Questioning faith

Each year around this time, ie Easter, I always question my faith and dedication to my religion. Occasionally, some of the ladies (and the two men who run the choir) will go out after choir rehearsal for some food, some drink and some laughs. I am considered the baby in the group--and it's not a position I am overly fond of sometimes. At 34, I don't feel like a kid, but there are many moments where our keyboardist, director or other choir members will refer to me that way. I'm "The Kid". My response is often, "Unless you're gonna change my name to Billy or make into some unknown prize fighter, knock that stuff off!" I digress a bit, sorry. Immature whine session is over now...;) Over the course of the conversation at the restaurant last evening, the four of us that were there were discussing our faith. I am a baptized Catholic (please, refrain from throwing vegetables). As a child, I was the only "active" member of my church. I was a freak. I enjoyed church. I found a sense of peace when I went. However, as I've grown older, I have more questions than anything else, the largest coming out of these doubts is: Am I truly faithful? I put a lot of stock in the concept of God. I'm not sure what he is--or even if "he" is the right pronoun to use. But, for the sake of consistency, I usually stick with He. I understand that the largest part of the concept of faith is to believe without seeing. I have seen some incredible things in my day, which most times confirms my belief in God. On the other hand, there are many things that occur, both in my life and in those around me, that make we wonder how a supreme being would allow the tragedies in life, both the big and the small. I don't advocate many of the basic tenets of Catholicism. I am pro-choice, although if it were me, under most circumstances I would keep a child. I've learned, though, that unless put in a situation, no one ever truly knows what she or he will do until a choice--no matter what it is about--is made. I am pro-birth control for many reasons, but the largest being that unless the church is going to come on over from Rome and help me feed and care for my "flock", then don't worry so much about whether I have 1, 5 or 12 children. I am anti-confession: I see a priest as a middle man. I'm not going to go to someone to tell them I screwed up and sinned (again), when God, who is supposed to be omnipresent, is right there with me when I blew it big time. I ask his forgiveness and/or the people I might have when I messed up...I atone for my mistake by taking responsbility for it with those I have hurt. I believe that God knows I screwed up; he's simply waiting for me to recognize that fact and touch base with him, one on one. Yet, I go to church most weeks, I sing in the choir and I believe strongly that my children should be taught the lessons I learned as I grew up in faith. I marvel at the stories of the Bible and the what they have to teach me. But, am I in the right place? Do I do my church a disservice by being there? What about myself? Am I a hypocrite? Yeah, Easter is always fun for me LOL. It makes me wonder, though, that if all of the people who claim that it is wrong to question God and his will are missing the mark a bit. Perhaps asking questions and/or having doubts doesn't make me less faithful, but more. I seek the truth, not to discredit my core beliefs, but to solidify them. Isn't that what God wants from all of us?

Big Sister Blues...

Big Sis Cailyn Hot Doggin' It
Whoever said it's easy being the big sister probably hasn't been there. I sure haven't. As an only child, I have no idea of what it's like to be in that role. Cailyn seems to have been born to be a big sister. She certainly loves being the "older and wiser" of the Rossiter girls, but with the title comes a lot of responsibility, and sometimes I forget that. From the time she was just over one, Cailyn has had a way of taking care of herself--and anyone else that came along. She can be incredibly silly, but, most times, she is content to be on her own, doing things her way. She's always been older than her years, and, consequently, those around her forget the fact that she's still just a little kid. Most days, Cailyn is 7 going on 12, easily. She doesn't talk like a child, but like a tiny adult (well, not that tiny, she's also quite tall for her age...yikes!) She has an awareness and a grasp for detail that I find hard to wrap my "mature" brain around. She is a perfectionist, and that is a trait I seem to have passed on to her :(. When things in her world aren't right, she lashes out in frustration and confusion. In a world that has so little order and is always changing, I'm afraid sometimes that she won't be able to cope well, in spite of her amazing intelligence. Her capacity to amaze is endless, whether it is about the things she knows or simply her creativity. Her dream is to be an artist, and she has the right mind and spirit for it. I hope to be able to encourage her as she grows into the person she is becoming. Although Cailyn is older, I really think she needs me more than her sister. And, as her mom, I need to remember that more....

Sugar and Spice

My Sweet and Sassy Erin
How could anyone not love that face? Erin is my baby, the youngest of two girls. That certainly doesn't stop her from hitting the world head on with her spunk and mischievous smile. In what I like to call the "Second Child Syndrome", Erin will do whatever she needs to in order to step out of big sister's shadow. As I mentioned in a previous post, her latest trick is performing. She'll stand in the middle of the room and do her "routine": "Ladies and Gentleman! I am going to get my booty on and sing the Wonka Song!
'I want today I want tomorrow I want to wear 'em like braids in my hair And I don't want to share 'em I want a party with room fulls of laughter Ten thousand tons of ice cream And if I don't get the things I am after I'm going to scream!'" The anthem of a screaming brat is my baby's favorite song...go figure. But, Erin isn't like that--and that's not just a mom's bias talking. She is so sensitive and empathetic. When a friend hurts, she hurts. She feels things to the bone. Sometimes it actually overwhelming for me to see how much Erin takes in. This is not to stay that she's perfect. She fully embraces her "three-ness". With an independent streak that can frustrate even the most patient person, Erin sometimes makes me wanna pull out my hair. But, all she has to do is give a smile like the one in that picture and I can't stay mad at her long. Erin is a fighter. She doesn't give up and she's strong. She was quite sick as a baby and even now, with surgery looming (just for tonsils/adenoids) she simply says, "I'm going to the hospital! YEAH!" She's one of the only kids I know who likes the doctor and/or the hospital. Erin's easygoing and is able to roll with the punches--go with the flow. A lot of people (including myself and DH) compare her with her big sister, who is very bright. Erin is smart, but in a different way...and sometimes I think she may ultimately be better prepared for the world around her than her sister. My baby really isn't a baby anymore...but as long as she doesn't mind being called that...I'll keep right on doing it.

"Sing us a song...."

Ok folks, I'm putting myself out there on this post. Here is the first draft of a chapter of the memoir piece I am trying to write. After a lot of struggle to get something out, this is only the third chapter I've drafted out. This is literally an "as is" post...no edits... Thanks to Heidi for listening today. You broke down some walls for me in just a few minutes...I hope she likes this....of course, feel free to post thoughts, comments, suggestions. There is tons of room for improvement and polish, I know. Every once in a while, I’ll have a string of days when I get in my car, turn on the radio and even if I’m surfing from one station to the next, the same song will come on—day after day. It’s as though the dj’s out there have some sort of hidden camera in my car and say “Hey, there she is! Put the song on now!” Fortunately, the song that keeps making a repeat performance in my car is Billy Joel’s classic “Piano Man”. First of all, it’s a great tune, so it makes the apparent repetition easy to bear. Also, the song is etched onto my personal soundtrack. Everyone has one of those and as the years go by, songs are continually added onto the play list. Some songs are played only a few times, and then sit and wait to be heard again at some obscure time—like just about the time I’m getting ready to have my teeth cleaned. However, there are those tunes that are on high-rotation, as if to say “Don’t forget this one, honey,” or “Do you remember when?” Even as a kid, I was a big fan of his music and every time I could charm Dad into giving me a quarter for the jukebox, I always made sure I knew what letter and number buttons to push so I could hear “Piano Man”. Joel’s classic moved me to sing for others for the first time in my young life. So, what that I was only 7 or 8 and my audience was a bunch of guys that hung out at the local bar. Yeah, I spent more time in a bar as a child than I ever would either in college or even as an adult. Of course, a bar is not the ideal place for a kid that age (or any, really) to be spending her time, but in my case I had a very good reason. It was one of the few places I could spend time with Daddy, and not have to worry about his ever-changing moods. At O’Connors, Daddy was happy. I guess somewhere in my young, but precocious mind I figured if I couldn’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. So, that’s exactly what I did. I knew that kids didn’t belong in a bar (hell, if Mom knew I was tracking down Dad there, she’d have a fit). Just walking in, pulling up a stool and saying, “Hey, Daddy, what’s up?” wasn’t an option. My plan was subtle and admittedly devious. It all started so innocently. I would open the door to O’Connors and as the stark sunlight streamed through the doorway of the darkened room, heads would turn. “Pumpkin, you’re not supposed to be here,” Daddy would say, trying to sound stern, but rarely succeeded when it came to me. “I know, Daddy, but I need some money. My friends and I are going next door to the Deli and I don’t have enough to buy a slushy.” Cue the puppy dog eyes and pouty-face. That’s when I’d get the invite in, while Daddy dug deeply into his jeans’ pocket, pulled out a dollar and then would send me on my way. It didn’t take long for me to do that enough times that, eventually, Daddy’s friends would want to know and see more of the “red-haired cutie” who would come to visit him. Daddy was many things, but one thing to his credit was the pride he had for me. I had moved from sheepishly pushing open the glass door to O’Connors to having a stool pulled out for me and bellying up to the bar. My drink of choice? Coke, on tap, no ice (I could taste the syrup better that way—ordering a good drink must have been passed on through my genes.) Believe it or not, I found a lot of things to pass the time while in O’Connors. When I tired of listening to Daddy’s jokes and stories, which he could seem to tell for hours some days, I would spend my time in front of the jukebox. I don’t know whether it was because I looked a lot like the Irish lassies that many of the men who frequented the bar fancied, but there were days that I had an unending stream of quarters, so that I could keep that box singing for what felt like hours. One day, the familiar strains of harmonica filled the bar and I jumped for joy. Without even worrying about the audience around me, I sang along to “Piano Man”, in full voice. It didn’t matter that I was only a kid and didn’t have a true understanding of all of the lyrics; I belted out that tune with gusto! And, there was Daddy, sitting on his stool and beaming with delight. As his buddies clapped and cheered, Daddy scooped me up and sat me on the actual bar. Naturally, like most kids, I loved the spotlight and kept right on going. I got a standing ovation. Not bad for a first time performer. My solos at O’Connors continued, as patrons would put money in the jukebox just to hear me sing. One day, Mr. O’Connor showed me an old piano he had out back in the lounge area. I had permission to play it whenever I wanted. I spent many days plucking out tunes by ear and singing along. Since no one has seen me on “American Idol” or on the cover of my own album, it’s obvious that my singing talent didn’t take me far in life. But, what I lacked in true talent, I made up for with heart and soul. Truth be told, I did enjoy the crowds, but for me, there was really only ever one person in the audience there that mattered. My singing was a way for me to connect with Daddy in ways I couldn’t when we were at home. There were times I wondered if the glass door to O’Connors was actually a door into a different time and place, because most times when I was there with Daddy, there were no obstacles that wedged themselves between us. He almost seemed like a real person there, and not the Jekyl and Hyde that lived with me and Mom. When I sang for Daddy, it was one of the only ways I thought I could truly touch his soul. It merely due to circumstance that I had to sing at a bar to reach him. End of draft

10 things I've noticed about my reality...

So, it's been a week without posting...horrible accountabilty on my part, I know. However, the week wasn't a total waste. Somehow, as my reality goes flying past me at a speed faster than light, I managed to pick up a few things. Never let it be said that I'm not quick..;) Anyway, here's 10 things I've managed to pick up on or notice about my reality and even those who live within it...Apologies beforehand for those I might speak of--please know I do it not out of spite or anger, but merely out of observation. :) 1. Crappy things really do happen in threes. I'll boil it down to this: 2 cases of walking pneumonia in the family (DD#1 and DH) and DD#2 needs tonsils and adenoids out in 2 weeks...Even in my friends' lives, the crap came down in triplicate over the past 7 days. Here's a rhetorical question: why doesn't the good stuff happen like that?? 2. Somehow over the past week or so, my oldest DD, who is 7, has transformed into a person I hardly recongize. The kid is as high as my chest and knows stuff that I'm pretty darned sure I had no clue about at her age--don't ask me for specific examples, because that could be an entire entry unto itself. 3. Three year olds know how to have real fun, and don't give a crap about who hears or sees them. Lately, DD#2 has taken to annoucing to the world that she's gonna "Get her booty on and sing the Wonka song." A brief clarification for those who don't speak "Threeish". One of her favorite movies is Willy Wonka and she loves the song Veruca sings...And, while I'm not thrilled that she's emulating a spoiled brat, Erin is a riot when she sings this song. She really gets into it...as for the booty part, well, she got that from one of my CD's...amazing what the youngin's pick up, isn't it? 4. It is possible to not only survive, but also have a decent day with only 4 hours of decent sleep. 5. I'm finding that I don't mind spending time alone the way I used to...in fact, some days, I long for it. 6. Writing has become a lot harder for me since I decided to do it for a living. Before I left teaching, I could write volumes. Now, there are days where banging my head against a brick wall would be less painful. Still, I love it more than anything. 7. Playing Outlaw Volleyball on my Xbox is a great stress reliever 8. After 34 years, I still haven't learned that procrastination isn't the way to go... 9. For some unexplained reason, my kids have no problem sleeping in on school days, but think that getting up at 7am on Saturday or Sunday is the best idea in the world. Maybe kids have their own time zones--much like engineers ;) 10. Keeping up with my blog is harder than I thought it would be. Whenever I write, I want to make sure it's cute or worth reading about. Some days, I just sit here and go..."WTF cares about this stuff? I don't...why would anyone else?" Yet, I keep coming back here and entering my life's work and play... Wonder what I'll discover this week about my reality? Stay tuned to see...

One last shot of the storm...

Glad I was not on the road yesterday... 

Just another snowy day in Maine...

thoughts of a dark and snowy night...

Sounds like the start of some thriller-type novel doesn't it? Well, nothing as exciting as that going on here. With a sick hubby long since in bed and two little ones asleep, I have the rare opportunity of some solo time in the evening. After getting my Weather Channel fix about the most recent snowstorm bearing down on us here in Maine this evening, I shut off the tube, decided to check some email and now sit down to blog a little. I've got the Netscape Radio on Classical 101 and Mozart is lilting through my computer speakers. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (A Little Night Music). Seems an appropriate music selection as nature unleashes her wild ways outside; all is calm within my humble abode. Oh, my windchimes are getting a good workout this evening. Gusts of over 40 mph have brought them from their usual tinkling in the evening breeze to banging against one another--almost giving a musical voice to the storm out there. It's funny--not in the ha-ha way, but more in the peculiar sense--I tend to bitch about the winter weather. I do, in fact, hate the cold. But, when a good snowsnorm is cranked up out there, there is something almost exciting about it. I love watching it blow around by the amber street lamps just outside my windows. Certainly, there is little fun in shovelling or driving in this stuff, but when the snow is first fallen, there is little to rival its beauty. Perhaps that is why I endure Maine winters, that can seem endless some days (and months). Those fleeting moments when the snow is still untouched or soiled. All just seems right with the world. I'm waxing poetic here, which is probably a good indication that it's time for me to head to bed. Good night all!

aging is fine--just keep the lines

I am not one of those women who fear every birthday--who weep at the thought of growing another year older and pulling farther away from the youth that is so quickly slipping through my fingers. Hell, for years it has seemed like I've been playing a game of "catch up" with my age. Haven't I been 34 since I graduated from college? Seems that way sometimes. I don't feel much different. All right, I admit it--I'm more tired than I was 11 years ago. Having kids will do that to a body. But, the....essence...of me doesn't feel too much different. So, I am a woman who has not a single moment's hesitation when asked how old I am. I proudly state it for all who can hear. I've grown well into my current age. It feels right to me. However, I have one complaint. I don't mean to be fussy and I'm certainly not what is considered a high maintenance chick. Yet, the past few days I can't help but look in the mirror and wonder... what the hell are those lines doing under my eyes???!!!! Right there, in the interior corner of them both: lines, wrinkles, call 'em whatever the hell you want; it's all the same. The lines, themselves, aren't the real problems (mostly). It's where they are that bug the shit out of me. They're not on the outer part of the eye--which could give me a look of aging in a slightly more graceful way. OH NO FRIGGIN WAY. They are UNDER the innermost part of my eyes...and they look like crap! Nothing subtle about these buggers. Val, the girl who gives me my occastional facial, thinks it's just dehydration. Ok, fine. But, for the first time, I'm asking for some wrinkle cream. She gave me some moisturizer cream just for the eyes to try first. I'm hoping it works. Quite frankly, I'm getting tired of people asking me how many years YOUNGER my husband is than me. I am not a cradle robber, people! He was born in 69, and I in 71. I know math was never my subject, but even I know who's older. I'll take the lines...they're a map, of sorts, to the experiences I've had throughout my life. If I thought about it, I could probably figure out where each of them came from and give them a nice, nostalgic name: family, friends, former students and co-workers, events, etc. But, do I have to look like a friggin bag lady? Guess that's the trade-off to finally "acting my age"... at least I'm not going grey--too much...

sleepless and searching

I think that my writing subconscious is having its way with me, and not in the good way. After almost two months of beating my insomnia without drugs, I am finding myself not able to sleep until the early morning hours. Perhaps my brain is going through some sort of disrupt of its natural circadian rhythm. I say this only because when I sit down to write during the day, there are times that pulling teeth would seem less strenuous than getting a coherent thought down into my laptop. When I lay down in bed, though, it's party time! I was thisclose to getting out of bed at 12:30 and coming downstairs to write, but I willed myself back to bed. Now, I realize that I should probably take advantage of inspiration when it strikes. My problem is that I have a family and turning into a "writer with vampire hours" may be great for my manuscripts, but terrible for maintaining any shred of the healthy relationships I have left with them. I mentioned going to New York the other day and that may come about sometime in the future. Right now, though, I'm starting to wonder if perhaps I need to just take a weekend, pack some comfy clothes, my laptop and some cds and just go somewhere for a weekend: a bed and breakfast, a place on the coast...somewhere quiet and no one can scream "Mommy!" from the other room, where the phone won't ring and I have my own identity for 48 hours. All I want is a room of my own, eat when I want, sleep when I want and just write when I want, not because it's on some schedule. Great idea, right? So, what's the issue? Guilt. A mother's curse for sure... I certainly don't need to spend the money to do that, and the time away from the family seems incredibly selfish, especially since Jon will be traveling in the not to distant future. But, I yearn for space and, quite bluntly, freedom. But, how do I tell Jon that without sounding like a bitch? I'm turning 34 on Saturday and I think that maybe I'm starting a mid-life crisis a bit early. I have much to be proud of and thankful for--and I am--100%. With a husband who is amazing, two kids who bring tons of joy (and frustration) to my life, a job that I love and everything I need, why wouldn't I be proud? Yet, I want more. Talk about selfish. But, I can't change how I feel. As I have taken to saying: "Feelings aren't right or wrong: they just "are"." It's how someone acts on those feelings that can be labeled as right or wrong. Is wanting to go away for a weekend on my own wrong? I don't know. However, I think I need to figure that out--and soon.