Hold on Loosely

I dropped some balls.

Not all of them. In fact, there were some added ones more involved than the usual ones. I’ve been getting a lot accomplished, doing a lot. But it’s hard to see the progress when some of the more essential tasks have fallen by the wayside.

Sleep. Sinus health. Writing. Clean dishes.

It seems like the mania that accompanies summer weekends has followed me into fall and beyond. And chock full days are not conducive to sleep, when late nights are the only chance for a quiet respite. And hay fever season compounded by a deviated septum and lack of rest, forcing of fluids, and neti-pot usage is just nasty.

The treadmill I’m on seems to have unrolled and stretched to the horizon like a ribbon of roadway.

I need to say no. I need to relax. I need to prioritize.

But, aside from the mundane daily requirements, a lot of what we’ve been doing is fun.

I was bone-tired by the end of last week and the attendant bunkbed mania that ensued. And I’m still digging out of the misplaced objects and displaced duties that occurred as a result. My chi is not where it needs to be. And it snowed for the first time today and my husband is leaving for a business trip. And I’m a worry-wort who does not take things one at a time.

But I stayed in my pjs till early afternoon yesterday and wrote an exciting short story in its entirety. I’m catching up on laundry and the pile of dishes in the sink is not as high as it was. Only one half of throat hurts now and I’m not drowning in mucus. My daughters are thrilled with their three-quarters of the way done big top bedroom. And tight squeezes from beloved family members feel even better when your body is battered and broken.

After all, the object of juggling is not to hold all the balls at the same time, but to rotate and transfer them, holding each one only lightly at a time

anxiety, Depression, Living

Mired in the Meantime

In the inbetween time,
the meantime
when you wait for the pain to stop,
the congestion to clear,
something to pass.
Long periods of indecision
followed by a flurry of panicked action.
Exhaustive measures
after exhausting nothingness.
The miserable day isn’t helping –
a logy stasis trapped in time.

Meanwhile, the next generation is languishing.
The one you thought was safe.
The one you thought could pull from those before and after her.
She is trapped in her own middle space.

And you can’t pull either one of you out.

Children, Living, parenting

Bunkin’ Crazy

Two nights ago I stayed up until two in the morning searching for Ikea hacks.

Yes, that is correct. I deprived myself of precious sleep to troll the internet for the most perfectly imperfect set of bunk beds I could find.

I’m in that seasonal state of flux that rolls around every 3-4 months. This time the feelings are even more urgent because ‘winter is coming’ (at least I don’t have to deal with white walkers – thank goodness!) and everything – our minds, our activities – turns inward.

I’m starting to notice that maze of boxes I left in the basement after a summer scavenger hunt; the piles of clothes that need to be sorted into bins after leaving the drawers to be filled with sweaters and fleece that -just-won’t-fit (at least if I want the drawers closed!); the clothing, supplies, books, toys . . . that my children are starting to outgrow that don’t need to be junking up the joint.

In this sorting and stowing maelstrom, the need for bunk beds in the room my middle and youngest daughters share is making itself vehemently known. As if the insistent reminders of my middle daughter would let me forget. 😉

In my dreams – that’s right I said MY dreams – I would get a bunk with a rock wall to scale the top bunk, a slide to descend, and a secret nook below. If not for the problem of maintaining a marital bed, I think that would still be my ultimate dream bed – regardless that I’m supposed to be grown up. Alas, I don’t think my husband is looking to relive his days on a tight bunk on a Coast Guard ship. Besides, I can’t afford and/or justify the exorbitant price tag.

If you can afford or justify it, get one – they’re gorgeous!

Bunk beds in the midrange are still overpriced for the level of quality the consumer receives. Wood? MDF with a veneer that looks sickly plastic? Weirdly placed slats and drawers? So I figured, since I’m not going to get what I want, I may as well make the price a little more tolerable.

Enter Ikea.

But I’m stubborn and still trying for the extra storage and whimsical details of other bunks I’ve seen and so went searching for hacks to make my own. If my bedtime that night is any indication, I did not find one. Some of them looked like hacks. Some of them would work for a college student used to precarious positions, but not for my rowdy children (especially on the top bunk). Some of them included far too much carpentry for my tastes. So I guess that makes me lazy and cheap and incredibly hard to please.

I almost broke up the marital bed even without my dream bunk because my husband was none too happy with me when I finally crawled in. Call it my seasonal nesting, I could not rest until I’d found a solution (or given up in defeat that morning). It’s driving me nuts that the current system is not working and yet I can’t find a satisfactory replacement.

Then the neon postcard from a local charity came in saying they would be making the rounds soon to collect. That’s all I needed. I went into hyperdrive, stockpiling all I could to clear it out!

If I can talk my father into going to Ikea with me while you’re at work, I can get the bunk and we can break down the crib and donate that. And the mattress. And the crib sheets and the crib set . . .

Maybe it’s reverse nesting. But that’s another post.

If you’ve learned nothing else from this post: Know that bunk beds are ridiculously overpriced and one should not shop for one during a seasonal stir-up or under the effects of extreme sleep deprivation. Happy Purging and Dreaming!

Mental Health, motherhood, Uncategorized

Touched Out

Amazing description of that feeling of wanting to jump out of your own skin. And so reassuring that it’s not some freak occurrence on my mommy part.

momaste

“My life was mostly touch in those days. . . All day long I touched the clean plates and bowls as I put them away, and the children’s heads slimy under shampoo in the tub, and the softness of their faces, and the scrape of poop off their goose pimpling backsides, the hot noodles, the heavy wet laundry as I threw it into the dryer, and the brick front steps as i sat reading to myself for eight minutes while they played just beyond the page in the prickling new grass, and then when one of them fell down I touched the grass and the mud and the scraped knee, and the sticky Band-Aids, and the wet cheek, and my jeans, and the dangling shoelace.” — Elizabeth Kostova, The Swan Thieves.

I used to think of myself as an affectionate person. At least I don’t remember being repulsed…

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Living, Spirituality

Deep Within the Silence of Our Hearts

A woman told me the story of her mother, who found faith late in life. She had fallen away from God prior to becoming a mother and her children never saw her as a practicing person. Around the time this woman began having children of her own, her mother rediscovered her faith in a fervent way. No matter what trial befell her, she turned to God and leaned on her faith to see her through. She went from a woman intent on controlling every single factor of her life with an iron grip to someone willing to trust that God would take care of it and her as He saw fit.

I met this woman five minutes before she told me this story. I had no right to delve deeper into her personal family story – and yet I was transfixed by this last detail of her story: she relinquished control, fully. Like that. With a snap of the fingers, it seemed. And so, the words escaped my mouth before my mind realized what a prying question it was: What happened to enact this absolute turnaround?

The woman gave me an abbreviated, antiseptic version of her family’s history precipitating the change, which made both of us squirm a little, I think, sharing such personal details within minutes of meeting. But my burning desire to know trumped my sense of propriety because as far as I was concerned, this woman has achieved a miracle!

I’ve practiced my faith my entire life. There were times it was stronger, of course, but it’s always been there, God has always been there waiting for me. I say waiting because, increasingly, as I get older and more responsibility gets piled on or taken on, I whir into hyper-drive control mode. As much as I know slowing down and ‘letting go and letting God’ will make life a whole lot easier and enjoyable, I can’t. Can’t be done. Not gonna do it. I don’t think it’s a trust issue. I think it’s part of my perfectionism. No, I don’t think I can do things better than God; I just need to take my best crack at it or I think I’ve failed.

So, if I, as someone who considers herself a faithful lifetime follower of Christ and God, cannot relinquish control and this woman did so seemingly with the flip of a switch – what in God’s green earth is wrong with me? (Besides taking the name of the Lord in vain, of course)

How do I let the proverbial water roll off this duck’s back?

I wanted to hold this woman – or better yet, her mother – upside down and shake her till answers poured out her pockets. Alas, it wouldn’t work – never mind the lack of upper body strength and desire for assault charges – for I know the answer resides elsewhere. Somewhere deep inside the silence of my heart. That silence I haven’t been able to access in quite some time.

Identity, Legacy, motherhood

How Did They (Do We) Do It?

I often wonder how mothers of our mothers did it. In the age of keeping up appearances and, in the generation before that, of simply surviving.

There were no therapists, no LICSWs, no yoga retreats and meditation circles. There was no opportunity for a facial and hot stone massage. There was no medication to make the pain go away – except for those self-prescribed.

There was alcohol sipped in secret. There was valium – and laudanum in the early days. There might be lashing out at the children when the husband or society did the same to them. Catholics might find solace in confession – if the guilt of their perceived shortcomings and ungrateful attitude didn’t keep them away.

I wonder how many women thought they were flawed because they didn’t love the life handed to them. That they were failures because they didn’t find rearing children and keeping house easy.

But that’s not even the point.

Mothers today still flounder with the many resources available to them.

How the hell did women of previous generations keep it together?

Was it the lack of a pervasive media that kept us from hearing about children murdered by their own mother’s hand? Did bubbling anger dissipate through more readily accepted floggings? Were extended family and neighbors more readily available and willing to step in and pick up slack?

Did women suffer in silence?

I wonder how many women devolved into mental illness from the stress of responsibility, relentless duty, stifled desires. I wonder how many Academy Award worthy actresses were forged in the face of an uninterested audience.

And what do we do for them now? How do we celebrate the uncelebrated?

By feeling guilty as hell that we don’t like this comparatively golden portion we’ve been dealt?

Or by saturating the dry earth of hopelessness with resources for women struggling with themselves, with motherhood, with life?

Part of me yearns for the ironclad persona of the women and mothers of my thrice-removed family. But another more unwilling part realizes that armor came at a merciless price. Not only are these women I cannot question because of space and time, but because they would never answer. Perhaps one small admittance would open the chink that would crumble the entire suit. They would never take that chance. Nor would society let them. They did what they had to because there was no other choice. Their own mothers had it hard and so, then, would they.

I wonder if in this age of modern convenience we have too much time on our hands to ponder our existence. However, I’d like to think, even amidst the stirring of lye and slaying of chickens, our female forebears wondered the same things. They probably wouldn’t have lived so fiercely if they hadn’t.

How do we live fiercely in their honor while fighting for what we all need?

Children, Literacy, Weekend Write-Off, Writing

Bluebird

I hate books with sad endings. But I love Bob Staake’s.

The Donut Chef is in heavy rotation in our house. I cannot eat a donut without proclaiming, “There’s nothing quite like glazed, I think!”

So when I spied a new title, Bluebird, on prominent display in my child’s library at open house, I couldn’t resist removing it from its perch for a peek. My first grader came home with it a few weeks later much to my delight.

Every workshop on children’s writing I’ve attended, particularly those on picture books, says you must have a happy ending or at least end on a positive note of some sort. Kids need to know they will prevail in some fashion. Lately, I‘ve been finding many books that are heartbreaking! After reading Bluebird, I have to say, my excitement in finding a new Staake book was quelled somewhat by the poignant moments at the end of it.

A lonely boy begins a new school year. Two bullies have him pegged from the moment the class queues up outside. After school, he heads in one direction, the rest of the children, the other. He is all alone save the bluebird that has been quietly watching him all day – from tree branches and windowsills. Immersed in his solitary confinement, he does not notice the bird flit along beside him, until she swoops in low over his head and engages him. With a fun mixture of tag, hide-and-seek, and follow-the-leader, the two become friends as they move through the city. These are the only times we see the boy smile. As he floats a boat in the park, the bird perched upon its mast, drawing the attention and friendship of a nearby boy and girl, readers rejoice with the boy and finally relax. He will be okay. He has found happiness, even if one bright spot of it.

And then he passes under the bridge – where three bullies want not friendship, but his beloved toy boat. At first, the bird hangs back, watching from atop the bridge. I wanted the bird to rescue him, but the workshops have also taught me that protagonists need to solve problems for themselves. Still, I was angry that his new friend was seemingly hanging him out to dry. But when the situation turns dire and the boy truly needs him, she swoops in. She blocks the blow the boy would’ve received from a stick thrown by the bullies, but sacrifices her own life in the process. To their possibly redeeming credit, the bullies are appalled by the result of their actions. A flurry of rainbow-hued birds lifts the boy and the bluebird into the sky for the spiritual denouement.

His friend dies? He finally has someone that makes him smile and she’s dead? This is not the gooey goodness of a glazed donut! But it does adhere to that positive tenet of children’s literature: through the process of nurturing this friendship and finding what makes him happy, the boy can now fly on his own. The bluebird has taught him how to find happiness on his own.

The plot of this book is riveting and transcendent. What is astounding is that there is no narrative text whatsoever. Staake tells this incredibly intricate and rich tale with nary a word. It is a true testament to his amazing graphic skills.

This book may not have been what I was expecting, but happiness rarely is. Bluebird joins Bob Staake’s catalog as another superb example of children’s literature.

anxiety, Identity, motherhood

Desperate Measures

My feet sweat in my sneakers.

image from Marie Claire

My t-shirt pulled under my arms.

My hair rubbed at my neck.

I tucked, pulled, squished, shrugged.

I could not get comfortable.

I wanted to rent my garments from my body and my hair from its roots.

I burned out the last of the caffeine scrubbing in the shower and fidgeted into bed with a foggy plan forming.

I dropped my last daughter off at preschool after a harried rush to the others’ bus stop.

And waited in line with the other little old ladies in front of the walk-in salon.

I chopped my hair.

I spent the remainder of the morning scouring sale racks for totally new togs.

I squandered the entire morning, returning to the preschool just in time for their singing debut in front of the senior luncheon.

The teachers, the secretary, my neighbors – all did double takes.

How brave you are, they said.

How different you look, they said.

How great it looks, they exclaimed.

I felt like it was an act of desperation. The only grip on unpredictability I can grasp right now. To leave as one thing and come back as another. To blow off all responsibilities and should-dos for one morning in exchange for a few no-need-fors.

My daughter didn’t flinch.

It looks beautiful, Mommy, she said.

I don’t know if that spells success or failure for my desperate mission.

Technology, Writing

It’s the Most Wonderful Team. . .Member Readership Award

In the spirit of delayed recognition of awards I’m perhaps non-deserving of, I would like to thank Patty Mitchell for nominating me for The Most Wonderful Team Member Readership Award. Whew. What a mouthful!

I think this award follows the WordPress Family Award nicely. Having an on-line community of readers and writers who thoughtfully approach your work and share their ideas, questions, and challenges in a constructive way is tantamount to making this thing worthwhile! Many of the people in ‘mi familia’ would be on this team. There are also bloggers, readers who consistently check in to see what’s been posted on my site, take the time to like a post, or make a comment. I am truly grateful for their time, effort, and thoughtful attention.

Word of the day: thoughtful. I know I use it a lot, but that’s the best way to describe the comments and dialogue these family and team members give to me. It’s not off-the-cuff, by-the-way, putting something down just to do so. I value the give and take that occurs and the time you spend with me.

Thank you so much to all my friends, family, acquaintances who take the time to check in here on a regular basis and support my writing efforts. You truly are the most wonderful . . .

And the nominees are (it just never gets old) . . .

The names above are not necessarily the titles of each respective blog. They are the names I know them by, the ones that pop up when they lay their wisdom on me 😉

I cheated and added a few more nominees than was originally prescribed, but due to the late nature of my entry, does that count like interest on a loan? Also, my wonderful nominees, do not feel obligated to do anything other than enjoy this honor – it is I who am indebted to you.

Uncategorized, Writing

We Are Family

I got all my bloggers with me! Sing it with me!

Sherri Matthews, writer renown of A View from My Summerhouse, has invited me to be part of her WordPress family. Well, she did a few months ago, but as anyone in my flesh and bone family can attest to, Sherri, it often takes me awhile to get around to things. So this makes it official, I suppose!

Sherri included a description of the award from its creator, Shaun:

‘This is an award for everyone who is part of the “WordPress Family” I started this award on the basis that the WordPress family has taken me in, and showed me love and a caring side only WordPress can. The way people take a second to be nice, to answer a question and not make things a competition amazes me here. I know I have been given many awards, but I wanted to leave my own legacy on here by creating my own award, as many have done before. This represents “Family” we never meet, but are there for us as family. It is my honour to start this award.’

From Shaun @ http://prayingforoneday.wordpress.com/

The rules of the award (maybe people actually follow rules in this family 😉 ):

1. Display the award logo on your blog.
2. Link back to the person who nominated you.
3. Nominate 10 others who have positively impacted your WordPress experience.
4. Don’t forget to let your WordPress family members know of your nomination.
5. That’s it! Just pick 10 people that have accepted you as a friend, and spread the love!

And the nominees are . . .

Right back at ya, Sherri. Always a warm word, a thoughtful observation, encouragement. I feel that I’ve gotten to know her through her posts and discussion of mine. Beautiful writing just this side of the raw edge of life. Thank you.
Patty Mitchell – a lovely woman and talented writer I met at an intensive institute in June. She wrote her mother’s memoir, which just reinforces my feeling that she’s all about a life well-lived, tradition, legacy, a good story, and good food.
Free Little Words – Kelly Hibbert has taken a hiatus from blogging – so she can write. And, no, that’s not antithetical. I miss the love she brings to the page and world through the computer screen, but totally get that she needs to focus that on her own little corner of the world for now. Still, her blog archive is more than worth a read.
Infinite Sadness . . . or Hope? – Cate is fabulous. A great wit despite – or perhaps because of – chronic pain and mental health struggles. Totally thought-provoking commentary on life, important issues, spirituality, struggles . . . and thoughtful discussion with me. Thank you!
Sorrygnat – Always a positive, life-affirming voice in the hard face of life. I think we’re traveling the same path at different points in time (though Esther is so much more positive than I!)
Tiny Steps, Big Journey – A gorgeous, raw look at single motherhood. The struggles and simply profound pleasures.
A Canvas of the Mind – Ruby Tuesday – what a gift to the blogging world. She reaches out to all seeking help, info, or support in dealing with mental illness through her posts and guest bloggers, but reach out to her, and she responds in kind.
Sid Dunnebacke – A blogging friend of a friend (of a friend?). I’m not sure what the degrees of separation are, but Sid found his way to Chopping Potatoes and I’m glad. I love his photos and honest appraisal of life through the scope of depression. And I totally appreciate his thoughtful comments on my posts – like his humorous take on my conversational run-in with my 84 year-old grandmother 😉
Ericka Clay – We have a lot in common: mothers of girls, writers, anxiety-ridden people . . . Ericka is a star on the rise. You will not be disappointed with her writing.
My Thoughts on a Page – Tric gives me a modern insight on my Irish ancestors – the traits and quirks and humor that have survived the jump across the pond. Her blog offers beautiful insights into the human condition and our journey through it.

Thank you to all of you for your amazing writing, your perceptive outlooks on life, and your personal and thoughtful conversation in a generally impersonal medium. Bravo.

Now get on your good foot and get down to the staple of all family functions:

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile