So many Elizabeths

Joanne, Marilyn, Jessie, Ethel, Jennie, Lottie, Mary, Nettie, Salome, Theresa, Carmella, Catherine, Elizabetta, Maria, Elizabeth, Sarah, Anna, Isabella, Rosa, Isabelle, Anna, Mary, Anna, Freny, Anna Maria, Maria Elizabeth, Martha, Lillian, Elizabeth, Abigail, Elizabeth, Abigail, Louisa, Lydia, Experience, Mary, Elizabeth, Margery, Mary, Rebecca, Phoebe, Ann, Mary, Elizabeth, Sarah, Elizabeth, Ann, Martha, Louise, Caroline, Barbara, Sarah, Cristina, Brita, Maja, Johanna, Kjersten, Lias, Anna, Elna, Anna, Catharina, Butvi, Lisbeth, Gertrud, and Catharina...

I'm all about connections to the past and how they relate to our present. I gave myself an early Christmas present of a renewed subscription to Ancestry.com. This month has been spent diving into the files upon files of antique cursive where forgotten ancestors' births and deaths are recorded with startling lack of penmanship (I mean, seriously? Can you not separate and define your letters?). My house has been filled with my shouts of  "Oh my gosh! Look! Here is the actual town in Sweden your 4th time grandfather was born in!" or "Both the father and mother died on Christmas day after drowning in a river crossing...how horrible!" Responses to my exclamations are met with every type of response from "That's so awesome, Mom," to "You can't cry for everyone, Mom. They've been dead for over 2 hundred years."

Those names up there? They belong to my mother and to all of the other mothers of everyone that has led to my existence (that I can find so far). These women all loved and hoped and dreamed for their babies. Some were probably amazing mothers and others may have lacked, but each and every one of them holds a link to my past. I cannot explain how important it is to me, right now and always, to feel this connection to the world. Continents are crossed and centuries are spanned and it all still leads back to me, sitting in my kitchen in Illinois, raising my own 3 children. Living for a moment before I also pass on into what will someday be thought of as the distant past...

It's incredibly humbling.

*"Experience" wins for the most awesome name of all...so far.

Ever Wonder?

Ever sit in your car and just watch a plastic bag blow in the wind?

It might be stuck in that space between the bush and the curb and just swirl in a circle, repeatedly round and round and round... and then you wonder who used it last?

What did it have inside of it? Did that person throw it on the ground without a care for the environment, or was it whisked out of the hand of a young child who just couldn't wait to open the brand new toy that was inside?

Will it make it any further than this small ditch before being scooped up by a garbage picker, or will it get caught up in a sudden gust from a speeding semi and sail upon the currents of the troposphere to some unknown destination? Maybe it'll fly beyond the miles and miles of farmland and suburban housing; past Lake Michigan and the Appalachian Mountains.

Will it become stuck once again, in another roadside ditch, in a different state? And will some other woman see it, while she waits for the light to change, and wonder?

Why I'm Angry. Hint: I Don't Hate the Police

It's 3:12 in the morning and no, I haven't gone to bed yet.

My mind is racing and my heart is hurting and I just can't turn it off.

I literally want to run away from these conversations. In fact, I can. It's pretty damn easy. All I have to do is talk about something cute or funny. I can make an observation about the weather or the school year, and no one will think any less of me. I can let this fury just sliiiide away, if I want it to. And I do. I really want it to slide away. I really want to release the pain of knowing how huge the gap is between my side and your side. I would love to forget that some people now believe that I hate all policemen; that I am "rude, offensive, and just plain ignorant" because my beliefs are more liberal than theirs are. I think I could fall asleep fairly easily without that knowledge.

You see, I have that luxury. My skin tone allows it. I can be furious on Wednesday but silent on Thursday because it's not expected for me to be constantly battling a fight for equality.

It's bullshit. It's bullshit and I feel like a coward for considering the idea of backing off. I feel like a coward for deleting a heated conversation on Facebook. I feel like I didn't present my views appropriately. Maybe, if I had been more eloquent, more even-keeled, I could have swayed a perspective to the mere IDEA that things are UNBALANCED. And they're not unbalanced because white people are horrible and black people are saints. They're not unbalanced because being black and poor means you're a criminal; any more than being white and financially secure equals a law-abiding citizen.

Things are unbalanced because we all, ALL OF US, allow it to be so. Black and White and Asian and Latino, we all perpetuate these stereotypes and allow them to flourish. With every utterance of a slang term aimed at anyone, regardless of whether or not YOU ARE THAT DEMOGRAPHIC, we dig that divide ever deeper and wider... With every assumption made about a boy sitting on the curb of a parking lot or about a policeman patroling the streets of a heavy-crime area, we make assumptions and justify stereotypes and hurt ourselves.

Let me get one thing straight: I don't hate policemen. Or firemen, or paramedics, or the military, or anyone in public services. What I hate is the power that comes from the shield of those positions. I hate police violence. I hate military cover ups. I hate that the corruption of our system runs SO DEEPLY that anyone would have the audacity to even suggest that profiling doesn't exist.

I hate that a young boy has to be taught how to react if questioned by the police, for fear he will be arrested or SHOT. I hate that Michael Brown is just ONE FACE in a long line of people who have died by the same fate. I hate that arguments about the tiny details of HIS death are what people get hung up on: It's NOT just MICHAEL BROWN. It's the hundreds of deaths and harassments and injustices that don't go viral that are the fuel behind the fury. It's the young people of color who are killed in Chicago every day by gangs and drive by's that we are immune to. If Antonio Smith was a little white boy in my suburban neighborhood, shot down by a gang member, you can DAMN well be sure that it would be making the news. HUGE news. And yet... no. I've seen only a blurb here and there and it will fade away into the weekly murders that happen in Chicago, most especially on a hot summer weekend. Michael Brown's death simply lit a match in front a hissing stream of toxic gases.

This isn't just about police and riots and looting. This is about our nation seeing the equal value and unimaginable loss of every person, not despite the color of their skin, but BECAUSE of ALL of their attributes.

Judgy Judge

Question: Do you spend time judging other people? Like, if they are dropping their kids off late to school or their daughter has crazy hair and mismatched socks, do you actually think "What a horrible mother! Can't do anything right!" ??  Because I know that I don't. In fact, I don't think that most of us do. I think that most of us are actually pretty much only interested in our own lives and how to manage getting ourselves and our families from the morning to the evening with more laughter and happiness than tears and anger. I know that those are my goals, every single day.

There seems to be a theme amongst parents that we can assume to know what others are thinking. I read it online and I hear in person, almost every single day. Phrases like: "All of those judgmental looks I was getting! I could FEEL them staring at my back as I ran my kids in late" are commonplace. I can't seem to get away from the complaints that people are always judging others.

But... Are they? If no one has SAID anything to you (and this is only the topic I'm referring to, here), then how do you KNOW? If the only place you "hear" the judgmental phrases is in your own head, then isn't the judgy-McJudgerson...YOU?

If I am staring off into space with a bitchy look on my face as you happen to straggle by with a whining 4 year old and a pre-teen who is acting like a toddler, perhaps that bitchy look isn't because I am judging YOU but because I happen to have BRF (BitchyRestingFace). Maybe that expression is because I am having a really bad day and my foot hurts and I don't know how I'm going to get my errands done before I have to pick up my kids from their activities? Maybe I am hung over or have the flu. Maybe there are a million other reasons why I might look less than chipper at the moment you herded your brood across my path. Most likely, I am oblivious to your kids acting like kids because I am actually alone and able to not listen to my OWN kids acting like kids. Most likely, I couldn't give one fart about your children and your issues because my mind is full of my own issues.

This is not to say that I don't judge people. We all do. But I really think our worst critics are ourselves and the way we think that others perceive us. Since you cannot ever know what is inside of another's mind, why even waste your time trying to figure it out?

Because Words CAN Hurt

"But I didn't mean any offense! You're being too sensitive. This world is getting too p.c."

Here's the way to know if a phrase needs to be eliminated from your repertoire: Is the phrase said to connotate anything less than desirable? I.E., is the metaphor/simile indicating that whatever I am doing/saying/wearing something that is laughable? Then it is degrading. End of story.

Telling you that a phrase you may use isn't something I am comfortable with or that I find it offensive doesn't make me "overly sensitive" or "too politically correct." It means that I am trying to consider the feelings of other people, whether or not that particular group is represented at the time of the phrase's use.

The #LikeAGirl campaign by Always hit on a topic I've been wanting to cover for a while. In fact, just a few weeks ago, a kindly father at the neighborhood pool jokingly told his daughter that she was "throwing like a girl." Now, had she not been playing with my own daughter at the time, I may not have intervened with my own comment. But she WAS beside my own daughter and I could not stand by and let this comment go;

"Like a girl? So, you mean she threw it strong and far, right? Because girls are amazing and powerful and nothing to be made fun of, right?"

I was actually trying to be kind and approachable when I said this, as I know most people feel that this is a joke that is still socially acceptable.

It's not.

It's no longer acceptable to degrade females. It's no longer acceptable to make remarks about any group of human beings in a way that implies that they are less than desirable. I think it should go without saying, but it is not acceptable to mock someone because of their race, religion, sexual orientation, mental capacities, physical limitations, social status or gender. IT'S NOT.

This means you cannot say things like "that's so gay" , "he's so retarded", or "trailer trash" without hurting someone. Not only because a person within earshot may be homosexual, mentally challenged, or raised in a trailer park, but also because it perpetuates the idea that those stereotypes are valid. Words have power. Words have WEIGHT.

"But it's ok! I AM gay-Jewish-overweight-female-poverty-born! I can mock myself!"

This makes me sigh, because I get it. I do it. We all do it. Life cannot be focused on being serious and politically correct. Life should be about embracing the fun and the light and the joy, and I GET IT. But do we have to knock each other or ourselves down in order to have the laughter?

I'm not being overly sensitive. I'm not making too much out of a "simple phrase, meant in jest." I'm not trying to police the world and make everyone think exactly as I do. I know for a FACT that I still make mistakes regarding some of the phrases I have grown up with. I can guarantee you that I have uttered less than complimentary phrases about groups of people, without even thinking about what it actually meant to them, or to me. I own my own biases and continue to work past them. All I ask is that we all consider our words before we speak them. All I ask is that each of us owns our own mistakes and tries to move forward.

How else can we create a society that gracious and kind, if we continue to knock each other down?



#LikeAGirl means "like a person who is capable and strong, who just happens to be female."

The Meaning of Life

"Mommy, what is Life for?"

"Hmmmm? What do you mean, Corinne?"

"Well," she paused as she did a back bend on our family room floor and scrunched up her lips in the way one must do when one is truly thinking, really, really hard, "Well, why are we here? Why are we ALIVE?"

I paused as well. When your seven year old interrupts your game of Bejeweled Blitz to ask you about the Meaning of Life, it may take you a moment or two to compose your thoughts.

"Why do you think we're here?"

"I don't know! That's why I asked YOU. So, what's the answer?"

"Corinne, you just asked the question that millions and millions of people have been asking since they first knew how to wonder, since the dawn of mankind. Some people think that we are alive because..."

She loudly sighed as I began what was an obvious "school lecture" and covered her ears with her knees (Yes, her KNEES. She IS a gymnast, after all).

"Never MIND, Mommy! I just wanted an ANSWER, not a conversation."

Indeed.

What is the meaning of Life? Well, baby girl, I am here to shed some wisdom on you, for your future, when you are done bending yourself into a human pretzel and holding still long enough to read your Momma's words.

We don't exist to build or construct, nor to explore or conquer. We do not live so that we may think deep thoughts or write touching prose. Life is not lived for you to achieve or succeed and you are not alive so that you can earn degrees or promotions. You do not exist to "make a difference" (though I certainly hope that you do!) and the meaning of life will not be found in any book, regardless of who is said to have written the text.

Love, my darling.

It's all about love.

We exist only to love and touch and hold each other; To weep and laugh with absolute abandon. Your life's meaning will not be found in the beauty of the face you own, but in the love you see reflected in the eyes of those you love.

Love with your whole heart, your whole life, and you will no longer wonder at why you are here. You will know that the "why" has never really been all that important to begin with. Love others as I love you and you will know and have all you ever need in Life.

With Liberty and Justice for All

Happy Fourth of July to all of my fellow Americans. Whether or not we agree with the original ideas behind the Revolutionary War; whether or not we feel that our government is fully just and honest; and whichever color crayon you use to shade your state in a coloring book; we can hopefully all agree that our country is one of high ideals and grand plans. We may not have the best delivery system of said plans, but in general, our hearts are in the right spots. We may not be 100% equal in the eyes of the law, but the efforts are there; we continue to grow and stretch our minds.

This country is a family. A huge, dysfunctional, vastly diverse family with all of the quirks and complications and history and love that families tend to carry.

And while I would love to change many, many things about this beloved country of ours, I wouldn't leave it for anything.

I am proud to be an American.

Why Male Gynecologists Creep Me Out

Nobody seems to find this as big of a deal as I do. "What's the problem?" they ask me when I say that I don't like male gynecologists. "Why do you care? A doctor's a doctor."

Except, a male gynecologist is not a female gynecologist. A male doctor may have more experience with vaginas and cervixes and all of the other female bits and pieces in his practice than his female counterpart. He may have saved hundreds of lives, delivering thousands of babies and helping women for dozens of years, and that's fabulous. (In fact, thank God for male gynecologists because they have saved our gender through many generations where women weren't ALLOWED to actually doctor themselves.)

But try though he might to empathize with a woman, here is a newsflash:

A male gynecologist has never actually owned a vagina. 

Imagine you have a very special vehicle. It is your BABY, to be honest. You've pampered this car for your entire adulthood and it is everything you have ever wanted in a car. You bring it into the mechanic to have some work done and ask some questions about how it's been running lately. This mechanic has inspected every single curve of many cars. He knows all of the details of dozens of makes and models. Maybe he even grew up in a family garage of fantastic mechanic.

That mechanic can "quote" to you the way it's SUPPOSED to feel when you push your foot down on the brake pedal verbatim, but this particular mechanic has Never DRIVEN A CAR.

He has never known the fear you have when your brakes suddenly go smooshy on the highway while you're cruising along at 65 mph.

He has never had a flat tire on the side of the road on a dark, abandoned highway.

He has never known the pain of making hundreds of car payments and finally paying it off, only to have it sputter and die on I-55.

Tell me the truth: Would you REALLY take your vintage vehicle, your prized possession, your ultimate dream car to a person who has NEVER DRIVEN A CAR??

So why the hell would I choose a doctor who has NO FLIPPING CLUE what menstrual cramps or other vagina-related-issues feels like??




*Have I mentioned that I kinda sorta have "issues" with doctors in general?
*Inspired by a comment that I began on a random blog...

Don't blame my smile for your unhappiness

I am not Suzy Sunshine. I am not perpetually cheerful. I struggle with wondering what the hell Life is all about every day but I refuse to be sucked into a hole that will only become harder to climb out of if I ignore what I have to be grateful for. I thought that this was evident?

If I write about being grateful and happy with my life it's because I force myself to appreciate the small goodnesses that surround me. Despite my own personal pile of crap (we all have a pile of crap to shovel), I want to enjoy my life! We all have the ability to recognize the little things. If you choose to not focus on the good and continually wallow in only what depresses all of us, how am I to blame?

Now excuse me, but I have some cupcakes to frost and a little girl to play with.

Living in the Present

The corn is SO crispy right now. You can practically hear the stalks crunching as I type this, for the fields are being plowed at this very moment, securing corn for many cows and pigs and breweries across the midwest. Autumn always makes me feel as though we're living on the cusp of something Grand and Important...

A friend of mine spoke to me about the plans her family has for these next few years. The changes their children will be making in their studies and life styles feel so drastic and foreign. Planning for several years into the future sounds so simultaneously optimistic and stifling to me. The benefits are quite obvious, but having a set focus of distant goals often causes me to worry that we may miss a lovely side-track. Sometimes those meandering little paths are what bring the most joy in my life. Choosing a direction we'd like to travel into is a given and we do know where we're generally "heading", but there is no Set Destination for our family. I don't see as how there truly could be.

Sigh... All of this talk of the Future! It takes away from my contentment of our present. I truly don't mind discussing The Future and the What Ifs it contains, but I know from experience that Life has its own agenda and rhythm. I am not of a mind to wonder about tomorrow when today is so lovely and sweet... Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow will come and those tomorrows will bring the wonderful and the devastating as Life sees fit. All I can do is to try to cover our butts as best we can and let the rest go.

It's absolutely beautiful today. I am sending out my lovely, sweet thoughts to everyone who is struggling through the trenches of Life. I hope the balmy warm breezes of Illinois find you, lift your spirits, and take away a bit of your pain...

Another Post About Corn Fields...

there's something about the green,
the depth and darkness within the acres of leaves
sharp enough to wound like a paper cut
and strong enough to sustain a nation.

there's something about the massive abundance of an Illinois cornfield
that simply astounds me.
the silence that is so deceptively keen...
the silence that is anything but.

have you ever been so distracted by the beauty of the brightest white moon
that your eyes couldn't remain on the road?
it reflected so brilliantly last night,
illuminating the clouds and streaking the corn stalks
with shadows of silver and hues of blue,
causing my mind to wander and heart to stray...

...to visions of generations of moon-worshippers
dancing beneath and within the moonlight and fertile ground.
it stirred my heart
and the energy of Life and Earth and The Universe
lifted my soul.

I truly yearn to dance in the cornfield in the moonlight...

If World Leaders Listened to their Mothers...

Tolerance = not speaking aloud all of the negative thoughts you are harboring about the person you don't accept. It means believing that you are better than someone else based upon their abilities, social standing or choices, but "enduring" it so that you are socially and politically correct.

Acceptance = genuinely believing that we all have a right to our life styles, religions or beliefs, and careers or lack thereof. It means that you don't see someone's physical/emotional/mental differences as something to be reckoned or "dealt with" because we are ALL different!

Thank God for that.

I'm not perfect, but I would sure love to witness more Acceptance of our Fellow Man in the world instead of simply Tolerance. I can "tolerate" an argument between my children, but I don't "accept" it.

I can "tolerate" a LOT of situations that I will never "accept".

One thing I will never tolerate OR accept will be ignorance of the rights of human beings. Every mother, everywhere has always said:

"Treat others as you'd like to be treated."

Honestly, if mothers were to be truly in charge of the world, the leaders would never reach a situation where they had weapons to play around with. After arguing and yelling and throwing their 'toys' about, they'd be grounded, without privileges, until they figured out how to get along!

I am bone tired of witnessing the pent-up anger of the world. I am fed UP with the whiny, over-privileged People of Luck who cannot empathize with the plight of their fellow man. I want nothing more than to send the leaders who demean and degrade their citizens straight to their rooms for a lengthy time-out. If you can't handle the responsibility that you asked for, then you can't get your allowance!

Honestly.

Having "it all."

Haaaaaahaaaahaaaa!!!

Is there a prize? Do we win something for over-structuring our lives and believing that there are certain qualifications we "have to" meet in order to be living a "good life?"

Newsflash: There are no prizes! There is only the moment you are in with the hope that you will have more moments to reflect upon the moments that have passed. That's it, folks. We don't receive commendations from God for having put our kids into all the "right" classes and achieving straight A's or going to a "great college." We can only live and breathe and hope that our presence upon this world has left a loving mark upon our family and friends.

Striving to succeed in the work force or to elevate our kids to have a "better" life than we did is all well and good if it doesn't detract from the peace within your heart. If you cannot breathe in and out and know that you were able to appreciate your life and its blessings then what is the point?

Who are you racing against?

Who are you trying to beat?

For everyone, no matter how many letters of accomplishment they can attach to their names or how many dollars they can claim on their income tax forms, will die. Death equalizes us all; the criminals and the saints. The elderly and the young. You cannot "anti-age". You cannot finish everything for there will ALWAYS be more to do. And if there wasn't time to finish all the minutiae that you deem "important" because you were enjoying an extra cup of coffee, reading a great book, or kissing your loved one? SO BE IT. Enjoy yourself! Being happy isn't something you can "achieve." It's something that is always available, right in front of you; you just have to acknowledge its existence!

No matter the negatives my own life may contain, I KNOW that I am lucky and I KNOW that things will continue on this up and down roller coaster until I can no longer breathe in and out. All I can do is to enjoy the dizzying thrills as best as I can. And it's always more fun to ride with my hands in the air and eyes wide open, don't you agree?

It's Okay!

It's ok.

Right Amber? Amber and her "It's Okay" Thursdays.* Which she stole from somebody else and which I am stealing from her.

Except today is Wednesday.

It's OK...

...to be pissed off that my left arm is twitching. Some phantom muscle is having a fiesta in my bicep, making me look as though I am doing a fancy muscle trick. Except I'm not. And it's annoying. You can see this twitchy twitch from across the room, guys. It's BAD. I am ANGRY. >:(

... to believe that you COULD run so fast that your feet don't actually touch the ground, just like in your dreams. You just don't feel like proving it right now.

... to point at the tv and say "I know her!" when referring to a local newsreporter that you once met at a luncheon a few months ago. After all, it impressed the kids and when they asked how you knew her you could rub your knuckles on your pj shirt and casually state, "from the blog. I know her from the blog." They need to idolize me a bit more and I am not above claiming friendship where there was really only a passing acquaintance over hummus and veggies. It's me against them and I need as much of an upper hand as I can get.

... to start missing your husband and son before they even leave for their fishing trip. 9 days without my middle kid? I've never done that before. It's a big deal and I am not ashamed to admit that I am going to cry.

... to be happy that it's raining out today which means kids may not be knocking at our door this afternoon. Sometimes, I just want a little peace and quiet. Sometimes, the craziness of tons of friends running in and out can wear on my sanity.

... to whine about the soreness in your legs. It's unfortunate that after only 2 days of jogging with your 8 year old, you can't climb the stairs without grunting. Especially since your kid was LAPPING you for the ten minutes you guys ran (we have a loop we do through the house. It sounds like a herd of elephants). Yes, he lapped me, repeatedly, and still had enough energy to play Ultimate Battle** outside for 3 hours last night. Ahhh... to be 8.

... to wish you were as funny as Amber. And then to secretly hate her a little bit. And then to feel guilty for saying that because you DON'T hate her; she's a sweetie and her husband is serving in Korea for a year! But you still kinda-sorta wish she would write a dumb post once in a while.

... to clap your hands when the fridge is still running in the morning.

... for your son to wear the same shorts for 2 or 3 days because you have packed the other shorts into the bag for Canada. He's homeschooled; who's gonna care?

... to want to search NetFlix for Harry and the Henderson's.

... to believe in fairies.

.... to need more than 3 cups of coffee. Right now.



* Apparently it's on Tuesdays, but I think it's funny that I wrote a whole post thinking that I was a day early instead of a day late.

** a game involving lots of boys that have toy guns and swords that they shoot at each other from behind overturned chairs and sandboxes. Also, it's a game that means everyone passes out at night, right on schedule. I've decided that I like gun games.

Midwest Love

I am a child of the Midwest.

Nothing is more peaceful than the great columns of corn
rising above the black, black earth.
My headlights catch the iridescent orbs of the nightly Illinois predators;
Raccoons and coyote, opossum and fox.

Is there any silence noisier than that of Illinois farmland on a chilly August night?

Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti....
Reee-reeee-reeee....
Click-click-click-click-click....

Cicadas and crickets compete for attention and as my van speeds homeward
their song flows like jazz,
no beginning or end
only the middle
repeating, repeating.

The aromas on my midnight drive carried me to tears...
the memories...
Oh, the memories!
My entire life has been surrounded by these smells.
Every August for 34 years has been filled with the wood smoke
from last ditch efforts to capture as much of the summer as possible.

Without a doubt, the cool air of the evenings is a slap in the face
after the oppressive heat and humidity of noontime.

They are children of the Midwest.
Every August for eleven
eight
four
years
they fall asleep to the songs of the soy and cornfields.
Every August they sit beside the last-ditch summer bonfires
the lovely smoke flavoring their hair
trying to grasp the remnants of summer
the bits of childhood
before autumn has its chance....

I don't want to forget this...

2 am this morning. My bed. Evan and Corinne are tangled around each other, my blankets and my pillows and I awoke with a start: I sigh... Where do I put my own head? Where do I stretch out and relax? When do I get a few moments ALONE, for cryin out loud?

Then.

A whimper and a cry and Corinne is frantically searching for something. Panic is in her glassy eyes and I know that she is still in that place between sleep and consciousness. I reach for her and attempt to stroke her wild sun-streaked locks down.

Shhh... shhh... Mommy's here.... shhh....

She clings to me instantly and shudders. I can only imagine the drama that was unfolding within her 4 year old mind, for she has relaxed against me and manages to murmur against my shoulder,

"I just wanted you, Mommy. I was scared and wanted you..."

There is a basic need that I have to touch my children. It's a need that is echoed back by them.

My kids are more than just an extension of me. They represent more than the love that Patrick and I shared to bring them into this world. These words right here are such a pitiful representation of what I am grasping at... Just let it be known that we exist together and are connected at a primal level. It's a common human need to want to be touched; But it's a mother's need to touch her children and to be touched by them. To be deprived of that ability must feel as though you are deprived of oxygen-rich air. Yes, I can exist with the poor quality air of the mountain-tops, working twice as hard to jump and run. But I'd rather thrive in the jungles below, breathing in so much oxygen that my mind feels euphoric and body rejuvenated...

What will life be like for me as my children pull away and no longer search for me in the night? When I am the only one with the primal need to touch them and their desire is to establish themselves as individuals? No longer so tightly connected to the woman that birthed them...

I suppose grandchildren are like oxygen masks. They have the ability to replenish the quality of air. They allow themselves to be overly hugged and held; to be adored without reserve...

And then I hear Evan stirring in his sleep. And he startles awake and reaches out for something...

And I remember to stay in the present. To enjoy the now. To saturate myself with so much oxygen right now that I cannot stay awake for the melancholic thoughts to take over. I reach for my son and stroke his spiky brown hair.

Shhh... shhh... Mommy's here... shhh...

Halfway there...

Despite what I may say, I really do enjoy scout camp. I DO. Swear to God. Hanging out with my kids and watching them interact with other boys doing boy stuff like shooting arrows and making milk jugs into masks is awesome and I look forward to it every year.

But.

(You know I had to have a big one of those, right?)

But, but, but: Exhaustion doesn't adequately describe my body's status. Between the hiking and head-counting and standing and sitting and SUNBURN after 4 hours at the water park, my poor little body is wiped out. I feel so... elderly.

Best part of the water park, hands down, is trying to comprehend the people who just don't seem to realize how they look in their bathing suits. I honestly believe that there is nothing wrong with a woman's stomach after having children. (well, except for my own which seems to have more wavy lines than a topical map of the Boundary Waters). I ALSO honestly believe that the rest of the world doesn't need to be shown how miraculous your body was by having your belly and rear not-so-daintily crammed into a string bikini meant for a 16 year old girl. Do they not realize that this only makes them LESS attractive? Trying to hold onto your youth (and dream of your former girlish figure) is the fastest way to appear OLDER than you are!

Don't even get me started on the men's trunks that ride at their cracks because their bellies push them down or the indecency of a man flaunting breasts larger than an A cup. Tie up the shorts and put on a shirt, fellas! I am not faulting you for being overweight. NOT AT ALL. But please try to have a little pride in your bathing attire. If not for yourself, than for my eyes; For the children's eyes, and For the LOVE OF GOD!

2 more days of camp. Gotta remember the sunscreen...

Unfinished Endings

I don't know about you, but when I read a book, I like for it to have an ending. Call me crazy (won't be the first time), but if I'm reading your book, chances are that I like your ideas on what will happen with the characters and storyline. And if I enjoy it enough to FINISH the book, I consider it common courtesy for YOU (the author) to FINISH the story! Don't leave me hanging. Don't consider yourself all mysterious or avante garde or some other artsy-fartsy cliche word for "encouraging the reader to use THEIR imagination..."

Screw that. I use my imagination every freaking hour of every freaking day. I am mother (and teacher) to 3 kids. My entire LIFE is of my own imagination. If I have free time to actually read and COMPLETE a book, only to find that the author is pulling that "unfinished ending" crap? You will find me throwing the book across the room. And swearing* in front of previously mentioned 3 children. I MAY give you one more chance and read another book of yours, but when I find out that the last page is YET AGAIN an unsatisfactory conclusion to some strangely interesting characters and storylines? I will write you off. (Ha. Funny. Write off. Heh...)

"Please save my delicate ears! My mommy really can't control herself. Just finish the #$%@ books, ok?"

* Nothing above "Shit" and "Goddamnit" in reference to the book. Swear. But it's not like my mouth hasn't gotten a little less clean as the years of raising my kids have passed. I didn't allow people to say "stupid" in my house when Justin was little! Now? Now Corinne knows the meanings of waaaaay too many expletives.** (hanging head in shame) ** So come authors! Do your part to keep my children's ears safe! FINISH THE DAMN STORIES.

Things I think of while driving in a van without a radio*

Route 66, stripped clear of the elms
and oaks
and shade.
Ripped up by 100 year old roots.
Their unfailing presence at every hometown parade matters not
when an extra lane means you can get to Wal-Mart 6 minutes earlier.

Progress.

~~~

"Give me that filet 'o fish. Give me that fish! OHH!"



Rinse and repeat. And repeat. You now have the mantra from within my BRAIN. You're welcome.
~~~

Tidbits:

- People on the internet can be exceedingly wonderful and incredibly gracious. My heart was warmed today by a generous gesture made. I'm still all fuzzy inside because of it...

- My kids may drive me absolutely insane at times, but when I witness the absolute friendship and care that they have for each other, the edges of my aggravation somehow dull. Nothing makes my heart smile wider than the actual joy they get from games they make up or phrases giggled behind hands that make sense only to our family.

- I am so glad I grabbed The Martian Chronicles from the library. I had been meaning to reread that book for years and years and the notion always escaped me once the shelves of books loomed over my head and my eyes and attention had to concentrate on counting 3 bouncing heads. Thank God for the ability to reserve online at 11 pm, when the heads are still upon train pillows and fairy blankets...

- Though I am accustomed to sleeping alone in our queen-sized bed (purchased to accommodate a husband whose 6'4" frame dangles from anything smaller), it still feels off and pathetically lonely when Patrick is absent on the weekend. While he is reliving his youth with friends at a weekend concert, I will be watching Goonies in my slice of that enormous bed. Crammed between our children who will drop popcorn in my quilt, there won't be much space left for the solitude to butt in.


* Sometimes being violated has its silver lining, eh?

Immortality on the Internet

Looking through photos of relatives that have passed brings so many questions to mind; what did she dream of? Who did he love most? What sacrifices did she make? What tragedies shaped his life? In what ways did this unknown ancestor influence my present life?

If no one remembers who you were and what you were inside, does this mean that your thoughts and dreams evaporate when your time on Earth is over?

Is this why I blog? To be remembered? To adamantly declare that "I will NOT be forgotten! I will not be reduced to a half-dozen, unlabeled, fuzzy photographs in a box in someone's attic. My presence on this planet will have an impact because I write these words in this little box, from my little office." Like Independence Day, "We will not go quietly into the night!"

I suppose I am no better than the very people I (internally) mock. The ones who desperately purchase anti-aging creams and Botox in an attempt to retain their youth. The people who say "IF they die..." instead of "WHEN I die..." People who cannot accept that our bodies are temporary (so incredibly temporary) modes of transportation for our spirit's stream of consciousness.

I suppose that in writing my little escapades on my little blog in my little fraction of the internet, I am desperately carving my name on the wall and screaming "I WAS HERE!" No matter how I sugar-coat my reasons for blogging (making friends! recording our lives for my children! parental camaraderie!) I must honestly admit that it all boils down to the same need we all have which is to know that we MATTERED.

Don't you... Forget about me...

Yes, yes. I know. I MATTER. I matter to my family. I matter to my friends. I love them all, and they love me. I am blessed in knowing this fact so confidently. That is not in question. But, the older I get, the more I feel the need to make a more permanent mark upon the outside world. A painting, an article, an accomplishment of some sort that causes me to stand out from the rest. Something that proclaims "She was here! She was fabulous and ordinary and flawed and HUMAN. She dreamed and loved. Her heart expanded and fractured. And there will never be another exactly like her!"

I don't want to go quietly into the night...