Archive for the ‘life’ Tag
January 30 2012
My hands are full. I suppose I could see how this simple statement that spectators like to offer might come across as offensive, but I never saw it as such. To me, it appeared as a way to notice that I was doing the best I could considering, but there’s just not enough of a single me to go around.
The thing is, I do have my hands full. They are spilling over, actually. This mothering gig doesn’t come easily. I’m not the only one.
Because aside from what you see, there is what you can’t. There truly is something to be said about not judging a book by its cover. If all I had to deal with was my daughter and all of her exaggerated 3 year old antics. This really is the hardest age. Except there’s more, as there always is. There’s the worry and stress that come with Jedi’s diabetes. It adds an additional question on top of everything. He’s your typical 8 year old in every other way, however, a barrel of contradiction and steadfast opinions. So even that doesn’t say it all.
There’s more, as there tends to be. Without knowing him, Buzz looks like a typical 5 year old boy. And when he acts out in public, you could assume that I just don’t have a grip on my son. But his autism manifests in many extremes. He is exuberant energy and emotions that range from the highest high to the lowest low with nary an in between. At his best, he is difficult to manage. His attention and focus are limited, tried and true discipline doesn’t work. He lashes out when he doesn’t know what else to do. Which is often. Even with every great quality, of which there are many, he could take up the only two hands I have by himself.
So yes, my hands are full. To those who say it out loud or just think it to yourself as you pass by. I completely agree with you.
January 23 2012
Being that I am a stay-home mom myself, I’m familiar with the dress code. Or lack thereof. Mostly containing such staples as yoga pants or sweats. Old t-shirts. Slippers to flip flops. Hair in a disheveled ponytail. There is some room for preference, but the main loose style remains the same. Comfortable. Like we just woke up, or about to go back to bed. With a glass of wine and a box of chocolate.
I kind of wish that stereotype held true to my real life.
Just like I wouldn’t go out without a bra, the same goes for pants. I don’t feel right leaving my house without pants on. I have an affinity for pants. Pajamas are surely the more comfortable alternative, but I can’t bring myself to wear them in public, no matter how far. Not pajama jeans. Pants, people. It’s where it’s at.
Maybe this is my own personal hangup. I should embrace my role, become one with the uniform. They say everyone else around me is doing it. I’d fit right in. Maybe never changing out of your pajamas is the key to happiness.
There was a woman, new to the scene, waiting at the bus stop with her daughter. While I was in a pair of pants, there she confidently stood in her pink fleece pajamas adorned with monkey faces. And I was jealous. Not only was she was more comfortable in that moment than I, but the convenience was a revelation. I have no idea what her day entails, but I imagined her seamlessly slipping back into bed for a few more hours of gainful, restful sleep.
Never have I been able to go back to bed after sending my boys off to school.
Clearly, I’m going about this gig all wrong. I blame my pants.
January 16 2012
The alarm rings from my son’s iPhone first thing in the morning, before the sun is even awake to shine. I open one eye begrudgingly, enough to reach for it under my pillow and swipe it to snooze. The next 10 minutes I lie there, breathing in the quiet air and restful eyes for as long as I can.
The alarm rings again and I think, I really need a cup of coffee.
Not yet, however, as I now have to fumble through the haphazard process of getting ready while still half asleep and rush our way out the door. Not to forget gloves and scarfs and hats and zipped up coats, no one else bothered by the cold but me. Someone remind me again why I say I like winter, as the fierceness of the cold whips at my face.
And I think to myself as my breath freezes in midair, I really need a cup of coffee.
But first, back home, I need to pick up discarded coats and gloves. There are dishes to wash, beds to make, and the first toys to put away. Then, at long last.
I pour myself a cup of coffee.
With deadpan precision, the phone rings. After I hang up there, I remember I need to make another call. I glance in circles, forgetting where I placed my cup. It doesn’t matter, because my participation in a game of Candy Land has been requested. Then coloring and a search for Mickey Mouse on YouTube.
Finally, I take a drink.
It’s cold.
I sigh and think to myself, I really need a cup of warm coffee.
January 02 2012
So, 2011 sucked.
There’s no sense pussyfooting around it. Last year sucked, excessively. It sucked hard. It was a terribly awful year where every time I turned around another bad thing was happening, to where I just wanted to throw my hands up and surrender at life. Come to think of it, 2010 wasn’t much better. It’s hard to make lemonade when all the juice has already been sucked dry.
Cue the tiny violins.
Because then, there’s perspective. Everyone I love and that matters is still here. It’s not easy, but we’re making it, together. My children are resilient and flourishing. And even though I’ve been knocked down, repeatedly, I’m still standing. Beat up black and blue, but on my feet.
I believe 2012 has to be better.
Dear lord, it has to be.
Which is why I’m making 2012 about finding my happy.
In case I didn’t make it clear yet, last year wasn’t filled with many happy moments. I have not been happy. For a long time, my days have been barely functioning. Something has to change. It’s not a resolution. I don’t expect anything miraculous. I just need to find my direction. To begin taking the right steps, wherever I’m supposed to go, towards a better place of happier. Because essentially, I just want to feel like I can laugh again.
December 15 2011
There are cold germs currently wreaking havoc on my exhausted immune system, forcing my head to feel as if it’s stuck in a mucus-encrusted vice. Pleasant. I have to be honest, it’s been hard not to wallow in my suffering. But then I look around, at the Christmas tree shimmers twinkling against the early December nights and the presents I can’t wait to wrap, and I realize there’s so much to be thankful for.
Even, and maybe especially, when I’m sick.
Such as them. My 3 kids. Brilliant and beautiful each in their own. Completely and totally individual, they’re so different it’s almost astonishing they’re related. But I don’t know where I’d be without the many facets of these diamonds in my life. One with her curly hair, one with his missing teeth, and the other. That other. He surprises me every day.
And this. Here. Home. With them, because it’s not home without them. Where I can be a shivering sick in a comfortable chair that I’ve worn to the shape of me while draped in a blanket most likely smeared with pieces of Pop Tart and crumbs that I keep forgetting to wash. Sitting in front of our glowing white artificial Christmas tree, with a growing collection of sentimental ornaments. With a mess of toys in every direction. It’s not extravagant, but this, here, tells the story of us. My life with them. There’s no place else I’d rather be.
There’s no place like home for the holidays.
This post is sponsored by T-Mobile
