Thanks for all your support around my previous post. Your comments and emails mean a lot to me.
You all probably can guess what happened. I never would have believed it.
At the stroke of 9:00 am yesterday, Mom called to ask me to go with her to the store where she buys embroidery supplies. She wanted me to pick out colors for an outfit for Teagan (my granddaughter-to-be). She also wanted me to pick out some embroidery patterns.
We spent the afternoon putting designs on onesies for Teagan.
Maybe the reason Mom always presumes I can handle things on my own is that I do handle them on my own. I don't ask for help. I wait. I hope. I rarely--very rarely--ask.
The message is loud and clear, and it's not restricted to this small issue or even my relationship with Mom. This is a Life Lesson.
Hiding my weaknesses has never been a successful strategy. Perhaps it's time to give it up.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Stitches in Time
It's gray outside (again), but the sun is shining in my soul.
I spoke up.
I said what I needed to say.
To review: Evan and his girlfriend are having a baby and that they're not in a good financial position to raise a child. I started making blankets and shoes but have moved on to sleepers and tiny gowns. My mother has been making bibs and changing pads and other darling little things.
Newsflash: My niece is pregnant. 25 and not married, she faces an uphill sled. The baby's father is 35 and not very involved in her life. She's barely supporting herself at this point.
Immediately, my mother kicked into high gear preparing for this baby, who isn't due until the end of September. Things she had been making for my granddaughter were pushed aside into drawers and boxes. The two of us went to Babies R Us yesterday, and everything she bought or looked at was for my niece's baby.
When my kids were small, their clothes were works of art. We embroidered and smocked and appliqued and painted on every single piece. Except the "we" was actually "me." My sister had three children; I had two. My sister was always in the middle of some crisis or another. When we got together to sew, I worked on things for my children. Mom and Deb worked on things for hers.
Debbie's children have heirlooms mine do not--beautiful pieces with shadow work and smocking and hand applique lovingly stitched by their grandmother.
Twenty-some years ago, I said nothing. Not when Mom smocked dresses for all the girls but Katie. Not when she spent weeks making Christmas outfits for all the children but mine. Not when she made entire spring wardrobes for Deb's kids and asked what I planned to make for mine.
All these years later, the same situation is developing. From the get go, Mom is pointing out the reasons my niece's baby will need help more than Evan's. Evan has the trust fund, so his basic expenses are covered. Last week, the trust administrator agreed to pay for the baby's health insurance and some other expenses, which is a load off my mind. My niece has no such back-up.
I understand and agree my niece needs help. To tell the absolute truth, years ago I understood why Deb needed help. I am willing to help. I am not willing for my granddaughter to miss out on heirlooms from her great-grandmother.
Today I told Mom this, quietly; graciously; emphatically. I mentioned how precious these heirlooms are and said I wanted my grandaughter to have them, too.
It might sound like a small thing, but it's enormous in my world.
E. Nor. Mous.
I spoke up.
I said what I needed to say.
To review: Evan and his girlfriend are having a baby and that they're not in a good financial position to raise a child. I started making blankets and shoes but have moved on to sleepers and tiny gowns. My mother has been making bibs and changing pads and other darling little things.
Newsflash: My niece is pregnant. 25 and not married, she faces an uphill sled. The baby's father is 35 and not very involved in her life. She's barely supporting herself at this point.
Immediately, my mother kicked into high gear preparing for this baby, who isn't due until the end of September. Things she had been making for my granddaughter were pushed aside into drawers and boxes. The two of us went to Babies R Us yesterday, and everything she bought or looked at was for my niece's baby.
When my kids were small, their clothes were works of art. We embroidered and smocked and appliqued and painted on every single piece. Except the "we" was actually "me." My sister had three children; I had two. My sister was always in the middle of some crisis or another. When we got together to sew, I worked on things for my children. Mom and Deb worked on things for hers.
Debbie's children have heirlooms mine do not--beautiful pieces with shadow work and smocking and hand applique lovingly stitched by their grandmother.
Twenty-some years ago, I said nothing. Not when Mom smocked dresses for all the girls but Katie. Not when she spent weeks making Christmas outfits for all the children but mine. Not when she made entire spring wardrobes for Deb's kids and asked what I planned to make for mine.
All these years later, the same situation is developing. From the get go, Mom is pointing out the reasons my niece's baby will need help more than Evan's. Evan has the trust fund, so his basic expenses are covered. Last week, the trust administrator agreed to pay for the baby's health insurance and some other expenses, which is a load off my mind. My niece has no such back-up.
I understand and agree my niece needs help. To tell the absolute truth, years ago I understood why Deb needed help. I am willing to help. I am not willing for my granddaughter to miss out on heirlooms from her great-grandmother.
Today I told Mom this, quietly; graciously; emphatically. I mentioned how precious these heirlooms are and said I wanted my grandaughter to have them, too.
It might sound like a small thing, but it's enormous in my world.
E. Nor. Mous.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Crying Time
I find myself crying a lot lately.
It's strange, really. I'm driving or cooking or working and suddenly, I'm sobbing. Not sniffling. Not discovering tears on my face. Sobbing.
My son's girlfriend, my goddaughter and my niece are pregnant right now. None of them planned her pregnancy. None is married. None is prepared. All are both excited and terrified. I am both excited and terrified for them.
But that's not why I'm crying.
When I struggled with infertility, my doctor suggested joining a support group at an organization known as Resolve. My then-husband would not hear of it. Not only would he not go, he refused to let me go.
Yes, I know. Now, I know. He didn't have to let me. He had no right to dictate my path. But then, I was afraid to make him mad, unwilling to hurt his feelings with my grief. (We could not have children born to us mostly because he had radiation therapy for cancer. He took any sign of sadness as disloyalty--his survival was the only thing that should matter.)
That's an old, old story. The more interesting thing is that grief buried itself somewhere in my body. It lurked, waiting its turn. Now, these young women have accidentally achieved what I never could despite thousands of dollars and untold hours of painful treatments, and the pain finds its way to the surface.
I love my children. I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world--that is not and never has been in question. I lost something elemental and primal, something I wanted desperately. The issue is that I never really grieved that loss.
The crying doesn't bother me. I sob as long as it takes then wash my face and get back to work.
It's strange, really. I'm driving or cooking or working and suddenly, I'm sobbing. Not sniffling. Not discovering tears on my face. Sobbing.
My son's girlfriend, my goddaughter and my niece are pregnant right now. None of them planned her pregnancy. None is married. None is prepared. All are both excited and terrified. I am both excited and terrified for them.
But that's not why I'm crying.
When I struggled with infertility, my doctor suggested joining a support group at an organization known as Resolve. My then-husband would not hear of it. Not only would he not go, he refused to let me go.
Yes, I know. Now, I know. He didn't have to let me. He had no right to dictate my path. But then, I was afraid to make him mad, unwilling to hurt his feelings with my grief. (We could not have children born to us mostly because he had radiation therapy for cancer. He took any sign of sadness as disloyalty--his survival was the only thing that should matter.)
That's an old, old story. The more interesting thing is that grief buried itself somewhere in my body. It lurked, waiting its turn. Now, these young women have accidentally achieved what I never could despite thousands of dollars and untold hours of painful treatments, and the pain finds its way to the surface.
I love my children. I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world--that is not and never has been in question. I lost something elemental and primal, something I wanted desperately. The issue is that I never really grieved that loss.
The crying doesn't bother me. I sob as long as it takes then wash my face and get back to work.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
What Is "Bored"?
Saw this article on my home page this morning: "In a commentary to be published in the International Journal of Epidemiology in April, experts say there's a possibility that the more bored you are, the more likely you are to die early."
Reading the article, I tried to conjure the feeling of boredom, tried to imagine what it's like or remember a time when I felt bored.
I couldn't.
I always, always have more to do than can get done. In moments of forced idleness (waiting in lines and so forth), I ponder. I am a world-champion wait-er. Waiting gives me time to think deeply, watch and listen to other people.
Just last night I had to wait almost 45 minutes for Evan. (He went to work without enough gas in his car to get to a station after work. I filled a gas can and went to meet him after work. The process didn't take as long as I estimated, so I was a little early. The mall doesn't close until 9:00 pm and he had to close up the store afterward.)
The time went by amazingly fast. I watched people leave the mall, pushing and carrying and dragging small children. I listened to them call to each other and laugh at one another. I paid attention to the way they walk, just in case I need to describe how tired or happy or flirtatious someone is by writing about how they walk.
Maybe I'm too simple minded to be bored.
Oh, and in case you wondered--No, it doesn't worry me at all that a young man who can't keep gas in his car is going to have a child to feed. Not. At. All. And I didn't spend a moment of that 45 minutes worrying about it.
Reading the article, I tried to conjure the feeling of boredom, tried to imagine what it's like or remember a time when I felt bored.
I couldn't.
I always, always have more to do than can get done. In moments of forced idleness (waiting in lines and so forth), I ponder. I am a world-champion wait-er. Waiting gives me time to think deeply, watch and listen to other people.
Just last night I had to wait almost 45 minutes for Evan. (He went to work without enough gas in his car to get to a station after work. I filled a gas can and went to meet him after work. The process didn't take as long as I estimated, so I was a little early. The mall doesn't close until 9:00 pm and he had to close up the store afterward.)
The time went by amazingly fast. I watched people leave the mall, pushing and carrying and dragging small children. I listened to them call to each other and laugh at one another. I paid attention to the way they walk, just in case I need to describe how tired or happy or flirtatious someone is by writing about how they walk.
Maybe I'm too simple minded to be bored.
Oh, and in case you wondered--No, it doesn't worry me at all that a young man who can't keep gas in his car is going to have a child to feed. Not. At. All. And I didn't spend a moment of that 45 minutes worrying about it.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Red and White
A group of my summer bike-riding friends have taken me into their circle. One of these three women loves The Bachelor, which has to be one of the silliest shows ever produced. The rest of us don't especially like the show, but we like each other.
Every Monday night we get together for dinner and The Bachelor. We eat and laugh and talk to the television and each other. We bet on things and cheer like this silliness matters. We drink wine.
Last night we gathered at my house. I bought red wine because they all prefer it. They brought white because red gives me headaches. That small kindness and the fact that they remembered touched me.
This morning, my house--freshly cleaned and sparkly all over--still echoes with the laughter and fun of women who like and support one another. Few things in life are more precious than good friends. I am so thankful to have found these women on the bike trail.
Now...if spring would only arrive.
Every Monday night we get together for dinner and The Bachelor. We eat and laugh and talk to the television and each other. We bet on things and cheer like this silliness matters. We drink wine.
Last night we gathered at my house. I bought red wine because they all prefer it. They brought white because red gives me headaches. That small kindness and the fact that they remembered touched me.
This morning, my house--freshly cleaned and sparkly all over--still echoes with the laughter and fun of women who like and support one another. Few things in life are more precious than good friends. I am so thankful to have found these women on the bike trail.
Now...if spring would only arrive.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Designing Woman
When the kids were little, people stopped me on the street to ask where I got their clothes. 95% of them came straight out of my sewing room. Today, as I worked on a design for a little gown, I decided to photograph the process for this and several other projects and turn the designs into a book proposal.
Sewing no longer is less expensive than buying clothes--in many cases it's quite a bit more expensive. Still, it's an art that shouldn't die, one that might appeal to young women with an interest in the past and an eye for the future. Plus, clothing manufacturers have to be paying slave wages when they sell little sleepers for less than $10.
Publishing isn't what it used to be, so it would be an uphill sled. But anything is possible.
Sewing no longer is less expensive than buying clothes--in many cases it's quite a bit more expensive. Still, it's an art that shouldn't die, one that might appeal to young women with an interest in the past and an eye for the future. Plus, clothing manufacturers have to be paying slave wages when they sell little sleepers for less than $10.
Publishing isn't what it used to be, so it would be an uphill sled. But anything is possible.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
For Love of the Game
Last night I asked Evan to come help me with a small project--a bulb broke off inside a can light, creating a short that tripped half the breakers in the house. I needed his height and his brawn to fix the problem.
He arrived in a bad mood and got worse as we worked until I finally told him I'd figure it out later. Then I gave him a darling fleece blanket I made for the baby.
Evan looked at the blanket and shrugged. "I don't have room in my apartment for all this baby stuff," he said. Then he turned and walked out of the house, leaving the blanket behind.
I've been in a major funk since that moment, more than 24 hours ago. I can't understand why my adult son can't manage to help me with a (very) occasional small project, why he would be so rude about something I'd obviously worked hard to make, why he can't receive the gift of my love. Why. Why. Why.
As always, I finally came to the same conclusion I always come to: I'll never understand.
I can do things for Evan and for the baby, but only because I want to. That has to be enough--expecting anything else simply breaks my heart. Over and over.
And over.
He arrived in a bad mood and got worse as we worked until I finally told him I'd figure it out later. Then I gave him a darling fleece blanket I made for the baby.
Evan looked at the blanket and shrugged. "I don't have room in my apartment for all this baby stuff," he said. Then he turned and walked out of the house, leaving the blanket behind.
I've been in a major funk since that moment, more than 24 hours ago. I can't understand why my adult son can't manage to help me with a (very) occasional small project, why he would be so rude about something I'd obviously worked hard to make, why he can't receive the gift of my love. Why. Why. Why.
As always, I finally came to the same conclusion I always come to: I'll never understand.
I can do things for Evan and for the baby, but only because I want to. That has to be enough--expecting anything else simply breaks my heart. Over and over.
And over.
What Becomes of the Broken Hearted
This month starts my second year of Meatloaf Mondays. After a long weekend of work and home projects, I hit Sunday night with tired feet and a heavy heart. It's a cookie month (we alternate between cookies and cake for dessert at the shelter), and I wanted to make heart cookies for the kids for Valentine's Day. That meant cutting out and decorating at least 7 dozen cookies.
At 11pm, that sounded nuts, but I got a running start at it--4 dozen baked before bed. At 6am Monday, I baked the rest of the cookies and started frosting and decorating. Pink icing. Red sprinkles. Multi-colored sprinkles. Bright pink sprinkles. Pastel non-pareils. My entire kitchen was covered in sugar and sprinkles. By 9am, the cookies were ready to box up and I was more than ready for a shower.
At the church where we cook, the children's room was dressed for a party. "Oh, let's see," someone said. "We knew we could count on you to make something special for the kids." The craziness of the late-night and early-morning cookie baking melted like chocolate in a pocket.
One of the other volunteers brought a goodie bag for each child--beautiful red bags filled with chocolate hearts. Someone arrived with two dozen cans of applesauce, which the children consider a huge treat. Another volunteer sat in a corner, finishing a special project.
Last night, 400 adults and 75 children received a hot meal. Each child got a heart-shaped cookie, a bag of chocolates, and a pencil decorated with hearts, wrapped in a heart-shaped note.
Many of these children endure heart-breaking situations, but on at least this one night, they are warm and full and satisfied. They carry out a message: You are loved. Who knows what stories they might write with those pencils of love.
At 11pm, that sounded nuts, but I got a running start at it--4 dozen baked before bed. At 6am Monday, I baked the rest of the cookies and started frosting and decorating. Pink icing. Red sprinkles. Multi-colored sprinkles. Bright pink sprinkles. Pastel non-pareils. My entire kitchen was covered in sugar and sprinkles. By 9am, the cookies were ready to box up and I was more than ready for a shower.
At the church where we cook, the children's room was dressed for a party. "Oh, let's see," someone said. "We knew we could count on you to make something special for the kids." The craziness of the late-night and early-morning cookie baking melted like chocolate in a pocket.
One of the other volunteers brought a goodie bag for each child--beautiful red bags filled with chocolate hearts. Someone arrived with two dozen cans of applesauce, which the children consider a huge treat. Another volunteer sat in a corner, finishing a special project.
Last night, 400 adults and 75 children received a hot meal. Each child got a heart-shaped cookie, a bag of chocolates, and a pencil decorated with hearts, wrapped in a heart-shaped note.
Many of these children endure heart-breaking situations, but on at least this one night, they are warm and full and satisfied. They carry out a message: You are loved. Who knows what stories they might write with those pencils of love.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Blankets and Shoes
I've been sewing for Evan's baby. So far, I haven't made anything but blankets and shoes. Lots and lots of blankets and shoes. Fleece blankets. Flannel blankets. Cotton quilts. Cow-jumping-over-the-moon shoes. Frog shoes. Ladybug shoes.
Um...what's wrong with this picture?
Well, when you open the blankets, the baby is NAKED! Except for her shoes, of course.
I've got to move on to gowns and sleepers and onesies and the stuff babies really need. But first...I've got an idea for bumblebee shoes that would be so cute.
Um...what's wrong with this picture?
Well, when you open the blankets, the baby is NAKED! Except for her shoes, of course.
I've got to move on to gowns and sleepers and onesies and the stuff babies really need. But first...I've got an idea for bumblebee shoes that would be so cute.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Devil You Know
My little doggie and I have a love/not so much relationship. She always loves me. Every day. All the time. I love her until it's time to deal with her toillette. Then: not so much. When it's cold and snowing, her bladder shrinks to the size of a thimble. Deadlines activate her colon. The oven timer and the telephone and the email alert trip her potty system.
Many's the time I've stood outside on a dark, cold night, wishing she were a cat.
Litter boxes sound so convenient when you're thinking about how easy it is for the cat to make a deposit. Yesterday, I found out out the price you pay for that convenience, and let me tell you--it's muuuuuuch too high.
A sick friend asked me to come clean her cats' litter boxes. Four cats. Four litter boxes. Four days since she had been well enough to do it.
I was happy to take care of this, but really. I've rarely done anything more disgusting. Two litter boxes were in tiny closets, and you can imagine the joy of breathing in there for the twenty minutes it took to scoop and clean and vacuum stray litter from each one. The other two are in bathrooms, which were literally covered in stray kitty litter. I even washed kitty litter from the window sills. One tub was full of the stuff.
At each box, the cats pounced the moment I turned my back. I had to rescoop one box three times because cats kept soiling it before I finished the task.
So...Cassie, my love. I apologize. I may gripe about taking you outside, but I will never, ever again wish you were a cat.
Many's the time I've stood outside on a dark, cold night, wishing she were a cat.
Litter boxes sound so convenient when you're thinking about how easy it is for the cat to make a deposit. Yesterday, I found out out the price you pay for that convenience, and let me tell you--it's muuuuuuch too high.
A sick friend asked me to come clean her cats' litter boxes. Four cats. Four litter boxes. Four days since she had been well enough to do it.
I was happy to take care of this, but really. I've rarely done anything more disgusting. Two litter boxes were in tiny closets, and you can imagine the joy of breathing in there for the twenty minutes it took to scoop and clean and vacuum stray litter from each one. The other two are in bathrooms, which were literally covered in stray kitty litter. I even washed kitty litter from the window sills. One tub was full of the stuff.
At each box, the cats pounced the moment I turned my back. I had to rescoop one box three times because cats kept soiling it before I finished the task.
So...Cassie, my love. I apologize. I may gripe about taking you outside, but I will never, ever again wish you were a cat.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Sticky
The hospital gave us a sonogram picture of the baby's tiny feet. I see that picture in my sleep. Maybe that's why I couldn't resist making little shoes for her.
They're booties, really--only good until she begins to pull herself up. Between now and then, she may have more shoes than any baby in Missouri. They're incredibly fun to make and so cute you can hardly stand it. For the first pair, I used fabric with a cow jumping over the moon.
When Evan was 9 years old, we all went camping with Mom and Dad and Deb and her husband and children. In the evening, Mom made funnel cakes over the camp fire. It's a laborious job, so everyone shared the treats--with one exception. Every child who could recite a poem or sing a song got their very own funnel cake.
Evan loved funnel cakes. Before the trip, we worked for days until he could say every verse of "Hey Diddle Diddle" and "The Owl and The Pussy Cat." Even as shy as he was, on two different nights he stood in front of the fire and said his poem, loud and proud. I can still see his crooked smile and the powdered sugar on his chin.
Working on the booties with Mom and Deb, I mentioned poems for funnel cakes. My sister didn't remember. My mother remembered but didn't know what poems the kids had said.
I texted Evan: "Do you remember poems for funnel cakes?"
"The owl and the pussy cat went to sea in a beautiful pea green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five-pound note." His answer arrived in seconds.
"I can't believe you remember that," I wrote.
"I remember a lot of things," he answered. "My mind is sticky."
I hope some of what stuck will help him and my granddaughter.
They're booties, really--only good until she begins to pull herself up. Between now and then, she may have more shoes than any baby in Missouri. They're incredibly fun to make and so cute you can hardly stand it. For the first pair, I used fabric with a cow jumping over the moon.
When Evan was 9 years old, we all went camping with Mom and Dad and Deb and her husband and children. In the evening, Mom made funnel cakes over the camp fire. It's a laborious job, so everyone shared the treats--with one exception. Every child who could recite a poem or sing a song got their very own funnel cake.
Evan loved funnel cakes. Before the trip, we worked for days until he could say every verse of "Hey Diddle Diddle" and "The Owl and The Pussy Cat." Even as shy as he was, on two different nights he stood in front of the fire and said his poem, loud and proud. I can still see his crooked smile and the powdered sugar on his chin.
Working on the booties with Mom and Deb, I mentioned poems for funnel cakes. My sister didn't remember. My mother remembered but didn't know what poems the kids had said.
I texted Evan: "Do you remember poems for funnel cakes?"
"The owl and the pussy cat went to sea in a beautiful pea green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five-pound note." His answer arrived in seconds.
"I can't believe you remember that," I wrote.
"I remember a lot of things," he answered. "My mind is sticky."
I hope some of what stuck will help him and my granddaughter.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A Very Good Start
Evan called to ask me how to establish paternity for the baby-to-be. He and the mother do not plan to get married, and he wants to have legal rights. He's especially worried about being able to authorize medical care in an emergency.
Evan, who rarely thinks beyond this very moment, is trying to figure out how to handle issues that won't arise until the end of May. He also wants to add the baby to his health insurance and wants to handle the paperwork so it's all effective the moment she is born.
We've got a long, long way to go, but this is a good start. A very good start.
Evan, who rarely thinks beyond this very moment, is trying to figure out how to handle issues that won't arise until the end of May. He also wants to add the baby to his health insurance and wants to handle the paperwork so it's all effective the moment she is born.
We've got a long, long way to go, but this is a good start. A very good start.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Crystal Ball
Finally took my Christmas tree down last night. My house looked particularly beautiful for Christmas this year, and I've been reluctant to let it go. Plus, I've had all that not-panicking to do.
Wrapping Evan's "Baby's first Christmas" music-box ball, I sniffle. The baby should be 7 months old next Christmas. When I get these things out again, will it be for a joyous celebration? Or will I be trying to get through terrible sadness because the mother has taken the baby and run to her parents, five hours away. Will next year's tree be surrounded by bright packages for a beloved grandchild? Or will we be in the center of a firestorm because Evan and his girlfriend are not capable of raising a child or no longer together?
I stare at my distorted reflection in the big glass belly of a Christopher Radko Santa and wish for a crystal ball. Michelle told me this baby girl is a brave soul. I pray that's true. With everything in me, I pray that she is brave and resourceful and resilient. I pray that she understands the path she's chosen more than I do. I pray to be wrong about the impossibility of the situation.
In this dark night, I pray.
Wrapping Evan's "Baby's first Christmas" music-box ball, I sniffle. The baby should be 7 months old next Christmas. When I get these things out again, will it be for a joyous celebration? Or will I be trying to get through terrible sadness because the mother has taken the baby and run to her parents, five hours away. Will next year's tree be surrounded by bright packages for a beloved grandchild? Or will we be in the center of a firestorm because Evan and his girlfriend are not capable of raising a child or no longer together?
I stare at my distorted reflection in the big glass belly of a Christopher Radko Santa and wish for a crystal ball. Michelle told me this baby girl is a brave soul. I pray that's true. With everything in me, I pray that she is brave and resourceful and resilient. I pray that she understands the path she's chosen more than I do. I pray to be wrong about the impossibility of the situation.
In this dark night, I pray.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
What Will Happen?
I am going to be a grandmother.
Evan and his girlfriend are expecting a little girl in late May. Yesterday I was in the room for an ultrasound. I got to see her heart beat and see the bottoms of her little feet.
Thrilled and terrified are at war in my heart. Evan struggles with his temper. He has not yet figured out how to support himself consistently. He and his girlfriend have an on again/off again relationship marred by insecurity and jealousy.
What kind of life can this child have? How can I help without being swamped by their problems? What will happen? What will happen? What will happen?
The relentless drumbeat in my head pounds out the same questions over and over. No answers appear.
Before Christmas I went to Target intending to buy a bassinet or swing or some other large piece. Fear swept me so hard I had to sit down on the floor in the middle of the aisle. When I finally caught my breath, I fled the store as though the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels.
Other than working, I do little beyond concentrate on not panicking. I haven't slept more than two or three hours at a time for weeks. I understand--completely understand--that I'm borrowing trouble. I know that staying in the moment is the only answer.
I am not equal to that task.
What will happen? What will happen? What will happen?
Evan and his girlfriend are expecting a little girl in late May. Yesterday I was in the room for an ultrasound. I got to see her heart beat and see the bottoms of her little feet.
Thrilled and terrified are at war in my heart. Evan struggles with his temper. He has not yet figured out how to support himself consistently. He and his girlfriend have an on again/off again relationship marred by insecurity and jealousy.
What kind of life can this child have? How can I help without being swamped by their problems? What will happen? What will happen? What will happen?
The relentless drumbeat in my head pounds out the same questions over and over. No answers appear.
Before Christmas I went to Target intending to buy a bassinet or swing or some other large piece. Fear swept me so hard I had to sit down on the floor in the middle of the aisle. When I finally caught my breath, I fled the store as though the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels.
Other than working, I do little beyond concentrate on not panicking. I haven't slept more than two or three hours at a time for weeks. I understand--completely understand--that I'm borrowing trouble. I know that staying in the moment is the only answer.
I am not equal to that task.
What will happen? What will happen? What will happen?
Friday, January 01, 2010
Binary
Last night I watched the moon rise over the pond with a sense of wonder. The deep blue light of a full moon on snow gave the landscape an eery glow. The shadows looked deep enough to fall into like Alice's rabbit hole. My back yard looked unreal, like a place hopes and dreams might come to life and dance.
01 01 10
A new year. A new decade. A blank page.
Today's date may be binary, but I hope to move past off/on, black/white thinking. It's one of my weaknesses, the feeling that things are right or wrong, possible exactly as I imagine or not possible at all. I'd like this to be the year of "This and...."
This year, I resolve to...
go to Oregon for my birthday in May;
work less;
donate things I don't need or use;
keep my spaces (mental and physical) clear;
treat myself to good health;
speak my truth kindly;
ask for what I need;
accept help that's offered;
offer help to others but not at my own expense;
find a church or meditation center where I feel at home;
go to a cultural event at least once a month;
read poetry;
worry less;
laugh, sing, dance, enjoy.
01 01 10
A new year. A new decade. A blank page.
Today's date may be binary, but I hope to move past off/on, black/white thinking. It's one of my weaknesses, the feeling that things are right or wrong, possible exactly as I imagine or not possible at all. I'd like this to be the year of "This and...."
This year, I resolve to...
go to Oregon for my birthday in May;
work less;
donate things I don't need or use;
keep my spaces (mental and physical) clear;
treat myself to good health;
speak my truth kindly;
ask for what I need;
accept help that's offered;
offer help to others but not at my own expense;
find a church or meditation center where I feel at home;
go to a cultural event at least once a month;
read poetry;
worry less;
laugh, sing, dance, enjoy.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
How Sweet the Sound
Yesterday was a day of amazing grace. I took some time in the afternoon to finish my Christmas shopping and returned to find my inbox filled with good news and an opportunity that takes my breath.
My main freelance client is a large and rapidly growing company. Their PR firm contacted me to ask if I'd consider taking part in a "media opportunity." Details to follow this morning, but here's the thing: this is a chance to come to the attention of people in high places. I've never seen a company pay more attention or go to greater lengths to reward loyalty and hard work. Who knows what might happen if I can pull this off.
I am excited. And scared. And curious. And grateful for this piece of Grace.
Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
My main freelance client is a large and rapidly growing company. Their PR firm contacted me to ask if I'd consider taking part in a "media opportunity." Details to follow this morning, but here's the thing: this is a chance to come to the attention of people in high places. I've never seen a company pay more attention or go to greater lengths to reward loyalty and hard work. Who knows what might happen if I can pull this off.
I am excited. And scared. And curious. And grateful for this piece of Grace.
Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Turning Toward the Light
Midnight on the winter solstice always finds me on my little deck, blowing ashes into the darkness. I write my fears on scraps of paper, burn them, and scatter them to the winds. This ritual doesn't magically erase my fears, but it does remind me that they're no more substantial than ashes in the wind.
My list of resolutions is growing by the day. Here's a sample:
I resolve to:
Be braver.
Say every loving thing I think.
Ask for help when I need it.
Stop drinking Coke.
Eat more local food.
Volunteer at least three times a month.
Grow a salsa garden and can salsa this summer.
Work harder than I think I can on my bike and at the gym.
More to come.
My list of resolutions is growing by the day. Here's a sample:
I resolve to:
Be braver.
Say every loving thing I think.
Ask for help when I need it.
Stop drinking Coke.
Eat more local food.
Volunteer at least three times a month.
Grow a salsa garden and can salsa this summer.
Work harder than I think I can on my bike and at the gym.
More to come.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Ghost of Christmas Past
Mom and Dad aren't putting up a Christmas tree this year. I offered to put it up, take it down, and clean up any mess. They don't want it.
Neither Mom nor Dad ever had a tree growing up. Their folks were too poor or too practical or maybe just not sentimental enough. For my sister's first Christmas, Mom was living with her parents while Dad was in the Marines. She bought a box of ornaments and a tree, her own first Christmas tree as well as her daughter's.
Our childhood Christmases were magical. Mom baked and fixed and fussed. We cut down a tree together each year and put it up while we sang carols. We painted sugar cookies and made fudge. Dad popped popcorn and roasted almonds in the fireplace. Even as a little kid, I understood how blessed we were even though we didn't have much money.
I swear to you: I am not making this up. One year we spray-painted the carcass of the Thanksgiving turkey and turned it into a golden sleigh for a Santa we made out of Styrofoam balls. We made a lake out of aluminum foil and little people out of marshmallows. We gave them hats made of crimson peau de soie (French for "silk of skin") left over from the Christmas dress Mom made for Debbie. We arranged lights around the edges of our snowy little town and left it up until the marshmallow people shriveled into senior citizens.
Daddy wrapped all his presents for Mom in matching paper. He arranged them under the tree and twined lights around them in their own special display. The packages never contained anything more exotic than a small blue bottle of Evening in Paris cologne or a dish from the dime store, but the care Dad took with Mom's gifts made them glow.
Santa did not just leave gifts: He created tableaus. The year Santa brought my brother a Boy Scout mess kit, he hung the pot on a tripod over logs laid out for a campfire. The year Santa brought a horse (yes, a horse), he left a saddle and bridle on hay bales in the living room floor. Handsome, the horse, had to wait outside.
One year Santa brought ice skates for everyone. Mom packed a picnic and a cast iron skillet into a basket. We all skated on the creek until we were too cold to move and then huddled around the grill while Mom fried Spam for Spam-and-cheese sandwiches. She wore a white synthetic fur hat dotted with iridescent paillettes that sparkled in the sunshine. Laughing and twirling, she was the most beautiful sight in the world.
I've been a lot of places since that day, from the Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center to Kimo's in Lahaina and hundreds of places in between. Nothing I've eaten anywhere has tasted better than a grilled Spam sandwich and steaming hot Campbell's tomato soup from a chipped brown coffee mug at a roadside park in the Ozark Mountains.
I understand why Mom and Dad didn't want a tree this year, but it breaks my heart. It's just another inevitable step on a path I don't want to travel. We've been to the mountains. Guess now it's time for the valleys.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Time Flies
Boy, the week has gotten away from me. Katie and I had a good day on Monday and then I flew home on Tuesday. Craig drove me to the airport, once again carrying my bags and handling things like the gentleman his folks raised him to be. Very nice.
Paula came home yesterday, looking better than ever. Her bodywork is pristine, her bumpers sound, and her innerds back inside where they belong. It's good to driver her again, but she has a paint smell that gives me a headache. Hope that doesn't last too long.
Today I'm finally going to put up my Christmas tree. I usually get that done Thanksgiving weekend, but I was sick and just couldn't gather up the energy. It will be good to sit with the lights on tonight.
Our family had dinner with Liz's folks last night. They're such nice people and so welcoming. It was a lovely evening. Their house is decorated so beautifully, it made me feel like such a slacker. Liz's mom, Kathy, loaned me a book called "Growing Wings." Reading part of it last night reminded me that I've lost the thread of wonder lately. I've been working so many hours and running so hard in other ways, that I've lost track of the magic happening all around me.
The magic happens with or without my attention, but I'm happier when I take time to see it. I'm going to make a Barbara-style list of resolutions this year (long and very, very hopeful). Tuning into small miracles will be near the top of that list.
And the funny. I've got to find the funny again. And risk. I need to take more emotional and mental risks.
Gee...2010's already shaping up to be an interesting year. Stay tuned.
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