Dancing at My Desk

There are those moments in daily life that make you think “Woah, I’m actually a grown up.” There are the obvious ones like going grocery shopping, balancing your check book, paying bills and tucking your kids into bed. But then there are the not-so-obvious moments too. Here are some of mine:

1. Using a garage door opener.
2. Getting the newspaper delivered to my house
3. Buying picture frames (why this one makes me feel that way, I have no idea since I obviously did it before I “grew up” but it does)
4. Mailing birthday cards… on time.
5. Cleaning the dryer lint

What are some random things that make you feel all grown up?

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Mourning, grieving, dealing with loss… it’s all the same thing.

And, quite frankly, it sucks.

Getting ready to celebrate a new life and then in one day, everything changes. You find out there is no heartbeat. That the baby is gone. That you will not be buying little clothes or reassembling a crib. That you will have to make dozens of phone calls to tell everyone the bad news.

That you will be leaving the hospital without a baby in your arms.

For the fourth time.

I’ve never been particularly “good” at mourning. I go through all the stages:

1. Shock and Denial (this can’t be happening to us… again).

2. Pain and Guilt (I thought I did everything right, why us?)

3. Anger and Bargaining (Please, let them be wrong. Please let them be wrong.)

4. Depression (Inevitably, this hits me HARD)

5. The Upward Turn (Maybe, just maybe we’ll get through this)

6. Reconstruction and working through (Ok, what’s next? What can I deal with now?)

7. Acceptance and Hope (We’re going to be ok. We are ok.)

I go through them almost like going through checkpoints on a map. I can genuinely “feel” when I’m going through another stage.

Except this time was different. Because the very next day, I had to start through them again.

My beloved grandfather passed away the day after we got the news. He walked into heaven with my baby in his arms.

It forced me to be with family. It was something I needed although I’ll admit it wasn’t something I really wanted. It forced me to help others, to get out of my own head.

It forced me to deal with it all. At once.

And I’m ok. At least I’m getting there. There is another piece of my heart missing. Four little pieces of what could have been that are somewhere else.

And I take comfort in the little things.

My two healthy children’s laughter.

My husband’s strong hugs.

My work to keep pushing me forward.

A good book I can’t put down.

A good cup of coffee with friends.

And the happiness to know that one day, I will have answers. That one day, I’ll hold those four little ones and understand.

I know without a doubt that the baby was a girl. I knew it from the moment we found out. And we have named her Kerry. Because I don’t like to call my children “it.” Because they deserve to be named. Because I need it for closure. For acceptance.

For the memory of what could have been.

We are moving on. Slowly but surely, we are moving on.

And I’m aware of… well… everything. Hypersensitive to the world around me. To the signs of new life everywhere.

And I don’t want to miss it.

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I don’t just mean in terms of blogging (because that’s such an old topic for me to blog about and quite frankly I’m tired of pointing out the obvious fact that I don’t blog as much as I want to). I mean in general.

I’m not entirely certain why. It’s just kind of been a fact of life for me lately. I’ve been spending a lot of time just sitting. And thinking. And wondering. And thinking some more.

But I’m not sure what has grabbed my attention the past few weeks.

Do you ever times like that? Times when silence just seems so much more preferable than noise? When a quiet night on the couch is better than running out to yet another commitment? I don’t know. It’s probably just a time for me to reflect.

But, just like the last few times I’ve been through this, it feels like something more is coming.

Something bigger. Something deeper. Something…. more.

But I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I’ve been thinking about my family, my career, my passions in life. I’ve been reflecting on my goals and how I can never seem to get them all done. But I’ve also thought about how far I’ve come in life. How much I have done in the past few years. And how much more I’m capable of doing in the next few years to come.

It’s just one of those times I guess and writing has always been my companion through each and every one. So here I am with my laptop, trying to make sense of the noise in my head as I eliminate some of the unnecessary noise in everyday life. As I sift through my obligations and decide which ones I need and which ones I don’t.

And above all, just trying to make sense of it all.

But the good news is, it doesn’t have to make sense. Not right now. I just have to be open to whatever opportunities come my way and have the ability to decipher between what I need and what I don’t. What’s best for my family and what isn’t.

And to figure out what I want.

So what do I want? In the past couple weeks I’ve at least figured out these two things:

1. I want to stop procrastinating on those personal things that mean a lot to me (Thank you Crystal for sending me the link to this amazing post by the Bloggess and putting things in perspective).

2. I want to live each day to the fullest, even if it doesn’t always go according to plan.

So, at least I’ve identified those two things. Because if nothing else, it’s a start. And you can’t do anything or go anywhere if you don’t at least start.

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I have been glued to the Olympics pretty much every waking moment that it has been acceptable and appropriate to be so (for the most part anyway) and I’ve been in heaven. I love the Olympics. The competition, the back stories, the sheer love of sport… it gets me every time.

But there’s something else that I love the Olympics although it doesn’t get nearly as much hype as say, the Super Bowl.

The Commercials.

There’s always a few in the mix that get me. This year’s winner (and it will be hard to top it, so I’m calling it out now) is P&G. I like the whole “Sponsor of Moms” concept but I LOVE the “They’ll Always be Kids” spot. It makes me cry.

Every time.

Congratulations, P&G, you have turned me into my mother. I’m crying at commercials.

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It’s been over 48 hours since I returned from the glorious haven of the Opryland Resort in Nashville and the Blissdom 2010 Conference and I’m still readjusting to “normal.”

But I’m not normal. Something has changed. Something is different.

I can’t put my finger on it. But it’s there.

And it doesn’t seem to be going away.

I’ve read several posts over the past few days about  revolutions and resolve and refocusing. Yes, all those things are happening here too. But there’s something else.

I’ve heard of new friendships formed, new blogs to read and new things to try. Again, yes to all three. And yet…

It’s more than empowerment. It’s more than permission. It’s more than an awakening.

And, there it is.

It’s Freedom.

Freedom to write in my own voice. Freedom to tell you the stories even if you don’t care. Freedom to share and hold back and share some more.

And that freedom was granted to me by 500 blogging women who shared their struggles over lunch, in elevators and while dropping our kids off in the childcare. It was shared over ice cream with a dear friend who just seems to get me. 500 women all “got” me this past weekend.

And I’m so grateful.

I don’t need to write about the sessions; the ones I attended are here in black and white for you to read.

I don’t need to be the top blogger, the wittiest blogger, the funniest blogger.

But I do need to be me.

And I do need to remember the freedom I just got.

So feel free to remind me. When I start sounding fake. When I start repeating myself. When I stop blogging regularly.

Remind me how good I feel right now. Remind me how this freedom hit me like a ton of bricks. Remind me that writing has always fueled me in the tough times for as long as I can remember. Remind me how much I love words and how it’s practically torturous not to share them, even with the void.

Remind me. And I promise to thank you for it.

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Just a little over two years ago, my husband and I bought our first home. We had been renting from a family member ever since we moved back to NE Ohio from New York and we were searching for a home that was a good compromise between what we really wanted and what we could live with.

Mind you, we aren’t really all that picky. We had some basic criteria in all the houses that we looked at:

• At least three bedrooms
• A nice size of property (at least an acre)
• A house that was in move-in condition

Other than that, we were pretty flexible. Seriously. And I honestly thought that I would really enjoy house hunting.

Not so much.

It seemed like every time we found a house through our diligent searching, it was either a great house on an odd piece of property or amazing property with a house that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It was horribly frustrating. There was the house that was running fans in the basement to try and hide the mildew smell from the horrible leaks. There was the house that had (literally) a high school football stadium in the backyard. There was one house I couldn’t even walk through because I had the creeps the whole time. I fondly think of that place as the Boo Radley house of NE Ohio.

The worst part was when we found a house that was great (on paper). I was unbelievably excited to see the house and I genuinely thought it was “the one” for us. When we went to see it, the house had been trashed by the previous owners (it was bank owned). I walked through the entire house (that reeked) and said I hadn’t seen a kitchen. When my husband kindly pointed out that I was standing it, I was stunned. They (or someone) had ripped out everything. Plumbing, cabinets, appliances – it was a bare room. That smelled rancid.

I was heartbroken and was really ready to throw it all in and resign myself to a life of renting. Then we came across the house that we ended up buying. It was perfect in so many ways. Yes, it needed some updates but I was looking forward to the work. I wanted to paint every room (9 total), redo some of the floor plan, put in new windows, and in essence, make the home our own.

It’s been two years and we’ve painted two rooms. That’s right; two. And we did get several new windows. Hey, we’ve been busy. But now I’m getting the urge to make this house our own. I’m starting to buy little things for the house and plan color schemes (more on that nonsense later). And all of this planning and dreaming has told me one very crucial piece of truth for my life.

I am not an interior designer.

So, this is going to be an adventure to say the least. But, at least I’m not house hunting.

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Today, my husband and mom each took one of the kids and headed out for some shopping which left me home alone.

Home alone. All by myself. I couldn’t believe it either.

So I decided that I was going to clean up my poorly neglected house and get things in order. I would give myself two uninterrupted hours of hard cleaning and then call it a day. I was going along without a hitch and decided I’d finish by vacuuming real quick. Then I’d reward myself with a cup of coffee, college football and some blogging. Oh, and carrot cake. Which of course was the biggest motivation I had.

I’m doing my normal routine: dining room, living room, home office, hallways, kids’ rooms then my room. It was as I was heading into the final room, something hit me like a ton of bricks.

I’m adjusting my vacuum routine to pacify my cats. OMG indeed.

Here is what I realized: I start with the big room because I know that my cats instantly run under my bed because they are terrified of the vacuum. So much so that if I even just open the closet door that I keep the vacuum in they disappear. Even if I’m just getting a coat out.

So anyway, they run in there and hide under my bed. They know that as soon as I head into the kids rooms, they can dart out and run into my home office because I’ve already done that room and my room is next (and Lord knows they don’t want to be in there when I go in there).

So what, right? You always vacuum that way, so they know your routine.

Not so much.

I created this routine for them. I realized how neurotic this chore makes them, so I introduced this routine to them and since it worked, I kept doing it. But I didn’t consciously do this, it just sort of happened. But now I realize what the motivation is. Until today.

I’ve become a cat lady. How did this happen?

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I’ve been so fortunate to be able to attend Blogher 2009 today in Chicago. I’m sitting in my hotel room now with millions of thoughts whirring through my brain and it’s tough to keep up. This is a familiar place for me. It always happens when I meet other people (women in particular) who love blogging as much as I do. It’s a place where I’m most likely to come up with great ideas and actually carry those ideas to fruition.

Perhaps you know the place that I’m talking about. It’s an intersection called Inspiration and Motivation. I’m so there.

The toughest part about being at this place? Deciding what to do first. I’m a list person. And I have enough material pumping through me that I could fill up an entire notebook of ideas, task lists, items to tackle, people to reach out to and general ideas that I need to build out a bit more.

Some people hate this place. It’s too overwhelming. And I’ll be the first to admit that after I went downstairs and signed in for the conference, I came back up to my room and had to CONVINCE myself to go back down. So many bloggers and so little confidence meant I was a bit hesitant. But I can’t tell you how awesome it is when someone asks about your blog and when you tell them what it is they exclaim “I loved your post about (fill in the blank).” Wow. There’s not many other words for it.

So it’s time to get off my duff and get busy. And if you’ll excuse me, I have some lists and action plans to create.

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Ever feel like you’re in an Abbott and Costello routine? I do. All the time. Because my daughter loves to ask tough questions that run me in circles.

Here is a perfect example:

Her: Mom, what does what mean?

Me (not having heard her clearly): What?

Her: Yes.

Me: Huh? What does what mean?

Her: Yes.

Me: Honey, what word did you say?

Her: What.

Me: What word did you say?

Her: What.

Me: Honey, I don’t understand. What does what mean?

Her: Yes (getting frustrated).

Me: Repeat your question

Her: What question?

Me: The question about the word.

Her: What?

Me: What word do you want me to tell you about?

Her: What.

Me: What word do you want me to tell you about?

** A full 10 minutes later.**

Me: You want me to tell you what the word “what” means?

Her: Yes.

Me: I have no idea. (Turning to husband) Can you define that?

Him: What?

Her: Yes.

And the whole thing repeats itself because I personally think it’s hilarious and I refuse to step in and clarify. Because I’m diabolical like that. So I decide to educate my daughter.

Me: This feels like an Abbott and Costello routine.

Her: What?

Me: Exactly.

Her: What?

Me: Trust me kiddo. I’m going to blog about this and when you have kids of your own, you’ll read this and think it’s hilarious.

Her: What?

Me: Exactly.

She gives up and walks away shaking her head. She’s officially convinced her mother is crazy.

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My 5 year old daughter LOVES soccer. Seriously. She adores it. She didn’t always love it. In fact, last year her team had four games. And she played in one. The last one. All the other games she spent on the bench crying and saying she didn’t want to play. But the last game, she jumped right in and figured that since it didn’t kill her, she’d try it again sometime. Now she’s playing on a new team and can’t wait to get to the field and play. Just the sight of her shin guards sends her into a frantic flurry of exclamations. Plus they’re pink. So that’s a bonus.

Then there’s my son. He’s 3 and he’s a sports nut. He will stay up late (when we let him) to watch an Indians game with his dad or a football game with me. If he gets to chatting with a checkout clerk at the grocery he launches into the long list of sports that he is going to play. “Football, baseball, hockey, basketball, golf and soccer.” Soccer always makes the cut.

So I took it upon myself to sign him up for TOT soccer through a local amateur league here. As we were driving to his first game last week, my husband said to me, “You know he’s going to be one of those kids who runs off the field screaming and crying, right?” I chuckled and desperately hoped it wasn’t true.

In truth, I assumed he would be just like his sister. He would participate in the first 30 minute practice session (where all the kids line up and the coach tells them what to do and the parents walk right next to their kid(s) helping them every step of the way). Then, he would cry during the game and sit on the bench. But, just like his sister, he would get into it the swing of things by the last game and enjoy it immensely.

Well, I’m happy to say that he wasn’t one of the kids who ran off the field screaming and crying. He just never went ON the field because he was screaming and crying. He literally sat in my lap the whole hour and did his best to watch ignore the other kids playing. I heard myself say “We’ll try again next week Buddy,” but I knew deep down he wouldn’t dig it.

Boy was I right. This morning, he cried when I put his shin guards on him. I had a deep sense of foreboding right then and there. As soon as we got out of the car, he dashed into the grass and asked for his soccer ball. I felt hope. I know better.

We watched his sister’s game first (she scored her first goals of the season – way to go V!) and then we headed to his field. The dialogue went something like this:

Me: You ready to play soccer?

I: No.

Me: Why not?

I: I need to take a rest.

Me: You need to take a nap?

I: No. I need to take a rest at the table.

Me: What table?

I: Over there (pointing to the concession stand. Of course).

Me: You can get a snack after the game Pal.

I: I need a donut.

Me: After the game. I want to see you play.

I: I don’t want to play.

Me: Why not?

I: I’m scared.

Me: (Suddenly becoming concerned) What are you scared of?

I: Soccer.

Me: Why are you scared of soccer?

I: I need a donut.

Me: (Sighs)

At one point, my son started to dig into my husband’s pocket asking for money (figures). My husband literally tried to bribe my son with cold hard cash (a penny and nickel no less) to play soccer. I said “You trying to pay him to play? Good luck with that.”

The boy refused. Long story short, we went home. I won’t be one of those parents who scream “GET ON THE FIELD. YOU’LL HAVE FUN!!!” (Mainly because I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work with my kids.) I’ve also considered the whole “You’re-teaching-your-kid-how-to-quit” fiasco. But it’s not like he BEGGED me to play soccer and now he wants to quit. I’m the one who signed him up. He’s 3. He’ll be fine. I have kissed my $20 goodbye on this one and next week I’m not even going to dress him for a game. (I will however, have his guards and shirt in my backpack. You know, just in case.)

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