Tears

I'm angry and I'm crying and the only reason I'm still here at work is that if I go home I'll have nothing to keep me busy and occupied. Laundry and cleaning don't count because there's too much time for thinking.

This last weekend one of my former students was in a terrible car accident in West Virginia, on his way to an audition that would hopefully continue to move him along in his amazing gifts for music and dance. He suffered horrendous head trauma and has been in a coma all week.

This morning he died.

It's not right. It's never right, but it seems so particularly horrible when it's a bright, brilliant nineteen-year-old like Nate. He was one of the memorable ones. I can't remember a day when he didn't have a smile or funny comment to brighten up the day--and not in an annoying Pollyanna way. He made people feel better about themselves. He had a sweet confidence and joyful soul like few people I've met.

Just a few months ago he came into school with a couple of other former students to bring me lunch, because I always forget lunch, and because gifts of food are always welcome. He was full of hope and laughter over what he was doing in college, where he was going in life.

And now he's gone. And his mother will be facing her first Mother's Day without her son.

I hate this part of my job. It's always tragic when people die, but even more so when they are young and all that life and hope and potential is snuffed out long before time. This isn't the first time it's happened, but it is one of the hardest.

Rest in peace, Nate. You will never be forgotten. Thank you for making all of our lives just that much brighter during the all-too-brief time you were here.

How MTL Became My True Love (Part II)

A few days ago I wrote about how I met MTL through an online dating site. Our early courtship, to use an ancient term, took us right through Valentine's Day, but didn't involve meeting face to face until our first official date. Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of that date. Here's the rest of the story:

After a few days in Boston, I headed back to Michigan. MTL and I talked again on my trip home, and he asked me out on a real date--we agreed on Friday the 19th. That night we met at a Thai restaurant that is now just around the corner from where we live. He was not only on time, he was early. I was also early, but didn't want to come across too eager, so drove in circles until I could go in just a couple minutes after six, which is when we were to meet. Poor guy--he'd been waiting quite a while by then and (as he told me later) was becoming certain I had decided not to come! I walked in, he stood up, and apparently we both had private reactions along the lines of He/She is HOT! He had seen my pictures, but says I am far more gorgeous in real life.

*mushy sigh*

So we sat down to eat and started talking. And talking. And talking. We finally realized how long we'd been there when they started closing up the restaurant four hours later. Neither of us was ready to have the date end, so we headed over to a glow-in-the-dark miniature golf place nearby. He had been hesitant to suggest it, since it's a bit of a geeky thing, but it turns out I'm geeky enough to think it was a great idea. So we went and played mini-golf. I beat him soundly, though it was a bit unfair as he kept getting distracted every time I leaned over to line up my next shot.

*ahem*

I'll admit it: I kept sort of wanting him to pull me into one of the many many dark corners and kiss me soundly--and it turns out he very much wanted to as well--but he didn't push things. We finally finished the evening and hugged before climbing into our respective cars and heading to our respective homes. I didn't want to be a kiss-on-the-first-date kind of girl. But the chemistry? Oh yes. It was there.

It turned out later that we lived all of a mile and a half apart on the same road. We just took two different routes to get there, so we didn't realize we lived that close!

He asked me the very next day if I would go on another date, and I said yes. I had mentioned that there was a good comedy club that did comedic and partially improvised plays, linked with an Italian restaurant. So he called them up and ordered two dinner-and-show tickets for that next Wednesday.

Then on Monday (we had continued chatting and texting and emailing every day) I felt like seeing him again, so I dropped heavy and not very subtle hints about not having any plans that night and there being nothing much worth eating in the house (my boys were on a long trip down to Florida with their dad, so I had about two weeks with no kids during all this time). He picked up on the hints (I would have been worried about his intelligence if he hadn't) and invited me to meet him for dinner at his favorite Mexican restaurant.

We closed out the restaurant that night too. And there was some, um, lingering in the snowy parking lot before we got in our cars to drive home.

The date on Wednesday was excellent. Lots of laughter, lots of talking, and some more lingering in another snowy parking lot. After that I canceled a couple of dates that had been previously scheduled with a couple other men, because I realized that (1) I really wasn't up to dating multiple people at the same time, (2) if I wanted to continue to date MTL, I couldn't date multiple people, and (3) I only wanted to date MTL. I wasn't admitting it to myself, but I already knew that this was likely to become a serious thing.

We went on a couple more dates that weekend, including dinner and a movie on Friday and a full day of bowling and food and another movie on Saturday, and we never looked back.

It was only a matter of time before I finally admitted to myself (long after he'd already figured it out) that I was thoroughly and completely in love with him. Fortunately, he was in love with me too.

He's never been one to rush into things, but he knew before I did that This Was It. I wasn't expecting the love of my life to come along just then, much less through some dating site. But there he was. And who were we to argue, when so many details indicated we'd been brought together by something more than mere chance?

You see, he hadn't used his Yahoo! Personals account in quite a long time. In fact, he had forgotten he even had it. The account was linked with his spam email account, which he only checked every month or so. He happened to check it the day after I sent that icebreaker, and he saw the email notice. He signed in, checked out my profile, liked what he saw, and responded. If he hadn't checked just then, he wouldn't have seen the email because it would have been too far down on the list of "spam".

The reality was that he'd pretty much given up on the dating scene and was starting to think that he was going to be single for the rest of his life, and that was okay with him. He was fine with being alone. He was content.

Until I came along and he realized that I fit into this massive hole he didn't even know was there.

We've been together ever since. We've had a rough patch or two, mostly due to confronting and working through the baggage we brought with us into the relationship, but we work through it and are stronger for it. It's all very sappy and mushy, but I didn't really understand what love means until I met him.

So there's the story.

And if you're sitting there all disappointed because I've left out the more, um, salacious details--MY MOTHER READS THIS, PEOPLES!!!

(You can totally email me directly if you like. *Ahem*)

Happy Anniversary, my love.

How MTL Became My True Love (Part I)

Today is Valentine's Day, and because we're a holiday birthday family, it's also MTL's birthday. Happy birthday, oh love of my life!

(I got him a Kindle. Because we're soulmates like that.)

I have to admit I am generally cynical and snarky about Hallmark holidays. I think perhaps some of it has masked a quiet resolve not to care that I have not dated or been married to anyone who was much into romantic gestures. It's easier to just dismiss it all by saying it's all corporate broohaha and that romance should not be limited to a handful of days each year. Which is true, but that only really works if the person you love is romantic other times of the year.

Here's the mushy truth: romance isn't just in bouquets of flowers and boxes of chocolate, and my life has become full of romance ever since I met MTL. I can't remember a day when he has not told me, with full sincerity rather than rote habit, that he loves me. I can't remember a day when he hasn't at least once held me close, looked at me with that special look, made me aware of just how sexy and amazing and wonderful he thinks I am.

There's been some chocolate, too.

HOWEVER. Hallmark holiday or no, having that wonderful man say Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart! this morning as we climbed in our respective cars, and then discovering he'd beaten me to Facebook and posted on my Wall...

Yeah. Guess I'm just a big mushy-hearted sap after all.

ANYWAY. It occurs to me that I never did tell you, my bloggy readers, how MTL and I met.  So here you go. It's a long one, so grab a drink and get comfy:

Last year, a few weeks before Valentine's Day, I texted a few of my girlfriends about feeling like I could really use a compliment from some hot guy right then. You know, just for the ego boost. Shallow, yes, but honest. My friend Melissa suggested that I try out an online dating site just to do some casual dating, have some fun, get back out there. She suggested Yahoo! Personals, since her sister had tried that one.

So I decided what the heck and signed up--for free at first, just to check around. Then I did buy a brief membership, since I thought perhaps there was some potential. I created my profile and looked around at the profiles of men in my area who seemed interesting. On that site you can send little generic "icebreakers"--phrases like Your profile made me smile. I remember that one because it's the one I used when I saw MTL's profile. Anyhow, I got some responses from several men and we chatted a bit on that website. It was nice to be able to do that there, without all your super personal information on display (they know your first name and general location, plus photos and whatever you've written in your profile) and get a feel for someone before deciding even whether to exchange email addresses, much less phone numbers and whatnot.

At any rate, I connected with a few different men and went on some dates. I did the careful meeting in public, letting friends know where I was sort of thing. One guy, Scott, was very nice--but TOO nice, if you know what I mean. He just felt like a friend. He was rather into me, but I didn't feel the chemistry. But we went on a few dates. There were a few others with whom I only had one date. Nice, but not for me. And as much as I intended to keep things casual, I didn't feel right leading them on as if there was a future in the relationship. I also felt weird about juggling multiple dates, to be honest. Some women may enjoy that, and I'll admit that for a very brief time it was very flattering to have several men interested in me, but it's not for me.

So much for being a "playa". (Heh.)

I still didn't expect more than some confidence-boosting, companionable, casual dating. Little did I know that God had something else in mind.

MTL was one of the men I'd sent an icebreaker to. I thought he was cute and I very much liked what he said in his profile. He seemed to have a good sense of humor and be very "real", if that makes sense. He ended up responding a day or two later (more on that in Part II), we sent messages back and forth for a bit on the site, and then we exchanged email addresses. And we continued to communicate quite heavily. Lots of back-and-forth short messages. Our senses of humor clicked really well. We're both snarky and sarcastic, and we discovered that we "got" each other's humor even through email, which can be tricky.

Then we exchanged phone numbers, though we started out just texting. I found that he had a quick mind and sense of humor, and he wasn't so nicey-nice like Scott. How do I explain this? Scott was the kind of person where if I said something snarky about having a bad day or whatever, he'd be all super-comforting instead of being snarky back--which is what I want and need. MTL, on the other hand, gave back as good as I gave him. He was making me laugh, and I hadn't even talked to him directly yet.

I remember the first time I texted him, I was getting a mani-pedi. I wrote him that I was sitting in a massage chair getting my feet rubbed--so sad that he wasn't out of work yet. He retorted that some people have to actually work for a living.

And then we talked about science fiction.

(Fate, I'm telling you.)

The next day I started my solitary road trip to visit my dear friend DraftQueen and my sister in the Boston area. That night, February 12th, I had my first direct phone conversation with MTL. He even kicked his kids out of the house so he could have some privacy. Two days later, on Valentine's Day, I texted him Happy Birthday and he texted me with Not sure if this is inappropriate or not, but I don't care. Happy Valentine's Day!

I saved the text. I still have it.

(I told you. SAP.)

And five days later we went on our first official date.

Sunset

I wrote this one after driving west into a sunset too beautiful for words. But I tried anyway. This is the last of the nature posts from that assignment. Maybe next time I'll try to get out in nature itself a little more. You know, like in spring.

******************************

The sky is orange tonight--such an insufficient word for that blazing color, "orange." So pedestrian and ugly, reminiscent of Halloween and pumpkins. This is no autumnal orange of squash and spice and spectral eyes. This is a blaze of color that sweeps across the west, vivid and breathtaking against the deep leaden grey of what is not touched by sun. It shades to a pink that once again surpasses the childishness of the word, and finally edges into a reddened purple that blazes one final moment. And then grey. All is grey and shades of grey, swirled across a sky that speaks of coming snow.

Gone in a moment, dipped too far below the edge of the world for light to reach the visible sky.

We speak of the sun dying on the horizon, traces of long-ago belief that the sun died each night, only to be reborn each dawn. Eaten by wolves, birthed by goddesses. Death in glory, birth in triumph.

Such beauty, this dying. The sun's death is painted by a Master hand, shapes and pigments no human agency could imitate. This is not the glory of violence, going down in a blaze of glory in some cliche rock n roll sense, but the blaze of a life well lived, beauty spread and love given and warmth shared, until the reflection of this life is as glorious as the one who lived.

I hear of such deaths. I think perhaps my aunt's was such a one, as hard and painful and horrific as it was from one point of view. But the reflection of her life--and even of her death, the going of it and her hope and faith amidst pain and knowledge that nothing more could be done, the leaving of her husband and young children--the reflection shone on all who knew her.

Painted by a Master's hand.

Inner Child

I was, by all accounts, a bright, outgoing, bouncy, extroverted child. I was the chubby-cheeked darling who toddled up to another child, whom I had never seen before in my life, in some European airport and flung my arms around him as though he were my long-lost bff. I was bright-eyed and adventurous, making friends left and right with people young and old.

It changed around age four or five. It all blurs in my memory. The timeline fuzzes over and I can't remember whether certain things happened before or after or during kindergarten. I don't know which events slammed me first and set me up for others. I don't know when the walls started going up, or how fast I built them, or all the reasons why.

My therapist wants me to create the timeline. She wants me to through it in my mind, step by step. She also wants me to find out what else might have been going on in those years, aspects of my environment that may have had more impact on me than I know: the sort of things that would be internalized by a bright, emotionally sensitive child and become a part of her without anyone ever dreaming she even noticed.

What is it, she asks, that convinced you so long ago that you would never be good enough?

I don't know how much I can dig. I'm aware of certain elements, and facing those are hard enough. I'm not sure whether I even want to know what else might have been going on, what else might have happened. What I do know is that when I think back to those years, I'm swept away by a wave of grief and anxiety.

I've been talking a lot to my closest friends lately about the nature of my relationships. It's anything but coincidence that I do not have a close girlfriend who lives close enough to be a part of my daily life. I have a couple who live within driving distance, but such is the nature of life and metropolitan suburbia that we rarely see each other and mostly settle for chatting on the phone.

The three girlfriends who are currently my most intimate friends? The closest lives an hour away--forty-five minutes if there aren't cops around--and the other two lives states away. One I've only seen face to face once in our friendship. The other I haven't seen in fifteen years.

It's safer that way, you see. Let someone be intimately close AND be a part of your daily life and the emotional risk becomes too great. If something goes awry in the friendship or someone moves, there's a deeper loss. And even then, be careful what you say. Be careful just how much of your naked, raw, and oh-so-tender inner self you let anyone see. Keep everyone at an arm's length, for protection.

MTL is the first person I've let all the way in.

I knew it would be a risk. I knew that if I was going to let him in at all, it would have to be all the way. All or nothing. He wasn't going to settle for less. And deep down, I didn't want to either.

I didn't know how much of a risk it would be. I didn't know how unprepared I am, from a lifetime of walls and numbing myself down and disconnecting myself emotionally, for both the joy and the pain. Because it turns out that when you love someone enough to let them all the way in, everything becomes brighter and stronger and sharper. It means when I hurt him and he hurts me, whether intentional or otherwise, the pain is agony. It also means that the joy is bigger and deeper. Thankfully, the joy far outweighs the pain and is far more common, but...

But.

Here's where I'm flung back to that five year old self. Here's where I sit and realize that deep down, despite everything, I still don't believe I'm deserving of love and joy. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep waiting for him to wake up one day, realize that I'm not worth it, and walk away.

Because deep down that little girl is huddled in a corner, whispering that everyone leaves. And they leave because that is what she deserves.

I don't know how to talk to her. I don't know how to face her pain. I don't even know all the reasons she's there.

*****************************

"little girl"

little girl
sit quiet in your corner
veiled in plain sight
shield yourself from
anyone
who might see what's there inside
know what's inside

little girl
put on all that armor
fend off every look
protect yourself from
anything
that might break through to your heart
might break your heart

it's pain that teaches you to hide
fear that teaches you to run
never reaching out
never reaching in
always in flight from the unknown
that which you can't control

little girl
who tore out your heart so long ago
and told you you'd never be enough
for this world
who made you crawl into
the walls of your own mind
the armor of your own skin
the shield of invisibility
for those without the will to see
and they never get to know

this little girl
little girl
with a heart full of possibilities

and now you're grown
and still hiding
still building walls
and donning armor
only allowing those you choose
to climb over
and behind
and into your world
little girl
with a heart full of pain

If It Wasn't For Meme, You Wouldn't Have Me At All

Well, at least right now. Because life, it's a little crazy. Bless DraftQueen for tagging me. I'll be Up North in the Michigan backwoods for the next few days, so I will not be on the Interwebz. Well, even less so than I have been lately.

So. Ten questions (and answers, natch) about me, and then I'm supposed to tag six people:

1. If you blog anonymously, are you happy doing it that way; if you are not anonymous do you wish you had started out anonymously so you could be anonymous now?

Well, I am and I'm not. My name and my fambily's names are, obviously, nom de plumes. But I did that whole Oooooh I'm writing a blog! Come read me! Do you need me to make it email itself to you automatically???? thing for my extended family and friends (and The Ex, who wasn't my Ex back then) that a lot of beginner bloggers do, and there have been times when that has been...inconvenient. Ever since I crashed and burned back in December 2008/January 2009 and then started blogging again in March 2009, I've been as open and honest as I can be. There are times when I need to write about something that I'm not comfortable being read by certain people, however, and that's when I resort to friends who will lend me their blog for a day or two.

Thank God for bloggy friends.

What was the question, again?

2. Describe one incident that shows your inner stubborn side.

HA! Which to choose, which to choose...because really, it's not so much an "inner" stubborn side. It's pretty much HERE I AM AND WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?!?! Um...okay. Shall I be all open and honest here? And you can decide whether this is me being stubborn or all conflict-avoidance.

There's a friend who has been a fairly good friend for quite a while who said some things to me back in January about my divorce and how she saw my future playing out. I was pretty hurt and bothered by some of it, and I haven't talked to her since, even when she's texted or Facebooked me. I even composed a letter in my head explaining why I was hurt (I don't think it's even the part she expects it is) and why I've been avoiding her. But I haven't written the letter.

I suck.

3. What do you see when you really look at yourself in the face in the mirror?

Someone beautiful and flawed and fulfilled. You have no idea how amazing it is to be able to say that with honesty.

4. What is your favorite summer cold drink?

Iced tea with lemon, NO SUGAR thankyouverymuch. Though I have to say the tropical sangrias I imbibed at the Olive Garden last Friday would top my list if I was more of a drinker.

5. When you take time for yourself, what do you do?

READ. Lavishly. Preferably the kind of books that do NOT end up on summer reading lists, though I think those lists could use more like what I read. Ugh. Remind me to whine vent tell you about that another time.

6. Is there something you still want to accomplish in your life? What is it?

I seriously think I'd like to be published. I'm not certain whether it would be for poetry, fiction, or essays, but I'd really like to be published. You know, by other people. And ideally also read by other people.

7. When you attended school, were you the class clown, the class overachiever, the class shy person, or always ditching school?

Oh, definitely the overachiever. For a long time my intelligence and academic success were the only things I thought worthwhile about myself.

I still attend school occasionally, by the way, because there's that pesky ongoing education requirement for my certification. Nowadays I'm the class smartass. I'm still at the top of the class, though.

8. If you close your eyes and want to visualize a very poignant moment in your life, what do you see?

Past? Future? Sad-poignant? Happy-poignant? Come on, people, be specific! Um.

Past sad-poignant was the moment last year I realized my marriage was dead. Not just dying, but dead. I'd already cried all my tears, so I didn't weep for it again, but it was a moment that I'll never quite forget.

Past mostly-happy-and-also-freaked-out-poignant was the moment DramaBoy was first shown to me and I fell in love in a totally different way than I expected. I also realized that life would never be the same and I wasn't quite so sure I was ready. Turns out, I wasn't. I survived, though.

More recent and purely-happy-poignant was when MTL first told me he loved me. I already knew it, but still, the first time those words are spoken...I can still picture it all perfectly. *mushy sigh*

As for future poignant--well, refer back to my answer to #1. Maybe I'll tell you once it's happened. *wink*

9. Is it easy for you to share your true self in your blog or are you more comfortable writing posts about other people or events?

I don't think I can help but write about myself. Very few of my posts are about other people without my involvement. This is essentially my rather non-private diary. Same for my poetry--it's all based in reality.

Sure, it's navel gazing, but they say to write what you know! Hehe.

10. If you had the choice to sit and read or talk on the phone, which would you do and why?

Oh, the answer to this one should be obvious to anyone who's been reading my blog for long! Sit and read ALL THE WAY!!! It's my addiction, after all. Even more so than shoes. (I know. Gasp.)

I actually prefer texting on the phone to talking on it. And I'll take talking to someone face-to-face over the phone any day! I've become more like my mother that way as I've gotten older. Now sit down with me over a cup of coffee or a lovely slice of dark chocolate cake with raspberries, and I can talk--and listen, believe it or not--for hours.

Which is what I plan to do the next few days, because my parents are IN COUNTRY and IN TOWN until Sunday, when they fly out to Boston for the birth of my nephew!!!

MTL finally met them last night. I won't tell you how nervous he was. How very, very, very nervous. *ahem*

(He survived.)

(I love that man. As he says, I better. Heehee.)

I'm supposed to tag people, right? Eeek. Um. Okay. Yikes, can't tag DraftQueen. Or Brenda at MummyTime. Or Wanderlust. Or Melissa at Rock and Drool. DQ already tagged them. Dammit, woman!

Okay. I tag:

Lori at Random Ramblings of a Stay at Home Mum
Pants With Names at Pants With Names
Katie at No Missed Opportunities
Nicola at Some Mothers Do Ave Em
GingerB at Gas-Food-Lodging
Monica at And I'll Raise You 5

Your turn!

You're welcome.

[Un]Erased

They are bittersweet, these days of sorting and purging and packing. Cleansing, to toss the bags and boxes of trash built up from years of forgetfulness and laziness. Ancient academic and financial papers that lost significance years ago. Broken bits of this and that forgotten in corners and closets. Outgrown clothes and toys and books and decorations.

Much of the undertaking is simple. I have lost much (though by no means all) of my need for Things. I feel less sentimentality about objects than I once did, no longer harbor an obsession with keeping anything and everything that might have importance. I prize relationships more highly than possessions these days, for nothing I owned made any difference when my life fell apart. People did.

The difficult part of this task, the bitterness on my tongue, lies with the memories. Too many of them, as I page through photos and scrapbooks and memorabilia: the detritus of a life lived as someone else, with someone else. What is linked to my children I kept, divided, parceled out according to affiliation. Certain other pieces, less shadowed, met the same treatment.

Much I discarded.

They are too bitter, those memories of loss and failure.

He thinks I hate him. I don't. But neither can I cling to a past that is laced eternally with gall and acid.

Besides, the memories will never be erased. They are an indelible part of me, nearly half the chapters that make up my life.

And now? Now it is time to turn the page.

It's Nine O'Clock On A Friday

It's 9:11 on a Friday night, and I'm sitting in bed catching up on blogs before drifting off to sleep in a bit.

I know. MY LIFE, IT IS A PARTY.

Seriously, I'm pretty happy to be where I am. This week has felt twice as long as it actually was due to a jam-packed schedule. MTL's been raising his eyebrows every time I whip out my agenda. There isn't much white space left. My scribbles have scribbles. I'm exhausted.

The end of the year, work-wise, is always jam-packed. This one, more so than many. I had the normal tasks such as writing, administering, and grading exams; finalizing grades; packing up the room; changing my voice mail; cleaning out both virtual and physical mailboxes; filing all the crazy paperwork that materializes in June; and checking out for the summer.  Then there were the usual functions: graduation, the end-of-year staff picnic, the end-of-year English Department party.

It was the goodbyes that got to me this year. I didn't fully realize until a few weeks before the end of the year just how many seniors I had connected with over the last few years. At graduation, the staff members create a little honor guard as the students exit the arena. This year, I had students piling up waiting for their turn to high-five, fist-bump, and/or hug me.

I even told two of My Boys that just ONCE, just for that moment, I was their Boi.

Brandon may have fist-pumped the air. I know he was telling everyone in range that I'd finally said it.

I said goodbye and good luck to a lot of special kids this year. I know my Facebook Friend count went way up that day. And if I wanted to, I could skip buying groceries on weekends for the next couple of months and just live off graduation party food.

This job comes with those farewells every year. I've gotten more used to them. The harder ones are when coworkers, friends with whom I interact and collaborate daily and monthly and yearly, say goodbye too.

Three of my closest coworker friends were on the bottom of the district seniority list. They all were laid off on Tuesday. I don't think it's sunk in for me yet: next year they will not be there. I lost my mentee C., and losing him is losing a friend, a wonderful collaborator, and a little brother all at once.

Okay, writing that made it a little more real. THIS SUCKS.

Then on Wednesday I went to a small retirement party for the first real friend I ever made at my school. He was a father figure, the first one to really get to know me, the person who told other coworkers I was worth getting to know. Every time I saw him, he had a hug and a smile and an encouraging word to give.

Dammit. I'm getting teary now.

Since then? I've been diving into sorting and purging and packing all the crap that piled up in the house over six years, because I'll be moving at the end of July.

I'll write more about that later. It is now 9:33 and I'm ready for bed.

What's awesome? I get to sleep in. For REAL.

'Night, all!

The Good, The Bad, and The Whiny

Yo.

I'm back. Amazingly enough, I'm back in one piece and of sane mind--well, as much as I usually am, which I suppose is up for some discussion. I'm sure there are quite a few people who would have a few opinions to express on the matter. Shut up. It's not your blog.

Heh.

So how did the Great Camping Adventure go? Well, as Boy Crazy said in her post about her weekend, I'm a fan of selective memory. Therefore, I am choosing to remember

• multiple small children running about bare foot playing tag while MTL and I cooked breakfast/lunch/dinner
• The Widget sitting contentedly on the beach, just out of reach of the water, piling sand on his legs/torso/curly head
• DramaBoy finally getting brave enough to wade out in the water up to his waist
• both DramaBoy and The Widget eating their hotdogs across the top (corn-on-the-cob style) rather than from one end
• roasting marshmallows over the fire
• The Widget wanting a marshmallow properly toasted, taking it in his hands, then handing it back with an "ick" face, complaining that It's squishy! It's too squishy! despite assurances that its squishiness was, in fact, a desirable characteristic
• The Widget marching about in board shorts and a hoodie, face adorably framed by the hood
• DramaBoy climbing everything in sight like the monkey he is
• sitting by a fire sipping cold drinks while laughing over MTL's family's stories (his sister et famille and his parents were there as well, which raised the adult-child ratio to a marvelous and anxiety-reducing level)
• eating a delicious if very messy Choco-Raspberry Burrito grilled over the fire (though we'll use foil on the grill next time and add more cinnamon)
• toasting on the hot sand while the kidlets splashed about in the lovely clear lake
• getting into a water fight with MTL and his kids (mine stayed safely out of range on the beach)
• moments of pure, unadulterated happiness

And I simply am choosing NOT to remember

• the whining
• trying (with limited success) to remove sand from scalps and every possible crevice of small dirty children
• protests over eating the food we brought versus the (apparently superior) food brought by MTL's sister and parents
• the whining
• biting flies and mosquitos
• trying to get three small exhausted children to STAY IN BED and GO TO SLEEP when (horror of horrors) the sun was still up and other people got to stay awake
• the whining
• dealing with fighting and complaints and various difficult requests from two kidlets in the back seat while driving for hours and hours without anyone in the passenger seat to help
• the sheer exhaustion (shared by MTL) that resulted from tending camp, cooking food, bathing children, ferrying children to the potty, being woken in the too-early hours of the morning by small kidlets, driving for hours, and generally Being In Charge While On Vacation

and did I mention

• the whining?

That second list? Didn't happen.

It couldn't have, because MTL and I have agreed that camping is something we want to do frequently. We're even going to prep some permanent camping bins and make some lists (yay! lists!) to make sure we don't forget certain key items. Like, oh, a can opener. Or dish soap.

Thank God MTL's parents were there in their fully-stocked RV.

I should note, however, that we plan to make a good number of those camping trips kid-free. Then we can spend hours reading and relaxing and doing things whenever we feel like it rather than on Kidlet Time.

Hopefully that means we can take the h out of whine.

And that, dearest readers, would be something to remember.

First of Something

Oh DraftQueen my DraftQueen. Thank you for giving me something to post, because dude, I gots nothing. I have this former student who promised me a written account of a highly entertaining dream he had in which I was a star player (and, um, no, not in THAT way, you dirty-minded people you. SHAME.), but the pesky business of doing Top Secret Stuff on computers over in Iraq got in the way, so I'm having to come up with my own blog fodder.

Oy.

But you, my darling, have tagged me. I'm It. Apparently I am to repost my first ever blog post and then tag some others to do the same. I'm sure, if I tried hard enough, I could tie this meme in to the fact that today is International Worker's Day as well as Beltene, but today is Saturday and I don't have a maypole handy, so I'll just be lazy and post the damn post already. You're welcome.

As a relatively new addict to the world of mommyblogs, I have had my concepts of blogging seriously challenged. My exposure to blogs was limited to the travesties of MySpace and the more personal ones of a few friends and family members--you know, the kinds that really only their friends and family are meant to see and enjoy? But a short while ago, on a day when I really had MANY other things I needed to do but really didn't feel like doing, I followed a series of links that led me to, of all things, a MommyBlog. (I won't say which at the moment, as I do believe in asking permission before linking and don't have the courage to go ask this High Lady of Humor for permission to link to my sorry little starter blog.) This Mommy was Funny. And Smart. And Funny some more.

As I became addicted to her blog and then (perhaps unwisely for the sake of the stack of papers that is teetering precariously on the corner of my desk) to several others that she herself linked, I realized that (1) blogging mommies Rock, (2) the ones worth reading have actually improved their writing skills through blogging, and (3) apparently blogging can satisfy something in women who are mommies but like to think too.

Now you have to understand that I am the type of person who writes really well when it comes to academic sorts of things, and I know it. However, that confidence falls short when it comes to the Personal. I am much like Adrian Plass, Aged 37 3/4, who starts a diary with the entry:

Feel led to keep a diary. A sort of spiritual log for the benefit of others in the future. Each new divine insight and experience will shine like a beacon in the darkness!

Can’t think of anything to put in today.

This is Me. I have started a half dozen diaries (or, rather, "Journals," very much in the tradition of Great Contributers to Literature) with the rather pompous and idealistic vision of sharing Great Thoughts with Humankind. I buy the pretty ones, the appealing ones, the Journals with lovely clean pages just aching to be written upon with a proper pen (I feel strongly in this matter, as does Anne Shirley, that only the right pen* will do). They generally lasted for a scattering of entries, and then they lay forgotten and dusty on various shelves. I find them later, mourn over another waste of money, laugh at myself and those silly entries, and then try to find something more useful to do with all that lovely paper. Such as jot down important notes about items to find and gems to get cut and quests to fulfill in another addiction of mine, World of Warcraft. But that's another post.

Similarly, the only blogging I have ever done was one exasperated post (about the frustrations of dealing with hormonal teenagers, as I recall) on the otherwise silent MySpace account I created solely to be able to read my sister's blogs. She doesn't blog there anymore, so that account lies quiet and dusty, but definitely unmourned, on some shelf the Webgods have tucked away in a back corner.

We shall see if this blog goes that way. I hope not. Mainly I need to remind myself that the best MommyBloggers are those who edit themselves and yet remain true to themselves. That way they avoid the pomposity and short-lived interest in what they write. From what I have read, at any rate.

So, here begins my account of life with Diapers and Dragons.

--------------------------------------------------------------------
* So do you find it curious, as do I, that upon reading over this entry I realized I had initially written "write pen" rather than "right pen"? A slip of the pen, or keys, or whatever, but amusingly apt.

I'm struck by the irony in one of those last lines I wrote: "...the best MommyBloggers are those who edit themselves and yet remain true to themselves." If you've been following my journey at all, you know that I was frantically lying to myself for years, and the first few months of my blog were the last few months I spent doing that. Go back and read last post of 2008 and then read through my journey of 2009...Good Lord. I feel like I'm looking back at the words of a completely different person.

And thank God, I'm not her any longer. 

So where were you and how far have you come since you first started blogging? I'm tagging MomZombie at MomZombie, Monica at And I'll Raise You Five, Arby at Boarding in Bedlam, and Nicola at Some Mothers Do Ave Em. Happy First of May!

Reheated Coffee

For various reasons, I'm reposting this poem (sorry Lauren, I know you aren't fond of my poetry) from November 17th. This event was real. This is a conversation I've had in various forms with a far larger number of people than any of us would like to think over the last year. It's a far too common story.

"one night over coffee"

you werent the only one
she said
and gazed out the window at the sun
dying in crimson glory on the horizon

i knew there was a reason i was drawn to you
a similarity of pain
our scars are sisters in formation
her mouth twisted a moment and then

her face was blank
no one looking at us would know
we spoke of secrets held for decades
not forgotten

never forgotten

but stuffed beneath our breasts
in pockets of poisoned past
lives we lived in another space and time

perhaps her eye glistened a moment
as did mine
but there was no breaking down
in tears or gasping sobs
that too lay in the years gone before
shut away by minds well trained
no breaches of security
for public curiosity

i cried in the shower the other day
i said
my lips moving in subdued confession
it just happened
i found myself on the floor
with water beating on my back
and tears streaming down my face
and didnt know how i got there

she nodded
ive done that too
but not in a while
it catches me by surprise sometimes

did you ever tell
i asked
and knew the answer before she spoke

i tried
but the only ones who believed
were the other ones they did it to
our parents didnt want to hear
didnt want to believe
because of who they were

im lucky
i said
my parents didnt know
but at least they believed me
and they are mourning now

i looked over her shoulder
at the older man sitting behind us
his eyes kept flickering to my face
to her back
and i wondered if he could hear
the murmured words

his eyes were avid
almost hungry
for what i wondered
salacious stories
of ancient pain
and modern wounds
or confirmation that
he too was not the only one

or had he been one of those
who had torn and ripped away
someones innocence
in the long or not so long ago

too many stories
too many sides
too many scars
and ours will not be the last

climbing

you climb so high
stretching limb and limb
grasping handholds
slipping a moment
then triumphant
stand tall at the summit

i stand in wonder
memories wisping through my mind
not long ago each eight inch stair
from first floor to second
was too much for your chubby legs
you clutched my hand
strained in determined effort
you could climb
but not alone

now you and your brother
race each other floor to floor
my heart in my mouth i issue warnings
not on the stairs
don't play on the stairs
someone could get hurt

yet here i stand below
this wall of fiberglass and plastic
higher than my head
and watch you clamber vertically
poised to catch you

should you fall

you reach the top every time
small and slim and seraphic
your joy contagious
i feel another string stretch and snap
my hands are empty of all but applause

i watch you turn away
run toward another adventure
and wonder when the next step will come

-----------------------------------------------

It's FlogYoBlog Friday. For those of you who haven't, check out MummyTime and her lovely blog, and check out some other blogs too! And for those of you visiting me, I don't write poetry all the time. Just when the inspiration strikes. Welcome!

TeacherMommy 2.0

This post today...it's important enough that I created a calendar reminder for it. And now I sit and stare at this screen wondering where to begin. I texted wrote a friend about it. He tried, he really did, but it's a tricky little conundrum.

TM: i restarted my blog a year ago today. i want to write a post about it, but i'm not sure what i want to write about.

J: How far you've come and grown over the past year.

TM: yes, but HOW
not sure how to approach it
it's one of those things that's sort of massive, so i don't know where to start

J: At the beginning.

TM: oh, that helps. i'm not sure where the beginning is....

And that is the problem. Where is the beginning?

Almost exactly fifteen months ago I wrote this. And then I vanished from the blog for three months. On Tuesday, March 12, 2009, I returned with this post. Just a short one. But there are words in there that speak a great deal about what had passed during that space of time.

Twelve months ago...the time seems both massive and fleeting in retrospect. One thirty-second of my life. So very much has happened during that time: the attempt, and failure, to save my marriage; the decision to file for divorce; slow renewal of faith; the discovery and development of new friendships; the rediscovery and deepening of old friendships; renewed interest in teaching; slow growth and change in my parenting; facing and grieving and healing from a very old wound; and so very much more.

Above all else: the discovery of Myself. I spent so many years hiding my true Self from not only other people, but from myself. I hid behind walls of my own making in the belief that if I let anyone behind them, much less tore them down, I would be wounded anew. I had no faith in the love and forgiveness of others; I had no faith in God's ability to heal; I had no faith in myself.

I have so far to go, still. Life is, after all, a journey, and if I were to believe that I had nothing more to learn, well then that would mean I was once more hiding from the truth. But when I look back over this year of pain and joy, wounding and healing, learning and growing, I realize that who I am now is Beautiful. And as I learn to love myself, I learn how to love others, how to open myself up to the possibilities that life and love have to offer, and how to give myself fully rather than always holding something back in reserve.

It's time to put all my chips on the table.

I'm All In.

Sister Mine

Twenty-nine years ago today, my life changed forever. I had been the Golden Child, the only little kidlet around in the entire extended family and missionary community out in Ivory Coast. As far as I was concerned, the universe revolved around me and Galileo could go suck it.

And then came long this adorable little baby with wispy blond hair and big blue eyes and a disturbing tendency to be very very very precocious and I was supposed to Love My Sister.

Yeah. Not so much.

I'm afraid I was a pretty awful Big Sister for a very long time. I tormented her. I knew all her buttons. I played them with all the skill of a Mortal Kombat button masher, and my results were just as aggravating (to her) as my MK skillz were to my male opponents Back in the Day.

(For the love of god, you aren't even TRYING to get the combos off! You're just MASHING BUTTONS and I'm trying to be SKILLED here, girl! Come on!)

(Meanwhile, I would kick their butts. Just sayin'.)

I'd rile her up until she would, out of pure frustration, bite me, and then I'd go running off to a parent with the proof of her crime. Oh, I was nasty. And when we would get in mutual trouble and be placed in the corner to sit until we apologized and said we loved each other? She'd crumble in a moment. I would sit there for pretty much Ever. I'm not sorry and I don't love her! I would exclaim.

Oh, I was a bitch.

Mind you, I was the only one allowed to treat her that way. Sure, I'd complain up and down about having to let her tag along on adventures and keep an eye on her, but God forbid anyone else criticize her. Then they'd be ripped a new one. I was the only one allowed to abuse her.

Time eventually changed my attitude. I had a few wake-up calls along the way. And I finally faced the reality that most of my resentment came from my own poor self-esteem and my jealousy that my sister is, very truthfully, Just Plain Awesome.

She is. She's smart, beautiful, athletic, generous, outgoing, sensitive, funny, friendly, loving, and hard-working. So's her husband. These days when I tell people about them (with a bit of a brag, by the way), I often say It's a good thing they're so damn likable, because otherwise it would be very easy to hate them.

And there's only a tiny bit of snark in there. Because seriously, they're amazing people.

Our relationship is not entirely healed from the damage I did all those years ago. But we have worked on it, and these days? These days I can say, very honestly, that I AM sorry and that I DO love her.

So Happy Birthday, SoccerSister. It's been a long and often painful road, but I am so very grateful that you are my sister (and, um, that you're also so forgiving. *ahem*) This year to come is going to be life-changing for you like little else, and I truly hope that I can be a presence in your journey that makes you, as well, grateful to have a sister.

I love you.

Birth Day

She was young, too young, and the mother of five young children who still needed her as children always need their mothers, small or no. She had been dying by inches, holding on for days and weeks through pain and vomiting and decay and her body's rejection of man's last attempts to save it. She held on by sheer will, something left undone, something left unfinished. It wasn't, somehow, her time.

Four years ago today, her husband held her hand and told her she could go. He loved her, he always would, but she could let go. It was time to go Home.

And she left us, quietly, between one breath and another, slipping from this world into the next, leaving behind parents and siblings and nieces and nephews and friends beyond count, leaving behind the five children who had also said their farewells to what extent they understood.

The news traveled. We wept. Even though I was stone, I wept. And I was angry. Death had robbed her of all the years she should have spent on this earth.

Four years later, I still weep. But now, I see that day from a new perspective. I cannot be truly angry. I do not understand why she left us too soon, but I do understand something else.

What we saw as Death was instead her Birth.

Hers were tears of joy as she stood in a new body, one that stood tall and strong, her hair thick and full again, her skin unswollen and unblemished. No pain. No anguish. She ran with sure feet, arms spread open, and gathered in the children waiting there, the precious souls she had never known as more than a momentary existence before loss had swept them away. Her face rose to the blazing glory that lay before her, and she shone in the light of the Son.

Her real life began then.

C. S. Lewis says we live in the Shadowlands, the dim, dark outline of that country that lies Further Up and Further In, where lies "the beginning of the true story, which goes on forever, and in which every chapter is better than the one before." She lives there now, and her story here with us was but the Prologue to the eternal one written by the Great Author.

Vulture's Prey

Many years ago there was a young girl who had very little self-confidence. She knew she was intelligent; she had a feeling she was attractive; she was fairly sure she was an interesting person. What she didn't believe was that anyone else (other than her parents, who of course didn't count) could see or value any of this. She also believed that she had enough flaws that anyone who got to know the real her would reject her. So she walled herself off from the world, sat in the corner, and watched life go by.

She was very lonely.

The girl had a few friends here and there, but because of a life spent living overseas and traveling back and forth and always saying goodbye to people, she struggled to maintain those friendships. She struggled even more to make new ones. One year when she was back in the strange unfamiliarity of Michigan, she somehow was drawn into a four-way friendship with three other misfit girls at her school. They all sat near each other in several classes due to the accident of alphabet and last names, and for some reason she never understood, they welcomed her into their little group.

Over time, the girl became increasingly close to one of the girls in particular. This other girl was a rebel. She was edgy and dangerous in a sneaky sort of way. She held herself with an air of confidence and take-no-prisoners attitude that the girl envied. So the girl overlooked her friend's tendency to use her. When her friend started taking the girl's geometry homework to copy, the girl said nothing. When her friend would ditch the girl at the last minute because something else came up, the girl said nothing. When her friend would talk endlessly about her own drama and showed no interest in what the girl might be going through, the girl said nothing.

She was just grateful to have a friend.

The girl went back overseas for two years, and her friend never replied to any of the letters she sent. This wasn't anything new, however, so the girl said nothing. And when she returned to Michigan for college, she reached out to her friend once again, who was more than happy to accept the girl back into her life--without the other two friends, who had all drifted apart once the girl left.

The girl started changing, however, and started realizing that perhaps someone who was a real friend should care more about the girl herself rather than how she fit into the friend's life at her convenience. The girl started standing up for herself a little bit. She didn't drop everything at a moment's notice for her friend any more. She started making her own story and her own needs known a little more.

And her friend stopped calling. She stopped answering the phone when the girl would call. Finally, when the girl called her to ask if they could get together over a school break, the friend told the girl that she really didn't have time to see her anymore.

The girl hung up, shrugged, and never called the friend again. She realized, finally, that this other girl had never been a true friend at all.

Years and years later, when the girl had grown even more and was finally becoming the person she wanted to be, she made many true friends. One day one of the dearest of those friends sent her a song to enjoy. There was something about the song that struck a note in the girl. She would play the song again and again, caught up in the music. The lyrics, too, struck something in the girl. One day as she read them again, she realized that the lyrics were singing the song of that old, false friendship.

And she breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that she no longer thought that this sort of friendship was the most that she deserved.

Little princess, with no need for empathy when we will
gather at your feet to give you anything you need
and feel privileged
just to have you hang around
so we can look you
up and down and hope for you
to turn around and maybe notice
all the things we have inside
things that you pretend to provide
to get yourself around in life

So, sorry to get in your way
It seems that I forgot my place...
A means to your superficial ends
Here, let me scratch your back again
Sweetie

Little princess, how could I be any use?
Might I assist with your abuse
and whatever else you choose?
Good thing you're pretty
or else you'd be no good to me
Your fake concern is rather weak
I hear an echo when you speak
but it's ok...
Manipulate me all you need, for we are all
your currency...
even your spite is flattering

So, sorry to get in your way
It seems that I forgot my place...
A means to your superficial ends
Here, let me scratch your back again
Sweetie

Little doll faced vulture, circling round...
captivating as I lay on the ground
waiting for you to come swooping down
to feast on my weakness
and move on through the crowd

Shadows

Yesterday was Groundhog Day. I didn't really notice at the time, what with all the depression and sadness and whatnot that happens when one's relationship comes to an end. I knew the timing for our beginning had been bad, that we had a lot of obstacles facing us, and I understand the reasons he feels he just can't be in a relationship at this point in his life, but pain doesn't care much about how logical the cause is.

I am clinging to hope rather than despair, however, and am doing whatever I can not to fall into the darkness. My friends are amazing. Add my sister in there, too, who called and talked and listened for a long time despite not feeling particularly well yesterday. I look back at last year, at the torment I was going through then as another relationship was ending (much more traumatically and messily and in a very drawn-out manner, mind you) and realize that the difference--in me, in my coping mechanisms, in the depth and breadth of my support group--is astonishing. Not that I don't feel like my heart is trying to tear itself in two, but I was actually able to laugh last night. I ate lunch today, voluntarily, for the first time in days. I made it through the workdays and functioned: my students could tell I was struggling, but I was able to be an effective teacher nonetheless. I didn't walk out. I didn't disappear. And rather than having a tiny handful of friends and family with whom to talk, I had...well, I lost count. The love floods in.

And these last four-plus months? They've been good. They've been healing. I gained confidence in myself. I learned a lot about myself, about life, about relationships. I did things I've never done before. There was stress and angst, but there was also a great deal of happiness. And ultimately, even though it's hard to feel that way right now, I do know that time was worth the pain.

Then today I heard that my great-uncle, my mother's paternal uncle, passed away after years of battling Parkinsons. It's been a long time since I saw him or his family, because they've lived in Florida for years, but I have fond memories of Great-Uncle J. I remember his amazing Donald Duck voice he'd use for all of us kids. I remember his kindness and gentle sense of humor. I only had him as a regular presence in my life for a relatively few years, but he left his mark. He will be missed.

So now I wonder: if bad news comes in threes, what more lies in wait this week?

It doesn't matter so much whether Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow or not yesterday. I'm thinking he may have had the right idea when he turned around and headed back indoors.

But I'm taking my friends with me.

A, B, C, D, E, F, G...

My children are still awake. I know this because the lugubrious strains of the ABC song, duet version, are wafting from their room. Earlier I had to remove a box of wooden blocks from their possession. Before that it was Candyland.

Their bedtime was two hours ago.

If this was a weekend night, I wouldn't be too concerned. However, it is Wednesday night, and this means that in a matter of eight short hours (a little less, now) they will be required to rise from their beds, dress, and get out the door, cereal bars clutched in their bemittened hands, so that I won't be late for work. They will be whiny. They will be limp and uncooperative. The chances of my getting them to dress themselves are roughly 25 to 1. The chances that I will lose my limited morning temper and bark orders at them at some point are roughly 2 to 1. (You never know. Miracles do happen.)

...H, I, J, K, LMNOP...

I am lying on the bed in a t-shirt and highly attractive (heh) eleven-year-old purple sweatpants. It occurs to me that these are the sweatpants my soon-to-be-former-stepbrother-in-law purchased on the way to the hospital on Christmas Eve 1998 to pick me up. I had been there for three days recovering from the abdominal surgery that would later require me to have cesarean rather than vaginal births. My then-boyfriend had slept through his alarm and his roommate had turned off the phone ringer, so no one had shown up to drive me home that morning. In desperation, I called his stepbrother, with whom I attended college. I couldn't fit jeans over my swollen belly, so D. picked up a pair of sweatpants for me. He also paid my bill for fees not covered by insurance. I was so very grateful. The nurses had been growing restless.

This information is appropos of nothing other than it occurred to me. Also, these sweatpants are almost three times as old as DramaBoy and four times as old as The Widget.

...Q, R, S, T, U, V...

This afternoon was busy. My chiropractor remarked on the progression of my forehead's adornment and asked me if I'd get cosmetic surgery if the scar doesn't fade. I was a little taken aback. I mean, it's barely an inch long and just a little scar on my forehead.

No, I said. I'll just have a scar.

Oh, good, he responded, obviously surprised in turn. I guess it's good you're not very girly.

Really? Hasn't he seen my shoes? Actually, I know he has. He comments on them. I suppose what he means by "girly," however, is "high maintenance." He's pretty much right. I try to keep things fairly simple and low key in that regard.

Judging by his attitude, he must be familiar with a lot of high-maintenance women. And you know that old maxim Familiarity breeds contempt?

Yeah.

...W, X, Y and Z...

I took the boys to MacDonalds tonight, since it was late by the time I finished grocery shopping and picked them up from school. Then we took the car through a car wash, which DramaBoy loves and The Widget endures, hands firmly clasped over his sensitive ears. Finally we stopped at CVS to negotiate the transfer and refill of some medication. The pretty young pharmacist told me the wait would be thirty minutes. I looked over at my not-quite-rampaging offspring with some dismay and asked if there was any way they could rush it a bit. Obviously simultaneously charmed by my boys and sympathetic to my apprehension about keeping them contained that long, she said she'd see what they could do.

I was already fond of that CVS, but they have my deepest gratitude after tonight. Not only did they have a convenient little children's nook by the waiting area, stocked with crayons and coloring books and a random helium balloon, they managed to get the order processed in less than fifteen minutes. I was able to escort my hyper young sons out of the store before their patience ran out and any real damage could be perpetrated on defenseless merchandise.

It's nice to know that there are still people who care about customer service, even in the big chain stores. 

...now I know my ABCs, next time won't you sing with me.

There is silence now. I think they are finally asleep, with a mere seven hours and change before they have to get up. For that matter, I only have six and a half hours left before my cruel clock sounds its smug alarm. In the interests of peaceful dreams, I may need to convince my elderly, flatulent cat that she really doesn't need to sleep with me. I appreciate her desire to keep me from loneliness, but the odor she produces is considerably more expansive than her petite form would lead you to believe.

Bon nuit. It's time to investigate what messages my subconscious mind holds for me tonight. 

Some Styles Should Just Die a Quiet Death

O. M. G.

When I decided to declutter every custody weekend as my New Year resolution, I knew I'd probably come across some interesting finds. What I found the other night...Wow.

This weekend, since I was taken up with tending to snotty noses and cabin feverish kidlets, I decided to be ruthless with my hanging clothes, since that would be simple enough and wouldn't make much noise after bedtime. I grabbed a heavy duty garbage bag and waded in. Shirts that are baggy with much washing...gone. Skirts that haven't been worn in four years...pitched. Dresses that were given to me and never worn more than once or twice...bye bye.  And the contents of that hanging bag that is falling apart with age...HOLY CRAP.

Inside were two dresses that looked more like costumes than actual clothing items, at least to the contemporary eye. One was the equivalent of my prom dress, the dress I wore as a senior to the Junior-Senior Banquet back in 1995. Why have I kept it for nearly fifteen years, schlepping it across international waters and from abode to abode all this time? Pure sentimentality. Not for the night itself, which was rather forgettable (I didn't even have a date, though neither did a lot of other girls--there was a severe deficiency of males), but because I had chosen the fabrics and pattern as a sophomore while in the States, and my mother had made the dress for me for my senior year.

Somehow I can tell that the years 1993 and 1995 were involved:

In case you can't tell in this very poor-quality cell phone photo, it is made out of emerald green satin, the top part of which is solid sequins, with a large bow/fabric flower at the angled waist. And let's not forget the puffy sleeves.

WHAT WAS I THINKING???

Oh, that's right. It was the 90s. And I was a sophomore when I chose it, and the definition of "sophomore" is "wise fool"--i.e. someone who thinks she knows everything but doesn't.

And then there was this slinky black cocktail-style dress, also straight out of the late 80s/early 90s. I don't know if I ever wore it. I don't remember how I got it. But it stayed with me, just in case (of what, I have no idea):

The photo doesn't even come close to showing just how bad it really is. This one is also satin, though at least there are no sequins involved. There are, however, padded shoulders, a line of rhinestones adorning the (invisible in this photo) swath of extraneous fabric dangling from the waist, and (also invisible in this photo) lots and lots of ruching down the full-length sleeves and in the back. Leading down to the long almost-train of fabric ready to snag on one's heels at any time, of course.

Wow.

I'd be cringing in embarrassment if I didn't think I have a better handle on fashion nowadays. Though of course I'll probably be saying the same thing about what I wear now in another fifteen years.

The good thing? I still fit in them! And I got a good chuckle AND a blog post out of the discovery.

Who said cleaning can't be fun?

On Friendship, New and Old

Living a life of international transience as I did for so many years plays its toll on one's friend-making and -keeping. I am what is called a "Third Culture Kid," or TCK, and we have our own special little set of issues and challenges, just like every other fun little group. Different TCKs react differently to the kinds of experiences we've had.

My sister, for example, rather enjoys moving about from city to city, from state to state, and seems to get itchy feet when she's been in one place for more than a couple of years. She views moving as an exciting challenge, an opportunity to meet new people and explore new places. She can also walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with a half-dozen lifelong friends.

I, on the other hand, hate the idea of moving much at all. It's hard enough to think about moving as much as an hour away from people with whom I am close, much less to a whole different state. My roots are set pretty deeply in my area, even if it's not in a particular house. I do love to travel--but I need that stable home base to which I can return. I also struggled for much of my life to both make and keep friends.

I've mentioned before that I have a hard time connecting completely with anyone in my life, whether friends or family or significant other. Trust me, it's something that's been coming up a lot in conversations with my therapist and some loved ones. One result of this issue for me is that when I feel like a relationship is slipping away or becoming difficult, or if someone is phsyically leaving/moving, I start disconnecting emotionally, sort of a pre-emptive way of dealing with the pain. I know, not all that healthy of a move.

But when one says goodbye to person after person and friend after friend and family member after family member for years on end, one develops certain coping mechanisms, and that one was mine. Is mine.

There have been some friendships that have ended over the years because of the mechanism: some with a whimper or a fading sigh, and some with a bit of a bang. I also began to withdraw more than I should have from taking risks and making friends over the last ten years, for reasons a little too complicated and sensitive to go into here. At any rate, there are too many people with whom I used to be close (or as close as I would let them be) than with whom I was close in the last decade or so.

Last year when everything fell apart and I finally started the painful process of stripping away many of the Things and Issues that were clogging my psychological pores, I started opening up to people, slowly and bit by bit, but surely. People I already counted as friends become closer and more intimate friends. I made new ones. And now I'm starting to reconnect with former friends, and in some cases, right some wrongs and heal some hurts.

Blogging opened me up to making new friends I never would have made before--I count many of you, dear readers, in that number. Some of you have become particularly close, whether or not I've physically met you (yet). In particular, Arby, Mom Zombie, and my beloved Draft Queen have become people I consider close or even intimate friends, the sort of friends with whom I can talk about difficult things and confide in and listen to and have kick my ass from time to time when necessary. There have been times when each of those three people have made a difference in a moment, an hour, a day, and I am so grateful. Other readers (and you know who you are) have also made a difference, have become people whom I can trust and to whom I can reach out. I hope you feel the same way.

I already was on Facebook (under my real name, and no I'm not linking it here) before everything fell apart, and I had well over 200 people friended there (this is also a side effect of international transience and that whole boarding school thing), but I rarely communicated much of anything there or connected to anyone. I did reconnect in a general sort of way to Kathleen, who had been a childhood friend, and we also connected through our blogs, but I kept our relationship fairly casual. I was still holding people at bay.

That started changing when I started opening up last year. I now have a closer relationship to Kathleen than I would allow before. And over on Facebook I started connecting with people from my past in a more real way. Some I had known very superficially in the past, mostly through going to the same school. It's rather bizarre to find myself in a lengthy and honest online chat with people I wasn't sure even knew I existed back then. Others had been friends, though casual. Recently, however, I have started reaching out (rather than waiting for others to reach out to me) and consciously reconnecting with certain people.

There are several friendships that had faded with distance and time that I have rekindled. I am meeting one of those friends on Monday for coffee to catch up after almost eight years of rare communication. I am very excited to see her. Even more significantly, however, I have now reconnected with two women who used to be, at different points in my college years, the women with whom I considered myself best friends. Both of those relationships ended under painful circumstances. I had refused to acknowledge how painful those wounds still were until they started to heal, at long last, by connecting with those women.

Tonight one of them is coming to see me, to have spaghetti and garlic bread with me and my children and then just sit and talk once the boys are in bed. My friendship with her was one I had actually mourned, even though I wouldn't admit how much I was still bothered, some twelve years later, by how it had ended and by her absence in my life. Two weeks ago we talked on the phone for two hours, catching up and laughing and commiserating and, yes, apologizing at long last for our parts in how things played out lo! those many years ago.

I know many people think that all the online social networking and blogs and whatnot are silly or stupid or dangerous or whatever. To an extent, they're right. One really has to be cautious, because there are far too many dangers of all sorts lurking on the Web. However, my life would be considerably poorer and emptier without the people I have met or re-met through the Internet.

So regardless of the drama or blogger's block or necessary caution regarding privacy and all that sort of fun stuff, I'll keep blogging and social networking and flinging my thoughts and words out there across the ether. It's all worth it in the end.