Deceleration

I never cease to be amazed by the things I learn from my children. My kids have been, undoubtedly, some of my greatest Life Teachers. Little Squirt, right now, is instructing me in the joyful art of In-The-Moment-Living.

I am trying to slow down after a crazy-busy month, although I still have a few affairs to attend to. (“Affairs” meaning “projects.” I am not a Desperate Housewife.) I don’t think I’ve encountered an October in my lifetime that has been quite so active! I’ve had to add some responsibilities onto my plate that I hadn’t seen coming and don’t feel excited about. But mostly, it’s been positive stuff; things I enjoy tremendously when taken in healthy doses. I’ve had Starbucks dates and evening glasses of wine with girlfriends, fun projects with my beloved Drama Team, a delightful weekend visiting with Super Hubs’ visiting family. I’ve been to church meetings and school meetings and prayer meetings. It has, for the most part, been good and filling and rich.

But too much of a good thing is overkill. Like when I gorge on jelly-bellies. A handful is tasty. A couple of handfuls, still delectable. But shoveling them into my mouth at mock speed is just plain greedy and deserving of a fuzzy-mouthed, stomach-bloating Sugar Hangover. And that’s how I am feeling this week. I have an Activity Overload Hangover that has made me cranky and exhausted and resentful, and finding it necessary to feed my children cereal for dinner. I’ve been going joylessly through the motions of life, in a flurry of busyness, trying to just get through one more day. I haven't actually delighted in much of anything. This is not a pace that is healthy for me, but I really haven’t had much choice. Oh, Dear God, please let November bring me more margin! (“Bwa-ha-ha!” I hear God laughing maniacally at my naiveté.)

But Little Squirt, God bless his laid-back little 6-year-old heart, has been forcing me to practice In-The-Moment-Living. He relishes and celebrates the ordinary with such abandon! He lives in the present and enjoys the flavor of each and every jelly-belly, savoring them individually on his tongue. He has two paces of life: Slow and Stop-And-Smell-The-Roses.

While I see snow flurries as a depressing premonition of a brutal winter to come, Little Squirt dances in them, tongue stretched to Heaven. “I caught one!” Where I see a yard full of leaves as yet another chore to add to my overflowing plate, he sees an opportunity to make a pile for crunching and rolling and experiencing joy. He insisted I walk with him in his school’s Halloween parade, the only non-volunteer mother to do so. “Isn’t this SO FUN, Mommy??” he exclaimed.

The other day, my heart was filled with angst over so many burdens and so much water-treading. Little Squirt was sitting at the kitchen table in no particular hurry, coloring a picture, and singing a song at the top of his lungs. He was thoroughly enjoying the moment. I had the unmistakable impression that the voice of God was saying to me, “Be still, and learn from your child. Stop, and relish. Each moment is a gift.”

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

I feel the need for a poem today; for beautiful words to fill my soul. And so I defer to one who can weave words together so much more eloquently than I……

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
(Emily Dickinson)

"A Complicated Woman" Anniversary

Last year week was the one-year anniversary of my blog. I intended to write a post on exactly that very day, but things got crazy around my household and so it never happened. Sadly, the blog is the first to go when my day is overwhelmed with busyness. And writing keeps my soul healthy. It’s a conundrum. I need to write yet I have no time to write. Go figure.

On that note- in reviewing the past year of "A Complicated Woman," I’ve noticed that my postings have dwindled dramatically. Abysmally dramatically. One reason for this is because, candidly, it is an excruciatingly painful season for me for some very personal reasons. So my Fun-O-Meter is reading in the negatories. There are days when I consider blogging authentically from my heart, but, my goodness, I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer and send you running for Prozac afterwards. I’d rather make you laugh and bring you joy. Life is difficult enough right now with the bad economy and all, and I don’t want to contribute to anyone’s melancholy mood. Or have you worry that I am going to become a tragic Sylvia Plath-like figure. Which I am not. I have hope within me.

Another reason for my recent low volume of postings is that I broke my right ring finger when I caught it on a bread basket at the market. The splint is too large and cumbersome to wear comfortably, so I’ve been not wearing it, and trying to hold it straight on my own. But I often forget and bend the finger, and it is quite painful…..blahblahblah…too much information…..to summarize my long-windedness: It’s been difficult to type.

Now on to The Gratitude Portion of this post. Thank you. Thank you for reading my blog over the past year! You have been extremely encouraging and gracious, and I am beyond humbled that you stop by. (Especially to the Train James’ Boys. You know who you are.) It took me two years to work up the courage to start a blog. It felt so self-promoting. And one of my pet peeves is the Shameless Self-Promoter. She ranks right up there in my book with the Entitled Narcissist. The self-absorbed among us really irk me for reasons that I don't know but should discuss with my therapist. And having a blog felt like I might be perceived that way. But I decided that it would be good accountability for me to discipline myself to write on a regular basis. So I began to blog for my own pleasure, and therapy, and desire to chronicle the lives of my family. So I hope, in some small way, I have succeeded in entertaining you…..or making you think or learn more about yourselves through some of my processing. Or point you to God. Or, at the very least, feel better about your day when you read about my son peeing on the dog.

So Happy One Year Anniversary to us. I look forward to continuing my posts over the next year. And I put my stories in the hands of the Master Story-Creator. Who knows what He will weave together?

His Goodness is Beyond

I know that my God is good all the time. But sometimes His goodness jumps out at me and grabs my soul and causes me to pause and notice and celebrate. Just like the faithful maple tree that guards my home. I pass it by several times a day, barely giving it a second thought. But this week it has turned a vibrant red, and I find myself slowing to look and drink in its brilliant color. God has felt “vibrantly red” to me, this week, like the maple. His goodness has been remarkable and outstanding and entirely intimate. And oh how I have needed that!

I had heard, last weekend, of a news story about a little 6-year-old boy named Cole who had been abducted at gunpoint and taken from his home. There was apparently a link between a drug gang and the boy’s grandfather. The details didn’t matter to me. All I focused on was the fact that a little boy, the very age of my own little boy, was taken from his home by some violent and dangerous men. He was missing, and undoubtedly terrified. And in grave danger.

Something stirred in my heart, and I began to connect deeply with little Cole. I felt a burden of prayer for him so heavily, it was as if I’d suddenly added chain mail to my attire. God waved the news story in front of my face, so to speak, and said, “This one’s for you, Kel. Pray hard! I’m counting on you!” And so I did.

For several days, I was drawn to Psalm 91. I read it back to God, day and night, imploring Him to remember His word, and protect this little boy. Was Cole scared? Cold? Hungry? In pain? I worried, and I cried out to God, and I prayed. “Be his refuge and fortress, God. I trust you to do that.” (vs.2) “Cover him with your feathers. Give him a refuge under your wings. Let him not be harmed!” (vs.4)

I was awakened at 3am Saturday morning, my face wet with tears. I felt an urgency to intercede for Cole, as if he were my own son. “May he not be afraid in the night!” (vs.5) “Send your angels to protect him right now!” (vs.11)

The next morning, I read God’s promises, “I will rescue him….I will protect him…..I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him. With long life I will satisfy him, and show him my salvation.” (vs.14-16) I begged God to answer those prayers. “Let this little boy find his way home this very day, God! Please!” Peace flooded my heart as I felt a gentle reassurance from God; as if His hand reached down from Heaven and patted me on the back and said, “The little boy will be okay. It is done.”

I cannot fully articulate the jubiliance I felt the next morning, when I read that Cole had been found walking a suburban street by a bus driver on Saturday night. His abductors had let him go. He was returned to the arms of his overjoyed parents, safe and sound, 3 days after his abduction.

And so I celebrate the compassion of our Father, who cared so much about a very little 6-year-old blond boy with glasses. He heard his cries, felt his terror, and grieved at the injustice. His eyes searched the earth, seeking the attention of some intercessors who were paying attention, and used them to pray this child home. I am beyond humbled to have been part of that.

God is good. So overwhelmingly, fabulously, beautifully good. It is abundantly clear to me this week! And I am grateful that He reminded me!

"We Take Discover"

My long-suffering husband and I had a “Burger King Breakfast and Jean Shopping Date” yesterday. The goal, I told him, was to nurture our marital relationship. My shadow mission, however, was to build my winter wardrobe. By using his credit card. So, after bribing Super Hubs with a breakfast of an egg-and-sausage sandwich and cheesy tots, I dragged him to the nearby outdoor mall with promises to “be in and out in a jiffy.”

We entered American Eagle, and stopped in dismay. There were 6 different shelf units filled with women’s jeans of all shapes, sizes and colors of blue. Where to begin? The friendly sales girl pounced on us, pledging to find me “just the cutest little pair of versatile jeans that would make me look like a 20-something;” jeans that I could wear “to the office” and also for my “evenings out.” (Which spun me into a fantasy of having a high-rise office at a high-powered job upon which I’d leave at 5pm to go out clubbing. So, were they magic jeans? Ones that, when I wore them, would morph me into a Hot Partner At A Law Firm With A Rockin’ Social Life?? Hmmmmm.)

Then she peppered me with questions: Did I want “Skinny?” Or “Bootcut?” “Flair; Real or Extreme?” “Tight through the hips and things, or looser around the legs?” She assured me that I’d look fabulous in “Wide Leg” with the “Rip and Repair Wash” or “Favorite Boyfriend Cut” in the “Super Bleach.” My head spun. It had been a few years since I’d bought a pair of jeans. I had no idea the variety…the enormity of choices…the utter overwhelmingness of possibilities….”I just need a new pair of jeans that are blue. Ones that fit me,” I said definitively.

She gave me a cool once over, and began pulling pants off the shelves and piling them into Super Hubs’ arms. I was then ushered into the unisex dressing room, where I began trying on clothes like a crazed runway model. Super Hubs sat on the bench in the hallway, watching me prance in front of the mirror until his eyes glazed over.

In the end, I left a pile of jeans on the dressing room floor. And I acquired two new purchases, one in “Vintage Destroyed” and the other, “Indigo Wash.” Both felt cozy, friendly and….me. Me with my humble little suburban lifestyle. The three of us were going to become fast friends, I could just tell.

We went home, and I put on “Vintage Destroyed.” “Indigo Wash” rested up in the closet, acclimating to its new home. And Super Hubs crashed on the couch, exhausted. I was beyond happy. It’s a big day when a girl finds the perfect pair of jeans that make her feel fabulous. And an extra pair for half price.

Let Me Off!

I like my coffee hot, and my orange juice cold; my roller coasters fast and my Sundays slow. I was a sprinter in high school and I’m a napper currently. Life is often an up and down, back and forth conundrum of extremes. Which can make it good and exciting and rich. But my goodness, sometimes I want my life to resemble a good old average-priced glass of merlot served room temperature! (With just a handful of cashews to spice it up.)

Nothing I’ve ever encountered in my (phenomenally many) years of living has prepared me for the emotionally-taxing parenting of teens. And my introduction to parenting, 17 years ago, was not exactly stress-free. I spent my first 5 weeks of motherhood living with a newborn in a third-world country with very bad water in the midst of a civil war. (I cringe when I hear other mothers talk about the horrors of parenting newborns. I want to say, “You have no idea! Try caring for a tiny baby while living in a foreign country. With no English-speaking pediatricians anywhere. And no electrical power. Which meant Bad Hair days always.) But my husband and I survived, and our newborn survived, and, in retrospect, it was actually a walk in the park compared to Teen Parenting.

I have two really, really great teenagers whom I love with all my heart and soul. I would jump in front of a train for either one of them. I honestly would. They are good, wonderful people. But, that being said, they quite often drain me emotionally. And I believe that if anyone ever says that Teen Parenting is easy, they are either lying, in denial, or have a really great au pair that enables them to stay in denial.

This is the deal: The life of a teenager is fraught with drama. This is caused by a combination of hormones, unformed gray matter, immature life perspective, and a tad bit of self-absorption. And where teens do not have real drama, they create drama. Or their friends do. Or their enemies. Or parents of their enemies. And Teens view TV shows like “Gossip Girl” that perpetuate the theory that a teen life without drama is not a life well lived. So every day there is a soap opera -worthy story of who broke up with who, and who got arrested for what, and who picked on who, and who is their new best friend, and who they love and who they hate and so forth. I simply cannot keep up.

One of my friends very wisely told me to “Get off the roller coaster now.” She said there was not one mortal reason why I needed to feel the high highs and low lows with my teens. I had no business ride-crashing and that I should hightail it to the nearest park exit sign immediately. She was right. It’s just easier said than done when I’m the Tender-Hearted Feeler Type with Co-Dependent Tendencies. Super Hubs detaches really well. He won’t ride the ups and downs with The Teens. He’ll simply say, “Get your homework done.”

(Big sigh.) I’m tired. I’m just sayin’. More on this topic later. (After my nap.)

What's Up With Her Buying A Lamborghini?

I believe I am having a crisis, of sorts. The Travel-Into-Another-Era type. The Middling-On-The-Timeline-Of-My-Life kind. One marked by transitions, turning points, and the desire to rebel by eating junk food for breakfast. Okay, I’ll quit hedging and just say it. I AM HAVING A MID-LIFE CRISIS! And I intend to enjoy every minute. Because they can actually be a little fun. I can act in bizarre and immature ways, and it’ll all be excused with a wink and a nod and the whispering of: “She’s having The Crisis. Just humor her, and pretend she looks great in those skinny jeans and nose ring.”

Mid-Life Crisis, from what I’m learning, are not All Bad. They can be an excellent time of exploration about oneself, and reevaluating the trajectory of one’s life. They are a time of opportunity. They needn’t be harmful or destructive, or an episode of Desperate Housewives. I don’t plan on spending my daughter’s college fund on implants, or leaving my loyal and faithful husband for a 20-year-old buff Cabana Boy named Sven.

I am finding fellow Crisis Travelers among some of my women friends, and realizing that we are all dealing with this season in a different way. For example, I have a friend who is lusting for adventure. She recently went on a girl’s weekend where they white-water rafted by day, and then drank wine until the wee hours. And in a few months, she’s going to go Tree Top Trekking. Tree Top Trekking is apparently an aerial adventure in the tops of trees using ropes and suspended bridges. Then you sleep in hammocks, much like Tarzan and Jane. Well, good for her, I say. That’s just not me. I’d prefer to have My Crisis in a four-star hotel with a hot tub and room service. But to each her own.

My Mid-Life Crisis is so far causing me to have feelings of restlessness. And wondering what the rest of my life should be like. And terror that I will end up looking like my Aunt Millie. And I am finding myself contemplating the application of a little tattoo to mark the moment. And I fantasize about spending the evening clubbing rather than homework helping. Or having a complete image makeover and dying my hair a vibrant shade of red. Just little, teeny acts of rebelliousness. Or independence.

I’ll keep you posted on my journey. And I’m open to suggestions. And if anyone wants to join my on my Mid-Life-ing Adventures, just let me know. We'll do it together.

Report Card

Little Squirt received his first report card of kindergarten today. Frankly, I’m disappointed. Where is the verbiage about his intelligence? His brilliance? His Harvard-bound smarts? Does his teacher have no discernment?? Perhaps I should share a few vignettes with her about his incredible resourcefulness. Oh, soooo many stories! The child is amazingly clever. How can she not see that??

Behavior: “Demonstrates improving behavior.” Improving. Improving? He’s gotten through the past 4 weeks without another Poopy Pants Incident and nary a toilet seat stuck on his head. I’ll say he’s improving! She doesn’t know the half of it.

Work Habits: “Needs some assistance.” Well, duh! My flirtatious little boy loves women! Why would he work independently when he could have his adored teacher help him to form his lower case letters? The male version of “the damsel in distress” sort of thing. He ain’t no fool!

Effort: “Average.” Average. Average?? Now that really bothered me because it made him sound so……. “average.” And “average” my boy is certainly not. Of course…..Little Squirt does only want to do what he loves to do. Things that he finds adventurous and breath-taking and spine-tingling. And seat work is definitely none of those things. Little Squirt has told me that seat work is “boring.” That he wants to “quit seat work.” That he likes recess and gym best of all. And “singing class.” So…… I suppose if he was doing something he vastly disliked, such as seat work, he might show minimal to average effort.

But still. He’s my baby and I know in my heart of hearts that he’s special. And today he drew me a picture with markers. It was a portrait of Moi with bright yellow hair, a blue dress and radiant ruby lipstick. And he wrote on it, “Mom,” without asking me how to spell. It was a darned good A+ Brilliant Adaptation of Me That Showed Greatly Improved Independent Effort of Excellent Proportions, if I do say so myself.

Homecoming

All The Homecoming Hoopla at The Teens high school is officially over for the year. And frankly, just watching Butterfly embrace the festivities was exhausting to me, a mere observer! She pranced through the week with the energy of a colt let out to pasture. Her main focus was wardrobe. (God love her- she is my daughter through and though.) Every day after school she went on a mission to purchase the perfect accoutrement for the theme of the following day: Country-Western, Beauty and The Geek, Cross-Dressing, etc. If the girl would put that much effort into her studies, she’d be a competitive candidate for Oxford U. Then there was the Homecoming Football game of which she is a Super-Fan. She bathed in green and gold paint, hosted a tailgating party for much of the senior class, and cheered loudly to the 35-point game win. Then danced the night away with her friends at the Homecoming Dance.

Rock Star is a more sedate freshman. He didn’t actually think about his wardrobe until each morning, when he’d climb into the costume his sister laid out for him. But he thoroughly enjoyed his first Homecoming weekend with its parade, football game and “crank that” at the dance. He walked through the door at 1:30am, his shirt and tie crumbled into a ball in his fist, sweaty and tired after a post-party. But he’s completely encompassing the high school culture.

The Glory Days.

Date Morning

Having Rock Star in high school now, Super Hubs and I have essentially lost our Friday evening Date Nights. Between football games and guitar jams and parties, our teens have calendars packed with social agendas. Which is good. That is how high school should be. But it leaves Little Squirt with nary a babysitter. So our Date Nights have morphed into stolen moments or practical opportunities when the kids are in school; “Date Taco Lunches” or “Date Grocery Shopping” or “Date Let’s Just Sip Coffee and Read the Papers.” We try to be flexible and take what we can get.

The other morning, with a 2-hour window when Little Squirt was in school and Super Hubs was working from home, we headed up to Woodstock Square, a mere hop-skip-and-a-jump from our home. I adore this historic town, with it’s old Opera House, gazebo, artsy shops and French creperie. This is the location where the movie, “Groundhog Day,” was filmed.

We ate a breakfast sandwiches of sausage in French toast pockets and sipped hot café au lait while watching people walk The Square. Then we browsed the shops, where I bought a blue ceramic choker. The air was crisp, the leaves were beginning to color, and it was bliss.

Life Is My Stage

As one of the leaders of our church’s Drama Team, I helped to audition 7 potential actors last night. I thoroughly enjoyed watching them Improv, do a “cold read” of a script, and perform their monologues. Very few things in life energize me as being around fellow actors. Their spirit, spunk, lack of inhibitions, wild creativity, sense of humor. They.Are.My.People. Last night’s experience brought me right back to 5 years ago when I was auditioning for the same Drama Team….

Before we auditioned, we were asked to fill out an application that asked general information, including the dreaded: “Please describe any acting experience.” I glanced over at the others’ answers, feeling intimidated by seeing “Commercial work” and “Professional Voice-Overs” and “Community Theater.” Other than a tad bit of child runway modeling and one acting class in college for non-theater majors (Ahem. I was the only one who got an “A.”), I had no real practical experience.

Yet how could I describe, in three sentences or less, that I have been a frustrated actor since birth? How could I begin to explain that I grew up viewing my life as a performance that I was called to produce, act and direct? As if the world was an empty canvas, and I, the artist, would paint away the white monotony with colorful swirls of my choosing….

I spent my childhood bored with being just “Kelly the Middle-Class Suburban Girl.” So I invented characters wherever I went. I successfully entertained my friends and convinced complete strangers that I was “Inga from Sweden.” Or “Sadie the Orphan.” Or “Random Blind Child At The Park.” I was also “Girl Who Made A Guest Appearance on ‘The Brady Bunch.’” And “Weird Kid At The Mall.”

But my piece de résistance was when I was ten and staying at our vacation condo. I transformed myself into twins, “Kelly and Kerry.” With a quick change of my of my bathing suit and hairstyle, all the other condo kids were fooled. For an entire week, no one questioned that they never saw “the identicals” together. But then I nearly had a panic attack when we both were invited to a birthday party. I gave “my twin” a bad case of scarlet fever, and I went off to the festivities solo. I was feeling proud of my ingenuity, until the discerning mother of the birthday child confronted me on my fib. Being a good Catholic girl, I confessed my lie, and then slunk away in mortification. Did I learn my lesson? Absolutely not!

I was born to act. On stage, in front of a camera, or in real life. It’s an art form. A creative urge that must be expressed. A soul-filler. Other actors know exactly what I am talking about. Which is why, in answering the “Please describe any acting experience” question, I simply wrote: “Life is my stage.”