We Are Young in Life, Still

On the Eve of my oldest child turning the big FIVE, I blog. 

It has been a very long time since I've posted. There are many reasons for that, I won't list them all here because it would take me one week to type that many words; I don't have that kind of time. 

I've written this post in my head several times over the last few months; tweaking it and mentally editing it.  The thing about putting your raw, unfiltered, brutally honest thoughts and feelings out for public dissemination is, well, you never know how it will come across. 

I've been told my writing style is very "conversational."  I like that.  I like sitting here, having a conversation with all of you.  I like to think it's very J.D. Salinger but a little more socially engaged.  Today, the conversation is about the issue nearest and dearest to my heart. And I assume social scientists will study it; likely are studying it.

The effects of staying home to raise your children. 

I'll let that sentence stand alone.  Give it some thought.  I have, over the last four years and 364 days, given it much thought.  I've cursed it, sworn at it, blessed it, thanked it, looked in and around all the letters in that sentence, debated it, encouraged (and discouraged) it, and I've come up with one conclusion:  whatever anyone does for their family, is the right decision for their family.  Period. 

That said, let me let you in on a little discovery of mine.  It's kind of big.  Are you sitting down? 

By way of background to my ground-breaking discovery, let's talk about having kids.  I would argue that the person you are after you have kids is very similar to but astoundingly different from the person you are after having kids.  Kids make you aware of every single little thing about you. 

Why?  I call it The Mirror. 

Not literal, of course.  But those little tiny people, growing up before your eyes and ears, become Little Mirrors.  They imitate you.  They learn and regurgitate from you.  They react to things the way YOU react to things.  They yell at the dogs they way you yell at the dogs.  They can spit out, word for word, exactly what you said three days ago, when instructing another child who is younger.  It's amazing.  It's breathtaking!  It's horrible! 

And it's a mirror.  So what, what happens when we look into a mirror?  Really look into our own eyes?  We see ourselves.  Completely. 

Here's the funny thing about seeing yourself, over and over again, whether or not you want to...  you DISCOVER things about yourself.  Maybe they were there and you knew about them.  Maybe they were there and you didn't know about them.  Maybe you've been... ignoring some of them for a while.  Maybe you celebrate some with gusto, thanking your lineage for being so kick-ass.  But with a mirror, you see them.  Those.. tendencies about ourselves that we hate and love. 

So then, back to the person that you were, taking the serpentine path through to the person that you are now, and knowing that you will choose to continue becoming the person that you want to be, that Self Discovery starts to happen RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR!  Right in front of your own child, every single day, they are getting to know a person (and you are getting to know them) in medias res.  In the middle of the journey of Self Discovery. 

And that is it, right there.  That Self Discovery.  That is what makes staying home to raise your own children the most magnificent experience.  In all its ugly, banal, brutal, agonizing, rewarding, happy and joyful glory. 

Your children get to know you in the middle of you getting to know yourself.  They get to participate.  They get to help.  And Wow--do they love to help.  They're holding up that little mirror whether or not they want to.  It's how we are; it's part of our humanity. 

And they get to discover that we have discovered a whole new level of Love that we never knew existed. 

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Time IS On Our Side

Hi, beloved readers. And accidental blog-finders (those are the best.) I don't blog a lot. So, when I do, I try to go for a "Silent Bob" kind of angle.

It's hard, when you're in the thick of something, to really step back and appreciate what it is. But I've discovered something.. something amazing, and fun, and just astounding.

Aging is FUN!

That's right! Getting older. All those anti-aging creams, potions, lotions, pills, and the multi-billion dollar Entertainment industry that would have you believe that aging sucks - is WRONG!

Here's why. You just can't get this one thing from anywhere else BUT from getting older.. perspective. It's impossible to get anywhere else. Only time gives it to you. And here's the funny thing, even when you think you have it, you don't! Maybe a little, but not as much you think you do. My freshman year in college, I was strolling around the main quad at UNC-Chapel Hill with a few Seniors who were about to graduate. We sat down on the steps of Wilson Library, gazing out at the campus, which is stunning. It was dusk, quiet, beautiful. One of the Seniors sighed, deeply, and said, "man am I going to miss this. All of this." I looked out, nodding. Trying to understand. And I thought I did!

The semester after I graduated, I really understood him.

Now, I understand him even more.

Perspective gained from time is different from a huge loss. OR from grief. Perspective from grief is like tripping and falling into a hot tub. Not the way you planned to get in that deep. Not at all comfortable. Actually, very painful. And, probably, you don't want to be there. (When you figure a way out, you're very cold. And that's not comfortable either.)

Let's back up a bit. Why is perspective so important? Because, in the grand scheme, it gives us freedom. Freedom to think of the "big" picture.. the giant, time-filled picture of our entire lives.

Those of you who are older than me reading, congratulations! You have more of it than I do.
Those of you younger than me: you have less. You just do.

That's why aging is fun.. getting older is a gift, a gift of perspective which gives clear-headed thoughts on a muddled world.

One more thought.

This morning, my son invented a new kind of vacuum, pictured below. It runs on solar power (the first Stackadoo), it sucks up dirt which is then converted to energy (second Stackadoo), and it sucks up water which is then converted to energy (third Stackadoo). Last Stackadoo is the battery charger.
What does this have to do with Perspective? Nothing. It's just flat-out the most adorable thing, ever.

And in time, I'll have more Perspective to appreciate it even more.

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Just Like Heaven (You Know, The Cure!)

Whoa, is that Fingers&Paws on my Google Reader / FB News Feed /(fill in blog reader here)? Why, yes.

I had a flash of brilliance on the treadmill today. You are about to read it, and you'll leave breathless, amazed, and exhausted, like you just read a novel.

Maybe not. But I had the opportunity last weekend to fly off to Sanibel Island, FL, with several girl friends (I am a girl.) It happens that I am married with children. Those hangers-on were not with me. It was five days of just worrying about myself. No nap-time, no snack time, no meal time, no breaking up sibling fights or picking crushed blueberries off the tile floor. Just me. I got a chance to LOOK UP. Otherwise known as

Perspective.

Other Moms know how it is. The daily drudgery, 12-plus solid hours of child-rearing, day after day.

Here's how I imagine it is, to run a marathon. Not that I've actually run a marathon. I have, in fact, run two Half-Marathons and I doubt I have to do the math for you. There are 25,000 people around you, you are all standing and waiting in line for an eternity in your corral. The gun goes off, the fun begins. You feel great, life is good! Your body is a fine-tuned machine, and the sky is clear and blue. Feet turn into miles, everyone is happy and smiling.

This is what it's like, right?! You had the baby shower. You are SO PSYCHED to have a baby, you cannot believe it. And then you got through the agonizing last three weeks where you listened to the clock tick off every minute of every hour, because sleep wasn't happening.

Around mile 5-6 your body starts to remind you that there's hard pavement underneath. It's hard. Your body begins to feel soft.

Then you decide--this kid needs a SIBLING! So, on we go to having #2. You've read the baby books, you had the shower so your family and friends ain't throwing another one of those. You're on your own.

Mile 7-8-9, and your shoulders start to droop a bit. Your body is trying to conserve energy as best it can, but it's dying for some water and--face it, some walking. You focus on not shuffling your feet, try to imagine picking them up a bit more off the ground. Your breath is coming harder now.

You make it through that impossible first six months where Older Brother (or Sister) just wants to TOUCH the baby, and HOLD the baby, and ROCK the baby, and FEED the baby a raisin or other suitable choking hazard. Or, my favorite, PUSH the baby down some steps in the stroller. Ok, let's all try to survive this until baby is at least able to crawl away.

You can feel your head hanging a bit lower now, your breath is decidedly uncomfortable. When did breathing get this uncomfortable? Short puffs. Focus on the feet. Try to lift up those shoulders. Keep running!

The baby can finally stand up, turn around, and walk.. and then RUN away from Big Sibling. Doesn't change or alter the Sibling Rivalry, in any way. Big Brother still knows how to get a hold of each and every mound of Play-Doh, Lego, block-o, name-it-o. Mommy attends a Sibling Rivalry parenting forum.

Man, around mile 13.1 (I know this from experience), your Body, your Brain, and your Soul scream out, "THIS SUCKS!! WHY DID I DO THIS?" and Oh my Good Gosh, I have so much further to go.

Well, here's what I THINK happens from here:

You are tired. Really tired. C'mon, you've just run a Half Marathon for Pete's Sake. Your body is crushed, spirits are down. But you want to keep on, and plus.. there are all those people cheering for you! Look at them, waving flags, jumping up and down, ringing bells and donging things. They know you can succeed! Do it for them!

There are days you grit your teeth. Frantically call a babysitter for a chance to go to the bathroom. You educate, entertain, educate, pacify, take care of. Take them to a park, to an indoor gym, to an outdoor theater. Take them on a trip, or two. Notice it gets easier (hey! Now we can hand them things, and drive during the day!) You help out watching others', and they help you out back. You are even able to look up, take a sip of your Starbucks, and wonder at the Mom you've grown into. A loving, caring, albeit tired, but really great Mom. You get tears in your eyes typing a blog post. You go home to relieve said babysitter or Mom friend. Older Brother pushes Younger Brother, the young Jedi fights back. All-out War begins.

You don't want to admit it, but you COULDN'T CARE LESS how many people are up against the ropes, cheering for you and all these other Schmucks running with you. They aren't running 20+ miles. You are. How did "marathon" get its name again? Some dude ran 26.2 miles and then.. your thoughts wander off. Thoughts are too hard now, like the ground. All you want to do is lie down on the cold hard ground and take a rest, and have nobody speak to you for about a year (these are the teenager years.) You take a turn too hard and turn an ankle but.. MY GOLLY, keep on truckin'. Running hurt is the perfect metaphor for this metaphor.

Things do get easier, as kids grow.. and get taller and less likely to drown in the 3-FT end of the pool. Eat more things and play with other children more nicely, and learn things and then do things all on their own. They grow and grow until they are the little people they always were deep down in there, just bursting to come out. And then they start to drive you around, picking up your Starbucks and texting you to let you know they are fine. And college is great.

And all of a sudden, it hits you. You were waiting for it, maybe for miles now. The last water station didn't do it, the thousands of cheering fans on the sidelines didn't do it. Your body did it. You hit the runner's high. You feel like a million bucks, because you are a million bucks. You could literally do anything right now. You have run 25.5 miles and you OWN this whole TOWN. The steps come easier, and easier, and you run a bit faster. You almost don't want the finish line to appear because it's gotten so easy.

I'm telling you what. I know there must an Afterlife, because one lifetime is not going to be enough with these children of mine. These boys, they are Heaven.


copyright 2011 Colleen D. Bucher

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No Day Like Today

I'm grabbing it.. the one minute I have. It's so important to me at this moment to write (with whatever time I have. Or lack thereof.)

I realized something important about myself today. Kind of simple, really. I realized: I am compelled to write when I am unhappy. I am compelled to take photographs when I am happy. I am passionate about both mediums, I truly am. And I feel equally alive, communing with my creative spirit, when I am doing either venture. Especially when I match the amazing, perfect image that has formed in my mind with the correct setting on my camera to.. capture it.

However, it is on days like today, when I have no choice but to organize my thoughts into words, my words into emotional responses, those responses into coherent sentences, and type.

It's so easy.. it's like it's all sitting out there for me, basking in the sun (or darkness) and all I have to do is wander out there and pick it up and devour it. Like my black Lab watching me now, glancing up at the open door of the pantry; all that food, just sitting there, within his reach.. all he has to do is just devour it.

Today was one of those days that was so horrible at times that it was impossible to imagine a day could exist that was unlike any other day like today. This type of day, today, has always existed, exists today, and will always exist. No matter what external factors change. The fact that it is means that it will be.

This is preposterous, of course. No such thing is possible, in an ever-changing world as mine currently is. Happier times are behind and ahead of me, at the same time. And, what compelled me to write here and now, is the other: equally sadder times are behind and ahead of me as well. That is life. That's what we signed up for, when we became grown-ups.

The very short way of paraphrasing that long last paragraph, is to say, parenthetically:
Life is not that hard at all right now. It just pretends to be, on days like these.

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I'm Back, With Foamy Gratitude

My blogging strike is over! At last! You may have noticed that I have not been blogging for about a month. (Or, maybe you haven't.)

I have been striking against the inequity and injustice in the blogging world. The glaring reality that Mom-bloggers are now growing at a faster pace than any other type, and yet, Mom-bloggers have the least amount of time to spend on it. Unfair.

(Yes, that was a blog joke.)

With that, I want to tell you about my hair cut this morning. It's a small, locally owned salon. Hyper-locally owned, meaning that the salon is named after the owner, who has owned it since it opened, and he (the owner, and namesake) actually cut my hair. I know, pretty kuel.

But first, the hair-washer person (we'll call her "Mona") took me back to the sinks to wash my hair. Pretty typical.

And anything but. I leaned my head backwards, at that awkward angle that salon sinks necessitate during the washing part. I wasn't sure if I should cross my legs or not; I picked something in between. I thought about my book that I'd bothered to bring, and the Book Club members that I had begged for more time from, since I don't have any, to finish the book. I thought about my 3-year old in preschool close by, the other 3-yr old that we had carpooled with, and my cherubic 10-mo old that was back at the carpoolee's Mother's house, happily napping.

I was by myself, during the day, for the first time in a long time.

Then, Mona started scrubbing. Washing my hair. She got her perfectly-sized nails in between the follicles and scratched all about my head, rubbed my temples, got the shampoo to a thick lather, just like they tell you on the back of the bottle. It was heaven.

When she paused, I took the moment to communicate to her how much she was making my day more relaxing.

Then, as if her life purpose had been fulfilled because someone thanked her for doing something she did 40 times a day, every day, Mona really scrubbed. She really took her time, allowing me to actually process the fact that I was becoming more relaxed. At one point, she even pressed the ends of her fingers into the back of my neck. You know, where you might rub if you were sitting at a desk all day, straining to see your computer. Or where you might rub if your neck and back ached all day from changing potty-training 3-yr olds and picking up toys all. Day. Long.

The scrubbing probably only lasted all of 6 minutes. But sitting there, legs half crossed and half not, thinking of nothing else besides gratitude for this person, this salon, this carpool, and this beautiful Fall day, I decided to hold onto the moment.

And, of course. Blog about it.

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CDB, Phone Home

I've been thinking lately a lot about connectedness. Being and staying connected to those we love, used to love, hated to love, or love to hate. It used to be a simple phone call, or a Christmas card (or letter) received out the blue. Right? Like from the next door neighbor 10 years ago that you once shared deep secrets with over the kitchen counter, that later moved away and was never heard from again. Until the random phone call.

Nowadays, it’s much more than a simple phone call. I guess it could still be as simple as a phone call, but tell my Mom how to text, and she’ll forget what you’ve told her the next day. (This is nothing on my Mom; my next door neighbor would also forget, and she’s young.)
When you have very little, no, zero alone time to think…. and analyze… And allow things to sink down to the bottom of the pot and simmer there for a while, life seems to take off much more quickly.

Tonight I had a chance to sit on a runway for three hours. There’s so much information in that sentence, if you look. It means I traveled (well, not necessarily!) “Runway” implies flying.. flying implies far away from my regular dwelling place. “Sit” indicates I had nothing to do but think.. read.. look out the window at the various and sundry groups of hundreds of people, leaving for various and sundry destinations. And—you guessed it. “Three hours” is a very long time.

Back up an hour.. I get dropped off at a major airport in Washington DC. Race to my gate, which is also inhabited by 300 of my closest strangers, since this the gate for Very Tiny Planes to Very Tiny Places. People are waiting. Everywhere. They’re waiting in lines, as long as Disney World’s coolest new ride. They’re waiting in crowded seating areas. They’re standing and waiting, sitting, slouching, leaning up against walls, other people, sleeping against the hallway. You get the picture. And I’m looking around, just watching the people. I’m that girl, just watching. (I even pulled out my little blog notebook and made some notes, if you want to know the truth.)

Almost without exception, everyone is on their phone.. “i” or otherwise. Blackberries, Droids, old-school PDAs and regular old texting phones are out in force.. flights are cancelled, phones are out. I’m watching the people in line, strangers starting destinations or connecting here—but Lord help us, not ending here, frantically try to beat each other to reach an Airline Representative on the phone before getting to the counter. Several waitees are in front of me, sitting on the floor, alternatively on the phone.

There’s the obligatory conference call. There’s the guy on his iPhone, clearly keeping up with a conference call whilst checking flight status, and OH YES! Also reading a book. This guy fascinates me no end. At one point he gets up to pace around (perhaps he needs to focus by pacing) and leaves his backpack and his open book, where he was sitting. People do strange things when their flights get cancelled.

So we are continually connected to each other—instantly, simultaneously. Waiting in line, all talking to the same 800-number, but not each other. Texting across the country to our friends who might be picking us up, but not to the writer cautiously watching you from behind. Are we more connected? Perhaps. Do we feel more closeness, among ourselves? With Social Media keeping us updated on each others’ lives more than we ever dreamed (did I really imagine I’d know exactly when Sally from 5th grade Science would give birth to twins?), what’s the next step for us? Will we all eventually start living the same life, unaware of it until we bump into the Older version of ourselves, the Younger version of ourselves, or the Black or Brown or Asian versions?

Ok, so that is far fetched. But it’s interesting to think about, right?

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Vacating Success

Measurement is a funny thing.

For example, how do you measure waiting? Not time, but waiting. And love? And how in the world would you measure vacation success?

I'll tell you how. An easy way to tell if a vacation is a huge smashing success, is by how much time is spent in Emergency Medical care. The more time spent, the more successful the vacation.

We had just landed in Denver. Land of the Rockies, sunshine, exciting hikes, open air. 24 hours pass, the sun shining, picnics had and playgrounds visited, mountains viewed and smiles turned somber. My toddler started getting sluggish, lethargic, didn't want to walk.. then didn't want to talk, eat. Or drink. Or do anything. (You understand if you know him. If you don't, this is NOT NORMAL.)

Altitude sickness, we immediately think, seeing as we haven't spent a single hour in medical school or done an internship in pediatric care. We bribe him to try liquids. It blows up in our face (just use your imagination with that one. I don't want to discuss vomiting.)

Something is terribly wrong with our otherwise perfectly healthy angel, so we decide he needs care. Off to Urgent Care we go, to see a PA who has--allegedly, as much time in medical school as we have. (But he was a Dad. So, there's that.)

Then, 24 hrs later, my sweet, chubby faced infant, with the dark eyes and lashes that draw you in and hold you there for as long as he cares to gaze, got hot. He started to cry.

An adorable baby is still that when he's crying. But when he's wailing, whimpering, wallowing in the midst of sleep, grunting with discomfort, and looking at you with tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, it literally makes you want to reach down and lift up a Rocky mountain to make him feel better. So, we did.

Off to the pediatric Emergency Room we went, just me n' my miserable cherub. I rocked him in triage. He cried. I rocked him in the ER waiting room. He cried. I rocked him after the triage nurse told me to lay him down on the exam bed. He cried. Pink cheeks, scared eyes, in only a diaper, he cried and I rocked.

Upon check out, the girl was nice enough. We had to stay a long while after we were done, since they got us right in, cared for, and discharged. And then .. the paperwork. She entered information in her computer as fast as the very fastest paint can dry, but we didn't mind waiting. My cherub and I. She collected what she needed and said I was all set. "Have a good night!" She said brightly. She was nice enough, but I couldn't resist:
"I really can't imagine anything else I'd rather be doing on vacation then checking out of the pediatric ER." I was joking, lamely. I should have resisted.

So, first ER visit? Check. A baby hospital band for the baby book? Check. Vacation? Check. Sleep, relaxation, rest, exploring new places, basking in the glow of nothing to do but relax? All banked for next time.

**Note: the most important element of our vacation was that we stayed with and had incredible support from two very understanding and very good friends, for whom we are very thankful!! Thanks TKB!!!

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Constant Gardening

Remember that fish (Nory?) from "Finding Nemo"? The one that couldn't remember anything?

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming... Just keep swimming, just keep swimming..." This is my theme music this week.

When I was out in the neighborhood for a run this weekend, in between dashes to the shady part of the street and wiping of sweat out of my eyes, I found myself noting something important.

Some of my neighbors keep incredible gardens.

Some are in front of the house, right next to the sidewalk, so all passers-by can enjoy the color. Some of them are side yards, or a carefully tended patch of flowers by the front porch or walk. Name it, and I saw it. And these gardeners, mind you, range from original owner (from the 1950s) to the young couple who moved in last week, still trying to conceive their first child and kiss Previous Listless Life goodbye.

There is one particular flower garden of spectacular hue, with a half dozen rose bushes bursting with light, color, delicate petal tips, and thorns, just next to the sidewalk on a fairly well-traveled road, for all to enjoy. I've marveled at it many times on family walks. My husband and I have commented how amazing the roses are. My toddler has pushed thorny branches out of the way of the stroller's path. Never knowing the danger of a tiny pinpoint prick on his little finger.

To my surprise, along my run this weekend, I saw the toil. The tired shoulders. The sagging sunhat. The work. I ran past the set of multi-colored rosebushes as the owner of the house was out among the bushes, tending weeds. Plucking unwanted visitors. Examining leaf health. Trimming back unwieldy branches. Tending, tending, and tending. I smiled at him, knowingly. He nodded in agreement. I ran on.

As I ran, I realized the significance of what I'd viewed, what I'd seen on this blinding hot day.

Tending a garden is much like raising children. Time. Attention. An amazing end result, blinding in its beauty.

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Painting a Revelation

I know there are so many blogs to read and so little time. But I had such a revelatory moment today that I had to share.

Six or seven years ago, I was in an elevator. I was in a high-flootin' finance job, up to the 8th floor in a somewhat respectable high-rise building, in the somewhat-respectable field of corporate&investment banking. I was probably dressed in a blue button down and gray pants. It was the uniform.

The elevator was packed, and, as was customary on a busy morning, stopped at nearly every floor on the way up. Two people were talking behind me, a man and a woman. They were talking about painting. I got excited and nearly turned around.. painting? Was there a budding Van Gogh behind me? What did she paint? When did she paint? Was she in an artist's body, or did she just hide this side of herself? How cool was that? What kind of medium, I wanted to ask.

"Yes, we've finally finished the guest room. Now I have to get the kitchen and dining rooms done... arrgh, it just takes forever to paint a house."

Oh. (sigh)

Fast forward to today. I am walking back to my car after picking up some delicious Lebanese food - with a 7mo-old infant and 2-3/4 yr old in tow. Yes, my toddler ate it too. There were two women, dressed in casual yoga gear, chatting just behind my car, blocking our entry back into the car. I said "excuse me" as I inadvertently heard most of the end of their conversation. One woman was cajoling the other, saying,
"You need to get back into that!"
"Oh, the painting? I am! I started a few weeks ago. Ah, it feels so good." I happened to know that they were talking about art.

Painting, for the beauty of it. For the pure joy, the unfettered feeling of creating something beautiful with every stroke of the brush, of pausing, reflecting.. clearing the mind. Making art.

A beautiful thing. **


** For the record, I do not paint. I'd rather create beauty through words. Plus, my brother got that talent in the family.

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Time. A New Frontier.

I know. Seriously. What could I possibly write about time that is new, different, innovative, obscure? We'll see. Keep in mind, there's no guarantee in the blogosphere.

But here's what struck me: In no other time in life than after having children, does time forever change. It speeds up, it slows down, it pauses and waits for you at times... other times leaves you on the side of the road with the car door open, speeding away. Taillights in the dust.

When I was charging through my 20s, time was just time.. it kind of ticked away. I looked forward to things, I looked back fondly on things, and everything seemed appropriately spaced. I'd say things like, "in a few months, we're going to the beach." Or, "in a few months, I think I have a doctor's appointment." "In a few months, I think my parents are coming to visit."

"I think", because who cares? It was a few months away!

Now a lifetime is contained in a single, solitary, well-chosen moment. In a moment where my almost-3-year old bends down to help his baby brother pick something off the floor, then hands it back to him, sealing my faith that he does listen. If a single moment can contain such magnitude, imagine a whole day?! A week? A month?

And whereas a few months previously might mean a different number of miles on the car, or temperature outside, or a different vacation destination, now it's the difference between my baby squirming helplessly on the floor and being able to give me high five.

That's right. Baby A gave me high five yesterday, for the first time ever. (For those who've lost track--and trust me, I get it - he's 7 mos old tomorrow.)

And what got me - really got me, about him doing it, is that I was just kidding! Time has done a number on me, too, and I forget how fast they change. I was joking! I sat him up, grinning from ear-to-ear just to be alive, and held up my hand and said in a voice excited enough to wake Sleeping Beauty, "GIMME FIVE!"

He looked at my hand. He looked at me. He raised his little hand and met mine. Ka-Ching!!

You could hear our collective giggles four miles away.

This is the thing. A few months isn't what it used to be. It's so much more...time. It's so much more documented. It's so much more change. It's the change of change, the derivative of life itself. Interestingly enough, when you derive a life equation, you get a more concentrated life.

And time is the remainder.

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Life. In A Painful Nutshell.

I really don't have time to post now. Naps are being gentled tugged away from my little guys... I should be doing prep work for the cookout I'm hosting. But I just really need to write this post. And I think I'll be glad later.

In the College of Arts and Sciences, we were treated to a whole neat selection of electives like "Asian Religions" by incredible professors. My Asian Religions class had a profound effect on me.. especially the section on Buddhism. Imagine, life being All Pain? Really? Like.. ALL life is suffering. Just have to get through the suffering; without it there would be no joy.

When I was gazing at my adorable cherubic infant who is currently experiencing sharp little razor blades coming through his bottom gum, I thought.. this is fitting. Isn't it?

Here is this little guy, just barely here. Barely six months old. He looks around, he sees a brand new world. Everything is great. Everything is fantastic! Everyone is so nice. Everyone is so accommodating. Everything I need, I am given!! Such joy, in this place called The World.

And then.. the pain.

It starts, probably, as a faint little ache in the gums. (Right? How the hell would we know?) Then it probably moves up to the jaw a little, a constant, dull aching.

Cutting teeth. Ouch! How painful is that? Imagine for a minute how that must feel. Didja ever get your wisdom teeth out? Yeah.

You just barely arrive here, happy as a baby, and then the pain begins. (And then, later, it really begins, when someone steals your toy and won't give it back, or you fall off the playground, or nobody wants to be your friend, or you get your heart broken. Or you forget you left the emergency break on when you start to go and smell an awful burning rubber smell.)

But look. We get through the pain. The constant-ness of it. Never ending, never a break until that tooth pokes through and one kid goes off to school (or college.)

The pain... then the joy... we like all of it.

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Unbending the Straw

Life is so unfair sometimes. No, really, it's the clock that's unfair. I do not have time to post, yet it's all I want to do at times, write. Lunch is unfinished. Naps are over. I still have applesauce on my shoulder.

So the question really becomes, for me: Does not blogging kill brain cells?

I say yes. All day long, I have to maintain the highest energy level possible, explain every nuance of life from why strangers smile at you when they walk by, to why a cement truck turns the big thing on its back, to what constitutes a picnic.

None of these tasks are difficult to explain to an almost-3 year old. But sometimes I find myself diving a little deeper into the concept, like when I was trying to emphasize why the washcloth sank after it got wet. Or how hot food cools off, the principle behind this. Or why heavy things fall faster than light things. Or why Mommy doesn't want to prop the door open at Starbucks longer than one or two full minutes while my toddler casually saunters through, carrying his milk cup all by himself.

I do feel cliche, at times, especially when I'm rushing around. To fight feeling cliche, I find myself doing things that could only be categorized as uncliche. Or... another word might be... crazy. Wanting to avoid a nearly unavoidable toddler tantrum, I didn't let us sit down in Starbucks recently, instead telling my toddler that we could have a car picnic with our drinks! A picnic in the car! Allll we had to do was get back to the car. Ya with me, parents?

I loaded us in, infant in infant seat. Toddler in car seat. Stroller away. Library books away. Phew. Then, a little voice called me out on my own innovation:

"Can we have a picnic with our drinks.. in the car?"

Of course we can. I got everyone out. I popped the trunk. We spread a blanket in the bed of my (mini)SUV's trunk. Had our drinks (and our pound cake.) A picnic. I answered many questions that came up.. like the foretold cement truck.

Maybe it's cliche to attempt the uncliche. Yet, I feel it's my greatest endeavor to educate my young mind(s) at every opportunity.

And keep educating my own.

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The Sands of Time

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, sometimes life is funny. There are ups and there are downs. Everyone has periods of self-pity. Self-doubt. Self-reliance. Periods where it seems like life is easy street and there can be no easier way to live, and periods where it becomes difficult to look past the end of the day. And it cycles back onto itself and repeats. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Time is at such a premium in my life right now, that I cannot think back to a time when I valued a few "free" minutes as much as I do right now. Minutes or hours, or weeks for that matter, seem to flee from me like their lives were in danger. And they are. Those minutes don't stand a chance with babies to feed. And toddlers to entertain with rice and sand soup, which is what my toddler treated me to this afternoon.

I had those free minutes last week, when we were on vacation at the beach. A few, glorious, unadulterated, breathtaking minutes. I think it was around 45, in total. I had many pairs of arms around to help with the various and sundry tasks that are usually mine alone, and I was told to "Just Go" (for a run.) But--what if he gets hungry? (Go) What time is dinner again? (Go) Where did I stick the iPod? (Go!)

And so I went. I ran with a strong tailwind behind me, pushing me, lifting me further and further from my daily obligations, my 2.5-foot high charge and my cherubic, demanding infant. Pushing me further from my origin, my home base, my known quantity. Clear thoughts pushed their way through my foggy, sleep-deprived, career-confused mind as the music grabbed hold of my feet pounding along the sand. I stole glances at the ocean, which seemed simultaneously demanding, and demure.

I thought about the past, major life choices that I made in a 30-second conversation with a co-worker. I thought about mistakes, broken promises to myself, and the New Year's resolution I was just starting by running. I thought about my heart, and what it was telling me, and the future. What was important, and what was not. I thanked God for the Present moment, the ability to recognize the moment for what it was. And I ran.

And at some point, I had to turn around. I had to return from whence I came, and ... I was tired. I headed back, only then realizing how far I had run. Turning around, I was hit by a very strong headwind.

A strong headwind called Reality.

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State of Blogging

When I started blogging, like everyone else, I stalked my email to read each and every comment the moment it came in. I counted comments like a dieter counts calories.. they meant everything to me. Every time I gained a Follower (oops, now inextricably called "Members".. more on this opinion later,) I sat atop of the Blogging World.

Boy, was I drinking the Blogging Kool-Aid.

Well, a few things have happened since then. Life has gotten busy and my blog has taken a hit as a result. Translation: I lost a follower. Er, a member. My membership declined this week. And I didn't expect it to, but you know what? It bothers me.

I've also held off posting certain needy emotional posts while at my most pregnancy-infused hormonal. Enough holding back.

When I wrote and posted Pacing the Cage last week, the supportive comments (and emails from those of you that have the chore joy of knowing me in real life), and of course the comments from all my Facebook friends who lazily read my blog on FB instead of coming to taste the "real thing", were exactly what I needed.

They were the chords of Hope, Joy, Love and "I'm Here" sung to me from all parts of my life. The elixir of friendship, of compassion, of empathy. Of therapy.

In a word? My blog, and by extension all of you, became my saving grace.

So I'm here to say that I'm back. I'm going to crawl out of this deep well of blogging slump that I've found myself in. One rock (post) at a time. Can you tell that we just checked out "The Frog in the Well" from the Library today?

Oh, and Thanks.

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Pacing the Cage

I recently heard a song that spoke to my heart. It broke my heart, and whispered it back into repair. Every now and then, you feel as if an artist is speaking directly to your soul when their voice comes to you over the airwaves. This was one of those times.

I was on my way from somewhere, or maybe to somewhere, and it stopped me in my tracks. Not literally, since I was in the car, but the toddler knew right away something had just dawned on me. He probably sensed I didn't quite know yet myself what exactly I had stumbled upon, but the look in my eye, catching his, told him something. And, me too.

It's an artist called Bruce Cockburn, and the song was "Pacing the Cage." This is me, a lifetime leading up to this point, in three words. Pacing the cage.

I've been pretty emotional lately, which is why I've been holding off blogging about life while under the influence of pregnancy hormones. But this morning, after hitting what we'll call "really hard bottom", a trip to the gym to 1) take advantage of dirt-cheap childcare, 2) run the body ragged and 3) cleanse the mind, I had a bit of a turnaround. I believe it's an opportunity to write while I'm under this influence, because I'm at such an interesting crossroads in my life. How could I not?

So, I'll write about my days. My sleepless nights. My emotional misery and my ecstatic highs. Thing is, I do feel like I'm caged in this current "stage".. "occupation".. "job". What is this? Staying home to raise a child? Of course it's a job. It's something to occupy one's time, so, an occupation. It's brutal for an extrovert. It's heaven on the good days. It's a form of inhumane torture for an addict of human companionship on the bad.

But why can't I just .. enjoy it? Because I'm human. And I had an exciting, blurry, stress-ridden quick ride up my career ladder, a pleasant plateau, a sudden wish to dabble into the artistic side of my brain, and.. had a child. Here I am. And here you are, reading me.

My emotions are there for the taking, you can turn and smile and bring them out of me. You could take my parking spot, glare at me across the aisle, miss the potty and pee on the floor, walk out of the room before I'm ready, make an offhand comment about how perfect your life is, or become my family and break my heart into a million pieces with nary a backward glance.

It's with this emotional context that I fill my head, my heart, my days. It's why I wrestle with the "what am I doing?" question.

I want to start another blog, a local resource for stay-at-home-moms in Northern Virginia. I want to go back to working on a trading floor. I want to write a book. I want to be paid for my photography. I want to learn another language. I want to quiet these emotions. I want to destroy all emoticons. I want to be a better wife and mom. I want to put it all out there, and I want to hide it all away.

So, here I am.. pacing the cage.

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Leaving... On a (Ground) Plane

Right, just a car.

I'm only writing once this week, as we are departing for an illustrious and exciting weekend of kid-free wedding fun! So you have to sit through a long post, like my long car ride. Tomorrow, we leave. We're dropping the adorable but often demonic cherub off at Grandma's house and then skipping on to Charlotte, NC, where we spent the early years of our marriage.

Ah, the early years.. no sippy cups falling out of the cabinet when you open it. No diapers stuffed into my Coach bag. No peeling a melted-down toddler off the CVS floor.

Back when going "out" meant to the bars, not dashing out for dinner while the babysitter watched TV for two hours as our son slept. Going shopping meant for ME, with the girls, where I could try on the black leather pants from Banana Republic for an hour without gentle (then increasingly demanding) moans from the stroller. Going to the grocery story meant walking across the street, buying a few items that usually included wine or beer, mixes, or possibly all three, and then going and imbibing them.

It never included my toddler reaching over and grabbing a Kix box on the cereal aisle and opening it himself while my head was turned.

And last but not least.. when we were really feeling like hermits, or just plain lazy, we might catch a last-minute summer blockbuster. You know, on a whim.

Needless to say (or did I say it?), I'm greatly looking forward to this trip. I need a break from my toddler and he needs the intensity of Grandma Can't-Get-Enough-Of-Him Love for three days. Ironically, I'll miss the heck out of him. You can have too much of a good thing. And I have a good thing nearly 24 hours a day, almost 7 days a week.

So, while wallowing in my own (ridiculousness), I'll leave you with an interesting read. I'm sure a lot of you heard on the news that there's a homeless man in D.C. that is blogging.. and tweeting, facebooking, about the homeless condition.

I may talk a lot about feeling sorry in my current (bloated, tired, sick, isolated and whale-like) condition, but this stopped me in my tracks. He really has something to blog about.

Check him out here.

See you next week!

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The Baby Grows Up

Let's continue with the "baby of the family" theme.. and then quickly leave it. Youngest kids always have the worst A.D.D.

What was that noise?

Oh yes. As the 3rd of three kids, I was always surrounded by people.. and activity.. and people. So as I grew up, I grew into a strong preference to have people around. To need them around. In my adult years, those of you familiar with Myers-Briggs personality test will know what it means that I was "off the chart" E--for Extrovert. Strong preference for people.

I've found that being a Stay-at-Home-Mom, unlike a lot of other occupations, can often be very isolating. This is something I didn't expect, and the one thing I'm having the most trouble with.

That, and the fact that I can't hear myself think over the Vivaldi. And can't control my A.D.D.

This morning, we had our big "preschool is ending"/graduation/last week of the session/wasn't it great/won't we miss our sporadic 3-hours of freedom two days per week- picnic party at a park.

People and Picnic Party at a Park.
PEOPLE=makes me very happy to be around friends. Those with whom I can chat with endlessly. About endless topics.
PICNIC=food. Makes me very happy. Very, very happy. See pregnant post.
PARTY=see "People"
PARK=makes toddler very, very happy. He has sand in the sandbox. Equipment to climb. Slides to slide down. Running around to do. Arms to wave in the air.

So, there we are, in our Utopian park village, among people. We were doing well, eating, chatting, climbing, and being happy. It was chilly 55 degrees, but the sun was out. Then the coughing started. He was getting over a cough from this weekend, and I'd thought he'd kicked it. He had what I can only summarize as a very uncomfortable (for him and for me) coughing fit, and for a 2.5 minute period, the poor guy could barely catch his breath.

I knew we had to leave. I gathered our stuff, and, clutching my Tupperware, said some quick goodbyes, and we walked out toward the car. The coughing stopped. He complained about leaving. Sometimes Irony walks up and socks you in the jaw. And then runs away, really fast.

As I walked, tears began to well up in my eyes, knowing we were going home to an empty.. isolating.. lacking of people.. house. (That seems really silly now, in hindsight. But it happened.)

Even when I worked in an interior cube in a big Bank, surrounded by introverts as an Analyst, I would still pop out to visit other Bank friends, or pop downstairs for a coffee or smoothie.. or chat with my therapist-dry cleaner. I could satisfy the need to see people if I needed.

Now, it's not always an option. Nothing has really prepared me for that.

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When Brains Shut Down: Next on Fox

Something about blogging just makes it an honest sport. There's nobody across from your laptop, checking your facts. Nobody is standing over you, arguing that the story you just typed out did not go exactly as you'd described it. It's a free-form creation of art, each little piece you choose to drum up, craft, create, and push-button publish.

It's sitting in a roomful of strangers (or, happily, former strangers,) confessing, guessing, undressing (?) and blessing. Very liberating, indeed.

Which is why I find it easier to confess my greatest faults on here. At the two 2nd-year old birthday parties we attended this weekend, upon meeting new parents-o-toddler friends, I didn't break out with, "I really don't ever finish anything that I start." Or, watching the happy kiddo chomp his first bite of yummy birthday cake, I didn't make the announcement, "the less productive I am in my life, the harder it is for me to get anything productive done."

Lately, I just don't feel like a productive member of society. Sure, raising the next generation of responsible and self-respecting adults is an important task, but really.. does it matter if it's me all the time?

Don't get me wrong, I really and truly love being home with my son, and I'm (honestly) grateful and not ever bitter about thrown wet food, crayon markings and Diaper Champs that I can.

But I constantly ask myself if parts of my brain are shutting down their operation, either for 10 weeks this summer, or for forever.

So, I've gotten myself on a very busy volunteer committee for a service organization I'm a part of. I'm in charge of the raffle at the MOMs club picnic. I'm still teaching yoga. I trade stocks during our most volatile moves in the market.

And now, I've set my sights on finding the next great deal in real estate. We live in a real estate market that is predicted to rebound more quickly than other areas of the country. With rates low, and some opportunities out there, I've designated myself the temporary real estate Queen of the house. (With a roll of the eyes):

We'll see how it goes.

::
"It leaves ya baby, if you don't care for it.."
One, U2

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Ode to You, and You and You

Just a quick note tonight, to let y'all know that I'm thinking about you. Literally. Thinking about you all, in your glory and honor as stir-crazy soldiers of the written word fellow bloggers. In your written splendor and photographing genius, which beauty and thought-provocation keeps me coming back, again and again.

I do get obsessed easily. When I joined Facebook, I stayed on it for about 14 days straight (didn't everyone?) But still.

Driving down to the airport today to fetch my husband back to the real world, I heard "Tangled Up in Blue" by Bob Dylan, and was immediately taken to Blicky's analytical mind (games.) Frustrated with myself mid-day for failing (yet again) to get my 35mm roll developed to share the cherry blossom explosion, I thought of myself standing on a riverbank, like IB. Just.. waiting my life out. Waiting to really get serious about photography; waiting until the right ending "hits me" to finish that short story. Putting off April is Poetry Month reminders.

Thinking about all my new friends in Canada, (who thought the Final Four was a band!)

Cheering a fellow bloggers' 200th post in all its simplistic glory. Recognizing the joy of a blog post from real life, since I was at the party. Sparring with others on the "big games" of this weekend, reliving college rivalries again. Watching a community come together with amazing support for a fellow blogger when the unthinkable happens.

Getting caught in the beauty of a new Followers' profile picture, full wind in the sails. Laughing at Jeanne, laughing at Jenners. I even cooked a recipe straight from Buff's description! And it was fabulous!

All of this and more. It's support. It's caring and consideration. Not to put too fine a point on it, but .. a lot like family.

You all are with me, truly. Madly, deeply.

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Time to Be Honest

First, please offer up your prayers, your positive thoughts and your kind words to Braja in her time of healing.
:::

Let me be honest. I'm way too honest. To a fault.

I went back through my "Edit Posts" feature, and found that some posts that I had drafted had never actually been published; but they "count" in the post "count". Point? I'm more like nine or ten posts away from my 100th post. Some of you that are the very sharpest tacks in the drawer picked up on my late "makeup" posts that I posted deep in the Archives late last night. Good catch! I even made up my own meme because I'd said that I would (honesty thing again.) Examine your heart at your own risk!

It was my husband who said, "100 Posts? Really? Is that possible... already?"

Time does fly, my friends. Birds are starting to visit the new birdfeeder; my toddler has learned to say "I seeeeeeeeeee you," whilst hiding; my yellow Lab is not racing in a mad dash up the back yard steps to chase squirrels with her brother. Spring is trying desperately to sprung. My legs are still sore from the run on Thursday, so that I had to explain why I was adding extra stretches to my kid yoga kids this morning. (Embarrassing.)

Time marches on. Sometimes slipping by, unnoticed, until we look up from our intensely busy days. Sometimes with the exacting barometer of a child, who seems to transform into a new version of himself overnight...advancing his knowledge, language, and dramatic acting skills daily.

And, finally... this blog. Your blogs. Look over at the left-hand side of mine, and whichever side your archives are on. How much has been written! How much sharing has been done! How much time have I stolen from you while I riff about life? How many moments have flown by, while life is desperately beside us, trying to keep up!

Hold on, tightly. Savor those moments until they slowly dissolve, leaving a whole new flavor in your mouth.

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