Thursday, December 31, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
A quiet street stretches out in front of my house and parallel to that street is the backyard of a retirement/assisted living apartment complex with a large pond and park for the residents. Everyone in the neighborhood walks their dogs on the no man's land between the complex's fence and the road.
Every fall and winter Canadian Geese land and decide they have come far enough south. This past spring I noticed a few had decided to not head back north and by early summer I knew why. Mommy and Daddy were waddling along with four or five fuzzy little babies behind them. Eventually we figured out their were two families and we've loved watching them grow this summer, catching a glimpse of them once or twice a week. Seeing them evolve from fuzzy little chicks to young geese with brand new feathers.
This morning I was walking the dogs along the fence and heard some honking above. I looked up and almost gasped. The babies, still not full grown, were easy to recognize, trailing behind their parents and forming the familiar V.
They were flying.
I’d like to think it was their first flight. Maybe it was. I wish I could have watched the lessons taught leading up to this morning. The attempts, the progress, the failures.
A few years ago my best friend Jennifer found some letters I had written to her at least ten years ago. She called me and read part of these letters and we laughed (and OK cried) at all the lamenting of unfulfilled dreams and lack of progress we were making and that we still, years later, felt exactly the same. . I can’t tell you the hundreds of phone calls, e-mails and chats we’ve had centered around the same subjects.
I’ve listened to the song quite a few times and I still can’t get through it without crying. First of all, it’s a damn good song and one I would connect with even if I didn’t know her and the story behind it.
But mostly what I feel when I listen to it is that I am seeing her fly and in this case I have watched the progress. The lessons, the efforts, the failure. The fighting. The pushing ahead with the writing and that elusive process we call creating.
I’ve watched her push herself. Attempt to take off, fly a few feet, land, and try again. I think it is as miraculous and unexplainable as those young geese I saw this morning. I think it is beautiful and I am beyond proud of her. She’s flying. She’s finally flying.
I can’t wait to see her soar.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Dear Neighbors One Street Up,
About eight years ago, pregnant with D7 and trying to placate J11 -- who was J3 at the time, I decided to take J3 and the dog to the park. It was about 4:00 p.m. and I was trying to get through that late afternoon/pre-dinner period that is sometimes a challenge with toddlers.
The park is about three blocks from our house and to get to it requires crossing a very busy, two lane road. Quite often our cat Tom would come with us to the park. He loved going on walks with us and I loved how he would just hang out at the park and then follow us back home. I would pick him up and carry him across the busy street. Sometimes he would just run across.
I remember that day getting about half way to the park, seeing Tom, and thinking I should turn around because it was getting late and traffic was picking up. But J3 was cranky and I was tired and just wanted to sit down for awhile.
We made it the park, the four of us -- J3, me, the dog, Tom. I'm sure we had our usual good time at the park, I don't remember. It was almost dinner time when we started home and reached the main road we had to cross.
I had a dog on a leash and a three year-old. I picked J3 up, turned around to look for Tom, wanted to pick him up to. But was afraid to try and cross the street seven months pregnant, holding a toddler in one arm and the dog leash and a cat with the other arm/hand. Besides he always made it.
Not that day. We waited for a gap in the traffic and started across. But Tom hesitated. I made it to the other side, turned to watch for Tom. Turned in time to see him start running and then get smashed by a car. It was horrible. Heart-wrenching. I remember he kind of flew up in the air, jumped, ran across the street to where we had started.
Of course I ran back over, with dog and child, all pregnant. I remember J3 laughing, because Tom had looked so funny to him, hopping and flailing.
The woman driving the car pulled over and her friend explained she had just lost a cat a few weeks ago. They offered to stay with him (he was still breathing) while I ran home and got the car. It seemed to take forever to manage to get back home. The toddler, the dog.
By the time we got back Tom was dead. Everyone was crying (except J3-who didn't understand at all). I carefully put Tom in the car and brought him home. I laid him out next to the house and waited for J to come home and bury him.
Tom was one of those pets that really gets to you. One of the special ones. He was a stray who followed me home while I was on a walk when we lived in Maryland. It was three days after a horrible blizzard and he was very sick. We saved his life, taking him in.
And then I took his life with my carelessness and selfishness. I did. This is one of those times in life where I can't really make any excuses, except that I was stupid. I knew there would be lots of cars. I knew I was taking a chance. I killed Tom and it still haunts me. I still miss him.
Now we have Daisy. Sweet Ms. Daisy. Another stray. Just came to the house, skinny. Took us in, loves my boys. She is our cat. Another one of the special ones. The boys adore her and love on her and can't get enough of her.
She also likes to walk with us.
So. Dear neighbors who live one street up, a street that is only two blocks long, but very very quiet. That is why on many mornings when I go out for a walk, I spend 30 minutes walking up and down your street, back and forth, with a gray and white cat following and calling out to me.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
First I lost the address and the directions to the pool party J10 is going to today. I have to pick him up at 2:30 and have no idea where to go -- I'm waiting for the school to call me back. I swear, I saved that piece of paper. I swear I did.
Then I just discovered that I gave one of the teachers a gift card to Barnes and Noble that has been used. Yeah. That's not embarrassing at all. I bought five cards because I wasn't sure if D7 had one teacher's aid or two. Yeah, I am totally THAT mom right now and I don't mean that in a good way. Because at the beginning of the year he had two aids in the room, but then one of them had to go and have a baby, but I wasn't sure if she was back or not. 'Cuz I'm all involved and always know what's going on at school.
SO. I have five cards, I find out I only need four. Sweet -- a gift card for me, the hard-working and always in-the-know Madge. Of course I spend it. Of course I do. Of course I put it back in my purse where all the other cards are just sort of floating around in their little gift card thingies that they are glued to with that very lacking weird adhesive crap that doesn't work.
So today I am giving out my last gift card to J10's teacher. I have two cards in my purse. I figure one of them is the one I used. So I call the number on the back to check the balance to find out which one I used.
Guess what? I didn't use either of these cards. Crap. I just gave a teacher a card with no freaking money on it and I don't know who got it. Yeah.
This is why I am glad school is out for the summer. No more projects. No more slips of paper with important info to keep track of (and then lose), no more homework, no more clean uniforms needed. No more embarrassing scenarios like the one above......
Happy Summer to me.
Oh. OK. Using my super-sleuth deductive skills I think I narrowed it down to the speech therapist. Good, she is the one that is most familiar with my, how do I say this? Inability to function? Yeah, that covers it. She's getting the extra card.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
So what's been going on? My dog is incontinent. I know. It's so awesome. Once the frequency of the urinating on my bed or any blankets that fell on the floor increased to once a day I finally decided to take her to the vet. The solution is a pill twice a day. So far it is working. But I have to wonder for how long? At what point am I putting diapers on her? And how disturbed am I that so many people have asked me if she is wearing diapers yet?
What else? My baby graduates from kindergarten Wednesday. Yes, they do the cap and gown thing. Honestly I think it's a little much. But damn, they are so cute who cares?
J10 has a week of school left and then we are officially on summer break and for the first time I'm really looking forward to it and not freaking out about handling work and the boys. I am so lucky (blah blah blah) to work from home, but it's kind of tough to manage work and the kids for 12 weeks. Of course now I look back and wonder how I did it when they were babies and toddlers but I did.
I'm back to the whole insomnia thing but this time instead of laying in bed for 2 - 3 hours and second guessing every single inch of my life I'm just going to get up and blog. Such a better use of my time.
OH! I almost forgot. Shameless plug for a friend's blog: Please check out The Trifecta. This is not a mommy blog. Which is exactly why you should go there (and no I am not saying I dislike mommy blogs. I love them. I am one quite often.) It's actually written by a guy. A cool guy. God knows the blogosphere could use some more of them (and no I am not dogging my two or three known male readers -- I heart you guys. immensely.) I will now stop apologizing. Just go over there and check it out.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
I've been having trouble sleeping and I've also developed a lovely patch of hives on my arm. Yes, it is completely stress related. Thursday night I woke up around 2:00 with my arm itching. I was up for two hours until I took a triple dose of Triaminic Allergy medicine. I figured if kids 6 - 12 need two teaspoons, 42 year old women needed six teaspoons. I also added two (or three?) Advil.
I woke up at 7:00, crawled out of bed, made breakfast, crawled back in bed for 20 minutes, got up, made sure everyone was dressed and out the door and crawled back into bed until 9:00 (isn't this fascinating? I'm setting the scene ok?).
At 9:00 I crawled out of bed, made coffee and sat down at my desk where I discovered I had things to take care of ASAP. About 10:20 or so things slowed down and I started cleaning my desk off.
That's when I found the note about Pet Day and that show and tell would begin a 11:15. Crap. I had about 45 minutes to take pictures of the pets with my phone, print them, shower, and get to school.
The next 35 minutes were filled with snapping photos of the pets, unsuccessfully syncing the iPhone with the computer -- photos wouldn't download. Finally realizing I had to e-mail the photos to myself. Trying to print them, dealing with three or four paper jams -- each which meant I had to restart the printer. Can you imagine my language during this? I think you can. My office is an old sun porch and I am in there cussing up a storm. Loudly. The whole neighborhood could probably hear me.
Finally, about 11:03 I had photos of each pet.
I threw on some really horrible sweat pants, t-shirt, baseball cap since the whole shower thing hadn't happened. And the whole laundry thing hadn' happened for a few days. As I'm hopping in the car the neighbor's painter, who was painting the window trim, about six feet from my office, looked at me, smiled, and said, "'morning!" yeah. ha. I said "hi' hopped in the car and kept swearing under my breath. I said out loud to myself, "yeah, i'm THAT mom." The crazy one. The unorganized one. The swearing one. The unshowered, driving like a maniac always three steps behind one.
The whole way to school I was muttering "I'm THAT mom, I'm THAT mom."
I walked into the classroom minutes before show and tell started, handed Dave his photos, and sat down in the back.
When it was his turn D7 told the class about his three pets and sat down. There were a couple of kids who had pets but hadn't brought pictures. I don't know how they felt about it, but I knew how D7 would have felt. Because we had talked about it and I knew he was really looking forward to it.
On the way out of the classroom I ran into a teacher's aide I knew and she asked me why I was looking so harried and stressed out. I told her what had happened and she just smiled and said, "Yeah, but you made it. You're a great mom!"
Yeah. I am a great mom. I busted ass and made sure I followed through on a promise to my kid.
The whole way home I kept thinking to myself, Yeah, I'm THAT mom." But this time I was smiling.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I liked this one. It made me think of a friend who loves gambling and is headed back to work today after a bit of a vacation:
sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.
you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.
it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.
I liked a 340 dollar horse and a hundred dollar whore too. check it out, if you'd like. I think I am going to have to find out some more about Mr. Bukowski.....
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Sunday was a different story. My mom was a single working mom and rose early on Sunday and got right to it. Laundry. Yard work. Errands. Projects around the house. Gardening (not the same thing as yard work -- trust me).
I found out as an adult that my grandmother would actually show up on Sunday mornings and say , "Ok, what are we doing today?" or worse, "Today we are going to......" and she would have some big project for my mom to do IN OUR HOUSE. And my mom would just do it (this is obviously a whole 'nother post).
Sadly I have inherited the work-like-a-dog-around-the-house-on-the-weekend mentality. Although I've mellowed a bit. I'm not an SDA now, so Saturday, like many people, is my day to do stuff around the house.
Yesterday I had a wonderful girl's day out in Atlanta with a friend and came home to a house that looked worse than usual.
So of course I hopped out of bed this morning, even though I was feeling exhausted and kind of yucky, and tried to get right at it. I made this ridiculous, impossible to do list and immediately felt overwhelmed. I wanted a nap. I wanted to sit on the deck and read a book. I wanted to sew, and blog and just chill. All day.
And then I realized something. I can do that. I can totally take the day off. I can lounge, read, sew, blog, sleep. And it's all going to be here tomorrow. And the world isn't going to end. In fact, the world is probably going to be a better place.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
by Sharon Bryan
Middle age refers more
to landscape than to time:
it's as if you'd reached
the top of a hill
and could see all the way
to the end of your life,
so you know without a doubt
that it has an end—
not that it will have,
but that it does have,
if only in outline—
so for the first time
you can see your life whole,
beginning and end not far
from where you stand,
the horizon in the distance—
the view makes you weep,
but it also has the beauty
of symmetry, like the earth
seen from space: you can't help
but admire it from afar,
especially now, while it's simple
to re-enter whenever you choose,
lying down in your life,
waking up to it
just as you always have—
except that the details resonate
by virtue of being contained,
as your own words
coming back to you
define the landscape,
remind you that it won't go on
like this forever.
"Foreseeing" by Sharon Bryan, from Flying Blind. © Sarabande Books, 1996
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I hate school projects. Hate them.
Honestly. It looked like shit. I love my son more than anything in the world. Love him. The kid can't draw. And that's OK. I'm OK with that. That is not my issue here. I have two -- other parents and me.
There are two fourth grade classes in our school. The other class turned their shields in last week and they are proudly displayed in the hallway at school. So I had a chance to check them out. I don' know what instructions the other teacher sent home but the sheet I got specifically said children were to do their own artwork and it was to be drawn -- not printed off the computer. Some of those shields looked like mummy and dada had called up a local ad agency and hired an art director. I don't really care what they are teaching their kid. I care that my son's work, that already is, shall we say, lacking, has to hang up next to the professional's stuff. Or at least something that was done by an adult. Saturday while he was working on his shield he started saying things like, "this looks horrible" and "i can't draw." Yeah, I said all the stuff I thought I should about doing your own work, even if drawing isn't your thing, you are so good at other things, etc. etc. etc. But it really cranks me that he's not on a fair playing field and he's to young to really understand that. So he's left feeling inadequate. I wish those parents realized what they were doing to the kids that are following the rules.
So. We're working on the project Saturday. He has to draw four things on the shield. We've made shield, divided it into four sections, he's put his motto on it, drawn one of the illustrations, has three left. We are leaving in two hours. He has to have it done before we leave.
I sit at the table with him. We talk about what he'll draw to illustrate his hobbies, his future plans. After finding every possible excuse not to start (I need water, I need to go to the bathroom) he finally starts working. But it's all "I can't do this." "I don't know what to do." etc. etc. etc.
Forty-five minutes in my patience is gone. The husband is sitting on the couch watching t.v., surfing the internet and interjecting positive reinforcement statements like, "get to work!" "stop screwing around" etc. etc. etc.
Finally I lose it. I'm saying things things like "hurry UP!" "get to freaking work" my voice is getting louder and louder. my husband is chiming in, louder and louder. J10s face is clouding up, his eye's filling with tears. I finally pull this one out - "Do you think I LIKE my job? Do you? Do you think I like going to work every day? I HATE it!!! But I have to. There are things in life you HAVE to do. No one likes working! But we all have to! NOW GET THIS DONE!!"
The whole time I am saying this I am thinking this "what the F@ck is wrong with you? why are you setting him up to think he has to hate his life? to hate working? to not find something fulfilling? WHY ARE YOU YELLING???"
J10 bursts into tears, yells "you always yell at me! you guys make me feel HORRIBLE"
And he's right. I was making him feel horrible.
He grabbed a marker and started coloring and of course totally screwed up what he was working on and then he really burst into tears.
The worst thing was? It was like looking in a mirror. Everything about J10 and his approach to this project is me. me me me. the lack of belief in himself, the procrastination, the doubt, everything. As soon as I was done ranting at him and looked him in the eye it hit me. hard. i knew how he was feeling because i had felt it a million times. i still do.
I took a deep breath. Told him we could fix it. Cut out a new piece of posterboard, glued it over the ruined section so you couldn't even see it, the whole time telling him I was sorry, that nothing is life is not fixable (which actually isn't true, bu we'll get to that later in life I guess -- some things you can' do over, some things are not repairable), that we could fix it, that I understood.
So, yeah, I calmed down, we ended up having fun. sort of. and finishing the project. I feel horrible still though. I don't know how to help him, not with the big things, like changing his attitude and how he feels about himself. I hope I can help him figure some of that out sooner than I did. That's all I'm hoping for.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Maybe I was dreaming.
I remembered it mid-morning, somewhere between the relay games and sno-cones during field day at school. Not the exact words, but that it had happened. That I had put words together in my head that were just right, just the way I wanted.
At 10:00 a.m. I couldn’t remember a single sentence.
Maybe I’m a different person at 3:00 a.m. than I am during the day.
Maybe it’s that there isn’t any noise then. There isn’t anyone needing me. I’m not feeling pushed and pulled and wanted or taken for granted. I’m not awake enough to let self-pity sneak in or to remember what it was I was worrying about when I fell asleep.
Maybe 3:00 a.m. is when I believe in myself the most.
Maybe I’m just dreaming.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton, 'We are All Writing God's Poem'
by Barbara Crooker
Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed
a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step. On the interstate listening
to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, "The universe is not only stranger than we
think, it's stranger than we can think." I think
I've driven into spring, as the woods revive
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy
scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing
sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,
and aren't we just? Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: "There is no end of things
in the heart," but it seems like things
are always ending—vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit—
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.
The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop
for the thousandth time.
I don't know why I feel compelled to post it. The longer you watch it the scarier it is. That the congregation is cheering him on, that they probably think he's been filled with the spirit. That he can imitate his preacher so well. That even though he's not actually preaching he's getting the same inflections he sees every week -- it's just an act for him. How often is it just an act?
That his parents think this is ok -- I don't know what they really think, but I'm assuming they either think it is adorable, a blessing, a sign, or all of those, I don't know. It creeps me out.
What do you think?
Sunday, April 5, 2009
"Does this look OK?"
Maybe a big red flashing light in my room or some sort of bracelet I could wear that would shock me when I look to him for fashion advice.
This morning as I was dressing for church I pulled on a pair of black cropped pants from last summer, a new sweater with 3/4 length sleeves and a pair of black patent flats. Hmmmm. I wasn't really sure it was working. But I was close to running late. The man was still in bed (yeah, his platform bed) and I handed him his glasses and uttered those fateful words, "Do these shoes work?"
"Yeah," he says. And it's always with this little lift in his voice -- like he's trying to be really helpful or something.
I'm such an idiot.
Actually, I don't think it was that bad. But about half way through the second service at church (I'm in the choir so usually end up in both services, for at least part of the service) my mind was wandering and I was eyeing the outfits on the 500 women out there in the congregation. I had already deeply examined the women in choir during sound check. I do not advice entering a church in the south unless you are feeling quite fine about your appearance 'cuz the southern girls? They can dress. My confidence in my outfit, or maybe I should say my reluctant decision to wear my outfit, was fading.
So I'm up there singing Palm Sunday type songs for the third time and I'm totally thinking about clothes. I know. I'm thinking about my stupid pants and that really I hated them all last summer and I think I had sworn to get rid of them. And then I had an epiphany, right there in church, up on stage, in front of 800 people.
Life is to short to wear stupid pants.
Why didn't I just get rid of them last year when I started hating them? Cuz they still fit? I mean, really, I'm not even sure I'm supposed to be wearing cropped pants. Isn't there some kind of age rule or something about them? I'm not good at this. I don't know. But I can tell you this -- I really hate those pants.
So I came home and threw them in the bag for Goodwill. Good riddance I say. Life is to short.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
About a month ago my husband built himself a platform bed. Yeah, I'm going to blog about this soon, I'm sure. So now my husband sleeps in a bed above me and I have the king all to myself and can I tell you? It's so freaking awesome. More on the whys of this later.
So right after he moved into his new bed she peed on his blankets when he left them on the floor (why are his blankets on the floor instead of his bed? I wish I knew). We think she was mad at him for not being in a place where she could sleep with him.
My mom visited for eight days. She spent the first seven nights at a hotel, but the last night she slept at our house (and I was out of town -- yeah, my husband was mad). Well, my dog was so worn out, as were the rest of us, by my mom's visit she peed on the bed my mom was sleeping in WHILE MY MOM WAS IN THE BED. No kidding. That's how freaked out, nervous and worn out this family is when my mom visits.
Last Saturday we packed up the kids and went to the beach for spring break. We got home Thursday, picked up the dogs from the kennel, and Sam has peed twice on our beds. Yes, we are ready to kill her.
Today I'm trying to catch up on laundry -- which includes all the bedding.
I opened my Reader today and there were 1000+ posts in it. 1,000. I'm a little behind. Of course I cleared it out and am starting over with reading.
It's been crazy busy. Plus it's spring in middle Georgia and honestly it's kind of mesmerizing. You just want to be outside and you kind of walk around in a haze, taking it all in.
My six year old turned seven, my mom visited, I had a girls trip to Atlanta for the quilting Shop Hop, I spent six days at the beach with my family and played seven or eight games of mini-golf.
I have lots to post about -- my husbands new bed (did I mention it's awesome?) the wisteria, my son's obsession with mini-golf, my reaching the end of the rope with my kitchen (I think) Facebook (OK every blogger ends up blogging about FB eventually).
I've missed writing, I've missed reading. I've missed all of you.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Oh, I wasn't going to tell you about that.
So I'm in a Mary Oliver/Billy Collins/Pablo Neruda rut.
If anyone has some suggestions of other poets I should read please let me know.
But for today -- Mary Oliver. This one is from Thirst.
From the complications of loving you
I think there is no end or return.
No answer, no coming out of it.
Which is the only way to love, isn't it?
This isn't a playground, this is
earth, our heaven, for a while.
Therefore I have given precedence
to all my sudden, sullen, dark moods
that hold you in the center of my world.
And I say to my body: grow thinner still.
And I say to my fingers, type me a pretty song.
And I say to my heart: rave on.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
1. Take D6 to the library
2. Try and find all the library books that are due
3. Get the evil eye from the librarian because I will be checking out books with other books overdue and not found yet.
4. Talk to an old friend from college that I haven't talked to since college -- she's calling me tonight.
5. Try and help J10 figure out how to manage homework -- as in have a long-term plan for projects and upcoming tests (huge massive sigh).
7. Play even more Scrabble and Word Twist on FB.
8. Make risotto
9. Get my kids and husband to try the risotto (this probly will not happen)
10. Take a nap (ok, this is probly not happening either)
Monday, March 2, 2009
I feel like my life has turned into one of those crazy stop-motion films and it's taking me to long to set up the next shot.
I know it's all over when I end up on my back, eyes wide open, staring at the window covered in one of those temporary paper shades.
The light comes in like the light before it snows. Except of course it doesn't snow because it's Georgia. Except it did snow yesterday and the boys have an actual real snow day tomorrow, so my insomnia has an added sense of holiday to it. Nice. Helpful.
I know I'm in trouble when I end up on my back because I can't sleep on my back. I sleep on my side. Semi-fetal, blankets pulled up close to my mouth, hands tucked under the pillow, sometimes fists clenched. I figure it's all about safety. Protection.
I figure it's all about growing up scared and alone and waiting.
I've had two therapists tell me I was probably sexually abused by my brother and that I've repressed it. Both therapists I only saw once or twice. Both listening to me spill out a brief history of my childhood and recent experiences and quickly telling me I was abused, listing the signs, putting the fear of God into me and then sending me on my way.
My other two therapists, the two I spent over a year with -- one in my mid-twenties, the other in my late thirties -- seemed to dismiss this theory. Or rather, they took it in with that neutral expression in which they take most information from you. My last therapist seemed to think I had plenty in my present to work on, thank-you very much. She was right, I did.
At this point I've decided if it happened, it happened, if it didn't it didn't. The abuse I do remember has been enough to deal with.
My brother called me several months ago --the first time I had talked to him in nine years. The reconnection that seemed about to happen during that phone call never really took. I don't know. I know my reasons for keeping him out of my life, I can only guess at his.
Now it's 3:19 a.m. I still don't feel sleepy, I'll maybe catch up on some blogs cruise Facebook, read some mail, but eventually I'll put the computer down, stay here on the couch, roll over to semi-fetal, pull the blankets up close to my mouth, close my eyes and wait, still kind of scared. Still kind of alone.
Friday, February 27, 2009
then we took j10 to the eye doctor for an eye exam, with d6, just along for the ride.
ok, the people working there commented on my reading skills. i'm just sayin. if you need someone to read a reptile book out loud in public you should call me.
yeah, the eye exam was so fun. j10 kind of freaked out and the eye doctor (who does not have children) started quizzing me about him, had he been through anything traumatic, blah blah blah.
i'm standing there in my really ratty cardigan, hair drooping, cold coming on, makeup? i have no idea if i got that far today. i'm standing there exhausted and wanting to say 'well, he's had me for a mother for 10 years? whatcha think that's been like? traumatic?
but i didn't. i gave her a mini lecture on sensory integration disorder, got him settled back in the chair and focused and then high-tailed it for home when it was over and took a little nap at 5:00 p.m.
i swear some day i'm going to get my sense of humor back.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
It was kind of a long day. D6 stayed home with a cold and around 9:00 my mother-in-law called and asked if I could spend the day with her. So I packed up D6 (books, toys, snacks), drove out to Nana's and realized she needed to see the doctor. Which meant going to the walk-in clinic since she couldn't get into her GP. Three fun-loving hours later, with D6 now running a fever, it was discovered Nana is not eating or drinking enough. She had knee replacement surgery three weeks ago and just hasn't gotten her appetite back.
So it's been a long day, and probably a few more busy days ahead, but it's good.
I'm so glad Nana called me instead of trying to soldier through on her own. Now we know what we have to do -- force her to eat and drink. So that's what we'll do. Hopefully without D6 developing pneumonia like he has done twice in the past twelve months.
So I'm just here tonight cuz I said I would be and that's about it.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
so in the middle, taking care of the kids, hoping against all hope they make it.
in the middle, watching our parents age, struggle, refuse help.
wondering -- are these the good years? the great years?
yeah, i know i was all morose and creepy yesterday. i'm a little not that much like that today.
my youngest stayed home with a cough/congestion and we are endlessly reading animal books in between me working.
my poor mother-in-law, who would not at all be pleased i was blogging about her, tried to drive herself to a doctors appointment 90 minutes from her house. she is recovering from knee replacement surgery and is having a horrible week, lots of pain, doesn't want to ask for help. i think she's hit a wall this week, feeling completely alone, her husband dead three years, and struggling through this recovery that is probably more than she thought it would be. she sounds bright and forced on the phone and i know she is near tears. we're doing what we can, what we should, and what she'll let us.
it's sunny and in the 60s today -- or will be. i can go wander around the backyard and check on my spinach, parsley, cilantro and lettuce i planted a few weeks ago. i can get the mail and check on all the pansies i planted in january that have somehow survived and are starting to look like something.
it's not all bad, it's mostly good. but i wish i could get at that little nagging part of me that won't let go -- telling me to not forget myself.
oh, that's it isn't it. that's the trick. taking care of all of them and not forgetting myself. that's where i'm headed, that's what i'm trying to do. at least for today.