The Canvas and The Painter

I write about writing itself more than I write about anything else. I think that's because of my on-again, off-again relationship with the sport. Yes, I said sport. I can associate writing best to the Wasatch mountains. For my entire life they've been there, glaring at me from the east. They're a constant reminder of where I am and which direction I'm facing. They're also a sore thumb, throbbing; a reminder that I'm still here, in the same place I've been my entire life and that makes me panic a bit. There is an entire world out there waiting to be seen and I've been crowded to this corner. Everyone once in a while, it feels nice to be lost. Writing is the same for me. It feels nice to be expressive and get my thoughts in an orderly manner. But sometimes, it's better to be lost. At least then you can push thoughts to the back for a while. 

Having a writers brain though, thoughts don't stay hushed back there for long. They lunge themselves to the surface, aggressive and urgent. We're running out of room in here, they say, let us out. 

I've been trying to.. chill out, if you will. I think people are hurtful, by nature. They talk about others without hesitation and things are said that can't be taken back. Word travels fast and friendships are ruined and pride is damaged and reputations don't go unscathed. I guess I could dwell on this but I've decided instead to focus on me and my little family and forget the rest. You know that old saying, those who mind don't matter... 

***

We were sitting in an In & Out burger when a young woman started swearing, profusely, loudly across the restaurant. She was chatting with her boyfriend, nonchalantly, as her language forced rosy red color to any sweet old lady sitting a few feet away. An elderly man very politely asked her to speak quietly, not even suggesting she change the words themselves. There's young kiddos here, ma'am. She swore at him, telling him she didn't give a flying fluff and maybe he should, ahem, turn his hearing aide down instead. 

I tried to ignore the language but this woman took the incident as a reason to start talking louder. Soon, Kade started watching her, fascinated. I gently explained to him that those were angry words and that he needn't use them. She laughed, a sort of sneer, and said to me, "He's gonna learn it anyway." When the woman finally left the restaurant, the nearly full lobby clapped. They actually applauded her departure.

The statement itself makes me uncomfortable. In my humble opinion, that attitude is the force driving our kids to be careless and disrespectful. They're going to learn it anyway. Unless, of course, we change the way we speak. If we all teach our children respect and love and kindness, they don't have to learn it. Who said that's a common thing to learn as an adult? They're going to learn swearing and disrespect anyway but not forgiveness and patience and charity? This is backwards; it's wrong. 

Working at the daycare, I saw a lot of violent kids. It was a regular ache in my heart because I knew that they must have learned it somewhere. Kids aren't born with violent thoughts or intentions to hurt others. Children are born pure and wonderful. They are a blank canvas. We are the painters. 

I hope I'm painting a masterpiece. I hope he learns to love without condition and give without reason. 

***

We're getting ready for a Seattle, slowly but surely. We've applied for two apartments and are getting the car ready for a 863 mile trip. I guess you could say I'm settling down. That feels good. 

Time to Thrive

I have a tendency towards over-sized sweaters and combat boots. I drink copious, nauseating amounts of coffee and in fact, if you sliced me open, would bleed espresso. I call rain "writing weather" and have been known to wear long johns in July heat waves. Winters in Utah leave me manic and sleepless, summers leave me sticky and cranky.

Do you know what happened when the search for the best asthma air in the U.S. began and turned up with Seattle, Washington in the number two spot? I choked. I literally choked on my white chocolate mocha and dribbled it down my chin and onto my sweater.

On October 1st, we're moving away. Onward to the land of rain and coffee, where sudden exposure to cold air is less than likely, inversion is unheard of and rain in a constant sprinkle, 300 days a year.

Last winter was hard. Hospital stays blur together in a haze of thick black coffee and monitors and half-sleep. Terms and triggers float through a numb mind; sudden exposure to cold air,viruses, oral steroids, inhalers, duo-neb treatments. Kade was poked, held down for suction treatments, tested for cystic fibrosis, hooked up to oxygen and forced through breathing treatments. Veins were blown, noses were bloody and answers were few and far between. The term most familiar, made a dull and aching home in my chest: failure to thrive. It's scribbled across most of Kade's medical records. Knowing my son, you could shake your head at this. Kade thrives. My baby loves life, he teaches us joy and love. He is fantastically silly, his giggles erupting an entire room into a ball of light.

It's time now, for his health to thrive as much as he does.

Things are going to be hard and different. But they're also about to be wonderful and adventurous and new. We're ready to thrive, as a family.
It's time.

Losing your shit

Okay, I lied. I'm a big fat liar, promising to blog often and giving myself deadlines that I'm incapable of meeting. People around me often urge, write a book. My response is always the same. I become exasperated and snap back that publishers require dead lines and I am incapable of meeting deadlines. Case in Point.

***

I am truly exhausted. I know, people say that all the time. They put their heavy heads in their blistered hands and sigh I am so exhausted. But those people pick up and truck on, right? Despite their apparent exhaustion, they keep moving. Another day of work, another meeting, another long drive home, and finally, another one bites the dust (er.. falls into bed). I guess I'm one of these. Every day grows longer, more worrisome; I look at myself in the mirror for a long time and think for a few uncomfortable moments, how are you going to get through this?  My feet shift and I pull down my shirt and I tighten my pony tail. I put on a tense smile and return to work, exhausted but still moving.

Everyone has a breaking point. You can be strong for a long time- years even. But there will be a moment when you lose your shit. This shit-losing process can produce a number of reactions. You might be lying in a bathtub, chain smoking and humming Johnny Cash songs until the break of dawn. Maybe you're one who will make sudden moves- quit your job, leave your family, shave your head, do drugs. Maybe you'll reduce yourself to a pile of dirty clothes and empty ice cream tubs, watching reruns of I Love Lucy.

When I lose my shit, I work harder. I play harder too, which is probably why I work harder. I'm trying to compensate the late nights out with pancake breakfasts, trips to the zoo, the park, warm milk before bed, extra bedtime stories, hours of puzzles and lego building. I go out until the sun comes up and when I get home, back to reality, back to Kade, I muster up what's left of me to be a Mama.  Really, I'm always a sort of Super Mom. I like to focus my energy on my parenting, especially within the walls of my home. It's important to me that Kade's childhood is whimsical and wonderful and honest. It's imperative to me that he learns things like patience and kindness and respect. But when I lose my shit, I really lose it.

For example;
I have slept an average of 3 hours a night for the past month and a half. If it's 3 o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday night, you will find me in my kitchen, sprinkled with flour. There is butter in my hair as I'm whisking and baking. Apple Crisps, animal crackers, breakfast cupcakes, home made veggie nuggets... you name a healthy and vastly complicated recipe suitable for children, I've conjured it up. And if I'm not baking? Sewing. Quilts and baby pants and mittens and coasters fly from my sewing machine quick as lightening, into a giant pile beneath my desk. 

Some nights, I glance at the clock with blurry eyes and it's time to get ready for work and my kitchen is covered in flour and empty bowls, dripping with batter. I wake Kade up and serve him a breakfast cupcake. I whisk up some eggs and ham and brew yet another pot of coffee. I lay my head in my blistered hands and sigh I am so exhausted.

At work, it's like I'm switched on auto-pilot. Before I know it, the day is over and I'm on my way home, wondering where the day went. I smile warmly at parents and redirect students and solve all sorts of frustrating issues but I am not present for any of it. I am in the background, resting. Resting while Super Mom, Super Worker steps in my place. She's sensitive and clumsy and has an awful memory... but she gets the job done.

Things will get better. I know they will. But for right now, they are hard. I'm frustrated and sleepy and fuzzy headed. I try to focus on my faith and that in itself seems a daunting, truly exhausting task. I know how I should take care of myself; get enough sleep, don't drink, eat, for hells sake, EAT. And, maybe most important, surround myself with people who matter. People who I count on for long hugs and warm beds and poured shots, toasts in the air, "To Jessica. For being a kick ass mom."

This will blow over, I know.

And until then, I will keep going. I'll buy myself flowers and keep ice packs on my head and maybe sink into a hot bath humming Johnny Cash, minus the cigarette. And I'll surround myself with friends who are warm and who care and they'll help me escape for a night or two and all will be well again soon.

A Giant Piece of Humble Pie

I've said before that February is my transition month. And it's proven year after year- so much so that if you look in the proverbial dictionary of my life at the word February, it has a one word definition: change. This year, I'm expecting the same. I'm preparing myself for the worst and hoping (fingers, toes and arms crossed) for the best. Sometimes change is refreshing- its arranging the furniture, getting a new job, changing your hair color, moving into a new house, getting married. But, in my experience of many a February, the type of change that happens in this frigid month is not the refreshing type. The February Change that I've experienced is usually sad, sometimes frustrating, often leaving me feeling shaken up and lost. This year, I'm determined. This February will be different. There will be plenty of change; but it will be the good kind of change. It will be the kind of change that beckons slower days, being more appreciative of what I have, more time for myself, more time for Kade. Change that involves more church, less stress, eating better, taking care of myself.

I found myself getting the February jitters last week. I was becoming increasingly frustrated with how things are right now. I needed a change. I felt like I was ready for a change but God wasn't giving it to me. Let's stop right there for a minute and recognize how absolutely ridiculous that statement is. Like God is supposed to give us exactly what we want, exactly what we're ready for, when we think we're ready for it. Ladies and gentlemen of the blog world, that is not how it works. Let me rain on your parade for a moment with this reminder: IT'S NOT ABOUT US. I prayed, hard. Why aren't You giving me what I want? I'm ready to move on. Let me move on. OH boy was I humbled. God answered, wait. Be still and know that I am God. Ouch. I sat, completely and utterly shocked. I pulled myself up and began wiping the Humble Pie from my face.

There is nothing great and new and exciting on the horizon for me as per right now. My mission right now is this: stay still, stay focused, love your baby, be healthy, be whole, be well. And that is the grand, master plan. After all, it did come from The Master Himself.

 Kade is an artist. Paint, play dough, chalk.. it keeps him going for hours.

***

Lately, certain surroundings leave me raw around the edges. Bridal showers, baby showers, Mission farewells. They seem a giant reminder of where I am right now and the fact that I am staying here. I am so elated for my friends and family. My heart fills to the brim with joy and excitement for them and everything that is splaying out before them.  And at the same time, there is a dull ache. A little, uninvited pang of this could be you but it isn't. Yes, that hurts. But I'm shoving past it.

Kade is overwhelming me. I'm in disbelief at how quickly he's learning and growing. He's finally doing all the "catching up" the doctors promised he would. Like lightening speed he's picking up new words and behaviors. And last week I had to buy him new pants for the first time in six months. He actually outgrew them, an odd concept for me to grasp considering it's a rare occurrence in Kade's life. This makes me happy. This makes me squirm with pride. He is smart. He is wonderful. He is mine.

Little niece. 

I swear I'll get better at this. 

Falling Back

This big white box glares at me, discontented. Did you forget about me? No, of course not.

The thing with writing is that it requires heart and inspiration to be real. Writing is a profession for introverts who want to tell you a story without giving you eye-contact. Writing, for me, requires cup after cup of coffee, banging of a backspace key and little distraction. It's a challenge- one that leaves me with crossed legs, tingling on a wooden chair and a migraine. Wise words: if you're staring at a blank piece of paper (or a glaring white box) and nothing comes to you, get up and do something else. If I forced the words out, they wouldn't be sincere. They would be just that; forced. I knew the noise would return soon enough- I just had to sit back and suffer through the silence for a short time. Sometimes, you have to shove the things you love into the backseat. Sometimes a writer becomes exhausted and frustrated- my words are manipulated. You aren't understanding a word of it.  Unforunately, a writer sometimes throws in the towel. She throws her hands in the air with an exasperated I Freaking Give Up No One Listens Anyway. Recently, a beloved friend of mine turned to me during one of my adult sized temper tantrums and said, simply, "Get over it." And it struck me. He's absolutely right. It's time to get over it. To pull myself onto this yellow wooden chair, shake the tingles from my stiff legs and continue banging keys, cracked knuckles stinging at each backspace tap. tap. tap.
***
And now, there is the mighty task of catching up. Of trying to relay information from the past several months of our lives into your brains- to set the scene for our current position- to pick up where we left off, if you will. I'm not sure where to begin such a tremendous task so I will give you a short overview-

Kade and I spent our summer at the Daycare. Ten hours a day I pull hair into pig tails, do piourettes in the gym, build lego castles and practice sign language. I sometimes catch myself signing to grown adults and have said, "I have to go potty" to my boyfriend. My hands are stained with "washable" paint and there is paste in my hair on a daily basis. Glitter sticks, relentless, to my scalp. Kade has adjusted well to the Daycare life- he finally takes regular naps there and when he see's me through the window he grins and waves his little fingers. Hi my mama.

 

At home, we're getting settled. A new place with little of my personality leaves me longing for my old, original place. Fall beckoned me to decorate, hang leaves in the windows, eat tomato soup out of carved pumpkins- I needed tradition, a halloween CD and a candle that smelled like home sweet home. We've been here since September but it doesn't quite feel like home. This causes Mama to feel a bit lost. I'm a homebody with a certain longing for comfort that I can't seem to obtain in our current apartment. I'll be working on that.

The past few months have been full of growth- literally. Kade is actually getting taller and judging by the immense amount of food he's been eating, another growth spurt is underway. But with this literal growth, a spiritual and sentimental growth is occuring as well. Gaining more respect for myself as a mother, being more intuitive to my needs as well as those of my family. I'm realizing even more so the importance of patience, kindness, faith, respect. Blessings are falling hard on my head, leaving metaphorical goose eggs the size of Texas. I've been sitting on the sidelines, keeping to myself, focusing on my tiny family unit and watching as things unravel around me. I'm realizing the mistakes that others make and how the mistakes I've allowed other to influence me to make. I'm watching intently as those who I always thought so wonderful and brave show their lesser side... It's uncomfortable but an important lesson. Things and people are not always what they seem. I'm becoming a stronger person- 'clothed in strength and dignity' (proverbs 30) and am raising the bar on how I allow people to treat me. It's important.

Christmas was warm and wonderful but sad also. I bid farewell to Kyden (My missionary, a long story that would require another blog post entirely) and tucked myself into the enveloped creases of my family traditions and eggnog cocktails, forcing myself to be happy its Christmas for Petes sake pull it together. There was a baby who tore paper from Thomas Tank Engines, there were family parties with good food and lots of laughs and glass after glass of wine. There was reflection, there was a pang of sadness for the absence of our grandpa, there was celebration- for we still have each other.  And following, a new year, off to a rocky start of illness and hospital visits.

There are hard things now. Kade is currently hospitalized with RSV, asthma, possible phenomena. What's more is that I'm not overly stressed about it. I've fallen into a hospital routine- I know the medical jargon, can rattle off terms, His CBC? His white cells need to be over 1,000 and his BMP?  Will you start a drip for that potassium? His iron is low.  This is life with a heart baby and it's exhausting and it's meant for strong mamas only. Sometimes, you get tired of being strong. But your baby needs you to be, so you truck on.

Thankfully, I am blessed with family. I am blessed with a small circle of supportive friends who offer help, each unique to them. My pastor is here to visit and offer prayer, Aaron will bring me food, walk around the hospital with me when I'm feeling cooped up, Tracy is offering a legit latte and my mama is the queen of snacks and shower breaks. This is where I find my sanity- remembering that I am loved, that a group of genuine people encircle me.

The blog is back- it's a rocky start but it's here. Cheers to that. And this blog is important, this blog is my outlet.. how could I forget that? Through all the frustration, the "writers block," the excuses, I have to swallow my pride and admit that I'm a writer. That's what I am.

Now if you'll excuse me,
a cuddly and very sick little toddler awaits my Super Mom snuggling powers.

Fingerprints

There are certain people in life who embed themselves in your memory.. they nestle into the crooks of your thoughts and make sound homes in the deep chambers of your heart. Maybe you haven't seen them in years, but there they are: quiet in the back of your mind. You wonder how they are, what they've had to go through without you, if they're happy, if you'll ever see them again. And you realize that they'll always be there, etched into your memory, your past. There are certain people who, it seems, are a part of your chemistry.. hidden there, in the curve of your fingerprints. They're a part of you; a part of who you are and the decisions you made and the feelings you once felt.

There are people in my life who I'm so overwhelmingly comfortable with. We pick up where we left off, have intense conversations about nothing at all, drink nauseating amounts of coffee, put together the pieces of each of our memories like a puzzle. I wear sweat pants and talk about food and admit that I'm lucky to have them, because there were times when I didn't deserve them. And all these words.. they melt from my mouth, sloppy and hot. They're not eloquent. It's incredible, after you've kept your thoughts inside for so long, harbored them in the furthest corner.. once they come out, they're not what you expected them to be. They're not at all soothing, reassuring or even intellectual. You come off as nonchalant, sometimes even bitter. They're so rusty, so meaningless and ugly.. You can only hope that they understand your sincerity. Hopefully they understand that you missed them, that they're an irreplaceable part of your personality, a memory that flutters softly against your skull on a cool summer morning.

Kade will have these people- people who make a huge impact on his life and then are gone in an instant. People who betray him, who break his heart, people who take him for granted and of course, people who cherish him and admire him. When this thought first struck me, that he would inevitably be hurt by others, it made my stomach flip flop. How could I prepare him for the heartache? I want him to have life long friends.. friends he grows up with, goes to summer camp with, graduates high school with, goes off to college with. I've always craved that connection with my peers- a tight string that thread us together as one unit, a reassurance that we had each others backs. Kade may not get this- like me he may move often, be quarky, go through many awkward phases. But one thing, I realized, will always be a constant in his life: Me. I will always be his mother, his confident, his best friend. The friend he grows up with, who see's him off to summer camp, who sits in the front row at graduation waving and blowing kisses, who squeezes tightly before seeing him off to college. I can't protect him from life- hardships are sure to come his way. But I can hold his hand through them, be the ever present rock that keeps him steady.  I can be that person, bending with the graceful curve of his fingertips, but he won't ever have to miss me.

 

 

Happiness and Discouragement

Life is fleeting. Lately, the most blessed, heavenly moments of mine have been so unexpected, I've had metaphorical goose eggs on my head, throbbing where the happiness hit me. I'm afraid to admit that I've been caught up in the mundane duties of being a human being. Every night around five o'clock, you can find me in the cozy, unairconditioned quarters of my 1993 Toyota. In the 90 degree weather, I sit in a traffic jam and fan myself with whatever may be in my passenger seat at the time: a twix wrapper, junk mail, a size 4 diaper. And I find myself thinking, there has got to be another route. Today, an especially congested one on the I-15 route, I got to thinking about my life. All the things I need to be taught, need to teach, to pour out or be poured into, and I began to stress. I began to think, there has got to be another route.There are forks in roads, traffic lights, traffic jams, all funneling us into a certain place. Be it happiness, boredom, depression. Whatever the case, like a traffic jam, we feel like we have no control over the situation. Our precious lives being the situation that grows more complicated each fleeting moment. (There's that word again). But the thing is, we do have control. Taking control of our minds, our emotions, essentially our souls, is the foundation to pure bliss. So, when the next exit approached, I changed lanes and veered off the freeway. I found myself roaming through neighborhoods, approaching a stop sign or dead end and turning right or left, whichever I thought would get me home. Nothing looked familiar, no landmarks beckoned me their way, just rambler after rambler, green grass, yellow grass, crooked mailboxes. I started doubting- You should have stayed on the path you KNEW! And then- there it was. A tree, rather, half a tree that was so vividly familiar to me. The top had been cut down to avoid power lines, the reaching branches strong, new leaves sprouting from the sawed  limbs. I turned left, and there was a house, also so vividly familiar. When I was in the fifth grade, my best friend lived right here. Right in this front yard, with the red mailbox and the strawberries growing rapidly against the steps, I learned how to jump rope. I pulled over, mesmerized. I thought about how good God was, always guiding me. I kicked myself for being doubtful- of course I'd make it home. I've lived in Utah my entire life, something would become familiar.
The point I'm trying to get across here is that life becomes alarmingly unfamiliar; we become frightened and we doubt. Especially when we decide we're sick and darn tired of the way things are going and choose something new, something foreign. But always, a familiarity will form, and blossom amongst the thicket.
These moments in life, these fleeting moments, are my oxygen.

 

 

***

Discouragement is my middle name these last weeks.. I work hard, come home exhausted, and small comments set me off. I'm like a ticking bomb, agitated, sensitive, emotional. Kade brings me back to my center, of course, but when even my keen sense to his wants and needs is judged, I become a big fat wreck. I'm trying, hard. I really am. But those fleeting moments of happiness are just that: fleeting. Being Kades mom is the one thing I'm confident about; knowing the ins and outs of his intricate personality. A jab at that confidence and I'm left feeling empty- what else do I have but motherhood? Sometimes I wish there were instructions: How not to piss your family off or make them feel burdened by your decision to be a young mother. But there isn't. So instead, we pray. Pray that they'll be understanding, a little more patient. Pray that the mistakes I'm making aren't huge, life impacting ones. Pray that relationships won't be strained by the lessons (whatever they are) that I apparently still have to learn. But that's just it: I'm still learning. One step at a time, baby.