Live in the Gray

Isn't life fickle? I am constantly feeling the pull of the beauty and tragedy of life, as you have seen many recent posts reflect. I guess my obsession with exploring this idea is that it is so underrepresented in conversation, media, and even in the way we construct who we are. We like to think that people are good or they are bad; ugly or pretty; nice or mean; happy or sad. Isn't it really all of these? You're nice and you're mean -and you know it. I'm looking pretty good right now (both physically and emotionally) but talk to me on Thursday night and I was feeling ugly (yes, both physically and emotionally). I find these beautiful moments in every day peppered in with very difficult times. I find myself feeling ever so sorry for myself because I don't have enough money to buy myself two sweaters. (Because...waaaahhhh....I really wanted it and it looked really cute on me). I literally walk to my car in the shopping center parking lot with a bag full of goodies and feel depressed that I couldn't buy more. I sit with that emotion for a moment and allow myself to feel it. Quickly I become wrought with guilt over my lack of gratitude for what I have. I take the time to notice the pretty fabric I have tied to the top of my homemade apple butter. I pause with thankfulness for the fact that I can not afford to buy everyone presents this year. I reflect on how this has forced me to use my creativity to make presents; I breathe in fresh lemon curd. And while I try to keep this emotion, I walk past my pantry. I do not stop to think how thankful I am to have a full pantry, I complain that I'll never have a big house, that I don't have enough space, and that I'll die trapped in this mortgage on my depreciated condo.

Reflecting on the need for gratitude doesn't make it happen. It's a long process, I know. I need to remember that. There is much life to live and really, I have nothing but time. I give myself permission to feel; to feel sad one moment, and still laugh. To feel depleted, disappointed, and hurt, and still enjoy the smell of beets cooking in my kitchen. It's not just one emotion, ever. There is no black and white. It's okay to live in the gray. I'll stay here a while.

I've Been Up all Night...

There wasn't an hour that went by last night that I did not see. That is to say, I was awake when my clock said 11, then 12, and 1, and 2, and yepper-doodle even 3, 4, and 5. By 5:43 I just gave up. My tiny little screaming barnacle (Georgia, that is) had an absolutely TERRIBLE night and by proxy, so did I. She nursed on and off constantly, as soon as I dozed off to sleep she let out a scream. Teething? Bad cold? Visions of sugar-plums dancing in her head? My arms and hands were constantly asleep due to the contorted positions I had gotten myself into, just to make her comfortable. I know intellectually something must be wrong for her to be so restless.

I visualized her wearing a little sign that said "I'm hurting" (a toddler-trick a friend taught me) and it worked for a while. I used my patience (just as I always tell her to do). But soon, her little "I'm hurting sign" began to read "I hate you mama - wake the hell up! You'll never sleep again, accept it!!!!" Surely you are aware that sleep deprivation is a form of torture that has been highly contested even for terrorism suspects. But I am not a terrorist, I'm just a teacher. Can't someone give me a break already and let me freaking sleep? (Perhaps I should involve Home-land Security, does anyone have Janet Napolitano's phone number?)

So, after this wretched sleepless night, I sent Georgia off with Don, filled with rage, frustration, and true true exhaustion. I lay in bed for 15 minutes trying to sleep but it was useless, I had worked my self into a tizzy. I walked into the living-room to get my laptop, dragging my feet with a scowl on my face. Don said "Whatcha doing?" and I snarkily responding "I'm looking for my freaking laptop." He asked "Why not sleep some more?" This really enraged me, "I CAN'T sleep, I'm too frazzled from NOT sleeping the ENTIRE night!!!!" I looked for my laptop getting more and more angry about how he had slept the whole night and how I never do! He quickly retreated into his tortoise shell knowing that I might physically attack soon.

As I turned to walk out of the room, a tiny voice said "Hi mommy" and all was forgiven.

Tiger Whaaah?

So, who cares about celebrities right? Well obviously most of us do or we wouldn't listen over and over again to the ridiculous stories that somehow are classified as "NEWS." Our beloved Tiger Woods (or Tigre Madera, as we call him around the house) has been embroiled in much controversy since his 2am crash near his home. I know you are all wondering about what I think about the incident so, I thought I would weigh-in.

What's so strange about the accident that makes us think something is going on? Last night Don, my loving husband went out for some, um....icecream, at 2am. I was at the top of our long driveway, that leads away from our mansion and I heard a loud crash in OUR driveway. I did what any swedish super-model would do and I grabbed a golf club and went running down our driveway fully clothed (I don't sleep and I don't wear pajamas). When I arrived at the bottom of our LONG driveway I saw that Don had crashed into a tree, so I did the normal thing and smashed the holy crap out of the back window of the car and scratched his face up like an angry cat whose food is being stolen by a rogue squirell. NO, the air-bags did NOT deploy. So what? I RESCUED him and you are questioning me? This kind of stuff happens all the time. It's completely normal. Look away! Look away!!!!

Today I'll eat the pretzels instead!

Right now I am supposed to be grading papers. That was the plan. Isn’t it funny how the best plans often go awry? I think of all the plans we make. The way our life is “supposed to be.” Does it ever really work out as we plan? I guess it must occasionally or we would learn sooner to stop relying on our own expectations. Today I am struck by the beauty and pain of this lifetime. I am ripped open by a friend who is slowing dying at the hands of ALS. I am struck by the brevity of life and how much time I spend complaining about the privileged life I lead. I am haunted by the memories of a friend whose life was cut drastically short and her tiny daughter left behind with only the memories and trauma of her mother’s murder. And I am warmed by the smell of peppermint and the Christmas music playing in the background of my mind. I am floored by how much the laugh of my daughter makes life worth living and how the simple “task” of giving her a bath reminds me of why I wake up each day. Did God give me Georgia because he knew how hard this year would be? Sometimes I think that this is a year I would not have made it through if I didn’t have the daily reminder of why life is in fact so freaking beautiful. And in that spruce-scented beauty there is desperate, life-changing pain. So painful in fact that you just can’t bear to think about it. You can’t let your mind process it all, so you turn on “Dog the Bounty Hunter” and pretend it’s not happening. Maybe it is wrong to avoid reality like that, but maybe it’s just a way to survive. Today I am struck by the pain. Today it is too much for me. So, today I have a good cry, pretend it’s not happening and eat a bag of yogurt pretzels instead.

A Cobbler Journey

This morning we woke up bright and early after a restless, sleepless night for me and a peaceful night of slumber for Georgia. (I know, a rarity). We decided to hop on the bike and make a surprise sunrise ride over to Granny’s house. I threw six peaches in my backpack along with a stick of butter, hoping to make a peach cobbler over at Granny’s house. When we arrived at Granny’s I got right to work on the peach cobbler armed with a fattening “Paula Dean” recipe I got from Food Network. As I sliced peaches I glanced around at the kitchen I grew up eating and cooking in. It’s newer now, with a fancy stove, and shiny new oven, but in so many ways, it’s the very same kitchen I have known all these years. I looked for flour in the same yellow Tupperware container that my mom has had since the 70’s. I opened the lid and remembered the multiple times I had spilled the entire container on the floor or opened it to realize after I had cracked three eggs that we were, in fact, out of flour. I remembered running next door to borrow a cup of sugar or an egg from a friendly neighbor so I could rush to get my recipe ready by the time my mom got home from work. I remembered my first cookbook, with its red-checked cover and tattered pages. I remembered my first masterpiece, Frosted Meatloaf. A traditional meatloaf in many ways, but “frosted” with mashed potatoes, and sprinkled with cheese on top. I was BEAMING with pride when I served this gourmet feast to my family around the age of 9. I remember feeling outraged that my family didn’t spend their entire time at the dinner table telling me how amazing I was for cooking dinner and how incredible it tasted. I had an overwhelming appreciation for the fact that my mom did this every night. All these years she had slaved away so my hungry little mouth could eat. Had I ever even said “thank you?” How ungrateful I had been for all these years. (Quite a realization for a 9 year old.)

Standing in my mother’s kitchen today I thought of my daughter. I thought of how she would grow with all the happy memories and painful trials that we all have. I thought about her first “masterpiece” in the kitchen and how I would rave about it when she put it on the dinner table. I thought about how Georgia will have so many happy times with her “granny,” as she grows, many memories that I don’t share with my own grandmother due to the distance between us as I was growing up. I thought about how much Georgia has grown already; she’s becoming a little girl. I felt proud. I felt like a mother.

Research shows, I'm a freaking great MOM!

Like all too many moms I spend a great deal of my day worrying about all I have done wrong for my child. Obsessing on what I should have done, what I did wrong, and all I didn’t get accomplished during the last 24 hours. The guilt of motherhood is not simply a featured article in Parent’s magazine; it is a reality for millions of moms, including myself. So, in order to bring myself out of the depths of the lovely pity party I was throwing for myself this morning (with streamers and everything), after another sleepless, restless night, I chose to look at my morning with a critical deconstructionists eye. After all, I am a researcher at heart. I should be able to examine motherhood the same way I examine a scholarly article, right?

It was after this process, and through some prayer, that I came up with a thought (the title of this entry) – Research shows, I’m a great freaking MOM!

Before 10am this morning, the following occurred. I grilled salmon for lunch, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers that, hello, I grew in the garden. Made a salad to take to church potluck, as to not partake in Grandma’s homemade macaroni, cheese, and heart-attack pie. Made vegetable spring rolls with quinoa for the same reason and even went online to calculate the exact Weight Watchers points, so I can eventually embrace the true thin person I was meant to be, nursed Georgia three times, had coffee with my Mom at Starbucks, made 2 dozen chocolate-chip walnut cookies (and hardly sampled ANY of the batter), sang “Happy Happy Birthday” fifteen times (Georgia’s current favorite song), did the “Dragon Tales” dance repeatedly while I did dishes, completed a load of laundry, knelt down and spoke gently as Georgia screamed in frustration “We don’t yell, we use are words, what do you need?” I then beamed with pride as she said “help me.” I took time to dress Georgia and myself (imagine), and even poured myself a glass of water with mint, lime, and cucumber (yep, from the Garden.) As far as I am concerned, I, and millions of other moms like me are heroic. Hey, that’s the way the evidence points! (Now, remind me to re-read this tomorrow!)

STAYCATION

Today was the day for another funeral. Two, in a period of three weeks. It's not the way we planned to spend our summer and certainly not our idea of a nice day together. So, after all the sadness of saying goodbye to one of Don's high-school friend's who died suddenly of a heart-attack leaving behind three children, one who is just 10 months old, we need some healing time as a family. We decided to be tourists for the day, in the very place we live. We took the ferry to San Francisco and took the streetcar to Pier 39. We walked with the other tourists and we looked at shirts that said "I LOVE SF" and we remarked "You know, I do love SF!" We ate touristy food and took touristy pictures and we laughed. We stood and watched the sea lions which we explained to Georgia were a bit like, um, well, "Water Dogs"...I guess. We threatened to buy postcards and mail them to our friends. I payed $2 for a peach! It was wonderful. We found our smiles again and we remembered the deep blessings we have, because we have one another.  

We ended the day eating good food with Don's parents and nibbling on apple pie that I made from apples we picked at Granny's house. I love feeling this domestic. The pie was so buttery and delicious and I let the flavors samba on my tongue. A beautiful way to end our day of tourism, eating with a lovely local family.

As I write this, the world's best husband is in our small and perfect living room putting Georgia to sleep. I hear her singing her 16 month-old song. I hear her fighting sleep, when it's all that I want. We pray for a restful night, that she will sleep until morning. But, if she wakes up once, or twice, or even ten times, we are blessed because she is ours; she is safe; and she trusts us. We treasure today because it's all we have.

One reason I love my husband

A quick entry tonight regarding my deep and undying love for my "baby daddy."

It's the end of a very long day for both of us. Don recently found out that a classmate of his had a heart attack in Maui and died. He leaves behind two young daughters. The combination of Danielle's murder, numerous family issues, and this most recent death has made us both feel quite fully depressed. Despite his low mood and intensive day at work he comes home ready to be an amazing dad to Georgia. I could go on and on about how he smiles at her, how deeply she loves him, and what a truly amazing dad he is. But tonight's entry is a focus on his husband-a-tude (if I might invent that word). 

Tonight as Georgia plays with her puzzle on the floor, Don stages a film we are going to make. As he lays out the plot-line, characters, and scenes...I remember why I fell so deeply in love with him these years ago. An excerpt of his artistic work:

The Scene:

He will be caught in bed with Mrs. Butterworth (his one true love). She will giggle her classic giggle and I will run in from the other room. "Who's in here?" I'll shout. "No one" he'll swear, with syrup dripping from his face and chin. I'll slap him across the face "you'll pay" I will declare. Two days later he will catch me on a date with the Pilsbury Dough Boy.  (and....scene). 

At this point we are laughing too hard to continue the film.

And have you heard his song about potatoes? He brilliantly rhymes "au gratin" and "tater-tottin'" - I love this man!

The Poetry in the Vomit

Okay, a sketchy title, I know, but let me explain. Sometime in February I planned a trip to Maui for the whole family. I mean the WHOLE family, including Grandma and Auntie Mango. Although I wanted to stay at the Four Seasons or the Fairmont (and spent weeks browsing different suites and packages) I knew that financially a condo was more likely to be our final destination. With each passing month Maui was closer and closer, I could taste the mango and smell the perfumed air under the Banyan Tree. I did not know that 5 days before our plane took off my friend would be brutally murdered. The days that lead up to our "Vacation" were some of the most chaotic and painful days of my life. I don't know that I have ever been so tired in my life ( and this is coming from someone who daughter woke up every two hours for the first year of her life).  I boarded a plane just 10 hours after Danielle's funeral.

I wavered back and forth between depression, excitement, anger, and exhaustion. By the time we arrived in Lahaina was stuck on depressed. I spent several days crying, trying to enjoy myself, but feeling like there was really nothing worth smiling about. So....here's where the poetry in vomit comes in.

We sat down for dinner at the Lahaina Fish Company, a far cry from the quaint table at Spago that I had shared with my husband on our first trip to Maui, where we relaxed in the lap of luxury at the Four Seasons. I felt sorry for myself as I sat there eating my fish and chips, remembering the organic coffee "flight" I had ordered at Spago. I sat next to Georgia as she screamed and squirmed and shoved her mouth full of too much food.  Suddenly, after shoving that last bit of bread in her mouth, she threw up on me. All over my shoes. I quickly cleaned it up, kissed her on the head, and went into the bathroom to cry. I cried and cried - and then I cried some more. I cried for Danielle, for the life I used to have, for Samantha, wherever she was, and for all the pain that lives quietly under the surface in the lives of so many. And as I cried, my tears turned to joy. I had a transformation. I reveled in the vomit on my shoes. I rolled in the blessing of my life. My family at my side. My gorgeous, hysterical, brilliant Georgia. I sunk into the beauty of my new life, as different as it seems, as wonderful as it is. 

There is indeed pain in the world. But is a pepper in a delicious meal that is being served everywhere. Occasionally the meal is just too spicy, so I set it aside. That's okay too. 

I will return to the Four Seasons, mark my words. But in actuality, I would rather stay in a Motel 6* with my amazing daughter and husband, than be alone at Spago. 

(Okay, not a Motel 6, let's not be hasty, but a Sheraton maybe...)

So, I guess I have a blog now...

I've considered it for months and now the time has come - I have officially created a blog. With so much on my mind and heart in the last few months, there just had to be a way for me to get it all out. Writing in a journal is so 1990's (don't tell my husband that). Having a blog seems like the thing to do for Kombucha drinking mama's like myself. Blog entries may be short or long, they may be sad, they may be hysterical; it's hard to say what this will shape up to be. I do know, that Georgia (my 16 month-old) is currently in the living-room doing everything she can to NOT let Don put her to sleep. I may have to intervene at any moment, so I better get to it.

Two weeks ago my friend Danielle was murdered. She was beat to death in her own yard less than a mile from our house. Her daughter Sam and my little Georgia were playmates and after not seeing each other for 10 years, Danielle and I had just reconnected and formed a friendship. Don woke me up on Monday morning...early. He had a look in his eyes but I wasn't awake enough to know there was something wrong. He basically just said it. "Danielle has been killed." I tried to wake up, "Keller?" "Yes," he replied. My mind instantly went to car accident, she must have been killed in a car accident. As the fog of sleep lifted and before I could ask for details, I screamed..."Did he kill her?" I knew the answer. "Yes."

The chaos that ensued after that news has been nothing short of heart-breaking. I stare into Georgia's eyes and wonder who Samantha is with at this very moment. I pray that God guides the hands of justice and steadies my heart. I don't have enough time or energy to document everything I am doing and feeling when it comes to Danielle and Samantha; but I am hurting. I think that's all for now.