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.

Say cheese!

Artists are free spirits. Artists hate to have boundaries--it's too limiting to their creativity. Both of those statements are common beliefs about those of us in the art world, and yes, I do consider writing to be an art form; although, perhaps not everything that comes out of my mind and through my hands measures up, but you get my drift. In these two cases, I guess I don't fit the artist mold. I am a writer who does much better with either a date or a person breathing down my neck. If I have story that is due, let's say, in three weeks--I will spend the first 2 1/2 of them simply pondering the story (how I want it to look, sound, feel, etc) and then rush to get it done in the last 3 to 4 days. Does that create stress? Of course. Never said that this strategy was particularly smart, it's just one that is working for me. My latest experiment in this vein was an online writing class I signed up for: Finish your novel in 8 weeks. The premise was great! It gave me a firm deadline to crank out work on a piece that I've been diddling with for months now, and I was excited to go. The end result was a class that talked a lot about the writing process, but there were no firm deadlines, no check ins--pretty much a go at your own pace type of class. If I wanted that, I could have done it on my own and not paid the money. But, I consider it a learning experience. Today, though, I signed up for another class. Only this time, I did a bit more research before registering. My next class adventure is going to be in photography (digital, in particular). As a writer who works primarily with feature articles, it is good to feel comfortable with a camera, so I can capture images that go along with my words. The class I'm taking is through one of the local adult education programs and is very structured! Two lessons a week, quizzes and assignments, as well as a final exam. I know how to point and shoot my new camera, but will feel better once I know what makes a good picture, what all the settings are for on my camera, etc. It's a six week course and I can do it from home--so, I'm excited about that, too. If my cousin Jody ever reads this, I hope that she'll be proud of her ol' cuz for actually wanting to learn the art behind the lens---although I'm sure my work will never compare to hers! Although, my subjects will also be never like many of hers, either (and she knows what I mean there!) As I learn, I'll have to post some of the pics I take for my class. The pic in my profile is one of mine, btw. I need to make it a bit larger, I think. So, for those who read this that are near and dear, be forewarned: I may be asking you to say "Cheese" the next time I see ya!

In search of my childhood

From time to time, all of us take moments of our day to look back on our lives and assess the progress we've made. Some days, I feel like the old Virigina Slims ad that goes "You've come a long way, baby!". Yet, others, such as most of this past week, the result of my assessment is more like, "Can those wheels be stuck any further in the mud, Marie?" In my quest to be a writer, I am finding more and more that I'm looking over my shoulder toward by past instead of looking ahead. Sounds counterproductive, right? But, I'm starting to wonder that in order to move forward with my writing that I need to recognize the stories of my past and make sure they are saved, be it for myself or for my children or even anyone else who may want to read them. I have been toying with a memoir piece for quite a while. There are chapters outlined and there is even one completed (well, almost...it needs a quick revision). Yet, as soon as I get elbow deep into it, I hit a wall. It feels as though that there is a psychological block that is preventing me from making progess. Then, this week, I've had a number of dreams about the place where I spent most of my childhood. People, places and images of my past visit me in my sleep as if to say, "We're here...we've found you. Come find us now." I shared this with my best friend, Heidi, and wondered if these dreams mean that I need to "go home" in search of my childhood. Heidi seemed excited by this prospect and offered her companionship should I decide to make the 5 1/2 hour trip. The idea is interesting. It's been two decades since I left New York with my family. I'm not even sure what, if anything, from my childhood is still there. But, the more I think on it, the more I wonder if it's time to go find out. But, truth be told, I'm also a little scared. While many of my childhood memories are good, there are just as many that are disturbing. I've spent years trying to move past, well, my past. Deep down, though, I know that the stories of my youth are worth devoting time and energy to, and that anything worthwhile isn't easy. Is a trip to New York inevitable? Let's just say that I've started looking at my calendar and trying to figure out if there is any way to go before my husband goes on an extended business trip...

I kept my promise

Ok, so I promised I'd post tonight. It has been a long 24 hours, and I'm about to fall asleep. After an inexplicable sleepless night and then a stressful day, I'm about to fall over. But, I'm grateful to be able to say that everyone here is ok and tomorrow is another day. I promise to provide something more interesting tomorrow--tonight, I'm just spent. Have a good night...

Getting Plowed

Ok, so here's the first of two entries for the evening. This one will be short, and the other will hopefully be a weekly thing I'll do to exercise the ol' writer's brain (on stuff other than work and the two manuscripts I've become an expert at avoiding ;) ) So, Jon and I are getting plowed tomorrow. It will be the first time for both of us--at least together. I did it once while Jon was out of town, I think, and Jon...well, let's just say that while he lived in Ohio (and before he knew me), it happened a number of times, I'm sure. Since tomorrow is a holiday, Jon is off from work. Erin is going to preschool and Cailyn is going to Angie's to go sledding and play with her friends for the day. Just the two of us. I'm supposed to be working, but we'll see how much of that actually gets done. We've been putting it off long enough and I finally said to him earlier today, "You know, I think it's time we consider getting plowed." Jon took a little convincing, but I can be persistent. After all, I think it's better to find out what it will be like when we can plan ahead a little, rather than wait to the last minute and find ourselves in a heap of trouble. No one can ever say that I'm not a planner. Reluctantly, Jon made the calls necessary in order to make it happen. We have the timing all worked out with the driver, so that we can go pick up the girls later in the afternoon and not have to worry about going off the road or anything. Yes, I think tomorrow will be the perfect time for us to get plowed for the first time together--after all, with 4-7 inches of snow forecast and a broken snowblower, who wants to be out in the driveway, on a day off, with a shovel fighting off all the others getting plowed...damn things only push the snow back into the end of our drive anyway. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.....;)