Things I Didn't Do In 2014, But Will Damn Well Do In 2015

2014 sucked. A lot. And it became a convenient excuse to not do anything. My one resolution this year? 

Do Stuff.

Do the stuff that I love to do. Do the stuff that I ignored.

Here is an incomplete list of things I did not do in 2014 but will do the hell out of in 2015:

1. Write. Okay. That one was obvious. Seriously, three posts in 2014? Cut the crap, Heather, and start writing!

2. Read. Weird, right? I think I might have read three books this year. A long way off from my normal gazillion. I’m not counting, of course, favorite books that I always reread like World War Z and Jurassic Park. Like old friends I find great comfort in picking up a familiar book and I did that, but new books? Even with the ease with which I can now acquire new books on my Kindle, I haven’t read all much.

3. Craft. My only crafty accomplishment for 2014? The Christmas decorations on the tree.

4. Bake. Didn’t even so much as bake cakes for birthdays this year.

5. Cook. Along with baking, cooking in general became a chore. Normal menu planning and prepping for dinners became stressful and making lunches? We went from bento boxes to here’s a sandwich to make your own lunch. I had plans last year to prepare one meal a week that we’d never had before. With all the crap, easy recipes that I knew by heart became the norm. 2015 shall bring a return to new dishes. I also plan to do at least one meatless meal a week.

6. Travel. No. I take that back, I did travel, but it wasn’t for pleasure. Scott’s father passed and we went to be with him. I’d like to plan a trip back home and to Maine this year. It’s been six years since my last trip home.

7. Camp. Different than “travel.” It is. Honest. We actually haven’t camped since 2011. First it was budget constraints, then it was work constraints. This year though I plan on taking a few 3-4 day weekends now that I have vacation time built up.

8. Celebrate the Birthday Fiesta O’Fun. Although, to be fair, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I was desperate to get together with Sara for that. Unfortunately, both the girls and I were miserably sick the one stinking week that Sara came back to Florida.

9. Document. I took very minimal photographs this year and most were on my phone for work. Birthdays, holidays, candids, nothing. 2014 will be a non-scrapable year.

10. Budget. Scott and I were getting really good about budgets in 2013. 2014 destroyed that. We didn’t go crazy with spending, but we certainly didn’t pay attention to our finances either. 2015 will be a year of back to basics budgeting.

11. Socialize. I didn’t Facebook, blog, call, write, or visit much in 2014. I wrapped myself in isolation because it was what I needed.

12. Exercise. I’m not a big fan, but a walk around the neighborhood a few times a week isn’t out of the realm of impossible for me. I enjoy it even. I didn’t do anything in 2014. That being said, I still managed to drop (in a majorly unhealthy manner) 30 pounds. I got a new bike for Christmas, though, so exercise is in my future. Though I do need to lose more weight, ultimately, my overall goal is to get back into healthy habits - daily exercise and healthy eating.

13. Family Game Night. 2014 ended family game night. 2015 will bring it back. Scott and I both agree that family game night was and is something that we need. We don’t often eat together - our work schedules often run past dinner time so family game night was a way for us to all sit down together. Christmas helped with that as many of the gifts under the tree were table top games.

The Countdown Is On

There’s a two-part episode of Star Trek Voyager titled “Year of Hell” in which Captain Janeway and her crew suffer a series of calamities over the course of a year. Eventually, through the magic of temporal phenomenon, everything ends up honky-dory, and the Year of Hell never happens. Voyager’s crew continues on their journey unaware of the disasters that befell them or they avoided...I’ve never understood temporal mechanics.

There have been more times than I can count that I’ve wished for a temporal phenomenon to undo this year or fast forward it. My very own, very real, very intense Year of Hell. As science fiction isn’t all science fact yet, that leaves me just waiting for the end of 2014.

Many times, almost daily, I ask myself what right have I to complain. I know people who’ve been through far too much for me to ever complain about anything. How dare I mope when people are starving, when wars rampage across the world, when cities burn, and mothers lose their children! Who am I to lie in bed at night crying? My husband holds me but is helpless to comfort me because I am inconsolable. In those moments, I allow myself to fall because I tell myself that grief is not a contest and there is no measurable way to compare pain, that even though others have suffered far more than I could ever imagine, my anger, sadness, and hurt are just as real.

I count, I breathe, I pull myself together because I have no other choice.

Am I depressed? Yeah. Clearly. There’s no denying that. My one and only solace? I know that my depression is situational. That things are generally shit right now, but it won’t be like this forever. I know that as long as I keep putting my feet on the ground every morning, that someday it won’t feel like such a chore. There are days when my smile is genuine and my laughter is not forced. And those days are slowly starting to outnumber the others.

I’ve said it before that I should have done an anonymous blog, then maybe, I’d post more about my life. Maybe if I had a top secret super blog I’d vent, I’d rant, I’d utilize an outlet that I honestly should have been using: my words. My chaos has been my own this year. I’ve not wanted to share it or talk about it here or anywhere, so even an anonymous blog would have sat unattended this year. I’ve got 31 more days to go in what I expected to be a great year. I have used this year as an excuse for not writing, not crafting, not doing and that’s got to change. Whether I post to a public blog or just jot notes in a journal, writing has always helped me work through my issues and I need to get back to that.

In 31 more days I’ll have survived 2014.

In 31 more days I’ll file 2014 away as a lesson learned.

In 31 more days I’ll jump into 2015 looking to exceed rather than endure. 

 

Scott asked me the other day if I expected 2015 to magically be better. Of course not, I said. But it’s like a clean slate. New Years is a tangible mark, a concrete, albeit human, passage of time. Time allows distance and clarity, healing and hope. Time, right now, is the best friend I’ve got.

This year I fell. Come January 1st, I will start standing again.

P is for Put a Bee in your Bonnet

When I was little I can remember running to my grandmother in conniptions of excitement, jumping up and down by her side, tugging on her hand or sleeve until I got her devoted attention. With 15+ grandchildren gaining undivided attention especially during summer vacations was tricky. I may have even used manners in interrupting, but I somehow doubt that. Impulsiveness and a serious lack of patience has always plagued me.

Inevitably, once attention was gained, I was scolded for interrupting.

“Who put a bee in your bonnet?” my grandmother would ask with a soft smile.

I would laugh because the thought of wearing a bonnet was absurd enough without having a bee shoved in one. But I never really much thought about the saying beyond it was something that my grandmother said. In the years since her death I’ve often spent time recalling my memories of her and wished that I had more. I wonder sometimes what she might think of my life now and my children. As much as I’d love to have my children know her, I know that in fact they do, a little because I see so much of my grandmother in my mom. Her smile and the twinkle in her eyes when she talks to her grandchildren are so very much my grandmother.

I know many women never want to hear that they have turned into their mothers but our mothers are our very first teachers, our cheerleaders, our greatest supporters and I can think of no higher compliment to my mom to tell her the million little ways she reminds me of grandma.

Put a bee in your bonnet is a phrase from the 1930s that means you have something interesting to tell; however, I think my grandmother used it more to mean “what the heck has gotten into you, Heather!”

Example: “Please, Penelope, stop jumping and tell us who put a bee in your bonnet?” Pansy asked. Penelope preened with pride, “I’ve practiced piccolo pretty much all day and now have Puccini’s Madame Butterfly practically perfect!”

This post has been brought to you by the Letter P and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

Photo A Day - View From Your Window

I love the view from my living room windows. A big grassy lawn, a gazebo and a pond - it reminds me of an old English estate. Not that I have ever been to an old English estate but I imagine that there would be at least one view from the manor that overlooked an expanse of manicured lawn with a pretty gazebo smack in the middle of an artfully arranged garden and a glassy pond filled to the brim with basking turtles, minnows and dragonflies.

I have a very good imagination.

This view today grants me a small taste of home - upstate New York. Although it is well into November, here in Florida it only just started to get chilly and the leaves only just turned and started to fall. It's officially long sleeve shirt weather now. (Sorry my Great White North friends for rubbing it in...how many feet of snow do you have already?)

As much as I find home is where my family is, I still miss my hometown in the autumn. The delightful crunch of the leaves under foot, the crisp air biting at the nose, the fuzzy sweaters and slippers, apple orchards and pumpkin patches, things that Florida lack, makes me nostalgic for home. But once a year, as the few deciduous trees drop their leaves, I am transported back to my northeastern roots.

Look at my little photobombing kitty, Simone. It wasn't until I had the camera aimed out the window that she decided she needed to be on the sill.

A carpet of leaves is as close as I'll get to a carpet of snow.

A Bit of History, Gone.

Along with all of the other devestation that Sandy has caused, a minor news blip that got almost no attention (from what I can tell) is that the tall ship, the Bounty, sank off of the coast of North Carolina.

Sank.

The Bounty.

It might have been just a replica built for a Hollywood movie but it was history. History that I walked upon and touched. History that introduced my girls to Marlon Brando. History that now lies at the bottom of the ocean.

Sure it isn't as tragic as the loss of the Titanic or the Lusitania. It isn't as pressing as the flooding in New York - my home state - or the tens of thousands without power. But I'm sad about it nonetheless. Maybe because there aren't many tall ships left in this world of gas and metal. Maybe because The Bounty represented a time and age that I long to be a part of.

Here's a blurb from CNN that shows rescue footage of three of the crew members and another from the Washington Post.

I wrote about the Bounty a few months ago when it docked in St. Augustine and the we took a tour walking the deck where Marlon Brando and Johny Depp walked - not that I'm a big fan of Depp but yeah it was used in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies too.

A Funk Explained.

Before I even push back the covers and sit up, I know that my period has started. In the bathroom, I confirm it, slightly pink-tinged underwear and blood on the tissue.

I start to cry as I wash my hands.

Scott calls through the door, “You okay?”

I’ve woken him with my tears.

“Fine,” I sniffle, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Alright.” A moment’s pause and then, “You need a towel?”

I nod, knowing he can’t see me but not trusting my ability to talk without crying more. I know the pause was his sleep clouded head registering why I am taking a shower. I never take a shower first except on days when I have my period.

I turn the water on and steam soon fills the small room. Scott taps on the door just as I pull the shower curtain closed shutting me into my own private space. The door opens a crack and without him saying anything, I know he is hanging a clean towel on the rack for me. He pushes the door shut with a soft click as he leaves.

In the shower the hot water beats on my back and I let the sobs I was denying take over. My eyes sting and I can’t seem to catch my breath; I gasp and lean against the tiles letting the water wash the tears from my face. I know that if Scott hasn’t gone into the kitchen yet, he can hear me. Although he is use to the tears now, I try to stop.

This is ridiculous, I tell myself, we aren’t even trying. 

But every month it is the same, hoping against hope that an accident will happen even though I monitor my cycle like a scientist with an experiment. I chart, I take my temperature, figure and refigure, count days and track symptoms. I have to. It is a habit now forged when I took medication that would have damaged or killed any life within me.

Eight years I spent taking rat poison daily until finally I had enough and begged my doctor to help me find an alternative. When he refused, I stopped seeing him and started a holistic regiment of vitamins and minerals that achieve the same results.

Eight years I spent knowing I couldn’t…shouldn’t do what I so desperately wanted to do. I stopped talking about it after the first year. It hurt too much. I focused on work and crafts and anything else just to not think about a baby. I told myself all manner of lies to make myself feel better about not having more children.

A month ago, I was out to dinner with my mom, sister and nephew, when my recent back trouble was at the most painful. I squirmed all through dinner – sitting hurt far more than standing. As we were getting ready to leave, my sister suggested that I try leaning on the railing of the deck where we ate and let my hips and legs just dangle to alleviate some of the pain.

Willing to try anything at that point, I did as she suggested to no avail. By back hurt just as much and I felt silly hanging on the railing.

“You and your odd hips!” my sister joked.

“They aren’t odd,” I said patting my hips as we made our way back into the restaurant proper, “I’ve got good child birthing hips.”

She gave me a funny look. “You do,” She said. “You should have had more children. You’re a good mom.”

Thankfully she looked away because otherwise she’d have seen the tears start to well in my eyes.

This morning I wake up after, once again, a night filled with dreams of pregnancy. I have them four and five times a month, usually between ovulation and the start of my period. I touch my stomach and sigh. The clock reads 6:21. I must have hit the snooze a half dozen times trying to stay in my dreams. Scott is making noise in the kitchen and soon I know he will come in to drag me out of bed.

While he is dressing, I tell him of my dream; he shakes his head and tells me I need to find a job or more hobbies to keep me occupied. But his gaze doesn’t meet my eyes. He tells me this because he too wants another child and it is easier sometimes to ignore the yearning. 

We’ve talked about it before, having more children. Had I not been diagnosed with PE shortly after Cyra was born neither of us doubt there would have been more children.

Twice in the past year, when alcohol muddied our senses and gave us cause to not think or worry, we played the two week waiting game. Twice I spent two weeks holding my breath, hoping, dreaming, thinking about names, picking out color schemes for a baby afghan. Twice Scott spent two weeks asking me how I felt, looking at my stomach, telling me “it is what it is,” then grinning as he suggests boys names.

In a few months Cyra will be 10, a few months after that Ashleigh turns 16. Maybe I am yearning now because my girls are growing up and I miss the babies and toddlers and little girls that they were. Maybe, as oft cited in magazines, my biological clock has kicked it into overdrive…hyper-speed. Maybe I am already anticipating an empty nest.

Maybe.

But I doubt it.

Awkward

You know how when you haven't seen a friend in a while and then you see them and say something innoccuous like, "Oh yeah, I'll totally give you a call next week and we'll get together" and then a week passes and you think, "Hey! I need to call so-and-so," but you don't because you get distracted by everyday living and other shiny things.

And then another week slips past.

And then a few weeks become a month or longer.

And then you kind-of feel awkward about picking up the phone to call because, really, did you actually have a valid reason for not calling? And how do you explain you couldn't call because...you know...laundry and junk.

So more time passes and it gets easier to justify not calling but you feel like a total heel because you are supposed to be friends.

And then other people tell you you really need to call so-and-so because they miss you and you feel even more like a tool.

Yeah.

Blogging is like that.

Exactly like that.

But stay tuned, my friends, I am writing again. Finally. And recent fun has resulted in a better mood and a lifting of the funk curtain that has been blocking the sun.

W is for Wishes

I’d like to take a break from my favorite memories today and talk, just for a minute, about a few memories I wish I had.

My grandmother, if she were still alive, would be 85 today. My last memories of her are from Christmas in 1991. My nephew was a year old and Grandmother came to visit us. He was the first great grandchild and the only one she ever got to meet. She took such delight in him, holding him, snuggling him, talking to him and responding to his baby babble. Although my nephew has no memory of this, I am nevertheless jealous that she knew him but not my children.

I wish my grandmother could have watched me graduate from high school and later from college.

I wish my grandmother could have met my daughters.

I wish I had more time with my grandmother to hear her stories and make more memories.

I wish I could remember her voice and her laugh.