A Dragon Tale

December 29, 2006 | Category: In My Life

Ever have a day where nothing really went wrong, but by the end of things you just felt beaten flat?

Little things, like my 'fat' pants being tight, my hair being flat, watching the funeral of Gerald Ford. Bear's sports class not being in the actual building we were directed to. Pictures from Darfur splashing before my eyes on my news home page.

And all of it felt a little too dramatic because I was high. Like a dummy, I didn't cut the muscle relaxant in half. The one I took to help with my sore back. (I ice skated on Tuesday. Um. Actually, it is more honest to say that I cleaned the ice with my ass. And wrenched my back each time I fell.)

It was nice to have my mom here, because around 3:30 I just fell flat into bed.

Next thing I knew it was 2 hours later.

Most of the pill had worn off, the fuzzy glow gone. Thank heavens.

After dinner of a salad and a cold glass of milk, CD and I took advantage of my mom being here for the 2nd time today, and headed off to see Eragon.

A very nice movie until some editor was allowed to weedwhack it.

The cuts were so jarring, I would actually jump a bit between scenes.

Head to the library, get the book. It's fun, and it's inspiring -written by a 15 year old about a 15 year old.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking about going back to bed. I have resolutions to ponder, photos to organize from the week, and a sore back (and, yeah, heinie) to nurse.

The Black Cat

December 28, 2006 | Category: In My Life

This morning when CD got up at dark o'clock and headed off to work, there was a young black cat in the driveway.

It purred and rubbed his legs and did just about everything it could to say "Hello! I'm tame! And hungry!'

This evening, when we returned from teh free Festival of Lights at Brookfield Zoo (amazing, pictures later) - it was baaaaaack.

It followed Bear up the front stairs and into the house. Like we wouldn't notice an extra furbot in the place.

Ah, well.

We fed it, and watered it, and patted it. Clearly someone's beloved pet, it is used to small children and was very timid and respectful to our Grand Old Dame, Maggie.

We decided to take a picture of it and try to find its owners.

But it wasn't spending the night IN our home, we agreed. Because first off, this is Maggie's House - full stop. She'd old and very unhappy that this little peppy black smudge of a thing wanted to play. Second of all, little smudge of a thing TALKS. A lot.

Up to me to put it out.

I carry it out to the front porch, give it a pat, and close the door. Turn around and it was standing in my living room.

Blinking at my so flirtatiously and purring like a motor.

I chased it down the hall, caught it, and tried again.

Yeah. This happened like 6 times.

My mother was having laughing conniptions by the time I finally managed to get me and the cat on opposite sides of the closed door.

Now it is out in my driveway under the window, screaming as I type this that it wants to come back IN.

Is it possible the ghost of Zazzoo has come back to adopt us?

At Last

December 27, 2006 | Category: Not The Nightly News

President Ford has died. Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban have reunited in Australia. The Dow broke records, closing above 12,500 for the first time.

It's the day after the day after Christmas.

I'm taking the advice of the people I respect (you know, people who read my blog) and I'm going to push through my writer's block by writing every weekday.

The spirit of my 100 days and all that.

I'm hoping for constructive criticism. And the return of inspiration.

So.

Last week, I took Bear downtown to look at all the holiday displays and to do some shopping at the open-air Christmas market. Headed for the parking garage, Bear saw the Christmas in Daley Plaza for the first time.

He got a little upset. "Mommy! They killed a really, really old tree! Just for decoration!"

He was relieved to get up close and see it is really a bunch of smaller trees stacked together.

Once upon a time...

My dad did that.

Although, not as much on purpose.

He bought a bargain basement tree so pathetic that when he got home, he realized it wasn't going to work out. So he went out an bought another one, tied them together, and sort of hung the whole thing from the ceiling with fishing line.

"Don't worry," he told my brother and me. "No one will ever be able to tell once its decorated."

We looked at him, looked at those trees, looked at each other. And wondered, in a loud whisper, if Christmas trees were, you know, supposed to be triangle-shaped.

Dad's creation was a strange kind of..uh... polygon.

My mother stood in the doorway, watching the whole thing happen, and I knew from the look on her face that one day she would either kill or divorce my dad.

My father could have used the decorating and creative skills of the Daley Plaza tree people. Or, you know, a bucket of the sense God gave goats.

The next day, Bear was telling CD about the "stack of trees" over hamburgers our favorite diner when a tropical Santa popped out from behind the bar.

Bear looked at me and shook his head.

"Strange," he whispered in my ear.

"Yeah," I agreed. "It's a strange time a year."

Tropical Santa gave Bear a plastic blue lei.

He rolled his eyes.

"Mommy," Bear said. "I gotta tell you. It really is."

Number 18

December 22, 2006 | Category: Well, That Was Random

I have 17 posts, written and dying in limbo.

I hate them all.

There are a few twists of words. A couple of simple setences that maybe, I would keep.

The rest is crap. I couldn't post it.

I hovered over the button, but in the end... no.

This is the longest spell of writer's block I have ever suffered.

I'm starting to hate myself.

I remember once, my dad got real sick. He's a runner, marathons. And for a while he could barely get out of bed. He got better, and angrier. Finally, he dragged on his shorts. Pushed himself out the front door and began shuffling down the driveway. I thought, there goes my dad - he's fucking nuts.

An hour later, he returned. White, coughing, happier.

My days are growing heavier. I need to run. Or at least walk.

I don't miss my old job. God, I miss my old co-workers, but I don't miss the pressure, the thud-thump of the adreneline in my ears, the ever-so-polite arguments between colleagues. Vicious and bloody under calm respectful tones.

"You're going to cost us a million five with this frigging attitude, just get the machines out the door..." but you really say "I hear what you're saying, but I have to say from my side of the project it looks like an expensive delay."

Gritted teeth, gone.

Now we sit by the light of the dining room window and practice "C'c" until he can't, anymore. Opening on the right, swirl and stop. Cat. Car. Clementine. Caveat. Cliff. Cook.

He writes, and writes. Stops and starts. Maze books and practice pads.
He writes, why can't I?

We bounce on the new bed. Giggle and dance. We sing Frosty, and make up our lyrics.

I don't miss my old job. I miss the hours in front of the keyboard. The window open, behind all that work. The one I would slip back to, with my thoughts.

Now, when I ease behind my keyboard, he looks at me from the chair. He's watching Handy Manny or something else with animated figures who are not his mom. He looks at me, jealous. I nod back, push away from the desk.

[delete]

It doesn't matter.

Damn it.

Last night was the longest night of the year. The deepest dark. Just a couple of weeks ago, we celebrated the first Sunday in Yule with as many traditional Icelandic parts that I could muster.

Translated recipes from Metric. Reserved marzipan cake.

Why is it so much easier to do for someone else when you won't for yourself?

So I sat him on the couch.

"I need to go for a run..." I said. "I mean, I need to write. The housework and Bear's lessons and having my computer in the middle of the house where I feel like I am actually sitting on some kind of family landing strip... I can't write. It's never quiet. And if I make it quiet, that means putting Bear in front of a TV even more than we let him now, which I can't do..."

"But you wanted your computer in the den, you had me..."

"I know," I whispered, miserable, unable to explain.

"So what do we do?" he asks, looking at me.

And so we decided to move my computer back into the guest room. And to carve out some time every day. And I woke up this morning to the dishes humming, and the laundry spinning. Stood all weepy in my kitchen, thankful for his gift of trying to understand.

I never did, with my dad. Through the rain, the snow, the pain. He never stopped. Some days he had great time. Some days he wandered off his usual path for an extra hour.

I would watch him walk, huffing, back up the driveway. Stop before the door, soaked in sweat, bent over, stretching.

At peace.

I picked up my first journal when I was 13 years old.

And since, have never put it down for more than a few days.

Somehow, the words will come back.

This is a song for you

December 15, 2006 | Category: In My Life

I have writer's block.

The juiciness and flavor has gone out of my wordsmithing. I can force myself to write, but then it sounds... forced.

One of the ways I plug back in when this happens is to look outside myself for things that move my heart, and my mind. That bring my emotions back into my skin and spirit.

So I was thinking about that today, as I went to pick Bear up from school. I stopped at the intersection and the women in the neon green vest help up a "Stop" sign for a bunch of kids to cross the road.

And I thought, "What a thankless job".

And then I started thinking about all the thankless jobs. The undersung heroes, if you will...

I mean, whoever remembers to thank the crossing guards?

And the umpires and refs for kids' sports? These folks who take their time and give back to the community and often end up the butt of tirades and anger.

And the hospice workers, and NICU nurses, who combine so much skill with so much love?

And the teachers, God, the public school teachers. Mrs. Grady and Miss Sarni from Plymouth River, Mr. Sutich from Ridgefield High School, and Doc Hooper from St. Lukes - these people have literally shaped my life and I never did thank them enough for it all.

I was just coasting along the mile-long trip that is punctuated with a stop sign at the end every block. My thoughts flitting around with Christmas Carols on the radio.

We thank the Librarians every week, but we can never really thank them enough. When I think of how many times one of them has patiently listended to my son's request and then guided him to what he was looking for, impressing on him how precious books are and how the words are such amazing adventures.

Gratitude is a blessing.

I have some thank-you cards to write.

Its the seconds that heal, and the hours that hurt

December 13, 2006 | Category: In My Life

So, 2/3rds of the way through my 100 days - I crashed in a ball of gray fog. Landed face down in the mud. Huh.

I hate my own self-wallowing. The icky pity headache. So, housework. So, routine. A million parents have marched before me, over the mountain a step at a time. Finding the joy and the crinkled up laughter and making peace with rest.

So I push a foot in front of me.

And breathe deep.

And look at world news.

It's a tonic, to dwell on the planet's life and struggles beyond my kitchen. Or to stand under the spray of a long hot shower, using up the nice shampoo in luxurious handfuls. Or to dwell my thoughts on the little things that make progress.

With barely dry hair, Bear helps me gather up stuff for Goodwill and the shelter. After lessons at the dining room table, we carry the bags to the van, him barely able to see around his bundle.

He asks me why we don't bring the homeless people home to our house. And I don't have a good answer, except to repeat the old homily about "give a man a fish, or teach a man to fish..."

He reminds me that he asked Santa for a fishing rod.

I remind him to get his homework zipped up in his backpack.

Oh, and now it is Tuesday. The gray fog faded to blue. The blue lifted into the sun. The house got a little tidier. The dishes humming in the dishwasher.

I bought plastic bins for our haphazard collection of photographs. Another item on my 100 Days - to face the pictures, and who I was, and we were. And make peace. And pack away.

So this was overwhelmed, in yawning hours. And then this was better, found tucked in the quick seconds of in-between. And now I can stretch, a good night's sleep ahead.

A relief inning, maybe the first of many. I'll need to learn the signs.

Isn't it strange

December 06, 2006 | Category: In My Life

You know, when I imagined being a stay-at-home mom, I thought for some reason that I would invent a way to do it without the drudgery. All the fun & laughter & Kodak moments and none of that back-bending scrubbing lost-patience counting to ten stuff.

Ha!

I have NO IDEA what kind of drugs they used to put in my water.

That's all. Because I have to try and scrub a bathroom, clean the front room, and dress my son and myself in 29 minutes.

And for Today...

December 05, 2006 | Category:

We're getting up slow, Bear and I. This morning's agenda:

After snuggle and breakfast, we're making snacks for the birds and the squirrels (but not the one living in the attic. He's SO not invited) by stringing stale bread, rolling it in peanut butter, and then patting on a thick layer of birdseed.

I got the idea from Cheryl last year and have Been Informed By Ye Yonder Child that it is now something we do 'Every Year". (This reminds me of that division President who once got huffy with my ass, because I wasn't using the 'Standard Template' for my status reports. Later his secretary told me that they'd only been created the month before. See how the corporate world SO prepares you for stubborn kindergartners?)

In any event, we hang them on the trees in the yard and watch them disappear.

It was intended for the multitude of birds, but around here.... well, you can't deny the will of the Suburban Squirrel, I tell you. Even with a fully charged taser and swear words from 5 languages (the better to protect a certain red-headed's ears, although lately I have the sneaking suspicion that he's beginning to learn my Fre-Ice-Lish... "Farðu í rassgat! Begone, mutant rodent! M'emmerdes!" and then he says "Yeah!")

Then we're going to clean a bit, and decorate a bit from the boxes of Christmas that we brought up from the cellar last night. (And by 'we', I mean CD - despite his bad back.)

After waffles (Brunch 'cuz kindergarten starts at 12), we'll tackle our home-school-work - maze books, puzzles, writing practice. Finish with a book report about Tyrannosaurus Rex for his teacher for extra credit.

Then wash up, get dressed, and drop Bear at school and I'll head off to do some secret shopping for a certain Ho-Ho-Ho event....

Oh, God.

I'm looking at this narrative and I just realized....

I'm one of those mothers.

Egads.

But... but... just last year, I was a suave, respected medium-sized muckety....

No.

Wait.

I was NEVER suave.

Ah, that's all right then.

Phooey

December 02, 2006 | Category: Not The Nightly News

Jay Leno made a joke about holiday newsletters the other day. Something to the effect “Little Katie is a cheerleader and Little Billie made honor roll and…. Who cares?!” And I remembered why I don’t watch Jay Leno very often (besides the obvious fact that I’m usually in bed by then) – I care.

I read the AP wire, I watch BBC news, I catch up via blogs and email. I’m interested in what goes on in our world, our country, and the lives of the people in our virtual and local community.

I'm interested in you.

I believe that knowledge is valuable in of itself. I believe in the power of directed prayer, and empathy. I believe that evolution comes from understanding. I believe that love in the form of compassion can save humanity - and the planet.

And if that makes me bourgeois, well there’s something I actually don’t care about.

Rock on, with the holiday newsletters. Rock on with the silly doodles and happy news and the personal notes written in the margins. It's the season of sharing, and don't let dumbass hosts tell you different.