What Do I Know?

I think it's time for a make-over.  Not a "Woman's Day" or Regis & Kelly-inspired make-over, that includes before and after photos, but a focus make-over.  I need to overhaul.  I need to dig deep.  I need to branch out.

I need to decide what I'm going to do with this blog.

The snippets of stories, the one-liners, the beginnings, the middles, the ends, the choppy dialogue - it builds up in my head, and sometimes it ends up in my journal.  My writing journal.  The brown leather, gold-trimmed journal my mom gave me for Christmas several years ago.  Always written in with my Waterman pen that my sister, Kelli gave me for my 30th birthday.  My best thoughts should be penned into my best journal with my best pen.  Then hopefully those thoughts get expanded on an external drive that I plug into my 7-year old Dell desktop.  With any luck, and a few quiet moments when the kids are all in bed, or at school, some of them end up here, in my blog.

Sometimes I feel like this is the perfect place for me to express myself.  It gives me a large viewing area to actually see my own thoughts better.  Best of all, it gives me a forum to share what I have written.  Writing is informative.  Writing is story-telling.  Writing is expression.  Writing, like any craft, is personal and those of us who feel driven to pursue our craft do so for our own enjoyment and satisfaction.  But like any art form, it can only truly be considered art, or be successful, if it is shared.  Imagine if the Mona Lisa had been locked away in an attic, never to be seen.  What if Mark Twain had never written Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn?    We would view all artwork and American literature differently.  I'm not saying that I will write the great American novel, or that my work is worthy of the Louvre, but in order to be a writer I have to do more than write.  I have to write something that has to be read.  It may not have to be read by millions of people, or even thousands or hundreds.  But it needs to be read.

So far I have only shared my blog with a few select people.  Except for  three people, no one who has known me less than 23 years has been asked to check it out.  I feel like I should open myself up and let more folks in.  Sometimes I am motivated to send an e-mail out to a few more friends and family and ask them to check it out.  But ironically I then wonder if I am being self-centered in assuming that these people - or any of you - would be interested in reading what I have written.  For years I didn't understand the term "catch 22," but I think this is as close to living one as I can guess:  I know that a writer needs to be read, but I don't know if I really want anyone to read me.  Again, I'm back to, "What if people don't like what I write?"  "What if I have waited all these years to write something and I'm no good at this?"  "What if...?"  But, if I don't put it out there, I'll never know.  Catch 22...

O.K. - so I write and I ask people to read.  That's established.  They both must be done.

Now what do I write about...?  Oh, yeah:  What I Know!  But what do I really know?  I know that yellow and blue make green, there really is no every-day use for sine and cosine functions, Asian elephants are still on the Endangered Species list, gas prices are too high and Target offers a much nicer shopping experience than Walmart.  I think everyone knows these things, too.  If I am to write something that people will want to read, and will encourage them to keep coming back, then I must write about things I know that other people don't know.  Or I must write what they know, but my take on it should be either enlightening or entertaining enough to spark further interest.

So what do I know?

I know what it is like to be a middle child.
I know what it is like to be an abused woman.
I know you can like someone and not love him/her, love someone without liking him/her, but the best is liking those that you love.
I know the joys of motherhood.
I know the physical pain and personal satisfaction of natural child-birth.
I know the frustration, anger and disappointment of being lied to.
I know the taste of tears of happiness, sadness and fear:  my own, my husband's and my children's.
I know that I am not an efficient or nice person when I am sleep-deprived.
I know that tequila makes me horny.
I know that I want to write and I want people to read it.

I go through spurts where most of my thoughts are about everyday life and how I see it, and at other times most of what drives me to write are scenarios that need to be played out in much larger and longer drafts and formats.  I see myself finishing at least one novel some day.  I believe there might be a few in there, brewing, growing and waiting to be explored.  I even have a piece I've started that I envision as a play.  I never thought of myself as a playwright, but this particular subject must be a play - for me it can't be completed any other way.  I have a mystery/crime drama, a comedy, a few children's stories, and a few pieces of poetry.  Hopefully before I'm dead a few of them will come to light and be on paper, preferably bound skillfully, and displayed conspicuously on a table at the front of Barnes & Noble.  (Except for the play, that is.  That will be rightfully "played out" on Broadway!)

I know a lot of things and I can't fit them all on this one page, but I can start to fit them in one post at a time.  My make-over begins today with a few changes to how I present my writings in my blog.  I want to have a more cohesive trail of my writing, so for those of you that do choose to come back now and again, it might make some sense to you.  At the very least it should make you glad you took the time to read it.  I began my early posts with a brief description, and then just started posting pieces with their titles and no explanations.  Some could use a little intro or out-ro, and I would like to be able to return to a subject at a late date and have it all feel familiar and be easy enough to follow.  You, as the reader, are not in my head and can't possibly know how one topic relates to another, and you might also not be interested in all of what I have to write.  With a little organization, I believe that I can write, and be read, with satisfaction.

This is all still a work in progress and will take a while to solidify what I want - need - it to do for me.  But I'm still excited about sitting down here in this sort-of-comfy, high-back chair and tapping my heart out on this wire-less keyboard.  So, come with me reader, and become engaged.  Who knows - "What I Know" just might keep you coming back for more.

Sun Damage

The first thing I noticed about her was that she wasn't wearing her rings.  And there wasn't a tan line.  It is the middle of August and even the fairest of the fair should have a tan line by now.  You don't have to be a sun goddess, worshipping the strongest days' rays, collecting them with the help of baby oil and a piece of tin foil to get a tan.  Around here you only have to stop long enough to take a breath, look up at the sky, hand cupped over your eyes to block the glare - and boom! - you've got a tan.

But most of us don't get the chance to stop long enough to do that.  We are driven by the needs of our children.  Driven to fulfill their athletic, creative, cultural and social desires.  Driven to keep them competitive with their peers.  Driven to drive them everywhere they need to be.

It is in the car that we mobile moms get to soak up the solar goodness that is due us.  Travel from home to vehicle is hurried and burdened with gear and final checklist go-overs.  There is no time to stop and breathe then - and there is no sun in the garage.

Pulling out into daylight, we alight on the black-top, not soft yet from over-exposure.  It has cooled overnight and forgiven the sun its Lennie Small effect:  it knows not its own strength.  And whether we are cursed or blessed with a sun-roof depends upon the time of day and the amount of travel already logged.  But through those windows the sun will pass and through the tint it will do its deed.  Over time the skin will yield and the tone will darken.  Over time one will find that they have been ever so gently kissed by the sun.  On left arm, left hand and the occasional right, if the sun roof be allowed to stay open - there is evidence that summer has arrived.  Even though the legs remain shades lighter from being tucked in the vehicle securely away from both UVA and UVB, the left arm is the evidence that summer is here.  Summer is leaving its mark.

So I looked her over for another clue.  I kept wondering why there was no tan line on her left hand.  Not, "Why no rings?"  But, "Why no tan?"  I wasn't curious as to why she wasn't wearing her rings, but rather how long had she been without them?  That answer could possibly supply me with the answer to why.  That answer could also possibly tell me why she couldn't look me in the eye when we spoke.

CRACK

Her head hurt.  Mostly it was the left side of her head.  Her left arm and her left hip hurt, too.  But mostly it was her head.  The crack she heard as she hit the floor surely must have been her skull splitting.  Or her teeth clamping down on her tongue, cutting through until they smashed together.  For just a second she thought of a baseball bat.  “The crack of the bat” was a much nicer sound than the crack of her own head meeting the floor.  She wondered if a bat upside her head would have felt any worse.

The pain was strong but instinctively she knew not to respond to it.  Something inside told her not to move.  If she could just lie there, maybe the pain would go away.  Maybe the moment would go away.  Maybe he would go away.

Fighting every thing her brain was telling her to do, she lay there on the floor, her entire left side throbbing and screaming for attention.  Her arm was twisted backward beneath her and her left leg landed a little too far from her right leg, almost as if she were trying to do a split as she hit the floor.  It wasn’t a perfect split by any means, but her legs were just far enough apart to cause a new pain in her right leg and in her groin from the unnatural stretch.  She ignored the pain long enough to wonder if her figure presented a believable heap on the floor, or whether her refusal to move was the dead-give-away that she was conscious.  She couldn’t afford to take a chance now so she remained still.  She had to believe herself that moving meant more pain, not protection from it.

Her hair, always worn down, was splayed across the right side of her face, hiding her eyes, her mouth and any contortions that her brow might have made as she had landed.  This convenient veil allowed her to relax her facial muscles just a little in an effort to gain control of her breathing.  Naturally her body had tensed during the moment, but now that it was over her muscles needed to let go of their fierce desire to flex and beat off the hard obstruction that had caught her.  She was briefly thankful that she was in the kitchen for there would be no rug burns.  The cold tile was slightly soothing to the already bruising skin of her arm and hip.  Her head would need more comfort.  The cold, unyielding tile was not calming the anger that her head felt.  It pressed back against her skull and she felt every throb and tear at her scalp as if her head were pulsing up and down on the floor.  She knew that it was not possible that he could see her head bob up and down with the pain, but she did her best to swallow slow against the pain, just in case.

She was pretty sure that she hadn’t blacked out but suddenly wasn’t sure how long she had been lying there.  Was he still there?  Could she move?  She couldn’t be sure of anything but the steady and constant reminders of what had happened.  It was no longer just her head and her arm and her hip and her groin and her right leg.  Now her teeth hurt.  Ironically her tongue and cheek did not hurt, but all of her teeth did.  Carefully she took her uninjured tongue and slowly, gently, ran it along the inside of each tooth, pushing, just a little, to see if it would move.  Counting each one, she was sure that at least 32 seconds had gone by with the confirmation that all 32 teeth were still securely in her mouth.  She couldn’t understand how this could be possible as all 32 felt like they were throbbing, too.

Those 32 seconds was certainly enough time for the next blow to come, but it didn’t.  Maybe he had quietly walked away.  Maybe he would leave her alone this time.  Maybe…

Then she heard his breathing.  Right above her.  Still there.  Just watching her.  Or waiting.  Watching or waiting for what she wasn’t sure, but he was still there.  Her heart began to beat faster and once again she swallowed slow to control her breathing, the pain, the fear.

And then he stepped over her and headed across the room.  His shoes padded over the tile and when they hit the carpet there was a quiet swish sound as he continued up the stairs.  She continued to block out the pain by counting each swish.  At 14 she heard the door easily and gently click closed.

She was alone in the basement apartment.

Relief was fleeting and not comforting at all.  It was replaced by a pain that her head could not begin to comprehend.  She was not free of further abuse.  She was not free to lie there and cry.  She was not free of anything.  She was a prisoner to an absurd longing for guilt, remorse and redemption:  emotions that he would never feel on his own and that she could not force out of him.

She was sad and he was not sorry.  He did not care whether she got up and she was in disbelief.  She was full of regret and he was empty of it.  Her pain - physical, emotional and psychological – meant nothing to him.  He had left her there.  He had stepped over her and left her.  She was worthless to him.

Holding Doors

I didn’t need him to respond.  In fact, it was better this way.  It was a moment defined not by validation or equalization.  It was a moment not defined by manipulation.  Best of all, it was a moment not defined by retribution.

The saying goes that it is better to give than to receive.  Yet, we all still want to receive.  We can’t help it.  Whether it is a birthday, anniversary, Christmas – a Just-Because Day, we want to be the recipient of something.  We want to know that someone was thinking about us.  We want to feel special.  We don’t want to be forgotten.

The easy gesture of holding a door for someone starts out as giving, yet we still want to receive.  We do because we want to do, yet inevitably we expect to be the recipient.  It is not about a gift, but about two words:  “Thank you.”  Words that seem so simple to say yet can be so difficult to extract.  It is not the simplicity of the language that makes it difficult, it is the complex nature of humans to take unabashedly, recklessly, carelessly – obliviously – from those around us, leaving the givers wondering why they gave in the first place.  You can’t say “thank you” if you don’t feel “thank you.”  Yet as the door-holder we so want – no NEED – that “thank you.”  The effects of not getting it are residual.  It can almost keep you from holding that door the next time.

But moments come when you don’t need anything in return.  There are birthdays and anniversaries without presents.  Christmases when Santa only leaves gifts for the children.  And doors that get opened for someone else, and there is no “thank you.”   The moment arrives when it is perfectly acceptable to hold a door and not expect something in return.

This was one of those moments.  I wanted to hold open a door and not worry about whether the person passing through it was thankful.  I was opening a door not for him, but for me.  I needed to open the door and believe that it was just truly the right thing to do.  It didn’t matter whether that person cared or noticed.  So I opened up the door to my heart and I said it:  I told him I loved him.  And it was O.K. that he didn’t say it back.

*Author's Note:  The most frustrating thing about writing is having an idea and not being able to follow through on it successfully.  In movies the struggling writer either doesn't have enough time or the place to write, and the established writer under a deadline has writer's block.  What if you aren't established and you still have writer's block?  For me, my block is not that I can't find something to write about, or that I can't finish it, it's being able to finesse the thoughts that I do have.  Sometimes they flow smoothly and I'm proud of my work.  Sometimes they flow roughly and I think that I've done an O.K. job.  And then there are times that I think I have a great concept, but the finished product is just not at all what I thought it would be.  This is one of those pieces.  In my head the original thought had so much more emotion and concept.  On paper (screen?!) it feels meandering, yet flat.  It feels rushed and empty.  This is a piece I would truly like to know what you think.  Any comments...?

Big Time Crush

I have a crush.  It’s on Big Time Rush.  Don’t tell anyone.  I want to keep it hush-hush.

Because who am I, a 41 year old woman, to have a crush on a boy band half my age?!  And they’re not even that cute.  And they don’t sing that great.  And they really can’t dance.  So why do I honestly have a crush on Kendall, James, Carlos and Logan?  I can’t explain it, but I can’t deny it, either.

When my children scan the “Guide,” and decide on a Nickelodeon program, I usually tune out.  (I don’t know why they even check the Guide because they always land on Nickelodeon.  No Disney.  No PBS.  Certainly no Discovery Kids Channel.  Nickelodeon.) I tune out if it’s SpongeBob SquarePants.  Not because I don’t like SpongeBob, because I do.  I actually think “he” and the show are pretty funny at times.  But I also feel like I’ve seen most of the episodes.  Unless it’s one of my favorites, it no longer holds my attention.

The same holds true for iCarly.  I used to really like iCarly until they aired the “iLook-a-Like” episode and I found their behavior so absolutely atrocious that we almost didn’t finish watching it.  If I had been a better, stronger parent, I would have turned it off mid-episode, but I kept hoping that it would get better and they would redeem themselves.  It didn’t and they didn’t, either.  By then it was 8:29PM and we had suffered through an episode littered with bad decisions, dishonesty, and disrespect.  Ever since then I have watched Carly, Sam and Freddie with a great degree of trepidation and lasting dislike.  (I’m purposely avoiding the discussion about whether my children should have been watching iCarly to begin with.)  iCarly has been on long enough that my children feel like they are peers with the cast as opposed to being on the younger side of the same generation.  Therefore the show holds a stage that appears to be a pedestal for their characters – not one they can be knocked off of, but one that children aspire to be on.  As the characters have gotten older I have found that they are better behaved and I can once again stomach them.  But now I am a “good” parent and watch all new episodes before letting my girls watch.

Victorious falls somewhere in the middle.  I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it, either.  Most of the characters are decent people and the one or two that behave selfishly or immaturely do so with such aplomb that it showcases the glaring discord with the other characters.  You can’t help but look at them and know that their behavior is wrong.  “Tori” is the lovable character that usually does the right thing.  Her singing, long hair and down-to-earth personality give her a starlet-esque presence that is still within the reach of most girls.  She could be the teenage girl next door that every little girl wants to be.

And then there’s Big Time Rush.  BTR.  The dogs.  A boy band in a time when I can’t name any other boy bands.  Jake has asked me if the show was supposed to introduce the group to the world, or whether the music is actually a marketing by-product of the show.  I’m still trying to figure that out.  But there’s no doubt that the popularity of the group as a music sensation does not rival that of boy bands of the past.  They may be the newest edition of young males on the scene, but their lyrics are not as contagious as New Edition’s were.  We might find ourselves saying, “Uh-uh-u-oh-oh!” to the newest kids on the block, because their dance moves are not as well choreographed as NKOTB’s.  It is also doubtful we will watch them grow from boys to men as they are already clearly young men and do not harmonize like Boys II Men.    I was never really an ‘N Sync fan so I can’t make any comparisons there.  And they certainly will never hold a candle to the greatest boy band of all time:  The Jackson Five.  I still know that “I’ll Be There” to learn my “ABC”s.

Along with my children I find myself singing BTR's tunes and watching snippets of their videos in between our Nickelodeon programming.  Their songs have each had their fifteen minutes of fame in my house with at least one of my children singing in the shower or while they danced across the family room floor.  I tend to have my karaoke moments in front of the kitchen sink while doing dishes.  Clearly “Boyfriend” is the catchiest tune to date that the boys have crooned through the tube.  I do find myself wondering if the addition of Snoop Dog to the video, and his conspicuous credit-grabbing, were supposed to be musical support, a popularity-legitimizing stunt, or both for the group.  Knowing what I know about Snoop Dog I find his presence more a self-redeeming act than an image-boosting opportunity for the boys.  Either way, “Boyfriend” will be my next search on iTunes. 

Although no one has ever quite duplicated the magic of the “Dancing Machine” that Michael Jackson made famous, there is no denying the effort made by boy bands to get you to “Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground)” along with them.  Justin Timberlake, formerly of ‘N Sync, credits Michael Jackson for inspiring many of his moves and performances.  BTR is not as fluid or smooth in their execution, but here at 5 Harding Lane we try to follow along.  We try to spin and touch the ground and alternate sliding forward and back on the carpet.  Even without soul they encourage us to mimic their rhythm.

Despite all that they don’t have, BTR has something that brings me back to each episode.  They have something that I can’t quite put my finger on.  Like iCarly and Victorious the characters are often selfish and self-absorbed, but there’s a lovable notion to these slightly dim-witted, narcissistic Minnesota transplants.  Their antics are not about hurting others, but more about self-preservation and discovery.  They are teenage boys in California, trying to find their way as a new pop-music group with all of the chaos, stress, and fun that brings.  Despite the highly illogical and unlikely scenario their “lives” present for the viewers, we want to be a part of it.

There is no denying that Kendall, James, Carlos and Logan have my attention.  I didn’t get into Hannah Montana, nor do I have “Bieber Fever,” but I do have my crush on Big Time Rush.  I am serious when I say that if they came to Boston I would stand in line overnight to get tickets to a show.  I might even buy a few seats for my kids.

Cheerleading Is a Curse to Me Now

I don't have blond hair or an especially perky outlook.  I don't bounce from place to place and I don't cock my head from side to side to enunciate my point.  So it does come as a surprise to most people that I was a cheerleader.  Despite my already sarcastic tone, it is probably a surprise to learn that I loved being a cheerleader.  Cheer leading took all that was "bad" about me and made it good:  a loud voice, an assertive attitude and a hard body.  Characteristics that were shunned elsewhere were praised at cheer leading tryouts.  Cheer leading made me the best of who I was.  Mostly, cheer leading made it OK for me to yell.  And I was the best voice.  I didn't get a sore throat like the other girls, or get exhausted by the end of the cheer from trying to yell my way through it.  My cheers came from the diaphragm.  I was a loud cheerleader.  And I was just plain loud.  I got "Loudest" in the senior class superlatives.

Now I know a lot of parents - Moms - who yell.  None of us are proud of it and all of us try reasoning, requesting - and threatening - in mild, easy, level tones first, before being pushed into yelling our expectations.  So why do I feel so much more the Bad Guy when I yell now?  It's all because of the giant, green megaphone I got senior year of high school at the cheer leading banquet:  The "You Cheer Too Softly" Award.

They were mock awards.

So is it any wonder that 20 years later I am still the loudest?  I can't help it.  It was ingrained in me and I can't raise my voice without digging deep and bringing it up and out from the diaphragm.  If I had been a library aid or a member of the Kiwanis Club, or on the swim team (yeah, right!) my children might have had a chance.  I might not be such a yeller at them.  I would be quieter, more persuasive - or waterlogged to the point of drowning (me, a swimmer?!  Come on!)  But I chose to cheer.  So it's nice to have that settled:  I yell at my kids because I was a great cheerleader.

So why do I cringe when my daughters tell me they want to cheer?

It's not because I am afraid that my daughters will grow up to yell at my grandchildren.  It's not because I am afraid that they will yell at each other, or at me - they already do that.  And it's not because I don't like football or crisp, fall days.  It's because of what people think of cheerleaders.  Regardless of the number of years I spent in a too-short skirt with my hair pulled up in school color-coded ribbons, I find myself siding with the stereotypers.  I forget that I was - and remember only what I presume.  I am one of those people who thinks that cheerleaders are stupid, promiscuous, snotty and self-absorbed.  And I want more for my daughters.

I spent YEARS correcting people from calling it "Queer leading."  (Not that my fellow 'leaders and I didn't reference it that way ourselves, but like ethnicity, weight and hair color, only YOU can use "those" words.)  I argued and reasoned about the time, stamina and skill needed to succeed in our "activity" - and why it should rightfully be considered a SPORT.  I made fun of it, I shied away from it and then I tried out for it.   I was a cheerleader and I was proud of it.  I chose to cheer.

It is a terribly painful (and hypocritical) place to be to know that you LOVED something so much that you not only lived it, you fought for it, but that you can't fight for it now.  Am I so different now as an adult?  As a mother?  As a fellow community member?  I honestly don't believe that I lived for 7 years in denial.  I don't believe that I was just an empty skirt flipping around hoping to get laid.  I was too good to believe that then, or now.  I was smart(ish):  in the top 20% of my class.  I was a virgin.  And I also ran track.  Our squad won trophies.  But no matter how good you are at something, no matter how far you think you elevate an image, there are still people who will work to distort all that you believe in and have fought to change.  And it is because of those people that I can't let my girls put on short skirts and bounce around a football field, trying to kick their now-hairless legs into the air.

Cheer leading is an in-your-face invitation to join in the merriment, without actually being a part of it.  It means sitting on the edge of participation.  It is literally the icing on the cake:  the pretty frosting that presents the "meat" to the waiting and anxious sports fan.  As with real cake, many people love the frosting - enjoying the initial presentation, believing it to enhance the experience of the cake.  But also like real cake, many people like looking at the frosting for only a minute before scraping it away to get to the heart of the dessert:  the cake.  Cheerleaders are looked at for a few minutes, and then looked through as their purpose has already been served.  As game watchers, we are taken in by the entire show, but quickly settle in to the main attraction, not needing the neatly coiffed, or the ever-present smile.  We want sweat, grunts, and action.

So the irony continues with the cheerleader.  They are the sweet outer covering of a more brutal and base activity.  And whether that sport is being played by men or women, we want our blood, sweat and tears.  We want grit and determination, heart, passion and skill.  We want camaraderie and winners.  We don't want hairspray and lipstick.  In school the girl who is put together is the one we want to be.  We want to be pretty, stylish and admired.  If you are less than feminine - you blend.  Most girls would like to be desired.  But on the field and on the court that image is suddenly fake and unnecessary.  It's O.K. to be less than feminine, as long as you are scoring points.  A basket, a goal, a home-run - the object of the game is primary.  What is not is how well the player applied her makeup.  This is not to say that female athletes don't wear make-up or make sure that their hair won't get in their face while they play.  But their physical image is not paramount to their performance.  No one will fault the soccer player who hasn't glossed her lips.  The cheerleader who arrives "un-done" is somehow less than ready to perform.  Even an entire squad of un-made-up cheerleaders would stand out for that reason and not because of how they cheered.

Cheer leading is a sport born of sexuality and naivete.  It is confidence and insecurity colliding in a pyramid of chants and drills.  It is too much for 5 and 7 year old girls.  It is truthfully too much for teenage girls - but they will never admit it.  And honestly - by the time we are old enough to handle the pressure and the image, we are exactly too old to be donning the skirt and grabbing the pom-poms.  Cheer leading is a sport for the flexible:  of body and of mind.  You need to be able to do a split while dividing your allegiance to the social network that makes up your world:  popular kids, athletes, brains, geeks, motor heads and the spaz.  It is a collection of girls banding together to form a cohesive union of nothing in common beyond the sweater and the sneakers.  Cheerleaders bound into the air to escape the misconception that they are usually flat on their backs.  They yell the loudest for they are the quietest when confronted alone.  They are in an environment that allows them to be fliers and bases - the reverse of what they are out of uniform.  Cheerleaders are - dynamic!

I am not ashamed that I was a cheerleader in both high school and college.  Rather, I am proud of holding on to a dream and a skill set that allowed me to stay involved in an institution that I believed in:  Minnechaug Regional High School and Framingham State College.  I'm just not ready to pass that enthusiasm along to my daughters.  When my girls are old enough to try out I will let them decide if cheer leading is the sport for them.  Only when they can survey for themselves the time commitment, the uniform, the image and the life - and decide if they want to tackle that, will they be allowed to try out.  Because unlike many other sports, the glory is short-lived.  It comes with making the team and then quickly fades.  With most sports you are glorified for an instant and then must live up to the expectation.  With cheer leading, you are glorified and then must live down the expectation.

It is an activity for the truly skilled.

Why I Blog

Because this time 3 years ago I didn't know what a blog was!  I remember standing at the island in the kitchen Googling "What is a blog?"  And I still didn't get it!  No matter what Wikipedia or Google had to say, it just didn't make all that much sense to me.  "An on-line journal?" I thought.  I know what's in my night-stand journal and I can't imagine that anyone would enjoy reading that!  And did I want people to read it?

"And how come it's called a 'blog?'  Why isn't it simply a website?  How are they different?"  Yes - I was an idiot, because I didn't get it.  Friends tried to explain it.  They encouraged me to try it.  But I continued to clutch at my on-line ignorance, also refusing to get on Facebook or Tweet to anyone.  I claimed I didn't need these things in my life and that more importantly:  I didn't have time.  I believed that "some day" I would figure out the perfect schedule that finally allowed me to keep my house clean, play with my children, go to bed at a decent hour, have sex with my husband on a regular basis and sit down and write the great American novel.  But at the time - there was no time.

Then I realized that 3 years had gone by and my house still wasn't clean regularly,  I didn't always play with my children when they wanted me to, I was still staying up too late, my husband had to settle for what he could get, and there was no novel in the works.

It was time.  It was time to stop procrastinating.  It was time to stop waiting for the perfect time.  It was time to do something.  Anything.  And I realized that I had a lot to say.  I needed to write.  And I wanted people to read it.  And I might want someone to respond (the biggest difference I could determine between a blog and a website!)

So I Googled again.  And Google walked me through it.  Step by step until I was sitting in front of the computer, sweating, and I was suddenly writing my first post.  Just like that.

And now I must keep blogging:  (I still wonder if I'm using the terminology correctly.  My on-line know-how is limited and comical for most on-lookers.)

1.) I blog because I want to write.  I don't have advice to offer, information to share, or a cause to fight for.  My blog is still a huge work in progress that I'm still figuring out.  I want to post more creative writing, but because so much of what I create is still in pieces in my head, it seems odd to put it out there for someone to read when it isn't complete.  And yet, when I think about writing, the musings, stories, thoughts and opinions I have are actually the secondary subjects that I want to express.  It is the creative stories that I want to write.  But maybe I have to be here on a regular basis to get there.  My path to the New York Times Bestseller List has already been a long and arduous one, not to be circumvented now by a sudden burst of inspiration and motivation.  Again, for now I write what I know.

2.)  I blog for Miranda.  Where else could I comment about how beautiful my 6-year old daughter was this past Halloween, dressed as a bride?  I never thought my breath would catch at seeing one of my children in a costume.  Even Ed paused as she entered the room, saying, "A snippet into the future, huh?"  She was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen, and she wasn't even engaged, or telling time on an analog clock yet.  There is something about your own daughter in a wedding gown.  I can barely remember what my own wedding gown looks like, but I will remember how Miranda looked in that Halloween dress.

3.)  I blog for Kendra.  Her diet for the first 4 1/2 years was the same as Miranda's:  peanut-free.  Not because she was allergic, but because I was afraid that she would be allergic.  If Miranda didn't eat it, then neither did Kendra.  There were a few exceptions, like plain M&M's, for example.  But never the peanut ones.  Then I realized that I was probably making her susceptibility worse by taking so long to introduce the pesky legume to her.  So the day after Halloween we sat at the table while she ate the Peanut M&M's that I had removed from Miranda's loot.  And for a full 20 minutes I was PANICKED.  My heart raced while I watched her, checked her torso repeatedly for the manifestation of hives, and asked her to tell me stories non-stop so I could listen for changes in her speech.  A swelling tongue and tightening throat would make it difficult for her to regale me with anecdotes.

And yet she was fine.  She didn't really like the M&M's, but she didn't have a reaction, either.  I was simply nervous for the next 20 minutes.  And then I was able to forget that she was exposed to a possibly deadly piece of candy.  Until bedtime.  When I PANICKED again, thinking that there would be a latent reaction that would seize her in her sleep and I would never know about it until it was too late.  I watched her sleep soundly, cursing myself for not putting the motion-sensor monitor I still owned, under her mattress before she went to bed.  I checked on her every couple of minutes until I went to bed, heart still racing.  Thinking the whole time that I was a bad mother because after all - would it be soo bad to live life peanut-free?  Why hadn't I left well-enough alone?  And yet she was fine in the morning.

4.)  I blog for light bulbs.  After having an energy conservation specialist come out to our house and change EVERY light bulb in the house, complimentary, both inside and out (O.K. except for 3) with compact fluorescent bulbs, I finally know why they save so much energy:  because they're so damn bright and annoying you can't wait to shut them off!  Who wants to live in The Home Depot?!  You'll turn on as few as necessary, turning them off as quickly as possible, NEVER leaving them "burning hot in a room," as my dad used to say.  You can't help but save electricity when you're living with only 1 light on for 10 minutes.

5.)  I blog for my children's dental history.  I mean, what am I supposed to do with all of these baby teeth that keep coming out of my children's heads?!  How many little envelopes, pieces of paper and jewelry pouches can I possibly stuff into the bottom of my jewelry box with the notes on which tooth it is and how it came out?  How long do I save them and when will it be O.K. to...throw them out?!  Does a mother do that?!

And I will blog to try some of the poetry that seems to pop up now and then in my head.  I will blog about a few of the stories I hope to develop.  I will blog about my life, my fears, my hopes, my pet peeves and anything else that drives my fingers to my Waterman pen or this keyboard.

But I'm still not joining Facebook.  Or Twitter.  I'll continue to leave that to more knowledgeable folks.

Letting Go

There is a very real possibility that Sturbridge will have full-day kindergarten this fall.  That means that Kendra will have to go from three half school days to five full school days with the break of summer.  She loves to learn and so far, she loves school.  She can't wait to ride the bus with her sister and brother.  She is excited to start kindergarten and hopes that once she is in school she will have the same teachers that Jakob and Miranda have had. Her patience while I attend to two older children in need of homework help, play dates, and after school snacks, along with her enthusiasm to learn what the other two are learning in school, invigorates my desire to have her in school more often.   I'm sure she can handle it.

I used to think that full-day kindergarten was a no-brainer. When Jake was in kindergarten the school sent home a questionnaire over winter break asking parents, if full-day had been available, would we have wanted it.  They asked us to list the pros and cons of full-day kindergarten.  I was all for it.  I would have wanted it.  I found no cons.  And then they never mentioned it again.

Until the "new school" rhetoric began.  Then, the carrot that was dangled for many of us to agree to "up" our taxes for a new addition and renovation to the school, was that the new building could "accommodate full-day kindergarten."  There were no guarantees that there would be full-day kindergarten, but the $46+ million-dollar building project they wanted voters to agree upon could "accommodate full-day kindergarten."  Currently Sturbridge is the only school in Union 61 that doesn't have full-day kindergarten.  Similarly sized communities in Massachusetts have already gone the full-day route.  The current economy and housing market aside, Sturbridge must assess the many facets that future home-buyers consider when deciding on a town for their home.  High school graduation rates and MCAS scores are not the only educational priority.  It all starts with kindergarten.  So, I voted yes.  I voted for higher taxes.  I voted for my child to go to school for over 7 hours, including the bus ride.

I'm having voter's remorse.

I will miss Kendra when she goes to school.  We have spent the last five years perfecting our day.  When she was a baby, she hung out in a bouncy seat while I played with Miranda.  She spent time with my mom when Miranda went to pre-school and I went to the "Y" to workout.  We ran errands together while Miranda went to 1/2-day kindergarten.  Kendra would wait patiently each day for Miranda to come home.  Sometimes she wanted to play with me, but most days she was "a mother's dream," content to play by herself, asking to do play dough at the kitchen table, biding her time until her playmate got off of the bus.  I watched as my two girls grew from just being siblings to being best friends. 

Then Miranda started first grade full-time.  And this year Kendra wants to be with me.  We have our morning ritual:  tea and toast for her, coffee and a bagel for me.  She stands at the counter on a chair and we butter together, stir in our sugar together, and sip together.  And when she's done, she asks to do her thing.  I always say yes.  She sets up her game, takes her place by Jazz on the couch and she plays Mario Bros. on the Wii for a few minutes.  Then she asks me to join her.  I suck, but I play anyway.  And after I've lost my biggie, wasted my ice, and killed off 7 or 8 of Yellow Toad's lives, we are done.  Then it's time for her to get ready for school, for us to go outside, or play Dora Candy Land, or for us to clean something together, or run some errands.

My house is much less organized and regularly cleaned this year, despite the fact that I have more time "to myself" than in years past.  Because I finally get it.  It took three kids, but I finally get it.  I am a stay-at-home Mom because I wanted to be with my kids.  NOT because I wanted to clean my house.  Yes, it saved child-care dollars for me to be home, but I've never really thought about the actual salary that I let go in deciding to stay home.  I'd like to believe that we have saved money.  When I feel those times that I just wish we had a little bit more, I wonder how much we have actually saved.  But again - I stayed home to be with our children.  It wasn't about the money.

And so this year, with Kendra in school three half days (is two hours and 40 minutes really a half day?!) I finally spent time WITH Kendra.  We have spent more quality time together than I have had the honor to do with my other two.  The fact that she is an especially agreeable child has only made it all that much easier.  I realized that although I could tell her that Mommy needed to get some things done and she would understand, smile, and run off to keep herself busy, it was that exact attitude that commanded my attention.  She deserves my time because I have it NOW.  Regardless of full-day or half-day kindergarten, neither of us will have this time much longer.  And she won't always want to spend her time with me.

The expression that "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone," was not a sentiment that I wanted to live when it came to being home with my children.  I can safely say that when this time of my life has passed, that I used at least some of my time, my Kendra-time, wisely.  Yet, I know that I will always be harder on myself than anyone else will.  My children were not relentlessly plopped in front of the television while I surfed the 'net, slept in, or scrubbed my floors.  Oh, yes there were the PBS, Disney and Nickelodeon babysitters when things did need to get done, but we played, visited, danced and painted on a regular basis, as well.  It was OUR time, and hopefully all of us will look back and be thankful that we had it together.

Like labor, diaper bags, and sleepless nights, school transitions come and go.  But as much as we are excited to move on from theses stages, (into what we perceive to be easier times,) reflecting back is done with a bit of whimsy and nostalgia.  The look back is never as painful, aggravating or tedious as it was when we lived it.  I couldn't wait for all of my children to be in school together because I thought it would make all of our lives easier.  Everyone in the same place, not collecting children at 2 or 3 different times of the day from sometimes 3 different places.  Kendra is my baby and if all continues to go as planned, she will remain the baby of the family.  My baby is not a baby anymore, and there are no more babies to come.  We are transitioning out of  a phase of life that affects our whole family.

So I'm sure that I will go to the Town Meeting on June 6, 2011 and wait to raise my hand as a "yay" vote for the school budget that supports full-day kindergarten.  I will do it because I feel that it is the necessary step our school system must take to continue to be competitive in the academic arena.  I will do it because I do believe that it is a positive step in Kendra's education.  I will vote for my child to leave me just a little bit sooner.  But I won't vote "yes" because I want more time for myself or because it makes my life easier.  And just like I've done 2 times before, I will cry as I wave goodbye to the bus on the first day of school.

NOT So Funny Me

I wouldn't describe myself as funny.  I don't think anybody would.  I can be funny, but FUNNY is not the first adjective you think of when you think of me.  Short, loud, assertive - maybe even cute - but not funny.  I don't think if you asked Ed why he fell in love with me that he'd say, "She makes me laugh" or "She's funny."  I don't know if anyone would say I make them laugh - except maybe Cindy.

I know funny women and I am not one of them.  I am glad to personally know funny women.  Erin Kane:  she's funny.  Everyone thinks she's funny.  My parents think she's funny.  My college friends think she's funny.  She's an incredible storyteller and it's why she's a great writer.  Even an e-mail from Erin is funny.

Jackie-Jack is funny.  She's always made me laugh.  Whether we're on the phone or in person she gives me steady giggles.  Colleen makes me laugh.  Her take on life, love and the pursuit of happiness inspire and tickle my funny bone.  Conversations with Cousin Adrienne leave my face hurting because I've smiled and laughed the whole time.  Cindy:   she makes me sweat and my mascara run.  That girl is funny!  These are the funniest women I know.  And y'all know I love Ellen Degeneres!

I feel like I "know" this about myself.  So it struck me odd one Friday night when over dinner with Ed I mentioned a text-volley I had with my very funny friend, Cindy.  I didn't get into the whole back and forth, but I mentioned that in the text I had to explain myself to her, and I finished the text with "This is why Ed doesn't think I'm funny!"  I was still giggling about the texts when he looked at me and asked, "Is that what you tell people about me?  That I don't think you're funny?"  I was taken aback.  Our conversation was about a text-volley that almost had me running to the bathroom.  (It sucks to get old, but that's a subject for another time.)  I had had a good laugh with a friend and wanted to share a little bit of it.  It seemed even funnier to me because my attempt at funny had to be explained to her.  I thought that was funny.  He proved my point because he got up and left the table and never came back.  Later I found him asleep on top of the covers, still in his suit pants.  I'm not sure if I hurt his feelings or if he was just embarrassed that I would reveal his "secret" to a friend.  He told me he was just exhausted.  I don't think my husband thought I was being funny.  I just exhaust him.

I do crack myself up sometimes with my own train of thought.  I find humor in places it shouldn't be and puns keep me giggling long after the moment is over.  I get that from my parents.  My dad and mom are the king and queen of puns.  And they will do what they can not to outdo each other, but to keep it going.  Their back and forth is more about joining each other in a not-so-alone-or-intimate exchange that keeps them completely alone and gives them intimacy.  In the middle of a room with family and friends they will quip and quote, play on their words and innuendo themselves into laughter and snickers.  Around them we are an audience, visitors to watch the match in session, fans of the game.  And they usually end in a draw.  With smiles, they are both the victor.  Again, it's not about outdoing, but about playing together nicely.  It's what people do who have been married for 45 years.

I may not be the character or the card that other people are, but somehow I do offer humor to those around me, ironically mostly to my husband.  Because he knows me the best.  Because he lives with me.  Because he sees, hears, witnesses, and lives with my quirks every day.  As much as I have to explain my own jokes to people, he gets a kick out of watching me sort through life and the jokes around me until I've gotten it.  That makes him laugh.  He is one of the funnies people I know with a quick wit and a sharp tongue.  Like "The Family Guy" and  David Chappelle, no one and no subject are off limits to him.  That includes his wife.  I think if I admit to anymore misunderstood song lyrics from our childhood he'll have an "accident."  (Now that would be funny.)

Ed spends as much time poking fun at me as he does laughing at what is me.  And I love that he includes me in that part of life that is so him.  He is a gentleman:  kind and chivalrous.  He is both family provider and protector.  He is smart - smarter than I am, despite his mantra:  "You didn't marry a smart man."  Oh, but I did.  Street smart, people wise, and an unmatched political and economical sense - these are traits of Ed.  Yet, I smile to think about the beginning.  Because I did fall in love with him because he is funny.  He does make me laugh.

I will continue to make jokes that need to be explained.  I will continue to follow in my parents' footsteps en route to the best puns, travelling a road paved lightly with sarcasm.  And at the end, my husband just might think I'm a little bit funny.

Cheating?

On a test?  Don't remember a specific test, but I don't have the gall to think that I never did it at some point, so - yes.
On my husband?  Never.
On a boyfriend?  Yes.  (But it was "only" a kiss.)
At games?  Yes.  But not as an adult.
On my writing?  I think so, but I'm not sure.

Wow - I've cheated a lot.  And although I am not proud of any of my unethical ways, I am most bothered by the last question.  Is it cheating to call your writing creative if the details are largely taken from your life?  It seems logical that a character, scene, scenario, plot or dialogue would have its origin in the real world.  It is somehow born from people and places that have already been, and are.  Yet, do I deserve "credit" (if I can be so bold as to assume there would be any) if I haven't truly created something?  I've only transcribed it.  Re-iterated it.  Maybe re-worked it.  Have I cheated on the creative process?  Have I cheated my readers out of something new?

The blase response would be that it is all new to you.  The justification would be that art imitates life.  The cowardly answer would be to deny it.  Maybe it's a little of all 3.

But hopefully it's mostly that that's what writers do:  they write what they know.  Although I'm sure that Stephen King didn't have a half-dead cat stalking him at some point in his life, there are sure to be details in Pet Sematary that are taken directly from his life in Maine.  At least one character in Forks, Washington is reminiscent of a college or high school friend of Stephenie Meyer - even if those details don't include that he or she was a vampire or a werewolf.

I take my feelings, my experiences, and my dreams and I put them into a new thought process.  Much of what inspires me to write is finding myself saying, "I wonder what I would do if..."

     What would I do if my husband died or left me?
     What would I do if I found out I was adopted?
     What would I do if I discovered that I have breast cancer?
     What would I do if I won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay?
     What would I do if...

I ride the concerned fence between wanting to get the story in my head out there, and not wanting to let someone - anyone - see what I'm thinking.  "Will it be liked?" is honestly the least terrifying question.  It is much more scary to wonder what people will think of you for your creativity.  Are you sick?  Twisted? Morbid?  Unsympathetic to someone who has actually dealt with what I am storytelling about?  Sinking that scary feeling further into me is the assumption that what I write is somehow not just from me, but was a part of me.  Will I be revealing too much of me in developing a character or a story line?  And what if you don't like me?  We can't all be Sally Field.

My writing is from me, not just from my mind and hand, but it is from what I have lived every day of my life.  I only need look up near the top of this screen to be reminded that I gave myself this "out."  But it is not a cop-out:  it is what it is.  I will write what I know.  Sometimes the scenario will be actual and the details will be borrowed.  Other times the details are original and the theme a re-visited one.  In any case, they are all from me.  And since I know that not everyone can put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard and even re-tell a good joke, I hope that there is something in me that tells it like no one else can.  Regurgitated information or brand-new piece, if I tell it the best than that is creative.

The more I blog, the more I want to blog.  The more I write, the more I want to write.  The more I read, the more I want to read.  And the more I read and write, the more I want to truly create.

It's What I Know.

A Middle of Something

Many times I write about something and I have no idea what it will be connected to or whether it will develop into something more.  This is one of those pieces.  This is a middle with no beginning or end, yet.  Maybe time and this blog will help develop it.  Ironically, since the first time I scrawled it into my journal, to the re-write on my external hard-drive, to this second draft/re-write, I've realized that this could be the beginning or the end.  It might be something other than what I originally thought it was.  Only time will tell...


"CRISP SHEETS"

I sought comfort.  Not companionship.  Not pity.  Not sympathy.  Comfort.

I wanted to feel at ease at home - able to take a breath and not let it shudder back out.  I wanted it to be simple and easy.  To come to me - to not have to look for it.  I needed to slide into it like on a night when there are clean sheets on the bed.

The feel of clean, crisp sheets on my bed always warms me and makes me feel relaxed.  Maybe because I know it's only a matter of time before my body will raise the 63 degree temperature of the sheets to a very toasty 98.6.  But ironically, even when I'm cold - I'm comforted by the cool cotton against my skin.  It lulls me and soothes me.  It signals the onset of sleep and drifting away from the frazzle and hurried pace of my day.  Even when I am sick, I long for the cool and  crisp of clean sheets.  It reminds me that warm is coming.  The cool linens take the bite out of my body.  They are a king-sized compress for my 120 pound boo-boo.

Clean sheets are also a new beginning - a fresh start.  They are a threshold for new dreams - new hope, when the sun rises.  Stripping the bed releases the bad and old energy of my restless days and sleepless nights.  Throwing them into the laundry to be doused in detergent, hot water and bleach washes away all the troubles of that week and gives me a chance to make it all right the next time they are stretched over the four corners of my bed.  And for me, only traditional cotton will do.  "T-Shirt" cotton is not nearly as good.  The cool is not contained throughout the fibers the same way.  T-shirt cotton is comfortable - but it is not fresh comfort.

And a made bed is still not as good as a freshly made bed.  No matter how much I smoothe and pull to make the sheets flat, taught - crisp - they don't stand at attention the way the clean ones do.  Once you've slid into them they take your heat and they hold it in - relaxing their fibers, softening, making a cushy place to lay the next time.  They mean well - to be inviting, warm and protective.  But it's not the same.  Even with 15-18 hours of emptiness, they can not return to clean and crisp.  They somehow hold some little bit of residual warmth.  They are never as cool as the first time they were placed.  And that warmth builds with each night of sleep until it almost feels like I'm slipping into a second skin and there is no change in how I feel.  There is no release - no sense of letting go.  The warmth is stifling.

I wasn't chilled and didn't need automatic warmth.  And with the cool I knew, without a doubt, that the warmth was coming.  It always does.  And it doesn't take long.  There's no impatient wonder as to how long, it just comes.  The cool is the warmth.

I needed clean sheets.

I hurried my pace just a little, but was careful not to rush.  My quickened, deliberate pace was more about clearly understanding my need and not about avoiding it.  I took the stairs two at a time, but with a concerted, gentle step, not with a bound.

I entered the room and for only a moment I paused at the doorway.  The bed was, of course, already made.  I moved to the wicker hamper where we kept the spare sets of sheets and lifted the lid.  I knew what I was looking for before it was up all the way, and swept my hand inside, grabbing the only set that made sense:  the deep rust, 550-thread count set we had selected together on a cold February morning less than a year ago.  Our taste in bedding was much like our taste in furniture and paint:  completely different.  He loved deep, rich colors and antique-inspired styles.  I was more light, airy and contemporary.  When we found ourselves stuck on the Home Shopping channel rewinding with the DVR option to make sure that we were clear on what they were offering, we were surprised that we were both interested.  We both actually liked the bedroom set "in a bag" that would convert our whole room to earthen-colored decadence, from sheets to comforter, to window treatments.  We agreed on a decorating scheme!  We had ordered on the spot.

I piled the pillows on the hamper and threw back the heavy comforter, laying it to rest on the floor at the foot of the bed.  Tugging at the sheets and the blanket simultaneously I finally understood his annoyance at my perfect hospital corners:  they did not give up easily.  More force was required than I wanted to exert, so I slowed my pace and carefully untucked each corner and peeled back the sheets.  I had waited long-enough and wasn't going to enter this moment aggitated.

The "dirty" pile of sheets were slumped up against the wall as I unfolded the clean fitted sheet.  Grasping the sheet half-way down it's side I gripped hard and snapped the sheet hard into the air.  It fluffed up quickly and then seemed to hang in the air for just a second before falling down onto the bed with just enough air in the middle that for a moment, I was reminded of middle school gym classes with parachute fun.  I actually found myself snickering at the thought of scootching under the sheet before it came to a rest on the bed, but there was no time.  The sheet was down and I had work to do.

I started at the head corner on my side of the bed, where I always started.  I moved on to the foot corner on my side, across the end of the bed to the opposite side, pulling the sheet tight as I went.  By the time I got to the opposite head corner, the sheet was flat and almost perfect.  I pulled the side of the sheet towards me and down and finally tucked the last corner over the edge.  Instictively I swept my left hand and then my right over the sheet, pushing the few wrinkles in the fabric to the edges and they miraculously disappeared.  It was just like what I watched my grandmother do when she taught me to make a bed over 30 years ago.  It was flawless.

Stepping carefully back to the other side I continued to make the bed, top sheet first, then the blanket, and of course, hospital corners finished the job.  I pulled the comforter back up, and after smoothing it of all its wrinkles, I slowly folded it back and made one final straightening motion that evened the sides to the height of the bed frame.

Standing there staring at the bed, I wanted to jump in - but I also wanted to turn and leave the room.  Leaving wasn't an option, so I carefully slid into the bed, fully clothed.  Again, I found myself almost snickering.  Afterall, "street clothes" were not supposed to be worn in bed.  Bad habits for other people meant smoking, drinking too much or swearing.  In our house you were committing the ultimate dirty deed by wearing to bed what you had worn out and about.  But at this moment it didn't matter because I wasn't going to be sleeping.  Traditional rules did not apply.

I lay down and immediately felt the cool on my left cheek.  As my eyes closed I curled my left arm under my head, feeling the cool all along my arm from the back of my hand to my elbow, and into my shoulder.  My t-shirt was not keeping the cool from me.  I stretched my right hand out and lay it gently, flat on the bed next to me.  Reaching out to "his" spot I could just feel the dent of the pillow-top below the sheet and I traced the outline with my fingers.  Like so many times before, I heard myself say, "I love you, with all my heart...Wherever you - " and that's where I caught myself.  For I knew exactly where he was this time.

And for the first time since he'd been gone -

 I wept.

Where Do I Go From Here?

I'm hoping that this "blogging" thing isn't a case of "Don't want something so bad that you just might get it."  For so long I've wanted an avenue for my writing:  a place that I could write what I wanted and share with whom I wanted.  I felt there might be people who would be eager to read what I had to say, mostly because they know and love me, and partly because what I have to say just might be a little bit interesting!  In my heart I hoped it was more of the latter and less of the former.  Afterall, if you are to call yourself a writer you had better believe that your writing is good.  And since my own opinion of my writing is second to that of those who read it, what I write SHOULD be entertaining, informative, thought-provoking, exciting, whimsical, sad, maddening, or any combination of the above.  That's how others should view it.  How I view it really doesn't matter.  If I'm a good writer, then hopefully they are one in the same.  My intent should be their (your) result.

So now I'm faced with the biggest challenge of all.  I thought that actually getting here was a struggle and a big step, but I realized on Friday (one of my "scheduled" writing days) that I had no idea what to write next!  What if I don't have anything thought-provoking to write about?  What if my soap-box is turned over and filled with junk, instead of available as a platform to raise me up for review?  What do I do if I don't feel whimsical or whitty on my writing days - or any other day?  If I don't entertain or inform then have I jumped the gun and wasted my time and your time?  Where do I go from here?

I suppose that I do what I'm doing now.  You plow through the writer's block.  You just sit down and start writing.  About 2 years ago I decided to try SOMETHING.  I committed to entering a creative writing contest in a woman's magazine.  The suggestions from some of the judges for struggling writers included having a writing day or days and specific writing times.  One woman stressed that if you don't commit to your writing the way that you commit to the other things in your life then you will always put it aside.  If you don't habitually cancel your doctor or hair appointments, then don't cancel your writing appointments with yourself.  And the best piece of advice was to just sit down and write ANYTHING.  "You can't edit a blank page," one judge said.

I did not keep my commitment to myself on Friday because parenting got in the way, not the writer's block.  I justify that by acknowledging that I will always put aside my needs for those of my children, especially when one of them is sick.  Now if only that "sick" child that needed to get picked up from school 3 minutes after I had walked in the door from just dropping off another child at that same school was actually SICK, well then I could follow-through on justification.  Unfortunately, my "sick" child was not so sick.  Lesson learned.  Child reprimanded.  Smarter parent next time around for the nurse's phone-call.

So this may not be Pulitzer-worthy, but at least it's writing.  It's something I can edit.  It's something I can say that I accomplished today.  And I can honestly say that it's no worse than what a lot of other people are writing about.  One of the columns in the local paper that I like to read was bland and boring last week.  It was so bad that I didn't even finish reading it.  I remember feeling disappointed and let-down that he couldn't come up with a topic to write about that would hold my interest.  In fact, the article was exactly about the fact that he felt he had nothing to write about that week!  A new year, holidays over, spring in New England too far off and he had nothing to write about!  And he gets paid!  So, I ask myself:  if he can just write about nothing, then why can't I?  Although his readership is much larger than mine, there might be people out there like me who refused to finish reading what he (didn't) have to say, but next week we will all open the paper and try again.  I can only hope that my small "following" won't give up on me so easily, and will return frequently to read some more.  I hope that I don't disappoint or bore you.  But as long as there is SOMEHTHING for you to read, then at least I did my job:  I didn't continue to procrastinate or re-priorititize.  I made a commitment, I stuck to it, and I wrote something.  Bland or exciting at least there is a piece of writing that has my name on it.

I am actually more hopeful for the next time I sit in this chair.  I hope that there are ideas and thoughts that MUST get written.  I hope there is satisfaction in clicking the "PUBLISH POST" button.  I hope that Jazz will stop barking at me and jumping on my chair while I type.  Maybe 2 out of 3 ain't bad.

BTW - I didn't win the writing contest.  But it felt great to commit to writing, force myself to find the time to do the writing, and mail my submission at the post office.  It was awesome!  I look forward to getting myself to a place where that is a more regular experience for me.

I'm Here!

It will probably seem absolutely ridiculous to nearly everyone who reads this, that at this very moment I am a little queasy, on the verge of tears, pittin' out, and holding back a smile, all at the same time.  But for those of you reading this, and there are for now only a select few, you all know me well enough to know that this is a small step for mankind and one GIANT LEAP for "Ootch" Heather Vaughan (Porter) Adamson:  this is my first post/blog/attempt at writing for the "world" EVER!  And it feels great!

Now, like Amy Dunn, who felt that without informing people that she was running a marathon, she might back out, I send this to you so you will know that I have finally taken a step towards "really" writing something.  I hope you all know that I value your opinions greatly and although I may need constructive criticism, please be gentle with me, for I am still new at this, and at 41 years of age I can't guarantee that I'll rebound from whatever stings!  In other words:  I want to share with you all but will need time to get this thing right and actually feel like it works for me.  I have no idea where this will take me, and I PRAY that it is not like e-mail in my life:  fleeting, difficult to access and maintain, a nuisance, and better left for others to enjoy.  I want to find a way to say - and share - what is in my head and hand.  Like my special box from Amy (you again?!) says:  "The writer must write what he has to say.  Not speak it."  -Ernest Hemmingway

So this post (is that what it's called?!) is fairly boring to you, I'm sure, but speaks volumes for me.  I'm no longer on the verge of tears or queasy, but I'm still sweating.  I know you don't need that visual, but it's in my head!  I am excited about figuring this whole thing out and having a place to write my thoughts, other than in my "Writing" journal.  Most of what I write is somehow incomplete - a beginning, a middle, or an end, of something larger, but those larger pieces never seem to get completed.  I am not a poet, or a short story writer.  I feel in me there is a novelist that just needs the time and place (space?) to get it all down.  Those days may or may never come, so for now there is this:   What I Know.  What I know about life as a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, grandmother, aunt, cousin...41 year old multi-cultural woman.  I can only write what I know.

Ed and I had a brief, yet interesting, conversation on New Year's morning.  I believe that we both feel somewhat unsatisfied with what life has given us.  When we take the time to look around, we are thankful and know that we are blessed, but somehow a sense of satisfaction with what we have achieved seems to be missing.  We are starting the year wondering what we achieved last year, and how this year will be different.  Maybe that's the whole "New Year's Resolution" bug creeping in and trying to attach itself.  Maybe I'm sitting here right now because we are less than one week into 2011 and I feel like there is still time to jump on board and resolve to DO something.  When we moved back from Florida in December of 2004, I swore to myself that I would have a completed piece of writing by the time I was 40.  That gave me 4 1/2 years to do something.  Although there are random pieces of writing in a journal, on scraps of paper and on my external hard drive, there is nothing finished.  Nothing completed.  And I'm now 41 1/2.

It is time to DO something.  (Maybe those Nickelodean commercials are getting to me!)

I may never write the great American novel, but this is What I Know :  In 2011 I can at least say that I made a step.  I'm taking a chance.  I'm trying something.

I'm hopeful.