Awake

The house is quiet. The only sounds are my pen gliding across this page and my hand scraping as it guides my pen. There is no light other than the lamp by my side. Both of my children rest comfortably in their respective beds; one with her tiny tush in the air, knees tucked up into her belly; the other on her side, one hand thrown carelessly in front of her, the other tucked neatly under her ear. Downstairs my parents sleep, two lumps beneath a host if blankets and quilts. Though I cannot hear them from my position upstairs, I know their snoring slices through the downstairs silence. So too does the snorting and snarling of their Saint Bernard, splayed across the floor at their feet. One of my parents two cats sleeps rolled in a ball of fluff on the vacant bed adjacent to mine. 

I am awake; writing to keep myself from falling asleep. I have a mere hour and a half before I have to test my daughter Lily's sugar levels for the second time this evening. Being awake is imperative.

These nights when we are either struggling with low sugar levels or high sugar levels are the hardest. My sleep is interrupted in two hour increments, which taxes my already exhausted system. I will wake up tomorrow morning feeling like I pulled an all nighter. Unfortunately, I no longer posess the energy, or the stupidity, of a twenty year old. Sixteen years and two children have taught me to cherish, not just appreciate sleep. 

It is nights like tonight when I would welcome a bout of insomnia. My worry over not waking to test Lily and having her sugar either drop dangerously low or rise dangerously high would be appeased. Insomnia not forthcoming, I sit a little straighter in bed fighting against my pillows desire to cradle my head and comfort my body to sleep.

Playing Well With Others Is Not My Forte.

The sun is shining in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, which means the park is beckoning not only to my children but also to a large majority of the children in the area. Park days are full of sunshine, sunscreen, dirt coated children and moms, a lot of moms. Moms who love nothing more than planning play dates, enabling them to spend the day chatting with each other while their children run wild with little supervision.  I am not one of these mothers.

            The past week has been full of spontaneous park visits due to a string of pleasant days. It was during one of these spontaneous trips to the park with Lily-Anne that I ran across one such group of mothers. As I followed Lily from one contraption to another, I watched this group of mothers sit chatting with each other, their children either abusing the playground equipment and the other smaller children in the area by barreling along carelessly or disappearing from sight completely. My disdain took flight, and I was reminded of why I am, by choice, somewhat of a loner, or at least socially selective.

           

            When I express my frustration at these situations to my husband he always repeats the same line, “Honey, you do not play well with others.” Humorous, yet true. I was never one to like partner or group work when in school. As a teacher, I despised assigning group work despite my administration’s insistence on doing so. I have never been one to “be a part of the crowd.” I never had an overwhelming desire to join a sorority, be a team player (despite playing basketball), or jump on one of the numerous bandwagons the public so enthusiastically embraces. I have never wanted to be part of the moms club.

I blame my apathy on a variety of personality quirks. I am somewhat of a control freak. I like things done in a certain way in a certain amount of time. I have very little patience for bullshit. I have very little patience for drama. As I once told my husband, "I have enough drama of my own, I do not need other people’s drama on top of it.” I like intellectual, grounded, and honest individuals, which excludes a whole host of mothers who want to do nothing more than rave about the joys, and ignore the stresses, of motherhood and marriage.

  Fitting in is simply not a part of my nature. Rather I choose to surround myself with a small group of individuals, individuals who are real and honest. Individuals who do not ask me to apologize for who I am, or rather, who I am not.

Forever A Loser

Today, I realized that I will forever be a loser in my daughter’s eyes. One day she will boldly exclaim, “LOSER” while forming her fingers in the shape of an L in front of her forehead, as I frequently did to my father as a teenager. Or she might adopt her father’s saying, “L for LOVE” meaning LOSER. And though she will be joking, there will be truth behind her words.

            On Saturday, Lucy unexpectedly declared that she wanted to spend the night at her Mi Ma and Pop Pop’s house (my parents). On Sunday, she requested permission to stay until today, Tuesday. At first, I felt a deep longing to keep her by my side. She had barely been gone for two hours and I missed her ceaseless chatter and never ending questions. As the quiet began to settle in I felt less sad, though I experienced the same nagging feeling I do when something is missing but I can’t wrap my brain around what is missing. That nagging feeling followed me both day and night during Lucy’s absence.

            However, as Lucy reported the fun she was having, the endless crafts, and three hours of building a fairy house; I was, admittedly, glad it was my mother spending hours of quality kid time with her and not me. My sense of relief was followed by an extreme sense of guilt.

            I am not a mother who enjoys endless crafts and tea parties. I do crafts and participate in tea parties because I feel it is my duty to do so. However, they are, quite frankly torture. I can only play out the same five minute scenario three or four times, a max of fifteen to twenty minutes, before I am crawling out of my own skin. My child’s possession of an extremely active imagination brings me joy. Having to participate in her imagination gives me a headache. I often say that my inner child must be dead because being 6 is not any fun. The torture I feel when participating in imaginary scenarios with my children fills me with the same sense of guilt I experienced this weekend when relief washed over me.

            My guilt, therefore, drove me to think of creative ways to interact with Lucy upon her return home. While out and about, I purchased a chalk paint kit, thinking of Lucy’s love of art and the outdoors. I imagined us painting unicorns on our driveway, her smiling, me feeling happy and content. I was obviously delusional.

            Upon her arrival home today, I surprised Lucy with the chalk paint. She looked at it, tried it once, did not receive the results she expected, and decided riding her scooter was far more enjoyable. I was upset. No, I was pissed. And then the realization that I am and always will be a loser hit me. I teared up then I came to peace with reality.

            When I say I am a loser, I mean I cannot win. When I try and surprise Lucy with things like chalk paint, she finds them “boring” or they do not meet her approval. However, if I cease to try because of Lucy’s lack of interest, she throws my frustration back in my face and claims I do not spend time with her; I never play with her; I love her sister more. The truth is that no matter how hard I try, no matter how much time I spend with Lucy, she always wants different or more.

            Therefore, this loser pledges to do her best, knowing that though I may ultimately lose, I will still hold out hope that I may yet experience a victory or two.

My Pink Fuzzy Robe

            I have a pink fuzzy robe. A pink fuzzy robe that fits me like a glove.

 My pink fuzzy robe is permanently stained around the sleeves from throwing wood in the wood stove, from wiping snotty noses and yogurt covered faces. The sleeves are stained from the pellet dust that grinds itself in as I am hauling forty-pound bags. They are stained from dirty laundry, paint, pencils, and pastels. My robe proudly displays a hole, created either by the ash or the heat from the wood stove at the height of winter’s cold. It is so worn that “clean” has become a relative term. But my pink fuzzy robe is my staple, my warmth, and my comfort.

            I cannot get up in the morning, get out of the shower, or enter my house without donning my robe, whether -30 or 60, my robe is the first thing I grab. Though I wear my robe inside the house regularly, I have been known to wander outside, still securely wrapped in it’s warmth, to watch the girls go sledding, to collect the mail, to chat with a passing neighbor or friend, or simply to enjoy a cup of coffee in the sun, on my front porch. I often joke that passing cars must think I am a little “touched”. They must believe that I never get dressed, when in reality I simply slip my robe over my clothing.

            Living in a place that sees 6 months of winter, a robe comes in handy simply for warmth.  Living in a farmhouse built in 1876 with extensive drafts necessitates the ownership of a robe. Stepping out of a hot shower in the middle of winter, I grab my robe so as not to let the shower’s warmth seep from my skin. On a cold and rainy day, like today, my robe blocks out the dampness and the cold. It creates a cocoon of warmth.

            I feel naked without my robe. I have realized that throughout the years it has become more to me than merely a piece of clothing that keeps out the drafts. It’s stains, holes, and wear tell a story. It signifies “home”. A place where I do not need to put up pretenses; pretend to be shiny, pretty, or happy. I can relax and be my imperfect pink fuzzy self.

Writer’s Block and Brain Farts

I have this little blog. A blog with a limited, though somewhat loyal set of readers. I started my blog as a means to share funny stories from the past and present, frustrations, and opinions. But mostly I started it to have a creative outlet for the crap, the mud that floats around in this pin-sized head on a daily basis. I had originally intended on posting a piece a week. A reasonable goal. And yet, the reality is that my postings are rare and can take months on end. The crap is still spinning around inside my head, but instead of producing solid material on a weekly basis my brain merely creates flatulence.  Instead, of spinning works of creative art, I sit staring at my computer wondering what in my day full of poopy diapers, potty talk, and ponies is interesting and amusing enough to not only write about but to also want to read about. In my search for subjects, I feel nothing but a vacuous hole.  I read other individual blogs and my frustration level rises, as I see others creating masterpieces about a cute look from their kid or a wacky neighbor who walks around in a pink bathrobe inside and outside of her house all day (oh, wait that’s me).  My frustration is compounded by the fact that many of these bloggers are not just mothers, and wives, but mothers and wives working outside of the home; some are juggling two or three different jobs. I juggle plenty in a day, but I am home, often on my computer or next to it, and still my pint-sized noggin refuses to produce more than a whiff or two of air. So what might be the point of this posting? I just gave myself a subject.