watch too much television, do I feed her enough of the right foods? Will she fail at school because I didn't breast feed long enough? Will she have image issues because she watched me put on make-up? And will it be too late to fix any mistakes I'm making now, when I realize the damage has been done? Who do I think I am, bringing a person into the world with the audacity to think I could raise her?
We women are tough on ourselves, and that makes us even tougher on other women. We can be harsh and judgemental. I see the eyebrows raise if my daughter gets a little too loud in public. We are not afraid to ask each other when our little ones reached their milestones, and we cannot help but measure our kids against each other. We are reaching out for validation and approval, but bristle when we hear a different take on parenting than our own. I've only been at this for two years (more if you include the pregnancy) and I've been on and off the field in this mommy game. And while my teammates are very supportive, the opposition can be crushing if my confidence is slipping. And lately it has been.
I want my girl to come out strong and smart, responsible and true. To be respectful of all things and to treat her world as she would wish to be treated. I want her to own her choices and decisions. To know that with every lie or broken promise there comes a consequence. To be proud of every path she takes, no matter the outcome, and to not hide behind shame or dishonesty if she makes a bad move. To never feel entitled to anything, except maybe love. That is the goal. How old she is when she is finally potty-trained (or gives up the pacifier or the crib...) is not a measure of good parenting. It is a conversation piece. I firmly believe this, and yet these days I've allowed myself to be up for comparison.
Today was a day off from work. Days off are a mixture of joy and guilt-- joy because I get to spend them with my girl, and guilt because I need to get things done. As we rushed around from errand to errand, I worried that she will just remember her days with me as blurry car rides from store to store. That I wasn't giving her enough nurturing, that she was on her own to figure out the world as I dragged her around it. When we pulled in the driveway, I asked her if she was ready to go inside. She said no, thank you, she just wanted to sit in her carseat and watch the birds fly. So there we sat. In those moments I knew that she will be just fine. And, at least for a little while, I am no longer playing defense.
__________________________________________________
In the midst of all this parental self-doubt, I managed to get rid of a few more things toward my goal of 1,000...
17 previously-used gift boxes
15 partial rolls of gift wrap
2 spools of ribbon
1 box of Christmas cards
1 pile of random tissue paper
20 gift bags
3 more empty shoeboxes = 59 + previous 503 = 562 things
A couple of months ago I wrote that being a parent isn't as hard as I thought it would be. That remains true, even though we're getting deeper into the 'terrible two's'. There are days that my daughter and I are in sync and move along together easily, and days when she declares her independence and wants to hear nothing from her mother. When the sun sets on either kind of day, I can rest peacefully, more or less. Mornings bring new opportunities and we start fresh. But that's not to say I don't go through periods when I worry, or worse, second-guess myself. Am I good for my daughter? Do I teach her enough, do I let her watch too much television, do I feed her enough of the right foods? Will she fail at school because I didn't breast feed long enough? Will she have image issues because she watched me put on make-up? And will it be too late to fix any mistakes I'm making now, when I realize the damage has been done? Who do I think I am, bringing a person into the world with the audacity to think I could raise her?
We women are tough on ourselves, and that makes us even tougher on other women. We can be harsh and judgemental. I see the eyebrows raise if my daughter gets a little too loud in public. We are not afraid to ask each other when our little ones reached their milestones, and we cannot help but measure our kids against each other. We are reaching out for validation and approval, but bristle when we hear a different take on parenting than our own. I've only been at this for two years (more if you include the pregnancy) and I've been on and off the field in this mommy game. And while my teammates are very supportive, the opposition can be crushing if my confidence is slipping. And lately it has been.
I want my girl to come out strong and smart, responsible and true. To be respectful of all things and to treat her world as she would wish to be treated. I want her to own her choices and decisions. To know that with every lie or broken promise there comes a consequence. To be proud of every path she takes, no matter the outcome, and to not hide behind shame or dishonesty if she makes a bad move. To never feel entitled to anything, except maybe love. That is the goal. How old she is when she is finally potty-trained (or gives up the pacifier or the crib...) is not a measure of good parenting. It is a conversation piece. I firmly believe this, and yet these days I've allowed myself to be up for comparison.
Today was a day off from work. Days off are a mixture of joy and guilt-- joy because I get to spend them with my girl, and guilt because I need to get things done. As we rushed around from errand to errand, I worried that she will just remember her days with me as blurry car rides from store to store. That I wasn't giving her enough nurturing, that she was on her own to figure out the world as I dragged her around it. When we pulled in the driveway, I asked her if she was ready to go inside. She said no, thank you, she just wanted to sit in her carseat and watch the birds fly. So there we sat. In those moments I knew that she will be just fine. And, at least for a little while, I am no longer playing defense.
__________________________________________________
In the midst of all this parental self-doubt, I managed to get rid of a few more things toward my goal of 1,000...
17 previously-used gift boxes
15 partial rolls of gift wrap
2 spools of ribbon
1 box of Christmas cards
1 pile of random tissue paper
20 gift bags
3 more empty shoeboxes = 59 + previous 503 = 562 things
Sunday, March 6, 2011
When I grow up...
Today I tackled the shelf above the washer and dryer. If this shelf was a file, it would be labelled "misc." It is where everything goes that has no other obvious place, or probably shouldn't be here anyway. Board games, binoculars, beach towels, clothes pins, a cooler, tablecloths...well, it looks neat, at least. But I also have two bins of craft supplies and stationery up there, filled with remnants of forgotten projects I was once so enthusiastic to tackle. These were the first roadblock I'd hit since I started this purging project. Up until now I was tossing things with no remorse or little nostalgia and feeling proud. But these bins were an ouch, a reminder of big talk and no follow-through. Those fabric swatches I was going to turn into bags, the yarn to knit into scarves, the felt for...I don't even remember what the felt was for. These bins have been virtually untouched since we moved here. And yet I still couldn't quite give up the fantasy of being Crafty Girl, selling her fabulous stuff on etsy.com. So the bins are a little lighter, but I allowed myself the luxury of hanging on to the dream. The yarn, felt, and fabric are still here. You know where to find it if you need some.
It got me to thinking about how many visions we have of ourselves in our lifetimes, from the time we are toddlers in tutus dreaming of being ballerinas, or singing into hairbrushes, "on stage" in front of audiences made up of stuffed animals. (Yeah, I did that. Whatever.) There are so few of us that figure out who we are, what we want to do, and live accordingly. I'm sure we could all make lists of what we thought we wanted to do or become that would surprise even those who know us best. Here's mine, laugh if you will. Keep in mind this is just a sampling. There are others that hurt to mention, that I wish I would've taken more seriously. Maybe I'll save those for another time.
I hope I have enough time left on this Earth to keep that list growing, even if those future ideas don't see the light of day. It's good to keep dreaming. But anything I come up with will most likely be kept to myself. I have announced too many goals that have come and gone unachieved that now I am trained to keep quiet. I don't need reminders from anyone of what I haven't gotten around to doing, or of how my mind has changed over the years. As you can see, I haven't forgotten a single one. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. But when I put my finger on it, you'll know. And if you see Matt Dillon, tell him I'm sorry it didn't work out.
__________________________________________________
More clutter removed...
2 blank address books
7 packs of stickers
6 boxes of blank notecards
52 random individual cards
1 pile of envelopes
1 pack of Trivial Pursuit cards with no game
2 material swatches
1 box of leftover wedding invitations
1 box of birthday invitations
1 box of leftover baby announcements
1 bottle of dried-up Gorilla Glue
2 tubes of Crazy Glue
1 dried-up glue stick
1 bookmark
6 pens
5 pencils
1 tote bag
1 cooler
5 bibs
1 breast pump (yep, you heard me) = 98 things + previous 405 = 503
It got me to thinking about how many visions we have of ourselves in our lifetimes, from the time we are toddlers in tutus dreaming of being ballerinas, or singing into hairbrushes, "on stage" in front of audiences made up of stuffed animals. (Yeah, I did that. Whatever.) There are so few of us that figure out who we are, what we want to do, and live accordingly. I'm sure we could all make lists of what we thought we wanted to do or become that would surprise even those who know us best. Here's mine, laugh if you will. Keep in mind this is just a sampling. There are others that hurt to mention, that I wish I would've taken more seriously. Maybe I'll save those for another time.
- I think most little girls go through a phase when they want to be a fashion designer. But Fashion Plates (one of the best toys ever ) don't really give you a good taste of the reality of the job, now do they? Considering my wardrobe it's probably a good thing I outgrew this one.
- I loved taking ballet. I still have my point shoes and my crush on Mikhail Baryshnikov. I know I didn't have what it took to be a ballet dancer. But I sometimes wish I would have stuck with that one a little longer.
- Speaking of crushes, I was very serious about my goal of becoming Matt Dillon's wife. I did my homework; I knew everything I could about my future husband. Except how to meet him and make him fall in love with a fourteen-year-old with glasses and braces.
- I got hooked on the idea of being a window dresser in the 80's after seeing an ad in a magazine for Esprit clothing. The model was a 'real' person who happened to be a window dresser, something I never knew you could get paid to do until I saw the ad. I still think it's a great job to have (so maybe someday...) and I still love Esprit, even though it will never be as cool as it was back then.
- Everyone who knew me in high school knows I wanted to own a record store. Everyone who knew me in my twenties knows this will never happen. After spending over a decade working in a corporate record store, my love for that industry was sufficiently squashed. Good thing, too- if that hadn't killed my dream, the iPod would have.
I hope I have enough time left on this Earth to keep that list growing, even if those future ideas don't see the light of day. It's good to keep dreaming. But anything I come up with will most likely be kept to myself. I have announced too many goals that have come and gone unachieved that now I am trained to keep quiet. I don't need reminders from anyone of what I haven't gotten around to doing, or of how my mind has changed over the years. As you can see, I haven't forgotten a single one. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. But when I put my finger on it, you'll know. And if you see Matt Dillon, tell him I'm sorry it didn't work out.
__________________________________________________
More clutter removed...
2 blank address books
7 packs of stickers
6 boxes of blank notecards
52 random individual cards
1 pile of envelopes
1 pack of Trivial Pursuit cards with no game
2 material swatches
1 box of leftover wedding invitations
1 box of birthday invitations
1 box of leftover baby announcements
1 bottle of dried-up Gorilla Glue
2 tubes of Crazy Glue
1 dried-up glue stick
1 bookmark
6 pens
5 pencils
1 tote bag
1 cooler
5 bibs
1 breast pump (yep, you heard me) = 98 things + previous 405 = 503
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Happily ever after so far...
In my challenge to get rid of one thousand things I finally cleaned out the silverware drawer. It's driven me up a wall since we moved to this place three years ago, when we dumped any utensil that we unpacked into one drawer. And we own a lot of utensils.When we were gathering items for our outdoor summertime barbeque wedding back in 2007, we purchased a ton of cheap silverware from Ikea...no one wants ugly plastic stuff at their wedding, not to mention all the extra trash it would create. We gave away what we could, and kept the rest. The time has come to let it go and use the "good" stuff from Crate and Barrel that's crammed in the same drawer. But you can't purge your belongings without reflecting on where they came from and reminiscing a bit.
How many folks can say their fantasies have come true during their lifetime? I can raise my hand. Years ago, I jokingly made up a scenario based on the belief that if you envision something and believe it to be true, the universe will deliver it to you. So like any late-twentysomething single girl who is just starting to hear the soft tick of a biological clock, I conjured up a husband with the view that if that's how the universe worked, why not throw it out there? I crafted a very specific, once-upon-a-time tale that kept me and my friends entertained while I secretly hoped that maybe, just maybe, it would come true. And then, to my surprise, it did. After a few years of joking about Mr. Perfect-For-Me, almost every detail of my silly fantasy was right there in front of me-how we met, how he looked, who he was. I was in heaven and all was right with the world and beyond. Until...it wasn't. After two years, it became clear that it wasn't meant to be after all. My belief system was shattered and replaced with "be careful what you wish for". I moved on, finished with the universe and its cruel, teasing ways.
Not long after I had sworn off daydreaming of making room in my life for The One, he arrived. If you would have told me I would marry the man who would be my husband back when we met, I would have almost surely punched you in the face. I thoroughly disliked him. He was cocky, rude, and dismissive. Any day spent having to be near him was bound to be a long one. Until...it wasn't. A truce was declared, a friendship developed, and, well, here we are. The man I married turned out to have very little resemblance to the one I thought I would want, and yet I can't imagine anyone else to face life with. They say it's when you stop looking that you find what you want. I suppose I know what they mean, but I think it's more a matter of how you're looking than where or how hard you look. My thanks to the universe for turning my world on its axis and changing my view. Although maybe my silverware drawer wouldn't be so full...
____________________________________________________
The purge continues...
45 spoons of every size
17 forks
21 knives
4 baby spoons
1 baby fork
1 set of measuring spoons = 89 things + previous 316 = 405
only 595 more to go!
How many folks can say their fantasies have come true during their lifetime? I can raise my hand. Years ago, I jokingly made up a scenario based on the belief that if you envision something and believe it to be true, the universe will deliver it to you. So like any late-twentysomething single girl who is just starting to hear the soft tick of a biological clock, I conjured up a husband with the view that if that's how the universe worked, why not throw it out there? I crafted a very specific, once-upon-a-time tale that kept me and my friends entertained while I secretly hoped that maybe, just maybe, it would come true. And then, to my surprise, it did. After a few years of joking about Mr. Perfect-For-Me, almost every detail of my silly fantasy was right there in front of me-how we met, how he looked, who he was. I was in heaven and all was right with the world and beyond. Until...it wasn't. After two years, it became clear that it wasn't meant to be after all. My belief system was shattered and replaced with "be careful what you wish for". I moved on, finished with the universe and its cruel, teasing ways.
Not long after I had sworn off daydreaming of making room in my life for The One, he arrived. If you would have told me I would marry the man who would be my husband back when we met, I would have almost surely punched you in the face. I thoroughly disliked him. He was cocky, rude, and dismissive. Any day spent having to be near him was bound to be a long one. Until...it wasn't. A truce was declared, a friendship developed, and, well, here we are. The man I married turned out to have very little resemblance to the one I thought I would want, and yet I can't imagine anyone else to face life with. They say it's when you stop looking that you find what you want. I suppose I know what they mean, but I think it's more a matter of how you're looking than where or how hard you look. My thanks to the universe for turning my world on its axis and changing my view. Although maybe my silverware drawer wouldn't be so full...
____________________________________________________
The purge continues...
45 spoons of every size
17 forks
21 knives
4 baby spoons
1 baby fork
1 set of measuring spoons = 89 things + previous 316 = 405
only 595 more to go!
Friday, February 25, 2011
Post, delete, re-post...
A few years ago, I won first prize in a photography contest. For most, winning would be validation and reward for having the cajones to put a vision out there, believing in it enough to face some judgement or (gasp) critique. For me, it was a little of that and a lot of thinking it was just a fluke, that maybe the entries were a little 'less than' that year and mine was the best of the worst. Of course, the other entries were on display and they were all great, which confused me even more. I still blow it off as a lapse in judgement by the panel. Who knows what kind of mood they were in that day? I'm grateful to have won, but I haven't entered the annual contest since. Despite the cheers and positive reinforcements from family and friends, I don't have a strong enough belief in my vision. I don't have those cajones.
I am surrounded by a plague of self-doubt. I know too many people that simply cannot believe they have a special something- a friend who can't grasp that she is fantastically creative even after planning every unique detail of her wedding, making it the one everyone still talks about. Another who has a brilliant eye for photography, each picture so filled with texture and feeling, but he wouldn't believe me if he heard me say it. (Check out his blog and see for yourself: http://www.quinnvision.tumblr.com/) And yet there is an overabundance of people with confidence to spare and no real anything to boast about. People who crack up at their own hilarity and think anyone not laughing isn't smart enough to get it. Those poor idiots on reality shows, who think their lives are that compelling we should all stop and take a look. Umm...Paris Hilton.
I'm thinking that maybe those of us who are always questioning and doubting are the ones who can only improve as we go on annoying everyone with our lack of confidence. We'll never think we're good enough, so we'll just keep trying to get better. But I'm also thinking we need to get over ourselves and just relax. If we don't start having a little faith, we'll just go through our days without sharing something, even if it's not up to our impossibly high standards. This blog is helping me get over some of my compulsion to hide, and I'm forever grateful for all the positive feedback. I still delete more than I actually post. I still think no one wants to hear the ramblings of a forty-one year-old bored mom. But I will keep on keepin' on. And I just might enter that photo contest again this year...
____________________________________________________
the prize winner (which I've deleted and re-posted about 4 times...I can't defeat self-doubt in one blog post, you know...):
I am surrounded by a plague of self-doubt. I know too many people that simply cannot believe they have a special something- a friend who can't grasp that she is fantastically creative even after planning every unique detail of her wedding, making it the one everyone still talks about. Another who has a brilliant eye for photography, each picture so filled with texture and feeling, but he wouldn't believe me if he heard me say it. (Check out his blog and see for yourself: http://www.quinnvision.tumblr.com/) And yet there is an overabundance of people with confidence to spare and no real anything to boast about. People who crack up at their own hilarity and think anyone not laughing isn't smart enough to get it. Those poor idiots on reality shows, who think their lives are that compelling we should all stop and take a look. Umm...Paris Hilton.
I'm thinking that maybe those of us who are always questioning and doubting are the ones who can only improve as we go on annoying everyone with our lack of confidence. We'll never think we're good enough, so we'll just keep trying to get better. But I'm also thinking we need to get over ourselves and just relax. If we don't start having a little faith, we'll just go through our days without sharing something, even if it's not up to our impossibly high standards. This blog is helping me get over some of my compulsion to hide, and I'm forever grateful for all the positive feedback. I still delete more than I actually post. I still think no one wants to hear the ramblings of a forty-one year-old bored mom. But I will keep on keepin' on. And I just might enter that photo contest again this year...
____________________________________________________
the prize winner (which I've deleted and re-posted about 4 times...I can't defeat self-doubt in one blog post, you know...):
____________________________________________________
An update on my Get Rid of a Thousand Things challenge...first was the closet and drawers, next came the bathroom and the jewelry box. Here goes:
1 broken flatiron
1 infant towel
1 infant washcloth
27 outgrown bath toys
16 bottles of nailpolish
31 random bottles of lotion, hair products, etc.
7 sticks of lip balm
15 headbands
1 package of barrettes
7 makeup brushes
1 comb
1 eyeglass case
4 plastic cups
1 bowl
1 bathmat
9 necklaces
10 bracelets
7 watches
1 keychain
1 guitar pick
4 rings
2 charms
3 pins
4 mismatched earrings
8 magazines = 164 + the previous 152 =316 things...
Monday, February 21, 2011
Good riddance...
I miss my old apartment. It was on a quiet street in the heart of our little town, with a gated courtyard and window boxes, hardwood floors and a big clawfoot tub. There was a back porch with room for my Nana's old porch swing and a fenced-in backyard, complete with wildflowers and a groundhog. It had a tiny, cheerful, sunny kitchen and high ceilings, old radiators and deep closets. It had low rent and an eccentric landlord. I fell in love twice there, out of love once. I found and lost a job I loved there, and then found another. I turned the music up and sang as loud as I could there, with no one to answer to. It had togetherness, it had solitude. It had my independence. It had almost everything. What it didn't have was...clutter.
We have been in this house for 3 years now. It is, on paper, almost the same as my beloved old place. It has all the quirks of an old house just as my former address did. And it will forever be a landmark for me, where we became a family of three. It is where I live. But I've yet to settle in, feeling like it's home. Take away the sound of my daughter's laughter (or tears) echoing through this place and it's just a place to retire to after a day at work. There is no room for my porch swing, no room for my carefree singing with no one listening. But there does seem to be plenty of room for...clutter. Lots and lots of clutter.
Every house has to have stuff. Frankly, I don't trust people who live in houses with no stuff. It's as if they are afraid of embracing who they are. Our things are a reflection of ourselves, what we love and want to keep near, and the quantity of those things is part of that reflection. And right now my little family has too much stuff, which says to me we have lost sight of what's important to us. We have just let anything and everything move in here with us for an extended stay, without any real invitation. It just appeared, without recollection of where it came from or which one of us brought it here. And in my last attempt to make this place less of a house and more of a home, I am giving a great number of our inconsiderate new guests the boot.
A friend has started a little undertaking called Get Rid of a Thousand Things. I am joining her cause. I am determined to get rid of anything that doesn't hold some sort of relevance to this family, anything that was perhaps welcome at one time but now is useless and just a space thief. I will periodically make brief updates on my progress, and maybe inspire another person to get on the clutter-reduction train. This house will be more home, less storage space. I will miss my old apartment less and learn to love this place more. There will be more room to dance around and sing like no one else is in the room. Hmmm...maybe those earplugs I found in a drawer I was cleaning will be a good gift for my neighbors...
_________________________________________________
The list begins...so far the following have been evicted:
14 pairs of socks
8 bras
2 pairs of tights
6 pairs of underwear
8 pairs of flip flops
7 pairs of shoes
9 camisoles
1 pair of pajama pants
1 pair of shorts
1 old maternity top
2 tee shirts
17 sweaters
3 tank tops
17 shirts
3 pairs of jeans
4 pairs of pants
4 pairs of capris
4 jackets
7 skirts
2 scarves
2 belts
3 empty shoeboxes
1 pin
1 satchet
1 jar of shoe polish
24 magazines and catalogs = 152 things...
We have been in this house for 3 years now. It is, on paper, almost the same as my beloved old place. It has all the quirks of an old house just as my former address did. And it will forever be a landmark for me, where we became a family of three. It is where I live. But I've yet to settle in, feeling like it's home. Take away the sound of my daughter's laughter (or tears) echoing through this place and it's just a place to retire to after a day at work. There is no room for my porch swing, no room for my carefree singing with no one listening. But there does seem to be plenty of room for...clutter. Lots and lots of clutter.
Every house has to have stuff. Frankly, I don't trust people who live in houses with no stuff. It's as if they are afraid of embracing who they are. Our things are a reflection of ourselves, what we love and want to keep near, and the quantity of those things is part of that reflection. And right now my little family has too much stuff, which says to me we have lost sight of what's important to us. We have just let anything and everything move in here with us for an extended stay, without any real invitation. It just appeared, without recollection of where it came from or which one of us brought it here. And in my last attempt to make this place less of a house and more of a home, I am giving a great number of our inconsiderate new guests the boot.
A friend has started a little undertaking called Get Rid of a Thousand Things. I am joining her cause. I am determined to get rid of anything that doesn't hold some sort of relevance to this family, anything that was perhaps welcome at one time but now is useless and just a space thief. I will periodically make brief updates on my progress, and maybe inspire another person to get on the clutter-reduction train. This house will be more home, less storage space. I will miss my old apartment less and learn to love this place more. There will be more room to dance around and sing like no one else is in the room. Hmmm...maybe those earplugs I found in a drawer I was cleaning will be a good gift for my neighbors...
_________________________________________________
The list begins...so far the following have been evicted:
14 pairs of socks
8 bras
2 pairs of tights
6 pairs of underwear
8 pairs of flip flops
7 pairs of shoes
9 camisoles
1 pair of pajama pants
1 pair of shorts
1 old maternity top
2 tee shirts
17 sweaters
3 tank tops
17 shirts
3 pairs of jeans
4 pairs of pants
4 pairs of capris
4 jackets
7 skirts
2 scarves
2 belts
3 empty shoeboxes
1 pin
1 satchet
1 jar of shoe polish
24 magazines and catalogs = 152 things...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Back in my day, blah blah blah...
I heard someone typing in the library today. Actually typing. On a typewriter. After fighting the urge to find them and give them a hug, it dawned on me that most of the people in the library at that moment had no idea what that sound was. I didn't feel sad or sorry for them; it's not as if they don't know what the act of typing is. I know things change and we move on to other modernities. People who loved their pencils probably freaked out when the pen came along, and then those pen lovers cried about the fall of civilization when typewriters popped up. Ok, maybe an exaggeration. But we do get attached to our ways of doing things and the toys that help us do them. When we get all worked up about the new stuff replacing the old, is it really about the stuff? Or is it because we feel like we are getting left behind in some way? That we have to acknowledge we are growing older and maybe less relevant? Who knows. But I miss typewriters. And some other stuff, like...
- Metal Band-Aid boxes. The best part of getting a boo-boo was that tin container coming out of the medicine cabinet. The smell of a new Band-Aid is a distinct scent of youth, like crayons or Playdoh. It meant you were going to get some full-on love and attention from the grown-up on duty.
- Phone booths. Those folding doors, that little bench, that mysterious coin return slot on the payphone. What person didn't stick their finger in there in hopes of a little ten-cent jackpot?
- Since we're talking about phones, how about telephones anchored to a wall? Not only did you have to be creative with discretion so no one around would hear your conversation (which they always managed to do anyway), but you had to stay in one place for more than a minute. And that curly cord was fun to play with.
- Cars with bench seats. I know parents with more than one child are probably very grateful for bucket seats to keep those kids from killing each other on car rides, but I liked being squished in a big backseat with family, or friends as we headed to the roller rink. And there's nothing romantic about holding hands over a center console.
- Evening news and Saturday morning cartoons. I know, I know. We still have evening news. But it used to be the only way to get news besides the newspaper. And the men (not a sexist thing; that's just who happened to do it at the time) delivering the news seemed kind and honorable to a kid like me, even if they maybe weren't. I never want to know. And those cartoons made weekends right.
- Styrofoam fast food containers. Yep, I said it. I am well aware that styrofoam is evil, and so is fast food, for that matter. But before we knew all that, a Big Mac in a styrofoam box was like a little present.
- And while I'm at it, candy cigarettes. I understand we don't ever want these things to make a comeback. And I am absolutely, decidedly, most definitely anti-smoking. But what can I say? I liked 'em. Especially the ones that blew "smoke" and turned to gum.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
An early Valentine...
There's always a lot of talk about 'soul mates' this time of year. How will you show your soul mate how much you heart them on Valentine's Day, or (gasp) what if you haven't found yours yet? I'm fortunate enough to say I found mine in my husband and will be able to face February 14th without the pressure of wondering if 'the one' is out there, or without having to hide my vulnerability by shrugging the whole day off because being single is 'empowering'. It really is just another day, single or whatever. But I like the thought of a day to celebrate love of any kind. And it's a couple of days early, but I'm going to take a minute to celebrate my soul mate.
Without taking anything from my husband, who deserves some sort of reward for putting up with my shenanigans and is truly so much more than I could ask for, I believe I have been blessed with more than just one soul mate. If you believe in such things, and I obviously do or I wouldn't be heading down this road, you know we all have someone who is good for our soul, who just gets us without much effort or prodding. Someone who's commitment to you is absolute, without proposals or vows. Someone who is there because they know it's where they should be, not because they're bound by blood or because it's always a party, but because it's home. Good or bad, laughter or tears. Births and deaths, arrivals and departures.
If we charted our friendships like we do our families, my friend Christina would have the largest, thickest branch of the tree. Hers would be the one where I would climb up and sit to think, where I would hang a tire swing so I could feel free, where I would defy gravity and dangle upside down, unafraid of falling. The one where I would build my treehouse to seek shelter when I want to hide for a minute or twenty. Her branch would provide the biggest breeze, the most shade when the heat gets too much. And in the autumn her leaves would be the boldest and brightest, and never drop. They would just return to the greenest green (her favorite color), ever-changing but not leaving.
My friend will give you the shirt off her back if you need it and not buy herself a new one to replace it. She will make you a meal with all of your favorites and not let you help with the dishes afterward. She will teach your children, walk your dog, help you move. She will cheer for you the loudest but only cheers for herself in a whisper. She is a list-maker like you've never seen, but she forgets to put herself on the list. Oh, and she would have the coolest lunch truck this town has ever seen.
Judging from the dirty looks we get, I would say people don't quite seem to enjoy our fits of hysterical laughter as much as Christina and I do. Maybe it's the high pitch of our giggles, maybe it's that they don't get what's so funny. But I'm afraid that they are just jealous. That they don't have someone to laugh with like we do, that maybe they've forgotten what it feels like to have a shared sense of humor with someone. That they are sad that they can't remember the last time they laughed so hard their cheeks and stomachs hurt. I am lucky enough to say I will never have to forget the last time, because it will never be too far behind me. And I know there will be another one coming soon.
Without taking anything from my husband, who deserves some sort of reward for putting up with my shenanigans and is truly so much more than I could ask for, I believe I have been blessed with more than just one soul mate. If you believe in such things, and I obviously do or I wouldn't be heading down this road, you know we all have someone who is good for our soul, who just gets us without much effort or prodding. Someone who's commitment to you is absolute, without proposals or vows. Someone who is there because they know it's where they should be, not because they're bound by blood or because it's always a party, but because it's home. Good or bad, laughter or tears. Births and deaths, arrivals and departures.
If we charted our friendships like we do our families, my friend Christina would have the largest, thickest branch of the tree. Hers would be the one where I would climb up and sit to think, where I would hang a tire swing so I could feel free, where I would defy gravity and dangle upside down, unafraid of falling. The one where I would build my treehouse to seek shelter when I want to hide for a minute or twenty. Her branch would provide the biggest breeze, the most shade when the heat gets too much. And in the autumn her leaves would be the boldest and brightest, and never drop. They would just return to the greenest green (her favorite color), ever-changing but not leaving.
My friend will give you the shirt off her back if you need it and not buy herself a new one to replace it. She will make you a meal with all of your favorites and not let you help with the dishes afterward. She will teach your children, walk your dog, help you move. She will cheer for you the loudest but only cheers for herself in a whisper. She is a list-maker like you've never seen, but she forgets to put herself on the list. Oh, and she would have the coolest lunch truck this town has ever seen.
Judging from the dirty looks we get, I would say people don't quite seem to enjoy our fits of hysterical laughter as much as Christina and I do. Maybe it's the high pitch of our giggles, maybe it's that they don't get what's so funny. But I'm afraid that they are just jealous. That they don't have someone to laugh with like we do, that maybe they've forgotten what it feels like to have a shared sense of humor with someone. That they are sad that they can't remember the last time they laughed so hard their cheeks and stomachs hurt. I am lucky enough to say I will never have to forget the last time, because it will never be too far behind me. And I know there will be another one coming soon.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Twinkle, twinkle...
"Turn your scars into stars." That was the message inside my fortune cookie tonight and it just might be the best one I've ever gotten. (It's a close contest between that one and the one from awhile back that said "You look pretty today.") Funny, if I saw that on a bumpersticker or in the self-help section of Borders, I would be rolling my eyes and gagging. But somehow having it come out of a cookie makes it easier to digest. Pardon the pun.
If we were to play word association and you gave me the word "scar", I would come back with "high school". Growing up a teenage girl with bad skin will make that a loaded word. The literal, external scars led to plenty more on the inside. And they both linger and are hard to hide, even at forty-one. Issues with almost-paralyzing self-consciousness, sidestepping large groups of teenagers, only looking in mirrors when I have to...these things are still somewhat habitual for me after all these years. You can tell me to get over it, it was decades ago, move on and for the most part, I have. But stuff like that can really take hold of a person. Just like the star footballer or homecoming queen who can't seem to leave the glory days behind, it's equally hard for us less-than-popular "freaks" to get our school uniforms out of our mental attics and toss 'em for good.
Now I have a daughter and I worry about if I will inadvertently pass on these horrible habits. Bad enough she may face the issue of genetics and need a good dermatologist. But I do not want her growing up thinking everyone is looking at her for the wrong reasons, or to be afraid to do anything because someone might laugh. She is already watching my every move. I am much more aware of my motives for doing or, more importantly, not doing something. It's a whole different kind of self-consciousness. She is the guiding force in my life now, not those ghosts of teenagers past. She is my little fortune cookie.
After dinner at the Chinese place, we went to the mall. On a Friday night. Where they were playing Billy Idol on the loud speaker and selling fluorescent-colored sneakers. It was as if time had stopped and a friend's mom had just dropped off a carload of us to hang out. I got lost for a minute in a memory flood of giggles and hairspray and wondering if the cute guy at the record store was working. I didn't for a second think of being teased or feel 'less-than'. And when we walked to our car, with our little one planting sloppy toddler kisses all over my face, the stars were out and shining.
If we were to play word association and you gave me the word "scar", I would come back with "high school". Growing up a teenage girl with bad skin will make that a loaded word. The literal, external scars led to plenty more on the inside. And they both linger and are hard to hide, even at forty-one. Issues with almost-paralyzing self-consciousness, sidestepping large groups of teenagers, only looking in mirrors when I have to...these things are still somewhat habitual for me after all these years. You can tell me to get over it, it was decades ago, move on and for the most part, I have. But stuff like that can really take hold of a person. Just like the star footballer or homecoming queen who can't seem to leave the glory days behind, it's equally hard for us less-than-popular "freaks" to get our school uniforms out of our mental attics and toss 'em for good.
Now I have a daughter and I worry about if I will inadvertently pass on these horrible habits. Bad enough she may face the issue of genetics and need a good dermatologist. But I do not want her growing up thinking everyone is looking at her for the wrong reasons, or to be afraid to do anything because someone might laugh. She is already watching my every move. I am much more aware of my motives for doing or, more importantly, not doing something. It's a whole different kind of self-consciousness. She is the guiding force in my life now, not those ghosts of teenagers past. She is my little fortune cookie.
After dinner at the Chinese place, we went to the mall. On a Friday night. Where they were playing Billy Idol on the loud speaker and selling fluorescent-colored sneakers. It was as if time had stopped and a friend's mom had just dropped off a carload of us to hang out. I got lost for a minute in a memory flood of giggles and hairspray and wondering if the cute guy at the record store was working. I didn't for a second think of being teased or feel 'less-than'. And when we walked to our car, with our little one planting sloppy toddler kisses all over my face, the stars were out and shining.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
A little light reading...
The word these last few days is heavy. The weight of all the snow already on the ground and the threat of a thick coating of ice to come, the load of guilt that comes from having to rely on others' kindness because of the weather, the density of a migraine that's lasted two days and is immune to remedy, and, the heaviest of all, the grief of mourning the loss of someone who hasn't yet died. How to deal with a violent change in someone once so close that has made them seem gone forever? I don't know. But I'm being forced to try, and it's unspeakably heavy.
So tonight I am determined to go to bed a little lighter, and I'm concentrating on the things that are filling my lead balloon with helium. Please indulge me as I list them...it will help me to focus on these light spots and further distract me. Maybe then I can sleep without feeling as if I am sinking into the mattress.
So tonight I am determined to go to bed a little lighter, and I'm concentrating on the things that are filling my lead balloon with helium. Please indulge me as I list them...it will help me to focus on these light spots and further distract me. Maybe then I can sleep without feeling as if I am sinking into the mattress.
- Let's start with Curious George's Discovery Beach game. My husband and I thought now would be a good time to try to teach our little one the in's and out's of rules and play, and it's been a welcome distraction from everything to plop down with a board game, even if it is built for a toddler. It's hard to feel down when you're looking for a blue octopus under a palm tree...or is it under the sailboat?
- Next there's "An Idiot Abroad". The last thing my dvr needs is another show clogging its arteries. But the first thing I need is a laugh, so guess who wins? I am grateful to Ricky Gervais for sending Karl out on his adventures. I hope he's not as miserable as his employers want him to be...
- I used to be very in-the-loop about music. Now I just rely on Jimmy Fallon to put bands in front of me so I can load them on my ipod when I have two free seconds. So thank you, Jimmy, for showing me Two Door Cinema Club. I just hope my neighbors like them, too. If not, it could be a long February for the house next door...
- I enjoy a win, especially when the loser hates a loss. So when I heard my uber-competitive coworker talk about a game app on his phone that he is trying to get through, I knew I had to beat him. I downloaded Unblock Me and my phone hasn't known what hit it. It may not be as popular as Angry Birds, but when I take my coworker down, I will feel gooooood.
- Last, but not at all least, is our Keurig coffee machine. Mommy needs her coffee. And Dunkin Donuts is very far away in an ice storm, even if it's only on the other side of the bridge.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
No regrets...
A couple of evenings ago I got my hair cut. (Yes, all of them.) I used to dread going to the salon; I felt so vulnerable looking like a drowned rat in the middle of a public place. I would get nervous before an appointment and be told that I was silly to be so self-conscious. These days I don't mind it so much. I still feel overexposed in that chair but it's over fast enough. Plus it's one place I can go without having to take a sippy cup in my bag.
While I was there, I read a magazine with an article written by a woman who had suffered a near-death experience caused by a brain aneurysm. She shared her incredible story, which I'm sure was a cathartic and therapeutic thing to do, and wanted the reader to come away feeling that life is too short to do...whatever it is we do that's not the epitome of living. But she also mentioned that she had a special helmet designed by her close friend Tory Burch and that she was able to recuperate at her home in Guana Beach in the British Virgin Islands. And did I mention that her aneurysm occurred at a red carpet event? I don't mean to sound mocking; what she went through is horrific and I am glad she is alive and well. I honestly liked her by the end of the article. But if she wasn't living before this trauma, what does that say for the rest of us?
We've all read and heard stories of people who, after coming close to leaving this Earth, came to the realization that they wasted their lives on trivial matters. They become fully committed to cherishing every moment in a big way, lavishing their loved ones with attention and doing all the things they swore they would do at least once in their lives...skydiving, getting that degree, seeing the Eiffel Tower. And we come away from their stories motivated to do the same, saying "life is too short". After a few days, we are back to fretting over that coffee stain on the couch and yelling at our husbands to just for once close the damn cabinet door. And our short lives go on as 'trivial' as they were.
Please, no more pressure to live. I am living. I am loving, laughing, yelling, fighting, struggling, learning, growing. I am paying my bills, I am reading my books, I am teaching my daughter, I am arguing and making up with my husband, I am visiting family, I am hanging out with friends. I say "I love you" to someone every day, but I also say "I'm sorry" too often. I don't want to be told that this isn't enough, that I must do more to justify my short time here, that I will only end up regretting time wasted. I may not see the Northern Lights before I go, I may never speak French, I will not bungee jump. Life is indeed too short, no matter how long it is. There will always be time ill-spent and guilt to follow. But if I wasted a few minutes being self-conscious in the salon chair, I wasted those few minutes being true to myself. Life is never too short for that.
While I was there, I read a magazine with an article written by a woman who had suffered a near-death experience caused by a brain aneurysm. She shared her incredible story, which I'm sure was a cathartic and therapeutic thing to do, and wanted the reader to come away feeling that life is too short to do...whatever it is we do that's not the epitome of living. But she also mentioned that she had a special helmet designed by her close friend Tory Burch and that she was able to recuperate at her home in Guana Beach in the British Virgin Islands. And did I mention that her aneurysm occurred at a red carpet event? I don't mean to sound mocking; what she went through is horrific and I am glad she is alive and well. I honestly liked her by the end of the article. But if she wasn't living before this trauma, what does that say for the rest of us?
We've all read and heard stories of people who, after coming close to leaving this Earth, came to the realization that they wasted their lives on trivial matters. They become fully committed to cherishing every moment in a big way, lavishing their loved ones with attention and doing all the things they swore they would do at least once in their lives...skydiving, getting that degree, seeing the Eiffel Tower. And we come away from their stories motivated to do the same, saying "life is too short". After a few days, we are back to fretting over that coffee stain on the couch and yelling at our husbands to just for once close the damn cabinet door. And our short lives go on as 'trivial' as they were.
Please, no more pressure to live. I am living. I am loving, laughing, yelling, fighting, struggling, learning, growing. I am paying my bills, I am reading my books, I am teaching my daughter, I am arguing and making up with my husband, I am visiting family, I am hanging out with friends. I say "I love you" to someone every day, but I also say "I'm sorry" too often. I don't want to be told that this isn't enough, that I must do more to justify my short time here, that I will only end up regretting time wasted. I may not see the Northern Lights before I go, I may never speak French, I will not bungee jump. Life is indeed too short, no matter how long it is. There will always be time ill-spent and guilt to follow. But if I wasted a few minutes being self-conscious in the salon chair, I wasted those few minutes being true to myself. Life is never too short for that.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Classy reunions...
Like the rest of the world, I am on Facebook. (Or is it "have a Facebook", as the kids at work say?) I was resistant to join, but join I did over a year ago. I have to say, it's been mostly a fun ride connecting with people I never thought I'd hear from again. Some have surprised me with the paths their lives have taken, some surprise me because I accurately predicted where they would be, and some just surprise me when they send me a 'friend request' or accept one of mine. It feels good to be remembered, and to know that we started a conversation years ago that they find worth continuing.
There are times when I just want to log off for good. It's hard for a cynical person such as myself to handle all those life-is-good postings. As my husband so eloquently put it, I need to "work on being happy for other people". He's right about that. There are times when my first reaction to someone's warm and fuzzy status update is 'oh, just shut up already'. But those times are getting few and far between, and I'm shedding that protective cynical shell. I truly am happy to see so many of us out there getting to places we want to be. I'm not naive; I realize that people sugarcoat and embellish, put up facades of peace, love, and happiness for an image they hope will make everyone the teensiest bit jealous. But I have hope that if they are little white lies, they will serve as self-fulfilling prophecies, and folks will start to actually exist as they do in their virtual lives.
I have connected with old friends from high school, which, for someone who doesn't attend class reunions, is an unexpected treat. Those friends helped shape who I am today, and I am grateful. I am a nostalgic girl; I will zoom back to that eighties decade at the drop of a Hall and Oates song, and stay there over-romanticizing until someone pulls me back to real time. But I have no real desire to go back there, or be that girl again. I did not always enjoy those 'best years of my life', as we were told they were, and don't need a do-over. For every happy flashback, there are two miserable ones right behind it. But I understand that a lot of us on the social network would take those days back in a heartbeat. While I'm glad they have more good memories than bad, I'm sad for those that cling to who they were then, as if that's the peak in their life's arc. I'm not trying to get any moments back. I don't want these renewed friendships to be exactly as they were when we were six or sixteen, or to take me somewhere other than here. We've been apart for big gaps of time, and we have all endured a lot of growing pains in those years of separation. I won't pretend to still know exactly who these people are, even though they are so familiar. I am so fortunate that those that were close to the 'me' then want to be close to the 'me' now. They are still my cheerleaders, still supportive and encouraging. Most importantly, they haven't called attention to what's different about me. They've let me be who I've grown to be...and I do hope they will call me out if I ever try to spike my hair again.
There are times when I just want to log off for good. It's hard for a cynical person such as myself to handle all those life-is-good postings. As my husband so eloquently put it, I need to "work on being happy for other people". He's right about that. There are times when my first reaction to someone's warm and fuzzy status update is 'oh, just shut up already'. But those times are getting few and far between, and I'm shedding that protective cynical shell. I truly am happy to see so many of us out there getting to places we want to be. I'm not naive; I realize that people sugarcoat and embellish, put up facades of peace, love, and happiness for an image they hope will make everyone the teensiest bit jealous. But I have hope that if they are little white lies, they will serve as self-fulfilling prophecies, and folks will start to actually exist as they do in their virtual lives.
I have connected with old friends from high school, which, for someone who doesn't attend class reunions, is an unexpected treat. Those friends helped shape who I am today, and I am grateful. I am a nostalgic girl; I will zoom back to that eighties decade at the drop of a Hall and Oates song, and stay there over-romanticizing until someone pulls me back to real time. But I have no real desire to go back there, or be that girl again. I did not always enjoy those 'best years of my life', as we were told they were, and don't need a do-over. For every happy flashback, there are two miserable ones right behind it. But I understand that a lot of us on the social network would take those days back in a heartbeat. While I'm glad they have more good memories than bad, I'm sad for those that cling to who they were then, as if that's the peak in their life's arc. I'm not trying to get any moments back. I don't want these renewed friendships to be exactly as they were when we were six or sixteen, or to take me somewhere other than here. We've been apart for big gaps of time, and we have all endured a lot of growing pains in those years of separation. I won't pretend to still know exactly who these people are, even though they are so familiar. I am so fortunate that those that were close to the 'me' then want to be close to the 'me' now. They are still my cheerleaders, still supportive and encouraging. Most importantly, they haven't called attention to what's different about me. They've let me be who I've grown to be...and I do hope they will call me out if I ever try to spike my hair again.
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