Me, My Life and I

Moments

2011-09-30T14:21:00.001-04:00

Last night, with no power and rain streaming down, once again, my hands loosely grip an overdue glass of wine. All I wanted to do was unwind. I had a long day. I did not want to listen. I did not want to speak. I did not want to pay attention to the constant babbling of my child. Being in the dark, with all the regular noises of the day, like TV, computer and video games, gone, I realize, I am his only audience but tonight, I am not up for the job of entertaining. As I put my hands to my face, I ask him to please find something to do. Something that does not require anything of me. To which he replies there is nothing to do without electric and he carries on about how bored he is. At this very moment, I am thoroughly enjoying being bored. My wine and my candle are keeping me company. I merely shake my head and take another sip. Some children are relentless. I have such a child. As I turn away from the candle I have been staring at for far too long, I finally look in his direction. I was just about to ask him if he wanted to play cards because that requires little concentration and functioning of my brain cells and it will keep him occupied. Before I can open my mouth, he says, “I have an idea”. Great! I impatiently wait for the questions he has taunted me with since we got home. “Can we wrestle, Mom. What are you afraid? Are you a chicken? Don’t want your 12 year old to kick your butt?” But instead, this is what I hear. “Mom, would you like it if I would read to you”? Sometimes little blessings creep in at the exact moment we need them most. I simply said, “Most definitely”.

Mattie, with candle in hand, runs to his bookshelf and brings back Ink heart, a book I bought him last Christmas and he settles on the couch to read to his mother. To be honest, I cannot tell you what the story was about but I was absolutely captivated by a 12 year old boy. I didn’t think it was possible to love my child any more but as I sat there, the words spilled out over each page, pouring life into me. His voice was like liquid to me, soothing every part of my tired heart. I felt my sadness subside for a moment and for the first time in a long time, I felt joy. I don’t know if it was in my eyes but somehow this amazing child knew exactly what his mother needed. We have an unusual connection. This I know. I can’t explain it. I was a single mother for 8 years and for so long, all we knew was each other. And now, it was just me and him, me, listening and him, reading. The teacher of words and pronunciation was now the student and all I could do was smile from the inside out. We were the Two Musketeers again and nothing could have been more perfect. It seems in the busyness of our everyday lives, these special times are few and far between. And now, as the clock on the wall ticks by, I realize that soon this moment will be gone, so I drink it in and treasure every second of it. I sit quietly and simply watch him. He dives in to this book I long thought he had forgotten about. His voice is light and articulate as he tries his best to take me on this incredible adventure with him. As I close my eyes, all I can think is God, how I love this child. And how I love this moment.

Small but Beautiful Things

2011-09-26T10:26:00.001-04:00

I love reading a great book, writing, playing the violin & the piano, dancing around the house, singing at the top of my lungs, dark chocolate, red wine, looking at the moon, picking lilacs, taking walks with Mattie, talking to my Nana, wishing on stars, secrets, shooting my bow, tiaras, playing in the garden, Tinkerbell, my 2 doggies, shooting hoops with Matt, martinis with 4 olives, karaoke, summer bonfires, girls night out, snow ball fights, kissing, belting out Nickleback in the car, Harold & The Purple Crayon, whispering, scratches, laughing with pea pod, learning Italian, yard sales with Mom, The Zipper, Tucson, my wonderful and loyal posse, my amazing family, taking the long way home, the beautiful little boy God blessed me with, playing Twister, "Arbor" nights with Lori, crosswords, Matthew's laughter, jogging until I can't breathe, Christmas morning, dragonflies, a cold beer, my kitties, apple trees, sunsets, my stuffed monkey, cool hats, pretty shoes, pasta, Harley’s, flying, Las Vegas, painting, eating popcorn and watching a great movie, Jaeger shots, Mimosa Sundays, West Palm Beach, thunderstorms, lying in a hammock, wearing a daisy in my hair, walking on the beach, the ballet, pickles, ice pops, cows, fresh cut grass & the smell of the earth right after it has rained. These are just a few of the things that I love or at the very least make my heart smile. They are small but beautiful things.

Daddy Dearest

2011-09-23T09:08:00.000-04:00

Michael Levine once wrote, “Having children makes you no more a parent than having a piano makes you a pianist.” His words echo in my ear each and every time I hang up the phone after speaking with my father. I call him my father because technically that is who he is. But in simpler terms, he is a sperm donor, a birth parent, a genetic twist of biology and fate that I was somehow dealt. I can simplify his title by using one little but powerful word: absent. One would think after having 40 years to adjust my sails to this reality, the sting of his rejection would lessen. But in truth, it hasn’t. It slaps me in the face with an open hand every time. I have done my best over the years to give this man, whom I hardly know, the benefit of the doubt. I imagine his life was not exactly the path of happiness and ease, yet it’s the bed he made. Only he refused to sleep in it. If not for his alcoholism, maybe he would have been different. Maybe he would have chosen the path of parenthood instead of merely planting his seed and putting on his running shoes. Every time I think that it’s “me” that he didn’t want, I am reminded that he did not just abandon me but also my brothers. He assisted in bringing four living, breathing, healthy children into this world and didn’t stick around long enough to raise any of us. So, intellectually I know that it’s not me, it’s not Jenny that he did not want. He didn’t want any of us. He was not capable of the kind of love and sacrifice it takes to raise children. I am not even sure that as he sits alone now, in his sixties with no family around him, if he has yet learned the art of loving something beyond himself. I guess that is why I hang on. I have the compassion and love for him that he has never been able to extend to me. To picture him dying alone is too much for this daughter to bear. So, I do my best to close the gap, to somehow connect a non-existent bridge between his world and mine. My brothers have long since given up hope of having him be anything more than an unfortunate reality. But for some reason, I do not have the strength to turn my back on him.

Maybe it is selfish of me but I call my father every couple months merely to remind him that he has a daughter and no matter how he tries to deny me, I will not let him. I also reassure him of how much I love and miss him. I have never quite come to terms with what it is I miss about him or even love about him but I guess it’s the idea of the kind of father I wish he had been, rather than the kind of father he actually was, or wasn’t. I assure myself that I am not being spiteful in reminding him of what he walked away from but I suppose in some small way, I want him to hurt. I want him to know an ounce of the pain I have endured in his absence. But the truth is, I only step into his reality for a few moments and then I am gone again. I doubt thoughts of me linger past the hanging up of his phone. I have learned to be a bit braver than I have been in the past. I don’t usually cry anymore over him. I no longer expect phone calls just to check in with me. I no longer expect cards for Christmas’ or birthdays. I no longer expect him to ask about the grandchild he has had no relationship with. Maybe all he wishes is for me to leave him at peace with the notion that I don’t love him and that I curse the day he left but I cannot muster up the strength to let him be. The little girl in me wishes to tell him how broken and bruised I have been over the years. I long to tell him what my childhood was truly like without him but the truth stares me in the face, knowing full well that possibly my life would not have been any better with him in it. I have repeated all the “what if’s in my head and I am left with no answer. Would my life have been less abusive, less painful had he chosen to stay? I don’t truly know. Maybe it would have opened a far bigger wound. To wrap my mind around such a fact is far too great and wide for me to understand.

Each time I talk to my father, I tell myself that it will be the last time. I will refuse contact with him unless the first step is made by him. But again, I fall short and give in to this overwhelming need to be loved by him. It’s an addiction of sorts, like alcohol. It takes over the body without you even knowing it. Except with alcohol, the hangover only lasts a day or so. This has lasted a lifetime.

Sometimes the hardest part of my fathers’ absence is to explain to my own child where his grandfather is and why he chooses not to see him. It’s something I have been very up front and honest with Matthew about. There is simply no lie or excuse that would explain it away. I tell him that there are good daddies in the world and there are not so good daddies. Unfortunately I was issued the not so good kind. Thankfully Matthew will never know this kind of pain, even if he is a child of divorce. His father takes an active role in his upbringing and the love between them is evident. So to explain to him why my father doesn’t want me or him has been a difficult process. I think he understands more as he gets older. Mattie keeps a picture of him and my father on his bulletin board, a small reminder that at one time, he felt love from this man. It’s a picture of them at a beach in North Carolina. Mattie can’t be more than 5 years old. Those are the memories he chooses to hold on to. I can’t say as I blame him. But as time passes, he asks about his grandfather less and less and my last conversation with my father, Matthew refused to even speak with him. I mouthed the words, “do you want to speak to Grandpa”? He simply shook his head and closed the door to his room. Matthew is smart; smarter than me. He knows when enough is enough. I do not. I keep picking at the scab the moment the wound has healed. And with raw skin bared again, comes the pain that I don’t think I will ever be free of.

Coulrophobia….it’s no joke!

2011-08-05T11:28:00.004-04:00

As I have previously mentioned, I have a bit of OCD which doesn’t necessarily take over my life but can certainly be annoying and distracting. One would think that that affliction would be bad enough, but no, I also suffer from Coulrophobia which is a fear of clowns... My fear is more commonly recognized by the masses than I previously thought and in a world filled with other crazies like me, it’s a comforting notion. Believe it or not I have met many people that simply hate clowns, just like me. I have never understood the appeal of them, even at children’s parties. I mean, what exactly is the attraction? Their painted white faces are scary. The big, floppy shoes, the red nose, the freaky orange hair…I just don’t get it.

I do try to steer clear of anything “clown like”. I don’t care for crazy clown movies, circuses, Italian theatre or rodeos! So you can imagine my surprise when I was driving down Route 28. It was a beautiful summer day, with windows open, radio on. I looked in my rear view mirror and noticed a VW bug weaving in and out of traffic behind me. People tend to drive crazy on 28, so I simply stayed in the right lane and went back to singing and enjoying my trip to Kingston. The next time I looked in my rear view, what do you think was right behind me driving that VW? Yup, a full makeup faced, red nosed, orange haired clown! I can imagine that my eyes were as big as saucers. I envisioned that clown witnessing my panic stricken face and he began to laugh a sickly laugh which only convinced me further that all clowns are serial killers. The clown was following me, trying to chase me, trying to run me off the road. I threw my hands up knowing full well this was how I was meant to die!! A freaky white faced, laughing circus clown driving me off the road in his VW bug!

Years later, I was able to attend my nephew’s birthday party, as the freaky clown from Route 28 did not in fact, kill me but simply passed me on his way to…well, wherever it is, clowns weaving in and out of traffic are on their way to. But once again, I was faced with yet another clown dilemma. There was not a regular clown in attendance at the party but rather a face painter dressed as a clown. “Great” I told myself. “Now it’s going to want to touch me and my son”! Because I was terrified, my son would not partake in this socially acceptable, fun, birthday activity. He got upset because “mommy won’t do it”. I had no reason for my son to befriend said clown but I saw no need for him to be phobia ridden either. I sucked it up and with a shaking body, quivering lip and a Xanax down my throat; I allowed the clown to paint a garden of white daisies on my face. I knew I was testing my boundaries but with Mattie’s face lit up with excitement, I realized all the anxiety I was suffering was worth seeing that smiling little boy. Minutes later, he proudly displayed the dragon painted on his face. It was an important lesson for me. Avoid clowns at all cost unless you are in the midst of passing along a detrimental phobia to your child or being responsible for chaos where there ought not be any. To date, I am still petrified of clowns. I don’t think I will ever get over my phobia because the truth is, clowns are freaky little creatures and I am okay with that.

But looking back on that day, I just smile to myself. I know I needed to be the parent, putting my own anxiety and fear aside for a little boy who only wanted his face painted.

Empty Nester

2011-08-04T08:58:00.001-04:00

My step-dad took all the ancient VHS tapes I had of Matthew’s early childhood and painstakingly put them on cd’s for my ex-husband and I. It’s a gift that I will always treasure. I finally had some time alone last night and decided that it would be a wonderful opportunity to take a stroll down memory lane. As I sat back and replayed glimpses of my little boys first birthday, his favorite crocodile xylophone, his red swing tied to the big oak out back, the stone pile he would play for hours on, flashbacks of the Teletubbies, visions of my former family and the red maple tree in my front yard that I loved so much, I was overwrought with pain and sadness. It sounds ridiculous that instead of seeing that miraculous little face on my TV and smiling and rejoicing at his existence, I began sobbing; uncontrollably. I have realized that when you can cry like that, in the presence of no one, you know it’s more than nostalgia beating up on you. It’s a force far greater.

It all came back to me…the pain, the guilt and the anguish of my 1^st marriage. I think it has less to do with who my ex-husband is as a person but more to do with the idea of the dream I so desperately tried to build, disintegrating before my eyes. I thought I would be married to the same man forever. I thought I would have more children. I thought I would grow old in that little house on the corner. And I thought the family I had grown to love as much as own would forever be at my side. Everything changes, this I know. Some by our own choosing and some by some predetermined bend in the road we hadn’t expected. But we are supposed to leave the past in the past, right? At times I don’t know how to leave things in the past when the face of my child, is my past. But without harping too long on all my mistakes or the insurmountable “what ifs” of my past life, I came to one overwhelming, wine induced conclusion. I was suffering from the empty nest syndrome. The problem is that, my son is only 12 years old.

The empty nest syndrome is usually characterized by your last child leaving home, for college, for marriage or any other amazing thing they are meant to experience. As I have mentioned before, my first child is my only child and although he is only 12 and still living under my roof, I feel with each passing day a surge of his independence that I am ill equipped to face. I know how fast time passes when you have children. They go from diapers to college in a flash and I fear that I will come apart at the seams when my baby bird flies away. I so long for him to be that little boy again and although I know I cannot keep him from growing up, I wish more than anything I could. If nothing else, I wish I was better prepared for the wonderful things he has in store. I do my best to let him have his independence, to be the young man that he needs to be, but I am scared to death. When Matthew was little I was terrified that he would take a tumble down the stairs or run out in the road when I turned my back. Now I worry about some girl breaking his heart or him not being able to fulfill each and every dream that he desires. It’s a funny thing; bittersweet, actually. As a parent you want your children to grow up and live a life that you can be proud of; that they can be proud of. It’s a parent’s way of knowing they did a good job in raising their children. But on the other hand, once Matthew flies the coop, so to speak, I am scared that I will no longer know who I am. I will always be his mother but my role will surely change. It’s changing now. He will not need me the way he did when he was younger and I fear I will not know my place in the world. Being a mother is all I ever wanted to be and in a way, I feel that title will be stripped from me. It’s simply a matter of time.

For now, I have put away the movies of my child. I am not ready for that stroll down memory lane. Maybe I will do it tomorrow, next week or even next year when the pain of him growing up doesn’t sting so badly. I can’t help but think that this emotional need I have to keep Matthew with me is my own psychological malfunction that serves no purpose. I am convinced that surely as the sun will rise, my son will grow up, and maybe, just maybe, I will too.

Death of A Fairytale

2011-07-29T10:50:00.002-04:00

Ever since I was a little girl, I believed in fairytales and the notion of living happily ever after. I had to. Witnessing all the things I did growing up, I think it was my way of surviving in the world. My brother and I would spend countless hours making up stories and building towering forts on my Nana’s living room floor. In our eyes, the fort, simply made up of chairs, boxes and sheets was our castle and the living room floor was a big moat surrounding us, protecting us from all evil. I made a crown out of construction paper and placed it high on my head so everyone would know that I was special. I would be the distressed princess and my brother; the heroic prince would fight demons with his magical sword, risking his own life to save mine. Those days were simple and happy. They are some of the best memories I can recall from my childhood. I admit, I grew up way too fast. Along the way, I learned a lot about relationships and love; mostly, their failure. But I still wanted to believe in the fairytale. I wanted to have it all one day; a beautiful home, a wonderful and rewarding career, a husband that was passionately in love with me and children that adored me. I suppose I watched too many movies or read too many romance novels but I grew into a young woman believing that my prince charming was out there and one day he would rescue me from the life I was granted. Needless to say, my first marriage did not work out although I was blessed with the most amazing son. I had part of the dream but certainly not the whole fairytale. My friends would merely laugh at me, reminding me that there is no such thing as fairytales; there is no such thing as prince charming. And yet, I still believed I could have it all….especially when I met my second husband. He was everything I could have ever wanted. He was absolutely in love with me. He wanted me and my son and he needed me with his whole heart; something I had never experienced. He wanted to marry me and have a family of our own. We would spend hours making love in front of the fireplace, drinking wine, laughing, telling stories and dreaming big dreams for our future. I could now laugh at all my friends who mocked my fairytale.

He & I finally got married last year after nearly 8 years together. Our relationship had its share of ups and downs over the years but one simple fact remained, we loved each other and could not see a life without each other. There was no denying that. And as I sit here today, I still love him and am still in love with him, but my dream of the fairytale is dying a slow and painful death. My closest friends are kind enough to not say “I told you so” but the look they give me tells me all I need to know. They had been right after all. There is no such thing as having it all. It has been a devastating blow to my world. Although I wanted the so called fairytale, I was not naïve enough to think that this prince and princess would not have their share of problems. Every marriage does. Everyone has bills, arguments, kids, dogs, cats, a messy house and a plethora of other things that can weigh down a marriage. I went into this union with an open mind and an open heart. I was prepared for anything. Well, almost anything. I did not expect so many changes to happen so quickly. People keep saying the first year of marriage is the hardest. It’s merely a time to get to know one another. I married him because I already knew him, knew his quirks and I knew his heart. That’s why I married him. But sometimes in a marriage, life’s issues become so great, people become so stressed out that something has to give. Something must fall by the waist side and I fear it has been me.

The part of the fairytale that remains is this big, beautiful home that we built a couple of years ago which now seems far too large to fit our needs. My near teenage son spends most of his time in his room with the door shut and usually only ventures out to ask when dinner will be ready. He is far too cool to hang out with his mom anymore. My vision for this house was to be filled with the pitter patter of little feet. There was supposed to be the sound of nursery rhymes and bedtime stories. There was supposed to be the sound of laughter to fill up all the empty space of this big beautiful house. But as I said, some fairytales are not meant to be. My husband and I both have jobs but nothing that propels us out of bed each morning except for the fact that we have bills to pay. We each have our own friends and our own hobbies. We don’t have a fireplace anymore. We don’t ever drink wine together anymore. We don’t really discuss our dreams anymore. We discuss work, the house, the pets, racing, bills that need to be paid and the differences of opinion on how my son should be raised. Oh and by the way, the topic of having children of our own is now no longer up for discussion.

Maybe this is the way a marriage is supposed to be. As I sit here now, I feel pretty foolish that I ever believed in fairytales at all. Maybe marriage is simply a life with monotony, routine and loneliness masked by edges of small joys and triumphs every now and then. Maybe it’s simply an institution made up of nothing more than a comfortable kind of love surrounded by compromises, sacrifices and a vow to stick it out together, through thick and through thin. Maybe I fantasized so much about what I thought my marriage would be like instead of focusing on what marriage truly is like. Although I do not regret marrying my husband, I now no longer know why I did. Maybe things would have stayed more the same if we hadn’t. Maybe I would still be able to catch a glimpse of the man that I fell in love with. I think he is still in there and I long for nothing more than to find him again. But in the meantime, I, the foolish princess is taking off my crown and building a big, safe moat around myself.

To Mattie

2011-02-15T10:34:00.001-05:00

My dearest Mattie,

First and foremost, I love you. Not just like the regular “I love you” but the kind that you will only understand when you see the sight of your own child. It is the kind of love that melds into every fiber of your being, every nook and cranny of your heart, body and soul. It is indescribable, really. But I wanted to take the time to share a few of my thoughts with you as you enter the world of middle school and high school. It’s tough, kid. It always has been and always will be. Hopefully my words will help.

Always, always be kind to others. You don’t know when you will need their kindness in return.
It’s okay to wear your heart on your sleeve. Just remember to take your head with you.
Follow Your Bliss. Find the one thing you love and have passion for and then go and do that. With all of your heart.
If you are being bullied. Tell me. Tell someone. Don’t suffer in silence.
If you see someone being bullied. Do something. Tell someone. Otherwise you are no better than the bully.
Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. Never. Ever.
Tomorrow will always come and usually with the light of day, you gain perspective on an otherwise hopeless situation.
Nothing and I mean NOTHING you could do would ever make me stop loving you.
Be kind to your elders. Listen to what they have to say. They know our history better than any book could provide you.
Hold close to the friends that ground you. One day you will understand how valuable they are.
Dismiss harsh comments said to you. More often than not, they have nothing to do with you and everything to do with the person saying them.
Confidently chase your dreams. Be aggressive. But don’t be greedy.
Stay a kid as long as you can. Being an adult will come soon enough and trust me, it’s not always what’s its cracked up to be.
Keep it simple.
Run and play as hard as you can now. One day when you are older you will understand how hard it is for me to always keep up with you.
Smile. Everyday.
Study Hard. Not just in school, but in life. Being book smart is valuable but so is having common sense and street smarts.
Hold on to your beliefs and values. It’s the one thing in this world no one can take away from you.
If a friend is trying to get you to do anything that you know is wrong, they are not your friend.
As far as girlfriends and sex go. Wait as long as possible. Once you venture down that path, you can never come back. Trust me on this one. It complicates everything.
Laugh. Everyday.
If you are sorry, say so.
If you love someone, tell them.
If you need to cry, cry. Showing emotion does not make you less of a man.
If you make a mistake, do your best to correct it.
If you hurt someone, take immediate steps to heal it.
Surround yourself with people that make you feel good about yourself. Dismiss those that don’t.
Remember that it is more honorable to fail than to cheat.
Be creative. In whatever way you can.
It is okay to take when you are in need, but always find a way to give back more than you take.
Be Happy. You only get one life. Make it worthwhile.

Well, my son, I know there are probably a million other things I could say; a million other tidbits of advice I could offer but I know that you will do best to find your own way, to learn in your own time. Know that as you grow, and become the person you are meant to be, I will always be here for you. Always and forever. You are my guiding star and the truest love of my life. Be well, my son. Have a wonderful and safe journey. I love you.

Love Mom

Arithmomania

2011-02-11T11:23:00.000-05:00

After yet another sleepless night, a certain question needs to be asked…are there any other slightly obsessive compulsive people out there whose very compulsion keeps them from sleep? I do not have OCD in the truest sense. I don’t wash my hands a thousand times a day. I don’t constantly check for locked doors or light switches. I am not a germaphobe. I do not obsessively clean my house although I am sure my husband would be greatly appreciative if I had such an affliction. Unfortunately, I have a kind of compulsion which really isn’t good for much of anything. I am a counter. Yes, that’s right, a counter. I count my steps from point A to point B wherever that may be. I count objects in my house if I feel there is a need. I count in my head, randomly. At times I have no idea what in fact, I am counting but nevertheless, I do. I will count to 1000 in my head and when I get to the point where I feel I have counted enough, I simply begin again. Maybe the next time I will count to 100, 10 times or count to 10, 100 times. I also know there are exactly 506 ceramic tiles in my bathroom. I know there are exactly 156 books placed not so neatly, on my bookshelves. I know there are exactly 93 steps between my two buildings at work. It is these random acts of counting that are simply part of my world, everyday.

I did not know until today, when I looked it up in Wikipedia, that my disorder actually bears an official name. Arithmomania. It sounds like a fancy term that would make me excel in the study of mathematics. However, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It is this very act of counting that hinders my sleep. It is not the only culprit of my insomnia because as I have previously expressed, my brain just never shuts down. It is simply another puzzle piece to my sleep deprivation. Many people have nightly routines; practices that help calm them before they drift off into never Neverland. I share in some of these practices. I get in my pajamas, brush my teeth, get my stuffed monkey, fluff my favorite pillow and lie down. This is truly where my pleasant experience ends. When a “normal” and I use the term loosely, person cannot sleep, they clear their minds or go to their happy place and inevitably, sleep will come. Well, not for me. I have even resorted to counting sheep. One would think that my lunacy would actually benefit me in this instance. Wrong again. This is where my overactive, never shutting down, never shutting up brain comes in. I cannot not count the sheep because to me, that would be crazy. However my brain takes it one step further and wanders to other sheep associated thoughts. Such as….why does one even count sheep? It’s not the counting part that stumps me but the sheep part. I mean why not dogs, or cats or my favorite, the spider monkey. Really. What’s not to love about a spider monkey? And then, for some unknown reason, I think of the nursery rhyme, Hey Diddle Diddle. The line “the cow jumped over the moon” hurdles to the forefront of my mind and I picture sheep jumping over the moon which is simply more ridiculous to me than cows jumping over it.

I am unsure of when this compulsion began. I cannot recall it from my childhood so I am left to assume I developed it as an adult. It wasn’t as if I woke up one day and decided it was time to count everything around me. It’s just been there. It has never really bothered me before and I am not totally convinced that it bothers me now. However, the first time I mentioned this to my doctor, he sat back in his chair and simply said, “Interesting”. Then my brain went full throttle. Is that interesting, good or interesting, bad? Does it mean I have finally gone crazy? Does it mean I have been susceptible to crazy all along and it’s finally caught up with me? Do I just have an affinity for numbers? Will it stunt my personal growth? Will it hold me back in any way? I truly do not know. I suppose my real question of the day is this: am I doomed to live a life of seemingly random, useless counting practices or is there a cure for me? Maybe, as I say all the time: it is what it is. Maybe there is no rhyme or reason to it all. Maybe there doesn’t have to be. Maybe there is no harm in it at all. Or maybe, just maybe I am perfectly sane, simply counting my way through this insane world.

Reason Enough

2011-02-10T09:42:00.000-05:00

It seems like just yesterday I was dropping Mattie off at my mother’s house in an infant carrier. I would lug him, along with a massive diaper bag, up the fifteen or so stairs that I had become all too familiar with. And as I travel those same stairs today, only to have Matt running on his own two feet, beating me to the top, I can’t help but wonder….where in the world did the time go? How did he grow up so fast and where was I when it happened?

He stands before me now, a handsome young man, only a few inches shorter than I. Our conversations no longer consist of crayons and matchbox cars but rather what college he dreams of attending, what he wants to do with his life and if I think he is smart enough or talented enough to get a scholarship. I search his eyes trying to find a glimmer of that little boy that I once knew. But at 12 years old, all his baby fat has turned to lean muscle….the toothless grin I once loved has been replaced with adult teeth that will soon need braces and his dream of marrying his mommy has been replaced with dreams of becoming a professional ball player. I’ve noticed that this progression of change in him have produced significant changes in me. The me that once longed for him to grow up has been replaced with wanting to turn back the hands of time. I long for the days when he would call me mommy, crawl up on my lap and snuggle with me. He would fall asleep in my arms and I would think to myself what did I ever do in my life to deserve this amazing child? I remember it all like it was yesterday and yet the view becomes blurred with each passing day. He grows a bit more and becomes less of an extension of me and more of an individual with his own mind and his own views of the world. And although part of me is saddened by these changes, I know it is just simply a part of life.

Part of me feels better because I have been there with my son at each and every milestone; every “first” of his. I was there for each first day of school. I was there for each and every birthday. I was there for his first haircut, his first tooth falling out, his first bad grade, his first scraped knee, and even his first broken heart. I have been careful to miss nothing and yet I feel as if I have missed so much. I guess part of my anxiety is that I don’t have another child trailing behind him. He is all I have and I suppose my fear is that in having only one child, did I somehow miss the boat on doing it different, doing it better?

Most people I know have been blessed with more than one child and with that I think a parent learns more, grows more and evolves in a way that single child parents may not. But mostly, I think these parents get a second chance to fix any mistakes they might have made along the way. I do not have this luxury. It isn’t that I didn’t want more children. It simply didn’t seem to be in the cards for me. So when I look at my son, I understand the miracle I was given but I also see the mistakes I have made. I can only pray that over time these in discretions will take care of themselves; that these scars, however small or insignificant, will fade from his consciousness. I, like every other parent want to get things right, the first time. But you simply never know when your first time may be your only time. I speak a lot about mistakes and “wish I could have/would have done it different” but don’t misunderstand. I am mostly proud of the job I have done despite my ever changing circumstances. My child is a lot like me…sensitive in nature, hopelessly optimistic about the world and yet weighted with a certain sadness that perhaps only he and I can understand. But it is a sadness marked with hope…the kind of hope that says no matter what happens in this life, we will be okay. It is a look between us, a gesture, and a silence that lets us know that we are part of the same mold, the same makeup; that we are on the same page. So as I watch him grow and the fear of losing him to an adult world that I don’t yet understand sets in, I am comforted by the belief that he will be just fine. He will face this life with the same strength and resilience that I have passed on to him and he will brave forth with my spirit, his impenetrable will and a faith in something that is larger than us both. With a quick smile from him as he runs pass me to the top of the stairs, I am reminded of why I was blessed with this one, beautiful, miraculous, perfect child. God simply knew we were meant for each other and that is reason enough for me.

Pencil Fever

2010-10-22T11:31:00.000-04:00

I know this is strange, but I absolutely love pencils. I always have. I love how they smell; that concoctive mixture of lead and wood. I love how they write. I love how the swirl of my words leaves an edge of roughness and dimension. I love the texture a pencil has between my fingers just as I touch it to paper. I love that if I make a mistake, I can, stop. Erase. Do Over. I told you it was strange. But seriously, there is really no better feeling (well, that is an exaggeration) than buying myself a brand new package of #2 pencils, preferably DIXON Ticonderoga HB soft pencils, followed by my second favorite, the Papermate pencil. I am not really sure when this affliction began for me. We are taught from pre-school about pencils and their ability to erase our mistakes but it wasn’t until the day I fell in love with the idea of becoming a writer that I began to really, really love pencils.

I realized very early in my life, the power of words; how much happiness they could bring but also, how much pain they could deliver. So ever since I can remember, I wrote. I wrote on paper, in notebooks, on chalkboards, in journals, on walls, scrap pieces of paper or on my skin, absolutely anywhere there was space for me to write. I would write poetry, stories, fragments or thoughts about my life and it was there, that I discovered my beautiful relationship with pencils. The idea that I could write whatever I wanted about myself, regardless of its substance and then erase all the mistakes I made or thought I made, was an exciting concept for me. It was as if nothing was forever. Nothing. And with one fell swoop of the erasure, my words would vanish and I could start over. I think a lot of writers prefer to master their craft in pen. Only because what, at one time, could be considered bad writing or a mistake, may one day present itself as a useful idea with new life, new meaning. Pens naturally have a smoother flow, a more even pressure when applying to paper. It has a permanency. Whereas my writing once erased, is gone forever unless I miraculously come up with the same idea at another place and time. This usually does not happen. My brain is far too busy to retain something I thought of yesterday, let alone, years before. With the invention of the computer, my writing completely changed as did everyone else’s I suppose. It was similar to the pencil in the fact that all you had to do was highlight words and then hit delete, much like the erasure. But different in the fact that you could simply hit “undo” if you made a mistake in mistaking your mistake was a mistake. Simply marvelous, really. Plus with things like a built in thesaurus, spell check, grammar check, well, what’s not for a writer to love? My like for the computer is simply because after being a secretary for so many years, I can type Mach 4 which is about the speed my brain operates. It is too bad for my beloved pencil which has struggled for years to keep up with my thoughts. The process of having to stop writing because my cramped hand can no longer stand the pain is often a necessity. But with a couple shakes of it or some stretching, I am back in the game with pencil in hand. Will I ever resort to using a pen, a computer, a crayon if need be? Absolutely. I would prick my finger and write in my own blood if I thought it was the only way I would be able to write. But today, in honor of the pencil, I write this draft on a college lined piece of paper while using my favorite Ticonderoga pencil. Welcome back dear friend, welcome back.

Blessings

2009-09-29T12:03:00.000-04:00

I had a conversation last night with my best friend who was having a very bad day and we spoke of our children and life's complexities and all the other little things that friends talk about and somehow we got on the subject of our blessings or the things we should feel grateful for. We wondered why all the wonderful things in our lives; our families, our children, our friends sometimes just aren't enough to see us through days when we feel like everyone is against us, even those that claim to love us most. During these times, we feel more alone than ever and no matter how many wonderful things you have in your life, no matter how friendly the voice is on the other end of the phone, you feel as if you are wandering the earth aimlessly…alone. I don't think it is that we forget about all the blessings we have but we certainly seem to lose sight of them from time to time. ..

We all walk through life with the weight of the world on our shoulders, so much baggage that we can hardly stand up straight anymore. We take on so much, so much that is not ours to shoulder and yet we think that if we don't continue to take the brunt of everything, be responsible for everything and everyone; that somehow the earth will shift and fall off its axis. It is far too much for anyone to bear alone. And that is where our blessings come in. Because no matter how alone we feel in those awful moments of our day (month or year) we must remember that we aren't. We just have to accept help when it's offered and we need to learn how to drop some of the baggage at the door. Life is far too short and I know when a situation or circumstance subsides, and the smoke clears, we will look back on these moments and realize how much time and energy we wasted being angry or sad about things that most of the time, we have no control over. That is precious time we will never get back. I know that while the pain is creeping up and you find it hard to breathe, it is difficult to see anything else but know that there are those in the world who will walk with you and help carry your baggage when it becomes too much to carry on your own. There are those who will shoulder the burden with you. There are those in this world that want nothing from you but to see you laugh and find joy. To have you live peacefully, the life you were intended to live. At times the world may seem so dark that you feel like things will never be okay but then tomorrow comes and with it, the sunshine. I have no doubt that life works out, one way or another. It usually isn't just as we planned but we take along our blessings and all the other things that make our lives good. This does not in any way take away from the pain or sorrow we feel in our own hearts from time to time but it may help to know that others are on your side, fighting the good fight right along with you

That is why it is so important… when our blessings come knocking to remind us that they are still there…We need to let them in…

The Bitch Advice

2009-06-22T12:05:00.000-04:00

The other day, I felt, once again, that undeniable feeling; my heart beginning to race, the uncontrollable shake of my hands, small beads of sweat starting to form, an overwhelming feeling of uneasiness and fear and for the umpteenth time this year, I knew I was having another panic attack. It comes on slowly but before you know it, it grabs hold and there is little you can do to tame it. You just have to ride it out and wait for it to subside, which unfortunately, for me, takes at least 30 minutes. I was frustrated by the fact that these attacks still visited me, especially after I felt as if my life was, at the very least, heading in the right direction. Not great…but under the circumstances, I was managing. And just as my panic attacks crept up on my so did the reality of my plight. I knew that my life was not perfect. I certainly had issues but didn’t everyone? I realized that the stress I had been through over recent months had taken its toll and it was finally catching up to me in the form of anxiety. Simply stated, I was no longer in control of my own life. It was being run by other people. It is not an unusually foreign concept to me as it was taught to me early in life. Things like…take a backseat to everyone, try and please all around you, be afraid of everything, always be accommodating, keep quiet, never speak up, don’t get angry for fear of what others may think, etc… These are only a few of the examples on how I have learned to run my life. Until now, that is. Make no mistake though. I am not having a pity party not am I sitting back placing blame on the bystanders or participants in my life. I, alone, am responsible for my circumstance and every single day, I take on the overwhelming consequences of being a doormat.

An amazing person in my life, whom I have come to trust more than any other human being, told me that all I had to do to correct my situation and to stop the panic attacks was easy. It surely wasn’t going to be some little pill that would alleviate my stress and anxiety. The answer was simple, at least in his eyes. He said I needed to learn to be a bitch. I suppose some would argue, at times, I already am but he meant a different kind of bitch. Not the kind that thrives on hurting others but rather, the kind that rises up in protest when someone is taking advantage of me. The kind that lends a protective cover from the hurtful blows that people can throw. The kind that teaches me to say no to people and things that don’t deserve my time or my loyalty. The kind that teaches me to stand up for myself and allows me to speak my mind regardless of what others may think. The kind that gives me the knowledge and the strength to let go of things in my life that are no longer good for me, in spite of my heart telling me to hold on. The kind that understands the difference between those who have my best interest at heart and those who simply have their own interest at heart. And lastly, the kind that teaches me to have a thicker skin when it comes to heartaches, to endure life’s disappointments with a little less impact. Changing from the “good, always there, never complaining persona”…to simply “bitch” persona could prove difficult for me but for my own sanity and well-being, I promised this individual that I would make the effort. Realizing that this transformation was not a complete change in my personality but merely a modification of the me I’d always been. I was fairly confident that I could somehow lean to be a bitch. To somehow turn off all the emotions I was feeling about everything and everyone around me and concentrate solely on myself. I was also confident that the world would not collapse and that people would still go on in spite of my absence. All would be well even if I chose to bow out for awhile.

So, during my “transformation” of sorts, I am hopeful for many things. I hope I can learn to speak up, lighten up, smile a lot more and jump into my small, beautiful world with both feet. I hope I can learn to let go, take it easy and let the insane world around me, run itself. I hope I can stop beating myself up over people and things that I have absolutely no control over. I hope I can put the words “no” and “I don’t’ want to” into my vocabulary of life. I hope I can learn that everyone is responsible for their own lives, their choices and the consequences of those choices. I hope I can find a balance between the things that are important to me and still remain the kind of mother, daughter, sister and friend I have always been. But my greatest hope is that maybe after this experience, after becoming a bitch of sorts, I will end up being a happier, better version of myself…

It must be said that in my 37 years of life, I have been given plenty of advice; some good, some bad, some even catastrophic but certainly advice to become a bitch is a first for me. Gaining a bit of humor and possibly for the first time, a backbone, I thought I might take a chance and run with it…

P.S. I’m tossing out the doormat!

This Time

2009-03-11T12:06:00.000-04:00

As I reach the latest crossroad in my life, I am overwhelmed by the possibility of the unknown. What lies in wait for me just on the other side of this life that I planned? I’m hardly the best person to ask when it comes to life, love and the pursuit of happiness, so from where I stand, I wouldn’t even begin to guess. My hope is that there are good and wonderful things waiting for me but I simply don’t know. That is the funny thing about life. It is unpredictable and messy, to say the least. At any given point, life can switch gears, change course and completely throw you off the path you had been walking down. But no matter what life brings, you inevitably have to pick yourself up and carry on. My problem is, I don’t know how.

For the first time in a very long time, I felt sure of everything…certain about my future, certain about my choices and certain about my love and trust in another human being. It was uncomplicated and beautiful. No more doubts, no more pain, no more questioning what should be. So, to find myself sitting here today in this particular place feeling the exact way I swore I would never feel again, completely defines irony. I don’t know how I ended up here. I don’t know what I could have done differently to make the outcome turn out like I thought it was supposed to. I simply don’t know and as I struggle to understand, the world as I know it, begins to collapse.

I had, up until this point never thought that another life was possible for me. I never once believed that this one corner of the world I created for myself wasn’t exactly where I was supposed to be. I never thought for one moment that all I had fought for, all that I believed in would come tumbling down around me, again. Because in my heart, I knew this time was different. This time everything was right. This time I knew it was going to work out for me. This time, I was finally going to get it right. And throughout this whole process, I suppose that has been the hardest part for me to get past. Being so wrong when I had so much faith in it being right. Something of this magnitude certainly makes you think twice about your abilities and your decision making skills as an intelligent person. You go over and over it in your head a million times, wondering and analyzing each conversation hoping for a glimmer of something that you missed. Something that you should have seen. A tiny sign that told you to be careful, tread lightly…things aren’t exactly as they seem. And in those missed moments, you become vulnerable. You let your guard down, you let people in, you trust and you take a chance on someone you feel worthy enough to have your heart. Sometimes you get it right and sometimes you don’t. But I guess that’s the way life goes. It’s the way love goes.

Standing Still

2008-10-22T11:53:00.000-04:00

I have a saying that I use quite often in my life which is…when I don't know what to do, I do nothing or, I simply "stand still". This just means that when I am feeling lost, uncertain or feel as if my life has completely spun out of control, I literally do nothing….I stand still and wait for events to unfold around me…I make no choices. I take no action….because when my life reaches such a point; I know that I can no longer trust myself, my instincts or my judgment. So as to not make things worse for myself, I stand still and wait. I realize this may seem an inactive approach to life but it has been my experience that when one chooses to stand still and remain quiet long enough, a voice will speak to you. It's the small whisper of faith that emerges and lends a hand when your world is being turned upside down...

This method that I rely so heavily on is how I have learned to survive in a world where uncertainty is commonplace. Life can take the most unbelievable turns. It is capable of bringing you more heartache than you thought you could bear but it can also bring you the greatest of joys. My life has certainly had its share of ups and downs but all along the way, my faith is the one thing that has never truly abandoned me. Even in my darkest hour, on the most desolate road of this journey, I have felt that all things; good and bad, happen for a reason. And sometimes, I need to stop in my tracks, shift focus and rethink all that is before me, in order to gain the perspective I need to move forward. In the moments of standing still, I hold fast to that small whisper. It tells me to listen closely. It protects me and allows me to wait out the storm within a protective shell, of sorts. It's the whisper that offers me words when I can no longer find my voice. It gives me time to retreat and obtain clarity on all that is going wrong so that I can try to make it right again. Because with each moment that passes, each moment of pain or confusion, one thing is certain….life goes on. It stops for no one. So, the quietness of standing still provides solace and stability to my life when I have lost my way. I remain still so that others can move. Inevitably someone says something or does something that can change the path that you were on. In a split second, choices can be made and your life can take a completely different direction. I realize that my idea of "standing still" may not be a very brave way of walking through this world. But being brave has never been my strong suit anyway. I tend to pick up my running shoes and take off long before I am able to muster the strength to be brave. But as I grow older, I find that running away from the people or things that hurt me is not the answer either…so in these moments of such uncertainty, the idea of standing still was born.

One would think that after living 37 years on this earth, somehow I would get used to the idea of change…that I would expect it or somehow come to rely on it. That this idea of standing still would be obsolete simply because I had learned to embrace change or at the very least, had come to expect a monkey wrench from time to time. But I haven't. I am still surprised by so many things. And as I stand still, I replay events, conversations spoken and choices made, hoping that in the midst of all the chaos, I would have taken a different path, learned my lesson and ended up in a different place from where I stand today. But I didn't. I am exactly where I left myself when I took off running. In my own defense though, I suppose we are essentially, all creatures of habit. We do what we do because it is what we are used to…what we are accustomed to. We do things; make the same choices because sometimes we just don't think we deserve any better. And sometimes, we simply don't know any better. They say that when you know better, you do better. I guess, I am a work in progress in that respect. During this time though, I certainly don't expect the world to stand still, for others around me to patiently wait as I do. I suspect that life will continue on in spite of everything and people will be braver in their lives than I have been. And although my method may seem strange or weak, I know precisely what I'm doing. I'm hanging up my running shoes. I choose to remain present in my life and to take the monkey wrenches as they come. And surely when I know better, I will do better. But until then….I will be right here….standing still.

Changing Seasons

2008-09-12T11:56:00.001-04:00

As I sat here and began to write, somehow my focus shifted from one thing to another and it moved me in a direction I hadn't planned. I began thinking about the change in seasons. As the layers of summer begin to fade away and fall emerges, I am reminded of how the earth is constantly working. How it is able to peel back all the levels of the old and the dying and replace it with a fresh coat of life. The earth prepares itself for the upcoming cold and adjusts and shapes itself for months of hibernation. (At least here in New York) The roots buried deep beneath the surface will somehow survive despite being covered in a blanket of white. The trees and flowers will emerge again next year, growing taller and stronger even though they were once thought dead, having succumbed to the change. It was this thought that made me wonder if this strength, this resilience were true for ones' life. Are we, like the earth able to shift our lives, adjust and prepare for the changes that life can bring? Can we truly begin again, peeling back our own layers of the old and dying and replenish our lives, our spirits with something that will sustain us for a lifetime? This is my thought for today...

As I continued to ponder this question, my thoughts were unclear, but the more I thought about it, I knew the answer to my own question, without hesitation. I truly believe that although we may get knocked down from time to time, we inevitably pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and find a way to move on. We have the instinctive ability to be better, to do better and to make decisions that will, hopefully, bring us closer to something more fulfilling and more beautiful than we had thought possible. We have the ability to endure being wounded time after time and yet, even though the sting of heartache remains, we go on. Something in us stays put, feels the hurt and beckons for a new day. We are keenly aware that with each passing day, with each changing season, we will press on, not fully knowing what the new day will bring but still, we hope. We have the knowledge that as each day falls into night; we are one step closer to the path in which we were meant. I believe that we are like the roots buried in the ground. We may hibernate from time to time, hiding ourselves away in our own corner of the world, but in that stillness, in that darkness, we grow in strength and courage. We regenerate and regroup and come out fighting, once again. It is that same determination that keeps the roots alive and nourished. They have patience, for they know that waiting will allow them time to heal, time for rest and a time to gain back what was lost. They stay until they are strong enough to emerge once again. Just like us.

The Master Plan

2008-03-05T11:57:00.000-05:00

Author and Professor Joseph Campbell wrote, "We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us." When I first stumbled across this, I confess, I didn't interpret it in the manner in which Mr. Campbell probably intended. I think he wanted to provoke optimism in the masses of people searching for proof that life goes on even if things don't turn out like we planned. I think he wanted to challenge us to envision a different kind of life. A life that perhaps was not planned but nevertheless showed up on our doorstep. But Instead of being filled with optimism and hope, I jumped from my small wading pool of safety into an overwhelming sea of uncertainty and regret. And for someone like me who essentially believes in destiny, fate, karma, and cosmic forces, you wouldn't even think I would have had a plan. But I did…once.

What I now like to refer to as my "Master Plan" was big and beautiful. I even wrote it down for someone once. Someone who cared enough to ask me what I thought about, what I dreamed about. My plan included small things like, learning to speak Italian, playing the violin and traveling to some foreign country. My plan also included more substantial things like, getting married again, having another child, having a house of my own, etc…I centered myself around these substantial dreams. These were all the things I thought I wanted. All the things I thought I should want. But I have learned an undeniable truth about myself: That I am not at all who I thought I was.

I suppose looking back, making those plans for myself was my way of trying to make all the things that had gone wrong in my life, right again. My marriage had failed. I lost my home. I lost the only stability I had ever known. All the dreams I once had, were gone. They were the very things that made sense of my life. The very things that made me, me. The only thing I felt I hadn't lost was my beautiful son but because of all of the mistakes I had made, I thought that I had also failed him. So, part of me grieved for that life, for the mistakes I made, for the choices I knew I couldn't change and for the pain I caused. And in that grief, my master plan emerged. I tried to identify the turning point, the place in which my life veered off course. I thought that if I could pinpoint where I had gone wrong, that somehow I would get another chance to do things right. I could start over again and put my master plan into motion. But there is a funny truth about life. It hardly ever goes according to our plans. It plays by its own rules. It has its own definitions and ideas of what our lives should be. It's filled with choices and options and consequences. It's filled with twists and turns which can toss you in directions you hadn't planned.

Throughout my life but especially over the past year, I have taken many detours. But I have learned that taking detours, veering off your plans path, can sometimes bring unexpected joys. Amazing things and amazing people that one might never have known but for the detours. Still I wondered. Despite the wonderful things that have occurred in my recent life, was I really ready to sacrifice my dreams, these plans that I had always known to be right for me, in order to share my life with someone who didn't hold the same dreams? Had I abandoned my own ship just to avoid being alone? Or was I simply willing to take a chance on someone, believing that he is worth the risk? Maybe the winds of fate are at work. Maybe I need to let go of the past, let go of who I thought I was and just fall…trusting that he will be there to catch me. Because what if loving him leads me towards different dreams, better dreams? What if all this uncertainty is mere preparation for a life I didn't even know I wanted?

I realize how lucky I have been in my life. Maybe I don't really need those plans to bring happiness to my life. Maybe I clung to those plans because I was afraid to imagine a different life. Maybe I was afraid that if I gave up those dreams, I would no longer know who I was. I'm sure that I am sacrificing something. We all do, in our own way. But I look around at what I have and I know that the choices I have made, the cards that have been dealt, have brought me to the exact place where I am meant to be. Sometimes I still think of my plan and I wonder, if at the end of my life, I will have regrets. Regret for the things I wanted to do and never did. Regret for the children I may not have. Regret for another chance at marriage that I may never get. But I realize that these things, these plans do not define me. They are mere ideas I once had, dreams I once dreamed and I have every right to change my mind. Life is a trade off. Sometimes you have to give up one dream to hold onto another. I'm sure from time to time I will still wonder about my decisions and I will wonder if I chose wisely. I may wonder if abandoning all I have known to take a chance on the unknown was worth it. But to question our decisions and to make mistakes is what makes us human so I journey into the unknown without hesitation. I realize that my belief in the power of destiny is very much alive and I have to take things as they come. I have to look at my master plan, not with regret or fear that I failed but rather as an opportunity to have a different life. I never know what will show up at my doorstep or what the winds of fate have in store for me. But I am learning to completely embrace that which appears. For the cosmic forces seem to be in full swing and maybe, just maybe, they know better than I.

My Circus

2008-02-06T11:58:00.000-05:00

It's almost 6:00 in the evening. I just walked in the house after working my first job, my second job, going to the grocery store and picking up my son. I pour myself a glass of wine and collapse into the couch. I sit quietly for a moment and indulge myself by taking a long sip of this liquid tranquility. I look around at the dishes piled high in the sink, (didn't I already wash dishes today?) the laundry spilling out from my sons room into the hallway, a bathroom I didn't have a chance to clean yet, vacuuming that needs to be done and a dog that still needs to be walked. In the background, my child screams for a snack with such velocity, you would think he hadn't eaten in weeks. As he eats said snack, he casually asks me when dinner will be ready. I am in effect, exhausted and overwhelmed at the very sight of the surroundings which I call my circus.

At times, I find comfort in the fact that I do not walk this road alone. I walk it with thousands, maybe even millions of mothers, my circle of sisters that simply do not have another ounce of themselves left to give. However, at this very moment, such comfort is overshadowed by my own personal reality. Today, instead of standing among an army of women, I feel myself slipping into the solitary abyss. As I sip my glass of wine, I hear the phone ringing. It is minutes after my arrival so I am certain it is my mother, checking to see if I have made it home safely. I know she will call back if I do not answer but at the moment, I can't get my body to move. I take another sip of my peace and close my eyes to the chaos and noise. I count to ten very slowly thinking that simply by counting and making a wish, possibly all things waiting on me, will cease. I open my eyes moments later and look around again. No such luck.

Finally, I set my glass down, get off my comfy couch, take 3 steps and pick up the pair of shoes, the jacket, the power ranger and the backpack my son dropped at the door on his way in. I casually walk down the hall, open his door and deposit it on the floor in which it was intended. I look around his room in amazement that living amongst such filth is acceptable to him. Being a single mother, I have certainly learned to pick my battles. In these instances I try to remember that he is only nine and nine year-olds simply don't see the need for cleanliness. The more I try to explain to him that the reason he can't find anything is because his room is a pigsty, the more he assures me that there is more to life than a clean room. He thinks there are much bigger things to worry about. So, I digress and simply close the door to his hovel. I retreat to the comfy couch, take another sip and try to get a game plan together…

Dinner, dishes, laundry, bathroom, vacuuming, DOG! On a priority list, I realize that unless I want another "something" to clean up, the dog must come first. I am hopeful that the cool, winter air will clear my head and maybe prepare myself for the tasks ahead. I wonder as I trudge through the woods and the mud, what exactly happened to me? How did I end up here? It is far too much for my brain to interpret on a Monday evening. So I think only of the glass of wine waiting for me and the unending list of chores I must carry out before bedtime.

Upon my return inside, my son is standing at the door telling me that Nana called and once again asks me when dinner will be ready. I have already decided that I am not hungry but despite my lack of appetite, I realize that I must feed the starving child. I have two options. Option 1 is to cook a full meal, complete with a protein, starch and vegetable. But I know that no matter what I make for this child standing before me, he will find something wrong with it…something he doesn't like or doesn't recognize on his plate. Option 2 is macaroni and cheese. After standing in front of the open refrigerator for what seems like hours, I close it and choose Option 2. I decide that for tonight, macaroni and cheese is 1 of the 4 major food groups. After all, pasta is a starch and the powered cheese stuff must have some sort of protein in it, right? As for the vegetable, I can throw some carrot sticks on his plate and move on. Everyone is happy.

As the water boils, I manage to start a load of laundry; spot clean the bathroom and return the call to my mother. Not bad, I think to myself. As I watch my son eat, we chat about his day and he comes up with what he calls the ultimate plan. He informs me that the dishes, the laundry and all the other things that I am stressing about can be easily be abandoned. The cure for all my angst and worry can be alleviated by watching a movie and eating a big bowl of popcorn. I certainly wish life was that simple.

After dinner, I throw the wet clothes in the dryer, start another load of laundry, do the dishes, talk to my mother again and help Matt do his homework. I pour my second glass of wine and run around the house like a madwoman trying to accomplish my daily tasks. For I know if I let them go, if I do not make my house spotless, the earth will simply stop turning. Today is like so many other days; pure chaos with me smack dab in the center of my own little circus. And I begin to wonder, is this all there is to my life? My existence seems to be made up of a mountain of details, a list of chores, a mundane routine that I must follow to have some sense of order in my life. But the truth is, there is no order to my life. There is no sense in my life. Just details, lists and routine. Just a circus. And I begin to wonder if the beautiful working of a nine year- olds mind isn't more on track than my own. I work and work and work, not just to maintain a clean home but to try and get ahead in my life. To have more, to provide a better life for my son. And in the process of working this hard and doing so much, the only thing I seem to accomplish is to make my life harder, crazier than it was in the first place. I essentially become the ringmaster of my circus and I drag my kid around in the lunacy. So, I stop for a moment and truly ask myself what will actually happen if I don't get all this stuff done today? What if I actually said no? The answer is simple. Absolutely nothing! So, I stop, take a deep breath and I decide that for today, I am done. I dump my glass of wine down the drain, yell for my son, make the popcorn and let him choose the movie. We both plop down on the comfy couch and settle in for the night. As we sit there watching a movie I have seen at least 20 times, I look at the floor that I forgot to vacuum and I smile. I tell myself not to worry. The dirt will still be there tomorrow and I can buy a ticket to the circus then.

Bouncing Back

2007-08-27T12:04:00.000-04:00

The past few days have been pretty rough for me, but in spite of packing my life into boxes and running around like a crazy person, I have remained somewhat intact and collected. I have many people to thank for that…friends; some old, some new, some I thought I lost and some I didn’t even know I had and the wonderful family who never ventures far from my side, just in case I need them. But I think my greatest strength comes from the blue-eyed, grinning, 8 year-old that sings every Nickleback song with me at the top of his lungs as we drive in the car…. I started thinking of Mattie and all he has been through and it was at this moment that I wished my spirit were as resilient as his. Children have this amazing power within them. It’s the power to “bounce back” from the things that life throws at us. I think adults lose this “something” over time, over hurt and heartaches, over bumps and bruises and they never quite regain again. But children are filled with it. It’s like this syrupy, gooey wonderment of stuff that they are instilled with. They rebound and recoup much quicker than we do. They feel pain and heartache just like us but that inner power overrides it, smashes it into a million pieces and after a little time passes; it is replaced with some incredible memory or adventure. They move on and smile the big smile and wonder why we are still sad when there are so many wonderful things just waiting for us up ahead…if only we would take the time to see it…to experience it. They watch and wait, expecting us to catch up with them and yet somehow we never really do.

The upcoming move has been quite a big deal for Mattie. He thought we were going to stay put this time and land… so to speak. So I think he is disappointed and hurt that things didn’t work out. I think he is disappointed for me. But even in the darkest of times, there he is with a big, beautiful smile, comforting me. Telling me that it’s not my fault…that we will be okay no matter where we live…that he won’t let anyone hurt me or make me cry…that he will protect me all the way to the moon and back again. It’s an incredible thing, how he has grown. He is so big and strong, so ready to conquer the world. I wondered if it was normal for a child his age to want to fight his mothers’ battles. I had hoped so. But a little part of me knew that simply by me being his mother, I had probably aged him well beyond his years and for that, I felt sad. I had always prided myself on letting him be a child, never allowing worries or hurts to enter his world beyond a simple scraped knee or a fight with his cousin and yet, already, he feels the need to assist and protect his mother and defend a situation he doesn’t fully understand.

But once again, it is that “something” that kids have within them that protects their hearts and their skin from the, sometimes, harsh realities of the world around them. They don’t need to fully understand anything. They know that life can be hard but they instinctively know that tears end and pain fades away and although Mattie can’t comprehend the magnitude of what has happened in my life, he is there reassuring me that I will…that we will… be just fine. He reminds me every single day…that life is beautiful and so worth living….

I can’t say that I would like to relive my childhood to gain that “something” back. I’m not even quite sure that my childhood included that amazing something but it’s nice to know that it lives in my child. It’s nice to know that he has that “something” protecting him for a bit longer. It would be neat though, if children could use their resilience and their power to somehow give us back what we have lost over time. I imagine the world would be a much happier place. Having the ability to release a painful experience long before the shelf life we had given it had run out. Having the ability to bounce right back into our lives without really missing a beat. It would be something…wouldn’t it? I suspect that life will continue just as it always has though. Children will remain the wondrous creatures that they are. They will laugh and smile, play and move forward, progressing each and every day. And as for us grownups…I suppose, we will bounce back when we are good and ready…And not one second before.