Strong Emotions

It is quiet.

It's 10:00 pm.  The kids are asleep.  The hubby is in the basement.  All I can hear is the tick of the clock, the shuffling of the cat adjusting in his sleep, and the tip-tip-tap of the keys as I type.

We are halfway through the week. The Christmas countdown is going strong.  We are 7 days from the longest night of the year, and 17 days from the end of one of the most emotional years many of us can remember.  As one friend put it, it's been a transition year.

And I'm having all of the emotions.

Miles is getting big.  Various videos and pictures viewed over the past few days have reminded me just how little he used to be, and by contrast, how utterly grown-up he seems suddenly.  He is confident, yet sensitive.  Smart, yet distractable.  He can make his own breakfast, put together increasingly-difficult puzzles, and even empty the dishwasher and fold his own laundry.  Yet, he still crawls into my lap for snuggles and wants me to sit with him until he falls asleep at night.  He's 7, and I can see the days of needing mom for every little thing slowly, yet surely, disappearing.  He's still an unusually (?) affectionate little boy, but I can't help but wonder how much longer that will last.  I just want to curl him up in a ball and hold him in my lap as long as he'll let me.  And so I have been.  I feel so proud of him.  And so happy for all he's learning and accomplishing.  And so sad that his little voice has lost its baby-like quality.  And relieved that he's grown into a really easy-going kid.  He's a joy to be around, and I simultaneously laugh with the delight of it, and cry at the prospect of what is now well and truly gone.  His early years were tough, in a lot of ways, but goodness I miss the good parts.  (Though, to be entirely fair, I would not go back if I could - I remember all too clearly just how tough those days could be.)

And Sam.  My Sam.  She never was a baby, not really.  She had one year of infancy, during which she was one of the calmest, easiest, happiest babies I've ever met.  And then she learned to talk, and became a miniature adult.  I often forget that she's only 3.  She, too, makes her own breakfast in the mornings, and helps empty the dishwasher, and helps with her laundry.  She engages in deep conversation, ever curious, ever wondering, ever asking the next hard questions.  And so, it's easy to forget that she's 3.  When she has tantrums and moments of defiance, it's easy to get frustrated and expect her to calm herself and be rational more quickly than, probably, she is yet capable of.  She speaks like a child twice her age, or more, both in content and in vocabulary, and yet, under it all, she is still a very little girl in a very big world.  She makes me giggle with her silliness, sigh at her defiance, and sometimes, cry in frustration with her stubbornness.  I feel so proud of the fierce, determined young lady she is.  And so guilty over my (unreasonably?) high expectations of her.  And grateful for her constant over-the-top displays of affection.  She is a beautiful soul, and I am so insanely proud of everything she is. I look forward to her future, to seeing if she, too, mellows with age, or gains the confidence to be even more steadfast in her determination to do things her own way.  Given the long line of stubborn, fierce, determined women she comes from, the latter seems most likely.  She is going to make me crazy for many years to come, but I look forward to seeing what she does with it all.  For now, though, I feel so very lucky to still have the love, the affection, and the silly parts of my wonderful daughter.

In many ways, I am so thankful for this crazy mix of strong emotions.  There was a long time after Miles was born when I was completely unable to cry.  It is beautiful to be able to cry over everything again.  It is beautiful to feel so deeply, when I had become so numb for so long.  And I am trying to hold onto that thought: that there is beauty in everything I feel.

There is so much more, but what I'm feeling, more than anything else right now, is tired.  Winter has arrived, cold and dreary, with the promise of becoming more so soon.  And really, it has only just begun.  And there are so many obligations to meet in the next 11 days.  And then an abyss of probable anxiety and depression stretching out until March, at least.  And I look at it all...

And I am tired.

Bullies

When I was in first grade, there was a new girl at school.

She came from far away, some place called Texas.  She spoke funny.  She dressed funny.  She had huge glasses and uneven teeth.  She was ridiculed and insulted and called names for everything she was, everything she could not control.  I found her at recess, hiding in the tunnel, and sobbing.  I found her, and I sat with her, and I told her I liked her accent.  I complimented her dress.  I told her that her glasses were my favorite color, and I showed her how crooked my own teeth were.

We were best friends for the next 5 years.

When I was in sixth grade, everything changed.

We were in a new school, a Middle School.  I spoke with words that were too big.  I dressed in clothes that were too modest.  I had big glasses and uneven teeth.  I was ridiculed and insulted and called names for everything I was, everything I could not control.  My best friend found me in the hallway, sobbing by my locker.  She found me, and she insulted me, and she slammed my head into a locker.  And she laughed at me.

I had no friends that year.

That year, I was in the 8th grade orchestra, because of a scheduling conflict with my gifted classes.  I was tiny.  I had huge glasses and uneven teeth.  And I worked my ass off to keep up with kids who had been playing for years longer than I had.  And it showed.  Slowly, slowly, I earned my way to the second chair, in spite of everything.

That day was the first time I was locked in the instrument closet.

I went to put my things away, and a big eighth grader named John closed the door behind me, and locked it.  I was trapped.  I tried not to panic, and instead pulled my violin back out, and in the tiny space, I made music until the teacher found me an hour later and let me out.

It was to become a daily occurrence.

Everyday, I'd try to get there early.  I would put my things away, and try to get out first.  And everyday, I was locked in anyway.  Sometimes, I was shoved.  Sometimes, I was physically lifted and placed inside.  And everyday, I'd try to contain my panic as I heard the lock click into place.

And everyday, I'd play music until my teacher let me out.  Sometimes after only a few minutes.  Sometimes after more than an hour.  Everyone else in the class knew it was happening.  The teacher knew it was happening.

Not one person ever tried to stop it.  Not once.

There is a reason I cannot abide a bully.

But even more, I cannot abide a person who stands by and watches the bully, and does nothing.

And if you don't understand the relevance this has to current events, then you're not really paying attention.

They had their reasons.  They were too worried about their own lives.  Too unwilling to give up the mirage of power from being on the same side as the bully.  Too scared of what he'd do to them if they spoke up.  Too caught up in their own lives to bother helping me.

But I would have helped them.  Just as I had once helped that sobbing little girl in the tunnel.  The one who would later forget the kindness in exchange for a selfish taste of the power of fitting in.

I would help you.

My Week in Short Stories

A friend recently started a FB page encouraging people to write a short story everyday. The rules are simple: 55, 150, or 300 words. No critiques. Just practice writing.

I've been doing them when I remember (and feel well enough), and the collection of them from this past week explain our current lives fairly honestly and succinctly. With no further ado:

Monday, February 29, 2016 - 55 words

Sounds of bathtime - splashing water, giggles, rubber toys squeak. "Uh-oh!" Daddy got wet, too. A room away, she coughs, rolls over, restless from fever, desperate to be a part of the often-avoided routine. Rush of water, drain plug pulled. Sleep claims her once again, leaving her to wonder if this was reality, dream, or hallucination.

Tuesday, March 1, 2016 - 55 words

Armful of toys, bending over to pick up more, humming along to the children's show in the background. These songs will never leave her head. Dumping toys into the toy box, grabbing a diaper. Chasing down the toddler. "Don't wanna change!" Diaper changed. Dinner started. Homework begins. Sighing, frazzled, knowing she'll miss this one day


Friday, March 4, 2016 - 150 words

Holding her close, but loosely, while the coughs rack her little body, rocking her back and forth, gently. The hacking subsides, and she slowly, but completely, collapses against me, breathing hard, trying to catch her breath. A moment's peace. Then, the tell-tale heaves of pre-vomit, the rush to aim it at the floor, gathering her hair while her stomach empties of the little she's eaten today, plus the medicine that's supposed to make her better. Gasping sobs, from both of us, until it's impossible to distinguish one from the other. It finally passes, and there is only the clean up. Naked, and scrubbed with baby wipes, she folds herself into my lap, crying silently, wishing, I'm certain, that this could just be over. I squeeze her tight, and wish the same, wanting to watch her dance and laugh, hating whatever illness has befallen her. And suddenly, I understand true helplessness.

Secrets

[Note: I wrote this yesterday afternoon. I am publishing it now, after making sure my sister was comfortable with it.]

I'm writing this while in the throes of a panic attack.

A story on Facebook (from Humans of New York) triggered a highly unpleasant memory, and my body is literally reacting as though I were reliving the moment. My heart is pounding. My ears are ringing.  My hands are shaking. My stomach is in knots, and it's all I can do not to throw up. I have to keep closing my eyes and re-centering just to be able to continue typing. Static and fear fill my mind. I have to keep reminding myself to breathe.

I don't know what else to do, so I'm writing.  I'm going to share the memory, in hopes that getting it out of my head will help. That somehow, releasing this deep, dark secret to the world will somehow cleanse me of it.

First, the memory, raw and broken. Then, the explanation. That is how I will tackle this.

I am 7 years old. It's late. The middle of the night. I've been sleeping for awhile when I'm awakened by a bloodcurdling scream. I don't use that word lightly. When I heard that scream, I was suddenly wide awake, and cold all over. It was a scream of pain from one of the people I loved most dearly in all the world - my little sister.

I run down the hall in my nightgown - I still remember how itchy the hem was against my shins - past the kitchen, and into the living room. My 3-year-old sister is lying on the hardwood floor in front of grandma's old sofa, her head surrounded in a pool of blood. So much blood, I wonder for a moment if there's any left inside her. But there must be, because she's still screaming.

(Excuse me a moment. I'm dry heaving here in the present.)

Mom and Dad are trying to talk to me, trying to explain, but I'm not hearing anything except, "It was an accident. You have to tell everyone it was an accident or they'll take you away."  Maybe they were trying, but that's the only part that was getting through.

Suddenly, there are police officers and paramedics in my living room. Someone must have called them. Someone must have let them in. I have no memory of any of that. In my mind, they just appeared, out of nowhere. They surround my sister, shoulder to shoulder, so I can't see anything except the blood. There's blood everywhere. That paramedic is going to put his knee in it. He's going to get covered in my sister's blood.

She's on a backboard. A stretcher. Something. They carry her out of the house, being extra careful in case it's even worse than it looks. I've gotten dressed somehow, and I get in the car with Dad. Mom is in the ambulance ahead of us. We're ignoring the speed limit and the lights. We are staying as close to the ambulance as possible. Dad is talking to me, but I don't hear him.

And that's where the memory leaves off. I don't remember anything of the hospital, though I know the details by heart. What follows are the memories of what I've been told.

Tami had been hit in the face with a glass.  One that my father had thrown.

We all tell the police and the hospital people, and later everyone else, that it was an accident. Dad was teasing and the glass slipped out of his hand.

No one tells me the truth for years, but I know. I understand in some sort of intuitive way what actually happened.

Dad intended to throw the glass. At my mother. My sister was simply asleep on the couch, in the wrong place at the wrong time. She sat up and the glass that would have hit my mother hit her, instead.

We can't tell anyone that, though, because then people will take us away from Mom and Dad, and the foster system is far scarier than anything that happens at home.

(To be fair, that's entirely possible. I'll never know first hand.)

No one questions our story.

My sister got over 30 stitches in her face. She still bears the scars. One shard missed her left eye by millimeters. Another sliced across her nose. In the end, nothing was broken, and there was no threat to her life. Apparently, the face just bleeds a lot.  She got a puppy a few weeks later and in her innocence, named the dog Stitches.  She was, by and large, entirely fine.

I wasn't.

I now held a secret that was too big for a 7-year-old. My dad had tried to hurt my mother, and in failing to do so, had hurt my sister instead.

And no one did anything about it.

And that fact broke me in a way that I still cannot describe.

If you've ever wondered why I'm brutally honest, this is it. This is the reason that I will not lie about how someone makes me feel. Because I've lied for 32 years.

It wasn't an accident.  The glass just hit the wrong person.

Me & My Boy

I'm still here. Busy. Mildly overwhelmed. Ready for a few precious hours to myself, but I'm here.

Faire ended last weekend. This week has been filled with illness, recovery, a parent-teacher conference, kids off of school, a book club meeting turned playdate, taking care of friends, and just generally trying to keep us all afloat.

But that is the story of stress. And while stress has comprised the majority of my week, that's not what I want to focus on tonight. Tonight, I want to remember a few shining hours of perfection.

Thursday, Miles was out of school for parent-teacher conferences, but Sam still had Parent's Day Out. We took Sam to 'school', went to Miles' conference (he's doing great!), and then, Miles and I had four hours of time alone together.

Not long ago, this was our normal. He was my constant companion, in everything I did. But since Sam was born, it's rare for us to get more than an hour alone together. And I realized Thursday how much I miss that time alone with him.

Because of the crazy of the week, I hadn't had time to go out to Festival site and clean out my shop, so we started with that. I was worried that the task would cut into our time together, but I had forgotten that really, the Festival is our place - Miles' and mine. He has grown up there, and he knows the site as well as any veteran performer.  And why wouldn't he? It's been home to him since before he was born. I walked those lanes only days before his birth, and carried him out there before he was a month old.  It is the place where he is comfortable, and confident. The place where he is most fully the little boy I've always known.

When we arrived that morning, I expected him to run off to play in the areas around the shop, taking full advantage of his freedom to roam unencumbered by patrons and responsibilities. Instead, he asked, "Can I help? What can I do?"

So, I set him to work putting things into boxes. I climbed the stepladder to get things down, and he put it carefully away. When everything was stored, he helped carry it all to the car, and he helped do the final sweep of the area, his eyes noting details I might have missed.  When we were certain the shop was fully ready for the off-season, he asked, "What next?" Ready for his next task, though I had none to give. I looked at the clock. I had expected the clean up to take an hour or two.  With his help, it had taken only twenty minutes.

I hugged him, and thanked him for helping me get done so quickly, and I asked him if there was anything he wanted to do before we left. Grinning from ear to ear, he responded exactly as I expected, "Can we go to the Children's Realm?"

It was an easy request to fulfill, and so we slowly made our way that direction. As we started up the hill, I was surprised again when his little hand (though not so little as it once was) slid into mine and held on the entire way.

It was a glimpse back in time, watching him scale the pirate ship, and run the familiar paths.  It was so familiar, in fact, that the changes were all the more glaringly obvious.

Where once his head barely peeked over a structure, he now stood head-and-shoulders above it.

Where once he had taken a dozen steps up a ramp, he now took three long strides.

Where once his legs had been short, but fast, they were now long, and gangly, and even faster.

All too soon, the moment was over, and it was time to head for lunch. I let him choose, and over a chicken sandwich (me) and a hamburger (him), we had a conversation that I longed for so much in those former days. We talked of our favorite things, and of school, and Festival, and friends, and family. His speech was clear, and he was able to carry a flowing conversation in a way I hadn't realized he could.  We talked for so long, both of us unwilling to break the moment. And when we finally had to go, we continued to chat the entire ride home.

Along the way, we learned things about each other. I learned that his favorite superhero is now the Green Lantern - an opinion I never would have guessed.  And he learned that my favorite game was called Clue, and that we actually had the game at home.

Obviously, we played it when we got here.

Eventually, it was time to pick up Sam, and while we were both a little sad that our day was over, we were both happy for what we had. And we were both thrilled to hug Samantha as she came running to see us.

October 21, 2012 - Age 3
Photo Credit: Juliann Courtney Photography

October 22, 2015 - Age 6
Photo Credit: Me with a phone :)

To do...

I have come to the conclusion that I have too many "projects".

My current list of projects includes:

• Figuring out cold-weather gear for the last weekend of the Festival
• Making Jasper a few more dog ropes.
• Re-opening my Etsy shop, with a variety of different things I've made.
• Purging kids' clothes and toys that are no longer needed.
• Organizing the massive amounts of crap in my house (especially the paperwork!).
• Writing a story that's been bouncing around in my head for ages.
• Continuing my "Tell Me Your Story" project that I started last year.
• Planning things for next year's Festival (yes, I've already started...)

And that's not an exhaustive list, by any means.

And because there are so many, many projects to work on, whenever I have a spare moment, I sit down to decide what to do...and get crippled by indecision.

And so, I do nothing productive at all, and my list continues to grow.

To be fair to myself, I have made progress on all of those things in the past few weeks, but I really need to learn to focus on one thing, finish it, and then move on to the next.  Unfortunately, that is a skill that continues to evade me...

Sigh.

Contemplations

I'm feeling contemplative of late.

Perhaps it's the fall weather, encouraging introspection and turning in as the year winds its way down.  From here, it's the whirlwind slide through the holidays into winter and the new year. The days are growing shorter, and I am soaking in the sun's warmth before it disappears for the few months that somehow last longer than the rest of the year combined. Already, I spend my days in long sleeves and cardigans, and my nights snuggled under a pile of blankets.

Though this mood cannot entirely be explained away by the weather.

Perhaps it's me coming to grips with having a 6-year-old, a little boy, now, in elementary school. The thought struck me today that his next birthday is 7. The year I was 7 was a major turning point in my life, and many of the events that happened that year shaped the fears and anxieties that I still fight.  The idea that Miles is approaching that age gives me pause.

But that's just another piece of the puzzle.

Perhaps, it's the health scare my newborn niece had this past weekend. It is not my place to share her story publicly, but for a couple of days there, all of us were worried about what her future might hold. In the past day and a half, there have been some answers, and she has made some wonderful progress. In time, she will probably be entirely fine. But the raw fear that struck my heart on Friday is not something that will soon be forgotten. I came home from visiting her last night, seeing that she was indeed feeling better, and snuggled Sam until long after I should have left her to fall asleep.

And that was a major factor, but it's not everything.

More than anything, I think I'm realizing that once more, I am in a transitional phase of my life.  The baby years are over in this house. My anxiety is finally (more or less) under control.  My evening plans are dictated by bedtimes, and my alarm clock by the school drop-off line.  I have more freedom than I once did, as a mother, now that Sam is in Kids' Day Out twice a week. And really, even when she's home, she is often content to play alone.  My time is not my own, and yet, I seem to have a lot of it to fill some days.

A part of me yearns for the day that I can go back to work, doing something outside the house that is both fulfilling and helps pay the bills. The other part of me is clinging to what I have, with both children is such fun stages of their lives. I love volunteering with Miles' school, but I worry about overextending myself, and letting people down. I have hobbies I want to pursue, but there are so many of them that I get frozen in indecision and play games on my phone instead.

I am realizing that the process of finding oneself is never over. It is a continuous journey that will probably end only when I am done changing. And if I've learned anything in this life, it is that I am ever-changing.

And that requires contemplation from time to time.