Stein Mart Shoppers

Growing up, I mourned my grandparents every day for years while they were still alive.  I fully believed I was doing myself a great service.  Convinced myself it was good practice for the real moment when I had to breathe with them gone.  Even when I was little, I understood how losing them was going to rock our world and I was going to need me to be very strong.  So I practiced.  While they were in their 70s and 80s.  With a decade in front of them.  One can never be too dramatic in our family.  (Abby does us proud.)

My heart would rise and fall at the shadows of my grandfather's footsteps past my bedroom door at night;  him secretly checking on me, me secretly checking on him.  I loved him so much for just being there that I felt, simultaneously, both elation and sadness to my toes.  Elation for his being and sadness that his being was winding down to a visible and natural stop.  It was always both up and down emotions, for years, like breathing heavily or living inside a beating heart.

I also felt like a had a great secret against the world.  The secret of knowing how things go and how people do, eventually and with certainty, end.  I got to see things from an unusual perspective, behind the curtains, from the top down like touring the underground city of the Pentagon.  You hear rumors that it's there but most never get to see.

The Marine Corps Ball is this weekend so I took myself dress shopping last Friday.  As I passed the chunky beaded bracelets my chest began to ache.  Small white Christmas lights braided through jewelry stands and green garland finished the thought.  My mom.  I really miss my mom.  Mom's still here and we talk every day so I don't know why this came over me in the jewelry department but it did.  As I rolled fleur-de-lis earrings between my fingers, I knew it was more than not seeing her for the last six months.  I miss her a lot right now as the holidays approach but more than that, I miss being her daughter.  I miss walking toward her with bed hair and a pink blanket just to see her face turn to look at me while she rinsed something in the kitchen sink.  I miss her eyes lighting up just because I entered the room.  She is always so glad to see me.  Not many are happier to see you than your mom.

To press in the point, the Stein Mart Universe gave me a freaking Boompa (Mom's mom) lookalike seconds later.  Feet from me stood a petite older lady with dyed-brown permed curls sizing up the cardigans.  She smelled of lotion.  If it wouldn't have gotten me arrested I would've gone right up to her and bunched her sweater underneath my nose to inhale for a long time.  Not all grandparents smell the same but this one was real close.  Our Boompa. I refrained, however, and turned toward picture frames and holiday wall art.  She passed me again, accidentally driving my melancholy insane.  "LEAVE ME ALONE I JUST MISS MY MOM RIGHT NOW." I wanted to scream at my late grandmother's doppelgänger but thought perhaps that might be a tad traumatic for Stein Mart.

Seconds later, a little man with snowy hair and a cell phone puttered toward the picture frames.  He looked down at his phone, then up, down again, then up and I knew this had to be her Mister.  "She went that way," I almost blurted out but again, not many people appreciate someone else's enthusiastic grandchild.

The couple met up somewhere in the middle and I watched them from behind the doggie biscuit jars.  He found his bride, cupped her face in his hands, and grinned the sweetest smile.  She patted his hands away and asked if he liked the gold shirt she was carrying.  He did, indeed.

I could barely blink.

The heart can hold only in so much beauty before it has to let it out.   That, too, would've been a touch too dramatic for Stein Mart.

I suppose no matter how happy you grow up to be, the holidays make everyone nostalgic for what you once had.  And just how darn good you once had it. 

Impermanence

I ask myself why I acted differently this time.  With patience instead of irritation.  It is still before the sun is up.  There were all kinds of annoying sleep interruptions during the night.  My feet are icicles because some one little stole my covers.

But I know why I'm feeling soft.  It's because I can see it.   The impermanence of our situation.  Sameness isn't anyone's luxury.

 

Abby, who slides in next to me as a 4yo with her cashmere skin, tousled hair, and morning breath will be married and exhausted with her own children tomorrow.  It all goes that fast because routines become weeks, everyday turns into years, and before you feel different nothing is the same anymore. 

For me, time is real but also partly a human construct - only we romanticize it and mourn for more before it's gone.  Unless all the fuss outdoors is nature's Shiva for summer, I'm inclined to think we are the only ones to feel remorseful about time passing.  Humans find it difficult being aware and present all at once.  We are just so busy.  Have you ever seen a multi-tasking pond or a preoccupied bird?  Consciousness functions better when it forgets.

It's 5a.m.  I'm on the couch because something woke up Grayson in his sleep.  He pushed me aside and is now snuggled next to Andy in our bed so I head to the couch for an hour or so of sleep.  But before I feel Sparrow's warmth curling at my heels, I hear the hushing of little feet on the carpet coming my way.  Abby stands before me.  Naked.

I love how right in this now she comes to me for warmth and safety and that I am here to provide. Her sleepy child magnet pulls her close to my protective parent magnet and we click like the last two pieces of a puzzle.  Finished and complete.  There's no ambling chaos here.

Few moments present themselves this confidently.  There's ample choice in everything else with a million possible outcomes.  Molecules spinning, reproducing, looking for a way to win at being human.  But right now she is cold and small and I am warm and large.  Symbiosis.

The simple task of warming her up soothes me and I don't worry about teaching her how to read, explaining the birds and the bees when she's 34 ready, or how the hell I will let her lay her head down in a college dorm one day.  All those things will happen.  Or they won't.  The math is exponential in between.  Right now I get to linger in the moment before me which is greater than the ones yet to happen.  She will be so many things, says Time.  She is just beginning, I think.  She needs me now, reminds Impermanence. 

 

So we snuggle down until Abby decides she is ready for morning.  It's her decision though.  I'm in no hurry at all. 

Girlfriend Spirit

There was softball in the 6th grade but other than that, I never took part in anything competitive.  One time, I tried out for high school swim team on my best friend's suggestion.  As I tippy-toed my way through one lap at 5:30a.m., the kind coach leaned in close to my foggy goggles and whispered, "Maybe swimming is not really your sport.  You can probably sleep in tomorrow."  It was like euthanizing a 22 year old cat.  I was ready to go.

So, instead of competitive sports or after school activities, I held down jobs  most of my life beginning at age 13.  I lied, said I was 16, and became a cashier at Meadow's Farm's Nurseries.  Met other kids "my age" and had the best year sipping scalding apple cider with mittened hands because our office was a barn and those barn doors were open.  When the poinsettia trucks came in we all grinned like Matt Dillon.  Peeling back thousands of protective brown paper bags might sound like a nightmare but having "snowball fights" with those thousands of paper bags in the solarium with twelve of your favorite co-workers was the sweetest reward.  After Meadow's Farms, I worked in a Floral Shop.  This transition might lead you to believe I have an innate green thumb but my lack of houseplants tells the truth;  without skin or fur, I do not understand you.

So the many years I spent earning paychecks and honing my simple change making skills aided in real world knowledge without a spirit of competition.  It's not like we were having bow-making contests or bouquet placement races until all hours of the night.  Nope, just every day people vacuuming inside/outside carpet around customers shopping for boutonnieres.

Even in college, I veered away from all things resulting in winners and losers.  My major was the furthest thing from domineering:  English with a concentration in Creative Writing.  No checkered flags in sight. 

Years later, I would discover the natural competitive spirit of girls.  Motherhood.  As a new mom, I felt ill-prepared for the "mompetitions" happening in circles around me.  Do I breast feed?  Do I Ferberize?  Have I considered Early Reading?  Why don't I put my baby in daycare?  Did my toddler watch LeapFrog or WonderPets?  Whoah.  There are a lot of eyes on your actions after your womb grows a person.

Eventually, I navigated my way through judgments, opinions, and criticisms until one morning my gray hairs gave me the cajones to not care what anyone thought at all.  It's true, if you let your grays keep going, out pop some invisible testicles that help you appreciate beer and the WTF of life.

Now, with almost independent children who don't need me to watch and abet their every move, I am finding it easier to avoid competition with other moms. 

Instead, I've developed friendships or "real-ationships" with women who are doing their thing.  They are all different.  Some are strong and shy.  Others are smart and trustworthy.  A few are Christian and beautiful.  The funniest one is atheist and artistic as all get out.  We share stories about our lives.  We walk neighborhoods confessing our possible mental illnesses.  We go for a run and end up at a bar.  We meet in dog parks and bond over poop bags.  We chat on the phone and try to make each other laugh.  We text three words and make each other cry. We drink red wine from the bottle in my minivan right outside of our houses.  We take selfies together.  We email each other instead of comment on each other's blogs because I like to imagine her smile when I trash talk life a little.  We FaceTime before 7am and answer the call.  We pick each others kids up when we are sick.  We worry about each other when it's been too long.  We get what it means to relate.  We don't feel the desire to compete.  And why should we?

In this world of ours, there is enough racing going on.  Girls should be able to rely on each other, not run away from each other.  We know how hard this is.  Motherhood, periods, menopause, boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, death, life, eyebrows, jeans, and being cold all the time.  We understand each other in ways men can never appreciate.  A man will never remember to lock all the doors at night and turn on the alarm.  A man will never know why you tied a hoodie around your waist to go into a store.

I am lucky to have my girlfriends with their girl spirit who share their lives with me.  It's because of them that I don't mind showing up as me every day here in this new unfamiliar place.  Or maybe sometimes at their house in my pajamas for movie night.  It's those friendships that bring strength to me when I'm feeling tired and color to my world that is growing pale.

It's what we can do with each other that brings meaning.  Who gives a sh*t if you do it best.

Trail Mix

Recovering from the cost of moving, we've been tightening our purse strings a lot lately.  Andy and I have had a few sit-downs discussing where we could sacrifice our spending to fatten up our savings.  This has resulted in him sleeping on the couch one night and me apologizing for my Salted Caramel Mocha Venti Decaf habit the next.  The truth hurts when it's staring at you on an itemized print-out, highlighted in pink (my doing, not his).

The next day we needed some groceries.  Not the whole shebang, just some bacon, eggs, and dog food.  Just saying the word bacon made me hungry so I asked if he could pick up some trail mix.

He gave me the look.

I gave him the really.

He continued the look.

I gave in and pretended like I had plans on chewing bark from a tree in the parking lot and some grass clippings if I wasn't full yet when we got home.  All in name of sacrificing to save us some money.  And perhaps my waistline if that's what his look was indicating.  Either way, this mama had steam percolating underneath her eyebrows.

Andy arrived back in the car about 20 minutes later with his two bags of stuff.  "I got you a surpriiiise," he sang. 

Aw man, now I feel bad for thinking up new curses to hex you with.

"It's in the back of the caaarrr," he wooed.

"Thanks, Honey, that was so thoughtf..."

"Scallops!"

"Umm, excuse me... what?"

"I got you a bag of scallops!"

"Scallops as in shellfish?" 

Yeah! They were on sale."

Mister McMiserson strikes again. 

"They're frozen so we can't eat them until tomorrow night."

I hate you.

What Dreams are Made of

My dreams have been a portal to another world all my life.  Not in an idle brain's spinning on a hamster wheel sort of portal.  More like conversations or scenarios that are created beyond me, not the other way around like I'd expect.  Each dream leaves me with a message that directly relates to my life or the lives of those I love.  Occasionally I get a peek into something big but those make me nervous.  Sometimes I'm left with sorting out the pictures and events for days, never understanding what the relevance is at the time.  Eventually, the relevance comes.

Back when my grandparents passed, I tried hard to conjure them in my dreams every night.  They wouldn't visit.  I did all I could:  asked, begged, prayed, and bargained them into my head.  Nothing.  Not a peep for years. 

Then in one dream, I remember feeling my grandfather's presence.  I couldn't see him and I really couldn't hear him but he was all around me and I never questioned the validity of that.  It was more like, "THERE you are." 

I waited for a long time to "see" my grandmother too but she wouldn't show up.  I thought she was still mad at me.  No, really.  She was pretty pissed at me for a misunderstanding a few months before she passed.  The mildest mannered, most tender-hearted woman was in her final stages of dementia that removed her social filter and let her true feelings shine.  Let's just say I was a thorn in her side toward the end.  Not in reality.  In reality I (along with my brother, my mom, and Jimmy) cared for her and made sure she ate, drank, changed out of her pantyhose, and got to her doctor's appointments.  But in her agitated state of mind, I was a pill.  It was the most tragic kind of love story.  Unrequited love.  But my God, was it hilarious to see my Boompa unplugged.

She and I had lunch dates.  It was one way I could see to it she'd eat well since neither of us was any damn good in the kitchen anymore.  I'd help her in the booth and read items off the menu since her memory failed to remind her that's what was next.  Feeling good about spending quality time with my Boompa, my smile cast a spell on only me.  Across the table, I registered her tiny scowl.  "Dear," she'd say in uncharacteristic volume, "you must really be fond of this place.  It's the only restaurant we ever go to anymore and the food is not to rave about."

About a year ago, this one dream made me crazy.  It was my grandfather trying to tell me something.  His words weren't recognizable English words and the more he tried, the less I could understand.  Before long, I became frustrated and upset. 

"Leave her alone, Jim.  She doesn't need to know now."

It was her.  I'd know that voice anywhere.  HI BOOMPA!  What didn't I need to know now, Boompa?  What is it?!  Please come back and tell me!  I woke up that morning absolutely frantic and called my mom.  My brother is a cancer survivor who periodically goes in for rechecks.  I was terrified Boompa was talking about him.  Mom assured me it was not about Eric.  His tests came back great and all was going well for him.  We both chalked it up to my maternal need to perseverate on all worrisome things even in my sleep.

But that dream clung to my psyche for a very long time, gnawing at me almost every day. 

Six months later, Jimmy passed without warning.

And now I understood.  All that time I mistook my Boompa's silence for anger.  I thought she was still mad at me for the cheap club sandwiches.  I was missing the big picture completely.  Boompa was too busy to hold any earthly grudge.  There was no time for that;  she was preparing for the happiest reunion of her afterlife. 

At the same time, protecting me from worrying about things I cannot change.

Deja Vu

 

We were on our way to Abby's preschool when it happened.  Chatting about lyrics verses melody when Uncle Eric popped into her head.  "Mommy, what is Uncle Ewic's favewit song?"

"Well, I don't know about now but it used to be Dreams by Van Halen."

"How does it go?"

"No idea, Honey, sorry.  But I DO remember this one that Uncle Eric loved.  It's called Sweet Child O Mine.  By Guns & Roses."

"Guns?"

"Yep."

"And Roses?"

"Mm-hmm.  She's got a smiiiiiiile that seems to me, reeemiiiinds me of childhood memoryyyyy when ev-er-y thing was as fresh as the bright blue skyyyyy."

"Mommy?"

"Now and then when I see her face, sheeee takes me awayyyy to that special place and if I sta-a-re to long I ..."

"MOMMY!"

"Prolly break down and cryyyy, Whoah, ohhh-oh-ohhhh, Sweet Child O..."

"MOMMY STOP THAT KIND OF SINGING! Use your real voice please."

"Sheesh, I was just getting to the good part.  That is my real voice.  That's my real Axl voice."

"What's another one of Uncle Ewic's favwite songs?"

"I don't know, let's call him and ask."

The phone only rang twice before my brother picked up.  He was already at work.  I could tell from the din of power tools and hammer frapping going on behind his voice.  Still, he pretended he had all day for us.  Within seconds, I put him on speakerphone so she could interview him. 

"Uncle Ewic?"

"Yes, Honey."

"What is your favewit song?"

"Umm...my favorite song.  That's a hard one.  Oh, I know!  Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  Do you know that one?"

"No.  How does it go?" 

"You don't know that one?  Ok, it goes: Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer...had a very shiny nose..."

"And if you evah sawit," Abby chimes in, "you could even sayit gwows."

"Good job, Abby, you did know it after all."

"Yes, I just didn't know that's what book it was called.  Uncle Ewic?  I wuv you so so much.  I miss you.  You're invited to my birthday pawty, I hope you can make it."

"Oh Honey, that would be great, wouldn't it?  Yes, I'd like that too."

"Bye Uncle Ewic, Mommy says to give you the phone back now.  I wuv you vewy much."

She hands me back the phone and I rush him off the phone for maybe the first time ever.  Not because we were at her preschool but because it wasn't that long ago that another little girl spoke adoringly to her "Uncle Ewic" and wanted to hear him sing, too. 

And just like Eric does, he had that voice that feels like a visit home.

What It All Comes Down To, My Friends

My brother used to get so annoyed with me that I didn't care enough about my things. 

In the 90s, I drove around in a Toyota with a broken tape deck (Alanis' angry Jagged Little Pill probably broke it) for months before he scolded me.  "Sissy!  You have been driving around in SILENCE all this time?  Listening to NOTHING?!"

Yes.  Yes, I was.  My thoughts keep me company and since I'm a worrier/internalizer/former caffeine abuser I was never lonely.  Many, many of the thoughts to keep me company.

He'd get on me about my closet, too.  Yes, my brother had more fashion sense than I did.  Still does.  He never has on dirty shoes if he's not going to work.  My Sauconys are over a year old and thinning about the inseams like crazy.  I'd have to ask his wife but I'd bet she has to give him ample hair checking time before they go out to dinner. 

Don't even get me started on pegged jeans.  Oh my God, I die at the memory of him making me decide which peg looked better.  As if either one looked cute.  But I stared, tilting my head convincingly and lied about one of them being much sounder in roll and tuckness.  It was the only way to get him from behind the hallway mirror.

Many times since then have I thought about what a poor carer of things I am.  I love my people, my doggas, my camera, my iPad but that's kind of it.  Things just don't get me the way Sadie's frosty eyes do.  My shoes never lick my earlobes.  The last time any of my scarves kept me up giggling is for another post blog altogether. 

So, you see where I might have a real deficit at decorating.  My house.  My children.  Myself.  It's just hard.

Then holidays come around and there's this competition of doorways in neighborhoods that subconsciously makes me feel like I'm not playing the game right with only a Welcome mat.  And let me tell you what the south does, you guys.  They DECORATE.  Very Very well they decorate.  So, I strap on some gumption and give it a go.

This is what happens when I decide we need a little something special for Halloween. 

Dollar General meets Perhaps Just Give Up Next Year.

I mean, it's not even cohesive.  Why is November Scarecrow near October witch? 

And what the balls is with the weird black pantyhose draped all fat on one side and "oh well" on the other? 

Also, they were only a dollar each.  Why not spring for more fake pumpkins? 

What does your Halloween décor look like?  Do you have inflatables and puffy wreaths?  Did you carve pumpkins and hang scary liners on your windows?  Will you play creepy music during Trick or Treat?

I want to do all of that one year, too.  Just not this year.  This year I have "one hand in my pocket and the other one hailing a taxi cab." - A. Morisette

Dog Walking

Pond mist hits our faces
Sadie's narrow frame
remains all pomp
some circumstance;
Sparrow pulls to burst
wild and frothy like things
that never return.

I feel layers of her -
my grandmother,
in me,
in our home,
in Abby's room
to help her through
nightmares, bellyaches,
killer whales that live
in her open closet.

Her smell is here
and to have it back
is impossible but real.

We grow together
even when our skin
can't touch
It's what gives
me faith to trust
in magic.


The magic that keeps us searching.

The mystery of dogs
knowing what you mean
only through your eyes.

Dreams of people (gone?)
somewhere busier
than earth with more
important tasks at hand
than making dinner.

I watch my canine girls
wake up
Louisiana grass,
dig at
delicious mailboxes,
sniff around
risky gray anthills
with wet noses and standing ears.

They check in with each other
Then me
To show off
how many things
they've figured out.

Did I get it all, too?

Another layer for us to chew on
for a while.

 

 

Repurposed Love

Yesterday was Abby's preschool Tea Time with Mom.

I took her mini hand in mine and we walked toward a room filled with moms, poster paint, and clinging children. 

Especially mine.  Abby is an entirely different unit out there in the world.  Her typical twirling dervish belly laughs were silenced and in their place left a pale small child who seemed agitated if not coming down with the flu.  I kept feeling her forehead to make sure she wasn't sick.  She climbed into my lap and held my fingers tightly, one-by-one. 

"Honey, are you ok?"

"My tummy hurts, Mommy."

So we sat together, biting into our pumpkin muffins and swallowing hard because cups of water were too far out of reach.

"Would you like to show me your centers?"  I attempted to distract and noticed another mom feeling her daughter's forehead too. 

"No, Mommy, just take me home with you." 

Her tears weren't loud but they broke my heart.  This sudden collision of home and school were overwhelming her loyalties and bringing her down.

"I'll take a nap when we get there, I'll do anything, just please take me home."  This sprite just wanted her jammies.

The other mom struggled to remove her daughter's reach from around her shoulders.  We traded glances from opposite sides of the world.  Where I was ready to cave, she stood firm and grounded with zero chance of compromise.  "Now, go play.  I will see you after school," she told her tiny person who wanted every part of her jammies too. 

I attempted to get both girls to comfort each other to no avail.  They pretended they had never met or chased each other's ponytails around the swing set for months.  Other Mom and I stood up in a unified front to do what was right.  She was my leader so I stole invisible strands of her strength and resoluteness by giving my weepy daughter a quick kiss and walking toward the door. 

Abby and her friend-not-friend stood next to each other yet mountains apart.

My feet went down the hallway in slow motion as I considered going back.  But alas, Other Mom was already out the door so I followed her glossy black heels and marveled over her black skirt and leggings that were not polluted with one sliver of dog hair.

She lost me and my thrifted plum pumps somewhere in the parking lot.  I had to squeeze my toes a certain way to keep them on since they were one size too big. 

As I rummaged through my ridiculous (also previously used) Bongo purse, I noticed a pretty brunette sitting in her seat with the door still open.  Her glossy black pumps looked less sassy and way more uncomfortable in her car. 

"Ha, we broke free, didn't we?"  I said to my pretty leader.
"Yes, we did," she sniffled.  I could tell her eyes were wet underneath her sunglass frames.
"You did great!  I didn't think I'd get my latte after that session of sad,"  I joked nervously because that's my thing.
"Thanks," she sniffed again, "It is killing me to leave her like that."

My fearless leader was openly crying now.  She took off her sunglasses to unveil two of the most mournful brown eyes I've ever seen.  My heart sank to the bottom of the gap in my heels.

"Well then you should feel doubly proud," I rattled on, "You conveyed zero regret or sadness to your girl as I was there making it worse by clutching mine like an open book."

"I guess," she said.  "I just hate to leave her like that." 

Then I understood the difference between us wasn't our shoes or our ability to find the de-linting brush. 

This mom had no choice.  She had to go to work.  She couldn't afford negotiations or jumping back into her jammies to play hookie with her daughter.  This mama was just as emotional about leaving her girl in tears as I was but had no room to consider an alternative outcome.  We all weigh options of working long hours outside the home, working long inside the home, or being a parent that works their yoga panted butt off for no paycheck.  The decisions are specific to the needs of that particular family.

Sometimes I get a reminder that I'm right where I need to be for us.  For my family.

As we parted ways, I lifted my cute little Bongo bag into my lap.  I kicked off my sweet rounded nosed shoes to the passenger side.  I drove away not ashamed but grateful for my second-hand finds that allow me the freedom, at least right now, to always consider an alternative outcome.

 

Back to the Grind

Apparently the universe does not like a blowhard.

After posting yesterday, our lives regressed into the typical sh*tstorm they tend to be when I let go of the wheel for a while. 

Suffice it to say I attempted to take 45 minutes for myself at an inconvenient time and all hell broke loose under our roof. 

• Abby probably has her first UTI and is behaving accordingly (Use your imagination, boys.).
• Andy gave Grayson a Gu (Yep, there's caffeine in there!) to get through a night time baseball game without massive migraine blowout and I thought the boy was channeling Michael Jackson by the time he got home.  Full concentric body spins and falsetto singing on the field, Andy said.  Cracking the coaches up, Andy said.  It's 10:30 at night, he is bumping into furniture with his crazy jazz hands and Abby is finally asleeeeeep, I seethed said.
• Sadie jumped the fence and got splinters in her belly last night because she couldn't find me
• I found out I have 5% muscle mass in my entire body.  Abigail could kick my ass if she wanted to. 

All that behind me, I am sucking in my visceral womb and pressing into today. 

Because the grind is inescapable.  Every single one of us must grind. 

May we all grind into billowing mountains of powdered gold.  Or a crapton of anarchy angel dust.   

Recovering Guilt Lady

Lately, we've run into a sweet stretch of lovely time here.

We've made friends visited throughout the week when we're lucky and on the weekends when we're luckier.  The kids have made their own friends who star in retold tales at dinner time and down time.  Details of coloring with Claire or indoor soccer scores embellished remembered with small grins and happy eyes.

Even Sadie and Sparrow feel a routine of feedings, walks, naps, repeat, settling into their days.

This is not to say I have been parenting well all the time.  Nor am I treating myself to daily afternoon tea.  It's just to say this is a positive rise in our family tides of swell and release.  And it's good.

Being a busy mom, I no longer have down time.  I dearly love down time.  When I was a teenager, I preferred to hang out in a rocking chair with my headphones on, surrounded by my family cooking and chatting upstairs to going out with my friends to a party.  There were actual grooves in our carpet from the hours I logged in that rocking chair.  Also, I know every lyric to Janet Jackson, Tori Amos, and Sting if you're ever in need. 

As a mom, one of the hardest struggles I've fought is dealing without down time.  Earplugs are temporary.  Hiding in the bathroom only makes them more creatively noisy.  Laundry piles not put away make my husband itchy.  There is always someone needing me to do something every single second of my one person life.  Before kids, I dreamed this is better than being famous.  What's better than people needing you, really depending on you?  I'll tell you what.  A three hour stretch of time with a trained masseuse banging on your shoulder blades while you slurp café mochas through a large hose.

I find it impossible to live moment by moment.  I think most of us do, really.  No momming necessary.  We'd have to take notes from our canine friends to see how living in the moment is professionally done.  Except Sadie.  She's a worrier.  We think that's how she stays so thin.

Within seconds of waking up I find myself unable to process anything in the moment.  I don't even pee first.  My thoughts crank me around the house like a wooden puppet, stalling then starting from the kitchen to the garage, circling back to the kitchen because I forgot my sunglasses.  I am the last thing to brush its teeth.

Like most of us at 6:30 a.m., I react to my surroundings rather than enjoy them.  This is completely ok.  Who rises with the sun on their eyelashes whilst soft bongo drums usher their consciousness into existence?  Ok, so that actually sounds really nice and if you do that, please comment to tell me how I can get started waking up that way.

Regardless of how insane my mornings have been, I try my darndest not to build my own panic into my children.  If I'm running late and find myself internally at MACH 3, I shut my mouth.  Very simple directions to myself:  Do Not Speak.  It helps everyone to no longer let that conversation out of my own reactive sleepy-head.   Those abrupt words only make my kids anxious and worriers themselves.  I'm disgusted proud it only took me 7 years to figure this out.

Pushing my kids to "Hurry up" or "Oh CRAP, we're late you guys, let's go!" only serves one purpose.  It feeds a Guilt Machine.  I rush them, they feel anxious, someone drops a cup of orange juice or an unzipped lunchbox, everyone loses their minds, and we all feel bad about mean things we all said two minutes later.  There are times when putting Abby's hair clippies in her hair have brought me to my knees.  Literally.  Tears streaming I am praying to God to just give me the patience to clip this child's ever moving hair successfully so we can leave the ever loving house.  Then I feel bad I made her sad, too.

See?  Guilt is useless and damaging.  The good news is that guilt is also preventive.

I'm at a place in life now where I try very hard not to speak from a reactive state.  To my children.  To myself.  To my husband.  He likes me more now because of it.  I can tell because yesterday he said I looked "fit" and then told me I was "fun to be around."  From a Marine, that is basically a marriage proposal.  Those are kind, big, heartfelt compliments that mean my work on myself is working.  It's also just beginning.

It's amazing what else gets better when I keep my own guilt in check.  My inner critic gets bored, my children notice I'm listening better, and there is more energy spent refining building supporting than chopping cutting spiraling.

By reminding myself to Hush, Not Rush, I have slowed myself down enough to see all the good I manifest instead of the not good enough.  As parents we think we can't blow our own horns.  I say if we don't stop to notice our good then the negative starts to grow larger in our minds again, bringing back the evil circuit of blame and shame.

Here's a few good things that have manifested as I slowed my internal roll:

 

• Abby comes to me with "secrets" and things she's been afraid to tell me before.  Example:  I have discovered she needs tissues on the ride to school.  Trust me when I say there is a place in my van that nobody wants to touch.
• Grayson hums again.
• My husband smiles that gorgeous smile.
• Feel grateful for my friends instead of worried they might not like me as much as I like them.
• Rock some new canoe earrings without care they're kind of stupid.

• Sadie doesn't lick her mouth constantly (nervous habit she picks up when I'm stressed, dear baby).
• Sticking to my new workout routine - Circuit Weight Training at the gym 3xs a week - results in glorious energy I've missed so much.
• We shoot for fun around here, not perfect.

So, don't be afraid to list off all the good you're doing.  It helps Bam! Boof! Pow! some of the stressors that happen naturally in our busy lives.  In fact, blow hard and see what happens.  Please practice blowing your horn here, believe me, I want to hear the good you're manifesting throughout your day even if you think it's no big deal.  It is.  It's a big deal with beads on.

 

 

Curling Time

At the end of every night, when the living room TV has been turned on to Duck Dynasty or American Pickers and it's my turn to give the final sweep of evening kisses, he asks me,  "Mommy? Do you have time for curling?"

Curling means swirling my tired, frizzy hair around and around in his fingers until it makes a curl.  Or a rat nest.  Or until I whimper because he really got into it and tore some out.  Grayson has used my hair as his lovey for years.  When he was very small, he'd take my ponytail out, hold a hunk of mommy freedom hair in his grasp, and growl like a kitten practicing his cat.  My mom always called this "The Passion" which is just one of the many things my mom names that have become our family's indigenous language. 

The Passion was such a crutch for baby Grayson to soothe himself that I co-slept with him until well after a year.  When we finally braved up to stick him in his own crib, Dude was pissed.  In desperation to reclaim my own scalp and space, I bought the only doll I could find with dark hair like mine.  She was basically a Spice Girl knock-off in a shiny green, painted-on catsuit.  A ho bag we named Lolita.  Grayson wasn't fooled.  This imposter was no mommy hair replacement and she was chucked at the wall faster than I could make it downstairs to watch through the baby monitor. 

Those nights kept me awake for more hours than anyone else in the house.  Watching my baby boy and his plumped up nursing lips at midnight, then at 3, then again at 5 and 7 (He was a VERY hungry baby.  He was hangry.) was the only reward for the loss of brain cells and sanity happening in my own milk-bloated body.  When I think back to that time in his soft nursery, I remember the beige slider, Iroquois drum/chanting music on replay, and the way his baby socks always looked too small on those chunky baby thighs right before he fell asleep in the crook of my arm.

Somehow, throughout the years, we got Grayson to sleep in other ways.  Now, he rarely gives us any trouble at night and goes to bed without a fight.  Like clockwork, he asks me to kiss Abby first and then come back for him.


"Mommy?  I have to ask you something.  Do you have any time for curling?"

Most of the time I say yes, crawl in bed next to him and lay my head down on his Lightning McQueen Pillow.  He makes curls in my hair while we chat about "Luke Skywalkers," a bad call from the umpire in his last baseball game, or if I think he should be a Marine he grows up.

Lately though, Andy and I have been bustling, hustling and plain ole desperate for extra kid-free minutes to get housework done or even an adult conversation about which fundraiser to fill out or "recycle" for the next morning.

On those nights Grayson hears:
"Oh Honey, I have to go make lunches."
 "Maybe tomorrow, Mommy is SO tired."
 "I would but your sister is still milling about in her underwear."

Immediately, I hate myself as the corners of his hopeful eyes lower in acceptance.  "Ok.  Maybe tomorrow.  Goodnight Mom.  I love you."

That little meatloaf love muffin turns seven tomorrow.  I don't wistfully wonder where the time has gone because I've been right here inhaling the minutes and exhaling out the seconds for nearly every speck of it.  The decisions we've made for this family - me staying at home with our kids have made us beyond frustrated, without frills, and with somewhat funny medical side effects of fatigue.  For me though, they've allowed a keen understanding of shifts going on that I might otherwise overlook.  The subtle changing going on every day I can't see but can feel without that extra look back at the bus stop.  All this helps me fully appreciate that soon our Curling Time is coming to a close.

His once chubby baby legs now reach past the middle of his twin size bed.  His Spiderman jammy pants are always too small.  There are Lego Batman books in his bed instead of loveys.  Books that he now can read to himself before bed.  Stuffed animal friends that he once meticulously lined up in order of who comforted him the most are now strewn about in the closet, forgotten until I hold them and cry vacuum.

 

 

This little hangry, loving babe has been doing a phenomenal job in becoming a beautifully intuitive, smart boy.  I could not be prouder or luckier to be this boy's mother.

And yes, you can bet your catsuit I will always say yes to curling whenever he asks.

postscript

sorry if my last blog post alarmed you or made you wonder if all i do is sit in random parking lots not getting out of my car.  i don't.  i get out of the car everywhere i go except the gym.  i'm betting only 50% of that reason is actually not wanting to make myself work very hard and sweat until i feel like i should look like charlize theron.  i never do.  this hurts my sweaty feelings. 

regardless, bloggers tend to process their innards online.  in front of thousands (nineties, whatever) because it's way less scary than having a conversation with a person who blinks. 

however, it has come to my attention that not everyone loves this idea and for them, i'm sorry.  for me?  not so much.  i love you guys and i love telling you what's going on.  for those of you who know me here, in the steamy bayou, you can tell i'm a way too talkative completely normal person.  i function as a mom, wife, dog owner, PTA volunteer, salamander stalker, you name it.  never do i cry in front of my new friends (AWkward) and very rarely do i cry in front of my family but when i do it's never because i'm sad.  it's usually when i'm a) so tired all i can do is weep b) scared because abby choked again and i'm sure she'll never live past 6 if she keeps trying to eat corn chips.

anyway, i feel the need to let anyone who is concerned/annoyed/wearing their pjs that everything's ok.  i do realize my blessings are far greater than my woes.  far greater.  sometimes i get caught up in my woes here because it's safe.  because it's you guys.  because writing them out helps me put them behind me.  i'm syntactic like that.

anyway, here's me today with the kids and a quick peek of andy.  we're doing what we always do and i'm doing it off key.

xoxo

http://youtu.be/OmqiWq1Ggi0

Stephen King's Circus

It happens every single time I park at the gym.  Every single time.  Turning off the engine sends a rush of quiet where even my inner dialogue stops.  All distractions gone, stillness settles and I can't hide anymore.  There's only so much to keep you busy on the dashboard of a minivan.  The tears start as yelps being swallowed hole in my throat until a few sneak past and land on my lime green Danskin shorts.

Jimmy is still not here.

In grief you feel like you go through these seasons of hell but then you get your lost one back.  Obviously nonsense but that doesn't matter because in real life --alive life-- that's how it works:  you get sick then you get better.  A marriage breaks down then you get a divorce.  Your kids backtalk then they have to call you Pretty Mama 10 times in a row.  In your alive minutes all suffering is rewarded with something better. 

Grief is not that way.  It is this endless circus on the inside, only the kind of circus Stephen King would write.  Demented ringmasters whipping at angry elephant paws to make them dance, stir a pot of noodles, do the dishes, feed yourself, smile at the people who don't know your world has lost its original compass, its only muse.   Thin acrobats go dripping from one rusty trapeze to the next, sometimes with only one apathetic bent knee because there is no rush.  They know it's going to be a while.

Your gut aches so much that rings of fire don't sound so bad with their singe and release, singe and release.  Numbness, after all, is what you're after.

The tears come again and I am clutching my "J"  necklace, trying not to break it. 

Jimmy, what the $%@# happened!?  Why did you have to go now?  Can you hear us down here?  How will there be Thanksgiving and Christmas without you?  Jimmy, I miss you so much.  What are you doing there?  Are you still here at all?  Can you hear me?  Am I making it harder to go to heaven by missing you?  Jimmy.  Jimmy.  Oh Jimmy I can't believe you're gone.  It's not right.  Nothing feels right since you left.  Where is your voice, your laugh, your 2 am Instant Messages on Facebook.  I need your kiss on my forehead.  I won't let it be forever, G*&dammit.  That can't be gone forever.  You suck, you know that?  You really suck for leaving us all here without you.  Mom got a tattoo, Jimmy, with your initials because she's trying to numb too.  It worked but only on two inches of her wrist.  It's numb alright and now she wants me to do it.  Maybe I will.  Jimmy.  I miss you so @#!%& much, you have no idea.  Jimmy.  I will save all the dogs for you.

And I squeegee the bridge of my nose, flick the useless tears away, and start my car again.  I'm not ready to start caring about this crap yet.  I'm just not ready to care about kettle bells and cellulite.

So while a few minutes alone in the gym parking lot really sucks, that's ok because the alternative, this insidious Stephen King circus is no picnic either. 

My Neck of the Swamp

Andy's been on travel since the weekend.

Five days of solo parenting and I'm one passport away from becoming Zelda and finding out what's good in Greenland.

fact that I was once very good at solo parenting seems to have been indigenous to Virginia. Here, I can barely keep the five of us from running aground by 5pm.

In the span of four days I've:

Ruined two dinners

Cleaned up dog puke twice (Second one was hiding for two days under a pillow. I'll let you guess WHOSE pillow.)

Hosed down inside of van from spilled Abby's spilled milkshake (from Sonic because of the ruined dinner #2.)
Opened the fridge causing a bottle of red to nose dive on our tile and spread its shrapnel into Grayson's toes. Roughly seven minutes before bedtime.

Been sweetly scared to death by my two guard dogs who were both charging the door at two a.m. Abby and I suddenly had Parkinson's comforting each other for an hour.

Driven over a 24 mile long bridge in the rain with my migraine boy to find out we are doing most things right and he is still just going to get migraines.

Have not been able to blog about it because Andy has the computer...this is from my iPad and is also being typed in HTML which might be painfully obvious by the time I press publish. Sorry.

Pulled my groin or whatever you call that in a woman. My bikini area? My butt? I'm not sure but I can't deliver my dogs' food dishes without yelping like a wounded chihuahua or maybe more Saint Bernard.
So here are some pretty pictures of where we live to make me happy. I saved them in a post to work on but I have to go watch Abby paint in her brand new Book Fair books with water colors. Oh yes she is and Oh yes I am letting her. Why is she home on a school day, you ask? Because the girls are taking a mental health day. We might even sneak in a pedi.

Evolution of a Family Portrait

Abby's preschool class requested a recent family photo.  

We don't have any.  I have ten crap ton billion of her alone but no full house family shot.  The most recent family photo we have was when Abby wasn't walking yet and had hair like married and angry about it Kate Gosselin.  I know we just moved here but I doubt Abby's preschool teachers will believe that one's from last week. 

So, we took our family photo.  At 8:45 at night.  In our pajamas.  The night before the picture was due.  Because I like to set the example of a together parent in this together family for this together life we're having. 

Below is a wee peek into our real anything but together life at any given moment.  

Enjoy the real.  

   This is a test.  This is only a test.

  Ok, Kids.  We're going to need you to be visible, everyone, look over here.

Good girl, Sparrow.  Stay there. 

Please come out of the covers, Grayson.

  Ok, that's good.  I can see your face now, Baby.

But...we lost Sparrow. 

 No, no.  Stay there, Honey. 

Daddy can get Sparrow. 

Oh look, Sadie is in the shot!

 Yes, thank you for getting Sparrow, Abby. 

Now can you sit down on Daddy's lap? 

Yes, yes, I can still see Sadie.  Everybody look up, please?

 What just happened?  It fell to sh*t that fast? 

Sadieeeee, come back Honeeeeey.  

Grayson, I can barely see your face. 

Can you just...can we lose the blanket, dude, you look like a worm in a cocoon. 

Yes, "chrysalis" whatever. 

You're all sweaty now. 

Abby Honey, sit down, I can see your Pull-Up. 

I know, you're only four.  

Babe, your legs look hot. 

Ok, Sparrooooowww!



  We have both dogs again?  

Honey?  Abby?  Can you stop being in the dog's face right now? 

I know, you have to snoofy-oopy her because she's "adowable" but I need you to...

...Abigail Kate get A-W-A-Y from that dog's face right now, I heard her growl. 

 Andy, did she growl?  That is her warning sign, Abby Kate. 

WARNING you to Get Away From Her Sharp Teeth, child. 

She is going to bite your nose off one day, Abigail, I swear.



Fine, no dogs, whatever. 

No, Sparrow won't really bite your nose off, Abby, it's ok. 

But you really have to start respecting her space. 

GRAYSON GET OUT OF THE BLANKET NOW. 

Andy, Babe...I'm dying here, can you paleeeeze help me out, man? 

We just need to get one shot before bed, this damn thing is due tomorrow.

 Jesus, could the boys smile, maybe? 

Why do you two look like the walking dead right now? 

Good job keeping it happy, Abby. 

Grayson...so help me, I am seriously about to rip that blanket right from your body, son. 

Could you please....

 Nobody move, Sadie's back. 

Abby, look here. 

Abby!  Do NOT get off of Daddy's lap. 

I will get Sparrow.



 AbbeeGaaaiill Kate, I will get Sparrow. 

PLEASE stay on Daddy's lap. 

Sadie!  Look over here, Honey. 

Grayson?  Why don't you just go all the way inside the blanket.

 Yes, like that.  

Is Sparrow coming? 

Come here, Honey.  Good girl, come here girl. 

Sparrow? Come over here now pleeeeeaaase,

Come here girl, come on girl, let's go good dog, Sparrow. 

WhoknewSparrowWeLoveOurSparrow

Come on girl, let's go up.

Holy crap, I could not be sweatier right now.

Jesus, God. 

The dogs are in the picture, blessed be thy name. 

Thank you for your help, Abby. 

Please everyone look up here and smile so Mommy can run in the picture next to Moth Boy.

Do you think we could get both dogs up on the couch with us, they're hardly in the shot.

Come on Sadie, you can do it, Honey. 

Come up here with Mommy.

You got this little mama. 

 Sparrow, you come on too, let's go!

Well, yes but...

not exactly the angle I was going for.

C'mon Girls, let's go.  Up here!





Oh for F&$% sake, I give up.



No, no, we can do this.  I'm just going to need a little nap first.



And then head boop Abby.



Oh Hi, you're a cute little boy.

 It is so funny over there.

 Where did I put my gin and tonic?

Hand over the remote and we'll pretend this never happened.

 Cheeese!

 Merry Christmas.