Month: January 2014

It’s Allowed

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In an outfit I would never pick and one she always wants, the eyes of my youngest dart between two movie cases. A duo of princesses, each the heroine of their own story, and each role models I love her idolizing. But she cannot choose. I see her mind working, back and forth, afraid to pick one over the other because dang-it, they are both great.

“Actually, I just want to take both of them upstairs,” she finally decides, not really deciding at all but procrastinating the inevitable.
“Okay, sure.” I laugh under my breath.

On my bed, the struggle is the same. Location change hasn’t made it easier, but finally she goes for it. “This one. I’ll do Brave next time.”

I love this, the way she likes more than one thing and then knows what she wants. Except it could be, that after watching the one she’s chosen, she’ll wish she would have picked differently. She may regret the yellow dress and grossly oversized Beast. She may get halfway through and think, lots of red hair and a bow is the story my heart wanted today.

Choices, we have to make them. And sometimes I want it all when only one disc can fit into the player. Other times I go for one thing and regret it or find out it was the wrong direction.

So?

Failure, we try so hard to avoid it. And why? Because it’s hard, it’s painful? But guess what, it’s allowed. It is okay to fail, have regrets. Some of the best personal growth I’ve encountered has been through failure.

“Watch.” She looks at me to make sure my eyes are not on the computer, my phone, or scrolling the pages of an electronic novel on my device. “Watch,” she says again.
I look up, arms folded to communicate that I’m not busy.
Multicolored, magical lights are sprinkling around him. His claws are turning to toes, light pouring out of every one. He’s wrapped up in his own cape, swirling.
“He’s gonna be different. Watch.”
I am, baby girl. I promise I’m here. 
Again with the back and forth of her eyes, from me to the T.V. “See?” What she’s really asking is, Mommy, pay attention so you can anticipate what I am anticipating. Are you? Do you get this about me?
She grins with her whole face when the prince stands before the princess.

It wouldn’t have mattered which one she went with, even a wrong choice can be an abundance of lessons that will change us for the better. It may hurt like hell, those bundle of regrets, but it isn’t wasted. It forces us to grow deeper roots and become better people.  

I’m a Buffoon

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All I could think in those moments when my name would be written on the board was, my cheeks are saying more than I ever would out loud. I hate that scene from grade school when I would be called out. There was no dunce hat on a stool in the corner, but it sure felt like it. My friends, my crushes, my nemeses were all inwardly raising their eyebrows at the mention of those syllables my parents gave me at birth. It’s her, I imagine them uttering. Gah! The shame.

The same flush happens every time I stumble upon one of those lists. You know the ones: 100 things to never say to a bearded woman; 15 things to avoid saying to someone who’s just been bit by rabid monkeys; 5 ways to encourage a friend who has decided to live solitary in the woods for two years. All right, not quite like those but I think you get the picture. Every time I see one I fight the urge to raise my hand in a guilty plea of confession. It’s me, this list is going to expose all my ignorance.

Yep, nearly 10 times out of 10 I’ve said the wrong thing to a hurting person. If I haven’t said it, I’ve thought it. My only saving grace is that there might be more on the list I haven’t said than ones I have. I scour through the items doing a mental check.

I said that.
And that, but that one isn’t so bad. I mean, it’s true.
Oh. Oh dear. This one’s bad. I need to make a call, and offer my firstborn.

But can I take a second for us nincompoops? I get it. I’ve been through enough crises and traumatic events to know how grating the wrong comment, the total missed mark, the insensitive feels. It sucks. And I also know that on the other side, in the space where we come eye to eye with you who are in knee-buckling pain, we desperately want to go there with you. We want to see it, feel it, and come alongside you in it, even though it’s like we’re groping for a light switch in a dark room. With grief that can mold into different shapes at any given moment, with processes that are never alike in two people, it’s difficult to know what the exact right thing is at the exact right time.

I had a friend who was depressed. I’ve been there and I thought I knew what I was doing with her. I texted, invited, said I’d be there to talk it out because that’s what I have needed in those situations. More people. She, was the opposite. I actually Googled: How to Love Someone Who’s Depressed. It turns out she needed blankets wrapped over her head and groceries in her pantry without ever stepping into a store. She needed quiet and sleep and presence without any demand of words she didn’t have. 

So know, we buffoons who you want to slap, we care.

And at least we’re saying something, even if it’s the wrong thing. Teach us the language. Plus, you never know when someone might have great shaving tips.

 

My Pulse Tells The Story

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Odds are good that my neck was fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. I didn’t see it. I didn’t have to with the way my pulse rocked my body.

“Downstairs. Now.” I shoo everyone behind ushering hands and a controlled voice. The same one I use when one of the kids gets too close to a campfire or we are under a tornado warning. The one that says, listen up, this is important, I mean business.

“Why?” they ask at full attention.
“Because Dad is losing cookies he didn’t even eat. He’s sick.”

Someday we will sit around a fireplace with their future spouses in cable-knit sweaters holding spiced cider and they will be telling these stories. Mom was always walking around in rubber gloves, spraying bleach until we couldn’t breathe and in such a panic. I will laugh at myself, charmed at how they tease my silly ways. Because even now I know how ridiculous I am.

We were with friends a few nights ago. Count 4 adults and 7 kids and you know why we’re in this predicament.
I sent a text, “Little one has a fever, sorry.”
My girlfriend sent on back, “We have tummy issues, sorry.”
This is when my joints lock and I forget to breathe evenly. I try to remind myself that I will take the slime as it comes, if it comes. I vow not to monologue a series of what-if scenarios that will force me into a catatonic state. I shut my eyes and whisper, you can do this, and try to believe myself.

Instead, I did what any self-respecting phobic would do and slept head-to-toe next to my husband. Hey, at least I stayed in the room. But I wasn’t risking any midnight cough attacks in my direction that might warrant a bend over the toilet the next day. No.

Tired when I lay down, it wasn’t long before I was watching the moon edge its way over my pillow in a striped pattern through the blinds. Thoughts raced. And the more I tried to settle down the worse I got.

Calm yourself, muscles.
Balance out, breaths.
Trust Him, heart.
Do your magic, small round pill of heaven from my psychiatrist.

“The fear of this is much more paralyzing than the reality,” I said to Chase. I entertained the idea of just making myself vomit to prove it couldn’t kill me. And what is death? This is what the experts advise when I’m doing catastrophic thinking. “Go into it. Answer the ‘could’s’.” Well, then, it’s about two minutes of horrible and then it’s my favorite movies or a nap or a great book until the next two minutes of horrible. It will not do me in, though it will be uncomfortable. I will not die.  

“How’s the family?” I text today. “Long night?”

No survivors.

But something changes in the hope of my morning. While I consider isolating in an encapsulating, germ-repellant suit or living out my years in rubber gloves, I find hope.

Truth is, I’d rather be sick with a close friend, than sterile without one.

 

What Do I Say?

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Weaving my way around this drive-thru Starbucks is like a game of Pac Man. I’m inside lugging 15 pounds of notes and books, a computer and one small power cord to my phone that does not make or break the weight, but can be the deciding factor of whether I will still get emergency calls from the school about forgotten lunches. So I keep it.

I see moms pulling out all manner of Crayons and Hello Kitty coloring pages. There are meetings between Metros and women who are avoiding the highway in this mess of snow. Which is quite pretty from my view over a steaming mocha.

“Would you mind if I share this table with you?” I ask her.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m leaving soon anyway.”

Lovely. There are reasonable people in this society.

Her hair is chopped with texture that doesn’t happen right out of bed. She highlights her makeup around the dark lipstick she’s chosen to accent her emerald dress. Her knee-high, black, healed boots are professional, with sass. And she has the personal skills of a great salesman. Someone who works with people, likes people, makes people her business.

I’m guessing, of course.

“The snow is much prettier from here,” I say.
She doesn’t hesitate. “I know. The highway is still closed.”
“Oh, it is?” I wouldn’t know. I only see it when I’m finding a Costco. And I don’t watch the news because all I need in the morning besides strong coffee, enough Pop-Tarts to split three ways, and a drop-off lane, is the school cancellation number.
“My husband was here but he thought he’d give it a try. He’s still sitting.”
Yeah, I’m with you. I’d rather be stuck in a coffee Taj Mahal too.

She didn’t ask what I’m doing here. I didn’t offer. What do I say?
Well, I’m writing a book. (I know. Who isn’t? Yes, I do realize the statistics.) My second try. The story, the idea, gives me chills. I believe in it and some say I’m great with words. I have almost 4,000 of them but they could all be bad. I’ll probably get lots of rejection letters but you know what? I’m doing it anyway. Because if I could write my own headstone whenever the time comes that I need one, it would say: She Held Nothing Back.

 

 

Whoops Abound

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Whoops and hollers abounded this Christmas when the kids opened a Wii they didn’t even know they wanted. Inwardly, Chase and I were whooping too. We are not forerunners on the technology front. We live simply in this way, without satellite or cable, with movies we borrow from the library or rent for $1. It was a decision we made in protest to all the family time that was being robbed by Wipeout and American Idol. Still, we open the lid of our Toshiba when we want a Parenthood fix but the Wii, let’s just say it was a big hit.

My son is a Mario extraordinaire. A fanatic.

My daughter, the little one, she holds the remote and shouts like she’s part of something big. She is.

My other daughter, the oldest, she tries. Oh how she tries.

It is such great entertainment when they play together. My older daughter will often die on her first jump, a single slide, an erratic I’m- just- going- with- full- force attitude. It’s hilarious. But even funnier is the way she’s perfected “Button A.” The button that puts you in a bubble. Milliseconds from a painful death in rolling lava and she bubbles herself. Midair and heading for the enemy, she floats. It’s genius, really. Until her brother dies. Until he has to be in a bubble too. Because then the game is over.

I feel like I’m in a bubble right now. A writing bubble. I might come out for a snack or to ensure that no is strangling anyone else. I do what I have to, and not much more because I’m dangling above everything in my own space. While the kids jump and run and fight enemies below me, I am hovering with 26 letters and a passion.
In this space, my characters are like real people, the intersecting story of their lives, a part of me. I know them. I like them. And I think you will too.

The Lunch Crowd

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There are 9 of them sitting in front of me. They are curly, straight, colored, braided, short and long -haired. They are chewing salads and smiling as they relate stories of having babies. They are Panera Bread’s lunch crowd. At least one table of it. Make that three tables pushed together, one square, two rounds.

I do not know this scene. I haven’t lived it myself. Not really. Once when I worked as a dental assistant we had a lull of patients so three of us went to a Mexican restaurant for an hour. This was in stark contrast to race downstairs while a mouth was numbing parade we usually did. The only thing I remember said that day was, “I’m eating my calories in cheese today.” Hmm, I thought. I eat my calories in more ways than cheese every day. But OK.

That’s what I know of lunch meetings.

Two days ago I was depressed. I was going over note page after note page of background on made-up characters. I was willing to write but utterly uninspired. Until…

“A breakout novel rattles, confronts and illuminates. It is detailed because it is real. Its people live because they spring from life, or at least from the urge to say something about life. Their stories challenge our hopes, plumb our fears, test our faiths and enact our human wills.

These novels change us because their authors are willing to draw upon their deepest selves without flinching. They hold nothing back, making their novels the deepest possible expression of their own experience and beliefs.”

                   -Donald Maass

Now I remember. I remember what I want and that it’s worth a fall on my face to try. Because stories rock me, the good ones. And there is a pull in me to create something that “rattles,” and teaches and inspires back.

Carry on ladies, maybe someday you’ll be talking about my book.

 

Indebted to Royalty

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Any time there is declared a day without electronics, my children nearly collapse.

“Can I watch cartoons?” my son asks while I’m grinding eyelashes awake.
“No, we watched a lot yesterday.”
“Well can I play Wii?”
“No, let’s wait until tonight.”

That’s when legs start jumping and he thrusts his upper body onto my bed in a less than controlled outburst. Still, it’s nothing of the magnitude of his younger sister.

Hours later we’ve stopped mourning the loss. (It’s a loss for me too at first. I mean, I get serious Facebook scrolling done while Popeye is eating spinach.)

“You’re kicking my booty,” I tell him as he swoops in for another stack of victory.
“That’s because you prayed for snow. And beat me last time.”

I don’t see how this is relevant, but it makes me laugh. We begin a series of giggles that won’t stop escalating.

“Are you cheating?”
“No,” he says. “I’m just straightening my cards.”
Right. Of course. Silly me.

Sister comes in and then we are dealing in three reps instead of two.

“Nernie, nernie.” Whatever that means.

I put on Pandora and his glasses are a blur as he starts head-banging to guitars.
My daughter’s top lip roll’s under itself and she looks like a mouse. A mouse who realizes she must “pay up.” We learned a new game where face cards are owed like the royalty they resemble. Where competition can’t be avoided. And where fun started.

“Mom, is it dark yet?” I promised he could play Mario when the sun went down. “You said I could in an hour and that will be at 3:53 so…”
He laughs like we’re riding bumps. My literal, brainy boy.
“I didn’t mean an exact hour. Now scoot.”

Go find Legos and army men and imagination. Go find boyhood. And then we’ll play video games.