I feel like the snow is serving as some sort of insulation for my brain. These storms and all that they have left behind have made me feel muddled and lost in time. Like my life is in a state of suspension. Which, of course, it sort of is, and that may be why the snow is having such a profound effect.
I've lost whatever groove I had. My days are caught up in some strange, sleepy rhythm despite the fact that we plowed ahead (no pun intended) with school throughout the storms. No matter that the public school kids didn't have school for over a week and will be delayed two hours every day this week. That's too bad, I tell my kids. We have a baby coming. We are wasting no time. Plus, quite frankly, they are driving me slightly crazy with their energy and endless chatter. I can't imagine if there weren't any schoolwork to occupy them for hours during the day.
Nevertheless... I've enjoyed the lazy rhythm of these days. Scrabble and yahtzee and hot chocolate and all of that. But I've been trapped inside while everyone else has gone out to play...and now I just feel lost. How do I organize my time? How do I get work done? Can you remind me? Because I feel like I've forgotten. That and all the other practicalities -- paying bills, planning meals, buying groceries...it all just seems to get done by the skin of my teeth. Did there used to be rhyme or reason to this?
In the movie Elf, Will Ferrell refers to himself as a cottonheaded ninnymuggins...and that is just how I feel.
I am a cottonheaded ninnymuggins waiting for Spring. Crocuses and daffodils and this baby. A little more sunshine and even a soft, warm breeze. And then maybe my head will clear.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Poets in the Making
I have said before that poetry seems to have left me. I still see life through that lens. The snow. The birds. The dog curled up at the foot of my bed. And yes, the heartache too. But none of it bubbles up to words that pour out on paper.
I am really enjoying a new book I'm reading: Lit by Mary Karr. Karr is a poet, and this memoir, thus far, seems to tell her tale of the struggle to become the poet she always knew she was. It is also about her own alcoholism as well as her mother's and father's -- the craziness she grew up in and ran from, only to live out herself in her own way. I heard her interviewed a few months ago on NPR and knew I had to read this book. Through it all, somehow, some way, she recently met up with God and converted to Catholicism. Here's a quote from the book jacket:
"If you'd told me even a year before I started taking my son to church regular that I'd wind up whispering my sins in the confessional or on my knees saying the rosary, I would've laughed myself cockeyed. More likely pastime? Pole dancer. International spy. Drug mule. Assassin."
It's a long book, and I've only just begun...but I'm enjoying hearing about her journey to prize-winning poet. Which got me thinking about my friend's daughter, who I mentioned months ago.
Last year, as a seventh grader, she had to write some poems for English class. My friend sent me one of them, to get my opinion. It brought tears to my eyes. I was just amazed that this 12-year-old girl had written something so evocative. Her family had recently moved from northern New Jersey to North Carolina, and their new home is so different from their old one. This poem perfectly captures her first home and her family heritage. Happily, I have permission to share the poem with you.
"Where I'm From"
I am from a shack red house in Englewood,
potato chip bags and soda cans in the front yard.
From a huge old tree that stood over the years,
only to be knocked down by the wind.
I am from sweltering summers and freezing
winters, from Bear Mountain and the Bronx Zoo.
From a restaurant business father and an english
teaching mother.
I am from running like the wind, and writing like
fire, from doodling and drawing on gray rainy days.
I am from a line of teachers and mentors on both sides
of the street, and this I will become.
I am blossoming like a pansy in the spring, yearning for
sunshine, needing earth and love to grow.
I am really enjoying a new book I'm reading: Lit by Mary Karr. Karr is a poet, and this memoir, thus far, seems to tell her tale of the struggle to become the poet she always knew she was. It is also about her own alcoholism as well as her mother's and father's -- the craziness she grew up in and ran from, only to live out herself in her own way. I heard her interviewed a few months ago on NPR and knew I had to read this book. Through it all, somehow, some way, she recently met up with God and converted to Catholicism. Here's a quote from the book jacket:
"If you'd told me even a year before I started taking my son to church regular that I'd wind up whispering my sins in the confessional or on my knees saying the rosary, I would've laughed myself cockeyed. More likely pastime? Pole dancer. International spy. Drug mule. Assassin."
It's a long book, and I've only just begun...but I'm enjoying hearing about her journey to prize-winning poet. Which got me thinking about my friend's daughter, who I mentioned months ago.
Last year, as a seventh grader, she had to write some poems for English class. My friend sent me one of them, to get my opinion. It brought tears to my eyes. I was just amazed that this 12-year-old girl had written something so evocative. Her family had recently moved from northern New Jersey to North Carolina, and their new home is so different from their old one. This poem perfectly captures her first home and her family heritage. Happily, I have permission to share the poem with you.
"Where I'm From"
I am from a shack red house in Englewood,
potato chip bags and soda cans in the front yard.
From a huge old tree that stood over the years,
only to be knocked down by the wind.
I am from sweltering summers and freezing
winters, from Bear Mountain and the Bronx Zoo.
From a restaurant business father and an english
teaching mother.
I am from running like the wind, and writing like
fire, from doodling and drawing on gray rainy days.
I am from a line of teachers and mentors on both sides
of the street, and this I will become.
I am blossoming like a pansy in the spring, yearning for
sunshine, needing earth and love to grow.
Monday, February 8, 2010
All that Gets Undone
I am weirdly obsessed with fruit right now, and I have been for the past seven months. Apples. Endless apples. But also grapes, oranges, and mangoes. Every piece of fruit I eat seems like the best fruit I have ever had. In the past month I can't seem to eat enough mango. Too bad enjoying a piece of fruit can't be something I check off the to-do list that grows longer with each day.
I'm having so much trouble accomplishing anything lately that if I felt more energetic, I'd be near despair. Fortunately, I don't seem to have enough energy for despair. So I just kind of wander about my house, noticing all that I should do -- clean the kitchen, put things away, wash more clothes, make some space for the baby -- something, anything. Instead, I often just sit back down and somehow manage to avoid the work that awaits me on the computer. Actual clients who want things from me. I get their work done, but it feels like I just barely do.
Here's the trouble. My drug of choice is usually the drug of getting something done. Let me accomplish something, anything, and I will likely feel a little better. But I'm not accomplishing much these days, and I don't recognize myself. Tonight I had to call my friend, my pecan sandie best friend, to try to restore myself, to find a way to feel like me. Hearing her voice helped.
Because we have weirdly parallel lives and a few of the same frailties, she told me that lately she is consciously trying to spend more time doing things that can't be undone. She says she spends too much time doing all the things that get undone -- namely, the household chores that dog her hours when she's not at work teaching high school English. She says she's trying to take more time for things like laughing with her girls, reading a book, walking the dog, and even taking a nap -- things that she says can't be undone.
After we talked, I ate a mango and read a chapter of the book I've been slowly enjoying lately: Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott. Enjoying a mango can't be undone. According to the ultrasound I had today, this little dude has gained a pound in the past two weeks. (I won't mention how much I've gained.) I savored the mango and tried to find a way to live with myself as I am right now -- a person who accomplishes much less than usual. I tried not to wonder if I'll ever be myself again. I did wonder how I would ever find the energy to clear out some kind of space for baby clothes and diapers. I thought about the process of partially dismantling Son1's very small room to make way for a crib, because that is where this kid will have to sleep -- in a room with his oldest brother. I thought about the process of baby proofing this very un-baby-friendly house.
I didn't proceed to actually do anything, but I did enjoy that mango and the chapter that I read. Then I played a few rounds of Boggle with Son3.
I expect that sometime in the next nine weeks we'll bring this little fellow home -- it will happen whether I ever actually find a place for the baby clothes, whether my husband sets up the crib, and whether I finish my work. Of course, I may very well get organized and find a place for the baby clothes and diapers, my husband will likely set up the crib, and surely I won't let my clients down. Right? I hope so. Nevertheless, I will keep eating fruit and this kid will keep packing on the pounds, and I expect that won't be undone.
I'm having so much trouble accomplishing anything lately that if I felt more energetic, I'd be near despair. Fortunately, I don't seem to have enough energy for despair. So I just kind of wander about my house, noticing all that I should do -- clean the kitchen, put things away, wash more clothes, make some space for the baby -- something, anything. Instead, I often just sit back down and somehow manage to avoid the work that awaits me on the computer. Actual clients who want things from me. I get their work done, but it feels like I just barely do.
Here's the trouble. My drug of choice is usually the drug of getting something done. Let me accomplish something, anything, and I will likely feel a little better. But I'm not accomplishing much these days, and I don't recognize myself. Tonight I had to call my friend, my pecan sandie best friend, to try to restore myself, to find a way to feel like me. Hearing her voice helped.
Because we have weirdly parallel lives and a few of the same frailties, she told me that lately she is consciously trying to spend more time doing things that can't be undone. She says she spends too much time doing all the things that get undone -- namely, the household chores that dog her hours when she's not at work teaching high school English. She says she's trying to take more time for things like laughing with her girls, reading a book, walking the dog, and even taking a nap -- things that she says can't be undone.
After we talked, I ate a mango and read a chapter of the book I've been slowly enjoying lately: Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott. Enjoying a mango can't be undone. According to the ultrasound I had today, this little dude has gained a pound in the past two weeks. (I won't mention how much I've gained.) I savored the mango and tried to find a way to live with myself as I am right now -- a person who accomplishes much less than usual. I tried not to wonder if I'll ever be myself again. I did wonder how I would ever find the energy to clear out some kind of space for baby clothes and diapers. I thought about the process of partially dismantling Son1's very small room to make way for a crib, because that is where this kid will have to sleep -- in a room with his oldest brother. I thought about the process of baby proofing this very un-baby-friendly house.
I didn't proceed to actually do anything, but I did enjoy that mango and the chapter that I read. Then I played a few rounds of Boggle with Son3.
I expect that sometime in the next nine weeks we'll bring this little fellow home -- it will happen whether I ever actually find a place for the baby clothes, whether my husband sets up the crib, and whether I finish my work. Of course, I may very well get organized and find a place for the baby clothes and diapers, my husband will likely set up the crib, and surely I won't let my clients down. Right? I hope so. Nevertheless, I will keep eating fruit and this kid will keep packing on the pounds, and I expect that won't be undone.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Pecan Sandies
When I was a kid, I loved to sleep over my best friend's house. They had a cat and a dog, and their household was entirely different from mine. They also had dessert every night. The thing is that I could have dessert whenever I wanted to as a kid, a million times a day if I wanted, because my parents were desperate for me to eat and gain a little weight. But I wasn't particularly interested in food. Yet dessert was somehow different at my friend's house, because it was something sort of official, like dinner. And I liked that.
Every once in a while, though, there wouldn't be anything good for dessert. Sometimes there were only pecan sandies. I think if I were to eat pecan sandies now, I would actually like them. But at the time my friend and I thought they were gross, and her brothers thought so too. And that is precisely why her father, who did the grocery shopping, bought them -- because he got tired of always having to buy more food. And if he bought pecan sandies, then he could always claim that there was a dessert available...but he also knew that no one would eat them. It's quite a tactic. He found a way to never run out of dessert!
When we were kids, we couldn't understand why he did this. But now it's crystal clear. There comes a point where you just get tired of buying food and having it run out. It sounds absurd, I know. But I ask you: how many granola bars can you buy in one week? No matter the number I buy, they all get eaten -- in three days! So I think, I could just never buy granola bars again and save all that granola bar money. Sometimes the food disappears so fast, It's as if I literally can't buy enough. You can only fit so much food in the cart, and I'm not going to turn into one of those people who uses two carts. At this point, I find grocery shopping to be an exhausting endeavor anyway. I walk through the store having contraction after contraction, hoping they are harmless and not leading me to some crazy early preterm delivery.
And so another boy, who will surely eat a lot, is on his way. I heard some statistic about how it costs over $200,000 to raise a child to age eighteen. I believe it. And that's why sometimes you lose your mind and start buying pecan sandies for dessert.
Every once in a while, though, there wouldn't be anything good for dessert. Sometimes there were only pecan sandies. I think if I were to eat pecan sandies now, I would actually like them. But at the time my friend and I thought they were gross, and her brothers thought so too. And that is precisely why her father, who did the grocery shopping, bought them -- because he got tired of always having to buy more food. And if he bought pecan sandies, then he could always claim that there was a dessert available...but he also knew that no one would eat them. It's quite a tactic. He found a way to never run out of dessert!
When we were kids, we couldn't understand why he did this. But now it's crystal clear. There comes a point where you just get tired of buying food and having it run out. It sounds absurd, I know. But I ask you: how many granola bars can you buy in one week? No matter the number I buy, they all get eaten -- in three days! So I think, I could just never buy granola bars again and save all that granola bar money. Sometimes the food disappears so fast, It's as if I literally can't buy enough. You can only fit so much food in the cart, and I'm not going to turn into one of those people who uses two carts. At this point, I find grocery shopping to be an exhausting endeavor anyway. I walk through the store having contraction after contraction, hoping they are harmless and not leading me to some crazy early preterm delivery.
And so another boy, who will surely eat a lot, is on his way. I heard some statistic about how it costs over $200,000 to raise a child to age eighteen. I believe it. And that's why sometimes you lose your mind and start buying pecan sandies for dessert.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Insomnia and Sarah Palin
Well, it's 5:43 and I've been awake since 2. Two in the morning! I am beginning to agree with the husband...maybe God really is getting me ready for a baby who just won't snooze. But I'll be honest: I hope not. Really. Everyone should hope not. I am more human when I sleep. I found out this week that I'm anemic, and in my mildly obsessive quest for information online, I learned that one symptom of anemia is insomnia, so I am hoping that this lovely iron and herbal potion I am downing twice a day will take care of the anemia and the insomnia.
Yesterday morning I was watching the news and decided that we really have lost our collective perspective. Apparently back in August the White House Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel, called some liberal democrats "f***ing retarded" for attacking the president's health care plan. Now Sarah Palin is calling for him to resign over the use of the word retarded. Umm, really? If we ask people to resign over such things, would anyone be left in DC? And honestly, we don't seem to ask them to resign for lying to us over weapons of mass destruction and taking countless innocent lives, so I fail to see the urgency here. I know, that's a tired old axe to grind. But, right?
Here's my question: can she really not see that Emanuel's use of the word retarded, while in poor taste I guess, is not actually an attack on people with disabilities? Is her mind really that dull? Umm, don't answer that.
I'm sorry, but this woman annoys -- and terrifies -- me. But what scares me more than her are all the people who think they want her to lead our country. This is a person who couldn't even hang in there for her term as governor of Alaska. That there are people who would still gladly elect her to our country's highest office offends me a lot more than anyone's use of the word retarded.
See? I'm a little cranky when I don't sleep.
Yesterday morning I was watching the news and decided that we really have lost our collective perspective. Apparently back in August the White House Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel, called some liberal democrats "f***ing retarded" for attacking the president's health care plan. Now Sarah Palin is calling for him to resign over the use of the word retarded. Umm, really? If we ask people to resign over such things, would anyone be left in DC? And honestly, we don't seem to ask them to resign for lying to us over weapons of mass destruction and taking countless innocent lives, so I fail to see the urgency here. I know, that's a tired old axe to grind. But, right?
Here's my question: can she really not see that Emanuel's use of the word retarded, while in poor taste I guess, is not actually an attack on people with disabilities? Is her mind really that dull? Umm, don't answer that.
I'm sorry, but this woman annoys -- and terrifies -- me. But what scares me more than her are all the people who think they want her to lead our country. This is a person who couldn't even hang in there for her term as governor of Alaska. That there are people who would still gladly elect her to our country's highest office offends me a lot more than anyone's use of the word retarded.
See? I'm a little cranky when I don't sleep.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Books & Movies
Son2 is really looking forward to the upcoming release of the Lightning Thief movie. He's been reading his way through the series throughout the school year, and he's enjoyed them quite a bit. I read the first two (the books were were recommended here when I was begging for book recommendations), and I especially enjoyed the first.
I am just hoping that the movie lives up to Son2's expectations. That book to movie transition isn't always smooth. In fact, I've enjoyed very few movies based on books I love. The Lord of the Rings movies are the most notable exception. I loved The Lovely Bones when I read it, but I wouldn't dream of seeing the movie, and that's usually how I feel about such things. I like to preserve my feelings about a book and not let a movie wreck it. You know?
So, I'm wondering whether you've read any books and subsequently enjoyed the movies...
Sometimes I think that it's just whatever you first experience. A gzillion years ago I saw the movie Unbearable Lightness of Being and just loved it. If you've never seen it, I highly recommend it. Then i read the book and didn't love it so much.
Son2 is pretty critical of things. He has strong feelings about music and stories and movies. We would not be surprised if he grows up to be a filmmaker, or at least gives it a good shot. He's always making these goofy movies and posting them on YouTube. More important, he's always dreaming up the next one. He had one cooking in his brain throughout early December, and as soon as Christmas break started, he devoted himself to three days of filming. He played all the parts and did almost all the filming. It was a total manic creative episode. When he finished, he sat down and edited it for hours. The result was his most well thought out and interesting movie yet, though it is a bit lengthy. We were so proud of him.
All of this to say, he loves Percy Jackson and he loves movies, and I hope he's not disappointed.
****
On an entirely different note, I had another ultrasound the other day, and the little guy decided to show me his face, which I appreciated. I brought home the pictures, and brothers 2 & 3 announced that they thought his nose looks awfully big. (In all fairness, it does look like kind of a turned up pug nose.) And I thought, poor guy, not even born and already being criticized by his brothers. Regardless, we all keep wandering over to the refrigerator to sneak peeks at the little buddy's pictures hanging there...
I am just hoping that the movie lives up to Son2's expectations. That book to movie transition isn't always smooth. In fact, I've enjoyed very few movies based on books I love. The Lord of the Rings movies are the most notable exception. I loved The Lovely Bones when I read it, but I wouldn't dream of seeing the movie, and that's usually how I feel about such things. I like to preserve my feelings about a book and not let a movie wreck it. You know?
So, I'm wondering whether you've read any books and subsequently enjoyed the movies...
Sometimes I think that it's just whatever you first experience. A gzillion years ago I saw the movie Unbearable Lightness of Being and just loved it. If you've never seen it, I highly recommend it. Then i read the book and didn't love it so much.
Son2 is pretty critical of things. He has strong feelings about music and stories and movies. We would not be surprised if he grows up to be a filmmaker, or at least gives it a good shot. He's always making these goofy movies and posting them on YouTube. More important, he's always dreaming up the next one. He had one cooking in his brain throughout early December, and as soon as Christmas break started, he devoted himself to three days of filming. He played all the parts and did almost all the filming. It was a total manic creative episode. When he finished, he sat down and edited it for hours. The result was his most well thought out and interesting movie yet, though it is a bit lengthy. We were so proud of him.
All of this to say, he loves Percy Jackson and he loves movies, and I hope he's not disappointed.
****
On an entirely different note, I had another ultrasound the other day, and the little guy decided to show me his face, which I appreciated. I brought home the pictures, and brothers 2 & 3 announced that they thought his nose looks awfully big. (In all fairness, it does look like kind of a turned up pug nose.) And I thought, poor guy, not even born and already being criticized by his brothers. Regardless, we all keep wandering over to the refrigerator to sneak peeks at the little buddy's pictures hanging there...
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Right Words
The other night, I could not sleep. When exhaustion drives you to bed by 9:30 but you're awake again by 11, you know it's going to be a bad night. And it was. Apparently it was a bad night for my husband too...maybe because I was tossing and turning relentlessly? He got up before me, around 3, I think. I stayed in bed until 4 and surrendered to the inevitable. That's how we found ourselves huddled by the woodstove around 4:15 in the morning talking about how to negotiate our lives, juggle the labor, help our family and each other survive this upcoming transition.
In the midst of this conversation, he started playing with one of our cats, Smudgie, enticing him with a string. It was one of those surreal moments, being awake so early, trying to figure out life, while the cat rolled and batted and acted goofy. Cats. Lovely creatures without a care in the world, and always good for a little levity and distraction. That morning, the levity brought back a memory.
The summer I was seven years old, I met my epic friend. Our families were at a barbecue, and our brothers introduced us. She was the only other little girl at the party, perhaps the only other child my age. I don't remember. Most of the families there had children my brothers' age -- in other words, not children at all, but teens and young adults. Like me, this girl was the surprise in her family. Her brothers were eight and ten years older than her; mine, ten and twelve years older than me. One of my brothers was friends with one of hers, and they thought we should meet.
The trouble was that both of us were shy, painfully so. So our brothers stood there, telling us about each other, and we stood there, giggling like goofballs, unable to say a word. It looked like this meeting might go nowhere, until I finally piped up and said, "Want to play with the cats?" And that was it.
We've been friends for more than three decades. Through dolls and silly sleepovers, painful adolescent moments, first boyfriends, choir trips and youth retreats, college, life in the city (complete with giant roaches!), first real jobs, marriage, babies, businesses, and more, we have seen each other through. We have oddly parallel lives, and somehow we reflect and interpret reality for each other. She has three girls, essentially the same ages as my boys. Her first, born a month to the day after mine; her last, born six weeks before mine. Well, before this very last one, of course. These days, when she calls, my husband says to her: "So, are you pregnant yet?" Because really, this pregnancy of mine brings us to the greatest divergence of our realities.
I am certain that I have all the greatest friends on this earth, that no one is as fortunate as me in the friends department. Beautiful, wonderful women. Interesting, unique, and true. I don't know what I would do without them. But this friendship is altogether one-of-a-kind, perhaps because neither of us has sisters and we have known each other for so long. For most of our childhoods, she was the bolder of the two of us, and she overcame her shyness long before I overcame mine. But I like to remember that our friendship got its start because I found the words to get it on its way. I would not be me without her, and that our friendship hinges on a cat and her kittens at a summer backyard barbecue somehow makes it all the sweeter.
In the midst of this conversation, he started playing with one of our cats, Smudgie, enticing him with a string. It was one of those surreal moments, being awake so early, trying to figure out life, while the cat rolled and batted and acted goofy. Cats. Lovely creatures without a care in the world, and always good for a little levity and distraction. That morning, the levity brought back a memory.
The summer I was seven years old, I met my epic friend. Our families were at a barbecue, and our brothers introduced us. She was the only other little girl at the party, perhaps the only other child my age. I don't remember. Most of the families there had children my brothers' age -- in other words, not children at all, but teens and young adults. Like me, this girl was the surprise in her family. Her brothers were eight and ten years older than her; mine, ten and twelve years older than me. One of my brothers was friends with one of hers, and they thought we should meet.
The trouble was that both of us were shy, painfully so. So our brothers stood there, telling us about each other, and we stood there, giggling like goofballs, unable to say a word. It looked like this meeting might go nowhere, until I finally piped up and said, "Want to play with the cats?" And that was it.
We've been friends for more than three decades. Through dolls and silly sleepovers, painful adolescent moments, first boyfriends, choir trips and youth retreats, college, life in the city (complete with giant roaches!), first real jobs, marriage, babies, businesses, and more, we have seen each other through. We have oddly parallel lives, and somehow we reflect and interpret reality for each other. She has three girls, essentially the same ages as my boys. Her first, born a month to the day after mine; her last, born six weeks before mine. Well, before this very last one, of course. These days, when she calls, my husband says to her: "So, are you pregnant yet?" Because really, this pregnancy of mine brings us to the greatest divergence of our realities.
I am certain that I have all the greatest friends on this earth, that no one is as fortunate as me in the friends department. Beautiful, wonderful women. Interesting, unique, and true. I don't know what I would do without them. But this friendship is altogether one-of-a-kind, perhaps because neither of us has sisters and we have known each other for so long. For most of our childhoods, she was the bolder of the two of us, and she overcame her shyness long before I overcame mine. But I like to remember that our friendship got its start because I found the words to get it on its way. I would not be me without her, and that our friendship hinges on a cat and her kittens at a summer backyard barbecue somehow makes it all the sweeter.
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