Burn Barrel Romance

Scott is an early-to-bed-early-to-rise person out of necessity. He has a very physical job and while he isn’t old, he isn’t young anymore either (neither am I for that matter, being a year older than he is). By eight o’clock most nights he is in jammies and ready for bed. So when we came home after Cyra’s concert last week and Scott put his yard work clothes back on I was more than surprised.

“What are you up to,” I asked him as he slipped he shoes on.

“I’m going go burn things and drink a beer…or maybe two. Want to join me?”

“Sure. Sounds fun.”

There’s something about sitting in front of a fire with Scott that makes my insides woozy. Normally when we sit around in front of a fire it’s when we are off camping and marshmallows are involved. Not romantic, per se, but nice enough. And making a big fire in the burn barrel, while it might not involve s’mores, is fun nevertheless.

The moon and stars peeked through a mostly overcast sky and I dragged our two Adirondack chairs into the yard while Scott began building the fire. By the time I brought our drinks out – a nice IPA for Scott and a good cup of Earl Grey for me (ironically although the selling and drinking of beer is our main source of income, I don’t particularly care for the taste) Scott had a good size blaze going.

We turned off the flood lights and sat in the glow of the barrel, quietly sipping our drinks. Cyra, her bundle of nerves exhausted from the concert, had collapsed into bed soon after we arrived home and Ashleigh was glued to the internet, giggling over The Meta Picture and fan-girling to manga. The neighborhood was quiet except for the billions of frogs in the pond out front and the occasionally barking of a dog.

I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow Scott and I ended up having a date night: out of the house, in front of a roaring fire, sharing a drink, and no kids around? Sounds like a date to me. So what that it was in the backyard and mosquitoes the size of Cessnas buzzed around us despite the heavy dose of bug spray and citronella candles.

And somehow, magically, we ended up breaking one of our cardinal rules: never, ever, talk religion or politics.

Our views are so vastly different that we don’t even try to come to a common ground anymore. We just accept that we will never see eye to eye on certain things and so those subjects are not permitted. But on this magical, burn barrel date we talked religion. And, even more surprising, it didn’t end in a fight.

I must be maturing.

I don't know exactly how the subject came up, but it all came down to the way we met. Scott claims fate: some force led us to make the choices that led us to meet – he draws the line at calling predestination (even though it certainly sounded like that to me) claiming that just because we were fated to meet didn’t mean, necessarily, that we were fated to be together.

It reminded me of my days back at Flagler when I took a Milton class (you know, Paradise Lost, that guy). Oh the debates that I demanded we have in class (remember, Sara?) all the arguments I brought up about free will versus predestination to the point where the professor had to tell me to give it a rest.

But I couldn’t. It bugs me even today. If the god you believe in is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving then you cannot have free will because he already knows what you are going to do and you can’t prove an omnipotent being false so therefore you have no choice but to do what has already been seen. That, my friends, is predestination.

Whoops!

I’m breaking my no religion, no politics rule here too! Yikes!

Back to the story! My argument is that if we were destined to meet, then all of our choices along the way are trivialized because it wouldn’t matter what choice we made, we’d still have ended up meeting. Scott argues that my view only works if our meeting is the be all end all of those choices. It got more convoluted as the evening wore on. We teased and laughed, joked and smiled. There may have been some kissing too - but I don't kiss and tell!

Regardless of the conversation, I am more than happy with the choices that led me to Scott. Whether it was predestination, fate handing us a road map, or just simple coincidence, without Scott I wouldn't have my girls, my BFF Sara, or a million wonderful memories and moments with a man I can't imagine my life without.

And that, my Friends, I wouldn't change for the world!

Christmasy Stuff

DISCLAIMER: The following post contains frank discussion about my beliefs and feelings regarding religion. I don’t often discuss serious things here and I’m sure I’ll go back to posting silly stories soon. Please read with caution.

I knew in elementary school that my family was different from other families because if a sleepover at a friend’s house ended on a Sunday morning I would be dropped off at home early so my friend could go to church. Sometimes though I tagged along; I sat on the hard backed benches and watched the people around me. They were always dressed up like they were going to a wedding. It made me uncomfortable because I was not and I knew that I was the odd one out. I stared at the stained glass windows in awe at the beauty of them. I followed along with what my friend did. If she stood or sat or kneeled, so did I. But I didn’t understand a thing.

I knew who Jesus was. We celebrated his birthday every year. And I played with the Nativity every year. I loved the little sheep and donkeys. I loved moving baby Jesus around, trying him out in different places before finally putting him back in front of Mary. I knew the basic story – I watched all the Christmas specials each year and Linus explained it succinctly every single time. I loved Christmas time. It was the only birthday party I knew of where the guests got all the good presents! And boy did Santa bring me great gifts.

I started paying a bit more attention in middle school. My friends talked about church and I listened. They went to Sunday school and confirmation classes. They spoke of accepting Jesus as their Lord and Savior. I wanted to understand. I wanted to belong. One night, I took my mom’s old King James Bible with its fancy thou’s and ye’s and I read it. Well, I skimmed it to get the general idea.

But I was skeptical about the whole Jesus is God thing. Actually, I was skeptical about the whole book. None of it made sense to me. Right about that time I was big into archaeology and paleontology. I was dumbfounded that the bible made no mention of dinosaurs. That it didn’t explain cave paintings and artifacts from civilizations that came ten thousand years before. I put the King James Version away and left it at that. It didn’t make sense and therefore it was of no use to me.

By eighth grade I knew. Well. I didn’t know, know. I had an inkling, a tickle in the back of my mind that I was somehow different from my friends. I didn’t know there was a name for it but I knew. I was a nonbeliever.

In college many of my friends were quite open about their religious beliefs and after learning about my skepticism, encouraged me to attend church and mass with them. I willing went along. I wanted to understand and maybe, back then, I wanted to believe. I mean I believed in aliens, Bigfoot and the possibility of a Loch Ness monster so why was it so hard for me to believe that an all powerful, all knowing, all loving being watched over us? Why was it so hard to accept that Jesus was the Lord and Savior? There wasn’t any real proof of aliens yet I readily jumped on that bandwagon. So what was the deal? It wasn’t until I dropped out, pregnant with Ashleigh and moved home that I really started looking at my beliefs.

Maybe I was searching for a meaning. Maybe I was confused by my sister’s sudden interest in the church when we were raised to look for answers in ourselves and in facts. I tried to understand. I went to midnight mass at St. Joseph’s on Christmas Eve that year thinking that I would find something in the pomp and circumstance of the night. And though I was near to bursting with excitement over the holiday and Ashleigh’s impending arrival, I felt more awkward then ever before. I didn’t belong in this building, I thought, with all these believers. It was hypocrisy. I didn’t…couldn’t…wouldn’t believe and yet, there I was.

When Ashleigh was three and I went back to college I decided to study religion, philosophy and history alongside with my English curriculum. Maybe, I thought, if I understood religion from a factual sense, then I…I don’t know what I expected. But the more I learned, the more I questioned and the more I questioned the more I realized that religion would not be something I would ever benefit from.

History showed too many problems sprouting from religion, too many misunderstandings, too many battles, too many deaths. It didn’t matter what religion or beliefs one espoused the end result was bad. Philosophy introduced me the Euthyphro dilemma – is something good because it is inherently good or because a god says it is good? My religion professor, a deeply religious man himself, made us dig for the historical aspects of the biblical text and asked us to question each verse.

Studying made me question all over again but this time it wasn’t about finding faith it was about how I was raising my daughter.

I gave a few brief thoughts about not celebrating Christmas anymore. I thought if I could eighty-six it when Ashleigh was young, she wouldn’t feel like she was missing out on anything. But then I thought about all the fun that Christmas is: the decorating, the celebrating, the presents. Sure there is a religious meaning behind it all, but Christmas is a conglomeration of different traditions that early Christians adopted to get the so-called pagans to convert. What farmer leaves his flock out in the fields on a winter night? Where in Luke does it mention an evergreen tree lit with candles or a Yule log? Guess who else was begot by a god: Hercules, Helen of Troy, and Julius Caesar.

Once I started thinking about Christmas in that sense I felt better about celebrating. In fact, I probably celebrate Christmas more enthusiastically now then I did before I got a degree. I decorate the house, I make ornaments and gifts, I love giving presents and spend a good part of the year thinking about and planning for Christmas. I start singing carols as early as August and despite my very vocal complaints about stores putting Christmas displays earlier and earlier each year, I secretly love it.

My sister a year or so ago shook her head at my while I was decorating my house, making room on the shelves for ceramic Santas that my mom painted. I was singing, giggling and just about spazzing out with joy that Christmas was coming - something that I have never outgrown.

“What?” I asked.

“You.” She said. “I don’t get how you can love Christmas this much and not believe in Jesus.”

I’m not sure how I responded. Maybe I made a witty comment or just shrugged but as the years have passed I have come to terms with my love of Christmas. Christmas isn’t just about Jesus anymore. Not really. It's about hope. The story of Jesus offers people hope. You don’t need faith to have hope. And in the middle of winter when nights are long and cold it is good to remember hope.

I will never claim that Jesus didn’t exist. There’s factual evidence. And I will never claim that I know all there is in the universe because really? It’s just too big for us to understand. And that’s alright. Besides, who am I to pass up on Birthday Cake? Yes, I celebrate the commercial side of Christmas and next to my beautiful Nativity are Santa Claus’s, nutcrackers, mistletoe, a decorated tree and many other things associated with Christmas that actually predate Christianity. When the girls ask about them meaning of Christmas I explain to them the religious and the secular, the biblical and the incorporation of other beliefs. I may not believe that Jesus was or is the son of God, I may not believe in an omniscient god and my point with this post is not to spark religious debate; in fact, I’m pretty sure that this post has moved entirely too far away from my original point I wanted to make which is:

OMFG!!! IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE!!!!!!

Photo A Day - In My Bag

I hate carrying a purse. They fall off my shoulder, they get in the way, I have to monitor where it is all the time when I'm out. It's a pain.

I used to just carry a tiny little wallet in my back pocket but then life happened and all of a sudden I needed to carry pens, loose change, inhalers and receipts. I'm not entirely sure when this happened...maybe once I landed a full time job and needed to look slightly more professional. Of course, that implies that I looked professional to begin with and let me tell you...no. Even when I am dressed for an interview I still just feel like a little kid playing dress up.

Anyway, I typically dump my purse out once a week and clean all the clutter out. The receipts and shopping lists get tossed, the change gets put into a jar, the numerous pens and pencils get whittled down to one of each and my purse is once again clean and tidy.

Interesting factoid: Once I had taken this photograph I put everything back into my purse because it isn't purse cleaning day.

Interesting factoid: Once I almost got a bigger purse but changed my mind in the checkout lane at Target because I knew that a bigger purse meant more clutter and mess.

Interesting factoid: I apply the same logic I use with a reusable shopping bag to my purse - if it doesn't fit, I don't need it. This is why I often only bring in one bag when I have to go to Target because otherwise I'll end up with a zillion things for which I have no need.

Photo A Day - Man Made

Florida is naturally a swamp so it always strikes me as funny when I see people refer to retention ditches as “ponds” or “lakes.” I used to live in a community that did this. Everyone loved talking about the lake, the fish in the lake, the ducks on the lake, the turtles basking by the lake. It was a complete mystery to me this obsession with a man-made lake. Sure it had a natural aspect to it but to go on about it as though the builders had found a pristine lake and built around it was sort of silly to me.

Florida is like that, a man-made state. Without the development of air conditioning, dredging and draining the swamps no one would want to live in here…at least year round anyway. I think perhaps, especially along the coast, people forget what nature really is. Maybe today man-made nature is the more improved version of nature. Nature 2.0? One step closer to living in a complete virtual environment? Even going to a state park one cannot escape the influence of man-made: roads cut through the trees, fences line the perimeter, trails are blazoned with signs and information, campsites are outfitted with running water and electricity.

Sorry. Slippery slope, I know, and this blog is anything but a tool for social reform or commentary. I am far too shallow non-confrontational for that.

Last year Cyra joined a golfing program and has since fallen in love with the sport. The other day during one of her last lessons for the fall session I followed her around the three-hole practice course snapping photo after photo, paparazzi style, capturing her in action.

When I decided to participate in the photo challenge this month, I made a point to be aware of the different themes so that I could grab photos as they came. And as I was following Cyra around, the beautiful settling of the golf course – and really, golf courses are very pretty and well maintained – struck me as being off.

It’s a natural environment modified by man to suit a purpose. Hence man-made nature. Oxymoron? Perhaps. But it fits the category. 

Here is the course with a water hazard and on the far side a bunker.

The retention ditch...I mean pond. Lake. Whatever. It's man made and that's what counts regardless of how many fish, birds or alligators live within it.

Quiet Time

I’ve been quiet lately. Censoring myself, really. Because I am not writing an anonymous blog there are things that I will not and can’t write about. Well, write about and post here, anyways. Sometimes I think that maybe I should have instead created an anonymous blog but then I remember that many of the things that I like to write about – the Girls, my family and friends – are things that I want my family and friends to read.

So I don’t often put up too much of my feelings here. I try to stick with funny, silly stories about little things that happen, my experiences with the girls, the world through their eyes. But I also don’t want to be just a mommy blogger because I am more than that too. I like to bake and craft, explore the world and discover new…stuff. And I like sharing that as well. I blog about quiet things, daily life and adventures. I’m good with that.

Except sometimes.

Sometimes there are so many problems running through my head I’m sure that I’ll explode if I don’t talk about them. Sometimes I get so mad at the girls because of something they did or didn’t do (in the case of the teenager) that I want to yell and scream and rant at them. Sometimes my family irritates me to no end and I want to complain. Sometimes life throws me such a curve ball that there isn’t anyway I’ll be able to hit it in time.

All those times I write down. I tell.

But not here because that stuff, those emotions are private.

I don’t rant about work because even if I was working, it wouldn’t be professional. I don't set out to upset or offend anyone with my words and I try not to write anything that I would be embarrassed if my Mom read it.

So, for the past few weeks I’ve just been keeping things to myself. Problems and emotions that are mine will stay mine. No emotional rants, No bits exposed. Having a gazillion followers was not my intention when I started out as a blogger. I had ideas of just keeping in touch with friends and family but then I discovered something: an amazing community of people with stories and tales of their own. Bloggers who develop dialogues and friendships. Bloggers who expose me to new ideas and new ways of thinking. Bloggers who, although from different corners of the world and different backgrounds, can relate to something that I wrote.

So even though it wasn’t my intention, I’ve found that I quite like the friends that I’ve made here and I hope that they don’t mind too much while I’m quiet, because I promise – I’ll even pinky swear – that I don’t stay too quiet for long. I’ve got stories and plan on telling them…it’s just taking me a bit longer than I anticipated.

BRB

Well...two months of back to back challenges have gone by.

First, in March I did fatmumslim's Photo A Day Challenge - which, FYI, I loved! Tremendously. I really enjoy photography and I loved posting everyday. Just putting up a picture made my determination to blog more often a reality. It is a happy habit now.

Then, April's Blogging A to Z Challenge. That one wiped me out a bit. I am working on a reflection post (as per Da Rules) that will be up on (or around) May 7th.

Next up?

Well...I'm going to take a break for a few days. Refresh and renew, so to speak. Then I'll get back to my quasi posting schedule of Friday Photos and I Made It Monday. I'm thinking about adding a Wacky Wednesday where anything goes. I'll also get back to doing some Trifecta and Write On Edge posts as well. Does that mean I'll be on a strict schedule? Probably not. I really don't like schedules as they are far too much like corsets: strict, confining, inflexible.

I want to give a shout out to all my new followers and everyone who stopped by during the challenges. Thank you all so much!! Thank you for following. Thank you for commenting. Thank you for being awesome! It's great having people along for the ride!

Stretching my Wings even further than before!

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.

Letter Box

I did some much needed early Spring cleaning this week and came across a tattered and worn cardboard box, you know the kind you store your income taxes in. Tucked into the bottom of my closet, covered with a stack of extra blankets this box has seen the inside of many master bedroom closets. With each move and unpacking, this box has followed me for nearly two decades. Of course, two decades ago it was just a small shoe box. Somewhere around 30 I adopted a larger, sturdier box.

Knowing that with the tight quarters our new house has, I decided to transfer the contents of the old box into an even sturdier plastic storage container. I had an extra one left over from Christmas (I repacked all of our Christmas decorations in new boxes this year since we have to store them outside) so while I was cleaning I took an hour to go through the old box before moving the contents to a new home.

I opened the cover of the box and smiled at all the greeting cards and letters that date back from the time when I was in middle school. Graduation cards, birth announcements, Christmas cards and letters from friends I’ve not seen or heard of in years all stacked in messy piles within the box.

Memories. Tangible memories from years past.

So many cards from family members I can’t even list them all! Hundreds of cards I imagine, though I have never counted them and only three birthday cards bare my grandmother’s signature. I’m sure I got more from her, she saw fifteen of my birthdays, but for some reason only those three made it into the box.

I worked for a semester before I started college and I have letters from Bridget telling me what a strange new world college was. Cards and letters from Cindy, a friend that I regret not keeping in touch with, telling me about her wild dating adventures. Birthday cards from Heather, hand made on her computer. I still have a Bob Ross inspired painted she made me hanging in my bedroom.

Each year new cards get reverently placed on top of the pile, birthday and Christmas cards mostly, but occasionally a letter or a “Thinking of you” card.

As I was going through, I remembered another box filled with just letters. This one though is just a small cardboard photo storage box – like a shoebox, that sits on a shelf in my Craftway. This one too has been through a number of moves and always gets placed where I have easy access to it. A few precious letters from my husband, a handful from a high school friend, and all the letters from my very oldest friend, Ericka, and my closest friend, Sara, all tied together with ribbons, each bundle from a different person.

 

Sara wrote to me while she was in Japan. Although she was not about to write everyday to mimic our daily conversations, she wrote long, detailed letters. Every time a thick letter was shoved though my mail slot, I would start tearing up even before I opened it because I missed her so much. Her letters are precise, thoughtful and insightful observations about Japanese culture, her loves and complaints about work and the new foods she was discovering. She writes so much like she talks and thinks, that it was easy to imagine her sitting next to me telling me about her experiences. Little details that I’m sure I would forget she spins into vibrant vivid descriptions like the story-teller she is.

Ericka’s letters have come at random intervals since just before high school graduation. Each time I get a letter from her I let out a “squee” of joy. Envelopes are decorated with stickers and drawings or pictures that she cut out of magazines and glued on. Her letters are short and poignant detailing her life and asking about the girls. Occasionally a mention of some silly thing we did as kids gets tossed in: concoctions, secret codes, Cabbage Patch Kids, so many shared memories. I can hear her voice in each letter and each one brings with it a bevy of happy memories.

My new 27 quart plastic box for letters gives me some extra space. At 75% capacity, I think I have another five or ten years to fill it up. I look forward to the day when I will need to move up to a bigger box. Letters are a tangible, permanent connection. I might not keep in touch with people like I should but trust me when I say, each card, each postcard, each letter means something and gets tucked away. Writing letters is so personal you can’t help but feel special when you get one. An unexpected letter from a friend is like sunshine, rainbows and unicorns exploding out of the mailbox.

 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a letter to write.

On Being Naive.

A few days ago, a comment was made about my eldest daughter that really bothered me. Not so much that it was said or said unfairly or was even a negative comment – it certainly wasn’t intended as such although I perceived it as so. But it bothered me because it made me question how I am raising my children.

“She’s so naïve,” the person said.

“Just because she doesn’t talk about stuff, doesn’t mean she doesn’t know about it,” I replied.

The conversation essentially ended with that as merry-making was pursued but in the back of my mind my thoughts have since been lingering on this icicle of doubt slowly drip drip dripping into a bucket of concern.

I don’t want her to be naïve, I thought. Being naïve is like being ignorant or stupid. She’s certainly not stupid, I grumbled to myself. But the more I thought about it the more I wondered if I had done a disservice to my children by keeping what I deemed inappropriate topics at bay, by letting them stay children for as long as they could. Finally, I worked myself into such an angsty panic that I looked up the actual definition of naïve.

na•ive (adj.)

1. having or showing unaffected simplicity of nature or absence of artificiality; unsophisticated; ingenuous.
2. having or showing a lack of experience, judgment, or information; credulous: She's so naive she believes everything she reads. He has a very naive attitude toward politics.
3. having or marked by a simple, unaffectedly direct style reflecting little or no formal training or technique: valuable naive 19th-century American portrait paintings.
4. not having previously been the subject of a scientific experiment, as an animal.

Source: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/naive

I read through it a couple times and eliminated the 3rd and 4th definitions as having no connection to the answer I was looking for. The other two, however, can and do apply. Here’s what I get out of this definition: all naïve means is that a person is not “worldly” or that they haven’t gone through a lot of experiences. Also, look at that phrase, absence of artificiality, and really think about it. We are overrun with artificiality. Reality TV that is nowhere near “real,” political pundits spinning a story to suit their purpose, celebrities! Is artificiality more valuable than honesty now? Is weaving a lie a better skill to learn than speaking the truth? Is being artificial what we should strive for?

As I turned this definition over and over I kept coming back to one really important fact: Ashleigh is 15. She is naïve in the strictest sense of the word as she is has not experienced worldly things. She is just 15. By the very nature of being 15 she can not help not knowing things. She hasn’t been alive long enough to experience all the world has to offer. I am 35 and I can’t say that I consider myself “worldly and experienced.”

At 15 my world view was extremely narrow. I saw school and I saw home. At 15, like most 15 year olds, I just knew that I knew all there was in the world worth knowing. I didn’t start following politics until I was 18 when I had a reason to understand them. I didn’t start following world events until they affected me. I didn’t start really looking at the world and having “worldly” experiences until college. At 35, I am content to say I am still learning. I have a lifetime of knowledge ahead of me because there are still a lot of things I am, by definition, naïve about.

Ashleigh is an honest kid; there is nothing artificial about her. She isn’t deceptive or demeaning to others. She wants to believe the best of everyone, but knows that people will disappoint and hurt her. She doesn’t like unfairness and thinks that everyone should have the same rights but knows that rights aren’t always equal. She questions things she doesn’t understand and refuses to follow a crowd. She is playful. She knows to stay out of a dark alley but she knows how to protect herself if she’s in a jam. She understands that there are monsters in the world and they look just like the neighbor down the street or the smiling checkout person at the store. She makes mistakes and owns up to the consequences of her actions. She’s more concerned with school than with sex. She doesn’t follow politics or religion but she watches the news and reads articles so I know she’s learning. She does the right thing because it is the right thing to do.

And I taught her all that. Not a preacher or a book, not a movie or game. Me. I’m the overprotective parent who still previews movies before she watches them, who questions her on all the books she reads, and who wants to meet her friends before she hangs out with them. I’m the one who insists on family dinners and wholesome TV and game night. Not because I have my head in the clouds and want to live in the past, but because children are only children for a fraction of a second. Do they really need sex and murder and crime shoved into their lives? They know it exists, they’ve seen it on the news. We don’t pretend the bad doesn’t exist, but we spend our time looking for the good.

If all that adds up to her being naïve, then I am all for it.

Call me protective. I am. Call me naïve. I am. Call my children naïve and I’ll nod my head and agree, because they are.

At 15 there is plenty of time for her to grow and gain knowledge and experience. Before long, Ashleigh will be off to college, traveling the world and living her own life. I get her for 20 years give or take a few. She’ll be alive for another 60 to 80 years. Maybe one day, she’ll consider herself worldly but for now, let her be naïve. Let her be a kid.

Jumping In

Back in 5th grade we had an end of the year field trip to Moriello Pool. Moriello Pool, like any other community pool, had concession stand, a slide, a kiddie pool, two diving boards and a playground. The highlight of the end of year celebrations, we always looked forward to the trip.

Clear blue skies, soaring temperatures made the day seem perfect and endless. A group of us gathered along the edge of the pool near the deep end and set up our towels and our boom box (yes, it was that long ago). The lifeguards made us swim a lap across the deep end in order to test our swimming ability. Anyone who couldn’t make a lap had to stay in the shallow end.

My friends and I easily pass the exam and spent the next hour splashing and jumping, playing Marco Polo, giggling. There was a lot of giggling. After a while we all got out to lie on our towels and watch the other kids still in the pool. Many kids more adventurous than I were taking turns on the high dive. We laugh as they plough into the water more often than not flat on their stomachs.

Not to be outdone by our classmates we make the choice to each take a turn diving. One by one, we file over to the high dive. Soaring twenty feet above the surface of the water I stare up at it as the line slowly moves forward. I’ve always been nervous about heights. Not so much the being off the ground part, but the falling to my death part.

I count the kids in front of me. Ten more until my turn, five, four, three, Oh my God two, Jeez what the hell was I thinking one… Crap, my turn.

I place my hands on the ladder.
One foot on a rung.
Two feet on the rung.
Hands moving up.
Climbing.
Gulping.
Breathing.
Looking down.
Five feet off the ground.
Hand, hand.
Foot, foot.
Up and up.
Breath.
Ten feet.
Fifteen feet.
Breath.
Hand, hand.
Oh My God, the top.

I’m on the top. My hands clench the railing and turn white. I look down again. Big mistake. I back up a little my heel skims the edge of the board. I know the rungs are right there. I can just climb back down. Back to the ground and I’ll be fine. I look down. Three of my friends still wait below. Two of my friends cling to the side of the pool watching.

I feel like I’m in a movie when everything slows down. Seconds feel like minutes and each thud of my heart rattles my ribcage. Chlorine stings my nose and shrieks, giggles and squeals of laughter are drawn out and echo across the pool.

I look down again and my best friend smiles up at me and nods. She knows how scared I am. She knows that I want to climb back down. And I know that if I do climb back down she won’t think anything less of me.

I move to put my foot back on the top ladder rung, but stop a mere inch before my toes touch. My best friend might not think any less of me. The other kids might tease me about being scared. And that isn’t a big deal.

My mom raised me to not worry about what others think. It’s what I think that matters to me. And I know that if I climb back down the ladder, I would disappoint myself.

I put my foot back on the board. I took a shuffling step forward. One foot after the other, my hands edging along the railing until there was no more railing. I slide my feet along, letting go of the railing. As I make my way to the end of the board each step the board flexes and bows beneath my feet. I reach the end of the board. Bouncing gently, both feet on the board, arms outstretched for balance.

I push down a bit with my feet and come up on my toes. Push down. Come up. Push down. Jump out. The board disappears. Wind whistles across my face. My eyes screw shut. My stomach drops — No. I drop. Feet first. Arms out and up. I gulp in air. I scream. I suck in a lungful of air. My feet hit the water and then I’m under. I slow down, pause, my feet start scissor kicking, propelling me up, my arms pulling through the water.

I break the surface, gasp and shake the hair and water from my face. I look up at the board. My best friend stands on the end and with only the slightest of hesitation plunges in.

She surfaces near me and we swim to the edge of the pool.

“I didn’t think you were going to do it,” she says. “You looked like you were going to throw up.”

“I felt like I was going to throw up.” I tell her.

“But you did it.” She smiles at me and hoists herself out of the water onto the concrete. “Want to go again?”

“Nope,” I tell her. “One risk a day is plenty for me.”

Back then jumping off the high dive at the community pool seemed daring and life altering. I was a risk-taker, Damn it! And I could do anything!

Now, risk taking seems more weighted, more intense and important. Taking a risk must be weighed against what is best for my family. And despite all assurances, taking a risk is more than just jumping off a diving board.

I want to take the risk. I want to jump in fully committed with my eyes open and no hesitations this time.

But if I screw up…

If I can’t make it work…

Two tiny letters. One HUGE concept.

If.

Back And Better Than Before. Probably.

I’ve been in dark places before. Back in high school I went through a stupid dark place.

I haven’t posted here in a while because I was once again in a dark place and I had no interest in blogging about it. I still don’t, so don’t look for me to go into the details now.

But I am coming back to myself, I think, with a new location, a new attitude and a new purpose. I’m ready to talk again, ready to write here again.

I hope you’ll come along for the ride it is sure to be exciting…at the very least quirky and maybe even entertaining. There’ll be adventures in parenting, writing, teaching, crafting, gardening and maybe some chickens.

Cheers,
Heather

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.

All Of A Sudden

School has started and my Summer of Bumdom has come to a sudden halt.

All of a sudden, I have to do things again…Make lunches, iron clothes, do laundry in a timely manner, make sure the children are clean, check homework, sign planners, write lesson plans…my days have gone back to unending.

All of a sudden, there aren’t enough hours in the day and every little thing seems to manifest into a much larger problem than one would image. Minor insignificant things like food consumption become monumentous*.

All of a sudden, getting out of bed and eating breakfast, once a leisurely activity involving giggles and morning tickles, has morphed into a bleary-eyed stumble down stairs and into walls kind of affair. Making lunches demands forethought and planning at an hour far too early for either. Let us not even discuss the chaos that is dinner!

All of a sudden time becomes important and I am once again telling time by PBS morning cartoons. Between the Lions becomes “Please do not take 30 minutes to eat half a cup of cereal” time. Maya & Miguel becomes “go get dressed right now or else” time. Arthur becomes “Do you have everything together cause we’ve got to go right now” time.

All of a sudden, everything is a big rush.

All of a sudden, I realize once again how precious every little moment is…reading Cyra a story at bedtime, tucking Ashleigh in after she’s already asleep because she is “too grown-up” for tucking in, playing a card game after dinner…

It is these moments, of course, that all of a sudden, I remember mean more than what they are.


*Yeah, I made up a word, but that’s okay because I have a degree.

Birthday Thoughts

I was working on a post about the Birthday Fiesta O’ Fun, but everything I wrote seemed insignificant or overly sappy, neither of which were very helpful at expressing what I was feeling.

So in a succinct explanation: Sara’s birthday is ten days away, mine eleven. This will be the first year in seven years that Sara and I will not be celebrating our birthdays together.

It feels…wrong.

I knew that Sara wouldn’t be able to come back to Florida this summer, so I knew that a BFOF was unlikely, but I didn’t really consider the consequences. And so now my birthday is nearly here and I’m just not digging it.

Penis in the Sky

I was driving to the zoo today to pick up the girls from their first day of zoo camp when I saw the most fantastic cloud formation ever: a circumcised penis. I only wish I had my camera so I could have snapped a shot and submitted it Accidentaldong.blogspot.com.

This lofty formation made me laugh and I grabbed my cell phone wanting to call someone and tell them about it. Then suddenly, in a moment of odd, quiet reflection, as I stared at my phone, I realized that I didn’t have anyone I could call with that tidbit of hilarity.

Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of friends. Friends that would get a kick out of a cloud shaped penis, but friends who would shake their heads and roll their eyes at my immaturity.

And then I remembered a thought I had as I was driving home from dropping the kids off this morning: I don’t have anyone to go play with. A whole day sans kids and I didn’t have anyone to share it with. So I went home and did laundry and other respectable grown-up things.

Putting the two thoughts together drove me to a third and final thought: being an adult sucks which is why, I think, that I shall never act my age.

Cheers,
Heather

It's Like Tom Petty Said

This month marks the tenth anniversary of my move to Florida.

When I first moved down here in 2000 with Ashleigh and Amanda, I told my family that it was not a permanent move. I was going to finish college and return. I didn’t want Ashleigh growing up without my family around and I certainly knew that I was not going to like living in Florida long term- I’m a small town, north-eastern girl at heart and besides, Florida is just too damn hot!

But a strange thing happened. My mom and my sister followed me down. And on the one hand it was good. It was nice to have family around when I was in a pitch. They offered a solid rock I could ground myself to in a jam. But on the other hand, I felt almost obligated to stay. They followed me down here, I thought, and that’s not nothing. So I stayed too.

I took a full-time, permanent job teaching 8th grade. I sunk roots into a house that I thought would be a home. I tried to be a member of a community. I became a Girl Scout leader.

But five years later, the job is still just a job. I’m certainly not passionate about it and it is not something that I see myself doing for the rest of my life. I can teach. I’ve no problem with that. But I’m apathetic about it. I’ve never really cared about it. For me, it’s a paycheck. And if it were any other job I don’t think it would matter as much. But as a teacher? I should be passionate and excited about it. That’s the kind of teacher kids need.

The house is still just a house – one that I wish I could get rid of as it is taking everything we have to keep us afloat. Caught in that stupid bubble, I now have a house worth 60K less than what we purchased it for, so there is not hope of selling it right now. Plus, it takes my entire salary to pay for it, so we have no extra money for anything. Honestly, if I hadn’t been raised with the morals I was, I would have already walked away from it.

I’ve learned, not without some help, that a home isn’t a place. You can’t put “home” on a map. The family is what makes wherever you are a home, be that a mansion, an apartment, an RV, or a cardboard box. It’s the “who” that counts, not the where or what.

I think what it comes down to really is this: A decade is a long time to be in one place. I’ve got this itchiness in my feet. This feeling that I have overstayed my welcome in Florida. What was meant to be a three or four year stint tops, has stretched into this, long inescapable road with no exits. Well, I will not be corralled into a future that isn’t where I want to be. And if I can’t find an exit, well, I guess it is time for me to forge one myself.

And so as Tom Petty sang, “Under my feet, baby, the grass is growing, yeah, its time to move on, time to get going.”

Blogging Without a Doubt

Why I am not blogging right now?

I could blame my lack of blogging on an extreme schedule of international intrigue or volunteering for the Peace Corp, but after a good few seconds of contemplation, I realized that no one would buy those reasons, so it makes sense to stick with the truth. Except for the fact that I’m not really sure what that is.

I have been busy. That’s true enough. The end of the school year is always packed with craziness that makes it hard for me to focus on anything but the end of the year, but honestly, I didn’t really feel that this year. If anything, I moseyed through it, not even worrying about packing my room, or cleaning. I did it methodically, mechanically. It just was.

Girls Scouts has been taking a huge chunk of my time. Yeah, that’s true as well. But that isn’t something I mind carving time for. I might not “love” being so involved with the Scouts all the time, but the girls love it and therefore I love being a part of that. And if that includes worrying over troop finance and why parents aren’t paying their dues, well, it’s part and parcel.

I’ve been crafty. Hoo Boy is that true!! I was determined to finish a scrapbook about last summer and I did. Of course, I sacrificed sleep and time from other things, but it was totally worth it. I finished a HUGE project! And it turned out really nice, if I say so myself. And scrapbooking is something I really enjoy. But I’ve also been crocheting like mad and working on other minor projects. It’s in my blood, I think, the craftiness I mean. I don’t feel right in my “free” time unless I am working on something (free time here is defined by anytime I am not spending with the girls or at work).

I’ve been reading. And honestly, re-reading. As I’ve gotten older and approaching another birthday I’ve been thinking about more philosophical things…living a good life, being just…the nature of zombies…that sort of thing, so I’ve been indulging in my philosophy books. Currently on my bedside table, The Republic, Brave New World, Sophie’s World, and The Undead and Philosophy.

I want to be able to say that I have been writing, but I can’t. I mean really, I haven’t even blogged (obviously). I haven’t looked at a story since god knows when. I’ve had ideas that I’ve jotted down, snippets of a conversation that some of my characters could have, descriptions of locations and people. But I haven’t written. Not like I should. Not like I need to be doing if I am ever, EVER going to get something published. Not a paragraph…a sentence…a word. I think that upsets me the most. I have these words and don’t use them as I should.

So that brings me to why I really haven’t been blogging. While all of the above keeps me pretty busy, not a single reason given is what keeps my fingers from the keys. So what is?

Fear.

Fear that my words won’t be interesting. Fear that what I have to say is stupid. Fear that what I write about will apply only to me and not matter anywhere else. Fear that I won’t be witty enough. Fear that what I do say might offend someone I care about.

Fear. Old-fashioned, predictable fear. It keeps me doing what I’ve always done because I fear what might happen if I do what I really want to do. And now that I’ve owned up and admitted it loud and clear not just to myself, but to the world, I need to do something about it. So, I will remind myself of my senior quote in my yearbook:

“Why then, the world’s mine oyster, which I with sword will open.” ~ Shakespeare

Granted, today’s meaning has been perverted from the original utterance proclaimed boldly and with a good deal of menace by Pistol to Falstaff in The Merry Wives of Windsor. Either meaning, I would think, serves me well here.

I will boldly go out and hack my way through the world, taking as needed, with steely eyes and a will forged in the bowels of a volcano OR I’ll wander out into a world that is just waiting to reveal its glorious riches to one who seeks them.

But remember, I’m non-confrontational, so if you see me coming, just step to the side a bit. If you don’t mind.

Untitled - March 22

Death is never an easy thing to deal with, but I imagine that it is easier to accept when a person has lived a full life or spent a long time fighting an illness. But the death of a young person…I can’t even imagine it. And yet today, I faced it.

One of my former students was shot in a drive-by on Saturday. Out for a drive with her sister and cousin…In the wrong place at the wrong time…

She was 16.

She was one of the truly nice students I have had the pleasure of teaching over the years. She was a sweet girl, friendly and outgoing.

To her family, my heart and thoughts go out to you.

Where the day leads...

I spent the day home with a sick Ashleigh. I had grand plans…laundry, dishes, vacuuming. But in the grand scheme of things, I ended up spending most of the day working on lesson plans and researching Twilight Zone episodes for my Drama unit. Interestingly, that led me to research gremlins which led me to reflect upon modern technology, specifically when modern technology fails, which in turn got me thinking about how we would deal with a sudden absence of all technology.

All those people running around without their cell phones and their apps; mobile blogging and twittering. How would be people who are used to being in contact 24/7 handle the void? Obviously there have been stories about this before. I think I’d like to try my hand at it too. I’ve always had a fondness for end-of-the-world stories and one without technology is one that interests me greatly.

I’d like to imagine that I’d be a-okay without my geeky gadgets, but I think I’d miss my computer…my stove…ohh…my AC. Do appliances count as geeky gadgets? I can do without a cell phone. I have one but don’t use it all that much. I could do without my MP3 Player. I’ve been without before, so I think that while I’d miss it, I could deal. The more I think about this the more I think I’d like to read one of those “living off the land for a year with no modern technology” books.

Needless to say, the dishes are still taking over the kitchen, the laundry is still piled up like unpaid bills and the dust bunnies, without fear of the vacuum, have left the security of the dark underworld beneath the couch and are blatantly mingling with the dog and cat hair balls.

Other than that I really don’t have much to say today. So I will leave you this thought:

"We all live in suspense, from day to day, from hour to hour; in other words, we are the hero of our own story." — Mary McCarthy, American author (1912-1989).