September 10, 2016 § Leave a comment
August 7, 2016 § Leave a comment
35 years old | young – there’s some kind of finality in age when a 5 or 0 completes the phrase. It feels like it weighs more than the numbers before – a medal around my neck – HEY! She’s 35! She’s a bonafide adult; even though she looks 22 and as tall as most eleven year olds. I don’t always know how I feel about adulthood. I love the independence and freedom but the decision making and responsibility is a pain in the freaking neck. I was talking with a friend about our past life, or what feels like a past life. We’ve been through a lot in the last 20 years so experiences get muddled and feel surreal, and at times, we question whether they actually occurred. [also – I don’t feel old enough to say I’ve known ANYONE for more than 20 years – that’s just ridiculous!] In this conversation we said things like, “life was so much easier back then…why can’t we rewind and go back…we were funnier/prettier/thinner….” In the blurry flashbacks it certainly seems like those statements are true, however, at age 21, 23, 26 my life wasn’t necessarily any easier; It’s all relative. This, to me, defines what it’s like to be a real bonafide, down and dirty adult…
“The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
“The Boy’s Uncle made me Real,” he said. “That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”
My 1,820th week of life was pretty fantastic. It was spent in the company of some of my most favorite people, doing things I LOVE, laughing till I cried, trying new things, being completely out of touch with the world, and smiling for no reason what-so-ever. I received thoughtful notes from those near and dear and felt pretty special. I have people in my life who love me for exactly who I am and celebrate that…which means, I am perfectly OK being 35 – even with a few well worn bald spots and saggy skin around the eyes – it just means, I’ve been made real.
June 28, 2016 § 3 Comments
I have mixed feelings about holidays celebrating being a parent. I understand the concept but obviously struggle with the idea. For those who do not have their children in this life, it can feel insulting and maybe in time, that goes away. The ache I feel in Birdie’s absence is now just like breath, it is always there, it rarely surprises me and I think of her throughout every single day. When Father’s day rolled around this year it was something we wanted to ignore. Mick spent his afternoon golfing with a friend and we did our best to remain distracted. Grief is a lonely place. You can be in a room filled with people you love, laughing, even tears of happiness streaming down your face and suddenly a wave of loneliness will sweep over you and take your breath. It’s part of an existence in which you grow familiar and slowly become less and less surprised by the alienation. It’s not a loneliness making you feel unloved or unlovable, it is simply a reminder that pieces of you exist entirely elsewhere and always will. The heart is splintered and misshapen with the absence of one you love and those parts never return. There is sadness there but there is also something oddly warm knowing the missing pieces have names and faces. This loneliness is not something anyone can judge. Some people exist in a state of perpetual loneliness and until you know that pain and how you would cope – you should simply love them in whatever way they let you.
Mick is the very best father and deserves a day celebrating this –
He fearlessly made me laugh while my body was breaking down and nurses were in a panic
He explained in serious detail what a thunder coat is so the nurses could make me one out of heated blankets
Having only been a father for ten minutes, he sat in a room of Doctors hearing frightening truths and remained hopeful
The gentle touch of his nose on Birdie’s forehead and softly spoken words of love in her perfect ear
He looked twelve strangers each in their eyes, without flinching, and asked the right questions and was never intimidated
He kept me from punching a doctor in his face
He stayed up all night, every night, just to hold Birdie’s hand
When I couldn’t stand on my own he held me so I could reach into her incubator and say hello
He was always asking the nurses if he could try to feed her, bathe her, change her. He memorized her readings and knew what every number, beep, gauge meant.
When days bled into nights and we traded sleep for moments with our girl – I never had to ask for one more hour, his answer was always yes.
He washed bottles while I sat in a sterile room weeping
He told me to walk away as I began to lay into the 18 year old cashier for weighing my salad dressing packet
He was a rock to us all and just like every other day of our life, he demanded respect but did so with such grace and admiration.
I would like to think someday it won’t be this hard…someday a random Sunday in June will be something to embrace…
June 24, 2016 § Leave a comment
Click on song title to listen – be warned, you may spontaneously start to dance…
HandClap – Fitz and the Tantrums
Cheap Thrills – Sia
My Type – Saint Motel
All we Ever Knew – Head and the Heart
Lover Come Back – City and Colour
Fare thee Well – Oscar Isaac – Inside Llewyn Davis Movie
May 28, 2016 § 1 Comment
I have anxiety when in between things. Not physically speaking – I walk through doors, or between furniture and people just fine. That’s not true. I always feel awkward walking in between people. There are way too many weird things that can go wrong. You could touch someone’s butt or boob, your hair could get caught on their clothing, they could smell god awful and you’re the girl with an uncontrollable gag reflex [my childhood dental file read: King, Melissa – gagger]. OR what if someone grabs you, thinking they know you – instead of accepting their awkward, “sorry, I thought you were someone else,” you instantly karate chop them in the throat and scream, “MY BODY IS NOT A COMMODITY!”
Anyways, back to being in between things; I have a difficult time relaxing when I know something is scheduled. I want to fast forward through the space and time where nothing occurs and get to the something. I am constantly planning: vacations, home remodels and what happens when my three year old Subaru dies. Do I buy a used car or a new car? what size vehicle will I need twelve years from now? I constantly write grocery lists, even when our fridge is stocked. I write to do lists of items already accomplished and these lists occur in multiple places and formats. It’s who I am, it’s my brain, it’s my neurosis.
I am a five minutes from now person – I want/need to know what’s next. I am constantly asking Mick, “what’s the plan Phil?” It drives him nuts and NOT in an endearing way. There is little that can calm my busy mind. I am always half present and five minutes ahead. My approach to life is like reading a fantastic book, I want to know what happens so badly but I never want it to end. I fight the urge to rush through; I want to absorb the language and how it makes me feel, but cannot resist reading ahead. TV shows are the same – Friday Night Lights, anyone?! In wanting so badly to know the end, I miss a lot of the middle. I skim over little things that eventually make the big things BIG. I often look backwards and realize amazing things I missed or neglected all because of expectation or theory. My entire twenties existed entirely of chasing ghosts. I wanted so badly to cross off items that fit into a learned ideal – college, job, marriage, house, kids. Unfortunately, for that list and those involved, I am not a contortionist and you cannot force those things. If I learned anything these last two years, let alone decade, it’s this: the middle, no matter how messy and overwhelming it can be, the middle is the best part. I haven’t reached the middle of my life, at least I hope not, and so many amazing things have already happened. I need to spend less time caring about the left side of my face aging faster than the right, and more time enjoying the in between.
I will likely publish this and in ten minutes put together a to do list for the remainder of our three-day weekend…baby steps.