Before you curse me for my incredible better-than-anyone job at parenting, first note that I said "a Part" of my routine. No, this is not a letter to you stating, "Wow, I'm an amazing parent. Look, I work out, look great, and my kid is perfect. You suck." Because that's exactly what we as women always think isn't it? Hey, look at her! She was able to get in and out of the grocery store without pulling out her hair! What does she want, a medal?!
I think that women are amazing. They are always so encouraging and steadfast. Especially mothers! Mothers are flippin' awesome. They push babies out of their vagina's! What?! Mothers clean up people who have pooped on themselves...that's pretty much the nicest thing you can do for anyone. I really don't even have to say anything else. Anyone who volunteers for poop clean-up has got to be either insane, or really in love.
Anyway, I was talking about my exercise routine. I have a little seventeen month old boy. He is so full of energy. He climbs up a full flight of stairs where the steps are half his height, and then turns around and does it again! The kid is insane. His energy is my excuse for having taken some "time off" my work-out routine. Time off really means, "never get back to". I decided today that I want some of that energy that he's got. I want to utilize it. He's a toddler, he's not going to follow any sort of regimen for my exercise. I started working out and he instantly got into all these wooden beads and started stuffing them in his mouth; I'm surprised he didn't go for the knives just for theatrics. I didn't even know those wooden beads existed! Anyway, as a desperate grab for order I included him in the exercise routine. We rolled around on the floor, we walked around the house on all fours, I picked him up and down while doing squats, and we took turns on the pull up bar. The kid was having a blast! And better yet, I was working out. I was moving, my heart rate was going, and I felt good.
Zoom forward five years and my boy is playing soccer. Why can't I run with him? Having a kid could be the healthiest thing for me, if I let it!
When I became a new mother people always used to tell me that I had to "Sleep when you're baby sleeps." It was such good advice! I felt better when I had slept, and I was a better mother if I slept whenever the opportunity arrived. I was tired, so I slept according to my son's schedule. Why can't we, as mother's, apply that principal in other things? Run around when your kid is running around.
I complain about my body a lot these days. I complain about what has happened to it now that I'm a mother. I complain that I'm not able to "get out" like I need to, to exercise. But I think that I need to adjust my mindset. I need to work out in a way that is consistent with my lifestyle. It's good to get out, have a run, and get some "me" time. But, honestly, most of my time is absorbed in my son. If I etch out time in the day to work out, there is no way I'm going to be as fit as I want to be. So, I have to run around with my son. When I go out on a long walk, I will just be all the more fit because I'm carrying a twenty pound kid on my back. I will be all the more healthier because I will eat the carrots I insist my child eats. I will practice better hydration because I will hydrate myself as I hydrate my child. I will be a better person because I'm a mom.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Friday, January 10, 2014
The Color of My Life is Yellow
If I were to give my life a color it would be yellow. Not that ugly dark yellow, or that offensive bright yellow, but that soft yellow of sunshine as it comes through the windows and bounces off the walls. I curl up in it and fall asleep.
You don't know me, so you don't know what the past few years have been like. I would say that they've been sad. They have been heavy and they have been hard. But I'm free of them now, God has made me free of them. I have no desire to look back on them. I only want to feel the wind on my face.
I have a son, he's a toddler. I remember people telling me that when he began to walk that I would want to push him right back down again, but I don't feel that way at all. He walks, he toddles, and there is nothing I enjoy more. He gets in trouble for getting himself into something he shouldn't, he falls and cries, and sometimes I get too tired, but I love it. I love his little voice in the morning as he wakes singing to himself. I love his little hands all sticky from a sucker. I love his eyes, wide with curiosity, and I love his pudgy little legs as they waddle their way around the house.
I have a husband. We are polar opposites. If we haven't bickered at some point during the day then we aren't in love. But I oddly can't imagine this life without him. I love his messy blonde hair, I love his tattoos, I love his quiet presence, and I love how his lips pucker out when he sleeps. I love that he plays violin and that he is often elbow deep in car grease.
I live in Washington, where the Earth is black, the trees are high, and the cities are eclectic. I enjoy delicious food and hot beverages everyday. I can go to a park and get lost in the pines, or I can go downtown and get lost watching the boats come into the harbor.
I just bought a house. It's tiny and old, and it creaks everytime we move. We have hung the violins on the walls, bought an extra small washer and dryer, and are going to paint the door red.
Life, this simple life, is all I want. I want to breathe, and live, every bit of it. I want to travel, I want to dream, and I want to dance. Restless nights have taught me the importance of sleep, and sorrow has taught me the importance of life. I want to suck up the rain and the coffee like my life depends on it. I want to run when I feel like it, and I want to walk where I want to go. I want to explore until the whole world seems quiet, and then I want to make some noise.
If my life were a color - it would be yellow.
You don't know me, so you don't know what the past few years have been like. I would say that they've been sad. They have been heavy and they have been hard. But I'm free of them now, God has made me free of them. I have no desire to look back on them. I only want to feel the wind on my face.
I have a son, he's a toddler. I remember people telling me that when he began to walk that I would want to push him right back down again, but I don't feel that way at all. He walks, he toddles, and there is nothing I enjoy more. He gets in trouble for getting himself into something he shouldn't, he falls and cries, and sometimes I get too tired, but I love it. I love his little voice in the morning as he wakes singing to himself. I love his little hands all sticky from a sucker. I love his eyes, wide with curiosity, and I love his pudgy little legs as they waddle their way around the house.
I have a husband. We are polar opposites. If we haven't bickered at some point during the day then we aren't in love. But I oddly can't imagine this life without him. I love his messy blonde hair, I love his tattoos, I love his quiet presence, and I love how his lips pucker out when he sleeps. I love that he plays violin and that he is often elbow deep in car grease.
I live in Washington, where the Earth is black, the trees are high, and the cities are eclectic. I enjoy delicious food and hot beverages everyday. I can go to a park and get lost in the pines, or I can go downtown and get lost watching the boats come into the harbor.
I just bought a house. It's tiny and old, and it creaks everytime we move. We have hung the violins on the walls, bought an extra small washer and dryer, and are going to paint the door red.
Life, this simple life, is all I want. I want to breathe, and live, every bit of it. I want to travel, I want to dream, and I want to dance. Restless nights have taught me the importance of sleep, and sorrow has taught me the importance of life. I want to suck up the rain and the coffee like my life depends on it. I want to run when I feel like it, and I want to walk where I want to go. I want to explore until the whole world seems quiet, and then I want to make some noise.
If my life were a color - it would be yellow.
Relationships...
We are made for relationship. I think that statement is a pretty obvious one. We are not all made for the same kinds of relationships, or the same amount, but we all must have them in some respect or go nuts. When people aren't around we hang out with dogs; man's best friend. When dogs aren't around and people aren't around we get on the internet or a video game. If all else fails we start talking to beach balls and go running with wolves.
There are a lot of different kinds of relationships. There are one way relationships where you give all and receive nothing in return, or where you receive all and give nothing in return. There are symbiotic relationships, casual relationships, deep relationships, committed relationships, and short relationships. There are the kinds of relationships that spawn from love or duty, and there are the kinds you wish you didn't have at all. We seem to have relationships with our ideals; we find it hard to separate from them. We even seem to have relationships with stuff, as what we surround ourselves with may become a piece of what defines our reality. We shape our lives around something, and we have a relationship with that thing. Our world may be defined by a boyfriend or a spouse, and when we lose them we lose ourselves. We may define ourselves by a religion, and we lose ourselves in that religion. We may even define ourselves by our job, and without it we go spinning for lack of purpose.
What we define as our center, as our reason for being, defines how we have relationships with the world around us. We may even not know who it is that we are, and so in every new circumstance we change like chameleons. Our life center can kill us, or it can enrich us. It can build relationships or it can destroy them. Perhaps our religion demands we eat only chocolate ice cream 364 days out of the year; we may die of happiness. Perhaps we believe there is a God, then we have a relationship with that God, and it defines how we see the world. Does the world deserve mercy or death? Am I righteous or deserving of judgement? Am I loved or hated? Are others loved or hated?
Or perhaps we believe that we were born out of spontaneous combustion, perhaps we were born from nothing; then we have a relationship with nothing. I have nothing else to say...
Whatever we are, whoever we will be, we live according to relationship. I live according to relationship. I want my relationships to be real and full. I want them to be strong and to last. I believe in a relational, personal, God and so I believe my relationships to be personal. I believe in a God who is love; and so I must be love. I want to wake up next to my man with the knowledge that we are completely committed to eachother, holding back nothing. Only with that sort of commitment and dedication can we learn to live fully with and apart of eachother. I can always grow with a relationship that always hopes, and never gives up. From our commitment came my son, and with him I will always be tied. He is, and was, apart of my body. I wake up with him loving the same heart that I felt beating inside of me, and marveling at the changes I daily see. These are the kinds of relationships I pray for, and the one's I never want to lose.
There are a lot of different kinds of relationships. There are one way relationships where you give all and receive nothing in return, or where you receive all and give nothing in return. There are symbiotic relationships, casual relationships, deep relationships, committed relationships, and short relationships. There are the kinds of relationships that spawn from love or duty, and there are the kinds you wish you didn't have at all. We seem to have relationships with our ideals; we find it hard to separate from them. We even seem to have relationships with stuff, as what we surround ourselves with may become a piece of what defines our reality. We shape our lives around something, and we have a relationship with that thing. Our world may be defined by a boyfriend or a spouse, and when we lose them we lose ourselves. We may define ourselves by a religion, and we lose ourselves in that religion. We may even define ourselves by our job, and without it we go spinning for lack of purpose.
What we define as our center, as our reason for being, defines how we have relationships with the world around us. We may even not know who it is that we are, and so in every new circumstance we change like chameleons. Our life center can kill us, or it can enrich us. It can build relationships or it can destroy them. Perhaps our religion demands we eat only chocolate ice cream 364 days out of the year; we may die of happiness. Perhaps we believe there is a God, then we have a relationship with that God, and it defines how we see the world. Does the world deserve mercy or death? Am I righteous or deserving of judgement? Am I loved or hated? Are others loved or hated?
Or perhaps we believe that we were born out of spontaneous combustion, perhaps we were born from nothing; then we have a relationship with nothing. I have nothing else to say...
Whatever we are, whoever we will be, we live according to relationship. I live according to relationship. I want my relationships to be real and full. I want them to be strong and to last. I believe in a relational, personal, God and so I believe my relationships to be personal. I believe in a God who is love; and so I must be love. I want to wake up next to my man with the knowledge that we are completely committed to eachother, holding back nothing. Only with that sort of commitment and dedication can we learn to live fully with and apart of eachother. I can always grow with a relationship that always hopes, and never gives up. From our commitment came my son, and with him I will always be tied. He is, and was, apart of my body. I wake up with him loving the same heart that I felt beating inside of me, and marveling at the changes I daily see. These are the kinds of relationships I pray for, and the one's I never want to lose.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
The Word of the Day is "Tenebrous"
The fibers that hold thoughts together are hardly fibers at all, and yet they are so tenacious. And so why must the written word make such perfect sense, when it is only my thoughts on paper? Certainly my thoughts are not so fluid. If I say what is actually on my mind perhaps my thoughts will stop their buzzing; colliding ever so violently with themselves.
A depot is a depot
in day just as night.
I may just take my flight from here,
but would that - at all- be right?
The word of the day is tenebrous; which IS a word regardless of what the spell check says. It is explained best in sentence, i.e. "Look at that tenebrous figure emerging out of the fog! It's dark and I can hardly see them at all." Oddly enough, even though the word tenebrous describes something shadowy or obscure (much like the fluidity of this blog), the word itself sounds nothing like its definition. Tenebrous reminds me of other words like "tendon" or "tenor" both of which are joining words. Tendons hold the body together, and a good tenor brings people together (witness the musical "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers"), and yet this word "tenebrous" hardly brings anyone together at all. I think that I should re-define the word. I think that a re-definition would suit my day well.
And now a bit of Emily Dickenson:
A depot is a depot
in day just as night.
I may just take my flight from here,
but would that - at all- be right?
The word of the day is tenebrous; which IS a word regardless of what the spell check says. It is explained best in sentence, i.e. "Look at that tenebrous figure emerging out of the fog! It's dark and I can hardly see them at all." Oddly enough, even though the word tenebrous describes something shadowy or obscure (much like the fluidity of this blog), the word itself sounds nothing like its definition. Tenebrous reminds me of other words like "tendon" or "tenor" both of which are joining words. Tendons hold the body together, and a good tenor brings people together (witness the musical "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers"), and yet this word "tenebrous" hardly brings anyone together at all. I think that I should re-define the word. I think that a re-definition would suit my day well.
And now a bit of Emily Dickenson:
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Isn't she lovely? Read it again, poetry is always meant to be read twice. Notice her use of the hyphen; it really does drop a phrase, leaving the reader to retrieve it. I was walking down the street one day and then - like this - I dropped. But really, her use of the hyphen is not even the best part, it's how she describes hope. It perches and sings and flutters; impossible to kill. Lovely.
There, all done.
There, all done.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Tough love exists!
I was ear hustling in Wal-Mart the other day; it was such a bad idea. Ear hustling is so bad. It is especially bad for me because I always respond before I can catch myself. I'm one of those rude strangers who stops you in mid conversation: "He said WHAT?! Uh-uh girl..."
Anyway, I was ear hustling. I walked by this lady who was explaining how difficult it is to get her husband to change his diet. Poor idiot is dying for lack of vegetables and he thinks he can be picky. Anyway, apparently the man in question only likes his vegetables raw, he will not eat them mixed in with anything. And IF he agrees to eat them he must have them on the side of his main dish. This man is a goner. Not only does he want to die, but he also wants his food to taste bad. It is hard for me to decide which is the greater atrocity. When I heard this morsel I turned around and let my draw drop: "And you're listening to this bufoon! The man is KILLING himself, stuff vegetables down his flippin' throat! Serve nothing but vegetarian food with mixed in veggies up to the wazoo, and if he refuses to eat let him starve!" Okay, so I didn't actually say all that, but I thought it. I luckily turned around after letting my mouth hang open for a bit and shut it.
But seriously, when did it become okay to listen to idiots? Dude is killing himself because he eats like a two year old. Man needs a punch in the face and veggies shoved in his veins - end of story. Seriously, she who cooks makes the rules. If you don't want to eat it then suck it.
This is the policy in my home, I might listen to you when you suggest that we eat blabbity blab but really it comes down to whether or not I think it meets your needs. If all you wanted was cheese pizza everyday, and you expected me to get fat and miserable along with you then I'm afraid not.
I say the cooks need to take a stand. Don't cater to everyone! Sure, make good stuff and make stuff people like. But you can't make everyone happy; especially if that everyone is on their way to death as a result of their own stubborness.
I am all about helping people, and I really love people in my kitchen regardless of their eating background. Everyone comes into my house. But if someone I love refused to eat vegetables upon pain of death, and expected me to cater to their stupidity, then you certainly wouldn't see me whining about it in Wal-Mart.
Dear lady in Wal-Mart, my name is Rachel and I was listening to your conversation. Tough love exists - use it to shove vegetables down Mr. Dude's idiotic throat.
Anyway, I was ear hustling. I walked by this lady who was explaining how difficult it is to get her husband to change his diet. Poor idiot is dying for lack of vegetables and he thinks he can be picky. Anyway, apparently the man in question only likes his vegetables raw, he will not eat them mixed in with anything. And IF he agrees to eat them he must have them on the side of his main dish. This man is a goner. Not only does he want to die, but he also wants his food to taste bad. It is hard for me to decide which is the greater atrocity. When I heard this morsel I turned around and let my draw drop: "And you're listening to this bufoon! The man is KILLING himself, stuff vegetables down his flippin' throat! Serve nothing but vegetarian food with mixed in veggies up to the wazoo, and if he refuses to eat let him starve!" Okay, so I didn't actually say all that, but I thought it. I luckily turned around after letting my mouth hang open for a bit and shut it.
But seriously, when did it become okay to listen to idiots? Dude is killing himself because he eats like a two year old. Man needs a punch in the face and veggies shoved in his veins - end of story. Seriously, she who cooks makes the rules. If you don't want to eat it then suck it.
This is the policy in my home, I might listen to you when you suggest that we eat blabbity blab but really it comes down to whether or not I think it meets your needs. If all you wanted was cheese pizza everyday, and you expected me to get fat and miserable along with you then I'm afraid not.
I say the cooks need to take a stand. Don't cater to everyone! Sure, make good stuff and make stuff people like. But you can't make everyone happy; especially if that everyone is on their way to death as a result of their own stubborness.
I am all about helping people, and I really love people in my kitchen regardless of their eating background. Everyone comes into my house. But if someone I love refused to eat vegetables upon pain of death, and expected me to cater to their stupidity, then you certainly wouldn't see me whining about it in Wal-Mart.
Dear lady in Wal-Mart, my name is Rachel and I was listening to your conversation. Tough love exists - use it to shove vegetables down Mr. Dude's idiotic throat.
This is one of the first times that I am writing and letting it be "public". Sometimes I think out loud, which often means that my thoughts are being spewed all over the listener; uncensored, un-filtered. Talking is my way of understanding, and so is asking questions. When I write it is often because I have found something that I can not just talk about and find the answer, and I usually don't want to share with anyone.
Today though, I cannot think of any reason to share except for: "Eh, why not?" I apologize ahead of time. What I have to say will probably be without humor and more than likely cryptic. It is really my lack of current sensitivity that makes me write to you - you the distant someone.
I have spent some time looking over what my life has been for the past five years. I am only twenty-five and so five years is quite a bit of time. I was twenty, five years ago, and I was a different person. I am not really sure if I was a bad person or a good person, that is how distant I am from that girl that existed five years ago. Plus, I'm pretty biased. No one wants to think that just five years ago they were a bad person, but perhaps in small ways I was. And so, you can imagine that looking back has been slightly unpleasant.
Today I was talking to a friend and explaining my reasons for not having traveled the world. I had to start with five years ago, when I married my husband. I remember wondering, even then, if marriage would forestall my travel plans. But no, I decided that my husband would surely be a wonderful travel companion. And, if given the opportunity, I'm sure he would be.
So, we were married. Then we moved to a surely adventurous life in the mountains outside of Yosemite. And, in so many ways, it was exciting. I did lots of cool stuff, I saw lots of pretty indescribable gorgeous things, there was snow in the winter and a fire in the stove. I made some good friends, and I got to meet all kinds of interesting people. The only person I didn't spend a whole lot of time with was my husband. We were pretty much at odds at all times. I thought that our relationship would surely end in divorce, simply because we could not stand to be near eachother. How can you sleep in the same bed with your enemy? The constant arguments, something wholly new to me, caused a lot of stress. My best friend at the time got a nice dose of my erratic emotional state when she hurt me, and I have lost her now. I guess I would have lost her anyway, or at least lost her to a point, because she was changing too. I don't think I could ever pass into her new life, unless of course she decided that she really wanted me there. Anyway, that piece of my life is gone. Those years that we met in college are gone. I am not the same person, and neither is she. It happens.
So, after that hectic year I learned that there was something wrong with me. I just couldn't handle my marriage, and I just couldn't handle my emotions. Then my brother spent quite a bit of time in the hospital, and I spent quite a bit of time at his bedside. Then I was at his side in general for two years. It is was difficult to have him in the house, because he was always angry at me. I feel bad about that, but I always felt the worst when I saw him struggle at things which would have normally been easy for him. I clung to the belief that somehow my God would restore him - not as he used to be but as he is. In my clinging I realized that it is not up to me to monitor myself. If there is something wrong with me then surely hiding it will do nothing. And so, slowly, I found out who I was and who I wanted to be. My emotions set themselves in order again, at least they were functioning properly. When I expressed them they seemed to be apart of me, instead of something to be embarrassed of. And in expression and realization I became stronger, and things which made me erratic no longer had their effect. God saw I was in pain surely, and that is where my strength came from.
Then my husband went back to school, at the same time that I was trying to help my brother fight for his daily life. He was gone all the time, again. But I didn't hate when he was home, so this was a plus. He, when he was home, was strong. He was consistent. He was calm. He was assuring. He was rest. He would go through hell with me. And it was then that we became eachothers. Evidence of this could be seen in how much time I spent cooking and delivering him food while he was out doing...whatever.
So in three years time we had already moved four times, and now we were in a duplex next to a drug house. The duplex was nice, the drug house gave the neighborhood a certain amount of instability. Regardless, we were well liked and the largest amount of trouble came from a woman who occasionally slept drugs off on our couch. She would arrive at four in the morning.
We were at this duplex for a year and half. We lost a baby in that house. Four months pregnant I saw blood. I cried as I held the little pieces in my hand. Chris turned on the shower and climbed in with all his clothes on. Then I became pregnant again, and for reasons of my and my babies health I became determined to reduce the amount of stress in our home. So, Matthew learned to handle his temper and his life. Then he moved out. I settled into our little home, bought some new furniture, and planted flowers. Then the baby was born, a beautiful baby boy. He was in the NICU for three days, and then they allowed me to take him home because my mom was a nurse. She stayed with me the first week, because I was having a hard time getting around. My heart had given me a bit of trouble. This sweet sweet little boy was my world for four months, especially because he just wouldn't stop crying. He was in pain, he had some pretty serious colic. At six months he really stabilized and I marveled at him. I spent the entire day marveling, because now I was going to be happy.
Then my husband lost his job. We made due and decided to use this as an opportunity to move some place somewhere - as long as it was pretty there. We ended up in Washington state. He got a job, then I had to get a job, and then everything was a blur for five months. This was move number four.
I really loved Washington, and so did my husband, so we decided that we would like to raise our son here. We decided to buy a house. We found one and packed up within a month, but last minute it fell through. Then we found a new one, then there was a problem, then another, and then another. It's been five months now. We are supposed to move in on Wednesday. And as I sit here, late at night, thinking about my life...will everything be all I want it to be? Will the house be a warm place on a cold day? Will it be the place where my son grows and flourishes? Will it be full of laughter? I sit here and imagine the future. I imagine converting the attic to a play room, and filling it with toys and beanbags and books. I imagine putting a sky light in. I imagine tilling a garden and walking the dogs. I imagine walking to the sea, within five miles of our future home, and roaming the restaurants and quaint stores. I imagine quiet nights and loud days, and I imagine life. I imagine rest. I imagine Chris up to his elbows in some old car, restoring it greasy part by greasy part. I imagine spending a summer traveling, and being relieved at the prospect of coming home. I imagine a pot of stew and a rack of cookies. I imagine the sunlight streaming through the windows, and watching my son playing in the sprinklers. Is that so terrible? Is it okay to imagine these things? Will I be able to live? Will my life start now?
I am kinder and I listen better. I am more humorous. I am stronger. I know that when hard times come I can be depended on, but only because I have learned to depend. I know what I am capable of, and I know who I am. I am more compassionate. I like people, from the angry to the broken; from the beautiful to the ugly. I can learn and I can be wrong. I can be disliked. I can hug the people I feel like hugging and I am capable of throwing a good punch. I have come to the very real realization that I have much to learn. Surely my heart can rest now. Surely my son will grow. Surely we will have a home.
Because I am now very tired. I don't know what will happen next, but today I'm tired. It is going to take more than one night of sleep to get my face to relax and my muscles to loosen. I think that having some place to rest will help, and that place of rest...isn't that my home? Perhaps writing down this summary means I can put it all behind me and look, in expectation, towards the future.
Today though, I cannot think of any reason to share except for: "Eh, why not?" I apologize ahead of time. What I have to say will probably be without humor and more than likely cryptic. It is really my lack of current sensitivity that makes me write to you - you the distant someone.
I have spent some time looking over what my life has been for the past five years. I am only twenty-five and so five years is quite a bit of time. I was twenty, five years ago, and I was a different person. I am not really sure if I was a bad person or a good person, that is how distant I am from that girl that existed five years ago. Plus, I'm pretty biased. No one wants to think that just five years ago they were a bad person, but perhaps in small ways I was. And so, you can imagine that looking back has been slightly unpleasant.
Today I was talking to a friend and explaining my reasons for not having traveled the world. I had to start with five years ago, when I married my husband. I remember wondering, even then, if marriage would forestall my travel plans. But no, I decided that my husband would surely be a wonderful travel companion. And, if given the opportunity, I'm sure he would be.
So, we were married. Then we moved to a surely adventurous life in the mountains outside of Yosemite. And, in so many ways, it was exciting. I did lots of cool stuff, I saw lots of pretty indescribable gorgeous things, there was snow in the winter and a fire in the stove. I made some good friends, and I got to meet all kinds of interesting people. The only person I didn't spend a whole lot of time with was my husband. We were pretty much at odds at all times. I thought that our relationship would surely end in divorce, simply because we could not stand to be near eachother. How can you sleep in the same bed with your enemy? The constant arguments, something wholly new to me, caused a lot of stress. My best friend at the time got a nice dose of my erratic emotional state when she hurt me, and I have lost her now. I guess I would have lost her anyway, or at least lost her to a point, because she was changing too. I don't think I could ever pass into her new life, unless of course she decided that she really wanted me there. Anyway, that piece of my life is gone. Those years that we met in college are gone. I am not the same person, and neither is she. It happens.
So, after that hectic year I learned that there was something wrong with me. I just couldn't handle my marriage, and I just couldn't handle my emotions. Then my brother spent quite a bit of time in the hospital, and I spent quite a bit of time at his bedside. Then I was at his side in general for two years. It is was difficult to have him in the house, because he was always angry at me. I feel bad about that, but I always felt the worst when I saw him struggle at things which would have normally been easy for him. I clung to the belief that somehow my God would restore him - not as he used to be but as he is. In my clinging I realized that it is not up to me to monitor myself. If there is something wrong with me then surely hiding it will do nothing. And so, slowly, I found out who I was and who I wanted to be. My emotions set themselves in order again, at least they were functioning properly. When I expressed them they seemed to be apart of me, instead of something to be embarrassed of. And in expression and realization I became stronger, and things which made me erratic no longer had their effect. God saw I was in pain surely, and that is where my strength came from.
Then my husband went back to school, at the same time that I was trying to help my brother fight for his daily life. He was gone all the time, again. But I didn't hate when he was home, so this was a plus. He, when he was home, was strong. He was consistent. He was calm. He was assuring. He was rest. He would go through hell with me. And it was then that we became eachothers. Evidence of this could be seen in how much time I spent cooking and delivering him food while he was out doing...whatever.
So in three years time we had already moved four times, and now we were in a duplex next to a drug house. The duplex was nice, the drug house gave the neighborhood a certain amount of instability. Regardless, we were well liked and the largest amount of trouble came from a woman who occasionally slept drugs off on our couch. She would arrive at four in the morning.
We were at this duplex for a year and half. We lost a baby in that house. Four months pregnant I saw blood. I cried as I held the little pieces in my hand. Chris turned on the shower and climbed in with all his clothes on. Then I became pregnant again, and for reasons of my and my babies health I became determined to reduce the amount of stress in our home. So, Matthew learned to handle his temper and his life. Then he moved out. I settled into our little home, bought some new furniture, and planted flowers. Then the baby was born, a beautiful baby boy. He was in the NICU for three days, and then they allowed me to take him home because my mom was a nurse. She stayed with me the first week, because I was having a hard time getting around. My heart had given me a bit of trouble. This sweet sweet little boy was my world for four months, especially because he just wouldn't stop crying. He was in pain, he had some pretty serious colic. At six months he really stabilized and I marveled at him. I spent the entire day marveling, because now I was going to be happy.
Then my husband lost his job. We made due and decided to use this as an opportunity to move some place somewhere - as long as it was pretty there. We ended up in Washington state. He got a job, then I had to get a job, and then everything was a blur for five months. This was move number four.
I really loved Washington, and so did my husband, so we decided that we would like to raise our son here. We decided to buy a house. We found one and packed up within a month, but last minute it fell through. Then we found a new one, then there was a problem, then another, and then another. It's been five months now. We are supposed to move in on Wednesday. And as I sit here, late at night, thinking about my life...will everything be all I want it to be? Will the house be a warm place on a cold day? Will it be the place where my son grows and flourishes? Will it be full of laughter? I sit here and imagine the future. I imagine converting the attic to a play room, and filling it with toys and beanbags and books. I imagine putting a sky light in. I imagine tilling a garden and walking the dogs. I imagine walking to the sea, within five miles of our future home, and roaming the restaurants and quaint stores. I imagine quiet nights and loud days, and I imagine life. I imagine rest. I imagine Chris up to his elbows in some old car, restoring it greasy part by greasy part. I imagine spending a summer traveling, and being relieved at the prospect of coming home. I imagine a pot of stew and a rack of cookies. I imagine the sunlight streaming through the windows, and watching my son playing in the sprinklers. Is that so terrible? Is it okay to imagine these things? Will I be able to live? Will my life start now?
I am kinder and I listen better. I am more humorous. I am stronger. I know that when hard times come I can be depended on, but only because I have learned to depend. I know what I am capable of, and I know who I am. I am more compassionate. I like people, from the angry to the broken; from the beautiful to the ugly. I can learn and I can be wrong. I can be disliked. I can hug the people I feel like hugging and I am capable of throwing a good punch. I have come to the very real realization that I have much to learn. Surely my heart can rest now. Surely my son will grow. Surely we will have a home.
Because I am now very tired. I don't know what will happen next, but today I'm tired. It is going to take more than one night of sleep to get my face to relax and my muscles to loosen. I think that having some place to rest will help, and that place of rest...isn't that my home? Perhaps writing down this summary means I can put it all behind me and look, in expectation, towards the future.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Paperwork is my enemy, and since this is a very true statement I have decided that I will never have a desk job. Who processes all this random paperwork anyway? Do I know them? I hope not, because they are my sworn enemies. Everytime I fill out an essential piece of paperwork it somehow gets lost in the masses. For instance, paperwork such as fafsa, school loans, or bills. I even call for professional help, because I have a serious inadequacy when it comes to paperwork, I somehow can't get a hold of the people that can help me. Even if I do everything right, someone eventually calls me from some other state and says, "Do you remember that important paperwork you sent to us two months ago?"
"No" (of course not!)
Anyway, the only way I can figure as to why I suck so much is that the people processing my paperwork hate their job as much as I would. So, because they hate it, they mess up things out of spite. Yes...that must be it. When all else fails, blame the unknown guy. : ). It's a lot like Star Trek. Really, it is just like Star Trek. The poor new guy that shows up always dies, nobody knows the new guy is so they don't care if he dies. I know that this is sad, but I'm trying to make a point. If I blame the unknown person, nobody cares. But if I were to blame, let's say, your aunt you might be a bit offended.
Anyway, all this is to say that we all live in a world of paperwork. Some people spend their whole lives trying to escape paperwork, people like the homeless for instance...they really don't have to be homeless they just don't want to have to sign their name on any more pieces of paper. And I don't blame them! Homelessness was once an option, but now I'm married. I love being married, I think that doing paperwork is its only downside.
So I just have to be content with sucking at it.
"No" (of course not!)
Anyway, the only way I can figure as to why I suck so much is that the people processing my paperwork hate their job as much as I would. So, because they hate it, they mess up things out of spite. Yes...that must be it. When all else fails, blame the unknown guy. : ). It's a lot like Star Trek. Really, it is just like Star Trek. The poor new guy that shows up always dies, nobody knows the new guy is so they don't care if he dies. I know that this is sad, but I'm trying to make a point. If I blame the unknown person, nobody cares. But if I were to blame, let's say, your aunt you might be a bit offended.
Anyway, all this is to say that we all live in a world of paperwork. Some people spend their whole lives trying to escape paperwork, people like the homeless for instance...they really don't have to be homeless they just don't want to have to sign their name on any more pieces of paper. And I don't blame them! Homelessness was once an option, but now I'm married. I love being married, I think that doing paperwork is its only downside.
So I just have to be content with sucking at it.
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