NYC Update--May 31

Wow, it's been a long day. It's 11:10 pm and I'm winding down from a nice evening. I walked back down to Times Square and there, amongst the throngs of restaurants, I found an Olive Garden...yeah, yeah, not unique, but I was really hungry and it is one of my favorite places to eat. I rarely get to eat there...So, I got myself a table and basked in the solitude of a meal without having to say "Sit down! Use your fork!" or having to escort anyone to the bathroom. Being alone, had I done any of those things this evening, I might have been escorted away as a lunatic, but then again, who knows, it is NYC. Anyway, dinner was great! After dinner, I strolled down back down the other side of W 46th Street to the Richard Rogers theater, where Movin' Out is playing. I was a bit, early, so I just walked up and down the theater district a bit. For a former theater major, this is heaven. To pass a door that says, "Stage Door" gave me tingles. One of them was cracked open just a bit. I "almost" wanted to just peek in. Ok, I'll admit it, I wanted to sneak in and get a good look around, but common sense and my conscience won out. Finally, the house opened and I was able to take my seat. Great location; TKTS is awesome! I'll write a full review of Movin' Out tomorrow: first, I need a night to let it all sink in and two, it's late and I'm not sure I'm even writing coherently now, so, that wouldn't be a fair review, would it? Around 10pm the show ended and walked 5 minutes back to my hotel...passing Times Square once again. I didn't have my camera because I knew there was no picture taking in the theater and didn't want to run the risk of having it confiscated. But, I do know that when I return from the Javits Center tomorrow--after my conference--I am heading out with the camera and capturing NY at night...Things have certainly changed in the area since I was a kid. I certainly never thought I'd feel safe walking in the area at night alone, and back in the 70's and 80s, I probably couldn't have. It's been a long, but awe inspiring day. My alarm and wake up call is set for 6am, so I should head off to sleep. Conference news tomorrow! Night!

Live from New York! It's....

Me! After almost 7 hours in the car, I made it down to Manhattan. Overall, the trip was really good, although coming out of New Haven and then right before the Geo Wash Bridge were tied up badly (added an hour to the trip.) Amazingly, though, traffic downtown wasn't anything like I thought it would be. It seems as though I inherited a bit of the city driver blood from my folks--either that or it really is true that "you can take the girl out of the city, but...". Normally, I'm a pretty cautious driver and like to give people a wide berth. There's no room for that in midtown Manhattan, though, and I held my own. Currently, I'm about one block from Times Square, where I stood not even 10 minutes after I got my car into a parking garage to get on the TKTS booth line. All I can say is God Bless this place--50% off Broadway show tickets for the same-night performance. Of course, it's still a pretty penny for a show (at least compared to Maine!), but after waiting a little less than a 1/2 hour, I scored a seat for "Movin' Out", which is only about 2 1/2 blocks from my hotel door! I do wish that Jon was here so we could share this together, but I'm still admittedly excited. Tomorrow morning, I get to hail my first cab in order to get to my writing conf. I guess if I can drive down here, I can hail a cab, right? Also, as I drove down the Henry Hudson Parkway toward W 46th street, I discovered that it's FLEET WEEK! here in NYC--aka a big party for those shipmen/women who are serving us so well. Fleet Week is well known down here and it's usually quite rowdy. I counted dozens of seamen as I made my way to the hotel...Buckle in NY, it should be a fun week. Talk about timing! Ok, more later. I haven't eaten since this morning and the head is throbbing a bit. I'll post again in a bit!

New Memoir Chapter: How the hell did I get here?

Ok, so here's another installment for my book--(Heidi, you can get off my back about posting, k? LOL LOL LOL LOL LOL). I think this will be kind of like the intro for the book and then the last chapter I posted will come right after, but who knows, I may change my mind...stay tuned and find out. On Tuesday, I leave for NYC for a writer's conference and hope to present a proposal (including a few sample chapters to agents and editors. I pray that I have it done by the time I have to leave--but toinght's work has broken about a two-week block for me. THANKS HEIDI!) So, here it is! ******** HOW THE HELL DID I GET HERE? Each night, I turn on the cold water, fill a glass and place two small pills on my tongue. It’s only been about seven months since I started this little routine, but I’ve found that the process is almost natural now—I can do it without thinking. While the process may be second-nature, the reasons behind this recent addition to my life still nudge at me almost every night: two tiny question marks that punctuate the larger question of “How the hell did I get here?” Of course, if I had the answer to that question, I’d probably be a millionaire, and, in truth, I’m really not looking for the answer to the more abstract version of the inquiry. It’s just that sometimes, I truly wonder how I wound up being a 34-year-old woman, married almost nine years to a great man and mother to two beautiful daughters, ages seven and three. The paths I could have chosen--that many people in my place have opted to go down—are often too frightening to think about. Contrary to Robert Frost’s beautiful piece, the road not taken does not always lead to a better destination. As the daughter of an alcoholic father, I know that I’m not alone. Some statistics say that at least 1 in 4 children under the age of 18 are exposed to alcohol abuse (American Journal of Public Health, Grant, 2000) and more than one-half of American adults have a close family who has or had alcoholism (Dawson and Grant 1998). Statistics are good: they can help people get a clearer picture of large or abstract concepts. Sometimes, though, I think that statistics have a tendency to make issues too simple, allowing the public to see them as merely numbers and not how certain things affect individuals. Somehow, the personal stories of children of alcoholics get buried beneath the numbers. While the numbers give me comfort in the fact that I haven’t traveled down this road on my own, I don’t want to be known merely as a statistic; I’m not just a number in some group or agency’s report. Besides, statistics aren’t necessarily truth. According to other statistics about kids of an alcoholic parent, my performance in school should have been below average, many of my relationships should be dysfunctional and it is highly likely that I abuse alcohol, too. While these things may be fact for many family members dealing with alcoholism, it is not my reality. This is not to say that my life is idyllic. Remember my little admission above about my two little nightly pills? I’m sure the depression and anxiety I deal with is tied to my history. I don’t believe that anyone, be it daughter, spouse, parent or whoever, can come out the other side of alcoholism without some lingering effects. But, hey, I’ll take two little pills every day over any of the other options listed above. Back to my question, though, of “How the hell did I get here?” As I watch my daughters grow up and see time take its own toll on me, it is a question that I know has not one, but many answers. Some of the stories included here are my attempt to dig around a little and hopefully unearth some of the answers to this question that may be buried in my experiences. Others are just included simply because they paint a fuller picture of what life in my family was like. Yes, my father was an alcoholic. Yes, there were many difficult times. As a child, many of the moments went by in a blur of confusion and anger. However, there are also moments of laughter and love that I cling to and I know helped to shape me into the woman I’ve become. By accepting the good with the bad and understanding that my life doesn’t have to be defined by one of the other has been a first step into helping me cope with many of the uncertainties in my life, both past and present. Most addiction treatment programs, be it for addicts or family members, contend that acceptance is the key to healing. Acceptance just takes longer for some than others—for me, it started almost 11 years ago and has been a work-in-progress ever since. And, it began with five simple words… “My dad’s gonna die, guys.”

New Memoir Chapter: "Visions" (part one)

Hey all, I know it's been a while since my last post, but it's been quite busy (more details tomorrow). I'm wrapping up a long weekend in Cinci to visit Jon, who's been away on business since 4/3 and will return on 5/20. I'm a bit reluctant to go home, but the girls need me (and I do miss them--a little ;), the in-laws need to get back home and Jon and I need to get back at work... So, while I was gone and Jon had to work, I managed to bang part of another memoir chapter out. This is about 1/2 to 3/4 done, and it is unedited, as I continue to struggle with my first draft perfectionism syndrome. Commentary/corrections are welcome here. Will post tomorrow night, when I return to beautiful Maine (alone--sniff sniff) -----VISIONS (INCOMPLETE MEMOIR CHAPTER) “Did you see him?” Dad looked over at me as I entered his hospital room, with that all-too-familiar glint in his eye. Never mind the fact that he was sick, he only had one thing on his mind. “Daddy…” “C’mon honey,” he encouraged. “He’s young, good looking, and a doctor!” “Yes, he is all of those things.” Sometimes it was just easier to play this game than fight against it. “So? What do you think? I’ve been telling him all about you.” I heard a small groan escape my throat. “Like what?” “That you’re getting your Masters Degree! And that you’re smart and funny and…” “Dad, you shouldn’t be talking to your doctor about me,” I reminded as I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. I sat in a chair I pulled up along side the bed. “And why not? You’ve got a lot to offer a man like that…” “You should be the topic of conversation, Dad! After all, you are the patient.” “Aw, hell, pumpkin, he has all of his charts and tests for that crap.” He frowned, trying to look angry. He did all he could to avoid the most obvious topic: his health. It was like that cliché of the pink elephant; everyone sees the damn thing in the room, but no one wants to be the first to mention it, just in case it’s really not there and he’s deemed to be crazy or something. “Besides,” he continued, “you can’t blame me for wanting a good thing for my girl.” I leaned back in the chair. “No, I don’t blame you for that, Daddy. And, he seems like a very nice man…” “Well what’s the friggin’ problem, then?” “The problem is the ring he’s already wearing on his finger!” The look of realization on his face was priceless and I did all I could to suppress a laugh. “If you’re going to spend your time trying to set me up with men, Daddy, the least you can do is make sure they’re single first.” “Damn,” he muttered. “I didn’t notice that.” “Of course not. All you see is the Dr. in front of his name and your brain goes into meltdown mode.” “I’m just trying to help.” He folded his thin arms in front of his chest. “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s just that we are trained to look for the ring. If it makes you feel any better, when I met him for the first time, it was the first thing I looked for.” A wry smile spread across his lips. “See, I know what you like.” “All right, I won’t argue. What’s the point, anyway?” “None, so forget it.” I studied him for a moment. Dad looked better, comparatively, than he had for a while. Time in the hospital forced him to “dry out” and stay away from the cigarettes. He face was still drawn from all of the weight he had lost, and his skin coloring didn’t look quite right; but, his eyes lost some of the cloudiness that had settled there. “What did the doctor say, anyway?” I asked carefully. Dad glanced sideways at me. “He told me you sounded like a charming young lady.” “I’m not talking about that.” “Hmm, well…they’re gonna be doing some tests tomorrow. See if they can figure out what’s going on with me.” He avoided my glance by staring out the window. I nodded. “What time?” “I don’t know, around 9:30 or so.” “All right, I’ll be here,” I stated as I got up and poured a cup of water from his plastic pitcher. “No way!” he barked, “you have finals.” “Finals don’t start until Monday, Daddy.” “So what? You have to study.” “I have all weekend.” “Why do you insist on arguing with me?” “Because you insist on being stupid.” “I…what?” His eyes narrowed as he realizes what I just said to him. “Never mind.” “You’re less than two weeks from graduating, Marie! You’re gonna screw that up?” “Jesus, Daddy! You’re always so dramatic!” I drink down the water and sit on the edge of his bed. “An hour or so here in the morning is not going to stop me from graduating from college!” “Your mother would have a friggin’ bird if you…” “Would you just stop worrying and let me do what I want!?” He sighed as deeply as his one remaining, damaged lung would allow. “Damn stubborn. Just like your mother.” “Like mom?” I replied with a laugh. “I think I got that trait from both sides of the family.” “Yeah, well…fine.” We sat in silence for a few moments. Then, it came out of nowhere: “I don’t think I’m gonna make it to your graduation.” On the surface, his declaration sounded so simplistic. I don’t believe, though, that its more complex meanings escaped either of us. Usually, I had no problem finding a comeback to toss at my father, whether it was sarcastic or sincere. This one had me at a definite loss. “Dad…” He leaned toward me. “I’ll do my best to be there, ok? I really wanna be there.” “You will be.” “Yeah.” He began a coughing jag. It took at least two minutes before he fully quieted down. “How about for right now, you worry about doing what the doctors tell you and I worry about getting through finals and graduation.” “All right, all right,” he conceded reluctantly, reclining back on the bed. “You know that I was only trying to help before.” My forehead crinkled with confusion. “Huh?” “With the doctor. I was just trying to help you out.” My eyes rolled, although I knew that he hated that. “We’re back to this.” “What’s wrong with finding a man?” I shook my head. “I can’t help it if most of them are losers.” His blue eyes narrowed. “The guys at your college, they’re nothing. Wait until you go to Ohio.” “You said that when I started school,” I reminded. “Didn’t do too well in that department after five years.” He waved his hand at me. “They’re boys, sweetie. You’re gonna meet a man in Ohio.” The look on my face was clear to him. “You don’t believe your father?” He loved nothing more than a challenge. “You’ve rarely been right so far about most things.” I could tell immediately that my words stung a bit, but he carried on. “I know I’m right about this. Remember, I’m psychic.” “Oh, of course,” I played along. “I forgot. And what’s this Prince Charming going to be like?” His reply was slow. “I’m not sure…” “Some psychic you are…” “But, he’ll be a man who can take care of you the way a man should …the kind of man you deserve.” “Ha! See, I know you’re wrong, because you’ve always told me that there was never going to be a man that was good enough for me.” “This one is close enough. I know it. I can almost see him. He’ll be a good man.” For a second, I was a bit frightened. Daddy’s psychic visions were always a little joke between us; something we’d laugh over. Something in his eyes this time, though, was creeping me slightly. “Yeah. Ok, Daddy. I’ll tell you what, if you’re right, I’ll bring him home and tell you to your face that you’re right.” His eyes darkened, but a small smile settled on his lips. “I’ll never live that long.” He was trying to be funny, but somewhere, deep down, he was having another one of his visions. “You’re not going to meet anyone in Ohio, though, if you don’t get your ass back to school and study. I know you think you’re smart and all, but you still need to study.” It was time to wave the white flag this time. “All right, all right. You win.” His smile widened. “Don’t get too cocky. I’m still coming back in the morning.” “Your mother will be here.” “I know, but someone has to be here so the two of you don’t drive each other nuts—or worse—kill each other.” “Funny,” he said with a scowl. “Get here whenever. These people aren’t letting me go anywhere.” “I’ll see you in the morning.” I reached over and hugged him tightly to me, gave him a kiss and left the hospital. In the twenty minutes it took me to get back to my house on campus, I discovered that I, too, possessed my own form of psychic powers. The car managed to get parked properly and I found my way back to my home. I yanked open the screen door, which was letting in the breeze of the evening air and I plopped down on the couch and spread out fully. “Hey!” Jen, one of my housemates, greeted as she walked by me toward the kitchen. I raised my hand slightly. “Hey.” “Late class?” “No.” Chad, the residence director, who was a year and a half younger than me, entered and jumped over the armrest of the easy chair next to me. “Where were ya?” “Hospital.” Jen looked at Chad and then at me. “Damn. Sorry, I forgot. How’s your dad, anyway?” “He looked better tonight.” I had to close my eyes; I felt a headache descending. “That’s good news,” Chad commented a little too quickly—an attempt to prevent the awkward moment from spreading much farther. I moaned something unintelligible and then the inevitable strained silence filled the room. “So…” Chad bravely tried to keep pressing onward. “What happens now?” I opened my eyes reluctantly, not only because of the building throb in my brain, but also because I did not want to acknowledge the vision I had all the way home. But, there was no denying it. In one motion, I sat up and looked at my two friends. “My father’s gonna die, guys.” * * * *

Health Hysteria

[WARNING: This post deals with some gross, albeit not graphic, kiddie health and hygiene issues. If body functions and illness make you squicky, skip this post. If not, read and enjoy. It's a doozy...] Somehow, I think I mysteriously and secretly earned the equivalent of an MD from the moment I pushed my kids out of the womb. That is the only explanation I can think of that has enabled me to deal with all the bodily fluids, cuts, bumps, bruises and other things that my children have managed to expel, ingest, wedge or whatever else they can think to do with this stuff. Today was one of those days that I wonder how I manage to keep my own stomach in check--must have turned to iron over the years. First, let me say that Erin is having her tonsils and adenoids removed tomorrow morning at 7:30. Although surgery is never a great thing for a child (esp. one that's only 3), this procedure is greatly needed and I've been anxious for it to happen. I'm tired of having my daughter mistaken for Darth Vader when she breathes or as a buzzsaw when she sleeps. Poor kid! Big sis Cailyn had it done last year (age 5) and it was like a miracle for her. She slept through the night, is well rested and healthy now. Anyway, Erin decided that the past week was the PERFECT time to start potty training. Yes, the switch flipped and now she's peeing and (mostly) pooping on the toilet. This is great news, as I'm tired of dropping money on diapers and pull ups, but right before surgery? Not the best time to start. Still, she's determined. So, tonight, my mom arrives to help with the kids, as Jon (DH) is out of town for an extended trip. We take the girls to Applebees for dinner. Cailyn's looking pretty tired, but says she's ok. We get into the restaurant and she lays flat on the booth bench. Just as we're all sitting down, she sits up, points to her mouth and mumbles, "Sick." Somehow, I manage to yank her tall, 65 pound body up over the booth, while telling my mom "MOVE!". I rush her to the bathroom, half dragging/half carrying her there, where she almost makes it to the toilet before SPLAT...I won't go into any more details here. The cause? Carsickness... I get Cailyn cleaned up and apologize to the poor schmuck that has to clean up the mess (I did offer to help, btw). Cailyn's feeling all better and settles down next to my mom. Just as my butt hits the bench, a little voice speaks into my ear. "Mommy, I need to go potty. Now." SIGH. Yeah, and by the way, Mom's sitting there with this big grin on her face. Grrr.. So, off I go with Erin. The guy is still cleaning up when I walk in. He tells me it's closed. "Listen, I know my last kid made a mess, but if I promise this one won't puke, can I please have her go? She's training right now." Fortunately, the guy has a sense of humor (or just feels bad for me). For the record, Erin did her thing, got big cheers from all of us and I finally managed to get back to the table, where I needed a real stiff drink, but managed to only order a water with lemon. And, yes, I did manage to eat my dinner, too...Some may not be able to do that after dealing with puke, pee and poop all within a 10 minute timespan, but hey, I'm a mom. If I got grossed out easily, I'd never eat!!!

The River Wild...

Great Falls on Auburn/Lewiston border
Fortunately, there wasn't the severe flooding along the Androscoggin River, but as you can see from the pictures, the river is brimming and pushing its way along aggressively. I've posted 3 pictures of what the river looks like. I've been taking lots of shots lately, of almost anything. My online photography class has been a lot of fun. I still don't understand a lot about the manual settings, but the pictures I took today were some experiments with shutter speeds and aperatures--please don't ask me to explain a lot about these: remember, I'm still learning. It was rather overcast, so the light isn't great, but not bad for still early on in my picture taking history. Sun is out now, so maybe I'll grab some more shots later, before picking up Erin. In the meantime, it's back to cleaning the house. Mom arrives in about 3 hours and I want to make sure I don't give her ammo to criticize! LOL Will post more later...

Raging Rapids...

The rain stops, but water still flows...

Voices from the third floor (first draft)

Thanks to those of you who have recently read/commented on my blog. Glad to have you and hope you stick around. Below you will find the latest chapter draft of my memoir piece. It is a very rough first draft--basically what you read is what I typed with as little correction or revision as possible. As always, I welcome feedback. I'm already thinking that this chapter needs something else--more dialogue or something. But, as I indicated in the piece, many of the actual words aren't clearly recalled--just the emotions behind them. Anyway, thoughts, ideas, suggestions are always welcome. Thanks for reading. ------------------------------------------------------- VOICES FROM THE THIRD FLOOR When I was a girl, I didn’t have a cell phone. Of course, during the 70’s and early 80’s, no one did. There simply wasn’t a need for one. Sure, some people can say it was because times were safer and parents didn’t have to keep a 24 security watch on their children back then. That may be true, to some extent. However, me and my friends who grew up on Tuckahoe Road had something far superior than any hi-tech flip phones that teens, tweens or perhaps even some preschoolers may carry around in their pockets or backpacks. This marvel of technology was able to carry messages across courtyards and even down the street. An opened window transmitted news faster than the speed of light, whether it was shouted from or up to by neighbors, children…hell, strangers probably even passed the word along from time to time. The open window was almost like magic in our apartment complex: it was multi-functional and, yet, so simple to use! There was no programming involved, no annoying ring tones to download--although some of the voices I can’t say much for their ear pleasing qualities—and no numbers to memorize. Our open apartment windows could tell time: “Frankie!” Grandma Hughes would holler from her perch looking directly down to the front end of the court yard. “Time to eat!” They were the first prototypes for ATM’s. Not one of us had to type in a password. “MOM! THE ICE CREAM MAN IS COMING!” were the magic words and money would rain down. All I can say that I was grateful when my parents threw down the paper money rather than the change. Not only did it make finding the cash a lot easier, but it was much gentler when it landed smack in the middle of my forehead, as my eyes followed it through its descent. As far as I was concerned, though, the window’s ability to foretell the future was its greatest power. Whether I was digging in the dirt, riding my bike or just hanging out on the front stoop, whatever I heard from the window would tell me what the end of the day would be like. Ironically, hearing nothing—absolute silence—came as a welcome sign to me. Many days, I prayed that I heard nothing. Other times, though, the voices from my third floor window signaled loud and clear that a long night was ahead. These weren’t voices calling a daughter to dinner or someone having the volume of the television up just a bit too loud. They were voices of anger—of my dad screaming at my mom and her frustrated and bitter returns. To this day, I can’t exactly recall the words that I would fly out the open window. But, truthfully, it really doesn’t matter what precisely was spoken. Even then, it was the volume, the tone and what sounded like an utter lack of love that dug itself into my ears. At first, embarrassment was my reaction. My parents’ arguments seemed to become a form of guilty entertainment for my core group of friends. They would stop whatever game we’d be playing or any other activity going on and just listen. I would watch as their eyes tracked the noise coming from the two open living room windows. A heat would rise within me—first out of shame for being the focus of such gossip fodder, and then out of fear of my friends dropping me like a bad fad. In my mind, I wondered who would want to hang around with a girl with such a weird family. My childhood naiveté didn’t consider the possibility that my friends’ folks fought, too. I’m pretty sure they did; they just had the common sense (and decency) to do it behind closed doors and windows. Eventually, though, the novelty of the Skerritt Scream-a-Thons wore off. My buddies, either out of sympathy for me or just because they bored of them, were able to ignore them after a while. The arguments became a regular fixture in our courtyard. It was easy for my friends to keep walking past the windows. Most times, I would follow right along, chatting and laughing with the rest of the group. But, rarely an occasion would go by that my eyes had to pause, ever so slightly, to acknowledge that these weren’t just voices from a third floor window. It was my life being broadcast to the world. Our dirty laundry hung out for all, not to see, but rather, to hear. At the end of any of these days, I would slowly climb the three flights of stairs leading to my apartment. I already knew what was waiting behind the thick, black metal door. Still, I stood outside of it, looking up at the peep hole and the numbers that identified my home: 3B. I wished I could look inside, so that I could see what was going on, that if what I envisioned in my mind was the reality that awaited me once I opened the door. But, reality could only wait so long. My eyes would close, my hand gripped tightly on the brass knob and I pushed open the door. The aroma of something delicious cooking on the stove would hit me as I entered and for the briefest of moments, I could imagine things were “normal”. “What’s for dinner, Mommy?” “You’ll see,” she’d say as she closed the oven door. “Go get your father. It’s time to eat.” With a hopeful smile, I’d search around the apartment for him. If I found him in the bedroom, it was never a good sign. Still, ever the optimist, I would try… “Hey, Daddy…come on, it’s time to eat!” He sat on the edge of the bed and look out a window that was just a bit too high to get a good view from where he was located. Without turning, he’d snap, “Tell your mother I’m not eating,” Then, he would take a long drink from his beer. “Tell her she killed my appetite…again!” I left silently and sat at the table, waiting for dinner to be put in front of me. Yeah, I should have known from the voices it was going to be a night like that. The voices never lied.

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.