State of Obvious

I figured out what it is, that thing that has me yo-yo-ing between ok-happy-sad-sadder-ok-sad-happy...people keep having babies! They're everywhere!  Little pregnant women with popped out bellies.  Big pregnant women looking glow-y.  Celebrity pregnant women.  Mean pregnant women.  Ok, so not really any mean pregnant women.  But I wish they would be mean just so I could justify these feelings. Don't get me wrong.  I love that people are having babies.   (I am pretty sure I've typed that before.  Probably more than once.)  I mean, someone has to keep things running in the future when I am too busy mashing up my food before I eat it.  Plus, babies are cute.  Ridiculously so.  Chubby cheeks and soft hair and little button noses.  That's the reason people keep having babies, really.  The cuteness.  (If a three year old popped out, people would definitely have fewer kids.  If any at all.)  I'm ha...

I'm not sure which is worse. On one hand, hopeful is so enticing.  It's that bubbly feeling in the hollows of your chest, eager to get out.  A spring in your step.  A smile that won't fade.  It's a glass half full and a sunrise in all its glory.  It's strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream, but it doesn't have any calories.  It's wonderful. Until you crash. And oh, the crash.  The waves.  The internal beating of a saddened heart.  The sunset and clouds and rain.  The beautiful misery.  But hopeless - that's another story.  It's never expecting, from the start.  It's convincing and being convinced that dreams are only pictures.  It's empty sounds and endless nights and sheets that feel too cold no matter how long you've been in them.  It's the long, dark corridor of night. With hopeless there is always the small, sad possibility that you might just be surprised.  It tickles the back of your m...

In the fading hours of the day, the house grows still.  Almost sleeping, except that the lights are still on and probably the TV.  There's the hum and whistle of the hot water heater, and the cracking sound of settling foundations.  There's a fan in the boy's room.  And a heater whirring.  There's the dog, chewing on the chewy.  And the computer, keys tapping, fan spinning.  And me. The silence of the late-night hours are a haven.  A time to sit and think.  Or sit and not think, as the case may be.  Not a lot of "mommy can you" going on, blessed reprieve.  Not much eye rolling or sigh making or feet stomping.  I'd be lying if I tried to tell you these aren't part of a daily routine.  They are.  Life isn't perfect, it doesn't sound perfect or look perfect.  Sometimes, for fleeting moments, it feels perfect.  The stars align and the heavens smile and the world sings.  But, I must emphasize the fleetin...

"Forget not the difference between a good sacrifice and a foolish sacrifice." I'll admit that I don't sail through life thinking, “Am I committing my time and energies to the things that matter most?”  It's more like "If the kids eat dinner right now, it's only two more hours 'til bed.  And we haven't done homework yet.  Oh, look at their rooms.  Oh, look at the laundry.  Oh, I forgot to ___________!"  The whirling dervish of life is my most constant companion.  It leaves me tired, frustrated, and lonely.  It's so much easier to focus on the essential non-essentials.  I don't think this is very different from most people I know.  It's extremely easy to get caught up in life, all the while forgetting to really live.  Forgetting to stop, to smile, to laugh, to dance.  Forgetting to put down the camera and watch the moments.  Forgetting to stop reading books, to read faces instead.  Forgetting to stop connecting online...

I was looking through my document files (mostly by accident, I was actually searching for pictures and not words) and I came across a story I remembered starting, but left to congeal, quite some time ago.  This isn't it. I went looking in the file again, curious, just tonight.  And I found this beginning.  Funny thing is, I don't remember much about writing it.  I remember that I did write it, but the words are almost like they came from someone else.  That happens a lot actually.  All these stories just swirling around up there until one gets big enough to flood out.  Anyhow, I think it sounds like an interesting start.  I wish I knew where it was supposed to go.  Hope you like it (and tell me what you think.  Good, bad, or indifferent, I do want to know!. -- If Laurel was sure of one thing, it was that she had the nicest house in town.   There was really only one other house to compare it with, only one other house...