The Zen of Ducks

Plump, steady, funny clowns
Ripple through their circles
Shifting weight like canoes
with a tipsy Captain

South to crane a tired neck
North to hunt for brighter fish
East, then west on pine needles
A hammock for an hour.



I look to them
when I feel gone
At ducks?
When I feel gone?

They remind me how to be here.

One gray, two black, 

two white, I count
Their feathers curl against the wind
They are made of layers, too

So very much like talking

Is that your smile, Astro Duck?
Is this where you sleep at night?

I'm not here to hurt you.

They trust this moment,
Not the last
Give no credence to
a past

Inside his circle
Wonder filled

I really hope he's smiling.

Shrinking the Moat

When first receiving the text to join them for breakfast, my mind reeled with excuses:  I have this cough.  It's the kids' first full week of school.  I ate crawfish last night and now my pants don't fit.  But instead I wrote back:  Ok, I'm in.

The Military Spouse Group meets often for various things throughout the year.  Sometimes socials, sometimes exercise, sometimes to unwind through designing wreaths and swapping numbers of babysitters who hang up wet towels.

Throughout the years, I've joined in.  I've clinked glasses, read Book Club books, and traded stories of endless nights as new mothers while our husbands worked their way up the ranks at new duty stations.  For the most part, it was always a good time.

But lately, I've not felt like joining in.  I've (rudely) ignored invitations.  I've hit the "maybe" button just to declare it a firm "no" the day of.  I've driven to the function, joined in for an hour and made haste to leave less than an hour later.

Why?

I think because I've made assumptions.  The wives here are so put together.  One is a ballerina.  Literally, she is a walking, talking, pixie-haired precious ballerina.  Another takes pictures of babies that make you beg your ovaries for one more try.  A few others have started their own businesses and are committed to their heart's work.  The last one has a gorgeous British accent and rocks Athleta outfits like she has forgotten she's wearing clothes.  I can never forget I'm wearing clothes.  Mine are forever tugging, pulling, scooching, getting pinched somewhere too rude to re-situate in public.  I remain, at all times, acutely aware of an underarm that's showing through a bell sleeve, or of a clasp driving a new bellybutton somewhere deep into my hip.

I assumed all these women weren't like me.

Yes, those are dog pajamas.  I need an intervention.

So I said No way more than Yes.  I reveled in No.  Bragged to my non-military-spouse friends about the freedom of my No.  Danced around my kitchen while those Together Girls had gatherings because No was so much more risque than Yes.

Then, the boomerang returned.  The distance I created to empower myself with non-comparisons turned into a moat of disassociation.   An island of women who move every two to four years, miss their family, and bleed Tricare were within reach and I pushed myself away because I didn't think I had my sh*t together.  A large well of fellow moms deciding to pause their career clock, like me, and balance their family on the small of their back were nearby and here I've been, walking away from them with an empty bucket.

So dumb.

This morning that changed.  Forcing myself into clothes that would gripe and fuss, I went to meet a large group of very intimidating  easy going women.

And when I got there, the moat shrunk.  Our differences became laughable while our similarities beamed.

One spouse just moved here.  She has three young kids, is a stay-at-home parent and is also a registered nurse. She told us a story about how she found out a bully was stealing her kindergartner's lunch midway through his first year of school.  My mama blood ran hot just like hers as she retold the story.  She dealt with the situation like a champ and we all applauded her instinct to investigate.

One mama mentioned her recent abstinence of social media and right away I went in for the gold.  "Are you happier?"  She lifted her gaze to mine and breathed a very full, "Yesss, so much happier"  Hmmm, I might have to try this, New Happy Mom Lady.

I met a rescue freak mama just like me.  Yes, her biceps and svelte yoga frame daunted me at first but before long we were chatting about her elderly beagle and the most efficient way to make food for a dog in kidney failure.  She adds baked salmon.

At the end of the table was another wife, cradling her week old baby in a front carrier. Next to her sat her own mother who told stories of living with her daughter in tiny living quarters overseas while the husband was deployed.

My friend, the one who texted me last night, gave us all hope that teenagers do come back after the painful "I Hate You" years.  Hers even lets her snuggle.  At sixteen.

When it was time to go, I checked the time.  Four hours had passed although it felt like one.

And I barely noticed that new bellybutton two inches away from my hip.

A Letter to Myself

Do you want to run?  Let's hold hands and run with coyotes.

Do you want to sing?  Sing until light lifts from your skin like an easy sunrise.

Do you want to sit quietly and watch?  Then grab your blankets, watch those tiny lizards in the grass, and narrate their funny, busy pace to find each other.

Do you want to walk among the ones just like you?  Then go.  Go to where you feel them, hear them, see them.  But don't walk.  Run.  They might be leaving soon because it's getting hot and one of them forgot sunscreen.  Run toward the ones just like you because that's a start.

Then turn the other way and bump into all the rest.  Be uncomfortable and green.  Nobody cares if you're not where you think you should be.  We all have a parallel me - the one we planned on and the one who says "that's horsesh*t" to her children.   Push yourself to stand there - all there - every stretch of your 5 foot 6 inches without hunching like a scared kangaroo.  Honor your expression as much as theirs for both are valid.  This place won't last forever.  Three years has already turned into one down, two more to go.  There is rich, exciting fabric to weave yourself into where some won't notice and others won't forget.

Go and be here while you still can.

Because you still most certainly can.

Recentering

Such a simple joy, lasting only minutes before she's tearing off her swimsuit to wrestle dry clothes over a dripping little frame.  Because suddenly, so very urgently, she has to paint a dress made of toilet paper, for Elsa.

She's off designing, taping, painting - fiercely devoted to her own made-up task.  I can barely keep up. Physically, I am standing all day like her beacon of light, listing in the water when she needs to see there's still someone taking care of her.  

I'm here.  Watching constantly, loving on often, reassuring frequently, and worrying way too damn much. This is my worry face.  Dear Sparrow has it down: 

Cute on her, not so much on a nearly 40-year-old woman with crow's feet.

All the worry, I know it's bad.  I can feel its gnarly cells leaching into my body, stealing off with my proper liver functions and Buddha-like peace.  

Good news is I've identified the problem.  Bad news is I'm stuck in a rut and not sure how to get out.  Yoga my way toward the light?  Vacation away the stress?  Interview toward a different goal altogether? 

Chocolate.  I just wish chocolate was the answer.  

I'm trying to take a page from my son's way of doing things.  At school and on the field, he is hyper-determined and freight-train driven to the point of distraction.  We have to remind him it's about teamwork and S+ are not so bad.  But he completely turns it off when he leaves the field.  Somehow he can let it go when there is no field.

I need to get the hell off my field, guys.  

Don't worry.  This isn't code for an abysmal dark hole I'm digging myself out of.  It's just an annoying little bad habit rut I want to mash down with my fists.  Wanted to share in case you've been there, too.  I'll figure something out.  Right now, I get the feeling I'm supposed to work it off (physically - run, workout, increase muscle) and intellectually work it through (get myself re-certified?  pursue another field entirely?  Dance naked to the Beastie Boys?)  

The balance between worry and peace will always rock back and forth, never resting center for long.  My goal is to strike that balance of me vs. them vs. us enough of the time that it doesn't feel like work to smile.

Because look how beautiful that must feel.

Sanctuary

If Andrea from About 100% asked me to hike part of the Appalachian Trail, I'd price hiking boots.  If she suddenly showed up at my house in a rental, a feathered boa, and a flimsy reason why, I'd drive us both to Vegas.  Actually, I would probably head to Nashville and tell her I'm horrible with directions. Since she has recently asked me to take part in a blog tour about our writing process, I'm all in.

What's a blog tour?  Not sure exactly.  But I do know what a writing process is because I spent 9,4245139587103758 hours in writing classes while lamenting about what I wanted to do with my life.  That's like eating twenty stuffed olives while rooting through the fridge for what you might like for a snack.  One Psychology then Journalism then Philosophy then Veterinary Medicine then Gerontology major later and I'm standing with weepy eyes before a Career Counselor the last semester of my senior year.  All the while, eating stuffed olives.

So, here's a failed psychologist/journalist/philosopher/veterinary student's take on writing.

1) What am I working on?

Foremost, a writing schedule. There are stories my kids ask me to tell them all the time ("Please, the one about Uncle Eric and you chasing him with your hairbrush!  The one about your dog getting stuck in the sewer at Thanksgiving!) that I want to compile in one spot for them.  I'm holding my feet to the fire until I finish that in the fall.  Another writing project I'm working on is sorting through all my old poetry from the 90s and seeing what can be shaped into what two decades later.  What's most interesting about those old writings isn't my sappy perspective or nostalgic heart. Tiger stripes, those are.  What's most interesting are the doodles.  There is something so therapeutic about those sketches.  Like silent flares and tiny explosions of encouragement from the sidelines.  Keep going, they say.  We're here to help, they promise.  Whose days couldn't use more suns bursting through the lines or curling gardens of teardrops in their margins?

2) How does my writing differ from others in its genre?
I might be one of the few who writes a blog but doesn't consider herself a blogger.  Through the years, I've learned that bloggers network, comment on each other's work regularly, and attend functions with other bloggers to grow and develop.  I tried for a while and spent most of that time hiding in a deli with a spoon in my mouth.  For that reason, my writing differs because I'm comfortable with or without an audience.  My audience here is an intimate group of intelligent friends (some I've never met) who come here to visit, nothing more.  They're not looking for advice or guidance.  They're not here for a revolution.  Neither am I.  Any time someone leaves a comment or sends an email, it's like we ran into a cafe from out of the rain, sharing an umbrella.  Unexpected fun.  A welcome surprise.

While I do appreciate readers, I write for myself as a rule.  For a later time when I can pore over the details of this busy life as a mom who knew she was missing the point sometimes.  For a later time when I want to remember who my children were before pessimism and teenage swag.  For a later time when I might not remember things so clearly and it begins to bother me.  When you write for yourself, realism and romance are your sanctuary while details and specifics become your stained glass.

3) Why do I write what I do?
Oops.  Got ahead of myself and already answered this question in number 2.  I do make a concentrated effort not to confuse my stories with anyone else's.  When starting this blog, I vowed not to write about anyone else's experience but mine- thus the name, One-Sided Momma.  It's becoming a fine line for my kids as they get older.  My comfort level with sharing them has changed since starting this blog.  I'm going with this recent evolution and feel happy to embark on a new path.  Fewer mommy stories and more about a lady trying to live her own personal truths - personal, professional, and sometimes spiritual.  Of course, this will necessitate a new blog name soon, I think.  Any suggestions?  

4) How does my writing process work?
Man, this question makes me feel like I forgot to study.  My writing process doesn't exist.  Or maybe it does but it's in my head.  Typically, a post is written in my head while I shower, mow the lawn, untangle my dogs on a walk, marry socks, or drive home in a quiet minivan.  Then, if there aren't any other pressing priorities, I jump on my husband's computer, twist my legs into an anxious uni-limb and type frantically until I feel an exhale coming on.  Every period is an exhale.  Every comma is an invitation for me to rewrite the sentence. I'm a huge comma splicing maniac.  Always trying to better the structure but forever leaning on old bad habits.

One thing my favorite English prof taught me was to learn all the rules first, follow them well for a very long time, then dance.  I probably dance too much.

Thank you for the visit.  It's always a pleasure sharing an umbrella with you.

Refueling Station

I consider this tour in Louisiana our Refueling Tour.  And I am standing at the pump with the car off and windows down.

At this billet, Andy has predictable and stable hours.  He is not required to work weekends.  There is even some flexibility in his schedule that allows him to make important kid functions for the first time ever. Here, he can be an active husband, parent, and a Marine.  Whereas before, in all of our other tours, his work was so intensive that all of his time had been spoken for by the Marine Corps.  Not that different from many civilian jobs as I understand it.  I swear America does it the hard way.  We are a strong nation with wide shoulders because of it but it is definitely the hard way.

The kids are flourishing here.  Both love their schools, enjoy extra-curricular activities and have made good friends in the neighborhood to play with which is novel for them.  Before we were motoring to parks to get in a play date with friends before fighting an hour's drive through traffic back home.

While I haven't taken advantage of the Cajun music or food scene much, I am thriving here too.

With more support from Andy on the home front, my time is becoming less frenetic.  I no longer feel so anxious and alone.  Yes there are still uni-lateral decisions, solo trips the pediatrician's, and single parenting schleps to a parent-teacher conference (with an over-tired sibling in tow) but they have lost their weight.  My body is not heavy with the knowledge I must get up and do it all over again alone for months on end.  A new scaffolding exists.  A happy family hammock.

For the first time in several years, we are in place where we can all refuel.

I am filling up my tank that I depleted so much there were cracks in its foundation.  Large, scissoring, wicked cracks.  Nobody but me is responsible for dehydrating my tank so badly.  It was a case of good intentions, fractured exhaustion, and striving for an unrealistic standard I created myself.  Not one of my friends would've cared if they sat in a dusting of dog hair on my couch.  Every single one of them would've come over to make my kids dinner while I went upstairs to fall into a coma short sleep.

That tank might've lasted longer if I forced more naps and attended fewer volunteer opportunities; cared less about seeming strong than being rested.  That tank would've teetered above E if I would've been kinder to myself and let the clean laundry live in the baskets or serve the kids a curb-side IHOP dinner on Fridays. Nobody but me kept that bar up so damn high.    

Ah, but we all have the magic hindsight, don't we?

Luckily, that phase of our life has come and gone and the kids are growing up.  Now that Grayson is at school full time, he requires less direction from me during daytime hours.  He is largely self-sufficient with his morning own care and has become uber responsible about due dates and his homework at night.  We hope this trajectory continues and vaporizes into Abby's mind when it's her turn.

Abby is going to school every day too but only for 4 hours.  She is largely the reason I don't need a gym membership.  We never stop moving.  Abby is a one-person Cirque du Soleil, The Musical.  Because of her age, she leans heavily on me for her personal care and entertainment before and after school.  Most of the time I can hang and come up with fun things but there are minutes when I am 40 and must tap out.  That's when she is parked her in front of Curious George so I can detox from socializing (yes, socializing even with her wears me out.  "It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.")

Those detox minutes are precious.  They are standing at a quiet pump, refueling an empty tank leftover from gritty years in Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Virginia.   Good years but lacking wisdom or grace.

My default detox is grabbing the camera and heading to the duck pond.  I turn, squat, lean, and bend to align myself with the sun to make a pretty glow.  Trying to capture what is only there for a momentary stretch. Nikon Yoga.  

Another creative tank is guitar.  While I still really suck at it and probably never will be able to play more than Jewel's Morning Song, practicing reminds me growth often comes from pain.  The strings physically hurt, my fingers stretch beyond their wildest dreams, and my voice struggles to climb around a harmony.   G chord Therapy.

Finally and maybe the most addictive tank has been advocating for death row animals.  Every free moment brings a chance to sign online and crosspost a sentient life that doesn't stand a chance without it.  Just by sharing, this pet will have up to thousands more people looking at it and becoming aware of its plight.  There can be no empathy without awareness.  The beauty of social networking is that it can be utilized for posting a pic of your Girls' Night Out martini and posting a pet in NYC to be seen across the globe in a matter of seconds...very crucial, life altering seconds.  To me, it's the best use of networking there is.  Dogmatic Truth.

Did my empty tank require a move to Louisiana?  No.  I could've done all of this back in our old place but something about starting over helped me do the same.

It's good to be filling back up the old me.  I've missed patience, a surplus of affection, and time to give myself.  Yes, myself.   When we are strung out and barely hanging by a thread, we don't stop.  The only reason we are still able to give to others is because we are leaching it from ourselves.  We deplete our own tank.  Our kids don't take it without our permission, our partners don't rob us blind in the dark, our parents and/or friends don't strip of energy until we let them.  We push ourselves, cover up fatigue, drag along a weary body that just wants to go to a spa for 60 million hours.

I don't know what it was for me:  this far away move, a death of a beloved one, a click of the psyche.  But I feel we all  get there eventually.  We land ourselves in a place - both figuratively and literally - that allows us to slow down, refocus and refuel.  A cracked foundation leads to erosion of the entire property.  And my property was beginning to recede into the ocean.

My tank isn't full yet and might not ever be but that's ok.  We live in the south now.  There is nobody hurrying me along.  I can sit here with the car off and the windows down for as long as it takes.

January Chill

January breathes her troubled chill through the clouds

and brings them down to me in feathers,

 in stars between bamboo,

while eggs hide to hold in their last hope of warmth.

I pine with them.
Blanketed in prayer
But today it's winter.

January sun sends warm prisms through my lens,

belated green and orange guardians

His voice is straight and it is calm,

letting me know the choice is gone,

We are walking away

from winter.

Porcupine

For years it's been all about the kids.

Seven years is a long time to forget about your own eyebrows.

Pretty standard fare until I find myself leaning both palms into my ears at 5pm;  screaming at the top of my lungs that I WILL NOT STAND FOR ANYMORE NOISE IN THIS HOUSE WHY MUST YOU CHILDREN YELL ALL YOUR WORDS,  DO YOU UNDERSTAND WE ARE NOT A FAMILY THAT YELLS EVERYTHING WE SAY?!

Oh yes.  They understand well.  Abby even mimics it seconds later.  Her mini-mom tantrum is taken out on poor Lemon and Blueberry.  Somehow Strawberry escapes unscathed but the other two have been sitting in the corner with (rather large and kind of furry) spider remains for days.

They do as we do.  Never as we say.

About two weeks each month  Every so often my skin feels like the quills of a porcupine are protruding from it, thus protecting my person from incoming assaults.  Things like hugs, kisses, interacting with people, being nice, helping someone with their shoes.  Even practicing spelling words while loading the dishwasher is far too cumbersome with quills.  One thing at a time, demanding humans, one thing.  We porcupines deserve a little room, don't we?  Alas, that room is never granted.  The children, the dogs,the telephone, the husband crush me with their own sensory needs, requests for orange juice, excessive displays of sweetness through face nuzzling.  They do not respect the quills.

Oh, but they see them.

The last time Andy suggested I go to the gym or "head on out for a run," my steely voodoo eyes let him know he should just pass me the chocolate chip jar next time.

The thing is, we full-time-at-homers don't need advice on what to do to find balance.  We memorized the freaking book on How To Find Balance.  We just need you to watch the children so we can.

Plain and simple.  You stay here.  I go waaaay over there.  And yet, things fall to crap upon execution.

Abby sniffles in my lap and says I must be mad at her because I've only spent the last 23 hrs with us glued at the hip and it was that last hour that really sealed the unconditional love contingency clause in our relationship.  23 hours does not a good mommy make.

When the quills are out, even my freaking dogs are personal energy vampires.  The walking, the feeding, the eyeballs asking when the fun part of their life will start, the constant cute snowy faces that need all that kissy make me lose track of my important things.  Like eating an avocado with a knife in my kitchen.  Alone.

Since I'm a girl of action, I made my family miserable for 5 years figured out what I could do to add energy to my body instead of chronically depleting it.  

First off, I tweaked my diet again.  Completely ditched the lattes in favor of green tea and much more water. Added some meals throughout the day to boost metabolism.

Secondly, I took note of where I go for fun.  Not errand running or exercising.  Those are more energy vampires for me.  Certainly not grocery shopping.  That place is like a colony of children who need me to help them with math.  Insta-exhaustion sets in before I find the wobbly cart.  No, I paid attention to where I drove when I sought refuge.  And wouldn't you know, my van drove straight to a place that is part thrift store, part dog adoption center.  I know, it's like I made it up.  But I swear it's real.

So now, I volunteer in this magical center and it's all kinds of perfect for the predicament my crowded soul is in.

It's fixing all things tangly in there.

Because look at who I get to hang out with.

None of them get poked by any quills.



You know why?

Because I don't have any when I'm around them.

These sweet bunny faces are generous spiritual guides.  They give energy in spades, not take it.

My Happy Place is taking pictures of them while we play.  There is warmth, affection, and a little bit of poop but it's awesome.   Each love here is looking for a family to dote on.  If you're local (Louisiana), please let me know if you're ever interested in adopting any one of them you see here.

I hope to be taking their pictures for a long time to come.

It's the least I can do for those who give so much without ever once caring I'm sometimes a porcupine.