Vacationing

My husband and I decided that I would go to London with my sister and mom as a reward for graduating.

But, then, tickets were like 1 trillion dollars, give or take.

Plan B: New York City.  I bought tickets for Wicked on Broadway (I know, I was asking for it).  We had a hotel in Manhattan.  We were going to visit some amazing places.

But, then, my sister had to change her plans so she could launch a rocket.

So, off to Florida we went, we three.  (Cha Cha doesn't do press).

In Orlando, we went to visit a magical wizard (twice, but not in a row).  We bought wands and chocolates that melted in the bag before we could get to the parking lot (and yes, we bought them on our way out).  We rode rides that spun us around and upside down.  We ate in the Three Broomsticks and drank Butterbeer (one person was too afraid to try it, but I won't name names Charlotte).  

 We visited a very strange swamp meet/flea market where it was hot and the stalls were all filled with the same bulk Chinese goods.  (We still managed to find something to buy.) Then, we drove down to Port Charlotte and found a certain somebody watching over us via street sign.

It was hot.

And pretty.

We drove through a rainstorm and found Cocoa Beach awash in shells and surf. 

Charlotte went to work while Mom and I played.  A new place, but just as magical and a lot more real.  We saw rockets and turtles and pieces of the moon.  

We were lucky to get an insider's tour the next day, courtesy of my sister's rocket preparing for launch.  We visited the place where heroes died, and just across the way we could see that pesky rocket which had cancelled our plans waiting on the pad.

And we were awed.

And the next day, we went back to watch that pesky rocket lift off into the sky.  

Nature's evening light show was amazing.

But, then the rocket put on a show of it's own.

The ground shook and the sky was bright with fire.

And, then it seemed like stars were falling (but they were really just engines and it's supposed to happen).  

It's hard to top a rocket launch.

We took a nice boat ride and saw my first ever dolphin, a mother matinee and her babe (sort of).  Birds and boats and a beautiful world.

We went back to Orlando and a fancy hotel where you need to use your card to reach our floor.  We vowed to stay in the Presidential Suite someday.

Then, back to California.  We visited the only battleship with a presidential bathtub.  These crazies came too.  

And Charlotte won a big fancy award.  She hexed the picture I tried to take and it didn't come out.  But, I'm very proud of that sister!
But, magic spells only last so long and we came home again, home again, jiggity jig, with memories as sweet and wild as the sea.  And lot's of gratitude from lucky, lucky me.  Thanks, Charlotte and Mom, for going along.  And even for the pesky rocket.

Outlining

This is the summer of do it, or don't do it.  I'm trying to be "serious" about writing in a way that I've never been before. I'm trying to be more physically active.  I'm trying to have the TV on less and to interact about something intellectual with my kids more often.  I'm trying to take my kid(s) to the park for the free lunch at least a few times a week, if not every day.  I'm working on eating more healthy and avoiding late night snacks (oh so very hard).  I've had some success so far.

This is the summer of do it.  Or don't.  The summer where I decide if I'm really going to jump in with both feet and believe in me.  I've never really given that much attention before.  It's never seemed so important.  I've never wanted to do it for myself before.  And I've always failed.  I've tried doing it for my kids.  I've tried doing it to be a good example.  I've tried doing it to make myself rich and famous (the writing part).  This time, none of that is more important than seeing if I can walk the talk.  Maybe I'll fail again this time and maybe the bar's too high, but this is it.

The summer of do it.




--- Excerpt from the writing project I've been focusing on.  I have an outline in my head, thus the title of tonight's short blog ---

     The drive from Albuquerque to Grants was, at best, uninteresting.  The world seemed to be brown in every direction except the sky.  Mount Taylor loomed to the north, growing as the miles melt away behind, and eventually the freeway ras through a bizarre patch of lava run-off that looked almost like it was put there by a landscaper to spice things up. 

     During the drive, Daniel turned his radio up loud enough to vibrate his windows.  A local station with a pop-music twist and DJ's who seemed to be selling something every two minutes.  It kept him from thinking. 

     He'd read the police report before leaving LA and he knew the location of the accident based on the officer's description.  He had even used Google Maps to get a better idea of the place where his family was single-handedly slaughtered.  His in-laws had been disgusted by the amount of information he had acquired and tried to share.  But, he couldn't help it.  He didn't know any other way to process what had happened.  At 11 pm he had told his wife to drive safely and wished his children sweet dreams, made them promise to be good for their mother so that she could concentrate.  By 12, they were all dead or close enough to it that they might as well have been.  It didn't make sense.  The details were like a puzzle that just wouldn't fit together correctly no matter which way he tried.  Officer Baca had been more helpful than any one person should be.  Patient.  Kind.  Grieving with Daniel.  Baca had been the first officer on the scene, had even held Daniel's wife in those first moments of discovery, had lifted Trevor from the back seat and onto the stretcher where his life leaked out, had prayed for a speedy journey to the other side, wherever that might be.  Baca had not tired of relating his experience to Daniel.  It was therapeutic, almost, for both of them.

     With the music thumping against the windows and the red, brown, black landscape streaming by, Daniel purposely averted his eyes from the spot where his wife had died.  There was still debris in the road, pieces of glass that glittered in the sunlight.  He would come back later, he promised, to say good-bye.  Not yet. 

      On the outskirts of Grants, as the small town began to crop up as gas station signs and small square houses, Daniel pulled off to the side of the freeway and let his head rest against the steering wheel.  This last leg was the hardest so far.  Everything else had been a blur, a numbness, but with every mile this became more real.  Elana was dead.  Trevor.  Alicia.  Kymball.  Danny.  He had driven over and past the place where they died.  They drifted around him now, corporeal, thrumming in time with the music and brushing lightly against his heaving body. 

     It was too much to face.

     For a flickering moment, Daniel thought of dropping his foot on the accelerator and letting the rental car slam into the overpass just ahead.  But, he couldn't.  Elana would be so angry.  For her, he wouldn't.   

Deciphering

When Josh was seven (the age Carly is now), he was a different sort of kid than his sister.  She is high energy, momentum building, must-have-distractions, "When are we going swimming?" 15 times an hour asking - and we're only a couple weeks into this thing we call summer.  She's bored.  Josh used to get that way sometimes, but mostly he was just happy to have a squirt gun, some legos, or a stick to play with.  And, when he wasn't, I would send him over to Gramma Annie's for a few hours/days.  He was and continues to be mostly self-contained.

This summer I am faced with a rather large dilemma.  Carly wants to do stuff.  Lots and lots of stuff.  But, we live in the sticks.  The closest park with green grass to play on is 15 minutes away.  And after we arrive, she'll be bored and/or hot in five minutes or less.  (In other words, the payoff just ain't worth it).  She really wants to go swimming.  But that's 45 minutes away and at very specific times of the day.  And I'm just so happy not to be making that drive for classes and work right now. 

Look, I want Carly to have a fun summer.  But - I don't want to do a circus act to make it happen.  Josh didn't train me well enough for that.

Finishing

My final writing prompt for my Creative Writing Degree.  It's nice to end on a fun note.

5 Star Review!

            My life has been forever and irrevocably changed by the amazing T-376 Commuter's Helmet from Narco Leptic Industries.  Never before and never again have I owed such a debt of gratitude to a five pound yellow gadget from Japan.

            My husband, Hal, was born with an unfortunate and debilitating disease.  While this disease has not yet been identified by the scientific community at large (the bastards), I am confident that someday a cure will be found and he will finally be able to live a normal life.  Until then, he is forced to suffer through the pain and humiliation of his condition.  We did not discover this terrible affliction until after our first son, Hal Jr. I, was born.  Soon after our beautiful child's birth, right around the day Hal Jr. I began to walk (two months early, the boy is a gifted and talented athlete, mark my words), Hal Sr. began to suffer from unexpected bouts of narcolepsy.  He would fall asleep at the most inopportune times.  My Aunt Patty's funeral.  My mother's 60th birthday extravaganza (which I planned myself.  It was a beautiful day.  Family flew in from all over the country - all over the world if you include cousin Connie from Canada.  There were live doves and an ice sculpture of my mother's bust.  The band was divine and the food came from a renowned catering company in upstate New York, Verma's.  I'm still getting thank you notes from the guests.)  He even fell asleep once while we were watching Nicholas Spark's epic movie, A Walk to Remember.  His kleptonarctic bouts seemed to be intensified by particular brands of beer.  Bud Light didn't seem to affect him too much (he didn't like the taste anyhow and dumped a bunch of it into my flower garden before I realized what was happening.  Poor begonias), but Guinness Stout knocked him right out.  His symptoms seemed to be even worse in the afternoons when Hal Jr. I liked to be at the park.  Hal Sr. would just drop off right in the middle of anything and I'd have to take Hal Jr. I alone. The only time he didn't really seem to have a problem was in the evenings after watching Game of Thrones.  He had plenty of energy then, if you know what I mean. 

            Well, after about a year of this, I began to get really desperate.  Poor Hal Sr. was just so miserable.  His afternoon naps stretched on and on and I was worried he might fall asleep at the office.  We certainly couldn't afford for him to get fired.  I mean, I'm a SAHM (stay-at-home-mom) and I can't imagine parting from my little cootchy-coo.  One day while I was surfing the internet and Hal Jr. I was playing Jeopardy on his iPad, I came across this product.  It was like fireworks went off in my brain.  Finally!  Hal Sr. could nap and still be part of the family!  He could use this handy invention at work, too!  As long as his desk was facing away from the door, it would look like he was awake and working hard!  Of course, it is a little odd that the  T-376 Commuter's Helmet from Narco Leptic Industries resembles a construction helmet.  But some double stick tape and scrapbooking paper I had leftover from Hal Jr. I's baby album fixed that right up.  Now Hal Sr. has a stylish and functional treatment for his unfortunate condition.  Thank you T-376 Commuter's Helmet from Narco Leptic Industries!  You've changed our lives!

(Here's the link the real helmet that inspired my fictional review http://tech.ca.msn.com/holiday-guide/photogallery.aspx?cp-documentid=26213455&page=7 )

Perfecting

Call it a product of lots of work and little time, or maybe classes which all seem to share threads despite being almost wholly unrelated, but lately I've been thinking a lot about how powerless I am in my own skin.

I talk too much.

Or maybe it's powerful.  I am powerful in my own skin.  I can do things, be things, try things.  I don't have to do it for anyone but me.  I don't have to do it unless I want to.  I can look at the map and choose the road and see where it goes.  And be okay even if I get turned around.

I am a bonafied know-it-all.

It's funny.  I haven't noticed myself getting older.  It just sort of happened.  Snuck up while I was napping.  Little spots on the back of my hands, wrinkles around my mouth, gray hair.  I've settled into my thirties, somehow, just in time to get ready to leave them.  Mid-way, mid-life, mid-me.  I'm not excited about forty in four years, but it's coming anyhow.  Coming quick, filling up the blurry lines between hours.  So I guess I better get used to it. 

I am a lazy housewife, a distracted mother, an impatient teacher.

I didn't think I'd be finishing my degree at thirty-six.  (At times I didn't think I'd be finishing my degree at all.)  But, here I am, ten weeks away - give or take - and staring down the barrel of what's next.  What is next?  New places?  New faces?  New houses?  New goals?  I'm not sure and the waiting is rough.  But, next is coming anyhow.  Coming fast.  I can't see it yet, but I can hear its breathing.

I am incredibly selfish.  And often pretty mean.

I've spent a lot of time - wasted a lot of time - not measuring up.  At least in my own mind.  It's really easy to be not quite good enough.  Not faithful enough.  Not pretty enough.  Not funny enough.  Not friendly enough.  Not smart enough.  Not skinny enough.  Not creative enough.  Not engaged enough.  Enough for what?  Enough for who?  These are questions I'm only just now beginning to ask myself.  Who set my bar higher than I can reach it?  Was it me?  Why'd I do that? 

I am not very good at finishing what I started.

I have only just begun to realize how empty my own promises are.  If I can just lose X pounds, everything will be perfect.  If I would just read my scriptures more, pray more, be more faithful, everything will be perfect.  If I would just take more time to look pretty, everything would be perfect.  But, even if I do all those things, everything won't be perfect.  More importantly, it will still be okay.  I will still be happy.  I will still be loved.  I will still have many blessings.  I will still be me.  Of course, I can always want more, work more, try more.  Not because I need to measure up, but because I already do measure up.

I am already enough.

Circling

How do you feel? 

Facebook keeps asking me that like it is a living, breathing person who cares.  Silly facebook, I know you're not real. 

But still.

I feel overwhelmed.  I have so much to do and not enough hours in the day.  If I sleep in (which I did), I scrutinize those minutes and wonder if they are wasted.  If I watch TV, play a game, do nothing, I feel like I'm running behind.

I am too busy.

But not too busy for facebook to keep asking me how I'm doing.

I guess that's ironic.

Or it's just that I need to sometimes come up for air.  For pause.  For full stop (like this weekend when I ran around California with my sister and ate lots of In-n-Out.  It was good, the burgers and the running and especially my sister.)

I felt refreshed, and then I pushed play.

And now - how do I feel?

Overwhelmed.  There are not enough hours in the day.  If I sleep - well, why don't we find out?

Realizing

Once, when Josh was still very small, my mother-in-law turned to me and said:

"You know, it's like he's always been here."

And right there, in those eight words, she perfectly captured my faith in God.

There are days, like today, when I look at my child and I can almost see eternity stretching backward like a long unfurling satin wing.  We've been on this path together for a while now, though we've forgotten the greater part.  But it was only just tonight, while I had my hands in a bubbly sink full of dishes, that I came to understand the significance of that.




I often think to myself: I am failing my child.

or

I am a terrible mother.

or

I can't believe I just did that, again!

or

What is wrong with me? These kids are making me crazy and they're not even doing anything wrong!

or

I should not be his/her mother. 

or

It's no wonder we don't have any more kids.  I don't deserve them.

or

Well, you get the idea.  I am always surprised when I hear other women express similar thoughts or feelings, especially the women who continually amaze me with their creativity, energy, and down-right awesomeness.  But, that is perhaps a whole other conversation.

Tonight, hands in the sink, right after I thought I am a failure as his mother, it came to me that no, I had it all wrong.  In fact, I wasn't failing as his mother - I was chosen to be his mother because I have some special skill or talent that he needs to get through mortality in one whole, healthy, happy piece.

I have no idea what tha skill is, mind you.  But, I feel like there is more truth in this idea than I've been able to recognize before.  And it's not that I'm somehow spiritually connected and so in the zone that suddenly God shined a light over my sink and the heavens opened and sang. 

No, it was quieter, softer, gentler. 

And that's why I trust it.

Exercising

My brain.  This is the short piece I started working on based on someone else's brainstorm image from class.  I am still trying to write every day, but some days my laziness is just too strong.  Like the force, only less cool.  Still, I'm writing a bit of something most days (and I am not short changing myself when that 'writing' is part of school work.  I have a LOT of it right now, and we're only two weeks in.  Last semester I got a bit lazy and paid the price with last minute rushing; this semester I want to go out nice and easy...if possible.)

---

Safe Haven

In the milk aisle at Costco, Elise’s four year old daughter Candy announced that she had to use the restroom again. She bobbed on her little feet, knock kneed and bubbling over with all the urgency of her four-year-old full bladder. She pulled at the hem of her pink tutu and tried not to make eye contact with her mom. Looking down at the top of her daughter’s restless blonde head, Elise tried to hold back the irritation that churned in her stomach like bad yogurt. They had already stopped to use the restroom four times since they left the house, and that was only two hours ago. Once for Candy, once for her two year old brother Tyler, once when the baby in Elise’s belly began to push painfully on her bladder, and once when Tyler spilled a drink down the front of his frog-dotted green shirt.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Elise said.  It came out as something like a growl and split the word sure so that it had two sliding syllables. Shhurah.

Candy nodded, pigtail braids bobbing against her chest. The purple ribbons had come untied and flapped loosely against her white cotton shirt. She bit the bottom of her lip hard, turning it white between her small teeth.

Elise sighed and turned the cart toward the bathroom. In the little seat at the front, Tyler swung his legs haphazardly, his shoes bumping against Elise’s thighs. Candy skipped along beside, bladder momentarily forgotten because of the bright lights and bulk goods stacked high.

Back at the front, Elise waited with Tyler just outside the door while Candy tripped through into the women’s restroom.  Elise could just make out the pitter patter of Candy’s mary-jane shoes and then the silence that follows a closed stall door.  It always made Elise nervous to use this kind of arrangement, but it was easier than taking everything, including Tyler, out of the cart.  Tyler started to fuss while they waited and Elise had to strain to hear through the door. 

 After a few minutes Elise started to feel nervous.

 A few minutes more and she started to unbuckle Tyler from the metal cart.  She pushed the door open with her toe while she fought the buckle.

“Candy?  Candy honey, you alright?” she said.  Tyler slapped playfully at her face with his chubby hand and pulled the russet hair that spilled over her shoulder.  “Candy?”  Her heart seemed to be creeping up the back side of her throat with every ticking second.

“I’m coming, Momma,” Candy said finally.  “There’s hair on the floor, I’m trying to clean it up.”

“Ugh, gross,” Elise said to herself.  Tyler came free and they pushed in through the red bathroom door.

Inside, there was more than a little hair on the glossy tile floor.  Long black sections snaked down the whole length and Candy had her hands full of inky tendrils. 

“I’m helping, Momma,” she said smiling and holding up the hair like an offering.

“You’re a good helper,” Elise said, but distracted and hurrying over to take the hair from her daughter’s hands at the same time.  “Don’t pick up anymore, come over and wash your hands.” 

Tyler bobbled against her side and reached for the hair Elise had taken from Candy’s small pink hands.  The smile fluttered on Candy’s face and fell from her cheeks.

“Are you mad, Momma?” she said, sliding her hands down her shirt to wipe off the hair.  “I’m sorry.”  Her rosebud lips trembled, her blue eyes wide. 

“Don’t do that! No, honey, I’m not mad.  Where did this all come from?  Was it on the floor?”

“The crying girl behind the big door, she was cutting it off and throwing it on the floor.  I told her she’d get in trouble, but I don’t think she could hear me because she’s so noisy.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Elise said, growing more alarmed.  She pushed Candy behind her and edged toward the gray metal door at the end of the row.  It stood slightly ajar, unmoving on its hinges.  “Stay here, Candy,” she said. 

She shifted Tyler on her hip, tucking him closer to her side, before she pushed the door open with red lacquered fingertips.