I misplace my children.
Regularly.
First time it ever happened, spawn was almost two, I guess or maybe almost three. In any case she was in her terrible twos which lasted approximately from 18 months to age 6. We were at a crowded mall at Christmas. The store had extra display racks all over the place. The kid was in a stroller which was impossible to steer even though it was one of those little ones. And she didn't want to be in the stroller anymore. She'd made that pretty clear. Maybe I let her out, could be, I was kinda stupid and sleep-deprived back then or maybe she let herself out. In any case, she was out. Out and gone. I think I watched her climb under a fixture and then I looked away for a second, because I was there to shop after all. I looked back and she was gone. I looked for moving racks and annoyed shopper's faces. Nothing. Then... PANIC. Absolute panic. People every where. And we were living outside DC where people don't even look at you. Don't even want to think about what else was unpleasant about DC. So there I am, stroller, no kid, ready to completely lose all grip on reality. I had no idea what to do, where to look, who to turn to. And then this angel man, who clearly was waiting on his wife and bored out of his mind- thank God, tells me that he saw her run out of the store. I don't know the rest of the story except that I found her and that I still don't take her to the mall.
Let's see. I lost little loud one one day after a visit to the library. We came home with books, some might say "of course", but that one is less enthralled with books than the rest of the family, so it really isn't "of course" with her. In fact one day this summer, I suggested a library visit and she said, "Why would I want to go to the library? There's nothing there for me." I nearly cried. Anyhow, a year or two ago, we went to the library and got books. I went about my business until I noticed that I didn't hear anything. Now, not hearing anything when little loud one is around is an indication of trouble. When she is quiet, she's cutting off her hair, or coloring on the wall, or gone. First I called her name about a bazillion times. (she never hears the first bazillion -1 times.) So I started looking. I looked outside because she's an outdoorsy kiddo. I'm pretty sure I went to some neighbors and so on. No sign of her. So I went up to her room. She was reading a book, like it was normal.
Last year I lost spawn again. I'm minding my own business at the end of the school day (wasting my time on the computer) and it occurs to me that I'd had an awful lot of peace. So I wandered out into the living room. I surveyed the evidence and realized that spawn was not home. I knew this because: no backpack directly in the middle of the floor, no shoes thrown about, no jacket lying willy-nilly. No way that kid was home. I can't remember if she had a phone then or not, but it wouldn't matter because neither she nor the spouse ever have it turned on. I searched brain banks to see if there was some after school activity that I hadn't remembered. Nope. Then I figured she must have missed the bus home. She missed the bus to school every stinking day, so this was not out of the realm of possibility. So I drove to the middle school and started looking. For once, the school was deserted. I started panicking a little bit at this point. Then I had a brilliant thought. I called home and little loud one answered the phone (which is actually pretty amazing in itself), and I asked her to check spawn's room. Yep, you got it. She was in her room the whole time, and thought I was crazy for misreading the evidence.
Also last year, in the spring, I lost little loud one. She walks home from school. It's a block away. Generally it takes her a half hour to get home, because there are things to see. Well, I'm waiting. and waiting. and waiting. It's more than an hour after the end of school and no little loud one. I called school, her best friend's house, neighbor's house, looked around the neighborhood, talked to the lady with the fuzzy dog, went to school, exhausted all my ideas. At this point, I was revving up a panic. I had some kind of appointment with spawn and I certainly didn't want to go to that with little loud one lost. I drove around the block one more time. There she was, standing next to the lady with the fuzzy dog. The look on my face must have told her what she needed to know because she crossed the street, after looking both ways even, and got in the car without saying one word. She was covered in mud from head to toe, but I didn't care about that. It turns out she'd stopped by the house with the garden and a little girl with the same name. And they were playing. The mom apologized for not immediately calling me. Not that I blamed her at all. For a little while at least, little loud one made it home in under 20 minutes.
This little trip down memory lane is brought to you today by the fact that I lost a kid this afternoon. Spawn didn't come home from school. I was waiting for her to call for a ride home because she's too lazy to walk 15 minutes. I've been ignoring the phone all week, because I'm sick and I just don't feel like getting her. It's annoying and ridiculous. So I was studiously avoiding answering the phone today excepting that it didn't ring. So, I thought for a millisecond (because that's about all the thinking ability I have today.) I processed the whole list of possible after school activities, nothing seemed right. I put it out of my mind while I fetched little loud one from the after school activity (that I remembered) and fetched the spouse to solve my computer problems. Then it hit me, you know after spouse said it, that she was where she was supposed to be. Not home, but at her new church gig. The one I can't remember because this is only her second week and she still isn't officially signed up for it.
Is there a punchline here? Probably not. It shouldn't be this difficult to keep track of two kids.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
lowering the bar
I had one of those days yesterday. One of those days that sets the standards. Low.
I woke up extra early. Not exactly sure why. Maybe it was the time change or maybe it was just a desire to dawdle more. In any case, I woke up early and then proceeded to be late to work. Later, in fact, than I was the day before. It really is pretty hard for me to be late to work. It's not like I have far to drive or need to be there at some unseemly time. It's ridiculous that I can't get to work on time. But there it is. Late.
One of the kids read me her story. It was about a lady who croaked and she was going to the feneral (funeral). She smiled while she read me the story. Croaked? Yup. croaked. I had nothing. What the heck do you say to a kid who is smiling when she reads her story about somebody croaking? That there was a teachable moment.
Then we had our first field trip of the year. Herding cats in a grocery store. These varmints can't behave in the cage of our classroom. I gotta admit I dreaded taking the show on the road. I had low expectations. They met them. I got a big headache.
I did manage to vote. Yay, me. But I needed remedial voting instruction since I filled in 5 circles instead of 4.
Let's see. I'm playing piano for the little munchkin choir. This may not seem like a big deal, excepting that this is not my thing. I've accompanied singers exactly twice in my whole life and both times were with one or both of my kids. The elder spawn is quite skilled at rearranging her singing to match my playing (a skill we have worked on). That song was short too. The last time I did this was with both kids and I was so bad that little loud one laughed at me in the middle of the song. Bad. Like horrible. Like colossal failure. Like when the song was done, I collapsed in a heap of giggles (in the middle of church, in the middle of the service) that lasted pretty much until the end of the service. And I decided then and there that playing piano while someone sings along was something I could just cross off my bucket list for all eternity. Apparently eternity only lasted a couple months, because when choir director asked if I would, I didn't say "hell no". So yesterday's rehearsal went just spectacularly. Not. Choir director was very kind and didn't explode. I guess it's a real good thing the kids can sing loudly. I'm hoping for divine intervention on Sunday. Or something.
The evening did not improve. Went to class, quite apathetic. I needed to deliver a piece of paper 4 feet away. I crumpled it up and threw it at the recipient. Professor observed that she'd never had that happen in a grad school class before. I explained that I was trying to lower the bar. I did apologize. And laugh. And really, that was probably ok. Then we were making up hypothetical questions to ask the author of this article we'd read- an article that really kinda bugged me. My contribution was the most unpolitically correct question you could possibly ask. I do walk of shame.
Class over, I'm walking out with classmate who is also in tonight's class that I skipped last week for spawn's concert. Classmate instigates discussion of where I was. I proceed to mention the things I was supposed to do to make up for missing class- that I still haven't done. Then she tells me that we got out of class an hour early last week anyhow. This launches my little tirade about how that professor had given the speech about giving us our money's worth and would never let us out early and then she hasn't kept us until 9pm since (not that I'm complaining about that). I'd forgotten one detail. Wed. prof teaches a class on Tues. in the same building. The building I am currently walking out of talking about the professor. Who is 2 feet behind me. Who proceeds to walk with me for the next 10 minutes as I'm trying to engage in intelligent conversational smalltalk with very large feet in my mouth.
I was hoping that she hadn't heard me. Yea, she did. Because when she revisited the money's worth speech tonight, she was looking right at me.
The bar is very low.
I woke up extra early. Not exactly sure why. Maybe it was the time change or maybe it was just a desire to dawdle more. In any case, I woke up early and then proceeded to be late to work. Later, in fact, than I was the day before. It really is pretty hard for me to be late to work. It's not like I have far to drive or need to be there at some unseemly time. It's ridiculous that I can't get to work on time. But there it is. Late.
One of the kids read me her story. It was about a lady who croaked and she was going to the feneral (funeral). She smiled while she read me the story. Croaked? Yup. croaked. I had nothing. What the heck do you say to a kid who is smiling when she reads her story about somebody croaking? That there was a teachable moment.
Then we had our first field trip of the year. Herding cats in a grocery store. These varmints can't behave in the cage of our classroom. I gotta admit I dreaded taking the show on the road. I had low expectations. They met them. I got a big headache.
I did manage to vote. Yay, me. But I needed remedial voting instruction since I filled in 5 circles instead of 4.
Let's see. I'm playing piano for the little munchkin choir. This may not seem like a big deal, excepting that this is not my thing. I've accompanied singers exactly twice in my whole life and both times were with one or both of my kids. The elder spawn is quite skilled at rearranging her singing to match my playing (a skill we have worked on). That song was short too. The last time I did this was with both kids and I was so bad that little loud one laughed at me in the middle of the song. Bad. Like horrible. Like colossal failure. Like when the song was done, I collapsed in a heap of giggles (in the middle of church, in the middle of the service) that lasted pretty much until the end of the service. And I decided then and there that playing piano while someone sings along was something I could just cross off my bucket list for all eternity. Apparently eternity only lasted a couple months, because when choir director asked if I would, I didn't say "hell no". So yesterday's rehearsal went just spectacularly. Not. Choir director was very kind and didn't explode. I guess it's a real good thing the kids can sing loudly. I'm hoping for divine intervention on Sunday. Or something.
The evening did not improve. Went to class, quite apathetic. I needed to deliver a piece of paper 4 feet away. I crumpled it up and threw it at the recipient. Professor observed that she'd never had that happen in a grad school class before. I explained that I was trying to lower the bar. I did apologize. And laugh. And really, that was probably ok. Then we were making up hypothetical questions to ask the author of this article we'd read- an article that really kinda bugged me. My contribution was the most unpolitically correct question you could possibly ask. I do walk of shame.
Class over, I'm walking out with classmate who is also in tonight's class that I skipped last week for spawn's concert. Classmate instigates discussion of where I was. I proceed to mention the things I was supposed to do to make up for missing class- that I still haven't done. Then she tells me that we got out of class an hour early last week anyhow. This launches my little tirade about how that professor had given the speech about giving us our money's worth and would never let us out early and then she hasn't kept us until 9pm since (not that I'm complaining about that). I'd forgotten one detail. Wed. prof teaches a class on Tues. in the same building. The building I am currently walking out of talking about the professor. Who is 2 feet behind me. Who proceeds to walk with me for the next 10 minutes as I'm trying to engage in intelligent conversational smalltalk with very large feet in my mouth.
I was hoping that she hadn't heard me. Yea, she did. Because when she revisited the money's worth speech tonight, she was looking right at me.
The bar is very low.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
and so it begins
My youngest was completely desperate to do Girl Scouts this year. yippee. I'm sure Girl Scouts is a perfectly lovely organization once you get past needing to sell your soul and lots of overpriced cookies to support a gluttonous parent company that is more interested in lining their pockets than making sure that girls have a fun experience. After all, it's the troop leaders who are responsible for the experiences, rather than GSA.
Why am I so yucked out by Girl Scouts? A mere 6 years ago, the other spawn was desperate to do Girl Scouts. She had friends, I had friends, sell cookies, have fun, what's the problem. Well, the problem was that my two friends instigated a coup for cripe's sake. A Girl Scout Coup!! Between each other. Naturally I'm in the middle, the girls suffered, it was just bleeping ugly. I had planned a pile of badge junk to do under the encouragement of friend L, let's call her Lying Sack of Shit, to help out stressed friend P, let's call her Psycho Nutjob. Well, when L went to headquarters to get P thrown out as troop leader, in addition to wanting me to "testify", she also tossed my piles of badge junk to the curb. In a sense saying that my time/energy was good enough under the P regime, but not good enough under the L regime. And then has the nerve to ask me to chaperone the Girl Scout trip as a driver. And to lie to me about where we were going to stay(yes, some people might read the directions before the rest stop and therefore not need to have a confrontation in front of Sheetz.) I'm not holding a grudge. Much. In any case, L has moved back to where she belongs and P is still a casual friend since our daughters are still casual friends. And I thought that my Girl Scout experience could be called complete, finished, done. B'bye.
Until little one is so desperate to do it that she might actually have said something about cleaning her room and taking a bath voluntarily. So we're in. First meeting we get the dreaded sales packet. Fine. I pulled out my checkbook. We'll order some shit. I paid for membership. I paid for Camporee next weekend. I paid for the badge thing later this month. I'll buy her a stupid overpriced vest or sash or whichever darn thing she wants. And I will sell freaking Girl Scout cookies in February with a smile on my face. I thought my checkbook would be enough interaction with Girl Scouts.
Except not so much. Three weeks in and I get an email from the troop leader. Can you please _____, because you know you're going to volunteer at some point? Yup. She's right. Four years of being on PTO together and she knows that I will say yes. Actually, she knows that I will not even wait to be asked. I will raise my freaking, stupid hand. (which is why I don't go to PTO meetings anymore) Oh, shit. I'm going to end up asking her if she needs a cookie mom. Somebody disconnect my internet.
Fine. We'll give this Girl Scout thing one year. Next year, little, loud one will be too busy in middle school to do girl scouts. And I will again say b'bye.
Why am I so yucked out by Girl Scouts? A mere 6 years ago, the other spawn was desperate to do Girl Scouts. She had friends, I had friends, sell cookies, have fun, what's the problem. Well, the problem was that my two friends instigated a coup for cripe's sake. A Girl Scout Coup!! Between each other. Naturally I'm in the middle, the girls suffered, it was just bleeping ugly. I had planned a pile of badge junk to do under the encouragement of friend L, let's call her Lying Sack of Shit, to help out stressed friend P, let's call her Psycho Nutjob. Well, when L went to headquarters to get P thrown out as troop leader, in addition to wanting me to "testify", she also tossed my piles of badge junk to the curb. In a sense saying that my time/energy was good enough under the P regime, but not good enough under the L regime. And then has the nerve to ask me to chaperone the Girl Scout trip as a driver. And to lie to me about where we were going to stay(yes, some people might read the directions before the rest stop and therefore not need to have a confrontation in front of Sheetz.) I'm not holding a grudge. Much. In any case, L has moved back to where she belongs and P is still a casual friend since our daughters are still casual friends. And I thought that my Girl Scout experience could be called complete, finished, done. B'bye.
Until little one is so desperate to do it that she might actually have said something about cleaning her room and taking a bath voluntarily. So we're in. First meeting we get the dreaded sales packet. Fine. I pulled out my checkbook. We'll order some shit. I paid for membership. I paid for Camporee next weekend. I paid for the badge thing later this month. I'll buy her a stupid overpriced vest or sash or whichever darn thing she wants. And I will sell freaking Girl Scout cookies in February with a smile on my face. I thought my checkbook would be enough interaction with Girl Scouts.
Except not so much. Three weeks in and I get an email from the troop leader. Can you please _____, because you know you're going to volunteer at some point? Yup. She's right. Four years of being on PTO together and she knows that I will say yes. Actually, she knows that I will not even wait to be asked. I will raise my freaking, stupid hand. (which is why I don't go to PTO meetings anymore) Oh, shit. I'm going to end up asking her if she needs a cookie mom. Somebody disconnect my internet.
Fine. We'll give this Girl Scout thing one year. Next year, little, loud one will be too busy in middle school to do girl scouts. And I will again say b'bye.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
eavesdropping
I just got back from an interesting little coffee date with a friend. We had all manner of conversation during this hour. I personally had a lovely time talking maybe a little too loudly at Panera, laughing at the outrageous things we were sharing, and watching the young couple across the way go from playing footsie to sitting next to each other doing that hair thing. I noticed people coming and going, but not really. I certainly didn't pay much attention to the lady three tables over clipping her coupons until she joined our conversation. Joined our conversation to the point of actually taking it over. Really?
We finally made our escape and hurried out. I sorta feel like I need a shower. My friend and I laughed about that (as well as being relieved that she didn't appear to have heard the entire conversation.)
I'm an eavesdropper too. I admit it. I people watch. I watch parents interact with their kids and smile. I periodically glanced at that couple and rolled my eyes. Sometimes I look like I'm reading a book, but there are definitely times where your conversation is more interesting than my book. I've been known to actually open my mouth to make a comment. But even I realize that is just not done. At least most of the time I realize this.
The other day I was waiting in a small hallway for an interminable dance class to be done. I had work to do, but neither the motivation nor the concentration to do it. I was stressed and exhausted. The last place I wanted to be was in this stinky, cramped hallway, but it seemed a good enough location for killing 45 minutes. Another mom and her cute little guy were having a conversation. She asked a question that he didn't know the answer to and my filter was out of order so I put out my answer. I did a metaphorical face plant the second the words came out. (A common phrase in my existence, "did I say that out loud?") She made it perfectly clear that my answer wasn't wanted. Uh, yea, sorry. I'll shut up now. And I'll do my waiting elsewhere next week so I don't interrupt your private playground. In any case, my answer was "Simba". Sue me.
So, yea. I get the idea that people may be listening in on conversations and maybe some conversations shouldn't be held in a crowded place. On the other hand, I think there is an unspoken rule, reinforced by the lovely young mother who might not have said those words as rudely as I heard them, that your comments belong in your head.
A note to creepy eavesdropping lady. It is perfectly ok to insert your advice on making finger sandwiches, but it is not ok to give your advice on more personal matters. Really, it's not.
We finally made our escape and hurried out. I sorta feel like I need a shower. My friend and I laughed about that (as well as being relieved that she didn't appear to have heard the entire conversation.)
I'm an eavesdropper too. I admit it. I people watch. I watch parents interact with their kids and smile. I periodically glanced at that couple and rolled my eyes. Sometimes I look like I'm reading a book, but there are definitely times where your conversation is more interesting than my book. I've been known to actually open my mouth to make a comment. But even I realize that is just not done. At least most of the time I realize this.
The other day I was waiting in a small hallway for an interminable dance class to be done. I had work to do, but neither the motivation nor the concentration to do it. I was stressed and exhausted. The last place I wanted to be was in this stinky, cramped hallway, but it seemed a good enough location for killing 45 minutes. Another mom and her cute little guy were having a conversation. She asked a question that he didn't know the answer to and my filter was out of order so I put out my answer. I did a metaphorical face plant the second the words came out. (A common phrase in my existence, "did I say that out loud?") She made it perfectly clear that my answer wasn't wanted. Uh, yea, sorry. I'll shut up now. And I'll do my waiting elsewhere next week so I don't interrupt your private playground. In any case, my answer was "Simba". Sue me.
So, yea. I get the idea that people may be listening in on conversations and maybe some conversations shouldn't be held in a crowded place. On the other hand, I think there is an unspoken rule, reinforced by the lovely young mother who might not have said those words as rudely as I heard them, that your comments belong in your head.
A note to creepy eavesdropping lady. It is perfectly ok to insert your advice on making finger sandwiches, but it is not ok to give your advice on more personal matters. Really, it's not.
Friday, August 26, 2011
tears of a clown
The two things that I am best at. Laughing and crying. I laugh for pretty much any reason. Sometimes even in situations that others find amusing too. I laugh at kids, pets, life, toilet humor, mundane events, spoonerisms, malapropisms, ridiculous logic. I guffaw. I giggle. I twitter. I laugh past the point of reason. Laughter feels good. I try not to laugh to hurt other people. I do occasionally have to apologize and explain when it seems like I might be laughing to hurt rather than just being amused. Laughter releases all sorts of excess baggage and feelings. And so on.
The crying serves a function as well. I cry when things touch me. There are two books that I absolutely can't read out loud. The Giving Tree and the kid's book with the toilet on the cover. Both books demonstrate the nurturing of mothers (or caregivers) as children grow into adulthood. Ignoring the fact that the tree gives up everything for her ungrateful "child" and the mother crawls into her grown son's window to rock him as he sleeps- both of which are uber creepy- I feel that depth of emotion for the child as the child slips away. Lest you think I want my children to be dependent on me forever, I absolutely want my growing-too-fast children to mature into self-reliant adults.
I cry during movies. My little one insisted that I finally watch "Up" with her recently. Well, I cried at the beginning. I cried at the end. I cried in the middle a little bit too. It is a beautiful movie. The crying was for different emotions. I was sad that he lost her, but I was moved when she let him go too. I can't make it through the opening credits of Schindler's List. I cry for the senseless suffering. I cry for the fact that a man who seemingly couldn't do anything right made such a huge impact on a few people (well, a lot but not enough- if you know what I mean.) My biggest cry movie I haven't watched in a very long time. Legends of the Fall. I love this movie. It's where I fell in love with Brad Pitt and Aidan Quinn and Julia Ormond even. It is an amazing movie. (Anthony Hopkins is brilliant as well, no surprise.) If you have never seen it, you should- but have tissues. This movie puts me in despair for hours. So I only can watch in when I really need a good cry but don't seem to have a reason. ha ha.
For many summers, I read aloud a book to the younger generation of our beach friends. Somehow the books always seem to have a part where my voice cracks a little bit. In fact, the last book I read, I was brave enough to look up and saw others joining me in the tears. We had to stop and have a little cryfest. One kid, who I jokingly say has no soul, remained dry eyed. She's not as emotional as the rest of us. This is ok, of course. I'm a little jealous that she doesn't have to worry about making a fool of herself in public.
Crying cleanses the soul. A smart friend told me this. I agree. Apparently it's a Jewish proverb, "What soap is for the body, tears are for the soul." It's kind of like oiling a hinge. Sometimes the joint just rusts and doesn't move unless you oil it. Crying is the WD40 of life.
But I do find myself leaning more towards tears when I'm stressed and tired. I am then ill equipped to see the positives, to deal with the hurts real and imaginary, to respond to situations that are not ideal. In those cases, the crying is not the solution, but the symptom. A wise person I live with often suggests I go to bed. As if getting adequate sleep is an option when I'm stressed and tired. Clearly he is someone who isn't plagued with insomnia when not at his best. When I'm stressed and tired, I compound the problem with feeling guilty for every thing I have ever done that was wrong. There are many things. Many things. Daily. Hourly. Big things. Small things. It doesn't matter. They all plague me and cause the tears to flow, the brain to work in nonproductive overdrive, the body to feel heavy and old. And so I cry. Big tears that make no sense, solve no problems, ease no troubles. Are these tears cleansing my soul? I don't think so. If they are, I have the cleanest soul in town. I know this is not true.
How do I deal with these endless, purposeless tears? Go to bed? Sure, that would be great. Laugh? Yes, that probably would help. Forgive myself for my imperfections? Yes! The hardest thing ever.
Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward. ~Kurt Vonnegut
Sunday, July 31, 2011
the waiting is the hardest part
I'm a squished spring, ready to blow. I'm coiled inside. Nothing is fast enough. Nothing can keep my attention. I'm cranky. I'm a little mean. I'm flitting from one thing to the next. I'm too anxious to sit still long, so the things I want to do are impossible. I'm sick of noise, so I don't want to be near anyone. I'm talking like Chewbacca. I'm a little less hairy than Chewbacca, thank goodness.
Why am I this beast? I'm waiting. I'm ugly when I'm waiting. I'm no good at it. I don't like it. In the immortal words of Freddy Mercury, "I want it all and I want it now."
I make the waiting harder. Almost always. I'm waiting to hear back about my grad school application. It's been a week. How long do they need? Well, I know that this past week or this current week is the culmination of the huge summer project that I hope to be doing next summer. Perhaps they are busy enough without reading an application. The reason the application was submitted at such a lousy time was that I put off finishing it until summer when the people I needed recommendations from would be otherwise occupied. Had I finished before the end of school, I would surely know by now. I would know and be able to plan my fall schedule. I would be able to get the ball rolling, as it were.
I'm waiting to hear whether I have a job next year. I probably do, but it's not definite. I can't seem to be half full about this. Perhaps I can't be half full because so many school employees lost their jobs at the end of last year. Why would I have a guarantee when they have more seniority? So I'm waiting. This waiting isn't my fault, but that doesn't make it any easier.
I'm waiting to see what happens this week. My daughter starts marching band. I loved marching band. I still talk to friends I made through marching band. We went great places, we had great fun. We were silly on school buses. We worked hard but had fun after school. We always had something to do on a Friday night that had little to do (really) with football. For 5 long years, I've been telling my kid that she will love marching band too. It's been very dramatic at times, since she says she despises clarinet. So soon we find out if I was right to push. On the other hand, it won't really be soon to find out that she likes it. The first half time show isn't until mid-September. This kid is a performer, so that will be a factor. So right now I'm waiting to see how much whining I'll have to listen to until then. I'm waiting to see how much money I'm going to have to fork over to listen to that whining. I'm waiting to see what the new band director is like. I'm waiting to see if she'll be friends with the kids in her group.
I'm waiting for an end to a different kind of drama. An end that apparently will never come. So I guess I'm really waiting to I figure out that I'm just going to have to get over it. With every day, it becomes less important to me- which is good because I'm sure it's been completely unimportant to the other people for a long time. Unfortunately, things always creep in to temporarily make it more important for a little while and I have to start all over. This is why I'm considering installing a 2 x 4 in the basement for those moments when I need an attitude adjustment (read "smack upside the head").
Then there's the motherhood waiting. How is this school year going to go? Are they going to be happy with teachers/classes/friends? And the long-term waiting. Is Rebecca ever going to talk slower than the speed of light? Is Katie ever going to learn to use an inside voice? True story: a few summers ago Katie went to a pottery camp- the first of many camps where she has irritated the heck out of the teachers. Imagine. An enclosed space filled with many children, one of whom goes to 11 nonstop. I'm sure they all went home with headaches. We saw the camp instructor outside at a downtown event. We all spoke to him, including Katie. He said that was the quietest he'd ever heard her be. We laughed and said she was using her "outside voice". In fact, for a while we told her to use her outside voice when we wanted a little less volume.
I have a new hobby that was supposed to entertain me while I'm waiting. It's not helping. I'm too frazzled to work on it right now, but yet I still need to obsessively check on it to see what's happening. Nothing is happening. And when I did work on it, then I have to wait to see what other people thought about it. I'm doing this for fun, right? Why do I care what anyone else thought about it? Why do I turn entertainment into something that I have to wait for? Why can't it just be a nice little surprise?
I'm reading a book. I can't wait for it to be over. I usually love this author. I've read and enjoyed many of her books. My Sister's Keeper, Nineteen Minutes, Change of Heart, House Rules were all thought-provoking, interesting, moving stories- books I wanted to talk about. I'm having trouble being moved by Sing You Home. Well, I was moved at first. In the first 10 pages, I was on the verge of tears twice. I think I waited until page 27 before the tears finally spilled. But by page 97, I was done with tears. They were running a buy one/get one deal on melodramatic plot twists and Jodi got a bulk discount. Everything that you can imagine has happened to these characters. I'm immune now. I'm going to finish it now, if I can make myself. I need to lend the book to a friend who I'm seeing later today. I'm going to wait to read another one of her stories. And, yes, I want to talk about this book with someone else who has read it. If only to find out if I'm right or if I'm just Chewbacca.
Why am I this beast? I'm waiting. I'm ugly when I'm waiting. I'm no good at it. I don't like it. In the immortal words of Freddy Mercury, "I want it all and I want it now."
I make the waiting harder. Almost always. I'm waiting to hear back about my grad school application. It's been a week. How long do they need? Well, I know that this past week or this current week is the culmination of the huge summer project that I hope to be doing next summer. Perhaps they are busy enough without reading an application. The reason the application was submitted at such a lousy time was that I put off finishing it until summer when the people I needed recommendations from would be otherwise occupied. Had I finished before the end of school, I would surely know by now. I would know and be able to plan my fall schedule. I would be able to get the ball rolling, as it were.
I'm waiting to hear whether I have a job next year. I probably do, but it's not definite. I can't seem to be half full about this. Perhaps I can't be half full because so many school employees lost their jobs at the end of last year. Why would I have a guarantee when they have more seniority? So I'm waiting. This waiting isn't my fault, but that doesn't make it any easier.
I'm waiting to see what happens this week. My daughter starts marching band. I loved marching band. I still talk to friends I made through marching band. We went great places, we had great fun. We were silly on school buses. We worked hard but had fun after school. We always had something to do on a Friday night that had little to do (really) with football. For 5 long years, I've been telling my kid that she will love marching band too. It's been very dramatic at times, since she says she despises clarinet. So soon we find out if I was right to push. On the other hand, it won't really be soon to find out that she likes it. The first half time show isn't until mid-September. This kid is a performer, so that will be a factor. So right now I'm waiting to see how much whining I'll have to listen to until then. I'm waiting to see how much money I'm going to have to fork over to listen to that whining. I'm waiting to see what the new band director is like. I'm waiting to see if she'll be friends with the kids in her group.
I'm waiting for an end to a different kind of drama. An end that apparently will never come. So I guess I'm really waiting to I figure out that I'm just going to have to get over it. With every day, it becomes less important to me- which is good because I'm sure it's been completely unimportant to the other people for a long time. Unfortunately, things always creep in to temporarily make it more important for a little while and I have to start all over. This is why I'm considering installing a 2 x 4 in the basement for those moments when I need an attitude adjustment (read "smack upside the head").
Then there's the motherhood waiting. How is this school year going to go? Are they going to be happy with teachers/classes/friends? And the long-term waiting. Is Rebecca ever going to talk slower than the speed of light? Is Katie ever going to learn to use an inside voice? True story: a few summers ago Katie went to a pottery camp- the first of many camps where she has irritated the heck out of the teachers. Imagine. An enclosed space filled with many children, one of whom goes to 11 nonstop. I'm sure they all went home with headaches. We saw the camp instructor outside at a downtown event. We all spoke to him, including Katie. He said that was the quietest he'd ever heard her be. We laughed and said she was using her "outside voice". In fact, for a while we told her to use her outside voice when we wanted a little less volume.
I have a new hobby that was supposed to entertain me while I'm waiting. It's not helping. I'm too frazzled to work on it right now, but yet I still need to obsessively check on it to see what's happening. Nothing is happening. And when I did work on it, then I have to wait to see what other people thought about it. I'm doing this for fun, right? Why do I care what anyone else thought about it? Why do I turn entertainment into something that I have to wait for? Why can't it just be a nice little surprise?
I'm reading a book. I can't wait for it to be over. I usually love this author. I've read and enjoyed many of her books. My Sister's Keeper, Nineteen Minutes, Change of Heart, House Rules were all thought-provoking, interesting, moving stories- books I wanted to talk about. I'm having trouble being moved by Sing You Home. Well, I was moved at first. In the first 10 pages, I was on the verge of tears twice. I think I waited until page 27 before the tears finally spilled. But by page 97, I was done with tears. They were running a buy one/get one deal on melodramatic plot twists and Jodi got a bulk discount. Everything that you can imagine has happened to these characters. I'm immune now. I'm going to finish it now, if I can make myself. I need to lend the book to a friend who I'm seeing later today. I'm going to wait to read another one of her stories. And, yes, I want to talk about this book with someone else who has read it. If only to find out if I'm right or if I'm just Chewbacca.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
the road
I was looking at one of my favorite photo websites on Facebook (ok, truthfully probably the only photo website I look at). There is was! The photo of a beautiful, if slightly downtrodden, gateway with a small, inviting driveway, leading to a mysterious, undisclosed location. Now, I happen to know where the gateway is so the location is not a mystery to me. But still, I looked at this photo today and I saw the possibilities of the future.
Time passes and things change- age- if we must go there (which I really refuse to do. I'm NOT getting older. I won't allow it.) The mortar between the bricks gets a little cracked. The earth may settle under the footings. The paint may chip away at the gate. But looking at this photo, I don't see the reality of those things. I see the flowers surrounding the gate- beautifying, enriching, encasing with life and promise. I see the path, small, but big enough for the travel of whomever needs to go there.
I can imagine. In a romantic mood, I can imagine a lovely young woman in a sunny yellow hooped dress with all the trimmings arm in arm with her beau strolling up the path to her home where her mother waits anxiously at the window. In a more realistic mood, I can imagine two sisters fresh out of the creek, covered in algae and mud, chasing each other up the road to their mother waiting angrily at the window. In a dramatic mood, I can imagine the battle-weary, damaged, tired young man slowly limping his way up the path as his mother wistfully at first, then joyfully, waits at the window. But this was not a story about the mother who waits at the other end of the road- at least I didn't think so. But maybe it really is- if I'm having a philosophical, spiritual mood that I wasn't aware of.
I thought it was a mood of decisions. Not even that there is a decision to be made at this moment. But choices are always there waiting. So we choose. There is the path forward, uncertain. There is the path that we already traveled. The path traveled is important too, no doubt. The path traveled is what makes us who we are. Every road we've tried, every fork with the choices we've made, every time we've left the path completely makes us who we are.
I think about the gateway. Since I know where it is, I know what lies the other direction. It's a well-maintained, historical, interesting cemetery. I've spent many hours there throughout my life. People I loved are buried there. People I miss. But the cemetery is not for the living. If I stay there at that gateway thinking about the cemetery and the past, I'm not living.
And now I mix my metaphors. Life is not just about moving forward or staying back, it's also about choosing paths. We don't see it, but in the location there are other paths nearby. One path leads to the same place (convenient, that). But nearby is another path that leads to another exciting possibility- in fact one that is a little less likely to get me arrested for trespassing. Also there are two roads that lead to wonderful places. So if I step back from the photo, I suddenly have more choices. I can now insert my quote from a perfectly delightful poem by Robert Frost. Admit it, you felt it coming.
I seem to choose the less traveled path in principle. Sometimes I wonder if I choose a path that requires a machete just because I like the struggle. Other times I wonder if the path makes me interesting or just weird. Sometimes I wish I would choose the common path just for the ease. And sometimes I follow the "regular" path like a lemming. And sometimes what seemed like the common path at the time, was not.
Sheryl Crow, the queen of deep and quirky, gives this advice...
Jump in, let's go
Lay back, enjoy the show
Everybody gets high, everybody gets low,
These are the days when anything goes
Every day is a winding road
I get a little bit closer
Every day is a faded sign
I get a little bit closer to feeling fine
I'm certain Sheryl is talking directly to me. She lets me know that it's ok! Life is complicated and that's good. Sometimes traveling the road will make me happy, sometimes it will make me sad, but I have to be on the road. The show is worth it, and I will be fine. And don't just do it halfway. JUMP in. Don't walk on that road. Run, skip, dance, sometimes stroll leisurely, maybe even walk backwards, but do not just walk. Sometimes bring a machete or a companion or a guide. Sometimes wear hiking boots or rain boots or sandals. Sometimes wear a parka or a sweater or a bikini (ok, never wear a bikini).
Do we follow the path? Do we dare to see where it leads? Do we make a choice less common? Do we wander the path that might lead us home? Yes!!
Baileyville Photo:
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=216181528421038&set=pu.141602132545645&type=1&theater
Time passes and things change- age- if we must go there (which I really refuse to do. I'm NOT getting older. I won't allow it.) The mortar between the bricks gets a little cracked. The earth may settle under the footings. The paint may chip away at the gate. But looking at this photo, I don't see the reality of those things. I see the flowers surrounding the gate- beautifying, enriching, encasing with life and promise. I see the path, small, but big enough for the travel of whomever needs to go there.
I can imagine. In a romantic mood, I can imagine a lovely young woman in a sunny yellow hooped dress with all the trimmings arm in arm with her beau strolling up the path to her home where her mother waits anxiously at the window. In a more realistic mood, I can imagine two sisters fresh out of the creek, covered in algae and mud, chasing each other up the road to their mother waiting angrily at the window. In a dramatic mood, I can imagine the battle-weary, damaged, tired young man slowly limping his way up the path as his mother wistfully at first, then joyfully, waits at the window. But this was not a story about the mother who waits at the other end of the road- at least I didn't think so. But maybe it really is- if I'm having a philosophical, spiritual mood that I wasn't aware of.
I thought it was a mood of decisions. Not even that there is a decision to be made at this moment. But choices are always there waiting. So we choose. There is the path forward, uncertain. There is the path that we already traveled. The path traveled is important too, no doubt. The path traveled is what makes us who we are. Every road we've tried, every fork with the choices we've made, every time we've left the path completely makes us who we are.
I think about the gateway. Since I know where it is, I know what lies the other direction. It's a well-maintained, historical, interesting cemetery. I've spent many hours there throughout my life. People I loved are buried there. People I miss. But the cemetery is not for the living. If I stay there at that gateway thinking about the cemetery and the past, I'm not living.
And now I mix my metaphors. Life is not just about moving forward or staying back, it's also about choosing paths. We don't see it, but in the location there are other paths nearby. One path leads to the same place (convenient, that). But nearby is another path that leads to another exciting possibility- in fact one that is a little less likely to get me arrested for trespassing. Also there are two roads that lead to wonderful places. So if I step back from the photo, I suddenly have more choices. I can now insert my quote from a perfectly delightful poem by Robert Frost. Admit it, you felt it coming.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the differenceI seem to choose the less traveled path in principle. Sometimes I wonder if I choose a path that requires a machete just because I like the struggle. Other times I wonder if the path makes me interesting or just weird. Sometimes I wish I would choose the common path just for the ease. And sometimes I follow the "regular" path like a lemming. And sometimes what seemed like the common path at the time, was not.
Sheryl Crow, the queen of deep and quirky, gives this advice...
Jump in, let's go
Lay back, enjoy the show
Everybody gets high, everybody gets low,
These are the days when anything goes
Every day is a winding road
I get a little bit closer
Every day is a faded sign
I get a little bit closer to feeling fine
I'm certain Sheryl is talking directly to me. She lets me know that it's ok! Life is complicated and that's good. Sometimes traveling the road will make me happy, sometimes it will make me sad, but I have to be on the road. The show is worth it, and I will be fine. And don't just do it halfway. JUMP in. Don't walk on that road. Run, skip, dance, sometimes stroll leisurely, maybe even walk backwards, but do not just walk. Sometimes bring a machete or a companion or a guide. Sometimes wear hiking boots or rain boots or sandals. Sometimes wear a parka or a sweater or a bikini (ok, never wear a bikini).
Do we follow the path? Do we dare to see where it leads? Do we make a choice less common? Do we wander the path that might lead us home? Yes!!
Baileyville Photo:
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=216181528421038&set=pu.141602132545645&type=1&theater
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