Monday marks my EDD for the baby I was supposed to have this year. On February 12th we got an unexpected surprise - a little pink + sign. On March 6th we got another unexpected surprise: the baby we thought we were going to have wasn't going to happen.
But that's not what this blog entry is about, so if you pulled out your tissues, put them away. I'm not going to cry on Monday (and not in an "I'm Not Crying" Conchords sort of way. Well maybe in an "I'm Not Crying" Conchords sort of way, who knows) because Monday is an anniversary of sorts for me.
Monday marks the 8th anniversary of sitting in a little Thai restaurant and waiting for my ex-boyfriend-I-never-stopped-loving-who-was-visiting-from-Denver to arrive. He was meeting up with a mutual friend and I to have a little Thai food and to go see Mullholland Drive. I had no idea what was going to happen. I did my hair, put on a little makeup, and then spent 45 minutes picking out something nice-but-not-sexy. When he walked through the door, I stared at my plate. I had those little flutters of the girl-who's-not-quite-over-the-cute-guy-who-just-walked-in-the-room. And I must admit, it was awesome. We finished up our food, ran off to the movie, stopped for donuts afterward, and ended up sitting in my kitchen at 1 a.m., feet up on the table, relaxing, while I read him some of my newest chapbook of poetry.
12 days later, I put in my notice to my employer and my landlord: I was moving to Denver. Honestly, in retrospect, I have no idea what I was thinking. I called my father to try to get him to talk me out of it, I think, and he simply said "If a year from now you end up moving back to Omaha, what have you lost? And if you don't, what have you gained?" So I did it. On December 13th, 2001, I packed up everything that would fit into my 1996 Nissan Sentra and took off for Denver.
When I rolled into town, I came into an empty house with Billie Holliday playing on the CD player, a dozen roses, and the most beautiful necklace I've ever seen. And a card. I can't find it at the moment, but I know it said something like "thanks for taking a chance."
And today I'm ever so grateful I did it. I closed my eyes and jumped and it's worked out so wonderfully, I cannot even begin to explain it.
In the past eight years, I've moved to a strange town, made new friends, gotten new jobs, gotten married, bought a house, had two babies, lost two babies, lost my stepfather and grandfather, and been through so much more -- with Tim at my side. Tim, that crazy ex I stumbled upon again 8 years after we dated the first time in a moment of sheer luck.
Sometimes at night I find myself thinking "Wow. I'm married to Tim. From Westin. Tim!" and I cannot believe it. Despite all of the hard stuff we've been through in the past 8 years, I'm the luckiest girl in the world because I have my bestest friend, my deepest love, and a really fucking hilarious and wonderful man at my side. :)
There you go darling. There's my post about you. :) And now, for those who haven't had the opportunity to see it, look at one of the beautiful things Tim and I made:
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Greatest Show on Earth
Setting aside our potential philosophical issues with the whole animals-in-captivity-forced-to-be-trained-tigers-and-elephants, we took the children to the circus this week. (Aside: It's amazing the issues you have that you set aside when you have children. Like, say, seeing trained elephants or getting pooped on.) This family needs some joy, and by gar, for the low price of $24 a head, we purchased it.
So fine. The circus. We entered the hallways of the Denver Coliseum after going through security (which consisted of a woman glancing briefly into my handbag while I could've been carrying an ax under my coat, but I digress) and were immediately faced with what I can only describe as perhaps the fourth circle of Dante's hell were Dante a modern man. Food stands full of shaved ice, popcorn, and some special hand-made super smores, all with a 500% markup, at the very least. The children were in heaven, the kind of heaven where things don't cost money and are just shiny and fast and slick and beautiful. Honestly, it's the kind of heaven kids live in most of the time, isn't it?
We found our seats. We paid $16 for two waters and a box of popcorn. We sat back and waited for the floor to clear and the show to begin. And began it did, with a huge showstopping number.
The last time I went to the circus was 20 years ago, so my memory is probably foggy and I'm OK with that. . . I remember a circus being, well, a circus, with three rings and stuff going on in each. Maybe. Last night's show was so unbelieveably busy that I'm fairly certain I missed over 80% of it. At one point, as my eyes were darting from spinning lady on the left to twirling butterfly lady on the right to cannon to ringleader to evil Mr. Gravity to elephants having a seat and crossing their legs, I was moved to tears by my inability to focus on any one thing. I was prepared for the circus to be active and busy - it's a show - nay, the "Greatest Show on earth", but it's also an exercise in exhausting overstimulation by the audience. Midway through the show, I glanced at both children and the wonder and awe in their faces was worth the whole experience, though I balk at the whole buying wonder and awe for $24 a head thing.
Not, of course, for the individual ticket price, but for the lesson it inadvertently teaches my children. Every moment, every breath, every step into that coliseum was an exercise in consumerism. Buy the Greatest Show on Earth and then buy your food and then buy the spinning light up things and then buy a coloring book. My kids both cried for the spinny flashing light things and were denied. They got the show, popcorn, water, and smores. That was all we were willing to buy into for the day. And I have to say, perhaps the best moment of the Greatest Show on Earth was Lilly's response at being told she couldn't have a coloring book: "That's ok," she said. "I'll just go home and draw pictures of all of the things we saw.
That, my friends, made it all worthwhile. Until we got home with two oversugared, overstimulated, overtired children.
So fine. The circus. We entered the hallways of the Denver Coliseum after going through security (which consisted of a woman glancing briefly into my handbag while I could've been carrying an ax under my coat, but I digress) and were immediately faced with what I can only describe as perhaps the fourth circle of Dante's hell were Dante a modern man. Food stands full of shaved ice, popcorn, and some special hand-made super smores, all with a 500% markup, at the very least. The children were in heaven, the kind of heaven where things don't cost money and are just shiny and fast and slick and beautiful. Honestly, it's the kind of heaven kids live in most of the time, isn't it?
We found our seats. We paid $16 for two waters and a box of popcorn. We sat back and waited for the floor to clear and the show to begin. And began it did, with a huge showstopping number.
The last time I went to the circus was 20 years ago, so my memory is probably foggy and I'm OK with that. . . I remember a circus being, well, a circus, with three rings and stuff going on in each. Maybe. Last night's show was so unbelieveably busy that I'm fairly certain I missed over 80% of it. At one point, as my eyes were darting from spinning lady on the left to twirling butterfly lady on the right to cannon to ringleader to evil Mr. Gravity to elephants having a seat and crossing their legs, I was moved to tears by my inability to focus on any one thing. I was prepared for the circus to be active and busy - it's a show - nay, the "Greatest Show on earth", but it's also an exercise in exhausting overstimulation by the audience. Midway through the show, I glanced at both children and the wonder and awe in their faces was worth the whole experience, though I balk at the whole buying wonder and awe for $24 a head thing.
Not, of course, for the individual ticket price, but for the lesson it inadvertently teaches my children. Every moment, every breath, every step into that coliseum was an exercise in consumerism. Buy the Greatest Show on Earth and then buy your food and then buy the spinning light up things and then buy a coloring book. My kids both cried for the spinny flashing light things and were denied. They got the show, popcorn, water, and smores. That was all we were willing to buy into for the day. And I have to say, perhaps the best moment of the Greatest Show on Earth was Lilly's response at being told she couldn't have a coloring book: "That's ok," she said. "I'll just go home and draw pictures of all of the things we saw.
That, my friends, made it all worthwhile. Until we got home with two oversugared, overstimulated, overtired children.
Friday, October 9, 2009
And now what. . .
On July 2nd, 2006, my stepfather gave a sermon about baptizing his grandsons a week apart, and in between, learning that he had a newer, deadlier cancer.
We hoped the next year would be better.
On October 1st, 2007, I stood at my stepfather's bedside and watched him draw his last breath.
I hoped the next year would be better.
On December 30th, 2008, I buried my grandfather. He suffered a stroke before Christmas and the indignity of not dying from it right away. Our family gathered, sat vigil, and watched him die.
I hoped this year would be better.
On March 6th, I lost a pregnancy. On July 29th, I lost a second pregnancy. In the meantime, my husband's father's company closed its doors. My in-laws are preparing to move away, leaving us with no immediate family here.
Some days it hurts to breath. And I get it. Good things have happened too. My husband is running his own company now - and feels in control of his fate. We aren't homeless, jobless, or on the street. I raised $2,000 for the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life. Some of our friends moved into the neighborhood. All of these things are good. My children package up small miracles in their laughter every day, they say goofy things, and they give me the most amazing gifts. I don't mean to sound ungrateful for these amazing moments. In fact, the truth of the matter is that small things have pulled me through these dark days.
But being grateful for them does not mean that our days have not been dark. And it doesn't mean that we haven't thought more than once that 2010 *had* to be better than 2009.
But the truth is, I'm tired of hoping for better years. It doesn't mean I'm hopeless. More pragmatic, maybe. I don't know. I'm thinking more of this William James quote:
"Give up the feeling of responsibility, let go your hold, resign the care of your destiny to higher powers, be genuinely indifferent as to what becomes of it all and you will find not only that you gain a perfect inward relief, but often also, in addition, the particular goods you sincerely thought you were renouncing."
So fine. I give. You win, 2007, 2008, 2009. You win. Let 2010 be as it may. I'm tired of holding out for better years. And to be quite honest, every time I think "Next year HAS GOT TO BE BETTER", I reflect on this line from a Bright Eyes song:
I spent the best years of my life waiting for the best years of my life.
ETA: Someone just told me my pain was palpable and they were worried about me. Here's the deal: my pain *IS* palpable. And should be, because it's, you know, pain. And the past few years have brought a lot of it. It's neither good nor bad, it just is. I'm fine. People around me know I'm fine. People who've grieved understand that grief isn't something that's surmounted, it's something you learn to walk with. So it's all good. Please don't worry about me. I'm OK. I'm sometimes bitter. You know what? That's OK too, so long as I'm not always bitter. Sometimes I cry. Also OK as long as it's not all the time. And while I'm doing those things, I also have days where I laugh so hard at and with my children that I can barely breathe. There's nothing inconsistent with grieving a palpable pain and living a good life. I know that. I live it. Strong women around me live it as well -- my mother, my friend Heather, every woman around me has some private or public grief that they shoulder along with very good lives. Just because I talk about my grief doesn't mean it's pulled me under. Remember that.
We hoped the next year would be better.
On October 1st, 2007, I stood at my stepfather's bedside and watched him draw his last breath.
I hoped the next year would be better.
On December 30th, 2008, I buried my grandfather. He suffered a stroke before Christmas and the indignity of not dying from it right away. Our family gathered, sat vigil, and watched him die.
I hoped this year would be better.
On March 6th, I lost a pregnancy. On July 29th, I lost a second pregnancy. In the meantime, my husband's father's company closed its doors. My in-laws are preparing to move away, leaving us with no immediate family here.
Some days it hurts to breath. And I get it. Good things have happened too. My husband is running his own company now - and feels in control of his fate. We aren't homeless, jobless, or on the street. I raised $2,000 for the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life. Some of our friends moved into the neighborhood. All of these things are good. My children package up small miracles in their laughter every day, they say goofy things, and they give me the most amazing gifts. I don't mean to sound ungrateful for these amazing moments. In fact, the truth of the matter is that small things have pulled me through these dark days.
But being grateful for them does not mean that our days have not been dark. And it doesn't mean that we haven't thought more than once that 2010 *had* to be better than 2009.
But the truth is, I'm tired of hoping for better years. It doesn't mean I'm hopeless. More pragmatic, maybe. I don't know. I'm thinking more of this William James quote:
"Give up the feeling of responsibility, let go your hold, resign the care of your destiny to higher powers, be genuinely indifferent as to what becomes of it all and you will find not only that you gain a perfect inward relief, but often also, in addition, the particular goods you sincerely thought you were renouncing."
So fine. I give. You win, 2007, 2008, 2009. You win. Let 2010 be as it may. I'm tired of holding out for better years. And to be quite honest, every time I think "Next year HAS GOT TO BE BETTER", I reflect on this line from a Bright Eyes song:
I spent the best years of my life waiting for the best years of my life.
ETA: Someone just told me my pain was palpable and they were worried about me. Here's the deal: my pain *IS* palpable. And should be, because it's, you know, pain. And the past few years have brought a lot of it. It's neither good nor bad, it just is. I'm fine. People around me know I'm fine. People who've grieved understand that grief isn't something that's surmounted, it's something you learn to walk with. So it's all good. Please don't worry about me. I'm OK. I'm sometimes bitter. You know what? That's OK too, so long as I'm not always bitter. Sometimes I cry. Also OK as long as it's not all the time. And while I'm doing those things, I also have days where I laugh so hard at and with my children that I can barely breathe. There's nothing inconsistent with grieving a palpable pain and living a good life. I know that. I live it. Strong women around me live it as well -- my mother, my friend Heather, every woman around me has some private or public grief that they shoulder along with very good lives. Just because I talk about my grief doesn't mean it's pulled me under. Remember that.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Let it be known:
If you are my student you should show up to class, print off your homework, be prepared, and be ready to have a discussion.
If you are my student and you've done none of those things, be prepared to suffer through group work and in class writing. Yes, I did actually just ask you to come up with 20 details in the picture you're analyzing. Yes, I did ask you to answer questions you already answered for homework. Yes, you WILL hand it in. Yes, I DO plan on grading it.
Yes, I am an asshole. I do not *give* you an education. You earn it. You earn your education through reading, studying, coming to class prepared, and engaging with your classmates and your instructor. If you are unwilling to do those things, you shall suffer my busy work until your hand cramps. If you didn't realize that my discussion this morning on modern parenting leading to coddled children who sucked in school was aimed at you, then you need to consume more caffeine first thing in the morning.
I've been up since 1 a.m. listening to my daughter hork and my husband try to take care of her. And yet I am here, ready to discuss these essays. What's your excuse?
If you are my student and you've done none of those things, be prepared to suffer through group work and in class writing. Yes, I did actually just ask you to come up with 20 details in the picture you're analyzing. Yes, I did ask you to answer questions you already answered for homework. Yes, you WILL hand it in. Yes, I DO plan on grading it.
Yes, I am an asshole. I do not *give* you an education. You earn it. You earn your education through reading, studying, coming to class prepared, and engaging with your classmates and your instructor. If you are unwilling to do those things, you shall suffer my busy work until your hand cramps. If you didn't realize that my discussion this morning on modern parenting leading to coddled children who sucked in school was aimed at you, then you need to consume more caffeine first thing in the morning.
I've been up since 1 a.m. listening to my daughter hork and my husband try to take care of her. And yet I am here, ready to discuss these essays. What's your excuse?
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Knitterrific.
This is my nickname for a buddy of mine, but it's also my solution to baby blues (or, rather, non-baby blues, I guess, since they're baby-related but not baby-caused). I've been feeling sorry for myself quite a bit lately. I have half a dozen friends/family members who have had or will have babies around my October due date. While I am delighted for them, it hurts in a way that I cannot explain. Others who've had losses understand and for those who don't, I hope you never do.
So with the wallowing in self-pity came the inevitable chocolate binges and facial breakouts and I had to make it stop. I decided to make a knitting project for my sister (she had better not be reading this, because, well, if she did, she's going to have an idea of what it is before she opens it on Tuesday and that would be sad.) I'm psyched about her boys - she's expecting twins and will probably have them in the coming week or so (my hats had BETTER get there before the boys). I wanted to make something beautiful and durable so I found soft and beautiful poly blend from Dark Horse Yarns (http://www.darkhorseyarn.com/catalog.aspx?category=Fantasy&type=basic). Using baby blue and dark brown, I made these hats: http://survivingsantafe.blogspot.com/2009/01/twin-hat-pattern.html and some simple baby mittens. They turned out so beautiful and kept me busy with happy thoughts of love and support for my sister and her boys.
Then, right after I finished them, the anniversary of the week of David's death hit me like a brick wall. In the first year, I mourned him daily. This year, it was as if everything had been stored up until the anniversary week. I barely dragged myself out of bed last Monday I was so sad. Then I logged onto Facebook to discover that my cousin had delivered a beautiful tiny baby girl. I had a choice: I could mope or I could knit.
I chose to knit. And I made this:
It's impossible to wallow in self-pity when you're knitting up the most gorgeous little 20s style baby bonnet with hand-knit pansies for decoration. You can't *help* but smile.
And in the meantime, I tell myself it's all practice. It's all practice. Practice for the beautiful things I'll make for my babies who are here (and growing like weeds, so I'd better get to it) and for the one I want so badly. It's an excellent way to spend time. Beats eating, that's for sure.
So with the wallowing in self-pity came the inevitable chocolate binges and facial breakouts and I had to make it stop. I decided to make a knitting project for my sister (she had better not be reading this, because, well, if she did, she's going to have an idea of what it is before she opens it on Tuesday and that would be sad.) I'm psyched about her boys - she's expecting twins and will probably have them in the coming week or so (my hats had BETTER get there before the boys). I wanted to make something beautiful and durable so I found soft and beautiful poly blend from Dark Horse Yarns (http://www.darkhorseyarn.com/catalog.aspx?category=Fantasy&type=basic). Using baby blue and dark brown, I made these hats: http://survivingsantafe.blogspot.com/2009/01/twin-hat-pattern.html and some simple baby mittens. They turned out so beautiful and kept me busy with happy thoughts of love and support for my sister and her boys.
Then, right after I finished them, the anniversary of the week of David's death hit me like a brick wall. In the first year, I mourned him daily. This year, it was as if everything had been stored up until the anniversary week. I barely dragged myself out of bed last Monday I was so sad. Then I logged onto Facebook to discover that my cousin had delivered a beautiful tiny baby girl. I had a choice: I could mope or I could knit.
I chose to knit. And I made this:
It's impossible to wallow in self-pity when you're knitting up the most gorgeous little 20s style baby bonnet with hand-knit pansies for decoration. You can't *help* but smile.
And in the meantime, I tell myself it's all practice. It's all practice. Practice for the beautiful things I'll make for my babies who are here (and growing like weeds, so I'd better get to it) and for the one I want so badly. It's an excellent way to spend time. Beats eating, that's for sure.
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