State of Obvious

When my daughter was born, a new person was born inside of me.  One that thought a lot more about what it meant to be other, outside, and different.  I had lived my whole life inside the comfortable confines of being a middle class white person.  Sure, my parents struggled and lived on the fringes of consumerism.  We had enough, but only just.  My dad worked hard, my mom worked hard, and we got by with enough.  I never spent a whole lot of time considering what not enough looks like.  I had what I needed, I never went hungry, and my parents provided toys and movies and other entertainments that are the hallmark of what we might consider American life. But, when my daughter came to us with a complicated background, this new person inside me started to wonder.  Why were circumstances for others so different from my own?  How would her life be different with another family? What if her birth mother had decided a different path?   These...

I watched from the corner of my eye as my daughter leaned forward toward the screen.  The screen was Black Panther , the newest Marvel superhero movie.  We like superhero movies, generally speaking, and have been looking forward to this particular movie.  It did not disappoint. But, even more important than that, I watched my daughter watching the movie and felt full.  Full of love for her, full of appreciation for a movie that honors her heritage, full of admiration for how well she has accepted herself - even though others have not always.  The beautiful costumes and hair, the STRONG and intelligent females, the ease of the language and unspoken respect for each other - all of these sub-messages in a superhero movie were not lost on me.  And, as she leaned closer and closer to the screen, engrossed, I knew they were not lost on my girl, either. --- For the first time since joining my profession, I legitimately do not feel safe.  Friday we spent...

Having an (almost) teenage daughter can be...quite an experience.  "I hope you have a kid just like you," so the saying goes.  Usually, you only hear this if you're a rough kid.  I was a rough kid - in some ways.  I gave my mom a pretty hard time.  And, if she wished for a kid that was 'just like me' to come along as payback - the parent gods smiled on that wish. Today (after a pretty tragical and frustrating encounter) Carly said: I just needed to get mad at somebody.  I don't know why. Well, if that doesn't sum up teenage angst, I don't know what does. It also kind of applies to adult angst.  Some days I just want to be mad at somebody and walk around stomping my feet.  Today I felt like that.  In between good things, though, so at least there's balance. And balance is tricky this days, too. It feels like the house is a wreck (it mostly isn't, but sort of is). It feels like I'm swimming in work and can't catch up (this o...

 I can't remember what it is like to turn nine years old.  From watching you turn nine, it must have been difficult because it seems like everything is either really, really greator really, really bad.  Some days I think I might get whiplash from the mood swings (and you're not a teenager yet!).   But overall, I think nine must also be really wonderful.  You seem to be full of joy, even moments after being full of woe.  It's as if the joy just pushes the other stuff out.  It practically oozes from your pores.  More than that, on the days you choose to be happy, the whole world sings with you.  People are infected by it, drawn in to your sweet smile and shining eyes.  Attracted like bugs to a light.  You shine, dear little diva, so brightly sometimes it's blinding. We just spent three weeks together in California, and I must have complained too much about your behavior because your dad believes we are oil and water right now. ...

The house is still, though it never seems to be exactly silent.  Always there is a buzz, a sigh, a whirl.  Fans spinning or washing machines, dogs snoring or people turning over.  In the night, we are at our most vulnerable.  And yet, we trust. In my heart there is a persistence of hope during these silent hours.  It changes from day to day, that thing I hope for.  Some days it is a small hope for better weather or maybe some rain.  Other days, it is a heavy burden holding me down and I just want it to float away.  I turn this way and that, searching searching, I'm not sure what for.  I keep wondering when I'll find it , that thing that makes the pieces come together in the right order.  I often think that, perhaps, that thing is already here and I've just gotten really good at ignoring it.  Whatever IT is. In these silent hours, mind spinning and thoughts a blur, I let my body slow down into that pattern of just before sleep. ...

Dear me, I'd like to say a few words about what this day means.  This day of birth wherein I (you?) entered the world some thirty seven years ago, asleep.  Yes, asleep.  And still trying to catch up where I left off when so rudely interrupted by a smack on the behind. I'd like to say there is some magic formula or perfect sentence that sums up what it means to advance another year older and wiser, but if anything I've learned that most days (including birthdays) go on basically like the ones before.  Sure, there are the frilly types of days mixed in: celebrations, births, surprises, and the like.  But, really it all mixes together into memory-soup and it's hard to separate the strands. The year of thirty-six was spent largely learning to become a teacher.  Interestingly enough, I learned that I already pretty much am one (a teacher) and that there is a lot more fuss and bother than actual teaching on some days.  (Freshman - need I say more? (Okay...

...has been a hard one for me.  For a lot of reasons, some of which I'll list (school, teaching, school, busy-ness, school...) and some of which I won't (........).  I'm tired.  To a degree that I have not experienced before.  They told me going in (to the first semester of a Master's Degree and Teacher Certification combined) that this one would be the hardest.  And it has been.  Not because of the classes - those haven't been that bad, actually.  But because of the amount of running around, planning, revising, running around some more, and missing my family that comes with those classes.  I just keep telling myself to hang in there, it's almost done, only a little longer, and so on.  And here I am at the end, still mostly in once piece. ...has been a season of grief.  Everywhere I look, I see people and things that I've lost.  Eric's mom, Ann, seems to be whispering in my ear.  I even dream about her on a regular basis. ...

There is this moment when the thing we fear becomes like an animal in a cage.  We feed it, give it treats, reach into to steal a stroke, tease it, name it, watch it pace in front of the bars.  We get comfortable with it and begin to lose the tightness in our belly.  We begin to believe our feelings were not justified, that we were just being silly.  We begin to make friends with that animal in the cage and we decide to let it out, to see if it has suddenly become civilized.  Inevitably, it has not and then comes the bloody, broken mess on the floor that we have to clean up even as we know we created the mess and we don't want to see that thing we've let loose.  And we have to put it back in the cage, the struggle ensues, and we are irrevocably scarred by the experience only to begin the process again. Lately I seem to be reading, talking, thinking, talking, watching, talking about inclusion and diversity.  As if one of those things is somehow more va...

Dear Charlotte, Carly was baptized on Saturday.  After some stress and movie trouble and programs printed wrong twice in a row, it went off without a hitch.  Carly wore a lovely white dress which you made and she positively glowed.  I've never been hugged so tight by the starfish child as when she came to me out of the font. When I took you to the airport, a most odious task I always dread because it means you are leaving, you thanked me for letting you participate in Carly's baptism and life in general.  It caught me off guard, I'm sure you noticed.  Because, I can't image it any other way.  If anything, I wish I had you more.  More tickling and laughing and comforting and loving.  Because you give all that you have so freely.  Because you make way and make time and make efforts beyond what's minimally required by ties of "family".  Because I cannot remember a time in my life where I have not admired you.  Although perhaps you ...

On this very night eight years ago, my little Carly was preparing her descent into the crazy world below.  Here are eight beautiful things about my miracle child. 1.  She's happy, so so happy.  In fact, she spent a good twenty minutes this afternoon just singing "I'm happy! Happy, happy, happy, happy, happy!  I'm so happy!"  It makes me believe that even though I do a lot of things wrong, I'm getting the important things right. 2.  She's crazy.  Cray-cray.  Flipping, jumping, screaming, off her rocker in the very best possible way. 3.  She's snugly.  Super snugly lately, so much so that she seems to be on top of me wherever I go.  Which is mostly fantastic, but occasionally smothering.  (But, mostly fantastic.) 4.  She's funny.  This afternoon she asked "Why do people have arms on their hair?"  Which was supposed to be "Why do people have arm hair."   5.  She tries really hard to ...

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 ...

Oh, hello again. I'm taking a creative non-fiction class right now at school.  It's pretty interesting, and I feel all the time sort of like "I've done this before."  Because, essentially, that's what blogging is.  Sometimes it's maybe not so creative, but it's usually non-fiction.  Although, I do make things up a lot.  I don't let credibility get in the way or anything. Anyhow, one of the most interesting things I've learned is that there is no right way.  Sometimes, for my class, I spew out what seems like trash.  But it ends up working.  I've also noticed that my real problem is not so much that I don't have material, but more that I'm afraid to explore it.  Disecting the goods and bads that make me is downright frightening.  But, it ends up working.  Besides the non-fiction class, I'm also taking a regular fiction class and 3 other online courses.  Plus working as a tutor.  Also, Eric keeps going out of town f...

I asked you tonight what the very best thing was about being Carly.  I was expecting some kind of sweet, funny, interesting, touching answer.  But you said: Playing in my room. So here are my top seven very best things about Carly: 1.  You love life.  You spin, dance, sing, jump, run, whistle and flip your way through it. 2.  You love your daddy with your heart and soul. 3.  You have an endless, unquenchable curiosity (sometimes a bane, but really a blessing). 4.  You never turn me down when I ask for a snuggle. 5.  You try really hard to be good. 6.  You are a little daredevil; you want to swing higher, go faster, swim deeper, jump farther. 7.  You're my little baby girl, now and forever. Happy birthday!

I sometimes wonder what my children will remember when they get old, like me.  Because 35 is just so, so ancient.  You know, compared to 34.  Or 30.  It's kind of a shock, actually, but I'm off track. I used to think I would remember so many things.  The color of my favorite dress, perhaps.  The deserty smell of Tucson (not to be confused with the desserty smell of Thanksgiving pie).  The names of my very best (for the moment) friends.  The little moments of childhood that seemed so large and important. But I don't remember much of it at all.  Little glimpses of the past, so tiny they often feel unreal.  In fact, I don't really even remember the early days of motherhood - Josh's first laugh, for example.  So important at the time, and now lost in the dusty folds of memory.  I remember moments, tiny little moments, and not much else.  I remember feelings, but mostly those feelings are overtaken by the feelings of today....

I got to check out of my life for almost a month. I got to stick my feet and hands in the sand, feeling the joy of small and simple things. I dreamed fantastical dreams, imagining what it would be like to live in those big places with lots and lots of money and very little worry. I got to act silly for absolutely no reason.  Just because it felt good. And dance lightly across the pounding waves. And for a little while, everything was perfect. I highly recommend it. *special thanks to Cha-Cha, Queen of Legos, for the great pictures and letting us visit*

Some days I can't seem to un-grit my teeth.  Do you have that happen?  Every muscle seems to be tensed up, waiting for something to happen, ready to pounce.  I told myself to relax at least five times today - and yes, I was counting.  Because it seemed completely unreasonable, even to me. Here's a funny little update/fact/tidbit/snapshot/thing.  Carly, lately, likes to start sentences with "Mom, I just need to tell you something."  Usually, what she has to say is some kind of explanation.  Like, what she wants to do and why I should let her.  Or, what she thought it would be just fine to do but now she's not so sure.  She has also grown fond of the phrase "Just so you know."  "Mom, just so you know, I didn't do it," or something to that affect.  It's been going on for a good month now.  Josh, on the other hand, doesn't have a lot of cutesy phrases these days.  His phrases are more like sighs.  Or, my favorite,...

Tonight we had to cut your hair.  Three (plus) years of growth all gone with a few snips of the scissors.  You see, you decided to cut a pony tail by yourself, aiming for just the rubber band, but slicing a whole lot more away. It was traumatic, more for me than for you.  Although you were sad for a little while and very worried about the teasing that might follow. It's funny how I'm all wrapped up in you.  When I was little I had crazy curly hair too.  (I still do but that's not really important to the story.)  My mom wouldn't let me grow it out.  It was too messy, too thin, too tangled and mostly just too much.  But, oh how I wanted long, luxurious flowing hair.  (I still do, but that's not important either.)  So here you are, my very own little girl, with hair that grows so slowly and bunches up so tightly it never looks very long.  It can look big, or crazy, or fluffy, but never long.  At least not yet.  I made u...

The answer to every question, every hope, every fear.  All wrapped up in two very different children.  And a spotted dog's backside.

I'm dancing on the edge of emotions Up a little, down a little Back to the start Running from the end Over, around and through In the very next room Lies a boy of 13 Feet sprawled, blankets wild Nose buried in a book Across the hall A girl of seven fights sleep Tosses and turns and Creates excuses to leave her bed On the couch is their dad So tired Already snoring Lost to dreams I'm tired, too Tired of dancing walking and spinning It must be the wind Over, around and through.

I took a stroll down memory lane tonight, sampling the bitter and sweet that is all tied up in pictures.  Along the way I stumbled across what might be one of the last pictures of Carly with her Grandma Annie.  It made me sad and happy all at once, like eating the last chocolate in a box. I also found some silly moments I had forgotten and wondered how I let that happen.  I always think I will remember each golden moment forever, but it slips away.  And I scolded myself for being such a poor steward of time. I have watched my children grow into these little (and not so little anymore) people, but I have been so close to the phenomenon that I almost didn't see it happen.  Like magic, suddenly they are new creatures, wholly formed and beautiful in a new way. I sometimes wonder what my story is, when it will happen.  That dramatic, defining moment that you either get through, or fall through, or check out of.  Maybe it's already happened....