Alert, Alert

This is the 24th blog post I've ever written. Other than my three sprouts, and the gem of a man I landed for a husband, this may be my greatest accomplishment to date. What? There are bloggers out there with hundreds, even thousands of posts of their own? Yes, but they are not Me.

Imagine your brain. I know, kinda gross...go with me...I'm going somewhere with this, promise. Now imagine those new, freakish little toys they market to parents who refuse to buy a real rodent (who, me?)...you know the ones....Zhu Zhu pets. Man, those things really freak me out. Not quite as much as the fake "real" cat my neighbor got for her daughter though. The thing would just look at you or make a mew when you entered the room and all of a sudden it was Bride of Chucky all over again.

Incidentally, I am currently sitting on our deck, it's 7:08 AM and I just did my first "cup the hot cup of coffee in the cold brisk fall air" thing. Yes, it felt just as good for me as itdoes for that chick on the Folger's commercials. There was no Irish step dancing though. There will never be any step dancing. I'm sorry if you thought there might be.

So back to Zhu Zhu, now that I've illustrated, in a most ironic, unknowing sort of way, the state in which my mind constantly resides. Sometimes I think of it as one step away from an institution....other times, rarely, a gift. One thing I've recently stopped doing (ok, about 5 minutes ago when I thought of this) is referring to it as something I've been "stricken" with, my "plight". That's mainly because my therapist back in OH, who I adore, would tell me it's probably a good idea. And she's pretty much right there after God. It goes: God, my therapist, coffee. Wait...no....maybe God, my therapist, the color kelly green? Anyway.

I refuse to label the way I think, even though I have many times in the past and I'm sure in this blog. I'm sick and tired, quite frankly, of the way It is viewed, distorted, abused. When a psychotherapist diagnoses someone with it these days, they may as well be saying, "sure, no problem, I'll write you the freakin Adderall....hey, I've got another patient in five minutes....oh no! no problem! you totally passed the (five question, yes-or-no answer) test....got all the classic symptoms....k! call me for that refill! you know you've got (insert any small type of project requiring the smallest mental fortitude here) coming up".

I write in run-on sentences, fragments of thought, and parentheses. I rest my case. Not that you were arguing it, if you're still reading.

My father, who I completely respect and value, has always complimented me on my gift of writing. Secretly I think it kind of bugs him to death to read my stuff like this. Though I think I've yet to meet a man so easily unruffled, I'm pretty sure he'd much prefer for me to wrap things up in a more tidy, readable fashion. He just looks out for me. Maybe if I could do that - learn how to tame this Zhu Zhu pet-riddled brain with some better punctuation, complete metaphors, etc. - maybe I could even write a book. For now though, this blog is my release, my escape into (or maybe escape from?) Me world.

I think tomorrow (or later today, or in a week or a year) I will start chronicling my search for my biological mother. That should be interesting.

Babies, Fiction and French Food.

This morning, my husband and I were milling about in the kitchen - he brewing his Irish Breakfast tea, me trying to get my brain percolating. I was just surprised we'd beaten the 3 sprouts out of bed (oh, how horrible does THAT sound? but you know what I mean. That is, until I heard the cooing of The Littlest, through the monitor. I had a thought. "Hey, Nick. Wouldn't it be great if, like, when we heard her through the monitor she was always belting out an aria or something?"...."Yeah! aaah-aaaaah-aah-haaa!"...(especially amusing, the sound of a grown man attempting to simulate what a little girl baby would sound like, doing operatics). (me again) - "Yeah, and then every time we tried to catch her in the act, rush up there, she'd just look at us like we were crazy." We're both giggling sleepily at this point...I continue..."but there'd always be clues, right, that we'd never get. Like she'd have the sheet music under the crib mattress or something...". Just call her Stewie's G-rated half-sister.



This is what we do.



So today I began "Anne of Green Gables" again - just twenty pages or so, but quite enough to fall in love with L.M. Montgomery all over again. It was a sad day in my (elementary-aged) life when I finished her last book and knew there would be nothing new to discover from this author, because she was gone.



The plot is SO fanciful, ya know? Clumsy yet emotionally undamaged orphan (is there such a thing?) melts the heart of legalistic, type A, take-no-prisoners Marilla Cuthbert, thus finding her place in the world.



I was quite delighted with this Prince Edward Island world of Anne's as a ten year-old, however. While my appetite was much more satiated by descriptions of orchard and furrowed brows and kittens in the woods than by, say, a journal of my own real-life experiences at the time, things have changed. And somewhere along the way I think I decided that I was too good for fiction. That Real Life, with it's jagged edges and pretty imperfections, was much more worthy of my attention than Silly Stories someone just made up in their mind. Truth is, I think maybe, that I'd be terrible at writing fiction myself.



So in moments I've stolen away for myself, peaceful hours painstakingly squeezed from days filled with diapers and bottles and sippy cups and dinners, I've turned my attention to food memoirs, true accounts of substance abuse, books on psychological disorders. And I've been enthralled, mesmerized to the point of losing hours of precious sleep just to get to the bottom of things.

I think it just might be getting to me.

I'm going to give good old ragged Anne a go again. I think I deserve it. Besides, I'm sick of salivating over French recipes, each of which would quite possibly take a couple weeks of my grocery budget at Whole Foods to prepare.

(I promise, though, if I ever make money off of this very-much-for-fun writing gig, I'll make a delicious buttery duck confit that will be out of this world. And I'll totally write about it).

thoughts on what's after THIS.

So there's this fear I have....dates back to my early(er) years. You'd probly have to ask my dad at which age, specifically, he had to begin the ritual of praying the devil out of my bedroom...shielding me from those spiteful little demons who twisted my tiny mind with fear.
I still grapple with, wrestle against this terror and it's bottomless and inexorable in it's pursuit of me and I suppose the irony is that its very subject is infinite as well: eternity.

So you know, while Jimmy down the street didn't really dig big snakes, and Janie across the block was stressing over an impending math test, here's scrawny, shivering little Me, in sleepy suburban Columbus, cowering under the covers, breathless at my lot in life....or rather, my lot after it.

Afterlife. It's an insane concept that we teeny humans have tried mightily to bottle up with special sermons dedicated to the topic, sacred reincarnated cows, with men marrying multiple wives in order to obtain a more rewarding afterlife. If you ask me, their reward has mostly been fulfilled here on this globe. But just if you ask me, I guess.

I had this vision tonight. This is not a normal occurence for me. Well, I suppose it is, but normally my nighttime daydreams are heavy with pain and suffering and fear, anxiety over the family I read about in the paper, the one where the dad committed suicide after taking the lives of his two boys, or the very popular (in blog-world) little boy with a heart defect, or just the general certainty I carry with me that something awful will happen to my little ones the minute I drift off.

This place felt uncannily light, satisfyingly open. I was walking along a road, and I was not walking alone. Matching my slow gait was a dark-skinned woman - beautiful, soft-spoken yet articulate with deep kind eyes. She had the kind of eyes that made you think of that Aaliyah song - Age Ain't Nothin But A Number (right?). Anyway.

I suppose a birds-eye view would have shown my new friend and I flanked by an endless calm sea and a towering stone wall on the other side of the road. The wall did not frighten me (normally I would have been afraid of it) and somehow I knew it had a story or two to tell.

She held my hand and I sensed I needed it for the journey, so I left my palm in hers.

In low tones she began to explain to me how this wall - this fortress, almost - came to be.

An entire family had sacrificed their lives for one small group of stones that ran along the base. We stopped at intervals, and when I pointed out gaps, her tears were a keen explanation of the tiny lives that never stood the chance to get their part of the wall built. And the tears dried and the eyes shined as she spoke of the valor of men and women who'd been chiseled, scraped and torn, molded and not folded under the pressure to bury their stones in wealth and certificates of worldly acclaim...those stones she pressed gently, thoughtfully, lovingly.

Almost placid remained her demeanor as we matched stride for slow stride, and it was with no concern at all that I came to realize I hadn't a clue as to where we'd begun this journey or when we'd finish with it.

Her hand was strong and I sensed she knew me, my uncertainty I always felt in that Other Land, and she asked me if I needed a break, a rest from the teaching, the telling at times of acts so horrifying they'd normally infest my heart with their evil for days.

All this heart felt, in this place, was a love and light and a peace that I could not understand because it was nothing I could ever have come up with on my own. Telling, that.

I conveyed as much and it took only a glance at her well-worn sandals that she'd stay this pilgrimage, though the details all seemed familiar to her already. Most importantly, I was convinced that I'd not be left and I'd continue to walk in love and peace, learning of what had only ever really mattered.




So what do you make of THAT? As I told my husband, usually when I write, it's only of what I know, b/c it's the only thing I've ever learned of writing, that if you write about your own experience it's going to be worth a little more than anything else you'll come up with.

I asked him what he thought heaven was like. Do our loved ones who've passed on (in his case, his father) see us? Feel emotion towards us? He's a philosopher, so his response was probably quite wise and not altogether understood by me, little old mom of three whose days are consumed by play-doh and diapers. But the gist of it is this: that those already there have always been there, just as we have, and our finite minds cannot grasp the concept while we're limited to this human skin.

I guess all I know at the end of it is this: I hope heaven is like a big love-fest in Hawaii, and that I can feel that grace of that place here, even for a little bit.

Cutting the fat out.

Got this term from my old partner in crime, Molly. Such an apropos statement to summarize the plot brewing in my head as of late.



I think (I hope, I desperately hope) that I'm on the verge of something super. I mean, really, really monumental. I'll explain:



Had a terribly gracious friend send her cleaning lady to my house the other day as a sort of combo birthday/anniversary gift. I use the term "house" loosely - I suppose if one refers to an apt. containing two small children, all of their worldly possessions including a multitude of plastic gadgets, clothes and furniture, one kitchen about the size and shape of a cucumber, and two not-too-terribly organized (read: incredibly disorganized) adults as a house, then yes, that would be what we are renting. Yes, my heart goes out to myself often these days. A little too often, it would seem, since at the present moment I am sitting here penning a missive to you about the piles lying about my house instead of getting off of my rear and getting rid of, say, just one.



So, in a very providential twist of loveliness, I had forgotten that aforementioned cleaning lady Genius On Kneepads was scheduled to be attending my house this past Monday afternoon. Monday was set to be a busy day for me, as all Mondays for the rest of the world are, and my main two objectives for the day were a dentist appt. for the toddler (infant in tow) and cleaning my entire townhouse top to bottom so as not to let New Babysitter in on our very messy, somewhat dirty little secret - that in my home, rarely are the dishes done, rarely is the table swiped clean, and never is the laundry complete, folded and put away. I mean never. Which sort of gives me a little segue into the main theme of this post, thus allowing me to avoid another digression. Yay!

So, as I haven't asked permission to use her name, I'll call my Fairy Cleanmother "N". "N" is amazing. I have to say I was a more than a little apprehensive about this experience, and did (insert sheepish grin) tear about my house in the hour before her arrival throwing clothes, shoes, Barbies and Play-Doh into baskets and behind closed doors. Even then I knew there was no hiding it. Oprah, here I come. I'm a hoarder. And I mean the worst kind. No, I don't have paths through my home (at least not yet) walled with clothes and trinkets, but I am that girl who, when offered something, says "yes" before the person has a chance to detail what exactly they're passing on. Bad news, people. And I mean it's embarrassing! I'd take a picture of my basement just to prove it to you - and if anyone needs a good laugh and you're, say, my best childhood friend or a member of my family, let me know and I'll take that picture. But otherwise - uh-uh. It's a scary sight. Games piled on wedding memorabilia alongside sporting equipment toppling over Christmas decorations and topped with say, an art project from the third grade. And it doesn't even have to be a particularly good one. All I have to do is see the date and I am loathe to part with it.

Well, "N" and I really got down to it on Monday, and man, I would have paid for the pep talk alone. And what I came away from our realization that we are both enslaved to this "keep it, might use it, don't touch it for five years....but NEVER throw away" mentality is this: it's time to pare down. Get back to the basics. Regroup. Clean up. Clean out. Throw out. (don't throw up).

The staccato statements make it sound so simple, no? I know it won't be. But I think I might be finally ready. What I seek most of all is the freedom that I hope will come from being rid of all of these belongings which I could argue even literally weigh me down. Hold me back. Keep me homebound. Cramp our style.

So while lamps and tables and old swimsuits and forgotten pictures lie in sweet repose down there....I muse. Little do they know, life's about to change for most of them. I've got a lofty goal - five boxes. That's all I want left. I'm not limiting myself on size, unless anyone suggests otherwise. I'm open for those, by the way - suggestions. This is not my forte - I mean the word organizing really gives me a cramp in the side. My own father has seen me in tears many times in the middle of a room with my belongings/homework/packing strewn about me, beyond frustrated because I don't know where to start and how it will ever end.

More importantly, a good friend of mine has of late been teaching me about how to do this on a more personal level. So introspection has ensued and it's been good. Cutting that fat out could do me a whole lot of good, and could only in turn be beneficial to those around me.

Gearin' up for a change....it's about time sister....

it's not easy outsmarting a three year old.

Exhibit A: a couple of months back on that splendiferous, sunny, sugar-laden holiday also known as Easter, our little family had taken a trip to visit extended family. On the way home after a busy, busy day of hunting eggs, one sprinkle-encrusted toddler piped up from the back seat, "Mom, can I have some gum?". Mind you, this was following 7 mini chocolate eggs, 3 lollipops, 2 peeps and one very ooey gooey Cadbury Delight (c'mon, life's no fun w/o exaggeration!!). Suffice it to say the kid may as well have eaten her weight in sugar, more than exceeding her quota for a week.

And as any mother who wants to keep her sanity along with a bedtime before 10 PM replied, I said, "No, honey, you've had quite alot of sugar and treats for the day."

After hearing nothing but silence from the backseat, I turned to my husband (w/ a half-smug look on my face for winning that battle so....quickly and painlessly) and proceeded to discuss some inside joke we'd shared earlier in the morning.

(k- remember that painless part).

And so Nick and I giggled together, and rested back on our haunches, exhausted but satisfied after yet another 2 family holiday, silently congratulating ourselves on keeping both children from hurting anyone else or themselves and not throwing up on anyone else or, themselves.

It was only after a few more exit signs that the little voice from the backseat piped up again, "Hey Mom?". "Yes, my dear?". "Does candy have sugar?". Naively chuckling to myself at her ever-burgeoning level of intelligence, I reply, "Yes, Ella, candy most certainly does have sugar." "Oh."

And husband and wife exchange knowing, amused glances in the front seat and the drive home continues.

A couple of minutes later....

"Mom?". "Yes, babe, what's up?". "Does gum have sugar?". (ok I'm not kidding you - this conversation has been going on now intermittently for a good 7 1/2 min. at this point. Quite long enough for my ADD-raddled mind to have forgotten how it began). "No, well, not alot at least." "Oh, then can I have some gum?". "No, Ella, I told you earlier! No gum, no more treats, no more candy for the rest of the night!".

(and here she pulls out the big guns...)

"But you said that gum doesn't have sugar!!!".

Deductive reasoning? Not cool, dude. Not cool at all.

Exhibit B: On the way home from an end of the year potluck celebration at preschool. Female toddler trying desperately to avoid nap-time. Pulls out a double whammy, "Mom, can I watch some TV after you make lunch?". The whammy is two-fold, and I will explain how. #1: watching TV will postpone any trips upstairs to bed. #2: there is no lunch to be made, because we just ATE lunch at the potluck. This she knows. But this she continues to pretend NOT to know. I will expound. "Ella, we just had lunch, silly!". "But, but, but, I didn't have lunch! I just, I just, I just jus jus jus had DINNER." Oh man! Blocked again. Toddlers all over the world in an alternate universe are applauding that one. You've really got her this time. How is she going to use logic to argue with the illogical? Good job, brave pre-schooler. You may just have outwitted her this time. You are well on your way to eating popsicles for every meal and covering every surface in the house with crayon in reckless abandon!

I digress.

"No, Ella, we just had lunch. Dinner-time is later." "NO! (whining) But, but butbutbutbut I CHANGED it!" Wha? Oh, you did, did you. You took upon yourself powers that belong not even to our own president, most likely, and altered the names and times of two everyday meals. Uh-huh. "No, punkin, we just had lunch" (wearily, now). Note to self: repeating logic in an even-measured tone to a toddler will get you nowhere. I repeat, nowhere. Even if that mom at the playground - you know, the one with the perfect blond bob, J-Crew boat shoes and striped layers, whose child wouldn't be caught dead in anything BUT baby Gap, you know the one - even if that mother looks to be in control as she's repeating to Cadence that, "Cadence, honey, it's time to go now, we need to return the books to the library before it closes.", well, she's not. Because behind the perfectly Burt's Bees glossed tightly wound up smile hiding clenched whitened teeth, she wants to pull every strand of perfectly straightened hair out just as much as you do. Trust me.

We'll digress alot on our journey together.

In a moment of truly desperate brilliant clarity that is only bestowed on mothers of especially challenging intelligent children such as mine, it came to me like a rare perfect Ohio spring day - unexpected, undeserved but well-utilized nonetheless. "Well, honey, see, we just ate, right? And since it is the time of day when we usually have lunch, and we ate, that's how we know it was lunch. DINNER-time is not until this evening, after Daddy gets home."

And while minions millions of toddlers all over the world blinked back disappointed tears, realizing that their hero had not come after all, a hushed sigh fell over the vehicle.

"Oh." she replied softly.

Pulling into my parking spot, I pumped an imaginary fist into the air, knowing I had earned my own double whammy. Keeping a toddler fit at bay thus prolonging baby brother's nap-time? I think my work is done here.

just the latest and greatest....

Ella and I made some fantastic chocolate cupcakes the other day (recipe compliments of my friend Mary). This is actually an original recipe straight from her kitchen - she's quite the patient and creative one. I've decided that the golden ticket(s) for perfectly rich, decadent, moist chocolate cupcakes are the sour cream and bold coffee that perk up the recipe (no pun intended - really). Anyway, all that to say that this moment was captured while one very sweet-toothed toddler was most likely contemplating just how much homemade chocolate frosting she could fit into her cheeks in one bite.

Ahem.

And on another day, in another part of the house, with the other tyke, I had an impromptu photo shoot (a habit as of late) when said younger tyke decided to take half as long of a snooze as the sweet-toothed one. I mean really, what to do with that adorable face but take pictures of it?? Please.

Lastly, and a bit random....I have to say I've been a bit overwhelmed (in a positive way) by the kindness, generosity, and patience of my friends and acquaintances from small group/church in the past week. What I now begrudgingly refer to as the "Debbie Downer Doldrums" attacked in full force on Mother's Day and made for an unpleasant beginning to that week, which sort of carried on into the next....until I found myself in a bit of a teary mess on the phone with a girlfriend who I've known a relatively short while....but I do believe she was providentially prompted to take that phone call, and to listen in her sweet, caring, quiet way, and to pick me up with a gentle pep talk so that I DID make the play date with the kids, thus letting a bit of sunshine into their day and mine. When you really think about it, she was my sunshine...for her and for the sympathetic ears at our small group, I am so grateful, and I know Nick is as well.

Take that, Debbie Downer. Geesh.

-A Changing Woman

Blogger's Block

How's that for some apropos alliteration?

I really wasn't quite sure how long it had been since the last time I'd posted until just now when I checked the date. Not quite a week? Feels longer.

And I'd love to go into oh such great detail about the Latest Happenings 'round here, but have been advised against it, by my very sage mother. Knowing me, this reticence to share intensely personal details of my life will last for only a requisite short while, but, maybe every minute counts. Succinctly put: Big, Big Revelations to come concerning my past. Let's hope that along the journey, my load is lighter than it has felt, well, since forever. I hate being cryptic.

So enough of that, and on to my latest foray into some sort of natural therapy with which to calm the nerves and re-direct the negativity. Spring has...yes....("we" *read: I* don't do cliches) and in light of this, and aided by my very impulsive, compulsive nature, I've taken to the furled, tangled, monstrous mess of God knows what in between healthy hosta plants flowerbeds in front of our townhouse. I've no idea what I'm doing. None. For once, I don't care much, either. Normally when I begin a task such as this, I've done my online research, I've picked my co-worker's brains, I've read the glossary, etc. This time, nada. Just a little spade shovel (see, not even sure if that's what it's called), some cheapo rain boots from Walmart, the aforementioned monstrosity, and a few sweet pink geranium plants from Mom. It started with the geraniums....

....then....two hours later....and half the bed cleared....I fell into mine, exhausted and (dare I say it?) happy.

That half-cleared flower bed called my name all morning too, in between orders for triple tall half-caf lattes and orange mango banana vivannos. By the time I was on my third espresso macchiato of the morning, I'd already planned my trip to Marc's and was pleasantly surprised to receive a text from my darling husband who had just so happened to plan a Daddy and Co. picnic over lunchtime...leaving me free to rush over and buy some flowers after a lovely dentistry appt. Just l-o-v-e-l-y.

I've only started small (?). About a tray and a half, along with six vegetable plants. No biggie. We'll see what happens. More joyous root-pulling ensued this afternoon, and it was fantastic cloudy hazy weather for it. I mean seriously, what could be more fulfilling than carefully poking and prodding, digging around and gently following the dratted thing until you've got it out where it began? It's almost - ALMOST - as good as pinning down that exact verbiage which denotes the very unique, extremely specific emotion you're experiencing so that you can capture your reader and hold him in the experience with you. *sigh*

Lest I've lost you with lofty allusions to onomatopeia and imagery as they relate to weeding - meet my new friend.

We passed briefly while working around each other this afternoon. He was amenable enough, and I promised to do my very best at not disturbing his environment. See, I know nothing about gardening. For all I know, he plans on snacking on my every last viola. Again, we shall see.

My other (much better, bit cuter, more verbal) little friend helped by watering the gnome. Very important, gnome-watering. How else is he going to grow? I ask you. I shall have to pick up some small flowering plant to nestle in his little bucket for her....or, just let her live in her perfect imaginary little world where gnome-watering is crucial and necessary to said gnome's existence. I'm kind of leaning towards the latter.

And when did I start capitalizing things again? Well that's an interesting little step in a different direction. Feels less cobwebby. I think I might just like it. I think I might just keep it.

Incidentally - something else I'll keep, and store in the forefront of this mangled, tangled brain of mine....the very warm and pleasant, kelly-green appearing and smoky espresso smelling thoughts of those Great Starbucks Customers who matter more than they know, with their genuine appreciation of my work.....I'd name you all and your drink, but I know not every red-blooded American is as prone to airing their dirty chai laundry as I am.

Aren't hostas gorgeous?

-A Changed Woman