The Perspective of Tone

Lately I've been thinking about perspective. How much it changes with time, how much it changes us. It's impossible not to have any, yet very difficult to summon. Especially when trying to live at the current moment; of which, not doing so, of course, is impossible.

As an interesting side note, I started this post on 1/12/10.

I think I lost it for a while there, Perspective. Just before I had my 2nd son in November... my whole life was Life As Mom. I never had a great surprise party for turning 30, no collegial late 20s--that glorious Purgatory before a serious mortgage but after the impressionable early 20s. I was never in college, in teenage angst, and certainly not listening to Pink Floyd as a precocious pre-teen. My entire Being was always centered around shuttling someone around and being at a little person's beck and call.

Wait, that's not right, is it? Have I always had someone else in the #1 spot? Of course not. But it seems that way sometimes, the reversal of life's focus so complete. So complete that not one square inch of my car interior doesn't show some effect of a toddler being captive inside much of the time. So complete that phone conversations with friends invariably involve the mysteries of the toddler mind, and denigrate to poop. Lack of sleep means I hang up without ever saying the reason I called.

Even my brain is unrecognizable. I used to remember stuff. I used to think about subjects like economics, and statistics. And going out at night. And .. I wrote more regularly! (Though, ironically, in an actual diary.)

A good way to bring my Perspective, that elusive and eloquent elf, back in the foreground, is music. A song from a particular point in my life can bring me right back to the exact moment in which I had the luxury of time to enjoy it. Listening to Pink Floyd in my bathroom growing up. To Live in my first-year college dorm room. To something poppy, like Puff Daddy, in my early 20s. Dave Matthews can bring me back to many various late-20/early-30 situations, like dancing around my living room with wild abandon and flying arms and legs. Small, unknown alternative bands like Carbon Leaf can take me back to Charlottesville in 2005.

Most importantly, Van Morrison and Into the Mystic can transport me, emotional and pregnant for the first time into sitting at my desk, working from home in Fall 2006, and to two weeks ago. When I held my toddler tightly in my arms and danced him wildly around the kitchen, to squeals of laughter.

It's just that I hadn't had the chorus of laughter until now.

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A Formal Invitation: F&P365

I have a new project. Not my newborn, though he is very much a project. Not myself. Though.....

Please, please come visit my new photoblog, Fingers&Paws365. I'm not begging, but I will promise you that for every comment, I'll exchange one quality visit and comment on your blog in return. And $500. Just kidding.

I do thrive on feedback, so please... help a sister out. And subject ideas welcome!

http://fingersandpaws365.blogspot.com

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I Blog, Therefore I Am Sane.

Or, am I? Just a quick poem about the week from hell.

Snow Shine

Welcome winter doldrums
With open arms
Ne'er grow shall the green grass
How many times:
This too shall pass?

Unholy melancholy melts
The aftershock of leftover snow
Biting tongue at toddler crass
How many times,
This too shall pass.

Wake up and begin anew
Reminders of forgotten hues
Congratulating temper-less feuds
Too many times,
This too shall pass.

Bright sun gleams, reflects
Mirror-like on blinding snow
Easing pains relinquish teeth that gnash
It is true.
This too, shall pass.

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Welcome to Decade Deuce

A lightning quick post, just to get the "2010" added to my archive list.

Just kidding.

Another resolution. To be true to my original intention in starting a blog, and actually write, regardless of what is going on in life that might prevent that. Twice weekly, as a minimum. I know blogland will hold me accountable; even if I cannot be accountable to myself.

And - news flash to my Facebook friends; though posts are automatically imported into Facebook, this is actually a real blog. Check it out!

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Happy Trails, Decade!

It turns out, it's pretty easy to get one's family to read your blog. Just blog about them!

The fallout from my last post was far-reaching.. extended family far. So, not that far. But I'm glad for the discussion; it was healthy. And it's nice to know my family will be faithful readers now. You know. Just in case.

It's New Year's Eve, and that means one thing. Many things! Another year. Another decade, gone. Vapor. I could talk about how hard that is to believe, how time starts to sprout wings and fly when kids stamp out time for you. I could talk about my resolutions, all the things I resolve to do for 2010. Lose the baby weight. Remember my coupons. Repay the kindness the friends and neighbors have showered upon us for our newborn treasure. I could talk about whether we'll say "Twenty-Ten" or "Two-thousand and ten."

But that would be boring. Let's talk about... something much more pleasant. Hopes and dreams.

In my life, in my mind's eye, I'm constantly capturing mental snapshots of little moments, big moments, the light in my toddler's twinkling eye, the colors of the sky just before the sun goes down, my husband's grin when he's made me laugh so hard I can't speak, the love I see looking back at me from my parents' eyes, our wedding guests' faces, beaming at us. To reference the last post, the way my brother stopped my self-pity in its tracks when he stood stoic on my sidewalk, telling me to stay happy in the face of whatever life throws. Pausing in the chaos that is my family, allowing me once again to be thankful from whence I came, and the family that loves me.

Mental snapshots are fine. Are important, to draw upon whenever needed. But every now and again, you want the real thing.

Now, I will have that chance. For Christmas this year, the angels (and my husband) heard my pleas and answered them.. in the form of a digital SLR (single lens reflex) camera. The kind that can capture what the eye really sees. When you see a great photograph, it was probably taken with an SLR. I've been using [real] film until now, and the 90s called. They wanted their pains in the asses back.

So, with that. Here is my boring resolution. I resolve to release those hopes and dreams from their metaphoric cages, and start shooting. Really shooting. I resolve to begin a Photo365 project, form a partnership with the network of photographerbloggers out there who inspire and critique, celebrate one anothers' work. Hopefully I'll follow a different inspiration every day, but certainly, my adorable cherubs will adorn the digital walls.

Come visit. Tell me what you think. Including you, O Facebook Friends! I'll post the url in my next post here. Maybe that will make me feel free. And official.

Click!

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Family Ties

The thing about family is you can't choose them.

You might be tempted to choose differently, at the moment when they drive you the most insane, at the height of the insanity, when the emotions are high, nobody is listening to anyone else and above all else, nobody cares what anyone else is saying (just that they themselves are heard.)

I was listening to an interesting interview on the Diane Rehm show on NPR, when she asked the inviting question, (paraphrased) "why is it that we can pour our hearts out to our friends, but when it comes to family members, it's so much harder?"

My family is a little crazier than other families. Take the morning after Thanksgiving, for example. Let me rephrase. The morning after hosting five adults and a couple of small children in a one-bathroom house for 24 hours. Let me rephrase. The morning after five adults and two small children and two 70-lb dogs crammed into a tiny kitchen around a tiny round table, feasting on turkey, memories, and each others' company. Let me rephrase. I had a glass of wine for the first time since February of this year.

I come from a very unique family. Everyone loves to talk, hear themselves talk, and espouse on various scientific and sociological theories. Don't get me wrong - it's generally very stimulating conversation. Often heated. Seldom quiet.

When it comes to the "day's plan", it tends to be a free-for-all at holiday gatherings. Okay, at all gatherings. Thanksgiving Day is no exception, nor, to bring us up to speed, is the day after. My father disappeared and re-appeared. My brother made off to the nearest Starbucks for a cup. I was at my wit's end, trying to nurse a newborn baby, entertain and calm an increasingly desperate-for-attention 2.5 year old toddler BOY, whilst keeping voices down so as to not wake the baby. And we're still in the post-postpartum stage, remember? Meaning... my emotions are still a bit fresh.

I wanted to get out of the house. I needed some human interaction (besides that of a 3-week old.) I hadn't exactly chosen this path, of playing hostess after playing patient after playing I'm-more-pregnant-than-anyone-should-ever-be bit role in my family's chaotic drama. Why didn't anyone understand that?

They did. They got me out of the house. To Starbuck's, and, mercifully, to a Tall (Skinny) Light-Whip Mocha. Apparently I wasn't smiling a whole lot through the course of the morning. I did have a lot going on, and sleep is sort of a thing of the past.

But all good things must end and brothers must be driven to the airport. It was the far airport, and he was leaving on Black Friday. Biggest shopping day of the year. My parents couldn't agree on which was the best way to take him, even though neither of them knew and needed for me to tell them. My father decided he had to take my brother to the airport, to ensure he was there three hours early. My mother decided she had to go, to ensure my father drove the right way. I bid them all farewell.

My brother grabbed me for one more bear hug and pointed at me and said, looking forcefully into my eyes, "You. Stay Happy."

I made my way back up our steps, back up to our temporarily smaller version of chaos of just managing two kids. I had tears in my eyes. He did get it. They did get it. My family did understand, and more importantly, they loved me.

The thing about family is you can't choose them. But I come back to the same truth, over and over again.

I'd choose them every time.

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These Are the Moments

Anticipation
Frustration
Anxiety
Reservation

Waiting, subdued, in and out of reality
Surreal, frail, in anothers' hands
Presuming finality

A moment
One moment
Quiet - too quiet
Another moment
The earth pauses.

God works again. And again.
You cry. Cold room, warm hands.
Then -
Voices you recognize.
Quiet. One more
moment.
Looking into our eyes

For the first time.

A baby boy! Born 11/5/09, 8 lbs, 9 oz and 20 in long.
Healthy. Full head of hair.
More soon.

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Hawk-Like Zen

Contrary to what you, oh loyal readers (and Facebook friends who happened to catch this on your news reel) are thinking, I do blog every day. Lately it's been just in my head, but nevertheless! I am "mind" writing. It's something!

I was filling up my car with gas a few days ago, toddler in the back seat chatting away at how blue the sky was, and I had the thought that the exercise I was currently engaged in would be a raging success if I just managed to put regular gas, and not diesel, into the car.

I am one week and two days away from having another baby. November 5th, my husband and I will be getting up miserably early to check into the hospital, bitterly without our adorable but banned-from-the-hospital-because-of-H1N1-fears toddler, and hours later our 2nd child will be brought into the world by the very modern c-section. He/she is ready now. That has been made clear.

So, I sleep (not really.) And I wake (not very well.) In and out of consciousness. Most of my waking toddler-free moments are being spent on a very large fundraiser for a very large non-profit volunteer organization, which, at times, I curse is not paying me for my solid part-time-job hours. Other times I'm thankful I have the privilege of working with such amazing and quality women.

Amid the sleepless nights, the massive volunteer hours, the preschool back and forth, and general running of one's own massive frame and a 2+ year old's life, we decided to throw construction and finance into the mix. We did some renovation on our house to add a nursery, and decided a last-minute refinance was within our capacity.

In between, we've gotten nursery walls painted. Toddler beds purchased. Baby clothes and gear set up. Fundraising. Cooking. Hosting. Cleaning. Okay, that last one is a lie, which I have to admit since my husband reads my blog.

We've been eating meals with a side of crazy.

But a week ago, my toddler, now a wise old 2-1/4 years old, and I were sitting on the front porch, just having some fun with bubbles. Dipping, blowing, making bubbles and giggles appear out of nowhere. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hawk soaring over our heads, and brought my toddler's attention to it.

He looked up, and I caught the wonder in his sparkling blue eyes. He watched the hawk soaring, circling, looking for something. The sky was crystal clear blue, the bubble wand motionless in mid-air. I followed his gaze and watched the delicate balance of wind, the twitching of a wing feather. It was a complete moment. A moment without rush, or cause, or ability to be undermined by chaos going on around us. Swoops, gentle arcs, a slight dip of a wing. Were they figure eights? Just above the tops of the gorgeous trees, ever-changing with Fall.

Watching him, watching the hawk. I saw him connect in that moment, learning, experiencing something new that I had shown him, and was momentarily overwhelmed with the emotion that is parenting.

It was Zen. A perfect moment, shared fully, quietly, completely. I looked over at a nearby bush, and the bubbles had settled on the top, watching.. waiting. Quietly.

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I Write. Therefore, I Am.

I crumple up the little brown bag containing the rest of the cranberry muffin. How dare I eat even that much of it? The door behind me swings open again, tiny bells jingling. Footsteps across the raised hardwoods remind me of something distant, probably a childhood memory of some retail store of my youth. People traverse the well-worn path from the door to the register, back and forth, either scurrying off in a respectable hurry or resting with a friend.. or an associate.

Something has been in the back of my mind lately, something bugging me. I can never quite pinpoint its exact location in my brain long enough to grab hold of it. It slips away again and I move on.

The skinny decaf Peppermint Mocha is doing its trick for me. The smiling baristas greet everyone with renewed enthusiasm upon each new encounter; perhaps giddy from working for a locally owned coffee shop and still in possession of their soul.

The quick-paced conversation going on directly in my left ear behind me has veered off of its professional course and is focused on the gathering of acorns. This is so refreshing. I pause to think about the squirrels gathering acorns in our yard (at the present moment only. They are given a dog-free chance to gather but a few hours a day. The dogs, definitely ticked off and mildly defiant, are no doubt counting down the seconds until they reunite with the squirrel population, once again safely overhead in the majestic trees.)

Something I must do. What was it? The 20 or so hours a week I'm putting into this volunteer fundraiser already has 15 reminders popping up, can't be that. I remembered to set up a scandalous baby #2 registry yesterday (scandalous because how dare we purge the house of larger gear after baby #1? Should we not be prepared this time?) When, in fact, the easy answer to that is.. NO.

My three hours of freedom are nearly up. I look up and around, holding on to each moment of clarity. I focus my attention on the energy slowly building back up within me, propelling me forward to lift my toddler from the ground into the air. Enabling me to lavish my entire energy stores on his happiness. Forging me through the pregnancy-induced sleep deprivation, the lonely 4am hour of the night, chasing me into submission of putting on -- and believing -- the smiling happy face to my smiling happy son.

The baristas have caught a break. A lull in the constant flow of footsteps across the hardwoods. I pause for a moment to quell the myriad of importances in the forefront of my mind. What was that thing I needed to do?

Ah yes. Write about it.

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La Vie Boheme

I've written this post so many times, over and over in my head. I like to think that's how writers "think". But most writers follow that with actual writing. I've continued to blog in my head, the obvious issue with that being that all of you are not, sadly and joyously, in my head. Imagine that living nightmare , if you would.

And, for my Facebook readers, please know you are reading my BLOG, it just so happens that I embraced our A.D.D.-generation and it automatically imports to FB for you. No clicks necessary! But (warning bells), I'm thinking of changing that.

Today I can wait no longer. Why have I not put ink to paper in so long? Or fingertip to delicate tapping sound?

I need to write that post on our vacation in Ithaca. How it wasn't all that I'd planned. How life happened, and the extra appendage known as Toddler was still that. How I still felt that need to break free of... my own life. When my Mom took us to see Rent, and, upon watching the stunning closing number, feeling the sudden rise of emotion, uncontrollable, unfettered emotion, upon realization that life really is measured in love? That above all else, no matter the frustrations and agony that is the human existence, love is what is measured? What else do we take with us?

My frustration of late, which I share so readily here, has been the one-ness of my life. The constant-ness of being solely in charge of a two-year old life (okay, not solely*. But I don't always have The Village around me when I need it!)

There have been few times in my life when I wanted to be alone. As a kid, I was never alone. I didn't live alone in college. I hated living alone for a two-month period after college, and bent over backwards to get out of that house, and town, to have a roommate again. I wouldn't go get a bite to eat by myself. I would never consider going to see a movie alone. Never, ever. Death!

I have been, and until recently believed myself to always BE, a true Extrovert by Myers-Briggs standards. Preference: People.

Having a constant, two-foot high companion (at times, appendage) definitely has made me yearn for the times when I am completely. And utterly. Alone. Being bossed around by a two-foot-high stack of concentrated energy actually takes a lot out of a person. Let alone a person carrying another person around in utero.

Don't get me wrong. I always respected those confident-looking coffee shop dwellers engrossed in their books. I just wanted to be engrossed in conversation with them.

On Wednesday this week, otherwise known as NewFreedom Day, my toddler went to preschool for 3 hours in the morning. Ironically, as duty would have it I had to appear at the doctor's office, where I jubilantly read the paper in the waiting room. The paper! But in running my requisite solo errands thereafter, I found myself on a bit of a high. An alone high. Happy to just be. Alone. Inconceivable!

The Moms are supposed to hide as the two's come down the hallway from the playground, so we don't distract them from their line-forming concentration. We hid. I peeked. I spotted my toddler, following the direction of the teachers, in a line of two-foot high people. Looking up at times, bewildered. Furrowing his brow, making his miniature way in the world. Obviously pooped from the stimulation that is toddler-hood.

It happened. Tears came to my eyes. I missed him. I missed him so much, in my alone-ness. My reconvening with my independent Self. I couldn't wait to catch up with him. After three hours.


* Because my husband reads my blog.

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