Dear Followers of this Blog of Mine,
Would you allow me a moment of your time to rant? Just a moment......Oh? I can?
Awesome.
I have been living in the land of the single peoples for over two years now. And during my tenure in this wilderness of loneliness and despair, I have come across all sort of odd creatures.
Examples include:
The guy who has THE WALL. This Wall Guy seems nice. He engages you. He's charming. And he will listen to every sob story you have to tell, but he will never, ever let you IN. That proverbial wall that he has built up around his heart is stronger than Fort Knox. Day and night he arms this wall with the most terrifying kamikaze pilots that ever lived. He will visit your house. Make you laugh. Eat your cooking. Smile at your children. And then one day......disappear. Forever to remain a mystery like the Lost City of Atlantis. No explanation.
He was a tough one to get past. This man made me analyze every conversation, every chuckle, laugh, sniff, burp, sneeze, kiss, silent head nod that was exchanged between us. Was I too much? Was I not enough? Should I have let him in more? Did he not like my cooking? Was my back rub terrible? Blah. Blah. Blah. Finally, over several glasses of wine and Conway Twitty playing in the background, I decided it wasn't me. It was him. He had issues. Damn him to hell in a purple rain basket.
Next!
Now, in previous blogs, I have often mentioned The Holy Grail. Every single woman will encounter a specimen of this nature. He's the best looking guy you've ever met. His smile disarms nuns, causing loss of underwear everywhere he goes. He has huge eyes that he trains on you. They bore into your soul until your heart, along with your virtue, melt into a puddle at his perfectly sized feet. He engages you. Tells you the most personal of stories. Tears up at the mere mention of that one time long ago when no one understood him. He hugs you tight and inhales your scent. He leaves you breathless. And as you maneuver your way home from your perfect date with the perfect man, you image your life together. The Holy Grail is the one that listens to your stories. He reviews your history with you and makes you feel like you are going to be ok. You fall madly in love with him. He feels connected to you. Only to be told one day that his is....busy. So, you wait. Of course you wait for your perfect man. Your Holy Grail. At first you do it patiently. Because, after all, he is THE ONE. But days turn into weeks and weeks often morph into months. And pretty soon you are waiting anxiously. This all happened to me. This was a rough one. This heart break made me swear off all relationships for good. I would forever take a lover in the night. I swore I would embrace my inner slut and just have at it. Damn him. Damn them all, I yelled over multiple bottles of wine while listening to Al Green sing about being tired of being alone. He's not The Holy Grail. He's the Devil in disguise. A sheep in Armani wolf clothing. I hope he gets constipated and develop hemorrhoids that need surgical removal but his anaesthesia wares off in the middle, so for the rest of his days he will never be able to sit on a chair comfortably again.
Ass.
Then I ran into the guy with the attitude. He's nice to you. Comes over. Makes you laugh. Takes you out. He rocks. Happy with just a hot pocket and a pepsi. Watches movies. Contacts you to see how you are. Then one night he comes to visit. One night he visits when a relative is there. His attitude emerges. He doesn't like to meet people.
Really? In my house? Right.
Next!
Then there's The Friend. He is the sweetest guy known to all. There is not a single person who does not like him. Poems are written about how he's such a good father. A swell guy. He laughs at your jokes. He kisses you passionately. He's there at the exact moment you need him. It looks like things could be working. Things might be building. And then he springs it on you.....on me. There's no spark, he says. Different parts in our lives, he explains.
Nice Guy 1. Ego 0.
So, in my quest for companionship (Because, let's face it, I hate cats. I'll never be able to collect enough to be considered the Crazy Cat Lady) I decided to be more direct. Taking the o'le bull by his sagging balls, so to speak. What are you looking for? I'd ask. Why are you single? They'd shoot back. The guys in my range, the ones looking for some way out of the jungle of single life, all seem to be ok at first. But, normally on the second round of the interview process, it always turns to sex.
What do you like in the bedroom? Is the most common question posed these days. While I am not offended in the least, I would like to point out that at one point in our social lives, it was almost unheard of to be asked that question so soon in a brand new relationship. I know it's an important question. Sexual compatibility can make or break a union at any point. Especially one still in the infant stages. But, there are more important things out there than that. At least to me. I want to know why you weigh every word carefully before you answer my question. Why do you avoid crowds? Are you like me and can't handle the energy of it all? Have you always done the nervous thing with your thumbs? You know, the twirling of them. I want to know these things. I want to know what drew you to me. After I've learned all these things, then we can discuss whether I will dress up as Wonderwoman and call you Mr. Monkey Pants or not.
All I'm saying dear, sweet followers is that navigating the rain forest of single life is treacherous. It's heart breaking, emotionally scarring, drag-your-hands-over-your-eyes-til-the-tears-fall horrible. But, if you find the RIGHT ONE. The one that looks at you and sees you and accepts you and all your quirks, then it's worth it. Traveling through the sea of wrong ones will eventually bring you to the right one. To the one who makes it all complete.
And that's why I keep plugging along.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Boredom
"Did you hear what I said?" He asked her quietly.
And she had heard him. Heard his words, rather. The meaning of his message was lost on her. Her attention was elsewhere, focused on the object he held, steady, in his hand.
It was a gun. Black. Shiny. The business end stared at her chest, waiting to fire its contents into her heart.
She shook her head and tried to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry. I don't understand any of this."
He chuckled and leaned back in the chair. The gun remained trained on her. "You never listen."
They were sitting in the living room. Husband and wife. She rested in her recliner and him in his. They had settled in, TV dinners laid on the trays beside each, and had turned to the nightly news. After twenty-five years of marriage, they had little to talk about. Their routine consisted of returning home from work, grabbing a frozen dinner, and watching TV til eleven o'clock. They recycled each day. Saturday mornings saw her to the grocery store to retrieve more microwavable dinners while he stayed behind to tinker in the basement. Sunday was church followed by thirty minutes of sex that had became as unremarkable as their everyday lives.
She had entertained the idea of an affair once or twice. The mailman that made the deliveries to the small accounting office, where she worked as a receptionist, had flirted with her from time to time. She'd never taken it further than an occasional smile and giggle. Fear of a broken marriage didn't prevent her from full filling her fantasy. It was more a lack of energy. Energy to shave her legs. To do her hair. Wear makeup. She lacked the energy to put forth an effort at being a woman. So, instead of taking things a step further with the man that seemed to look at her with an interested curiosity, she meandered on home to her husband who barely knew she existed.
A few streets over from where his wife lusted after the man that brought her the mail everyday at work, he would sit at his office and contemplate his existence. He had no clue when his life had taken a dull turn for the worse. Well, not really worse. Life wasn't bad. He made pretty decent money clerking for a judge. Granted, it was a judge that presided over traffic court. Kind of the lowest judge on the judicial totem poll, but the bills got paid and at the end of each month, he could afford to set aside his lousy 10 percent into an IRA. He had enough to tithe each Sunday at church. Every once in awhile, he could even claim to enjoy the boring sex he made to his wife. So, life wasn't really what you would call bad.
But, the life he had. The life both him and his wife had, was not exactly what you would call living either.
So, one day after a tedious day at work, while waiting for his wife to heat up another slimy TV dinner, he began to formulate a plan. A plan that would....could....make his life more interesting and bring the spark back into his marriage.
Unless it got him killed.
The plan was simple. He purchased a .32 caliber pistol. A gun so small, that the only thing it would do was piss someone off and not actually kill them. He purchased the small firearm in a local pawn shop. The guy that had sold it was greasy, but pleasant and had gone out of his way to explain how you would have to shoot someone at point blank range to actually kill them.
Perfect.
So, he waited til the next Monday. Mondays were always tedious. Just like everyday, but more so because it served as a reminder as to what their life had really become. And he had wanted to get Sunday out of the way. At least he could get one last nut in in the off chance that his wife took the gun and killed him. So, he waited for the following Monday, the Monday that always followed the Sunday that was the day designated for sex, that would promise to be more tedious and tiring than any other day.
As she sat down in her chair that was adjacent to his, she didn't even bother with the small talk. She had served him his dinner and the one beer he allowed himself every night. The news was beginning. The program popped on the TV, showing its two co anchors, covered in makeup, looking every bit like mannequins as the statues in department stores. He waited for his wife to take the first few bites of her meal. He listened to her chewing. He watched as her face registered no emotion. Her movements were mechanical. Thoughtless.
Sighing, he pulled out the gun and spoke. "Let's make things interesting."
He watched her stare blankly at the gun. He saw her register what he held in his hand. He took in the sight of her facial expressions changing from placid to recognition to horror. He saw all this and thought how he was actually achieving his goal. Maybe this would work after all.
"Did you hear what I said?" He asked her.
"I'm sorry," she said shaking her head. "I don't understand any of this."
"You never listen." He scolded her. "Even when we were dating, you wouldn't listen to me. I said I wanted to make things interesting."
"By killing me?" She exclaimed.
He thrilled at the emotion in her voice.
"No," he informed her. "I have no intention of killing you. At least I hope that doesn't happen. I just want you....me....us...to feel something. Anything."
"I really don't understand."
"I'm going to shoot you," he told her. "I'm going to shoot you and hand you the gun. Then you will shoot me."
"I don't want to die," she said as tears began to spill.
"Oh! I'm not going to kill you. I told you that. See, my plan is already working. You've only just seen the gun, and already your feeling something. Wait until I shoot you! You will feel so much more."
She began to sob. Loud sobs that rose from her chest cavity. He had not seen her cry since she'd lost the baby fifteen years ago. Fifteen years of silence that had followed. No more children, she had declared. Her heart couldn't stand the pain. So, they had spent the remaining years of their marriage, childless and silent. Living each day. Waiting for night fall. A recycled life that could fit anyone.
He smiled silently to himself as he witnessed her breakdown. The emotions that poured out of her blessed his heart. He knew, with no need for further proof, that he had made the right decision when he purchased his weapon. His plan was moving along better than he had anticipated.
He spoke to her quietly. The love that he'd forgotten he felt for her broke through and carried on his voice to her ear. "I'm not shooting you in the heart or the head. I'm going to shoot you somewhere non-lethal. The pain that you feel will bring on emotions that you haven't felt in years. Then I am going to hand the gun to you, so you can do the same to me. I trust that you will shoot me as I shot you. Together, we will climb out of this hole that we've lived in for over half our marriage."
She thought about running. She feared the man that she had shared a bed with for over half her life. She looked at him and saw the crazy that existed just below the surface. But, what if? What if his crazy plan worked and she was able to jump start her life?
Standing up in the middle of the living room, her girth blocked the TV. "Do what you want to," she solemnly told him.
He eyed her. Standing there in her flannel pajamas that were faded from years of machine wash, he found a new sense of longing for her. I don't need to do this, he thought. I'll just lay the gun down and carry her to the bedroom.
Excitedly, he envisioned sex with his wife. He imagined it to be wet and erotic. Something it had not been in years. But, he also knew, that once Tuesday came, they would return to the same old boring routine. Without the scars, without the pain of their shared injuries, they would have nothing to bind them to one another. No proof to show that their lives had gotten this........mundane.
The first shot was louder than either one of them expected. It rang throughout the house and threatened to bring with it neighbors and anyone else within a mile radius. Once the bullet reached her lower thigh, she immediately doubled over in pain.
The pain was exquisite. She dropped to the floor. The air, once holding all she needed to sustain life, was void of oxygen. There was no sound in her voice. Minutes passed before she sat up and looked at him.
"Give me the gun," she croaked.
Hesitantly, he handed over the weapon. Standing, he prayed that she would do to him as he had done to her.
His knee didn't buckle right away. It, along with with the rest of him, was in shock. It took a full minute before his body realized that the appendage it had relied on for support was no longer there. With the crack of the break, down he went. And just as his wife had experience, the oxygen he trustingly breathed in, retreated to a more safe climate. All that was left in the air that he grasped were particles of nothingness.
Sobbing. Shaking. He lifted his head and eyed her. She had fallen back to the floor after she'd shot him. Blood began to spill out of her open wound.
She handed him the gun. The gun, once cold and foreign, was now hot and animalistic. She anticipated his move as he sat up. She longed to reach for him....to kiss him....to touch him in the places that she had neglected for years. Pain circulated her body. Heat radiated down her legs, throbbing throughout her core. Her face, red from the fire of the gun shots, fixated on her husband. The more she anticipated where he would shoot her next, the more she became excited. She would not stop herself. She could not stop herself.
The final shot was aimed for her left shoulder. And, as the police surmised later, it would have landed on just that spot had his wife not decided to lean in for a passionate kiss right at the moment he pulled the trigger. And, as the police would also gather from the evidence they discovered, her husband would not have been so overcome with grief had he not begun the deadly game to begin with. But, once the shots rang out, and once they began to feel the pain, emotions ignited and burned throughout both of them.
So, as he held his once stoic wife in his arms, the emotional swing that he so desperately wanted to feel began. He felt her gasp the tiniest breaths she could....her last breaths. And when the heat from her slumped body gave way to to the stale coldness of a corpse, he did what any loving husband would do in that situation.
He turned the gun on himself.
And she had heard him. Heard his words, rather. The meaning of his message was lost on her. Her attention was elsewhere, focused on the object he held, steady, in his hand.
It was a gun. Black. Shiny. The business end stared at her chest, waiting to fire its contents into her heart.
She shook her head and tried to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry. I don't understand any of this."
He chuckled and leaned back in the chair. The gun remained trained on her. "You never listen."
They were sitting in the living room. Husband and wife. She rested in her recliner and him in his. They had settled in, TV dinners laid on the trays beside each, and had turned to the nightly news. After twenty-five years of marriage, they had little to talk about. Their routine consisted of returning home from work, grabbing a frozen dinner, and watching TV til eleven o'clock. They recycled each day. Saturday mornings saw her to the grocery store to retrieve more microwavable dinners while he stayed behind to tinker in the basement. Sunday was church followed by thirty minutes of sex that had became as unremarkable as their everyday lives.
She had entertained the idea of an affair once or twice. The mailman that made the deliveries to the small accounting office, where she worked as a receptionist, had flirted with her from time to time. She'd never taken it further than an occasional smile and giggle. Fear of a broken marriage didn't prevent her from full filling her fantasy. It was more a lack of energy. Energy to shave her legs. To do her hair. Wear makeup. She lacked the energy to put forth an effort at being a woman. So, instead of taking things a step further with the man that seemed to look at her with an interested curiosity, she meandered on home to her husband who barely knew she existed.
A few streets over from where his wife lusted after the man that brought her the mail everyday at work, he would sit at his office and contemplate his existence. He had no clue when his life had taken a dull turn for the worse. Well, not really worse. Life wasn't bad. He made pretty decent money clerking for a judge. Granted, it was a judge that presided over traffic court. Kind of the lowest judge on the judicial totem poll, but the bills got paid and at the end of each month, he could afford to set aside his lousy 10 percent into an IRA. He had enough to tithe each Sunday at church. Every once in awhile, he could even claim to enjoy the boring sex he made to his wife. So, life wasn't really what you would call bad.
But, the life he had. The life both him and his wife had, was not exactly what you would call living either.
So, one day after a tedious day at work, while waiting for his wife to heat up another slimy TV dinner, he began to formulate a plan. A plan that would....could....make his life more interesting and bring the spark back into his marriage.
Unless it got him killed.
The plan was simple. He purchased a .32 caliber pistol. A gun so small, that the only thing it would do was piss someone off and not actually kill them. He purchased the small firearm in a local pawn shop. The guy that had sold it was greasy, but pleasant and had gone out of his way to explain how you would have to shoot someone at point blank range to actually kill them.
Perfect.
So, he waited til the next Monday. Mondays were always tedious. Just like everyday, but more so because it served as a reminder as to what their life had really become. And he had wanted to get Sunday out of the way. At least he could get one last nut in in the off chance that his wife took the gun and killed him. So, he waited for the following Monday, the Monday that always followed the Sunday that was the day designated for sex, that would promise to be more tedious and tiring than any other day.
As she sat down in her chair that was adjacent to his, she didn't even bother with the small talk. She had served him his dinner and the one beer he allowed himself every night. The news was beginning. The program popped on the TV, showing its two co anchors, covered in makeup, looking every bit like mannequins as the statues in department stores. He waited for his wife to take the first few bites of her meal. He listened to her chewing. He watched as her face registered no emotion. Her movements were mechanical. Thoughtless.
Sighing, he pulled out the gun and spoke. "Let's make things interesting."
He watched her stare blankly at the gun. He saw her register what he held in his hand. He took in the sight of her facial expressions changing from placid to recognition to horror. He saw all this and thought how he was actually achieving his goal. Maybe this would work after all.
"Did you hear what I said?" He asked her.
"I'm sorry," she said shaking her head. "I don't understand any of this."
"You never listen." He scolded her. "Even when we were dating, you wouldn't listen to me. I said I wanted to make things interesting."
"By killing me?" She exclaimed.
He thrilled at the emotion in her voice.
"No," he informed her. "I have no intention of killing you. At least I hope that doesn't happen. I just want you....me....us...to feel something. Anything."
"I really don't understand."
"I'm going to shoot you," he told her. "I'm going to shoot you and hand you the gun. Then you will shoot me."
"I don't want to die," she said as tears began to spill.
"Oh! I'm not going to kill you. I told you that. See, my plan is already working. You've only just seen the gun, and already your feeling something. Wait until I shoot you! You will feel so much more."
She began to sob. Loud sobs that rose from her chest cavity. He had not seen her cry since she'd lost the baby fifteen years ago. Fifteen years of silence that had followed. No more children, she had declared. Her heart couldn't stand the pain. So, they had spent the remaining years of their marriage, childless and silent. Living each day. Waiting for night fall. A recycled life that could fit anyone.
He smiled silently to himself as he witnessed her breakdown. The emotions that poured out of her blessed his heart. He knew, with no need for further proof, that he had made the right decision when he purchased his weapon. His plan was moving along better than he had anticipated.
He spoke to her quietly. The love that he'd forgotten he felt for her broke through and carried on his voice to her ear. "I'm not shooting you in the heart or the head. I'm going to shoot you somewhere non-lethal. The pain that you feel will bring on emotions that you haven't felt in years. Then I am going to hand the gun to you, so you can do the same to me. I trust that you will shoot me as I shot you. Together, we will climb out of this hole that we've lived in for over half our marriage."
She thought about running. She feared the man that she had shared a bed with for over half her life. She looked at him and saw the crazy that existed just below the surface. But, what if? What if his crazy plan worked and she was able to jump start her life?
Standing up in the middle of the living room, her girth blocked the TV. "Do what you want to," she solemnly told him.
He eyed her. Standing there in her flannel pajamas that were faded from years of machine wash, he found a new sense of longing for her. I don't need to do this, he thought. I'll just lay the gun down and carry her to the bedroom.
Excitedly, he envisioned sex with his wife. He imagined it to be wet and erotic. Something it had not been in years. But, he also knew, that once Tuesday came, they would return to the same old boring routine. Without the scars, without the pain of their shared injuries, they would have nothing to bind them to one another. No proof to show that their lives had gotten this........mundane.
The first shot was louder than either one of them expected. It rang throughout the house and threatened to bring with it neighbors and anyone else within a mile radius. Once the bullet reached her lower thigh, she immediately doubled over in pain.
The pain was exquisite. She dropped to the floor. The air, once holding all she needed to sustain life, was void of oxygen. There was no sound in her voice. Minutes passed before she sat up and looked at him.
"Give me the gun," she croaked.
Hesitantly, he handed over the weapon. Standing, he prayed that she would do to him as he had done to her.
His knee didn't buckle right away. It, along with with the rest of him, was in shock. It took a full minute before his body realized that the appendage it had relied on for support was no longer there. With the crack of the break, down he went. And just as his wife had experience, the oxygen he trustingly breathed in, retreated to a more safe climate. All that was left in the air that he grasped were particles of nothingness.
Sobbing. Shaking. He lifted his head and eyed her. She had fallen back to the floor after she'd shot him. Blood began to spill out of her open wound. "My turn," he gasped.
She began her rise to her feet. As she did so, she tossed the gun to him. Trembling from the pain, she tried her best to stand still and take whatever her husband was about to dish out. The absurdity of his suggestion fell way to the first shot that sounded. All that was left was smoke, blood, and passion.
Her ankle cracked. There was no pain as the bullet entered. White noise filled her mind. With her Achilles tendon ruptured, she couldn't move that foot.....that.....anything. She laid still. She counted her breaths waiting for the pain to hit as before.
Physical pain is an extraordinary thing. While it can cripple one man, it can lead another to the heights of ecstasy. And that's where she found herself. Gripped in the throws of something she had never experienced before. Hungrily, she reached for the gun. Before he had a chance to move, she shot him in the shoulder.
"Now," she whispered. "Again," she begged. "Shoot me. Again. Now. Do it." She demanded.
With his one good arm, he took the gun that she handed him. He saw the spark that had ignited. He saw her, for the first time in so many years, for what she was. The love of his life. The woman that should have bored his children. The woman who he should have made passionate love to; instead of the tedious acts he committed to once a week. He saw her as beautiful. As a being that his heart kept time with.
She handed him the gun. The gun, once cold and foreign, was now hot and animalistic. She anticipated his move as he sat up. She longed to reach for him....to kiss him....to touch him in the places that she had neglected for years. Pain circulated her body. Heat radiated down her legs, throbbing throughout her core. Her face, red from the fire of the gun shots, fixated on her husband. The more she anticipated where he would shoot her next, the more she became excited. She would not stop herself. She could not stop herself.
The final shot was aimed for her left shoulder. And, as the police surmised later, it would have landed on just that spot had his wife not decided to lean in for a passionate kiss right at the moment he pulled the trigger. And, as the police would also gather from the evidence they discovered, her husband would not have been so overcome with grief had he not begun the deadly game to begin with. But, once the shots rang out, and once they began to feel the pain, emotions ignited and burned throughout both of them.
So, as he held his once stoic wife in his arms, the emotional swing that he so desperately wanted to feel began. He felt her gasp the tiniest breaths she could....her last breaths. And when the heat from her slumped body gave way to to the stale coldness of a corpse, he did what any loving husband would do in that situation.
He turned the gun on himself.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Heartbreak
The burst did not come without fireworks or fanfare. The break was not a gradual occurance. The sudden shatter, the thud at which her heart stopped beating was a jolt. A lightening strike that took her breath away. She stood quietly for a second. Aware that her body was reacting to the departure of him, she counted her pulse. The rapid beats told her she still lived. Her breathing, fast and rhythmic, was proof that she had only died a metaphoric death. After his shadow had long disappeared, after his footsteps' last echo sounded, and her memory fought frantically to hold onto the smell of his cologne, the edge in his voice, the hatred in his eyes, she fell to the floor. The strength that held her together while he accused her of doing what she should never have done left her. She was alone. Her heart broken; but no tears fell. She had no physical proof of the pain she felt. He had asked no questions. There was no long monologue spoken of how her infidelity had destroyed what was special between them. He'd simply stated that he knew and then waited. Watied for the denial that played softly on her lips. Waited for the tearful apology and the broken down begging of mercy and forgiviness that never came. He stood in front of her. A statue of what used to be. A monument erected to honor the man that only hours earlier thought the world of her and now looked at her with the same distaste one would view a roach that crawled into a cup of morning coffee.
The silence between them stretched for an unknown time. She offered no defense for her actions. There was no rebuttal to his statement. Her only action was inaction. To patiently wait til he walked away. And once his shadow was gone and she had slid to the floor, she waited for her life to not just metaphorically end, but to literally end as well.
After all, she surmised, no one can survive this kind of pain.
Yet, instead of death, the rain came. Like the sudden break of her heart, the rain tore out of the sky with a violent need. It beat the outside pavement with heavy drops that suggested even the clouds felt her pain. Behind the blanket of drops, the dam that held back her emotions broke and with it came the torrent of tears. She screamed out her apology. She vomited her pain until the confines of her stomach laid all around her. She crawled from her corner, and in her tear stained agony, knew there was only one way she could show him exactly how sorry she truely was.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
That Moment
It's those moments, those little moments, that connect us all. The ones, that when mentioned, causes everyone to nod their head in sympathetic agreement. And I'm not referring to the great defining moments of life. It's not the baby-being-born-that-made-you-decide-to-love-only-one-person-moment. Or that instant-you-decided-to-stop-drinking-and-give-yourself-to-God-and-change-your-life-forever.
No, not those moments. But, the little ones that we barely discuss except while in the presence of our closest friends. These are THOSE moments.
You know......
The moment you're sitting in your car and you're attacked by a fly; but no one sees the brutal insect, so to the outside world you appear to be having a seizure.
That moment......
Or the moment you're already running late for work and you've discovered you're completely out of deodorant. So, you rub the crumbs under your arms and decide to keep your hands by your side all day.
Don't play. You know it's happened.
It's these little moments that shape our character. It's the embarrassing yes-I-know-I-just-shot-food-out-of-my-mouth-across-the-table-at-you-but-let's-pretend-it-never-happened-because-I-really-think-you're-hot moment that shows us, and others, what we're made of.
Some people choose to pretend like these distressing moments never occur to them. When asked, these people....the ones that deny that anything that would cause their cheeks to darken into a burgundy and make them turn their heads......vehemently deny any moment like these exist.
Really? Seriously?
You've never sat down to pee and discovered in mid-stream that you were out of toilet paper? What did you NOT do in the moment that DIDN'T happen to you? You mean to tell me you didn't get up, pants around your ankles, and waddle over to get more t.p. only to be discovered by your kids/girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse/roommate/aunt/uncle/second cousin on your mom's side/neighbor visiting to borrow some milk?
Really? It must be nice to have an endless supply of toilet paper on the roll.
Some people even go as far as cringe at these type of moments. But, I embrace them. I live for them. These are the times that prove to me that God has a sense of humor. Otherwise, how else can you explain the moment you realize you're unable to open the child proof cap on the medicine bottle, but your kid can?
Those are the times you just gotta throw your head back and laugh. I have alot of these moments. Some seem to only happen to me; but when I share them, others laugh and that just warms my heart.
Like, for instance, the moment I'm standing in line to get food and a nice man calls me beautiful.....only for me to sneeze on him. I politely wipe the mucus off his shirt and walk away.
Or that moment I got excited knowing I just got paid only to discover the bill collectors are faster than I am.
Or that wonderful moment on a Friday morning. You know that moment....we've all had them. It's been a long week. The alarm clock has already sounded. It's 6:30 am. The kids are arguing in the other room instead of putting on their school clothes like you've instructed them to. You finish getting dressed and sit on the edge of your bed. You realize, at that moment, this is about as productive as your going to be all day.
It's those moments. Those little moments.
How about the moment when you are walking in the parking lot and head straight into a parked car that you swore was not there a second ago?
And, then there's always my favorite, the moment I decided to smile flirtatiously at the guy standing in the self help section of the bookstore only to trip over my own feet and fall face first on the ground.
It happened. You thought it. Don't judge me.
And I refuse to break.
No, not those moments. But, the little ones that we barely discuss except while in the presence of our closest friends. These are THOSE moments.
You know......
The moment you're sitting in your car and you're attacked by a fly; but no one sees the brutal insect, so to the outside world you appear to be having a seizure.
That moment......
Or the moment you're already running late for work and you've discovered you're completely out of deodorant. So, you rub the crumbs under your arms and decide to keep your hands by your side all day.
Don't play. You know it's happened.
It's these little moments that shape our character. It's the embarrassing yes-I-know-I-just-shot-food-out-of-my-mouth-across-the-table-at-you-but-let's-pretend-it-never-happened-because-I-really-think-you're-hot moment that shows us, and others, what we're made of.
Some people choose to pretend like these distressing moments never occur to them. When asked, these people....the ones that deny that anything that would cause their cheeks to darken into a burgundy and make them turn their heads......vehemently deny any moment like these exist.
Really? Seriously?
You've never sat down to pee and discovered in mid-stream that you were out of toilet paper? What did you NOT do in the moment that DIDN'T happen to you? You mean to tell me you didn't get up, pants around your ankles, and waddle over to get more t.p. only to be discovered by your kids/girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse/roommate/aunt/uncle/second cousin on your mom's side/neighbor visiting to borrow some milk?
Really? It must be nice to have an endless supply of toilet paper on the roll.
Some people even go as far as cringe at these type of moments. But, I embrace them. I live for them. These are the times that prove to me that God has a sense of humor. Otherwise, how else can you explain the moment you realize you're unable to open the child proof cap on the medicine bottle, but your kid can?
Those are the times you just gotta throw your head back and laugh. I have alot of these moments. Some seem to only happen to me; but when I share them, others laugh and that just warms my heart.
Like, for instance, the moment I'm standing in line to get food and a nice man calls me beautiful.....only for me to sneeze on him. I politely wipe the mucus off his shirt and walk away.
Or that moment I got excited knowing I just got paid only to discover the bill collectors are faster than I am.
Or that wonderful moment on a Friday morning. You know that moment....we've all had them. It's been a long week. The alarm clock has already sounded. It's 6:30 am. The kids are arguing in the other room instead of putting on their school clothes like you've instructed them to. You finish getting dressed and sit on the edge of your bed. You realize, at that moment, this is about as productive as your going to be all day.
It's those moments. Those little moments.
How about the moment when you are walking in the parking lot and head straight into a parked car that you swore was not there a second ago?
And, then there's always my favorite, the moment I decided to smile flirtatiously at the guy standing in the self help section of the bookstore only to trip over my own feet and fall face first on the ground. Sometimes I think: "Only me." Then I wonder, are there others? Are there others out there that are familiar with that frustrating moment of hearing your kid ask a thousand "why" questions from the backseat of the car? How many of us, for a brief second, envisioned ourselves driving into a tree, and turning around to scream: "Because Eve ate the friggin apple! If she hadn't, you would know why and wouldn't have to ask ME a thousand flippin times!!!!"
It's that moment that you bend over to tie your shoe only to accidentally let one rip in front of a group of strangers that ties us to the person standing in line in front of us at the grocery store. I promise you, it's happened to them too.
Or the moment you have your hands full, ready to head out the house, everyone is in their coats and gloves, only to be told by the youngest child that they have to potty. You lovingly take them to the bathroom, but in reality, you really wanna make them hold it until their tiny bladders burst.
These are the moments of life. These moments ARE life. And in these moments, we need to find the laughter. If we don't, if instead we get upset and say really bad cuss words that would shame our fathers, then when life hands us the big ones....the big moments that tests our strength and resolve, those moments will break us.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Conversations with The Read Head 7.2
When I arrived home from work today, I could tell something was on The Red Head's mind. She has a way of letting me know she needs me, but holding back until she feels the time is right. I try to give her her space whenever she desires it. I understand that she processes things. She's like me. When something is truly troubling her, she has to sort it out before she presents it for further examination. I get that.
I get her.
This evening, while the 4 yr old was gleefully playing in his bubble bath, The Red Head and I sat at the dinner table. She picked over her dinner and drank some milk. I was eager to get to the bottom of what was troubling my beautiful 7 yr old.
"Momma," she began. "Did you know a girl got shot yesterday?"
She's referring to a 15 yr old student that was shot at the local high school. My alma mater in fact. We live out in the country, and so far we have been pretty lucky in that most of the troubles that plague the city schools have not touched us. But, the 21st century and all its new found concerns finally caught up to us. They came and kicked down the protective wall that we had built so long ago.
"Yes, baby. I heard about that. Is that what's bothering you?"
"Kind of." She wouldn't look at me. Keeping her eyes on her plate, she took a deep breath. "Is she going to die?"
"I don't know. Nobody knows. All we can do is pray."
"Is that why you tell me not talk to strangers? Is that why I can't leave the front yard? Because there are mean people who will shoot me?"
"There are mean people everywhere," I told her. Brushing the hair out of her eyes, I was able to get a quick glance from her before she put her attention back on the untouched food. "My goal is keep you safe."
"But, she was at school. Why wasn't she safe there?"
And I have no answers for that. It's a question that every parent faces: How do you keep your children safe when even our schools are no longer safe places for them?
Better yet, how do I explain this to my 7 yr old?
"Do you think that girl had nightmares, Momma?" She looked at me with deep brown eyes. I could see the worry settling in. I hate to admit it, but she is a worrier.
"What do you mean? Do you think she dreamt she was gonna die?"
Frustrated, The Red Head shook her head. "No, I mean, do you think she ever had bad dreams? I have bad dreams a lot. My dream catcher isn't catching them. I don't think it's big enough."
"Everyone has bad dreams. The girl that got shot had them. I have them. And you will have them from time to time. Do you know what faith is?"
She nodded.
"Don't put your faith in a dream catcher. Put your faith in God. Say a prayer whenever you have a bad dream. The Lord will pull you back into sleep and it will be a peaceful one."
"How do you know?" She asked me.
"Because He does it for me all the time," I answered.
"Momma, that girl that was shot....... Do you think she's having bad dreams right now?"
"No, sweetie. God has His hand on her. And no matter what happens, there are so many people praying for her, He will take care of her the way He sees fit."
I could see a puzzled look cross her face. Sometimes I get caught up in trying to explain God, that I forget to use the simplest terms possible. But, I don't know of any simple way to explain a being as awesome as He is.
"Just realize that God is going to take care of her. Even if it's not the way we want. He knows what's best. Do you understand?"
She nodded and hugged my neck. Later on, as we were saying our prayers, we threw in an extra one for the young girl whose life took a tragic turn.
And then we said another prayer against any bad dreams.
I get her.
This evening, while the 4 yr old was gleefully playing in his bubble bath, The Red Head and I sat at the dinner table. She picked over her dinner and drank some milk. I was eager to get to the bottom of what was troubling my beautiful 7 yr old.
"Momma," she began. "Did you know a girl got shot yesterday?"
She's referring to a 15 yr old student that was shot at the local high school. My alma mater in fact. We live out in the country, and so far we have been pretty lucky in that most of the troubles that plague the city schools have not touched us. But, the 21st century and all its new found concerns finally caught up to us. They came and kicked down the protective wall that we had built so long ago.
"Yes, baby. I heard about that. Is that what's bothering you?"
"Kind of." She wouldn't look at me. Keeping her eyes on her plate, she took a deep breath. "Is she going to die?"
"I don't know. Nobody knows. All we can do is pray."
"Is that why you tell me not talk to strangers? Is that why I can't leave the front yard? Because there are mean people who will shoot me?"
"There are mean people everywhere," I told her. Brushing the hair out of her eyes, I was able to get a quick glance from her before she put her attention back on the untouched food. "My goal is keep you safe."
"But, she was at school. Why wasn't she safe there?"
And I have no answers for that. It's a question that every parent faces: How do you keep your children safe when even our schools are no longer safe places for them?
Better yet, how do I explain this to my 7 yr old?
"Do you think that girl had nightmares, Momma?" She looked at me with deep brown eyes. I could see the worry settling in. I hate to admit it, but she is a worrier.
"What do you mean? Do you think she dreamt she was gonna die?"
Frustrated, The Red Head shook her head. "No, I mean, do you think she ever had bad dreams? I have bad dreams a lot. My dream catcher isn't catching them. I don't think it's big enough."
"Everyone has bad dreams. The girl that got shot had them. I have them. And you will have them from time to time. Do you know what faith is?"
She nodded.
"Don't put your faith in a dream catcher. Put your faith in God. Say a prayer whenever you have a bad dream. The Lord will pull you back into sleep and it will be a peaceful one."
"How do you know?" She asked me.
"Because He does it for me all the time," I answered.
"Momma, that girl that was shot....... Do you think she's having bad dreams right now?"
"No, sweetie. God has His hand on her. And no matter what happens, there are so many people praying for her, He will take care of her the way He sees fit."
I could see a puzzled look cross her face. Sometimes I get caught up in trying to explain God, that I forget to use the simplest terms possible. But, I don't know of any simple way to explain a being as awesome as He is.
"Just realize that God is going to take care of her. Even if it's not the way we want. He knows what's best. Do you understand?"
She nodded and hugged my neck. Later on, as we were saying our prayers, we threw in an extra one for the young girl whose life took a tragic turn.
And then we said another prayer against any bad dreams.
Conversations with the 4 yr old: Apraxia Style
Apraxia of Speech: A severe speech disorder characterized by inability to speak, or a severe struggle to speak clearly. Apraxia of speech occurs when the oral- motor muscles do not or cannot obey commands from the brain, or when the brain cannot reliably send those commands. Children with apraxia can be helped significantly with intensive speech therapy.
So, now that you have the definition of Apraxia, let's look at a typical conversation with my 4 yr old who has the disorder.
We are driving home from the park this afternoon. Both children are equally pumped up. High on adrenaline, they are talking and laughing back and forth. Me, well I'm exhausted from working, mothering, and basically being me. But, that's a blog for another time.
The 4 yr old decides he needs a question answered.
Mommma......Momma.....
Yes papa?
Momma.....
Hmmmmmm?
Is.....am.....well.....um.....going to be a bus ridah or.......ride a car?
Tomorrow your grandmother will pick you and your sister up from school.
I mean, not dis monin, but de uder mornin dat comes aber dis mornin when we have to......
Hmmmmmm?
Not dis mornin dats already passed. But da next dis mornin. When we go to skool. And we have wunch. Aber dat. Whut will happen?
You will be a car rider. Your grandmother will pick you up. Do you understand?
..........silence........
You mean aber dis mornin dat is aber dis mornin when dat passes she will pick us up?
Yes. Do you understand?
.........more silence.......
Papa? Did you hear me?
Yes ma'm.
Do you understand?
...........and some more silence.......
Papa?
Hmmmmm?
Do you understand your grandmother will pick you up tomorrow?
You mean not dis mornin but da mornin aber dis mornin? Dat mornin?
When you get out of school, she will pick you up.
You mean aber I eat wunch? When da dis mornin comes aber dis mornin? When dat happens? Grandma will pick me and sistah up from skool?
Yes, baby. That's what I mean.
Ohhhhh. I hope she brings juice.
So, now that you have the definition of Apraxia, let's look at a typical conversation with my 4 yr old who has the disorder.
We are driving home from the park this afternoon. Both children are equally pumped up. High on adrenaline, they are talking and laughing back and forth. Me, well I'm exhausted from working, mothering, and basically being me. But, that's a blog for another time.
The 4 yr old decides he needs a question answered.
Mommma......Momma.....
Yes papa?
Momma.....
Hmmmmmm?
Is.....am.....well.....um.....going to be a bus ridah or.......ride a car?
Tomorrow your grandmother will pick you and your sister up from school.
I mean, not dis monin, but de uder mornin dat comes aber dis mornin when we have to......
Hmmmmmm?
Not dis mornin dats already passed. But da next dis mornin. When we go to skool. And we have wunch. Aber dat. Whut will happen?
You will be a car rider. Your grandmother will pick you up. Do you understand?
..........silence........
You mean aber dis mornin dat is aber dis mornin when dat passes she will pick us up?
Yes. Do you understand?
.........more silence.......
Papa? Did you hear me?
Yes ma'm.
Do you understand?
...........and some more silence.......
Papa?
Hmmmmm?
Do you understand your grandmother will pick you up tomorrow?
You mean not dis mornin but da mornin aber dis mornin? Dat mornin?
When you get out of school, she will pick you up.
You mean aber I eat wunch? When da dis mornin comes aber dis mornin? When dat happens? Grandma will pick me and sistah up from skool?
Yes, baby. That's what I mean.
Ohhhhh. I hope she brings juice.
Monday, October 17, 2011
The Teddy Bear
My dad brought the stuffed animal to me on my third day in the hospital. My dad is like that. He knows what will comfort you even when it seem like nothing will. He approaches in a thoughtful manner. Careful to gauge your demeanor before he asks any questions. At that particular moment, I was laying in a hospital bed with IV's hooked up to me. Wires were leading to my chest that told the heart monitor what my heart rate was. The covers laid over my midsection, which was beginning to reveal my six month pregnant belly. My eyes were red and puffy from all the crying that I had been doing. Daddy didn't say a whole lot. He just handed me the teddy bear then took the chair next to the bed. "Any news today?" he asked me.
I shook my head no. Fearful of more tears flowing, I kept my eyes on the TV as I continued to flip channels. Recognizing my need to stay quiet, my dad flipped open the newspaper and began to read. We stayed that way, him studying the paper and me focusing intently on the screen, until more people arrived to ask the same questions that I didn't have any answers to.
Three days prior, I was at work. Sitting at my desk, I always kept one hand on my belly and the other on my keyboard. I was diligent in doing my "kick counts". These were little movements the baby made as it twisted and turned inside me. The doctor told me to keep a log of how many kicks per hour I felt. Every flutter, punch, kick, and somersault my child did, I recorded it in a notebook. Hoever, that day at work I had nothing to record. Nothing was going on inside my still small belly.
My baby wasn't moving.
A visit to the hospital confirmed what I already knew. Something was wrong. My little baby's heart rate was so fast, that the machine could not keep time with her. Unable to count the beats, the numbers on the machine flashed before my eyes. I was admitted. More tests were done. And it was finally determined that the baby's heart beat was so fast that it was unable to pump blood properly. Fluid was backing up into her stomach, around her heart, and in her brain.
"Your baby is going into heart failure," the doctor informed me. He spoke softly as I tried to fight back the tears that were spilling out. "If we don't move quickly, we will have to deliver. It's way too early."
I agreed with their course of treatment. Heart medication was given to me to slow her heart rhythm. But, it also affected mine. The second day of the hospital stay doctors were called to my room. My chest hurt. It was beating at such irregular intervals that I began to panic. I was moved to the ICU and stayed there for four more days.
The day my dad brought me the teddy bear, I had prayed harder than I'd ever prayed before. People from the lab entered my room at around 4 that morning. They were greeted with a tearfully praying woman. Not knowing what to say, they quietly took the vials of blood that were needed, and exited out of the room quickly.
I tried to shed my tears in the morning, before anyone came to visit. I had to be strong for my boyfriend, who was beside himself with worry. My mom would call and cry as she asked if I was going to lose the baby that people never thought I would ever have. Day in and day out, the doctors would come and tell me what the heart monitor already showed me. The heart was still beating too rapidly to be effective. Time was running out. More medications were given. More prayers were said.
And through out it all, I clutched my teddy bear and hoped that I would be able to hold on to my precious baby until it was time for a safe delivery.
It took eight days for the medication to finally work. On the ninth day, I was released. Armed with enough prescriptions to rival any old person, I went home to pray away any panic I was feeling. The second trimester gave way to the third. I was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief when I saw that my duet date was fast approaching.....
........and leaving......
At 41 weeks, my doctor decided to induce. Carrying the overnight bag that I had packed way back before my first stint in the hospital and my trusted teddy bear, I gleefully checked in. Twenty-three hours later, my induction turned into an emergency c-section.
I won't go into details about that. But, let me just say, a c-section minus anaesthesia is not something I would recommend.
My beautiful Red Head was born on July 3. She weighed in at 9 lbs 10 oz. She was 23 inches long. A cardiologist from Chapel Hill was on hand for her delivery. But, he was never needed. There was nothing wrong with my precious baby.
God answered my prayers.
Now, seven years later, I sleep with the teddy bear that my dad brought me that day. I hold on to it every night. It still lends comfort when needed. Sporadically, my youngest will sneak into my room to steal it out from beneath my resting arms. He knows the power it holds.
Every so often, Shelby will ask me why at my age I sleep with a stuffed animal. I am always happy to tell her the story. I use it as an example of God's power within us. Of how, through prayer and faith, we can make it even when the doctors tell us we may not.
I love my teddy bear. It is, by far, the most precious gift ever handed to me. I just wish my son would keep his paws off of it.
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