This isn't a "Real Post." Seriously.

In my mind, I've been off fighting pirates in the Caribbean, making life-altering crafts out of pine cones and duct tape, saving the world from alien Bigfoot invaders (again) and baking the heck out of some nice crusty bread.

In my mind, that is. The truth and reality is never that exciting and excuses are so 2012. So I'd like to just jump right into things, pretending that I've not been ignoring my blog so much as...

Heck. I can't even come up with a good "so much as."

Forget it. I said this isn't a real post and it's not. I just wanted to take a minute from my excruciatingly normal and slightly boring day to give a couple of shout outs. It seems in my absence I've gotten some Bloggy Love (that doesn't sound...dirty...does it?) and despite my utter apathy for the Internet and blogging and socialization right now, I really appreciate the recognition.

I have received no less than three Liebsters! Serious blogging love going on there and while I am in no way capable of answering all those questions or actually, really passing on the award right now, I wanted to make sure that recognitions was recognized.

So, first a big thank you to Ruby at Whispering Thoughts. She is one of my earliest followers and always has a kind word for me! She also writes some very thought provoking poetry and short stories on her blog. And she has a photo blog too!

Next a couple of bloggers at Moonkissed. New followers Hannah and Holly host a fashion, artsy blog that is cute and informative - especially to someone like me who pretty much owns nothing but jeans, tee-shirts and polos (man I love polos!).

Finally, my BFF Sara at A Bend in the Road. She is the reason I started blogging in the first place and one of my biggest fans (if I do say so myself). Sara blogs about her grief of losing her daughter Lauren, everyday life and food.  

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.

So Long Summer Plans

What started out as an Epic Summer Adventure has fizzled in cold, stark realism. The Summer of Lobster is no more. In fact, I knew it wasn’t going to happen about two months ago when a whole bunch of poop hit the fan and splattered in all directions coating everything around in six inches of yuck! Kind of like what a hippopotamus does…except with the amount of poo a herd of brachiosaurs would leave.

Without landing a job over the past year, I knew money would be tight but we had a little tucked away so that the girls and I could travel. Ashleigh planned a trip that brought us up along the New England coast sampling different lobster meals. I planned on an extended stay with some friends in my home town and seeing my brothers and their families. I planned on a few weeks at my dad’s cabin a three minute walk to the rocky beach I grew up exploring.

Somehow what I plan never seems to turn out how I want.

So, heave a sign and throw my shoulders into an exaggerated shrug. Things happen and I move on making new plans for a “staycation” (Man I hate that term! It is so fake and gross).

I probably should schedule this out but then it might feel too regimented, but here’s to the newly named The Summer of Little Cost…of The Summer of Staying Home…or The Last Summer Ever (What? It is 2012 after all and I am scrapbooking all about it). Or maybe something a little less sad sounding. Any suggestions?

On the agenda we have beaching, crafting, local sightseeing (many tourist traps in town are free for residents), a few day trips, tubing on the Ichetucknee, climbing down to the bottom of the Devil’s Millhopper and a few other things.

But the biggest thing I’ll be doing is building a for real raised garden bed out of reclaimed cinder blocks (more on that later).

I’ve not put anything down on the calendar for fear that concrete planning will result in everything going wacko again. I’m taking it day by day, hour by hour with the hope that spontaneity will conquer the summer…

Hey! What about The Summer of Spontaneity?

That works for! This summer is all about unpredictability and by the time school picks up again in August the girls will be more than ready for some serious routines and schedules!

200

My two hundredth post. It doesn’t seem like a lot. Not really. I meant to write something witty and silly. I thought about listing 200 facts about myself but decided that I was way to boring to have 200 facts. I thought about…well…honestly, the 200 hundred facts was as far as I got before I just kind of shrugged my shoulders, sighed and decided to play Sims instead.

The thing is I don’t know what is wrong with me right now. I’m not in a funk. At least, based on my last funk I’m not in one. I’m not sad or depressed or moody. I feel normal and fine. I just…

Sigh.

Maybe it is because it is the end of the year. The end of a school year, that is. And for the past twelve years I have been living a school schedule. I went from Flagler to teaching. I’ve spent more of my life in a classroom than I have anywhere else and I’m surprised to say I really miss it.

I miss my classroom. I miss my teacher friends. I miss sitting with a group of students and helping them grasp a concept they were struggling with. I miss training days. I miss watching a group of unruly 13 year olds become more poised and mature. I miss 8^th grade graduation. I miss my end-of-the-year breakfasts I started. I miss the schedule, the bells, the fire drills.

I certainly don’t miss testing days that stretched endlessly, minutes ticking by slower than sloth. I certainly don’t miss the high stakes and the pressure put upon teachers by the administrations, district and state. I really, really don’t miss the mountains of paperwork.

The end of the school year has always been celebrated. A rite, if you will, moving from one year to the next, one stage to the next, one level…The end of the year is like a level up. New knowledge, books, attitude and adventure wait. For the teacher, it is the anticipation of a new year, new lessons, new projects, new kids.

Maybe that’s what I miss.

Maybe it is as simple as that. Or as complicated.

Maybe it is a funk.

O is for Ocean

I’ve always been drawn to the ocean: the soothing lap against the shore, the invigorating crash against the rocks, the call of the seagull, and the boats bobbing across the horizon. It doesn’t surprise me at all that I live near the coast where the ocean, though not my backyard, is only a few minutes drive away. 

As an angsty teen, I would sit on the rocky beach in Maine and stare out across the water daydreaming of a future where I took to the seas like a modern day Magellan. Buoys bobbed, bright sparks of color on the blue-gray water, while lobster boats tooled across the cove. I went to the ocean when my grandfather died. Snow was still on the ground and the air was a bitter cold and I stood, my feet freezing, for hours while the adults talked about what was to be done. Years later, when my grandmother died, I sat on the flat rocks, the same rocks she sat on, and cried until my head throbbed and I was gasping for breath. The sounds of the ocean and the warmth of the sun did little to comfort me at first, but the longer I sat there the calmer I became.

My years at Flagler were half spent at the ocean shore. No longer the rocky shore of my youth, the long stretches of sandy beaches didn’t hold much appeal. I liked them okay, and sitting on the sand was pleasant enough, but without tide pools to explore or rocks to climb, I had trouble getting excited about the beach. It wasn’t until Ashleigh and started going that I learned to love the sandy beaches with the crashing waves. We learned to boogie board together. Catching waves and gliding to the shore. We bobbed together over the rolling waves waiting for just the right one. When I was pregnant with Cyra, I would drag a pile of textbooks to the beach with Ashleigh. While she played in the wave, I listened to the ocean and studied.

Today, we go to the ocean for fun and relaxation. The pounding waves still sooth my heart and I find myself drawn back to the shore to stare across the water whenever I am feeling lost or sad. All my life the call of the ocean has been strong. I dream of a time when I can sail across the ocean and explore the world.

It is unfortunate that I am stricken with mal de mer.

Angry

Lately I have had this bubble of anger sitting in my chest. I know it isn’t PMS because it has been there, ready to explode at a wrong glance, a wrong tone, a wrong breath since before the New Year. I am angry at serious and frivolous things alike. My anger isn’t directed at anyone. It is just there. Existing in a place that I am determined to keep locked down, beaten back and tamed.

I am angry

…because I let Scott convince me that it was okay to quit my job.

…because he was so good at convincing me (although to be fair, I really didn’t need much convincing).

…because I have been passed over for every single job I have applied for, even the ones I didn’t really want in the first place.

…because my best friend hurts and I am helpless.

…because I still have to budget every cent perfectly or we end up not eating or paying a bill.

…because I can’t buy my children the things they want.

…because every decision I make is based on needs versus wants.

…because I let friendships slip away and do nothing about it.

…because I can’t afford to buy chickens and rabbits yet.

…because some conversations always end in a fight no matter what I do.

…because I won’t stick to a diet or exercise routine.

…because I don’t want to disappoint my family and I know I do.

…because I feel isolated and alone.

…because I cry and can’t explain to Scott why.

…because every time I sit down to write, I end up staring at a blank screen wondering where I got this crazy idea that I could write.

…because I waste so much time doubting my own abilities.

…because I shouldn’t have to justify or defend my choices.

…because nine years ago I listened to one single doctor instead of getting a second opinion.

…because the one thing in the world that I want I don’t think I can ever have.

I am angry because I feel so very angry.

I feel wrapped up in a tornado hovering over a whirlpool right next to the edge of a black hole. And it makes me want to puke.

Anger is akin to gravity I think. A silent invisible force that you don’t really think about until BAM! There it is whipping your emotions into intense hot radiating flames that strike out without warning. Ran out of milk? No problem any other day, but today? ANGER! And that empty milk jug represents all that is wrong in the world and who the Hell can I yell at and blame because Bloody Hell there isn’t any milk for my Damn coffee. Disregard the fact that I was the one that drank the last of it yesterday at dinner when I just had to have a Black Russian.

It would be nice if we could subdue our emotions like Vulcans, but that would detract from our humanity and play into a fantasy. And my anger, petty and frivolous as it might be, is still very real and very painful and I should acknowledge it.

And now that I have, I can figure out what to do with it.

I can’t change what happens in life any more than I can change the rotation of the moon. But I can change my attitude and my emotional outlook on things. So, I might be angry right now for a variety of reasons but that certainly doesn’t mean I can’t change how I feel. I can accept the anger for what it is and work to overcome it, to turn it into something positive. As it happens I claim to like change and Scott says I thrive in chaos. The very circumstances I find myself in right now: Change and Chaos. I certainly wouldn’t mind if the universe calmed down a bit for me…smoothed out some of these rough patches that I am feeling, maybe even made something easy for me.

But maybe that’s too much to ask for, so leave off the easy part. I can deal with doing things the hard way.

And I certainly don’t mind a challenge.

So…I guess that means smooth is out too.

Sigh.

When It Isn't, It Really Is.

I have had a lot on my mind lately and for that reason I have taken a break from blogging here. No worries though, because when I have something to say I'll say it loud and clear.

Keep tuned.

The Cons of Naps

Most people who know me will not be surprised when I say I’ve got a temper. It is slow to boil (90% of the time) but when it rages it is quite out of control. Therefore, I have learned that when I know I’m mad about something and know that I will not be able to rein in my mouth before thinking, I should just be alone. When possible, I do make every attempt to isolate myself away from my family so I don’t wig out at them for something that they have nothing to do with.

So it was with no surprise, that today after a particularly pissy day with 8th graders, a pissy day trying to get ready for a District Visit and an equally pissy Early-Release training where instead of training, or at the very least something useful, we listened to a sales pitch for $500 stainless steel cookware and then got berated for not doing our jobs, for not caring about the students, for not being dedicated enough, for not…

Deep breath.

Anyway, I came home and went straight to bed. I wasn’t particularly tired, but with tears welling in my eyes as I drove home, I knew that there was no way I could handle dealing with people. I heard Scott come in and check on me a few times, I was aware of dinner; the spicy aroma of turkey tacos drifted into my room arousing me for a brief moment, but I ignored it as best I could and drifted myself on a lazy wave of near consciousness. My stomach grumbled and growled while I eased in and out of odd half dreams that could have been real except for the maniacally grinning drama mask that hovered in each scene.

Subliminal reflections on what I deal with each day? I wouldn’t be surprised.

I finally got out of bed at about 9:30, hungry, disoriented and still grouchy, although not as angry as before. Scott had cleaned the kitchen, done piles of laundry and was watching Mythbusters. I stumbled into the kitchen looking for food and found just enough taco meat for a single taco. Scott asked me if I was okay and I told him briefly about what happened. I ate my taco while cruising the net, and was entertained by Zach and Facebook pirate English. After Mythbusters, Scott went to bed, telling me not to stay up all night.

So where does this leave me? After my four and a half hour nap, I am still wide awake at 1:30, the night-morning before a major district visit and am now flipping between cheesy romance movies on USA and MonsterQuest on History because there is nothing else on. And because I am especially adept at multitasking – you know, doing a half hearted job at a multitude of things, never finishing one thing and then wondering why nothing gets done properly, I am browsing the internet for news on the Swine Flu and reading a book.

On the plus side? I managed to not freak out at my kids and didn’t explode at Scott for anything.