As a digital court reporter, I've encountered my share of 'software errors' in the past 4 years. Usually, it's really annoying, but sometimes, if the audio feed I'm listening to gets stopped for a minute or two for whatever reason, after the glitch has worked itself out, the voices come through trying to 'catch themselves up'. The attorneys, Judge, witnesses, or whomever was speaking, rush through my headphones with these adorable Chipmunk characteristics (if you've never heard someone say, "I object! That's hearsay!! in a chipmunk voice, you're missing out. I like to take it a step further and imagine a little chipmunk standing on the podium in glasses, a little tie, maybe a briefcase. It's the 'small things' that get me through the day.)
So....imagine...there was a glitch in my system. And now, here I go, playing catch up on my favorite moments of 2011 in my very best chipmunk voice....
8. The day Michael built a fort under my desk at work, complete with lights, cameras (of the iPad variety), and of course action. It was a 'full circle' moment, recalling days of old when I used to do the same under my Dad's desk.
9. During a Chicago getaway with Jim, we were wandering the streets of downtown when we stumbled upon a free classical concert in the the park. We pulled up a patch of grass (of the real Illinois variety), grabbed some cheap wine, and had one of the most romantic evenings to date. It seems our unplanned dates are always the best!
10. If I didn't condense them, they would take up 10 spots, so in the spirit of #10: the ten nights (and days) I spent with one Liam Edward this year!!!!!! I do love that nephew of mine.
11. Any and all nights out spent with the best friends in the world: Mandi, Samantha, Kristina, Lauren, Alec, Vanessa....some of my very favorite people!
12. A fall cub scouts camp out with Michael and Jim---there is nothing better than watching your children grow and learn!
13. A peaceful conclusion to a trying chapter in my life. Many thanks to Heiko for that.
14. A trip to NYC with one of my best friends!! Don't underestimate the stamina of 2 girls, a great pair of walking shoes, lots of layers, and 3 wide open days in the city!!
15. Gettin' Buggy--Michael's very first stage performance!!
16. And speaking of--a weekend of 'theatah'. Michael and I attended Shrek the musical at Bob Carr and James and the Giant Peach at the Orlando Repertory Theatre (a favorite spot for us). He's my little budding actor!! Or audience member...either way, appreciating the arts just like his Mama :)
17. My [future] Mother in law taught me how to make buckeyes!
18. Sunset on a plane. On our way home from a wedding in Ohio (Kyle+Sarah!) Jim and I had what felt like a front row seat to the earth's rotation....it was hauntingly beautiful from that altitude.
19. A gazillion Friday night sleepovers with Michael. He's a bed hog...but it is the best tradition EVER!
20. Jim, myself, Michael, Samantha, Kevin, and Mackenzie spent an entire day at Animal Kingdom in the rain. It literally did not stop raining once, we were totally soaked. It was soggy and messy, (and empty!) and absolutely will go down as one of the best trips to Disney ever in my book!
21. Les Miserables!!! Every time I get to see this, it will rank high on my list...(look for it AGAIN in 2012!) :-D
22-24 will be posted tomorrow, and look for a big finale on Christmas day :-) (I've promised the Chipmunks...this time it won't be late!)
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Sweet Silver Bells
7. An epiphany.
In 2010, my seams came apart. That's a metaphor, meanies. I did gain weight in 2010, but none of my clothes actually ripped as a result (thankfully). So if 2010 was my undoing, or the residual effects of it at least (2009 wasn't pretty, either. In fact, 2006-2010 were pretty rough, it's safe to assume), 2011 was time to sew it up, not screw it up. I made a promise, for my own personal health, as well as the health of my family and friends, to un-zombify myself. I mean, I do love zombies, of all kinds. But--I was tired of feeling like one. I had too long allowed the past and my perception of it to navigate my feelings and emotions. I was tired of telling the same story to the same people. I was tired of carrying around my insecurities and anger and resentment. I wanted to air out the dirty laundry, but then I wanted to wash it and start wearing it again! I look good in trust and compassion and hope and optimism....but I hadn't been able to really wear them for a long time. And not JUST because I gained weight. I knew I was dating the man I was meant to marry, and I had a son relying on me for guidance and to be an example of what love looks like and how to show it. I owed it to both of them to figure myself out. I owed it to myself. I made the decision that my first priority in 2011 was to get a therapist...because up and until that point, nothing, not even the love and reassurance of my friends+family (which was offered in overwhelming quantities) was really helping me cope with an intensely emotionally abusive situation I had endured for over 5 years.
Therapy isn't for everyone. I've had more than a few people balk at my admission that I sought the services of a therapist. I've had even more balk at the fact that I went through a religiously based charitable organization. For a long time, I didn't think it was for me. But with enough sleepless nights, and Lily Allen lyrics posted on facebook....a girl will try anything. I tried therapy. I LOVED therapy. My counselor was still in school (part of going through a charitable organization usually means reduced or subsidized prices , PhD students trying to earn hours, and pro bono counselors.) However, she was young, and fresh, and eager, which was exactly what I needed. I went through the aforementioned Catholic Charities, who employs United Way to assist in the counseling department (just in case some of you are shying away from the charity on its basis of faith). The whole experience was, for me, very liberating. I sat down in her office the first time and just talked, and talked, and talked, with some minimal directive prodding on her part. I remember a couple months in, my Mom asking me if I felt better, or felt like it was helping to get the perspective of an outsider. I did feel that way...but I also felt like there was something else building up. I couldn't put my finger on it...it was like being in a maze and I was so close to reaching the end, but I just couldn't see it, yet.
When, finally, one day it just happened. I had been tugging at the same weed for almost 2 years...and suddenly there it was, roots and all. The force of pulling it up pretty much knocked me over. That is to say, I had a cliche breakdown in my counselors little office, complete with tears, Kleenex, andRobin Williams telling me it wasn't my fault. Saved by the bells of an Epiphany! It wasn't the one thing I needed to heal...but it was the one thing I needed to start the process. I gained an understanding of myself, and, really, that's what I was looking for more than anything else. I felt empowered and enlightened. I finally felt like I was allowed to live my life according to my standards and no one else's. The most essential judgment that mattered, was my own! That may be obvious to some of you, but my feeble little soul needed a heavy handed reminder. It was such a huge moment for me in 2011, that I almost wonder if it shouldn't be kicked to #1....but, no. There are more important ones to come :-)
Moreover, what therapy taught me, was the importance in seeking help if you've been in a traumatic situation of any kind! Maybe you don't want to visit your local Dr. Examinatoroftheheadandheart, but ignoring, or burying the bad things that have happened, or that you've witnessed in your life, will only cause a deeper manifestation of your fears and pain. So--especially to victims of domestic abuse: physical, emotional, what have you: Don't wait!! Get out, and get help. You'll never regret that you did!!
Here are some really stellar sources to start with:
http://www.ncadv.org/
http://www.loveisrespect.org/is-this-abuse/types-of-abuse/what-is-emotional-verbal-abuse?gclid=CJqe1Yek7qwCFcPv7QodFy11gA
http://www.thehotline.org/
Because in all seriousness, Robin Williams was right....it really ISN'T your fault.
Man, that really got your Christmas spirit on, right!? Maybe this will instead:
In 2010, my seams came apart. That's a metaphor, meanies. I did gain weight in 2010, but none of my clothes actually ripped as a result (thankfully). So if 2010 was my undoing, or the residual effects of it at least (2009 wasn't pretty, either. In fact, 2006-2010 were pretty rough, it's safe to assume), 2011 was time to sew it up, not screw it up. I made a promise, for my own personal health, as well as the health of my family and friends, to un-zombify myself. I mean, I do love zombies, of all kinds. But--I was tired of feeling like one. I had too long allowed the past and my perception of it to navigate my feelings and emotions. I was tired of telling the same story to the same people. I was tired of carrying around my insecurities and anger and resentment. I wanted to air out the dirty laundry, but then I wanted to wash it and start wearing it again! I look good in trust and compassion and hope and optimism....but I hadn't been able to really wear them for a long time. And not JUST because I gained weight. I knew I was dating the man I was meant to marry, and I had a son relying on me for guidance and to be an example of what love looks like and how to show it. I owed it to both of them to figure myself out. I owed it to myself. I made the decision that my first priority in 2011 was to get a therapist...because up and until that point, nothing, not even the love and reassurance of my friends+family (which was offered in overwhelming quantities) was really helping me cope with an intensely emotionally abusive situation I had endured for over 5 years.
Therapy isn't for everyone. I've had more than a few people balk at my admission that I sought the services of a therapist. I've had even more balk at the fact that I went through a religiously based charitable organization. For a long time, I didn't think it was for me. But with enough sleepless nights, and Lily Allen lyrics posted on facebook....a girl will try anything. I tried therapy. I LOVED therapy. My counselor was still in school (part of going through a charitable organization usually means reduced or subsidized prices , PhD students trying to earn hours, and pro bono counselors.) However, she was young, and fresh, and eager, which was exactly what I needed. I went through the aforementioned Catholic Charities, who employs United Way to assist in the counseling department (just in case some of you are shying away from the charity on its basis of faith). The whole experience was, for me, very liberating. I sat down in her office the first time and just talked, and talked, and talked, with some minimal directive prodding on her part. I remember a couple months in, my Mom asking me if I felt better, or felt like it was helping to get the perspective of an outsider. I did feel that way...but I also felt like there was something else building up. I couldn't put my finger on it...it was like being in a maze and I was so close to reaching the end, but I just couldn't see it, yet.
When, finally, one day it just happened. I had been tugging at the same weed for almost 2 years...and suddenly there it was, roots and all. The force of pulling it up pretty much knocked me over. That is to say, I had a cliche breakdown in my counselors little office, complete with tears, Kleenex, and
Moreover, what therapy taught me, was the importance in seeking help if you've been in a traumatic situation of any kind! Maybe you don't want to visit your local Dr. Examinatoroftheheadandheart, but ignoring, or burying the bad things that have happened, or that you've witnessed in your life, will only cause a deeper manifestation of your fears and pain. So--especially to victims of domestic abuse: physical, emotional, what have you: Don't wait!! Get out, and get help. You'll never regret that you did!!
Here are some really stellar sources to start with:
http://www.ncadv.org/
http://www.loveisrespect.org/is-this-abuse/types-of-abuse/what-is-emotional-verbal-abuse?gclid=CJqe1Yek7qwCFcPv7QodFy11gA
http://www.thehotline.org/
Because in all seriousness, Robin Williams was right....it really ISN'T your fault.
Man, that really got your Christmas spirit on, right!? Maybe this will instead:
 |
| Source: http://www.metzgercartoons.com/holiday-single-panels.html |
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
On the First Day of Christmas
These are such busy times, it's almost painful when I sit down to write my blog! And yet...these are such busy times, it's almost painful when I can't sit down to write my blog!! My mind is so clogged with times, gifts, dates, lists, WORK (oh woe is work....what was that onion article again??) that every time I sit down, I'm distracted by the ten other things I need to do (or feel I need to do) in that half hour. I can't stay focused on any one thing for mroe than 5 minutes (look at that. I wrote mroe. MROE! I'm leaving it. That's how busy I am. No time to go back and change, only time to use it as fodder for blogging), let alone my blog. I start to write, leave it, and then come back and think, 'oh my gosh, that is all wrong. I am so not feeling that right now.' So I delete it, and start back at point A....write a little...leave it.....delete it........rinse and repeat. It's a vicious cycle.
So, I'm cheating. I have to keep flexing my creative muscles, so I'm using this month to count down to 2012 with my top 25 moments of 2011. I'm already behind, so here's the first six!
1. December and January are a trifecta for me. Celebrated are: the birth of a relationship (M+J fo eva), the birth of my homeboy Jesus, and the birth of my other homeboy Jim! Last January, we celebrated our little cluster with a camping trip with some friends, and an ice hockey game. Only--the temperatures (for both) were freezing! We spent an entire night in the lap of Tampa Bay, with lows in the 30's, in a nylon tent (orsomethinglikethat), 2 layers of clothes, some sleeping bags, and each other. But we didn't give up! We built a fire, drank a lot, ate a lot...and even had a run-in with some raccoons. The little buggers stole our marshmellows!! And it gets better--we stole them back!!! (true story). It was just like The Great Outdoors , only John Candy was replaced with Kevin Burn; a 55 year old retired Floridian trapped in the body of a 28 year old banker. And maybe there weren't all the bears and lightning strikes...just beers and lightning hockey players. In any case, it was an immensely fun adventure to kick off our 2011!
2. Michael began his baseball career! Missing teeth and all; and he played for the CUBBIES!
3. I PAID OFF MY CAR! let me emphasize my excitement a second time. I PAID OFF MY CAR!!!!!
4. I saw these guys in concert!
And these guys!!!
And this dude
And these kids
And this gal
And these guys killed.
and it was a good year for music.
5. A sad day when we bid farewell to James and Stella
But a happy moment when we welcomed Ms. Fiona into our family!
6. We discovered a world of fun on our webcam! (and I taught Michael how to speak with a British accent).
So, I'm cheating. I have to keep flexing my creative muscles, so I'm using this month to count down to 2012 with my top 25 moments of 2011. I'm already behind, so here's the first six!
1. December and January are a trifecta for me. Celebrated are: the birth of a relationship (M+J fo eva), the birth of my homeboy Jesus, and the birth of my other homeboy Jim! Last January, we celebrated our little cluster with a camping trip with some friends, and an ice hockey game. Only--the temperatures (for both) were freezing! We spent an entire night in the lap of Tampa Bay, with lows in the 30's, in a nylon tent (orsomethinglikethat), 2 layers of clothes, some sleeping bags, and each other. But we didn't give up! We built a fire, drank a lot, ate a lot...and even had a run-in with some raccoons. The little buggers stole our marshmellows!! And it gets better--we stole them back!!! (true story). It was just like The Great Outdoors , only John Candy was replaced with Kevin Burn; a 55 year old retired Floridian trapped in the body of a 28 year old banker. And maybe there weren't all the bears and lightning strikes...just beers and lightning hockey players. In any case, it was an immensely fun adventure to kick off our 2011!
 |
| Jim, Mo, and layers for a Florida cold wave. |
 |
| our partners in crime, shivering and pretending not to hate us for inviting them camping in January! |
 |
| will break the curse in 2027 |
4. I saw these guys in concert!
And these guys!!!
And this dude
And these kids
And this gal
And these guys killed.
and it was a good year for music.
5. A sad day when we bid farewell to James and Stella
 |
| Brothers don't shake hands. Brothers hug! |
 |
| anyone for a game of quiddich? |
But a happy moment when we welcomed Ms. Fiona into our family!
 |
| This isn't the thread count I'm accustomed to. |
 |
| You look bloody fanTAStic! |
Haven't had enough!? More tomorrow :)
Monday, November 28, 2011
Talking Heads
Money, honey. It's all I can think of these days. Which, I think for most people, is usual for this time of year. I'm constantly balancing in my head how much I've spent on each of my Christmas giftees, keeping a mental tab on my "credits" versus my "debits". I know there are fancy little apps that help a girl with all that jazz, but I'm organic (and prone to user error). And, as most things, likely to download or buy one and never use it at all. Precisely the biggest part of my problem! Money can burn a hole in my pocket faster than these guys can burn down the house. I'm constantly talking myself into, and then out of, and again into a good deal. "But those marvel hero's cookie cutters are 20% off! It doesn't matter that I never make cookies from scratch, or don't have a clue how to frost Spiderman's mask. Someday I might need that!" I'm an ad exec's dream come true, so easily convinced of a deal I can't afford to miss! At a time when I should be focusing on what really matters, it's so easy to get distracted by the glitz and glam of a good sale! Or just the glam of the season. Fortunately, for me, I have a grounded family, a generous fiance, and a humble child (well, sort of). We're not prone to requesting gifts we know we can't afford, or expect anyone to go into debt trying to fill the spots under the tree. We know Santa's sleigh makes a pretty big delivery on Dec. 24 1/2th, and so we're conscious of how much space our bag takes up.
That said, it's always nice to get little reminders here and there of how others give. I pay close attention to those moments when they catch my eye. It's not only inspiring to see it, but, in my experience, it's sustaining. It reminds me that there are good people, doing good deeds in the world, and any effort I make isn't in vain. There are individuals who exceed expectations and rise above the bar which has been set so low by our society's greedy, glammed up, manipulative market for giving. One such experience happened last week. I was in church...early for a change, having just dropped Michael off at Sunday School. Jim and I sat down and as the pews filled up, a woman assisting an older woman sat in front of us. I couldn't help but notice how affectionate and attentive the younger woman appeared to be, and quickly discerned that she was there with her mother (it also helped that she said 'Mom' several times). She kept her arm around her Mom, rubbing her shoulder, helped her find the page, and follow it. When it came time to kneel, she whispered "I'll kneel for both of us, Mom," a smile never leaving her face. I don't know why, but it struck a chord with me that's been ringing ever since. It's not abnormal to see these kinds of relationships, especially in a church. Lots of people care for ailing and elderly parents and family members, helping them to do those daily tasks which we so easily do and take for granted. Lots of people come to church as a family, helping each other, worshipping with each other. I even know a few who do it despite a difference in beliefs...just because they love their parents or grandparents that much. I couldn't tell you what it was about these two women, their heads close together as they whispered prayers, and love back and forth, a daughter holding her mother close, and a mother leaning on her daughter....that made me so emotional. Maybe it reminded me of my Mom and me...maybe it reminded me of how tricky life is, and how quickly it goes, reversing the roles of 'parents' and 'children' as we age and our needs change. Or, maybe, I'm just a big sap with a heart that's easily stirred. Probably all three. But, regardless, I spent most of that mass praying for the two of them, that both daughter and mother; caretaker and patient; giver and receiver, may feel rested, loved, and whole.
In this season of giving, it's easy to let the chatter of the world drown out the whispered signs which are sent our way. I'm just glad for that day, that moment: a reminder that the most precious gifts we receive, and the most priceless gifts we give....aren't found on black Friday. A moment like that is something I definitely can't afford to miss.
That said, it's always nice to get little reminders here and there of how others give. I pay close attention to those moments when they catch my eye. It's not only inspiring to see it, but, in my experience, it's sustaining. It reminds me that there are good people, doing good deeds in the world, and any effort I make isn't in vain. There are individuals who exceed expectations and rise above the bar which has been set so low by our society's greedy, glammed up, manipulative market for giving. One such experience happened last week. I was in church...early for a change, having just dropped Michael off at Sunday School. Jim and I sat down and as the pews filled up, a woman assisting an older woman sat in front of us. I couldn't help but notice how affectionate and attentive the younger woman appeared to be, and quickly discerned that she was there with her mother (it also helped that she said 'Mom' several times). She kept her arm around her Mom, rubbing her shoulder, helped her find the page, and follow it. When it came time to kneel, she whispered "I'll kneel for both of us, Mom," a smile never leaving her face. I don't know why, but it struck a chord with me that's been ringing ever since. It's not abnormal to see these kinds of relationships, especially in a church. Lots of people care for ailing and elderly parents and family members, helping them to do those daily tasks which we so easily do and take for granted. Lots of people come to church as a family, helping each other, worshipping with each other. I even know a few who do it despite a difference in beliefs...just because they love their parents or grandparents that much. I couldn't tell you what it was about these two women, their heads close together as they whispered prayers, and love back and forth, a daughter holding her mother close, and a mother leaning on her daughter....that made me so emotional. Maybe it reminded me of my Mom and me...maybe it reminded me of how tricky life is, and how quickly it goes, reversing the roles of 'parents' and 'children' as we age and our needs change. Or, maybe, I'm just a big sap with a heart that's easily stirred. Probably all three. But, regardless, I spent most of that mass praying for the two of them, that both daughter and mother; caretaker and patient; giver and receiver, may feel rested, loved, and whole.
In this season of giving, it's easy to let the chatter of the world drown out the whispered signs which are sent our way. I'm just glad for that day, that moment: a reminder that the most precious gifts we receive, and the most priceless gifts we give....aren't found on black Friday. A moment like that is something I definitely can't afford to miss.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
This one's for the lonely.
Come on, friends, get up now you're not alone at all.
I am a faith filled person. For all my jabs and jokes, I'm not kidding when I say there is nothing that sustains me like faith. When I was going through a difficult time in my life, and had fallen away from faith, I was flailing for answers, completely lost. I had allowed it to become marginal, an afterthought. My soul's immune system was weak and feeble, and so I easily gave into the illnesses which plagued it...resentment, jealousy, greed...eventually becoming indifferent to my environment. When finally I was knocked down, it didn't take long for me to confront the real root of my heart ache, and it had more to do with spiritual dehydration than it did anything else I had done, or had happened to me. I began to pray. I imagined my heart with missing a half, like a torn piece of paper with jagged edges. Each time I went to mass, each time I prayed, each time I reached out to another person, those missing pieces of my heart would regenerate. I told myself that it would take a long time before my heart would be strong, and complete. It might even be a lifetime journey. After all, 'Rome wasn't built in a day.' But every day, I pictured it. I closed my eyes, concentrating where I had left off the day before, and imagined my heart being filled, expanding to bridge the void which had been left by sadness, regret....apathy. That time, as all time, blurs out of focus the farther I move from it. I always think of it, though, as a reminder of how far my faith has come, and how blessed my life has been.
You see, I've never known what it is like to feel truly lonely. I'm sure I haven't. I don't know how it feels to have not a soul to call my own, a friend to hold my hand, or a parent or sibling to listen and soothe. I owe that to my faith. Because what I finally realized from all that praying, and envisioning my beating heart, is that I have the most invaluable asset in the entire universe. I have ME. I was gifted with the cognizance to recognize my strengths, with my weaknesses, the people who've been given me to enhance those strengths, and patch those weaknesses. I have the innate ability to pick myself up, and dust myself off, and keep moving. There is no greater gift than the gift of love, and I can love myself. Once I learned that--really learned it, I more clearly understood the responsibility we are each tasked with: loving ourselves, loving others as ourselves, when they've strayed from self-love to self-loathing. We have our work cut out for us. I work in a place fraught with people who don't love themselves. They treat their bodies and their lives with no respect, which results in the crimes they commit, and the hatred and indifference they show to their community and its citizens. But I wouldn't even need a front row seat in the courtroom to be exposed to the likes of such people. I would need only to live in our world--it's splashed across headlines each day. My heart, whole it now is, hurts for all those who suffer at the hands of callous individuals, but it hurts for those individuals, too. Because I believe, with my whole heart, that there is no such thing as good and evil people...only good and evil acts. Each of us has the chance, the talents, the strength, an inherent spark to rise up and meet the low times in our lives, and rebuke the temptation to hurt ourselves and others.
I don't picture my heart anymore in order to heal it....because, thank God, and right now, I don't need to. I ask, instead, for more room, more strength, more time. I know it's in me...it's in each of us. As we all prepare to go off and celebrate a day of thanks, I ask myself why giving thanks gets only one day to be recognized. We should be thankful every. single. day. We should be recognizing what our gifts are, and then using those gifts to help the 'lonely' and the 'lowly', each other, and ourselves. I can tell you with absolute certainty that 'it IS in giving that we receive'. If only each person in the world took the time to have faith, will faith, and give faith through whichever path we follow!! Can you even imagine the outcome!?
We could build Rome in a day.
I am a faith filled person. For all my jabs and jokes, I'm not kidding when I say there is nothing that sustains me like faith. When I was going through a difficult time in my life, and had fallen away from faith, I was flailing for answers, completely lost. I had allowed it to become marginal, an afterthought. My soul's immune system was weak and feeble, and so I easily gave into the illnesses which plagued it...resentment, jealousy, greed...eventually becoming indifferent to my environment. When finally I was knocked down, it didn't take long for me to confront the real root of my heart ache, and it had more to do with spiritual dehydration than it did anything else I had done, or had happened to me. I began to pray. I imagined my heart with missing a half, like a torn piece of paper with jagged edges. Each time I went to mass, each time I prayed, each time I reached out to another person, those missing pieces of my heart would regenerate. I told myself that it would take a long time before my heart would be strong, and complete. It might even be a lifetime journey. After all, 'Rome wasn't built in a day.' But every day, I pictured it. I closed my eyes, concentrating where I had left off the day before, and imagined my heart being filled, expanding to bridge the void which had been left by sadness, regret....apathy. That time, as all time, blurs out of focus the farther I move from it. I always think of it, though, as a reminder of how far my faith has come, and how blessed my life has been.
You see, I've never known what it is like to feel truly lonely. I'm sure I haven't. I don't know how it feels to have not a soul to call my own, a friend to hold my hand, or a parent or sibling to listen and soothe. I owe that to my faith. Because what I finally realized from all that praying, and envisioning my beating heart, is that I have the most invaluable asset in the entire universe. I have ME. I was gifted with the cognizance to recognize my strengths, with my weaknesses, the people who've been given me to enhance those strengths, and patch those weaknesses. I have the innate ability to pick myself up, and dust myself off, and keep moving. There is no greater gift than the gift of love, and I can love myself. Once I learned that--really learned it, I more clearly understood the responsibility we are each tasked with: loving ourselves, loving others as ourselves, when they've strayed from self-love to self-loathing. We have our work cut out for us. I work in a place fraught with people who don't love themselves. They treat their bodies and their lives with no respect, which results in the crimes they commit, and the hatred and indifference they show to their community and its citizens. But I wouldn't even need a front row seat in the courtroom to be exposed to the likes of such people. I would need only to live in our world--it's splashed across headlines each day. My heart, whole it now is, hurts for all those who suffer at the hands of callous individuals, but it hurts for those individuals, too. Because I believe, with my whole heart, that there is no such thing as good and evil people...only good and evil acts. Each of us has the chance, the talents, the strength, an inherent spark to rise up and meet the low times in our lives, and rebuke the temptation to hurt ourselves and others.
I don't picture my heart anymore in order to heal it....because, thank God, and right now, I don't need to. I ask, instead, for more room, more strength, more time. I know it's in me...it's in each of us. As we all prepare to go off and celebrate a day of thanks, I ask myself why giving thanks gets only one day to be recognized. We should be thankful every. single. day. We should be recognizing what our gifts are, and then using those gifts to help the 'lonely' and the 'lowly', each other, and ourselves. I can tell you with absolute certainty that 'it IS in giving that we receive'. If only each person in the world took the time to have faith, will faith, and give faith through whichever path we follow!! Can you even imagine the outcome!?
We could build Rome in a day.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Yo Momma so Hipster...
she's where GOODWILL donates clothes. #stuffkidswillsomedaysay
Happy Friday!! It's almost Thanksgiving!!!!! I plan on sharing a short story that I wrote next week (DEEP BREATH).....and since I said it blog loud, now I will feel pressure to follow through on that. In the mean time, I'm thankful for the following:
this song and this song, too
a blessed life
a job
a good education
Panera's mac n cheese
redheads named Michael
green eyed guys named Jim
a giant network of love/family/friendship
my head
my heart
Portland (thank you for the music)
working legs
grilled cheese and tomato soup
Jam Jar
Faith
a Faith community in which to share
raw fish
sweet tea
flats
yoga skirts
summer lovin'
marriage
my beautiful engagement ring (well, I am)
my beautiful engagement
an ocean-times-infinity of love for my child
and right here. so I can vet the world, and the world can vet my dreams/ hopes/ aspirations/ loves/ thoughts/ words/ prayers/ opinions/ bad yo momma jokes.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends and family :) I'm overwhelmed with how beautiful and happy and blessed this year has been for me. I have so much to be thankful for...and I'm thankful for that most of all.
My Love to all....
MM
Happy Friday!! It's almost Thanksgiving!!!!! I plan on sharing a short story that I wrote next week (DEEP BREATH).....and since I said it blog loud, now I will feel pressure to follow through on that. In the mean time, I'm thankful for the following:
this song and this song, too
a blessed life
a job
a good education
Panera's mac n cheese
redheads named Michael
green eyed guys named Jim
a giant network of love/family/friendship
my head
my heart
Portland (thank you for the music)
working legs
grilled cheese and tomato soup
Jam Jar
Faith
a Faith community in which to share
raw fish
sweet tea
flats
yoga skirts
summer lovin'
marriage
my beautiful engagement ring (well, I am)
my beautiful engagement
an ocean-times-infinity of love for my child
and right here. so I can vet the world, and the world can vet my dreams/ hopes/ aspirations/ loves/ thoughts/ words/ prayers/ opinions/ bad yo momma jokes.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends and family :) I'm overwhelmed with how beautiful and happy and blessed this year has been for me. I have so much to be thankful for...and I'm thankful for that most of all.
My Love to all....
MM
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Freud Green Tomatoes.
In my parallel life, I'm a psychologist. I obsess over decoding human behavior. I even pride myself on my accurate predictions when the feelings/fears/flaws/hopes/denials of my kindred are related to me after they are finally realized. Because, (like any good pseudo head doctor) you can't just come out and be direct with the object of your analysis. They have to figure it out for themselves! I keep my opinions to myself, listen, love and support, and give myself a private pat on the back if my thoughts are proved correct.
It's been my experience that each of us has these territorial wealth's of knowledge; subjects on which we feel, or have been deemed experts. I especially find this to be the case for my peers. Now 4, 5, and 6 years out of academia, some more recently with advanced degrees, we're all working in different industries, having been well-Christened in our various crafts. Some of us are nurses, some on the way to being doctors, some lawyers, teachers, engineers, personal trainers, some Moms and Dads, some law enforcement....the spectrum is wide and diverse. And some of us (ahem, Dr. Laughlin does have a nice ring to it) feel perfectly at ease asserting ownership over our hobbies. That's what it really is, isn't it? These little parts of the world that we feel we own, we've purchased the "rights" to. Whether it's the music we love, or the parts of the world we're from, our jobs, even relationships we've had and things that have happened to us...we each assert part of ourselves to those things, and those things to parts of ourselves.
I live in the south, but I've never claimed ownership over being southern....most of my friends who might call themselves such would probably laugh at me if I did. But it's always been fascinating to me, that dynamic of the deep south. I grew up in in the Midwest, but have *almost* reached the point where I've lived here longer than I lived there. And while most would agree that you have to go north to go really south, that southern culture resonates loud and strong in certain parts of Florida. Rather than proselytize my opinions on what the south has come to represent in modern pop culture (based on living among self-proclaimed "Southerners" for almost 12 years), I'd rather explore it as I've come to know it through literature and music. And, it's my contention, that it's a beautiful, dark thing...and has very little to do with geography. There are so many great artists and writers and musicians who chronicle the southern experience, and they're not all cowboys and country stars, y'all. I wouldn't define the south through a country singer, but through a melancholy one. That person could come from Los Angeles, CA, Piedmont, N.D., Birmingham, AL....or Chillicothe, IL. The history of the south is so marked with hate and tragedy. We all know that. And the south is still so defined by all those events that sometimes it becomes difficult to separate history from reality. It's easy to become entrenched in the romantic ideals of the past. However; it has passed, and it's in that space between memory and actuality that I've found my niche...for now.
I've done some evolving over the past 11 1/2 years. I've invented and reinvented myself, and reinvented myself again. An I'm not even 30. But...as much as I love the Midwest...I've come to know myself as a southerner. I'm flawed and I know it. I live with the mistakes I've made. I've been hurt, and persevered nonetheless. In our modern world, reinventing yourself isn't just a good idea, but an essential one. That popular phrase 'go big, or go home', which so many 'round these parts proclaim, isn't totally accurate, in my humble opinion. Evolve, or go home. Who we are and those pieces of this world we own, aren't always synonymous. If we want to progress, if we want to be relevant, we can't rely solely on the past and on what we used to do, or maybe even what we want to do. I watch these individuals who are 'occupying' Wall Street, and I understand the anger and frustration they feel. We live in big, bureaucratic society and it's easy to feel suffocated by its nature. But I can't say I believe their path is the truest one to change....mostly because I don't believe change is an urgent or even tangible thing. Change: evolution: reinvention....if there's one thing I've learned, it's that these things don't happen over night, and they certainly don't happen with out movement and action. I've planted my feet in times of crisis, and I can tell you with total sincerity, it's never born me any fruit. Get up...enact change with a voice, but don't expect anyone to speak for you, or hand you an answer. Be who you are, but do what you must to survive...to evolve. I'm a corn-fed, farm-lovin', liberal minded, southern girl. I accept the melancholy that life throws my way, because life and happiness aren't always synonymous either, despite our fevered pursuit of both.
Maybe, someday, those occupiers will realize that.
It's been my experience that each of us has these territorial wealth's of knowledge; subjects on which we feel, or have been deemed experts. I especially find this to be the case for my peers. Now 4, 5, and 6 years out of academia, some more recently with advanced degrees, we're all working in different industries, having been well-Christened in our various crafts. Some of us are nurses, some on the way to being doctors, some lawyers, teachers, engineers, personal trainers, some Moms and Dads, some law enforcement....the spectrum is wide and diverse. And some of us (ahem, Dr. Laughlin does have a nice ring to it) feel perfectly at ease asserting ownership over our hobbies. That's what it really is, isn't it? These little parts of the world that we feel we own, we've purchased the "rights" to. Whether it's the music we love, or the parts of the world we're from, our jobs, even relationships we've had and things that have happened to us...we each assert part of ourselves to those things, and those things to parts of ourselves.
I live in the south, but I've never claimed ownership over being southern....most of my friends who might call themselves such would probably laugh at me if I did. But it's always been fascinating to me, that dynamic of the deep south. I grew up in in the Midwest, but have *almost* reached the point where I've lived here longer than I lived there. And while most would agree that you have to go north to go really south, that southern culture resonates loud and strong in certain parts of Florida. Rather than proselytize my opinions on what the south has come to represent in modern pop culture (based on living among self-proclaimed "Southerners" for almost 12 years), I'd rather explore it as I've come to know it through literature and music. And, it's my contention, that it's a beautiful, dark thing...and has very little to do with geography. There are so many great artists and writers and musicians who chronicle the southern experience, and they're not all cowboys and country stars, y'all. I wouldn't define the south through a country singer, but through a melancholy one. That person could come from Los Angeles, CA, Piedmont, N.D., Birmingham, AL....or Chillicothe, IL. The history of the south is so marked with hate and tragedy. We all know that. And the south is still so defined by all those events that sometimes it becomes difficult to separate history from reality. It's easy to become entrenched in the romantic ideals of the past. However; it has passed, and it's in that space between memory and actuality that I've found my niche...for now.
I've done some evolving over the past 11 1/2 years. I've invented and reinvented myself, and reinvented myself again. An I'm not even 30. But...as much as I love the Midwest...I've come to know myself as a southerner. I'm flawed and I know it. I live with the mistakes I've made. I've been hurt, and persevered nonetheless. In our modern world, reinventing yourself isn't just a good idea, but an essential one. That popular phrase 'go big, or go home', which so many 'round these parts proclaim, isn't totally accurate, in my humble opinion. Evolve, or go home. Who we are and those pieces of this world we own, aren't always synonymous. If we want to progress, if we want to be relevant, we can't rely solely on the past and on what we used to do, or maybe even what we want to do. I watch these individuals who are 'occupying' Wall Street, and I understand the anger and frustration they feel. We live in big, bureaucratic society and it's easy to feel suffocated by its nature. But I can't say I believe their path is the truest one to change....mostly because I don't believe change is an urgent or even tangible thing. Change: evolution: reinvention....if there's one thing I've learned, it's that these things don't happen over night, and they certainly don't happen with out movement and action. I've planted my feet in times of crisis, and I can tell you with total sincerity, it's never born me any fruit. Get up...enact change with a voice, but don't expect anyone to speak for you, or hand you an answer. Be who you are, but do what you must to survive...to evolve. I'm a corn-fed, farm-lovin', liberal minded, southern girl. I accept the melancholy that life throws my way, because life and happiness aren't always synonymous either, despite our fevered pursuit of both.
Maybe, someday, those occupiers will realize that.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Happy New Day!
It's never too early to start thinking about New Years Resolutions...and if I can think about them now, why do I have to wait until January 1st to act on them? I think exercising your soul is right up there with exercising your body...after all, the former is what needs to be in good shape when I die....or so I believe. And, admittedly, I'm not very good at exercising my body or my soul. So one of my resolutions is to find ways I can improve. How can I be a better person? The list is long...but I had to start somewhere.
They say that your sister is your best friend....and I'm happy to say this rings true for my sister and me. From a young age we shared many things....red hair, freckles, subsequent sunburns, clothes (much to her chagrin), barbies, dress up clothes, and an affinity for performance. I always thought we were best described through this song. (A fitting description, I might add). The actual scene from the movie is so much better, but youtube didn't deliver so....guess you'll just have to watch it at Christmas time!! You'll thank me later. After spending some quality time with my sister this past weekend wedding dress shopping (insert EEK! Her visit also accounts for my 9 day blog hiatus), I got to thinking about what makes a sisterly dynamic great. For us, we talk often, we're honest with each other, and we're forgiving of each other's flaws and bad habits.
I'm a believer that while your sister can be your best friend, your best friends can also be your sisters. Each of us is connected somehow, even if simply on the base level of our anatomical bond of gender. We each know what it's like to be a female. Past that, we're admittedly entirely unique, from the red, blonde, brown, black, grey, and maybe the occasional pink and purple heads. And still further we differ with emotional attachments, skills, education, family lifestyle, life experience, cultural paradigm. There is one thing, though, as a female, that I just can't escape. The gossip ring. You may also know it as the grapevine, small talk, meddling, chitter chatter, pick-a-little-talk-a-little, telephone, prattle, the dirty laundry, and hearsay for the elitist crowd (ba dum CHA). It's not the first time I've referenced my Achilles heel for gossip. Almost every circus in which I travel, there is a gossip ring: school Moms, work girls, my friends, my family, at the gym (well...the few times I've been anyway), even in my church I'm ashamed to say. And who can forget the world of digital gossip invited by social networking?? That's a lot of tongue wagging.
As I did some self reflection, I became a little discouraged. Girls, we're witches sometimes! And that's not even my word of choice....but I do try to keep my blog PG. I thought of all the ways in which I have initiated or participated in criticizing my fellow women and I began to feel downright awful. No one deserves my judgment, my small-minded opinion. I don't care what she's done to me, or how she's behaved in front of me. And truth be told; more often than not I issue critiques on people I don't even know about things that don't even matter; hair, clothes, makeup, shoes. The fact is, if we are so different from each other, than we should let ourselves BE different from each other without the footnotes and asterisks. I can't control what those around me will do or say, but I can certainly make a conscious choice to say kind things...or...if I don't have anything nice to say, I just won't say anything at all. An oldie, but a goodie.
So, that's my resolution. Since 2011 is getting a little long in the tooth, I'll call it my Old Year's Resolution....for New Wednesday! Footloose and Gossip Free.
And...in case you're wondering...I did find a wedding dress :) It's beautiful and perfectly me :)
They say that your sister is your best friend....and I'm happy to say this rings true for my sister and me. From a young age we shared many things....red hair, freckles, subsequent sunburns, clothes (much to her chagrin), barbies, dress up clothes, and an affinity for performance. I always thought we were best described through this song. (A fitting description, I might add). The actual scene from the movie is so much better, but youtube didn't deliver so....guess you'll just have to watch it at Christmas time!! You'll thank me later. After spending some quality time with my sister this past weekend wedding dress shopping (insert EEK! Her visit also accounts for my 9 day blog hiatus), I got to thinking about what makes a sisterly dynamic great. For us, we talk often, we're honest with each other, and we're forgiving of each other's flaws and bad habits.
I'm a believer that while your sister can be your best friend, your best friends can also be your sisters. Each of us is connected somehow, even if simply on the base level of our anatomical bond of gender. We each know what it's like to be a female. Past that, we're admittedly entirely unique, from the red, blonde, brown, black, grey, and maybe the occasional pink and purple heads. And still further we differ with emotional attachments, skills, education, family lifestyle, life experience, cultural paradigm. There is one thing, though, as a female, that I just can't escape. The gossip ring. You may also know it as the grapevine, small talk, meddling, chitter chatter, pick-a-little-talk-a-little, telephone, prattle, the dirty laundry, and hearsay for the elitist crowd (ba dum CHA). It's not the first time I've referenced my Achilles heel for gossip. Almost every circus in which I travel, there is a gossip ring: school Moms, work girls, my friends, my family, at the gym (well...the few times I've been anyway), even in my church I'm ashamed to say. And who can forget the world of digital gossip invited by social networking?? That's a lot of tongue wagging.
As I did some self reflection, I became a little discouraged. Girls, we're witches sometimes! And that's not even my word of choice....but I do try to keep my blog PG. I thought of all the ways in which I have initiated or participated in criticizing my fellow women and I began to feel downright awful. No one deserves my judgment, my small-minded opinion. I don't care what she's done to me, or how she's behaved in front of me. And truth be told; more often than not I issue critiques on people I don't even know about things that don't even matter; hair, clothes, makeup, shoes. The fact is, if we are so different from each other, than we should let ourselves BE different from each other without the footnotes and asterisks. I can't control what those around me will do or say, but I can certainly make a conscious choice to say kind things...or...if I don't have anything nice to say, I just won't say anything at all. An oldie, but a goodie.
So, that's my resolution. Since 2011 is getting a little long in the tooth, I'll call it my Old Year's Resolution....for New Wednesday! Footloose and Gossip Free.
And...in case you're wondering...I did find a wedding dress :) It's beautiful and perfectly me :)
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
On Ghosts.
I can't claim to be Halloween's number one fan. I am, say what you will, a Thanksgiving/Christmas girl through and through. When Jim and I started to get serious about each other, I immediately disclosed my feelings that I would someday be a "day after Halloween decorator" (because those kinds of disclosures are telling and necessary). You know the people I'm talking about. You do. I'm the girl who watches White Christmas at least 15 times before the season's end and has Nat King Cole on repeat from Thanksgiving until almost Valentine's Day. It's heartwarming and nostalgic and all kinds of cheese (my favorite thing).
But...I'm not going to talk about holiday cheer, or holiday cheese for that matter. I really am going to talk about ghosts; my least favorite thing. I am a slight Phasmophobic. I think it's related to a lot of factors...fear of the unknown, or unseen...early exposure to too many bad movies about hauntings and rings and such....the 1950's radio shows my Dad would force upon us on long, late summer night drives from Canyon Camp to Chillicothe. Throw all that together with an easily beguiled girl, and you've got one well-fueled phobia. But, regardless of its origins, my fear is there. So why (you might be asking yourself) would I want to write about them?? Every Halloween I'm forced to confront my fear, or at least sort of confront it. I can pretty well avoid the spirit world 11 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days a year, but on that last day of October, and especially now that I'm marrying a horror movie enthusiast, I usually have at least one encounter of the 3rd kind. Or sixth kind. Or whatever. This year, though...this year.....well. Read for yourself.
I started my day at work…a normal Monday, except for the dreary rainfall and the office buzz about costumes and candy and all things Halloween. The day passed, the rain passed, and eventually I made my way home. We had gone all out for Halloween this year; threw a party, put up cob webs and a graveyard, hung a dead guy from our porch, splattered fake blood (red finger paint) on our doors (not our best idea)…even left our rotting pumpkins out to complete the effect. The green light bulb which had been swapped for our normal porch light, cast an eerie, fuzzy glow over the props, making our scene complete. (I always did love a good set). After venturing out for our own trick or treating, we retreated to our base, and sat ready for the witches, and goblins, and superheroes that might come. And OH, did they ever! In groups of ten and more, faces painted, masks secured, having long abandoned their swords and wands to the care of their vigilant mothers so they could better hold the growing weight of their candy bags and pillow sacks. I decided to wait out the rush on the front steps, rather than maintain a revolving door. As the night deepened, the costumes weakened, my bowl emptied, and it seemed only the straggling teenagers were left, I decided to head inside. I tidied up my kitchen, did a little laundry, turned away the last and latest trick or treaters with ‘I’m sorry, we’re out of candy’ and ‘yes, you may have a cup of water, and isn’t it getting past your curfew??’, before finally extinguishing my lantern (which hung from an outdoor post) and turning off all other lights for bed. And just as I turned to go to my bedroom….one last knock. Frowning, and pausing in my steps, I turned, surprised and annoyed at this person who would have the nerve to approach a completely dark house and ask for candy. Peeking out the blinds, I couldn’t see anyone, so I assumed some teenagers thought they were being funny, and turned to leave again. Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap, in rapid succession. Not a slow knock, but an urgent one. A knock that said, answer now, I’m panicked. Thinking of my own baby, and what I would want a neighbor to do if he were in trouble, I rushed to the door and flung it open without even looking. I won’t say there was no one there…I couldn’t see anyone on my now darkened street. But I felt it. I felt it the way you feel a hair on your arm, or a bug on your leg. Like my Mother’s icy hand in winter on my back. And then, catching my breath, I froze. Just stood there on my front steps with a quickened pulse and paralyzed legs. My lantern had been relit. I was sure, sure, MORE THAN SURE, that I blew it out. Even watched the smoke as it curled to the sky. So I did what any sane person would do; I blew it out again, and rushed inside, locking the door behind me. Then I turned on every last damn light in that house.
Halloween 2011?? It got me good.
But...I'm not going to talk about holiday cheer, or holiday cheese for that matter. I really am going to talk about ghosts; my least favorite thing. I am a slight Phasmophobic. I think it's related to a lot of factors...fear of the unknown, or unseen...early exposure to too many bad movies about hauntings and rings and such....the 1950's radio shows my Dad would force upon us on long, late summer night drives from Canyon Camp to Chillicothe. Throw all that together with an easily beguiled girl, and you've got one well-fueled phobia. But, regardless of its origins, my fear is there. So why (you might be asking yourself) would I want to write about them?? Every Halloween I'm forced to confront my fear, or at least sort of confront it. I can pretty well avoid the spirit world 11 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days a year, but on that last day of October, and especially now that I'm marrying a horror movie enthusiast, I usually have at least one encounter of the 3rd kind. Or sixth kind. Or whatever. This year, though...this year.....well. Read for yourself.
I started my day at work…a normal Monday, except for the dreary rainfall and the office buzz about costumes and candy and all things Halloween. The day passed, the rain passed, and eventually I made my way home. We had gone all out for Halloween this year; threw a party, put up cob webs and a graveyard, hung a dead guy from our porch, splattered fake blood (red finger paint) on our doors (not our best idea)…even left our rotting pumpkins out to complete the effect. The green light bulb which had been swapped for our normal porch light, cast an eerie, fuzzy glow over the props, making our scene complete. (I always did love a good set). After venturing out for our own trick or treating, we retreated to our base, and sat ready for the witches, and goblins, and superheroes that might come. And OH, did they ever! In groups of ten and more, faces painted, masks secured, having long abandoned their swords and wands to the care of their vigilant mothers so they could better hold the growing weight of their candy bags and pillow sacks. I decided to wait out the rush on the front steps, rather than maintain a revolving door. As the night deepened, the costumes weakened, my bowl emptied, and it seemed only the straggling teenagers were left, I decided to head inside. I tidied up my kitchen, did a little laundry, turned away the last and latest trick or treaters with ‘I’m sorry, we’re out of candy’ and ‘yes, you may have a cup of water, and isn’t it getting past your curfew??’, before finally extinguishing my lantern (which hung from an outdoor post) and turning off all other lights for bed. And just as I turned to go to my bedroom….one last knock. Frowning, and pausing in my steps, I turned, surprised and annoyed at this person who would have the nerve to approach a completely dark house and ask for candy. Peeking out the blinds, I couldn’t see anyone, so I assumed some teenagers thought they were being funny, and turned to leave again. Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap, in rapid succession. Not a slow knock, but an urgent one. A knock that said, answer now, I’m panicked. Thinking of my own baby, and what I would want a neighbor to do if he were in trouble, I rushed to the door and flung it open without even looking. I won’t say there was no one there…I couldn’t see anyone on my now darkened street. But I felt it. I felt it the way you feel a hair on your arm, or a bug on your leg. Like my Mother’s icy hand in winter on my back. And then, catching my breath, I froze. Just stood there on my front steps with a quickened pulse and paralyzed legs. My lantern had been relit. I was sure, sure, MORE THAN SURE, that I blew it out. Even watched the smoke as it curled to the sky. So I did what any sane person would do; I blew it out again, and rushed inside, locking the door behind me. Then I turned on every last damn light in that house.
Halloween 2011?? It got me good.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Is this thing on?
“Blogging isn’t journalism, it’s graffiti with punctuation.”
If you saw Contagion (which I did) you may have picked up on this little gem. Honestly, it's the only real memorable thing I took away from the movie, other than a slightly nauseated stomach and the beginnings of a healthy complex. Germs and gems aside, though, I thought long and hard about that quote. Sure, at the end of the day, it was just a writer's quip, but there's something to that. It's also a slight reflection of a societal attitude, an evolving stereotype. A perpetuation of the 'idiot citizen'. We're all dumb: we talk that way, we vote that way, we write that way. I'm no whiz at statistics, but it would seem to me that if everyone is dumb...then no one is.
Why do I need a degree in journalism to share my thoughts with the world? Why do I have to have a byline that includes a history of higher education and involvement with a major corporation? Why can't I be relevant of my own accord? And that is, in case you didn't know it, what we all want. To be relevant, to have meaning, to find meaning. I'll acknowledge I'm new to this. I started my blog, and maintain it, with no expectations...and really, no clear purpose. I prefer to keep it open and without boundaries...because the minute I impose those restrictions, I am thus limiting my creative integrity. I box myself into a streamlined train of thought, and if you should know anything about me at all, it's that my trains of thought visit multiple stations. Simultaneously. And I'm motivated to write about it. It's where my passion lies, it's what I'm called to do. Some people hear music and want to play....some people taste food and want to cook. Some people feel pain and want to heal. I see the world, and I want to write. To the world, of the world. More often than not, my sphere of reference is small, and includes my immediate surroundings. But that doesn't mean I'm ignorant to the world at large, or that my voice is too drowned out to matter. I've known more than one person who refused to vote because 'my vote hardly counts any way.' That's the beauty of a free society...it does count! That's exactly what votes are in this country; counted. And why shouldn't voices be counted, too?
Blogging embraces journalism with more honesty and sincerity than does a modern journalist. The bias of the blogger isn't hidden or masked; this is ME. It's who I am, it's what I think. Unlike journalists, the majority of bloggers have yet to be tainted by the mass media, or corporate agendas. They're out there, writing, blogging, chronicling the world from the front lines, not from the sidelines. To compare it to spray painted caricatures, or to question its relevancy isn't only arrogant, it's insulting. The Internet belongs to no one, therefore it belongs to everyone.
So beware of the blogger....quiet though they creep. Because the most contagious thing of all? Is passion.
If you saw Contagion (which I did) you may have picked up on this little gem. Honestly, it's the only real memorable thing I took away from the movie, other than a slightly nauseated stomach and the beginnings of a healthy complex. Germs and gems aside, though, I thought long and hard about that quote. Sure, at the end of the day, it was just a writer's quip, but there's something to that. It's also a slight reflection of a societal attitude, an evolving stereotype. A perpetuation of the 'idiot citizen'. We're all dumb: we talk that way, we vote that way, we write that way. I'm no whiz at statistics, but it would seem to me that if everyone is dumb...then no one is.
Why do I need a degree in journalism to share my thoughts with the world? Why do I have to have a byline that includes a history of higher education and involvement with a major corporation? Why can't I be relevant of my own accord? And that is, in case you didn't know it, what we all want. To be relevant, to have meaning, to find meaning. I'll acknowledge I'm new to this. I started my blog, and maintain it, with no expectations...and really, no clear purpose. I prefer to keep it open and without boundaries...because the minute I impose those restrictions, I am thus limiting my creative integrity. I box myself into a streamlined train of thought, and if you should know anything about me at all, it's that my trains of thought visit multiple stations. Simultaneously. And I'm motivated to write about it. It's where my passion lies, it's what I'm called to do. Some people hear music and want to play....some people taste food and want to cook. Some people feel pain and want to heal. I see the world, and I want to write. To the world, of the world. More often than not, my sphere of reference is small, and includes my immediate surroundings. But that doesn't mean I'm ignorant to the world at large, or that my voice is too drowned out to matter. I've known more than one person who refused to vote because 'my vote hardly counts any way.' That's the beauty of a free society...it does count! That's exactly what votes are in this country; counted. And why shouldn't voices be counted, too?
Blogging embraces journalism with more honesty and sincerity than does a modern journalist. The bias of the blogger isn't hidden or masked; this is ME. It's who I am, it's what I think. Unlike journalists, the majority of bloggers have yet to be tainted by the mass media, or corporate agendas. They're out there, writing, blogging, chronicling the world from the front lines, not from the sidelines. To compare it to spray painted caricatures, or to question its relevancy isn't only arrogant, it's insulting. The Internet belongs to no one, therefore it belongs to everyone.
So beware of the blogger....quiet though they creep. Because the most contagious thing of all? Is passion.
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Watch Hand
As young children, my little brother and I would often go with our Dad on grocery trips to the local shopping market…(the only local shopping market in our little Illinois town…Krogers). At the time, we were made to believe we had won some mystery contest to be the lucky attendees of this foray into the world of poptarts, lunch meats, frozen pizza, and new ice cream flavors. Of course, later, we realized that we were actually being kindly disposed of by my mother…but at the time it felt like a great honor. My Dad, although a stoic and (if you’d asked my friends) generally intimidating presence, had a bit of a soft spot when it came to new products. JT and I never had trouble finagling the after school snacks we knew Mama April would NEVER purchase of her own accord. ( Pepsi clear, Surge, newly introduced french toast sticks, white cheddar cheese-its...to name a few).
James and I never fought over what food we should get, though. In fact, there was only one time we consistently fought during such outings; walking from the car, to the store. For some reason the two of us had been convinced that it was infinitely better to hold my Dad’s “watch hand,” his left hand, rather than his boring, unadorned right hand. I’m fairly confident I started this competition, while searching for any possible way to make my little brother feel his obvious inferiority. So from the second our seat belts clicked, we would race like crazy to see whose hand could be tucked into "the watch hand" faster. The winner would triumphantly claim the reward, raising it in the air like a boxer who’s just completed the 23rd round, and the loser would resign themselves to the much less important right hand, grumbling all the way to the dairy aisle. My Dad, of course, would always resolve the issue by making us switch for the trip back to the car (keeping in mind, each of these car to store excursions lasted about 15 seconds on average)…but the victory wasn’t the same, wasn’t earned, and was further disgruntling because he was usually pushing a cart, therefore limiting access to the glorified limb in question.
We took the watch hand pretty darn seriously.
The memories I have of my childhood with my Dad vary in shape and size; some are just brief moments which jump out like a highlighted paragraph, and others are entire pages which will forever be burned into the dearest part of my heart. His stories about his own childhood, his travels, his life experiences (so many stories!! Don’t ever accuse a Laughlin of being a bad story teller; or, worse, not having any stories!!), vacations we took as a family, vacations we took just the two of us, lessons he’s taught me, even punishments he’s dutifully doled out (under the stern direction of General April, of course). This one, though, the watch hand, is near and dear to me, though it was deposited long ago, and with little fanfare. It is an invaluable piece of my past; a reminder of how blessed I was as a kid to not only feel important to my Dad, but to really be important. To know that my Mom, my brothers, my sister, and I were his priority, whether it was at home, at school, on the sports field, the stage, in the church pew, or the grocery store. I remember he used to have a sign hanging on his office door in Peoria that read: "I've been called a lot of names in my life. My favorite is DAD." That's the kind of Dad he was...and is. A present Dad. An active and involved Dad. A loving Dad. Through his example he teaches us: his children, and his grandsons, what a great husband and father looks like; what great love and sacrifice look like.
Plus….he’s not bad on the ukulele, either.
James and I, as all brother and sister duos are prone to having, partook in numerous competitions…but I think the watch hand, for me, ranks in my top 5. Maybe even my top two. To this day, I would race James to stake my claim on that hand (and probably beat him soundly, since I brought it up)…but what stands out in my mind the most is that today, at 27, I would still cherish a simple trip to the grocery store…with my Dad :-)
Happy Birthday, Popsey!!! We all love you more than you'll ever know :-) xoxoxo
James and I never fought over what food we should get, though. In fact, there was only one time we consistently fought during such outings; walking from the car, to the store. For some reason the two of us had been convinced that it was infinitely better to hold my Dad’s “watch hand,” his left hand, rather than his boring, unadorned right hand. I’m fairly confident I started this competition, while searching for any possible way to make my little brother feel his obvious inferiority. So from the second our seat belts clicked, we would race like crazy to see whose hand could be tucked into "the watch hand" faster. The winner would triumphantly claim the reward, raising it in the air like a boxer who’s just completed the 23rd round, and the loser would resign themselves to the much less important right hand, grumbling all the way to the dairy aisle. My Dad, of course, would always resolve the issue by making us switch for the trip back to the car (keeping in mind, each of these car to store excursions lasted about 15 seconds on average)…but the victory wasn’t the same, wasn’t earned, and was further disgruntling because he was usually pushing a cart, therefore limiting access to the glorified limb in question.
We took the watch hand pretty darn seriously.
The memories I have of my childhood with my Dad vary in shape and size; some are just brief moments which jump out like a highlighted paragraph, and others are entire pages which will forever be burned into the dearest part of my heart. His stories about his own childhood, his travels, his life experiences (so many stories!! Don’t ever accuse a Laughlin of being a bad story teller; or, worse, not having any stories!!), vacations we took as a family, vacations we took just the two of us, lessons he’s taught me, even punishments he’s dutifully doled out (under the stern direction of General April, of course). This one, though, the watch hand, is near and dear to me, though it was deposited long ago, and with little fanfare. It is an invaluable piece of my past; a reminder of how blessed I was as a kid to not only feel important to my Dad, but to really be important. To know that my Mom, my brothers, my sister, and I were his priority, whether it was at home, at school, on the sports field, the stage, in the church pew, or the grocery store. I remember he used to have a sign hanging on his office door in Peoria that read: "I've been called a lot of names in my life. My favorite is DAD." That's the kind of Dad he was...and is. A present Dad. An active and involved Dad. A loving Dad. Through his example he teaches us: his children, and his grandsons, what a great husband and father looks like; what great love and sacrifice look like.
Plus….he’s not bad on the ukulele, either.
James and I, as all brother and sister duos are prone to having, partook in numerous competitions…but I think the watch hand, for me, ranks in my top 5. Maybe even my top two. To this day, I would race James to stake my claim on that hand (and probably beat him soundly, since I brought it up)…but what stands out in my mind the most is that today, at 27, I would still cherish a simple trip to the grocery store…with my Dad :-)
Happy Birthday, Popsey!!! We all love you more than you'll ever know :-) xoxoxo
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Happy Birthday, Michael!!!!
Birthday morning, Saturday, October 22, 2011.
Age 7!
Somebody told a funny!
Age 7!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Heart it races...Head it acheses.
It races every time I hear this song. And my head acheses with a resounding thump as a result of a long day listening to people argue (which I do for a living...not a hobby.) I sound like Smeagal/Gollum when I say 'acheses', don't I? I know it's "aches." But acheses rhymed better.
Anyway. As you can see, I'm just a well of interesting conversation today. I have no excuses; it's windy, it's Wednesday, and I 'ave an 'umpday 'eadache (in my very best Eliza Doolittle). Better now, then Saturday I always say, since it's MICHAEL'S BIRTHDAY!!!!! Oh, the excitement! My boy will be SEVEN years old, count em. I think it's been a good year for Michael. He lost 4 teeth. He learned to love reading. He got a dog and a cat (dog at Mom's; cat at Dad's). He survived a broken wrist (not so good,...but he was so brave!). He became a star on the internet (and impersonated Jon Belushi. what's cooler than Jon Belushi??). He wrote a bazillion "stories", filling approximately 20 notebooks, give or take, cover to cover with sequential drawings and captions..... (at least one of us has hope as a writer). He visited the west coast, the east coast, and the Midwest...coast (oceans of wheat and corn). And...I *think* I can officially announce....Michael is definitely a redhead. I had this fear that at some point his hair would change, darken, and he would lose that ginger glow. But...I really do believe we're out of the woods....and his spot in the Association of People who are Red in the Head is thus solidified.
So Happy Almost Birthday my 'rosy hued' freckle-faced, gap-toothed, blue-eyed boy!!!!! May your cake be batmany, your laughs be loud, and your gifts not contain thousands of easily lost small pieces. ;)
I promise to post a picture of the B-day boy on his actual birthday!! He is, after all, my greatest gift; my pride and joy, my reason for being.....the best part of me :)
And just like that? The acheses are almost gone :-)
Anyway. As you can see, I'm just a well of interesting conversation today. I have no excuses; it's windy, it's Wednesday, and I 'ave an 'umpday 'eadache (in my very best Eliza Doolittle). Better now, then Saturday I always say, since it's MICHAEL'S BIRTHDAY!!!!! Oh, the excitement! My boy will be SEVEN years old, count em. I think it's been a good year for Michael. He lost 4 teeth. He learned to love reading. He got a dog and a cat (dog at Mom's; cat at Dad's). He survived a broken wrist (not so good,...but he was so brave!). He became a star on the internet (and impersonated Jon Belushi. what's cooler than Jon Belushi??). He wrote a bazillion "stories", filling approximately 20 notebooks, give or take, cover to cover with sequential drawings and captions..... (at least one of us has hope as a writer). He visited the west coast, the east coast, and the Midwest...coast (oceans of wheat and corn). And...I *think* I can officially announce....Michael is definitely a redhead. I had this fear that at some point his hair would change, darken, and he would lose that ginger glow. But...I really do believe we're out of the woods....and his spot in the Association of People who are Red in the Head is thus solidified.
So Happy Almost Birthday my 'rosy hued' freckle-faced, gap-toothed, blue-eyed boy!!!!! May your cake be batmany, your laughs be loud, and your gifts not contain thousands of easily lost small pieces. ;)
I promise to post a picture of the B-day boy on his actual birthday!! He is, after all, my greatest gift; my pride and joy, my reason for being.....the best part of me :)
And just like that? The acheses are almost gone :-)
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Weekend State of Mind.
Since it's a bye week in this house, I'm ignoring everything but my thoughts. Unfortunately, my weekend state of mind is also a weakened state of mind, leaving little to think about. So instead of digging through my brain I dug through my documents folder.
This is near and dear to my heart. It's about hope, I think, and I wrote it when I thought I had used all mine up. Then I met this guy who read my poem, and me, pretty darn well. He saw what I couldn't and loved when I wouldn't. So...thanks, guy, for that. You're one in a million...and I'd wait for you, too.
The Last Man On Earth
Sat against the sea.
His back browned from the merciless sun and worn from weeks of enduring wave after wave wash over his flesh.
Crossed legs molded beneath the grains.
He stared back the to land, empty boats lining the beach. And waited.
This is near and dear to my heart. It's about hope, I think, and I wrote it when I thought I had used all mine up. Then I met this guy who read my poem, and me, pretty darn well. He saw what I couldn't and loved when I wouldn't. So...thanks, guy, for that. You're one in a million...and I'd wait for you, too.
The Last Man On Earth
Sat against the sea.
His back browned from the merciless sun and worn from weeks of enduring wave after wave wash over his flesh.
Crossed legs molded beneath the grains.
He stared back the to land, empty boats lining the beach. And waited.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
I get by.
I don't know much about football. But I know each team has a "bye week", when they don't have to play. (...Right??). A break from the tight pants, and shoulder pads, and fanny slapping, and running and charging and tackling, and all that other stuff they do in football. Jim would be so proud!
As a woman...as a person...as me...I have bye week remorse. If I allow something to become marginal in my life, even for a week; i.e. my house, my job, my friends, my church, my diet, my budget (hello, my name is Maureen, and I am an online shopaholic...)....God forbid my child...it eats at me for days until I somehow manage to rectify my slacker-like behavior . The guilt that already accompanies being a 'working Mom' (a phrase I've always considered redundant), is heaped onto my plate in extra large spoonfuls when I can't get the dishes done, or the floors mopped when I want to, or make a full home cooked meal, get the laundry done EVER, make sure my windows are cleaned, and my walkway swept. The list goes on.
Last night, though, when I got home from a much needed gab-sesh at one of my best friend's houses, something occurred to me. I was brushing my teeth, reflecting on the splatter of toothpaste framing my face, and how I really needed to "clean this bathroom", when suddenly I realized; the only person critiquing me, was me! Michael, I'm SURE, doesn't care in the least bit if his mirror is spic and span. In fact sometimes I think the little culprit plays 'toothbrush slingshot' to see just how speckled it can get. Jim doesn't care if his jeans are ironed (go ahead...make fun of me...), or if I manage to be one of those crafty-muffin baking-spotless house-kind of wives. Jim (and I feel confident speaking for him) fell in love with me....not who he wants me to be. He fell in love with me as a Mom, as a writer, as a thinker, as a believer. And I fell in love with him as a man, and a friend, a wonderful listener, a person who can make me laugh, and a generous and loving soul. My friends, who have seen me (and my house) at my best and most definitely my worst, haven't stopped being my friends. My family still claims me, even though I'm terrible at keeping plants alive, and I have to do a big, panicked, "clean everything at once!!!!" day before they visit. With all that love and acceptance, what's the big idea, Mo!? Or so I said last night to my reflection.
My answer today? I get a bye. Just like Tom Brady and the rest of them (I know Ben Rothlesssomething is who I should write, in honor of Jim and his Steelers, but his name is too tough to spell), I am allowed to take a break. If my sink has toothpaste in it; oh well! If there are dishes which haven't been put away; oh well! If my vegetables are frozen and my kid's lunch doesn't include cookies from scratch; spare me the lecture. He's smart, he's healthy, he's fabulous.
And we get by just fine.
As a woman...as a person...as me...I have bye week remorse. If I allow something to become marginal in my life, even for a week; i.e. my house, my job, my friends, my church, my diet, my budget (hello, my name is Maureen, and I am an online shopaholic...)....God forbid my child...it eats at me for days until I somehow manage to rectify my slacker-like behavior . The guilt that already accompanies being a 'working Mom' (a phrase I've always considered redundant), is heaped onto my plate in extra large spoonfuls when I can't get the dishes done, or the floors mopped when I want to, or make a full home cooked meal, get the laundry done EVER, make sure my windows are cleaned, and my walkway swept. The list goes on.
Last night, though, when I got home from a much needed gab-sesh at one of my best friend's houses, something occurred to me. I was brushing my teeth, reflecting on the splatter of toothpaste framing my face, and how I really needed to "clean this bathroom", when suddenly I realized; the only person critiquing me, was me! Michael, I'm SURE, doesn't care in the least bit if his mirror is spic and span. In fact sometimes I think the little culprit plays 'toothbrush slingshot' to see just how speckled it can get. Jim doesn't care if his jeans are ironed (go ahead...make fun of me...), or if I manage to be one of those crafty-muffin baking-spotless house-kind of wives. Jim (and I feel confident speaking for him) fell in love with me....not who he wants me to be. He fell in love with me as a Mom, as a writer, as a thinker, as a believer. And I fell in love with him as a man, and a friend, a wonderful listener, a person who can make me laugh, and a generous and loving soul. My friends, who have seen me (and my house) at my best and most definitely my worst, haven't stopped being my friends. My family still claims me, even though I'm terrible at keeping plants alive, and I have to do a big, panicked, "clean everything at once!!!!" day before they visit. With all that love and acceptance, what's the big idea, Mo!? Or so I said last night to my reflection.
My answer today? I get a bye. Just like Tom Brady and the rest of them (I know Ben Rothlesssomething is who I should write, in honor of Jim and his Steelers, but his name is too tough to spell), I am allowed to take a break. If my sink has toothpaste in it; oh well! If there are dishes which haven't been put away; oh well! If my vegetables are frozen and my kid's lunch doesn't include cookies from scratch; spare me the lecture. He's smart, he's healthy, he's fabulous.
And we get by just fine.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Chee-eeeese
I'm a big fan of cheese. I like it on my pizza, my chips, my enchiladas, my burgers, my pasta....in my hotdogs, my movies. If you did a chest X-ray, I'm sure you'd find that the strings of my heart are really made up of cheddar and brie. Maybe even some havarty or provolone. And I sure do love some of that goat cheese, I do!! It's all over this blog...in case you hadn't noticed.
Being such a cheesy girl, I'm prone to bouts of sentimental withdraw; quiet and pensive nostalgic melancholy. I regularly enjoy dusting off an old memory or two from the deepest part of my brain on which to reflect. There is no better time to do this than on a rainy day!! This weekend a storm system parked itself right over Central Florida and flooded all my big plans; no baseball....no Disney...no camping.... :(
However...it also flooded my thoughts of days when my 3 siblings and I would get snowed in or rained out. We would drive my Mother (and each other) crazy with "Meghan won't let me in our bedroom!" and "Mike isn't letting me play Zelda!", and "James won't leave me alone!!!". ....OK, and MAYBE the occasional, "Maureen isn't sharing!" Good times, right?? But...that's just the thing. They were. They were such good times. Sure, we may have behaved like we wanted to kill each other...but being a Laughlin was fun. It still is!! There were always adventures to be had, and stories to be told. There was never a dull moment. We weren't a perfect family, but we were perfectly engaged with each other. It's such a blessing to have those 3 people in my life!!
Those thoughts dawned on me Saturday morning, as I surveyed the wet, soggy weather from my front steps. It was the perfect weather for cuddling up with a good book and a blanket....for having an indoor campout :) And Michael may be, at present, an only child, but you better believe that he's just as good at stirring up a good time as 4 redheads once were!! He is, after all, 50% Laughlin :-) ......and 100% cheese ;)
Friday, October 7, 2011
When did I become a 'Mom'...
...instead of a 'Mommy'?? I noticed this week that when Michael isn't calling me 'Mamma' (which, truthfully, he's always favored over 'Mommy'), he calls me Mom. And I answer. When did this happen? Is there an unspoken law that says after Kindergarten, the use of Mommy automatically becomes uncool? Baby talk?? This minor epiphany sent me into a minor panic attack. Then I started noticing other things....like...how his room has transformed from a soft and sweet shrine to all things baby into a bright homage to all things super hero and space. How full his chores chart is...and how he actually does them--without help! How his standard bedtime companions, Mickey and Donald, have been replaced by Superman.
Before my brain could register what all this meant...I noticed blue bear, his favorite since his fingers could clasp anything at all, peaking out from under the covers, as if to say, "don't worry, I'M still here!", which sure was a fortunate thing. For a second there, I thought my boy was all grown up.
Happy weekend!!! I'll be spending it with this boy, Jim, and a little baseball, back yard camping, church, and Disney! xo
Before my brain could register what all this meant...I noticed blue bear, his favorite since his fingers could clasp anything at all, peaking out from under the covers, as if to say, "don't worry, I'M still here!", which sure was a fortunate thing. For a second there, I thought my boy was all grown up.
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| Summer Baby! 2007, Age 2. |
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
October's child....
...is ripe and ready. Coming on the heels of summer, and matching the life cycle of Mother Earth, it's no wonder that my October child is as intuitive and thoughtful as he is. A year ago, I wrote this thinking about Michael, and his grand entrance into the world, which happens to be October 22nd. 'October' gets its name from the old Roman calendar, where it actually fell as the 8th month. It was moved to position 10 after January and February were added. It just so happens that January is when Michael's Dad was born, and February was when I was born. Perhaps, Michael's premature wisdom comes from an alignment in the stars....he's able to read us so well, because he existed before us, not because of us. That's a maze I often find myself walking, as a parent; Michael exists through me, yet there is no doubt in my mind that I exist through him, for him. (February's child, obviously, is heavy and intense).
I try not to get too personal here, mostly for fear of creating a digital echo, but I think, in this instance, I can make an exception. In those 'musings' from last October, I wrote about being a single Mom. And for a short time, I was a single Mom. However, being somewhat recently engaged, and well on my way to being a Mrs., I can no longer qualify myself as such. Being a single Mom is a tough and challenging job...I am blessed in my mate as he lessens the burden of parenting alone, while still respecting the unique bond my son and I share, and, it should be noted, the bond my son and his father share. It is a tight rope to walk, but Jim does so with grace and ease...making me love him all the more.
It's tough, this life. We have to learn to love and let go, all at the same time. Sometimes we have to let go for the very sake of love. When Michael isn't with me, physically, my senses dull and my mood changes, something I struggle with on a weekly basis. There is a constant hole in my heart which I try to fill with distraction from the second he's gone until the second he's back. And--apparently--my boy has seen straight through me. Michael has always been an old soul. Unlike most 1st graders who busy themselves with dinosaurs and armpit farts, his questions often tread the deeper end of the pool, on topics like the universe and heaven and religion and God and death and age and the nature of good and evil. Not that we don't have armpit farts, because we do (Michael is quite talented in that department, actually). But his mind is sharpened to the world in such a unique way.
Observing all this, I shouldn't be surprised when he tries to band aid my feelings of what he perceives as sadness with 'I'll be back soon!s' and 'I'll be thinking of you at bed time!'s'. And his perception is not so wrong; I am sad when he goes for those 2 and 5 day stretches. I'm sad for the failure I feel at not being able to give him one whole home, instead of two halves that make a whole. I'm sad for the anguish he must feel at being in a constant tandem between 'Mom's' and 'Dad's'. As hard as we both work to support and encourage his relationship with the other, in my heart of hearts I know he can't help but feel a tug of loyalty. So I'm sad for the divisive nature of his childhood, the bipartisan waters his young heart is so soon learning to navigate. Lastly, I'm sad for me, for the selfish yearnings of my own heart. For the selfish wish to always be near him, to always enjoy him, and to always be wanted no matter where he is.
But behind every cloud, shines the sun. Sad as I may be, resolved I am further to give Michael as much love and stability as I can. I am determined to foster an environment of love and compassion and I am beyond blessed with the support system I've been granted to do that. So this October...as my October child turns 7, and enters his 8th year on earth, I celebrate his life as it is; imperfect...but filled with an abundance of love and warmth and affection and faith and devotion....and armpit farts.
I love you, Michael Dane xoxoxoxoxoxoxo
I try not to get too personal here, mostly for fear of creating a digital echo, but I think, in this instance, I can make an exception. In those 'musings' from last October, I wrote about being a single Mom. And for a short time, I was a single Mom. However, being somewhat recently engaged, and well on my way to being a Mrs., I can no longer qualify myself as such. Being a single Mom is a tough and challenging job...I am blessed in my mate as he lessens the burden of parenting alone, while still respecting the unique bond my son and I share, and, it should be noted, the bond my son and his father share. It is a tight rope to walk, but Jim does so with grace and ease...making me love him all the more.
It's tough, this life. We have to learn to love and let go, all at the same time. Sometimes we have to let go for the very sake of love. When Michael isn't with me, physically, my senses dull and my mood changes, something I struggle with on a weekly basis. There is a constant hole in my heart which I try to fill with distraction from the second he's gone until the second he's back. And--apparently--my boy has seen straight through me. Michael has always been an old soul. Unlike most 1st graders who busy themselves with dinosaurs and armpit farts, his questions often tread the deeper end of the pool, on topics like the universe and heaven and religion and God and death and age and the nature of good and evil. Not that we don't have armpit farts, because we do (Michael is quite talented in that department, actually). But his mind is sharpened to the world in such a unique way.
Observing all this, I shouldn't be surprised when he tries to band aid my feelings of what he perceives as sadness with 'I'll be back soon!s' and 'I'll be thinking of you at bed time!'s'. And his perception is not so wrong; I am sad when he goes for those 2 and 5 day stretches. I'm sad for the failure I feel at not being able to give him one whole home, instead of two halves that make a whole. I'm sad for the anguish he must feel at being in a constant tandem between 'Mom's' and 'Dad's'. As hard as we both work to support and encourage his relationship with the other, in my heart of hearts I know he can't help but feel a tug of loyalty. So I'm sad for the divisive nature of his childhood, the bipartisan waters his young heart is so soon learning to navigate. Lastly, I'm sad for me, for the selfish yearnings of my own heart. For the selfish wish to always be near him, to always enjoy him, and to always be wanted no matter where he is.
But behind every cloud, shines the sun. Sad as I may be, resolved I am further to give Michael as much love and stability as I can. I am determined to foster an environment of love and compassion and I am beyond blessed with the support system I've been granted to do that. So this October...as my October child turns 7, and enters his 8th year on earth, I celebrate his life as it is; imperfect...but filled with an abundance of love and warmth and affection and faith and devotion....and armpit farts.
I love you, Michael Dane xoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Friday, September 30, 2011
See Life.
Vampyroteuthis infernalis.
I cloak myself in spirit
Hand over hand, I string my beaming soul from my heart, out through my mouth.
I dust it off, and wring it out, release it to the wind, watching it balloon over my head and float down to my feet.
I pull it over my tingling toes and my arms easily reach into the sleeves.
I zip my ghostly jumper over my form, so only my eyes are seen.
Lastly, I raise my hooded shield, nothing like my former homogeneous self.
Pupils expand with glowing anticipation.
Far off ideations weave the essence of my shroud.
I pull the silk gloves of grace snugly over my hands, stretching out my fingers, and snapping the fabric at my wrist to ensure their tailored fit.
My instrument I lift with confidence, and bold strokes of ink flood the manuscript.
Composure escapes as I compose.
My veil hums as its patches are revealed incongruently.
I have turned the page inside out:
The unscripted portrait is the story of my life.
To me, writing is alive. I treat reading like surgery. I regularly operate on a number of texts. I cut away at tissue and muscle and bone until I can hold the beating heart of a book in my hands. I wrote this thinking about that. Thinking to myself; if I could turn writing inside out, what would it look like?
I cloak myself in spirit
Hand over hand, I string my beaming soul from my heart, out through my mouth.
I dust it off, and wring it out, release it to the wind, watching it balloon over my head and float down to my feet.
I pull it over my tingling toes and my arms easily reach into the sleeves.
I zip my ghostly jumper over my form, so only my eyes are seen.
Lastly, I raise my hooded shield, nothing like my former homogeneous self.
Pupils expand with glowing anticipation.
Far off ideations weave the essence of my shroud.
I pull the silk gloves of grace snugly over my hands, stretching out my fingers, and snapping the fabric at my wrist to ensure their tailored fit.
My instrument I lift with confidence, and bold strokes of ink flood the manuscript.
Composure escapes as I compose.
My veil hums as its patches are revealed incongruently.
I have turned the page inside out:
The unscripted portrait is the story of my life.
To me, writing is alive. I treat reading like surgery. I regularly operate on a number of texts. I cut away at tissue and muscle and bone until I can hold the beating heart of a book in my hands. I wrote this thinking about that. Thinking to myself; if I could turn writing inside out, what would it look like?
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Music to my ears
Sometimes an accompaniment is necessary...so if you'd please Right Click and hit Open in New Tab, I'd be ever so grateful. Without knowing a single word of Italian, this song makes me feel 15 years old. I am pulling out of the driveway at 1215 N. Sixth Street all over again, saying goodbye to the house I grew up in and the life I had thus far known to head to Florida: an exotic, far off land of Disney World, and tanned beach goers. People nothing like me! ...It also makes me think of my Meme who LOVES Andrea Bocelli. And my sister because she played this song at her wedding. What does it make you feel? Who does it make you think of? Do you feel happy? Sad? Both?
Without meaning to, I've managed to weave music into almost every post I've written, and even if it wasn't there, you can bet your arse I was listening to some when I wrote it. I am a big fan of music (...really, who isn't?). I consider my generation, perhaps arrogantly so, to be 'music connoisseurs'. Of course, I also believe this is through no effort of our own; we are merely fortunate members of the human race existing in the right time and place. A time when music sharing and exposure to new artists, old artists, cultures, and varieties is at a peak. Thanks to the multitude of mediums out there (so many, that I won't even begin to list them; I will cheat with a catch all: THE INTERNET), not a day goes by when I don't listen to music, oftentimes hearing something I've never heard before. Music, to me, is a pinnacle of inspiration. As a person who reveres syntax and cultural interpretation of syntax, a well written verse can only be enhanced by what Webster's Dictionary defines as "the science or art of ordering tones or sounds in succession, in combination, and in temporal relationships to produce a composition having unity and continuity." Simply put, it flows. Music has the unique ability to instantaneously affect our mood. A good song can make you want to skip and dance and yell out to the world. A nostalgic song can cause immediate lumps in the throat, and the sting of hot tears. Each person, artist included, imbibes different meanings from certain songs. Some might loathe an entire genre, while others would extol its existence. It is completely relative.
This theory of 'musical relativity' is nothing new. Part of being a great artist is relinquishing the rights to meaning the second your work goes public. If each of us read into everything the same way, the world would be perfect...and incredibly boring. So it's no wonder, really, that we often find ourselves at odds with each other; hearing unspoken words, assuming one meaning, when it might very well be another. In addition to being a music enthusiast, I am also a communication enthusiast. I like to think very carefully about things before I say anything. And then I like to talk things to death. And when I'm done talking about them, I usually write about them. And when I'm done writing about them, I usually reread what I wrote, and then start thinking all over again....well. It can be very exhausting...and I don't just mean for me, but mostly for those on the receiving end of my communicative hyperbole (...or babble).
I am going somewhere with this, I promise. Thinking about music and communication, made me reconsider my approach to the latter. Music is (usually) succinct and direct. It can drive home a point quickly, and with just the right sized spoonful of sugar (pun intended; think Lily Allen's **** You This is the clean version...but still.....not a song for conservative ears....Mom). Sarcasm put to a good tune, is nonetheless sarcasm. I wish I could communicate just in music sometimes. I'm not talking about a Glee-ified world where everyone breaks into song at any given moment (although, how fun indeed!!), but rather, being a sharper version of myself. Rather than fumbling around, trying to anticipate what everyone else will read into what I'm saying, just saying it and letting it be. I fall victim to the 'explanation' constantly. "Let me explain what I meant here." "To further clarify, dot dot dot." "In case I wasn't clear, yada yada yada." And, really, at the end of the day, I have a feeling that's what most people get out of what I'm saying: a lot of dot dot dots, and yada yada yadas. I need to learn to reign in my wordy wordliness. I blame all those lawyers I have to listen to all day. An important part of the creative process is learning what to say and when...but also what NOT to say. I think it would be best, for today, if I cranked down my thoughts, and cranked up my showtunes...
So. With all that said, since I'm sure I've far exceeded my personally imposed word limit once again, I bid you adieu! Which, if you've made it this far, should be music to your ears. Thanks for bearing with me!! :)
xo
Without meaning to, I've managed to weave music into almost every post I've written, and even if it wasn't there, you can bet your arse I was listening to some when I wrote it. I am a big fan of music (...really, who isn't?). I consider my generation, perhaps arrogantly so, to be 'music connoisseurs'. Of course, I also believe this is through no effort of our own; we are merely fortunate members of the human race existing in the right time and place. A time when music sharing and exposure to new artists, old artists, cultures, and varieties is at a peak. Thanks to the multitude of mediums out there (so many, that I won't even begin to list them; I will cheat with a catch all: THE INTERNET), not a day goes by when I don't listen to music, oftentimes hearing something I've never heard before. Music, to me, is a pinnacle of inspiration. As a person who reveres syntax and cultural interpretation of syntax, a well written verse can only be enhanced by what Webster's Dictionary defines as "the science or art of ordering tones or sounds in succession, in combination, and in temporal relationships to produce a composition having unity and continuity." Simply put, it flows. Music has the unique ability to instantaneously affect our mood. A good song can make you want to skip and dance and yell out to the world. A nostalgic song can cause immediate lumps in the throat, and the sting of hot tears. Each person, artist included, imbibes different meanings from certain songs. Some might loathe an entire genre, while others would extol its existence. It is completely relative.
This theory of 'musical relativity' is nothing new. Part of being a great artist is relinquishing the rights to meaning the second your work goes public. If each of us read into everything the same way, the world would be perfect...and incredibly boring. So it's no wonder, really, that we often find ourselves at odds with each other; hearing unspoken words, assuming one meaning, when it might very well be another. In addition to being a music enthusiast, I am also a communication enthusiast. I like to think very carefully about things before I say anything. And then I like to talk things to death. And when I'm done talking about them, I usually write about them. And when I'm done writing about them, I usually reread what I wrote, and then start thinking all over again....well. It can be very exhausting...and I don't just mean for me, but mostly for those on the receiving end of my communicative hyperbole (...or babble).
I am going somewhere with this, I promise. Thinking about music and communication, made me reconsider my approach to the latter. Music is (usually) succinct and direct. It can drive home a point quickly, and with just the right sized spoonful of sugar (pun intended; think Lily Allen's **** You This is the clean version...but still.....not a song for conservative ears....Mom). Sarcasm put to a good tune, is nonetheless sarcasm. I wish I could communicate just in music sometimes. I'm not talking about a Glee-ified world where everyone breaks into song at any given moment (although, how fun indeed!!), but rather, being a sharper version of myself. Rather than fumbling around, trying to anticipate what everyone else will read into what I'm saying, just saying it and letting it be. I fall victim to the 'explanation' constantly. "Let me explain what I meant here." "To further clarify, dot dot dot." "In case I wasn't clear, yada yada yada." And, really, at the end of the day, I have a feeling that's what most people get out of what I'm saying: a lot of dot dot dots, and yada yada yadas. I need to learn to reign in my wordy wordliness. I blame all those lawyers I have to listen to all day. An important part of the creative process is learning what to say and when...but also what NOT to say. I think it would be best, for today, if I cranked down my thoughts, and cranked up my showtunes...
So. With all that said, since I'm sure I've far exceeded my personally imposed word limit once again, I bid you adieu! Which, if you've made it this far, should be music to your ears. Thanks for bearing with me!! :)
xo
Friday, September 23, 2011
The Skinny
Last night, I went to The Plaza to see Peter, Bjorn, and John and if you didn't make it out, it has to be said; you should be peanut butter and JEALOUS!!! Not ONLY were they even better live (which is always my measure of great music), but the crowd was eclectic, and fun, and completely pumped for the show, making the exchange between artist and audience just. plain. AWESOME. There were plenty of fedoras, plaid, and skinny jeans to please even the devoutest of hipsters, making the 'people' watching almost as fun as the 'Peter watching'. (How adorable is he!? And YES, he is really whistling. I am a witness. Partake in a small sampling of their songs here, here, and (my personal favorite) here!). It's Swedish delight.
So that's the skinny on my Thursdsay! Exciting as it was, I bid it a fond farewell; I will be promptly picking Michael up from school today and he, myself, and Jimbo will be transforming ourselves into a jedi, a fairy, and a vampire, respectively, so to partake in Mickey's Not So Scary Halloween Party. Michael picked our costumes, and in the spirit of Halloween (and maybe a little bit of cruelty) I tried to privately convince him that Jim should be the fairy, and I the vampire....but, alas, at almost 7, he's hip to my tricks. SIGH. So it's just treats tonight, for this fairy. Oh well...C'est la vie, right?
Happy Weekend!
I'll leave you with the skinny on another GREAT band and song.... Bon Iver: C'est Magnifique!. C'est tout, folks.
So that's the skinny on my Thursdsay! Exciting as it was, I bid it a fond farewell; I will be promptly picking Michael up from school today and he, myself, and Jimbo will be transforming ourselves into a jedi, a fairy, and a vampire, respectively, so to partake in Mickey's Not So Scary Halloween Party. Michael picked our costumes, and in the spirit of Halloween (and maybe a little bit of cruelty) I tried to privately convince him that Jim should be the fairy, and I the vampire....but, alas, at almost 7, he's hip to my tricks. SIGH. So it's just treats tonight, for this fairy. Oh well...C'est la vie, right?
Happy Weekend!
I'll leave you with the skinny on another GREAT band and song.... Bon Iver: C'est Magnifique!. C'est tout, folks.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Go get Busy
There is a boatload of laundry waiting to be ironed, a sink full of dishes waiting to be washed, lunches waiting to be made, and beds waiting to be unmade so Maureen's a certain weary head can lay to rest. But never mind all that. It's dark, the boy child is in bed, the man child is occupied with his new, important, and TOP SECRET mission for BCS (seriously. I want to tell you about it SO BADLY, but I can't. I'm in the circle of trust.), and I'm happy to tap away the stress of the day right here, and right now that's what matters.
I function best on days which are filled to the brim. Probably a symptom of growing up with 3 siblings, 5 extra-curriculars each at any given time, 2 parents, and only 7 days in the week. When my teachers or parents used to tell me to 'go get busy,' I used to want to say, 'no need to go get her. you're looking at her.' Busy is my middle name. I like to stay on the go. I also like to complain about this, as though I myself don't plan out every minute of my life. But the truth is, when I have nothing to do, I'm not good at doing it. I always have to be tasked with something, or going somewhere, or coming from somewhere. It is simply, and if you ask Jim-dear, sometimes regretfully, my nature.
It's tough to really devote myself to creative endeavors when I'm always go! go! go! I don't nurture the small amount of talent I may have, and I certainly don't harvest the great amount of desire and ideas I know I have. I can never focus on a centralized idea, but rather, satisfy my whims by slapping them on a word document, disjointed and unfinished. I have enough characters to rival Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (if you can get past his Jesus complex, and her Swiss Family Robinson haircut, they're seriously good music). I could write a novel with excerpts from ideas. Derivatives from my right brain. None of them have much to do with each other...but the words are there. It's frustrating for two reasons. One: it's easy to be a defeatist in a truly competitive industry. The chances of me having any literary success are slim, and that's realistic. Two: I'm really not going to succeed if I never try at all, and I, of all people, know that! I was reading a great interview a few weeks back with one of my favorite actresses, Rita Wilson. In it, she responds to an inquiry on how fate plays a role in our careers and our professional choices, saying, "...whatever you loved to do as a kid you should probably be doing as an adult." She goes on to highlight our innocence as children, our purity of heart and purpose. We did what we did because we loved it.
When I was a kid, I wrote stories. ENDless stories about endless topics (frequently about two dogs named Max and Sadie). I know, I know...you thought I'd say something about acting right?? I did plenty of that, too, but still under the guise of creating anew. I loved to make up new people with new backgrounds and histories and futures. I read this article and it was like a lightening bolt hit me between the eyes! Why, as a child, when I was probably more prone to distraction and deficits of attention, did I have more patience to write with a focus and a purpose than I do now as an adult? And I can partially answer that; for one, my stories were short and undoubtedly not very "deep." I also have many more responsibilities as an adult than I did as a child. My priorities are different. But it sure did get me thinking about that "P" word. Priorities. Why isn't my writing a priority? Because it may be pointless? And then I started thinking about that other "P" word. Pointless. As a believer in a higher authority, a grander plan, I try not to see anyone or anything as pointless. Yet, here I am, applying lackluster faith to my own contribution.
I believe we are each called to a vocation in life. The more time I invest in thinking and praying about it, the more sure I become that my vocation is one of the written word. I have no idea what direction that will take. For all I know, it might never leave this page. It's exciting to think, though, that I'm starting to see more clearly on my path, hazy as it still may be. It's exciting, and scary, and a little overwhelming knowing what you want, or at least having an idea. I guess it just makes me want to....get busy :)
I function best on days which are filled to the brim. Probably a symptom of growing up with 3 siblings, 5 extra-curriculars each at any given time, 2 parents, and only 7 days in the week. When my teachers or parents used to tell me to 'go get busy,' I used to want to say, 'no need to go get her. you're looking at her.' Busy is my middle name. I like to stay on the go. I also like to complain about this, as though I myself don't plan out every minute of my life. But the truth is, when I have nothing to do, I'm not good at doing it. I always have to be tasked with something, or going somewhere, or coming from somewhere. It is simply, and if you ask Jim-dear, sometimes regretfully, my nature.
It's tough to really devote myself to creative endeavors when I'm always go! go! go! I don't nurture the small amount of talent I may have, and I certainly don't harvest the great amount of desire and ideas I know I have. I can never focus on a centralized idea, but rather, satisfy my whims by slapping them on a word document, disjointed and unfinished. I have enough characters to rival Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (if you can get past his Jesus complex, and her Swiss Family Robinson haircut, they're seriously good music). I could write a novel with excerpts from ideas. Derivatives from my right brain. None of them have much to do with each other...but the words are there. It's frustrating for two reasons. One: it's easy to be a defeatist in a truly competitive industry. The chances of me having any literary success are slim, and that's realistic. Two: I'm really not going to succeed if I never try at all, and I, of all people, know that! I was reading a great interview a few weeks back with one of my favorite actresses, Rita Wilson. In it, she responds to an inquiry on how fate plays a role in our careers and our professional choices, saying, "...whatever you loved to do as a kid you should probably be doing as an adult." She goes on to highlight our innocence as children, our purity of heart and purpose. We did what we did because we loved it.
When I was a kid, I wrote stories. ENDless stories about endless topics (frequently about two dogs named Max and Sadie). I know, I know...you thought I'd say something about acting right?? I did plenty of that, too, but still under the guise of creating anew. I loved to make up new people with new backgrounds and histories and futures. I read this article and it was like a lightening bolt hit me between the eyes! Why, as a child, when I was probably more prone to distraction and deficits of attention, did I have more patience to write with a focus and a purpose than I do now as an adult? And I can partially answer that; for one, my stories were short and undoubtedly not very "deep." I also have many more responsibilities as an adult than I did as a child. My priorities are different. But it sure did get me thinking about that "P" word. Priorities. Why isn't my writing a priority? Because it may be pointless? And then I started thinking about that other "P" word. Pointless. As a believer in a higher authority, a grander plan, I try not to see anyone or anything as pointless. Yet, here I am, applying lackluster faith to my own contribution.
I believe we are each called to a vocation in life. The more time I invest in thinking and praying about it, the more sure I become that my vocation is one of the written word. I have no idea what direction that will take. For all I know, it might never leave this page. It's exciting to think, though, that I'm starting to see more clearly on my path, hazy as it still may be. It's exciting, and scary, and a little overwhelming knowing what you want, or at least having an idea. I guess it just makes me want to....get busy :)
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Fast Food for the Soul
I am a glutton for gossip. I try so hard not to be...but sometimes I don't try so hard, and that's when it gets the best of me. Gossip fodder is easy to come by these days, thanks to our socially networked world. All one has to do is log onto Facebook to get a heavy dose of personal revelations, pictures, interactions, and it's ready; set; GOssip! And every time after I do it, I feel like I've eaten a big mac and fries; kind of sick, hardly satisfied, and always craving more.
Last night, I indulged my habit for 'chewing the fat' (see: Southern Phrases 101), and it went over as expected. It felt really good for about an hour, and then it began to settle in my stomach. My words were particularly spiteful, occurring in the wake of a bad day and a contentious argument which had left me feeling frustrated and hurt. I picked up the phone, called one of my best friends, and proceeded to pick the person apart in the worst kind of way. You know how it is after someone really fries your grits (again, SP 101). You aim for the first place you can think of to cut them down, and it's usually a low blow. It's easy to focus on character flaws and personal grievances, rather than confronting the issue at hand. In those moments of anger, it feels so good to just lash out! But then the aftermath is something of a hangover; at least, for me, anyway.
So I guess today my soul is a little hungover. Because what they don't tell you when you really stick it to someone, is that it's a double-edged sword. Unkindness breeds guilt which breeds resentment which breeds more unkindness. It's as though you're saying, "fine, we'll BOTH feel terrible!" Not a very nice way to treat ourselves, if you ask me. Normally, in situations like that, I try to take a walk, breathe deeply, write about it in my personal journal, meditate, pray. I try to remember who I am, and who my parents taught me to be. Someone with compassion, and empathy. Someone who doesn't endorse vengeance, or spite. It's tough!! But, as I've discovered, if I avoid those 'big macs' for long enough., I'm still able to discern the difference between them and healthy food. When you start visiting that drive-thru every day; taking each opportunity to cut down, or hurt a difficult person in your life, or your past...then you have problems. Because before long, you fail to see the difference between the high road and the low road. You spend your time looking for the next easy out, the next quick fix.
I'm not perfect, and that's OK. Yesterday wasn't the first time I've been ashamed of my words or behavior and it won't be the last. But if I can continue to see it; if I continue to nourish my spirit with good things, and good people, and healing words, I think I'll make it out unscathed.
To that person about whom I said those awful things: I'm very sorry. Unaware as you are that I said it, and unaware as you may be of my remorse, I am truly sorry.
I feel much better! Sushi for lunch, anyone?
Last night, I indulged my habit for 'chewing the fat' (see: Southern Phrases 101), and it went over as expected. It felt really good for about an hour, and then it began to settle in my stomach. My words were particularly spiteful, occurring in the wake of a bad day and a contentious argument which had left me feeling frustrated and hurt. I picked up the phone, called one of my best friends, and proceeded to pick the person apart in the worst kind of way. You know how it is after someone really fries your grits (again, SP 101). You aim for the first place you can think of to cut them down, and it's usually a low blow. It's easy to focus on character flaws and personal grievances, rather than confronting the issue at hand. In those moments of anger, it feels so good to just lash out! But then the aftermath is something of a hangover; at least, for me, anyway.
So I guess today my soul is a little hungover. Because what they don't tell you when you really stick it to someone, is that it's a double-edged sword. Unkindness breeds guilt which breeds resentment which breeds more unkindness. It's as though you're saying, "fine, we'll BOTH feel terrible!" Not a very nice way to treat ourselves, if you ask me. Normally, in situations like that, I try to take a walk, breathe deeply, write about it in my personal journal, meditate, pray. I try to remember who I am, and who my parents taught me to be. Someone with compassion, and empathy. Someone who doesn't endorse vengeance, or spite. It's tough!! But, as I've discovered, if I avoid those 'big macs' for long enough., I'm still able to discern the difference between them and healthy food. When you start visiting that drive-thru every day; taking each opportunity to cut down, or hurt a difficult person in your life, or your past...then you have problems. Because before long, you fail to see the difference between the high road and the low road. You spend your time looking for the next easy out, the next quick fix.
I'm not perfect, and that's OK. Yesterday wasn't the first time I've been ashamed of my words or behavior and it won't be the last. But if I can continue to see it; if I continue to nourish my spirit with good things, and good people, and healing words, I think I'll make it out unscathed.
To that person about whom I said those awful things: I'm very sorry. Unaware as you are that I said it, and unaware as you may be of my remorse, I am truly sorry.
I feel much better! Sushi for lunch, anyone?
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Lately...
Michael has been asking to wake up early in order to have time to read from his new favorite series The Magic Tree House by Mary Pope Osborne. I'm not joking. ...But I may be bragging. Michael is a child of the 'non-morning' variety. As early as 3 years old I was dragging him out of bed to make it to pre-school on time, something I was sure didn't happen until at least the sixth grade. I have tried everything from rewarding, to punishing, to ET-ing (come on, trail of Reeses Pieces, keep up), and back again. Nothing could motivate that child to get out of bed. As my therapist put it, I hadn't "found his currency." (Oh, don't give me that face. It's 2011. Look to your right and look to your left; that's how many people secretly see a therapist). Then, my sweet Jim decided we weren't challenging Michael's reading ability as we should be (he's so smart, that guy!). "Enough with Clifford!" he declared, and promptly went out and bought the 1st three Magic Tree House books. (Should you be considering them, there are 50+. Start small).
Personally, I loved the big red dog...but that was mostly because it meant my baby was still a baby. It felt like overnight Michael transfromed from a reluctant reader into a voracious one! Having been on a 1st grade reading level since the beginning of Kindergarten (OK, now I'm definitely bragging), I wasn't surprised by his ability, but moreover his appetite. He is hungry for books. Enough so, that when I crept into his room today before the sun was up and gently nudged him, he sat up like the house was on fire and immediately began pushing back the covers, anticipating the adventures awaiting him on his desk. I don't know if there is anything more thrilling than seeing my 6-almost-7 year old so thrilled himself over the world he's entered. Part of me, the B.A. in Literature part, wants to tell him the thousands upon thousands of worlds that await. His imagination has no idea what's in store!! But another part of me, the Mommy part, wants to dust off The Berenstain Bears and sit and read with him while I do my very best Papa Bear voice (think Yogi Bear meets Eeyore). Ultimately, I have to meet myself in the middle, learning to encourage and challenge his intellect, while easing him into his newfound literary independence. My Mom used to warn me that school was the beginning of the end. Once your children get there, each year carries them a little further away. As depressing as that is, it's a bitter pill I will gladly swallow if it means Michael is excelling at one of, if not the most valuable skills we ever acquire. And anyway; since "no one can do Papa Bear like me"....I think our daily story time will be safe for a while longer ;)
Personally, I loved the big red dog...but that was mostly because it meant my baby was still a baby. It felt like overnight Michael transfromed from a reluctant reader into a voracious one! Having been on a 1st grade reading level since the beginning of Kindergarten (OK, now I'm definitely bragging), I wasn't surprised by his ability, but moreover his appetite. He is hungry for books. Enough so, that when I crept into his room today before the sun was up and gently nudged him, he sat up like the house was on fire and immediately began pushing back the covers, anticipating the adventures awaiting him on his desk. I don't know if there is anything more thrilling than seeing my 6-almost-7 year old so thrilled himself over the world he's entered. Part of me, the B.A. in Literature part, wants to tell him the thousands upon thousands of worlds that await. His imagination has no idea what's in store!! But another part of me, the Mommy part, wants to dust off The Berenstain Bears and sit and read with him while I do my very best Papa Bear voice (think Yogi Bear meets Eeyore). Ultimately, I have to meet myself in the middle, learning to encourage and challenge his intellect, while easing him into his newfound literary independence. My Mom used to warn me that school was the beginning of the end. Once your children get there, each year carries them a little further away. As depressing as that is, it's a bitter pill I will gladly swallow if it means Michael is excelling at one of, if not the most valuable skills we ever acquire. And anyway; since "no one can do Papa Bear like me"....I think our daily story time will be safe for a while longer ;)
Monday, September 12, 2011
When the Dog Bites...
Today, for the most part, was barren of inspiration. I am usually struck, on average, between 5 and 10 times a day (depending on my surroundings, digital or otherwise) with something I would love to write about. As it's Monday, however, and as I overslept and had no time to coordinate my outward appearance to my satisfaction, I find myself sitting in puddle of dull. Just a big, sloppy, overflowing, 'I can't wait until pj's and bed' pond of UGH. You know those days. You do.
 |
| Good day!! |
 |
| Bad day. |
So with little inspiration, and a lot of flyaways, I come armed to talk about a few of my favorite things: The Fall; Jane Austen; and Princess Fiona (a sweet pooch who shares my abode).
There is just nothing better than the fall. It is my absolute favorite time of year. The warm smells and vibrant colors and excitment for holidays and the sound of crunchy leaves under your feet! It's around this time of year, every year, that I begin to pine for the Midwest. Come January, you'll find me cheerfully oblivious to the pounds of snow being dumped elsewhere around the country, but right now I envy the change of scenery, the swell of oranges and reds and yellows throughout treetops, and, most of all, the relief of fresh, cool air. Florida skips fall (and winter) and heads right into spring, something I've always resented (because, naturally, I want it all!). I haven't had a real "fall" since 1999, the last time I spent a complete one up north. Instead, I have to be satisfied with brief stints and visits here and there, sometimes on the cusp of fall, barring me from getting the full affect. After years of Autumn dissatisfaction, I did what any girl would do...I snagged me a Midwest Boy! Now, I have an excuse to visit fall every year...thinking about that (and him) makes me smile today, despite my scruffy appearance.
Another favorite thing that's getting me through my case of Mondays is the Jane Austen marathan waiting for me in the DVD player right now. Recently, a supervisor who shares my 'all things Jane' passion, generously bestowed upon me the A&E original Pride and Prejudice series featuring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle (which, yes, I've never seen. Pause for ridicule). I swore up and down to Ms. P that I would NEVER betray my love for the most recent Pride and Prejudice, but took the series anyway, just so I could say I had watched it and put the issue to rest. Approximately an hour and a half in, I realized why her desktop background is Colin Firth. Four hours in, and I am trying to justify (to myself. and Jimmy, even though he usually has no idea what I'm talking about) why I do indeed love the Matthew Macfadyen version (don't ever call it the 'Keira Knightley' version. Mr. Darcy owns this one, no question!) so much better. I do think Jane was better cast in 2005. I also think that I could do without the weird hallucinations of Mr. Darcy Elizabeth keeps having. Ultimately, though? Ms. P may be right in her assessment (don't ever tell her though!). A&E's version is, of course, longer which allows for a closer relationship to the novel. Being thus, the viewer gets to see ALL the characters and come to know them with more accuracy, as well. I still have to conclude the series (which I plan to do tonight in the aforementioned pj's and bed), but I think it's safe to say at this point; my allegiance might just have changed.
Lastly, amongst my favorite things, there is no way I could fail to mention Mr. Michael Magoo, who lives in the room down the hall and has occupied my 2nd bedroom and my heart for *almost* 7 (SEVEN!?) years. Michael, my most beloved son, has the perfect size bed for our new addition; Princess Fiona, aka Fifi, aka Phoebe, aka Chihuahua-Maltese we inherited from Jimmy's best friends. We often find her snuggled at its foot after an afternoon at Disney, or a workday. Last night, I snuck into Michael's room to put some laundry away while he slept. After sneaking back out again, and prepping for my own foray into dreamland, I began to look for Fifi so she could get to bed, too. She wasn't on the couch; she wasn't in "her" tent (Michael's playroom tent, which she has comandeered as her own), and she wasn't in her actual bed, where she was supposed to be. I was stumped. Had I left the back door open? Was she hiding under a bed? Peeking into Michael's room, I found the little princess snoozing quietly next to my prince, at the foot of his bed. I couldn't even really be upset; I know just how she feels. There's nothing better than drifting off to sleep nearest the ones you love.
Just a few of my favorite things before I make my Monday escape! What's getting you through yours?
xo!
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