And, in the end, the love you take

Today is the last day of November.  That means I made it.

I'm not sure how I feel.

I'm proud that I finished NaBloPoMo.  I'm proud that I wrote every day.  I feel stronger, better, more disciplined, more willing to write.

I worry that maybe I cheated a little.  That some of my posts weren't really very good.  That I phoned it in from time to time, dashed off something quick, didn't really put in the work.  To some extent I regret those days.  I know I could have done more, done better with those posts.  Better for myself, better for my craft.  I could have gotten further, made something more, moved farther into it.

And also not.

Also, it was good for me to put  posts out there that weren't always great.  Weren't polished.  Weren't finished.  Didn't feel important.  It was good for me to put those posts out there and have it be okay.

Sometimes, I get so caught up in my good ideas that I'm afraid of my not good ideas. I get so caught up in the possibilities associated with greatness that I forget about what is good.  I try to write something good instead of just trying to write.  Instead of just writing.

You never know where greatness is going to appear.  You never know what words will lead you somewhere you didn't expect.  You never know which words will be the ones someone else needs to hear.

All you have to give is who you are.  So you have to give it.  Even when it doesn't feel like anything special.

Even when I don't feel like I'm anything special.

I am.

I'm tired of giving myself permission not to write.  I'm tired of giving myself permission not to try too hard at anything in my life.  I don't need to be let off the hook anymore.  I need to be on the hook.

I don't know if I'm going to write tomorrow.

We'll see.

And that's all I really have to say about that.

I don't really do Black Friday shopping.  I mean, I'm not a big fan of crowds.  And I'm not even a huge fan of stuff.  The day after Thanksgiving, what I really want to be doing is watching football and eating lots of pie on my couch with my feet up.

Somehow, that's not what I did today.  I'm not really clear on what I did today.  We went grocery shopping.  I made pancakes.  Somehow the house is a disaster and I don't really even remember any of us being here all day.  Except I couldn't really tell you where else we were all day.

This day, it seems to have just gotten lost.  I didn't put my tree up.  I didn't eat any leftover turkey.

I don't feel incredibly bad about this.  It's just 9:23 and I'm wondering how that happened.

And that's all I really have to say about today.

.... Oh.  Were you expecting something deep and insightful today?

Wait.

Hmmm.

I think, I've been waiting for someone to come  and take care of me.  I want to be nurtured and snuggled and accepted and told that my feelings are okay.  I want someone to get me some cake and a glass of water.  And sometimes I'm just really angry at the world that that doesn't seem to happen.  Why doesn't anyone take care of me?  Why doesn't anyone come stroke my hair and tuck me in and say "There, there" and "num num num"?

And I think, maybe I need to stop waiting for someone to do it and just start taking care of myself.  That rush of panic in my throat as I typed that probably means that it's the truth.

And that's all I really have to say about that.

Thankful

I'm thankful for my warm house.

I'm thankful for a husband who is usually what I need and who is often everything  I'm not.  In a good way.

I'm thankful for two little girls who think I'm the most important thing in the world.  Even when it means they think I'm the most important thing in the world.

I'm thankful for friends who I've met in high school, in college, working, online, at playgroups.  Friends who let me be who I am and who see me better than I give them credit for.

I'm thankful for books, for words, for blank paper, for blogs.

I'm thankful for fluffy socks.

I'm thankful for pie.

I'm thankful that November is almost over.

I'm thankful for my messy life, mistakes and all.

Jump in. let's go

I am sitting in the front passenger seat of my husband's car on the way home from Chik Fil A.  Behind me, my youngest has presumably fallen asleep or at least stopped crying.  My oldest is prattling away about what she sees out her window.

There is snow.  There are trees.  There are Christmas lights.

Tonight is beautiful.

I am startled from my dreaminess by DH unexpectedly yelling, "Ooohhhhhh SNAP!"  (What?) "BG, I bet you haven't even heard this song."

He turns up the radio.

I turn to him, the love of my life, with one eyebrow raised.  He grins ear to ear.

Uncharacteristically, I start singing along.

I hitched a ride with a vending machine repair man.

I can't remember a time when I was more acutely aware of being simply happy.

***

"They've had the cough for about 3 weeks now," I told the phone nurse at 8:15 this morning.

"We have walk in hours from 8 to 9.  Can you make it in?"

I looked from my to do list to the clock to my pajamas to the banana covered baby in the high chair to the pantsless threenager watching Sid the Science kid on the couch.

"Yes."

As I pulled on pants, I mapped out the best way to maximize the morning.  We could pop into CVS to pick up deals, catch the 10:00 story time if it wasn't canceled, and then maybe get Chick Fil A for lunch before coming home to make the three sides I'd committed to for Thanksgiving.  I could still totally win at today.

Halfway there, I realized I didn't have the library books, my CVS card and coupons, or my phone.

"Maybe we'll just go home."

Back home, with the doctor's pretty all clear on health, I asked BG what she wanted to do.  "Play a game with me, go out in the snow?  Playdough?  Dot paint?"

"I think I just want to watch TV, mommy," she said, melting into the couch.

I sighed, turned on Sesame Street, kissed her on the head, set the baby on the floor and started chopping celery and onions.

***

After a second cup of coffee, with my sides made and my bathrooms cleaned and my children both miraculously napping, I wrote.  I sat down with my notebook, set a timer for 15 minutes and filled pages.  I wrote about loss and fear and longing.  I sat in the quiet house and stared at the wall for a few minutes after.

Then I broke my Internet fast.  Checked in on twitter and facebook and google chat.  Felt relieved and ashamed and anxious and desperate to please and grateful and all the usual feelings that if anyone felt them all at the same time, they'd explode.

I didn't explode.

I messaged a dear friend and had a vulnerable conversation.  I worried that I'd said the wrong thing.  I was grateful for her presence in my life, grateful for the Internet and social media that made it possible for me to know such amazing people, even as it filled me with doubt and confusion and hustling.  Grateful and confused and happy.

I looked around the house, at the uncolored Thanksgiving coloring pages I had printed, at the half folded laundry on the hallway floor, at the full dishwasher and the dinner uncooked, at the Thanksgiving sides I had made, at my two coughing and sniffly but otherwise perfect  little girls, at the computer containing my work and my world and my dear dear friends and half my sanity.

DH called.  "Do you want to go out for dinner?"

"Maybe, yeah.  I promised the girls Chick Fil A earlier."

Every day is a winding road.
I get a little bit closer
Every day is a faded sign
I get a little bit closer to feeling fine.

Head above water

Today started with my sweet, sweet smallest girl waking up covered in dried vomit.  She hadn't cried.  I hadn't heard her wake up at all, or even cough last night.  She woke up at 6, looked confused, and quietly snuggled as I whisked her into the shower, brushed her teeth and handed her off to daddy so I could change her sheets.

Today didn't start great.

There was snow on the ground when I woke up, and snow falling from the sky too for that matter.  My biggest girl, who woke up by 6:30, wanted to go out and play but I told her we'd have to wait to see if Little Sister felt better later.

So we watched TV.  We played games on my computer.  We marched laps around the coffee table.  We built with blocks.  We sang "Where is Thumbkin?" We painted.  We cut.  We glued.  We watched more TV.

I reluctantly put my sweet baby girl in her crib for her nap after briefly considering promising to never ever make her go to that awful place again.

She was fine.

We were all fine.

This morning, I felt myself spiraling.  I felt myself losing control.  I'd been so happy that she'd slept, and then to find her how I did, I just thought I must be the worst mother who'd ever lived.

I'm not.

My stomach still hurts.  My big girl and I have a little bit of snowed in cabin fever.  My sweet baby is still sick.

And we're all okay anyway.

Because whatever I can do today is just going to have to be enough, so it is enough.

But maybe whatever I can do every day is enough too.

Are you my audience?

And then the little blogger linked up with the popular bloggers and told a cute story about her kid.

Are you my audience?

But the cute mommy bloggers just looked at her and didn't say a word.  So the little blogger went on.

And then she linked up with the memoir bloggers and told a poignant story from her childhood.

Are you my audience?

"We are not your audience.  We are memoir bloggers.  How could we be your audience?"

So the little blogger went on.

And then the little blogger linked up with the mental health bloggers and wrote about her depression.

Are you my audience?

"Well we like you a whole lot.  Is that the same thing?"

Kinda.  And the little blogger went on.


I'm not sure what I'm trying to say.  As a writer, as a mother, and as a human, I am still looking for my place.  I don't fit in a box.  I don't want to fit in a box.  And I guess, I need to learn to believe that the people for whom my words make sense are the people for whom I am meant to write.  That I can't be anyone but me, even if I think "me" is small and unimportant and boring.  That I just have to say whatever it is I have to say, and trust the magical fairies that live in the Internet to bring the right people to me.

C'mon magical fairies.  Any day now.

(Kidding.  Mostly. ;)  Smooches, dear readers.  Thanks for being my mother audience.)

Let's call this a post

You know what's worse than word vomit?

Actual vomit.

I'm on my third pair of yoga pants of the day.

I'm going to call this a post and call it a day.