Forever may not be long enough...
I guess this is for the half-dozen of you who check in every now and again. Funny… I started this thing just as I was losing my drive to “write it all down.” There aren’t many things I ever wrote about, anyway. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be at 3women.wordpress.com. We’ve all been away, the three of us, for a while. But as our lives settle back down, no doubt we’ll be back. So. If you know me, look me up online elsewhere – you know where to find me.
Love y’all,
BL
So back in September, I talked about how I hadn’t blogged in a long time due to social anxiety and healthiness. And yet, now that I’ve been rather miserable (health-wise) for over a month, it looks like I’m still not saying much. I think, perhaps, it’s partly that I’ve been trained, “if you can’t say something nice/pleasant, don’t say anything at all.” It’s partly that the only thing I ever write about besides my health isn’t so LOUD anymore. I’m figuring this whole thing out, looking for a “theme” or a “voice,” now that my old voice died of laryngitis. I’m not sure what I can say without a) being accused of wallowing, b) making people think I’m “fishing” for compliments or reassurances, or c) making people think I’m talking about them. I’m not. For the record, I find blogging about why you haven’t blogged in a while bizarre and boring and over-meta, yet somehow necessary.
Now, on to the subject at hand. I have seen a lot of movies recently… and read a book or two… about how the human spirit overcomes the Universe’s tendency to try to snuff people out through a long, painful experience. I confess that I often think, “how do they do that? Where do the reserves of passion, energy, and effort come from?” I think through my own life, at the number of times/reasons I’ve given up, and wonder whether I’d fight like that for my own life.
I was driving home yesterday, completely exhausted and nervous about driving in the dark, and thinking about the issue of giving up. I had a revelation of sorts. I haven’t entirely given up yet because I’m a morning person (that’s a cause, not just a reason). Mom used to groan at me as I “skipped down to the corner to wait for the bus” every morning (her words). Now, I wake up in the morning (barring extenuating circumstances) feeling like everything’s basically OK. I can handle it. I get my family ready for the day, I do a little online work and socializing, I straighten up a room or fold a little laundry, I cuddle my tiny girl. I go to work and tackle the tasks that’ll set the tone for the day.
And then I work more, and have my afternoon low, and get frustrated with this or that. I get home and am reminded of all the things I’m not accomplishing at home, I’m tired and usually hurting and a little cranky. I’m worried about not being as energetic as I need to be to keep up with my tiny girl, or to keep up with my husband for that matter. Sometimes, I think thoughts that would make a truly depressed person want to curl up and die, or less go to bed and sleep all day… only I have those thoughts at bedtime. So I go to bed, [hopefully] sleep it off, and suddenly it’s morning again. And I can take on the world.
It’s really a very nice way of arranging things. Although it would obviously be better if I weren’t down at night, at least I don’t have to start my days that way.
Maybe this all explains why I’m so damn frustrated when I don’t get to sleep at night, above and beyond the irritation that you’d expect from a sleep-deprived person.
It makes me feel a little better about things, when I can see the pattern.
In the evening, we all sit down for dinner together. We talk about our days. She points at her artwork from school (hanging on the wall now) and talks about it. He tells me how his classes went and gives me updates on recent news. Eventually, the food is gone, and the cry of “all done, bath time!” goes up. And indeed, when we’re all done, it’s bath time.
Sometimes I get in the bath… usually I sit on the floor. We splash, we play with tub crayons or stick-on letters. Sometimes “Donad Guck” gets in the mix (all “Gucks” are named “Donad” – even little, rubber, yellow ones). After much laughter and splashing, “all done bath time?” is heard, and the drying, dressing, and daddy-hugs ritual begins. “Daddy ‘Mooch? ‘Mmmmmoooch.” Then off to bed for “Sssh! Eye-brairy books!” You see, when you’re two, everything gets expressive punctuation.
We cuddle, we read, we talk about the pictures in the books (limit 2, with only one re-read of each). “Mommy, Glasses OFF! Light Off!” And resting has begun. But no sleep before our last, quiet story. “Dona class later?” “Yes, Dona class tomorrow.” “Yeah, Dona class a-mowo.”
“Tomorrow, you’ll wake up before the sun is even up in the sky.” “Yeah…”
“You’ll come get Mommy, and we’ll go downstairs.” “Uh-huh! Watch Penny?”
“If you want, we’ll put Penny on and I’ll get you a drink!” “Yeah… More juice?”
“How about milk…” “OK, more milk.”
“After that, you’ll have breakfast,” “Yeah…”
“get dressed,” “Uh-huh!”
“put on your shoes…” “Yeah… tenny shoes?”
“Of course – always tenny shoes for school.” “Yay! Dona Class Mowooow!”
“Shh, shh, shh…. Then, Mommy will make your lunch,” “Lunch box!!!” (perhaps her favorite part)
“Yes, and then we’ll go climb in the car and drive to school.” “Yeah…”
“You’ll play on the playground,
“make puzzles,
“paint,
“eat snacks,
“sing songs,
“eat lunch,
“take a nap….”
All the while I’m improvising, she’s punctuating with a “Yeah…” or “Uh-huh!” after each prophecy.
“Then Daddy will come to get you!”
“And you’ll play,” “Ride trike?”
“Yes, and go to the playground,” “Slide?”
“Yes, and then Mommy comes home,” “Yay, Mommy home!”
“And then it’s dinner, bath, and bedtime all over again!” “Yeah… then Dona class later?”
“Shh, shh, shh… yes… but first it’s sleepy time.” “Yeah. Seepy time. Teddy bear seepy time too.”
And she smiles, and sighs, and pats my cheek. She’s so happy to hear the story of tomorrow. Every single night. I think to myself, “What a nice thought. To greet every tomorrow with an exclamation of joy and a sigh of satisfaction.”
She secretly wanted to be shown the world, even if it had to be the yeast at the bottom of a beer bottle, the fragrance at the top of a wineglass, or the notes pouring out of an mp3 player. Secretly? About as subtle as a billboard on Times Square. And in honor of the desire, taking the blatant slights when her judgment was in error. She deserved no better.
I’m just sayin’… sometimes it’s worth asking. Are you saying this because you mean it? Or because you’re trying to get a reaction or create an impression? Are you talking on behalf of yourself? Or on behalf of an imaginary persona you’ve created for yourself? And here’s the clincher… is that persona really better, cooler, easier to be than you are? You identify yourself with your pain, or your irritability, or your fear, or your breadth of knowledge or experience… but is that all you are? Or is it just something to hide behind because if the real “you” were to be seen, well, who knows what would happen…? After so many years of practicing playing this persona, could you be yourself even if you wanted to?
The leaves have started changing, and so have the light and the smells. Smell is the most evocative sense, when it comes to memory. Especially emotional memory.
This time last year, I was entirely naive about what I had and was about to get into. I was between the honeymoon of recent unmeasurable change and the grief of the changes to come. I was happy, I think, or at least content. Now, with the leaves, but especially the light, changing, I’m noticing certain things. As though my heart expects it all to happen over again. I get queasy walking down certain sections of hallway. I’m short of breath when I pick up my phone or hear, well, hear certain sounds. I’ve started using some of the same coping mechanisms, too, like writing two pages of blog, only to delete them in fear.
To confess, all the fear and loathing and anger are welling up in me again. And unfortunately, mostly the anger. It makes me want to be mean. A heart, once broken, is a pathetic and disgusting thing. Fit only to be derided and disregarded. It is a thing of misery, creating a vacuum in the places it belongs.
Sometimes, what one lacks in life is far more vibrant, more real than what is sitting right there. I firmly believe that friendship is a seeking refuge in one another. A trust. Work friends are good for some things, spouses for others, neighbors for still others. But really, there are some things for which there is no help. There are just some things in which each of us is entirely alone. We can be angry about it, fight it, cry over it. But here we are just the same. Well. I rely way too much upon people to trust me. To need me. To want what I have to offer. I rely too heavily on having friends who’ve been there – not just friends who “can kinda get that.” I’m sitting here, looking at this dead object in my hands – this feebly beating thing, and knowing it’s too strong to stop but too weak to put back where it’s forgotten how to belong. Does it still make me angry? Does it make me feel mean? Yeah, it did today. I’ll blame it on the smell of the rain.
OK, so apparently one blog isn’t enough. There’s not enough for the information-inundated world to read, so I’m doing my part to remedy the situation. I’ve been contributing to Three Women Who Blog since the day I started Forever…. It’s a collaborative blog with two other mid-twenties-to-mid-thirties women. It’s home for our hopes, fears, and mostly memories.
And now, thanks to my obsession with food and her gracious invitation, I’m contributing to Mere’s foodie blog: From Pancakes to Pinot. It’s a site dedicated to helping twenty-to-thirty-somethings learn to shop, cook, and eat. We share recipes, ideas for easy meals, and a bit of reverie about why we love the foods we do. I’m starting a new series called “How to have a guilt-free love affair with food,” coming soon.
For your convenience, I’ve added feeds for each of these blogs below my blogroll at left. Check us out!
We’ve paid tuition.
We’ve met the teacher and toured the classroom.
We’ve bought new running shooooooes! And clothes.
We’ve packed a lunch… ice pack waiting patiently in the freezer.
We’ve written names on bug spray, sunscreen, lunchbox, and baggie holding the ever-important “o-wee” (a.k.a. pacifier).
We’ve neatly folded “blinket” and sheet, for naptime, and a spare set of clothes, for messes.
We’ve packed diapers and wipes and surely forgotten something.
We’ve kissed and squeezed, hugged and cuddled, cheered and played and run and ridden for two full days… plus almost every day of her tiny little life.
We’ve sung songs and told stories, been proud of “big girl” things, and anticipated new friends and new adventures.
One prepares the world and the child; how does one prepare one’s heart?
She will be healthy and happy. She’ll learn and grow.
But it’s a great big world. Do I fear her first day of school? Only as a symbol of stepping into that great big world, with all its fears and joys and assaults on sanity.
She will be grand; I promise myself that so will we.
“Hey! You there?” [Wham! Wham!] “Hellooo; anybody there? Aww… damn.”
“What? What happened?”
“Oh, nothing. The world’s just cutting out again.”
“You know, you really should get that worked on.”
“I know; I know. It’s just so much effort. You have to do the research, pack it up, haul it in, and hope you find a mechanic who knows what they’re doing.”
“What’s it doing this time? Snow crash? Fuzzy lines?”
“Fuzzy edges, long silences.”
“It’s still there, though, just cutting out on you?”
“Yeah, so far. But it doesn’t seem to have much, I dunno, history.”
“What? Like no past?”
“Not that I can recall, at least. OK, that’s not true… it has a distant past, just not an immediate past.”
“How immediate?”
“I’m sorry, who are you again? What were we talking about? Tired now.”
“OK, yeah. You go rest. I’ve got a call to make.”
Three Women Who Blog