Spinning Yellow

Behind the Scenes

The office where my laptop sits charging during the day also has a family computer.  My husband, the techy person in our marriage and also the primary photographer, has a series of photos that rotate as a screen saver on this computer.  Yesterday, he decided to put all the photos in the library into the mix. 

As I've walked by, or quickly stopped to check my e-mail or twitter, these pictures catch my eye.  Years of memories all jumbled up, freezing a moment, then quickly fading away to be replaced by another.  So many pictures.

I am drawn to the photo montage, remembering not just the exact second the camera was snapped, but all that was going on behind the scene.   I see Scott at our old house looking out from his crib and I think of how happy that house made me feel.  How it was the home I bought and then where Matt and I lived when we first got married and Scott was born.  I can smell the powdery scent of the nursery, hear myself singing as I rocked him to sleep.

Two years ago, Thanksgiving here, Scott is helping Matt stuff the turkey.  That was the year I had my 20th high school reunion.  I recall my friends coming over the next morning, I was exhausted, but because I lived here, I was the logical person to have the gathering.  I wanted to talk more coherently, be more present in the moment, but I was concerned about Scott getting along with the other kids.

Jane as a tiny baby, being held by my mother, reminds me of how awful I felt after she was born.  And how sad I was to be away from Scott and Matt and my dog.  How I didn't feel close to her at first.

A birthday party for one of Scott's playgroup friends.  The expression on Scott's face so clear to me now, in retrospect, that he was overwhelmed.  I am flooded with memories of him misbehaving, acting out, having to leave.

A mixed-up chronicle of events, family, friends, places we've visited, the people in our lives, holidays, the house we live in.  I see myself and I feel how my clothes fit.  I instantly remember whether I was uncomfortable, sad, tired, or happy, content.  A glimpse of my hair and I wonder if it looks better now or then.  People look younger, kids so tiny and round, the colors and details more vivid than in my mind.

I recall the minutes, hours, days before the picture was taken.  I think of what was said, the sounds of laughter, the smell of the ocean, the feel of cold, wet, snow.  

Every photo tells its own story.  Often times the moment seems so obvious.  People smiling, blowing out candles, holding a baby, riding in a boat, playing at the beach.  But behind every picture is an entire unknown background.  A history that can only be revealed by the person who experienced all that led up to that exact instance.

I can't help but think about how little we truly know about anyone else's life.  How they feel, what they experience.  How we only see what is revealed to us, what we are capable of knowing.  How one moment, one snapshot, one piece of information is only a tiny part of the whole picture.  We could never understand the context quite like they would.

I could look at these photos flashing by forever.  Reliving each one as only I can.

Thankful For a Full Belly ...

and an even fuller heart.  It was a ton of work, as always, but well worth it.  Great food, my wonderful family, healthy relatives, football outside, Wii inside,  and much wine.  All good.  Here's my favorite photo for the day:

That's my nephew and Scott eating the drumsticks.

And I will probably take the photo away in a day or two because it violates my "no photos of children or anyone who hasn't agreed to have their picture on this blog" rule.

I will leave you with this story from last Thanksgiving, which always makes me smile, and the list I did at the end of that post of things I am thankful for.  It is the same this year, except I think I should add Twitter.  Yes, I will add that I am thankful for Twitter, and chocolate, and my fuzzy crocs.

I hope you had a happy Thanksgiving!

Wordless Wednesday - You Know You Want One

Just not this one, she's taken.

(This post is for Kristen and Jordan)

I Dream of Houses

I have several recurring dreams.  One is a standard stress dream where it is the last day of the semester in college and the final is tomorrow.  I suddenly realize I never went to any of the classes.  I don't know any of the material and will surely fail.  Another is the "naked in a public place" type of dream where I feel embarrassed and exposed.

My dreams are vivid and wacky and I often wake up confused as to whether they actually happened or not.  I have some general themes that I can easily connect to my real life issues.  One of my favorite bizarre dreams was when I was pregnant with Scott and so worried about breast feeding.  I dreamed that I gave birth to my dog.  Yes, my first baby was born, without any pain, arriving all fawn-like with long legs and fur.  My immediate reaction in the dream: Oh, good, I won't have to breast feed her, I can just give her puppy kibble!

I dream a lot about buildings.  Complex layouts and details of houses, apartments, offices, factories.  The setting for the dream becomes more important than the events unfolding within it.  I think I was an architect in another life.  These are made up structures, places that I've never actually seen in real life.

Except for two houses.  One, the house my cousin lived in, where her parents still live.  The other, my childhood home that I inhabited for six years from the time I was 8 and first moved to this small town, until I was 14 and had to move across town and; subsequently, attend the rival high school from where my siblings went.

When I dream about my aunt's house, it is mostly the same house only altered slightly.  I know why I have dreams that take place in this house.  It is a happy, safe place for me.  My aunt always made me feel special when I would come to visit my only-child cousin for weeks at a time.  As the youngest in my household, I often felt overlooked and unimportant.  But at my aunt's house, she'd stock up on apple juice and Cookie Crisp cereal before I arrived.  She always made me feel special.  It doesn't take a degree in Psychology to conclude that the dreams that take place in this house leave me feeling calm, content, wanted.  In these dreams, the house is very much the setting, not the main point, and all kinds of characters can be part of the scene, whether they would have any logical reason to be in that house or not.

Now, when I dream about the house on Foxcroft Drive, it is a true recurring dream.  I say that because it is very similar each time.  I am, for some reason, moving back into this house.  It could be just me with my parents, or me with my current nuclear family, or even on my own.  It usually goes something like this:  I am house-hunting with a real estate agent and end up at this very house.  I tell the agent that I grew up here and that I just knew I would someday move back into the house.  I decide I have to live there.  I tell the agent how I've been dreaming about this for years and here it is coming true.  The dream continues with me and my family moving our things in, deciding who will get which rooms, what changes we need to make.

While this is going on, I have flashbacks to major and minor events that happened there.  The time my father decided he would burn some brush in a ditch in the backyard and ended up with third degree burns on his face and arms.  My mother smoking a single cigarette and drinking a Tab as she wrote out her grocery list at the end of the day when the kids were supposed to be asleep.  My sister and I making up gymnastic routines in the basement pretending we were Nadia Comaneci.  The party my brother had when my parents went out of town and the dog got drunk.  Christmases, birthdays, meals, arguments, laughter.  So many memories.

At the same time, I have this sense of being exactly where I should be.  Like a destiny fulfilled.  My mother is convinced that there was a bad spirit in that home that had it out for my father.  He did experience a lot of bad luck during those 6 years - car accidents, health problems, money troubles.  My parents fought often during that time period.  It was a big house, one they probably could barely afford, and I know they stressed about keeping up with the doctors and lawyers that lived in the neighborhood.  And my brother and sister were teenagers who were, let's just say, not always the easiest to parent. 

We settled at this house after having moved three times in three years.  My mom vowed that we would never move again.  She decorated to the hilt, joined woman's groups and played golf at the country club.  Like most families we had lots of fun times and plenty of bad ones.  It was a roller coaster.  I always felt loved and cared for, but I was the last, and least noticed. 

When we moved it was traumatic for me.  I threatened to run away.  They were uprooting me, to a condominium on the other side of town just as I was going into high school.  I had to attend a different high school then the one my brother and sister went to.  For the first time, no one was forging the path in front of me.  I was angry, but, in the end, this turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to me.

I do not have this dream all the time.  Sometimes I go months without it and then there are weeks where it visits me nightly.

The dream always ends the same.

I am in the house and I am thinking, this finally came true, just like I knew it would.  Just like I knew it would.  I don't feel happy or sad, just slightly satisfied.  That I am in familiar surroundings and more over, that I am proven right.  That I saw this coming.  This return.  That I am, of all my siblings, the one who just knew, who this was supposed to happen to.

I awake expecting to be in the house, in my parent's room.

Every time I am so sure it is true.

My Last Post About Puke, I Promise

This morning while I was in our downstairs office on the computer, Jane came running in saying she didn't feel good.  A few minutes before she had been happily watching TV and seemed perfectly fine to me.  I glanced over, distracted, "oh? what's wrong?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up."

"What?  Really?"

We rushed into the bathroom, she lifted the toilet seat, and proceeded to vomit several times.  I sat there incredulously.  She couldn't possibly be sick again.  It wasn't the violent retching of last week, but puke all the same.

When she was done, she stood up, smiled a little and said, "I am all done now.  I'm not sick anymore."

I stared at her.  What the hell was going on in my house?

I feel like I need to call in those Hazmat guys in the suits to detox the place.

Now, although we haven't had the throw up virus in our home until recently, Jane has, on occasion, been sick to her stomach.  Over the holidays, she threw up after our annual Hanukkah party.  We suspected that she ate too many chocolate coins which prompted her to say, "I'm sick from the guilt," when she really meant "gelt," but it was so funny and appropriate that we didn't correct her.

It hit me that perhaps Jane is a Puker.  You know the type.  I had a friend in college who would get super drunk, feel sick, throw-up in the bushes outside a fraternity, wipe her mouth off with the bottom of her shirt, and grab a beer to wash down the taste.

My sister and her kids are also Pukers.  My sister used to get car sick when we were kids.  We'd pull over, she'd toss her cookies, and we'd get back on the road.  My nephew was so good at it, that by age 3, he barely needed a grown-up to help him (girls always need someone to hold their hair back).

Even Matt is a Puker.  Sometimes he gets sick from drinking or eating certain things.  The next day, it is as if it never happened.

I am not a Puker.  I am more like an anti-Puker.  The exact opposite of a Puker.  The last time I threw up was when Matt and I first started dating, 9 years ago.  I had mild food poisoning from some deli chicken salad.  I thought I might be dying.  Matt, non phased, still wanted to kiss me (after I brushed my teeth, of course).  I remember thinking, wow, he must really like me.

I am the type of person who can be nauseous for days (weeks, when pregnant) but cannot get myself to vomit.  I am terrified of throwing up, actually.  I can literally count on one hand how many times I've thrown up in my lifetime, and that includes two times when I was so drunk I don't even remember them.

Sure enough, Jane was completely fine all day long.  Her usual silly, fun, self.  I've been trying to figure out what her sudden throw up incident was all about.  Was it what she ate for breakfast?  Did she stick something in her mouth and gag?  Matt told me to just get over it.  Clearly it is my issue, not theirs.

A little while ago I called my mom to see what she was up to for the weekend and to check if she might be able to watch the kids at all.

"hello?"  I heard on the other end of the line.

"Mom?  Is that you?  You sound terrible."

"I'm sick."  The pathetic voice barely managed to get out.

"Oh, that's too bad, do you need anything?"

"No.  I tried to eat something and I threw it up."

"Oh, okay, well, sorry again, get some rest."  Oh, the guilt!

No more, I said!  Now you are picking on Grammy?  That is just wrong!

How the hell am I going to get away from all these sick people, if my babysitter is ill?

 

The Perfect Snow

We've been waiting for a snow day here.  Last year I promised Scott that there would be at least one good snow storm where he would have an official day off from school.  It never happened.  This year there hasn't even been a delayed opening, a highly anticipated event given that it would be Scott's first time experiencing the thrill of an unexpected shortened day.

The principal at Scott's school is retiring this year.  I do not know the man very well, but he gets mixed reviews and it does seem like it is time for someone new.  A week ago a notice came home announcing his replacement, a woman, and there has been speculation about what kind of changes she might bring with her.

When Scott came home from school on Thursday, he was talking about a possible snow storm brewing.  "If school is delayed, the principal cuts out recess time." 

"Oh, really, I guess that makes sense.  Who told you that?"

"My teacher.  She told us all about times when it snowed before."

After a brief silence, he asked,  "Mom, why can't that new principal start now?"

"Huh?  Well, usually principals start at the beginning of a school year to make the transition smoother.  What a minute.  I doubt the new person is going to let you have recess on a delayed opening day anymore than your current principal."

In the morning there were a few inches of snow on the ground and school was called off.  Hooray!  I expected all smiles from my boy and instead I got, "Great.  Now we have to make it up at the end of the year.  It will cut into my summer."

Leave it to Scott.  He really has a knack for finding the negative in every situation.

But the day turned out to be as good as it gets, really, as far as snow days are concerned.  Matt went out early and shoveled some then we all bundled up and went out to shovel and play.

I grew up in a snow skiing family.  I learned how to ski when I was five years old, snowplowing in front of my father.  My childhood is filled with very happy memories of being outside, gliding down the mountain, wriggling my toes to stay warm, and lunch with hot chocolate before heading back out in the cold.  My kids do not experience these same things as often as I did.

I couldn't help but notice as we were outside how ideal the conditions were.  The temperature was cool, but not too cold.  The snow was fluffy, wet enough for snow balls and snow man making, but not overly soggy or slushy.  I smiled to myself thinking of my mother describing the conditions as "peas and mashed potatoes" when the snow would get chunked up and then thick on a skiing day.  I knew that the melting layer on top would make for a crunchy cover the next day, or a thin layer of ice where the snow had not melted all the way.

We all shoveled and the kids made snow angels and rolled around.  After a long time we came in, changed our clothes, snuggled up and had hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows.  Late in the afternoon the kids went back out with Matt and made another snow man and sledded with the neighbors on their front yard hill.

When they came back, wet and tired, in it was almost time for dinner.  Matt made chili, Scott took a bath, and Jane watched a little TV.  We were all exhausted in that good way from lots of fresh air and activity. 

And all sound asleep early.  A fitting ending to our perfect snow day.

If Only We Had Religion

** I am going back into my draft posts again and decided to go ahead and publish this one, written back in May.  I do now own this book, but haven't read it yet.  I am not sure this post flows very well, but I am going to put it out there anyway.  Deadlines make your perfectionist side take a back seat!

I saw other bloggers commenting on this new book called Parenting Beyond Belief and then listened to the Motherhood Uncensored podcast about it.  This is right up my alley and I am happy to have a blog where I can add my thoughts to the discussion.

Matt and I bring to our family a super complicated religious background (more about our personal story and feelings on religion another time).  We decided (probably on our first date) that we would not be raising our children with an organized religion.  I knew he had been raised Jewish but did not practice it in any way, nor did he feel that he wanted his kids to.  He was happy to adopt the Christian holidays that I grew up with even when we get all crazy at Christmas.  But we (Matt and I) don't do any religion.  No church, no synagogue, none of it.

When we got married, we picked the "No God" version for our ceremony.  Not even the "God Lite" version (as the wonderful wedding officiator called it).  But we still wanted to have tradition and we were able to draw from many different areas for that.  I was clear as can be on this topic.  I knew how I felt about God, Jesus and Organized Religion.  I could explain it to my children and they could make their own decisions.  We would celebrate holidays like I had growing up and help other family members celebrate their holidays in what ever way they wanted.  I love holidays and traditions and still wanted to be able to have that, just without the religion.  The "No God" version.  I would definitely call myself a secular parent.

I dated a few guys who claimed that religion wasn't important to them.  Once we got more serious, it was clear that they were not being honest with themselves or me.  One guy in particular had told me that he wanted his kids to be raised Catholic even if he wasn't going to practice himself.  I told my coworkers this was a deal breaker for me and that I knew the relationship would be ending soon.  More than one person commented that I was wrong.  What's the big deal, they said, you don't have to believe in the religion in order to raise your kids in it.  If it is critical to the guy, they thought I should just go along with it.  I wondered why my non-faith stance was considered to be invalid.  Why couldn't my feelings against religion be just as important as someone's feelings for it?

Most of my friends and family do practice a particular religion.  So the inevitable questions about why they go to church or celebrate a different holiday come up.  Last Christmas, my 12 year old nephew, whose family is very involved in the same church that I attended as a youth, asked how we could celebrate if we didn't believe in Jesus as the savior.  Hmmm.  I tried not to be smart and say, well, you put up a tree, make cookies and buy presents.  That's how.  He has a point.  From the perspective of those that are religious I see how it is offensive to hijack their holiday and only acknowledge parts of it.  The flip side of that is that the very people who get mad about the de-Christing of Christmas also will say, what's wrong with pledging allegiance to the flag with under God in it?   Who wouldn't want our nation to be protected by God?  As in, see it my way but I don't have to see it your way. 

This attitude confounds me.  People seem to have a hard time realizing that not everyone believes in God at all, let alone their particular take on him. 

Because religion and tradition and culture are all intertwined.  So another idea that is supposed to be presented in the book is that in order to be an informed, intellectual person, you must understand religion and the place it has held in history.  I was fascinated by my Religious Studies class in college.

I grew up participating heavily in my church's youth group.  I had many really fun times there.  I loved feeling like I fit in.  I taught Sunday School, attended youth group, went on the big beach retreat (where we did plenty of non-church related activities like kiss boys and drink liquor).  I liked this fun and safe community and am hoping for something similar for my children.  But I don't want to be a hypocrite and have it be in a setting where I don't believe in the central message.

The preschools in our area are mostly religiously based.  Housed in churches or the synagogue.  When I started looking for a preschool for Scott I was surprised to find this out.  The public school is so non-religious, it is almost ridiculous.  You can't talk about any religious holidays.  But preschool, you better be ready for praying and big-time holiday celebrating.  Since my parents had owned a day care I was well aware of the issues of trying to appease everyone on this topic.  Customers were always complaining that either they didn't want Santa Clause coming to the holiday party or that we didn't sing any songs about Jesus in the holiday show.  One time a Jewish boy told his whole 3 year year old class that Santa Claus isn't real.  You can imagine the irate phone calls my parents received after that incident. 

I set out looking for a non-religious school for Scott.  Many people didn't understand why I was adamant about this.  Why would good Christian values and saying a little prayer be bad for your kid?  Once again I was confronted with the idea that my desire for non-religion was not as important as the concept of having religion in your child's life.  I didn't think the values that these schools taught were offensive, I just didn't want my child seeing the world through their belief system.  It felt like the preschool was a recruiting ground for future congregation members instead of simply a place for my child to learn.  The undercurrent of their religion was present whether it appeared obvious or not.  I do not fault those people who do not have a problem with this.  You can send your child to the Methodist or Baptist preschool if you want, but make no mistake about it, the kids are getting a message about religion.  If you are OK with this, no worries.

I have not read this book but I am looking forward to doing so.  I am particularly intrigued by the idea of teaching your children to be critical thinkers and also to be tolerant and respectful of other people's beliefs.  I love when Scott says "The commercial is just trying to get you to buy that."  Or, "Just because it has Pokemon on it, doesn't mean it tastes better."  Hurray!  My kid is looking past the false hype.  But I don't want him to say, "You're dumb because you believe in heaven and that's not real."  That is insulting.

We talk a lot about heaven and death around here.  Actually, Scott is obsessed with both topics.  Back when we were seeing the Parenting Consultant she told us to be honest about what we thought and then ask him what he thought.  As in, "Mommy, is there a heaven, and if so, what is it?"  "I'm not sure, sweetie, nobody really knows.  Heaven is probably whatever you want it to be.  What do you think?"  This is a pretty good tactic, although Scott will still grill us as to what, exactly, we think and what, exactly, everyone else he knows thinks.

At a family meal, about a year ago, my father-in-law said something about his mother being dead.  Scott matter-of-factly said, "and now she's turned into dirt in the ground".  My poor father-in-law looked so taken aback.  Of course Scott meant no harm in what he was saying, he was just reporting what he knew. 

I told this story to one of my friends and she joked that it is too bad we aren't religious since you can answer tricky questions with "Because God made it that way" or "They're in Heaven now" which are much more socially acceptable for a 5 year old to say.  Another friend also said that she realized that she had to come up with more scientific explanations for things like why the flowers are green since she had always been saying "because God made them that way".  This patent answer also comes in handy when your child asks about where babies come from.

None of that for us around here.  And I am OK with that.  I want my kids to ask deep questions and think about what may or may not be true.  Well, maybe not about sex, but I guess I have to get over that!

One time when a neighbor was over, he was making words with the refrigerator magnets.  I heard the boy say, I'm going to spell God.  Knowing that a few letters were missing, I said, "we don't have the letters for that word".  "OK," he said, "I'll spell Jesus instead".  Scott started laughing and chimed in, "what other bad words can we spell?"  I burst out laughing realizing that Scott thought Jesus was a bad word, as in "Jesus!  I burnt my hand!" 

Then I wondered what this boy would tell his parents about his heathen neighbors.

When I was growing up, we were not encouraged to disagree with my parents.  In fact, doing that could get you in a lot of trouble.  We also did not have political or other discourse at our dinner table.  I'm sure we talked about our day, what we did and stuff like that, but as for opinions, I don't remember voicing any.  I am hoping that my children will learn how to have and express their own thoughts.

I also want them to be mindful of when and where it is appropriate to voice those opinions.  To realize that not everyone sees things the same way.  And that understanding these things will make them more tolerant of differences and better able to appreciate life and all its complexities.

A Favorite Thanksgiving Story

Growing up, Thanksgiving was always at our house.  My cousin (an only child) and her parents would visit.  My sister and cousin and I would make everyone wear pilgrim and Indian hats.  We would eat way too much and sit around and tell stories and laugh.

And watch football.  Not just on TV, but real life, local football, outside in the cold or rain before we went home and ate our feast.  In our town there was an annual, rival high school, last game of the season, showdown.  It was called the East - West game after the nicknames for the two teams.  In 1980, my brother was captain of the football team for East.

We were all looking forward to the game, as we had for years, but this time it was huge.  The biggest game my brother had ever played in.  We all loved watching him play and couldn't wait to support him in the big game.  We planned our color coordinated outfits and made yarn pom-poms for our hair.

And then my sister (who was 15 and a cheerleader), my cousin (who was 13) and I (who was 12) had a fantastic idea.  We would surprise my brother by making signs and decorating the hallway with pep, like the  cheerleaders did in the locker room.  He would see it as he was leaving early in the morning before any of us were awake.  It would get him all psyched up for the game.  We were geniuses and such little sisters.  This was the height of excitement for us!

We kept our idea secret, making the signs and decorations the day before in the basement.  That night, we sneaked (I thought the past tense of sneak was snuck until now when I realized snuck is not a word!)  downstairs and put up all of our carefully made pep-rally materials.  Then went to bed happy, knowing how excited my brother would be to see the fabulous display we had made.  We were sure it would help him play better and win the big game.

The next morning, we woke up and ran downstairs to see what had happened when my brother had left earlier.  My parents greeted us with angry faces.  They had removed the signs we made.  We were shocked.  What was going on?

They were mad that we had put scotch tape up on the walls (could pull the paint off) and my brother was irritated with the display (it broke his focus).  But worst of all, and what I will never forget, is that amidst the "Go Teams!" and "Get Psyched!" signs, there was a sign that said "West Sucks!".

Oh the horror!  My parents thought the sign was disgusting.  They couldn't believe that we had used the term "sucks".  What terrible language!  Didn't we know what that meant?  Or, more like, how could we know what that meant?

We had no idea, and I mean no idea, why they were so offended.  Didn't the saying "sucks" simply mean the other person or team was no good?  Apparently not.  I felt like we had ruined this important Thanksgiving, but didn't understand why.  They kept shaking their heads at us.

We laugh about this now, of course.  How we could have been so innocent and it went awry.  I think my parents made way too big of a deal out of this.  So much so that we probably learned why they found the term so offensive quicker than we would have if they had just blown it off (oops there I go again, I mean brushed it off).

Anyway, this story always makes me chuckle at this time of year.  I love Thanksgiving.  I like that the whole point is to get together with family and eat and relax.  It is a non-religious holiday that almost everyone in this great country celebrates.

This year I am grateful for so many things:

My wonderful family (husband, kids and relatives).

That I am 39 and wiser, stronger and happier than I've ever been.

That we have more than we need.

That my life is very full.

And probably most of all this year, I am grateful for this opportunity to write here.  To share my life and struggles.  To have old and new friends who read and comment.  And for those of you who write, too.  For this amazing community.  Thank-you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

It's a Brand New Day

I was going to title this:  No Heartbeat.  But I didn't want to make everyone immediately feel sorry for me.  That is NOT how I feel.  It is true, however, that the tiny baby in my belly does not have a heartbeat.  This was confirmed this morning at my 8.5 week ultrasound.  I say "confirmed" because I knew this was the case.  What I haven't been writing about here is that although I was tired and I had some general pregnancy symptoms, I was not sick.  And I just knew that this wasn't right.

When I was pregnant with Scott I was so ill by week 6 that I could barely get around.  Same thing with Jane.  And then this time, well, some funky appetite stuff, and initially I felt pretty awful, but then it stopped.  I never felt nauseous like I had in the past.

When I went in today, I told the ultrasound technician that I was concerned so she right away told me that the sack and embryo were there but that the fetus wasn't big enough for its age.  Then she searched and looked closer and tried to find a heartbeat, to no avail.

I am sad.

But I am not devastated.

In the waiting room there were very pregnant women, waiting for one test or another.  I could feel their anxiety.  I remembered coming to this same prenatal testing site every other day toward the end of my pregnancy with Scott.  The stress was unbelievable.  I absolutely hate being pregnant.  Not only because I feel like crap, but because there are so many unknowns, so many things you have no control over.

So I looked at those ladies and I reminded myself that I have two wonderful children already.  A boy who has stolen my heart and a girl who has reminded me how joyful life can be.

And I felt lucky.  So very fortunate for what I have.

Matt is on a train to Connecticut, hoping to find a job that will not require us to move.  His last day of work at his own company was yesterday.  He feels a little lost without a job.

I think we are finding our way, though.  Right back to where we were all along.

And in the spirit of moving forward, I am accepting the National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) challenge.  I know!  Me, who can barely post once a week is committing to posting every. day. this month.

Goals are good, though, so check back here daily.  I will be putting out some things I've been afraid to post.  Stuff I've already written and things I've been meaning to do.  By the end of the month you will be so sick of reading cute stories about my kids and about what I think about everything that you will probably never want to come back here again.

But I hope you do because I am grateful for your friendship.  This is what will help me.  The writing.  The community.  Like a ball rolling down hill, I will be gaining strength with each post.  If you have any ideas or suggestions for what to write about, tell me here or e-mail me.

Thanks for helping me and coming along.

I really am OK.  I promise.  I would never lie here.

The Meaning Of Things

I've been a little MIA.  Not just with writing here but also with reading and commenting on other people's blogs.  You've heard all my excuses before and now is probably no different, really.  But I hate not being able to write more in general.  I am way behind, owing posts not only to myself but to other bloggers who were kind enough to tag me for a meme or ask me questions.  I need to become a more disciplined blogger.  To carve out time daily to devote to writing. 

This is a new goal for me.  But as soon as I say that, I find myself hedging.  OK, I'll start next week I think, after I am done with this scheduling quirk that has me hosting a playgroup, card club and book group all this month.  Or maybe after I feel less tired, once I hit a stride in the second trimester.  Like a dieter who keeps promising to start on Monday right after the weekend partying.

Why do I do this?  Why am I such a procrastinator?  I love blogging.  If you enjoy something then it should be easy to find time for it, right.  Nope.  Not that simple.  There is the guilt that I am spending time on a hobby, one that either replaces a proper job that I should have to contribute to our family income.  Or takes time away from my primary duties of parenting and keeping the house in order. 

The big problem is that I have too many ideas and they are too large.  I always want to tackle the deep questions and complicated posts so that I can never just finish one thing.  This has been a serious character flaw of mine for as long as I can remember.  I have to actively fight against it. 

So here I am.

When things happen in life we often hear the axiom:  Things happen for a reason.  This has a religious connotation as if a creator is over our heads orchestrating our lives.  A puppeteer deciding each person's fate.  Even when I went through my religious phase as a teenager, I always had a problem with this idea.  Why would a supreme being make a child ill with cancer?  Or cause one baseball team to beat another?  It never made sense.

As I have grown older and abandoned most religious notions, I still ponder this question.  Recently I have come to realize that what I believe is not that there is a reason for why things happen, but that instead, you can find reasons and meanings in things that happen.

I think I first became aware of this way of thinking when I read The Road Less Traveled back in my early 20's.  I was quite taken by this book.  The theory that we create our own destiny, that life is hard and must be lived in a very self-aware way in order to truly live fully.  I think back to this book when I hear Oprah say that you should have a purpose driven life.  That there are no coincidences.  Only decisions.

I believe this wholeheartedly.  This piece of The Secret.  That if you are aware and listening, you will find amazing connections and meaning in what you come across.  Maybe this sounds a little too new age-y.  But it works for me.  It is my version of religion.  This kind of spiritual connectedness that drives you to certain people and events and decisions.  If you want something or to become something different, be mindful of your choices and the influences in your life.

Today I finished our current book group selection, Name All the Animals.  This is a book I stumbled across a while ago and had suggested a few times before it was eventually chosen.  I wasn't sure if it would be any good, but I found myself absorbed in the story of the younger sister who's only sibling, her eighteen year old brother, had died suddenly in a horrific car accident.

I keep thinking about siblings and how they impact each other.  I wrote about this before when I was trying to come to a decision about whether to have another child.  Interestingly, the cover story of this week's Time Magazine is about birth order.  How the oldest siblings tend to be the most successful and the youngest are more risky and innovative.

I find this kind of thing fascinating.  I am drawn to family dynamics, psychology and sociology.

But aside from that, I can't help but notice how I was reading this powerful book at the same time that I came across the article and also heard on a podcast more about the study that says older boys are smarter than their later born siblings.

I find meaning and significance in everything.  I want to tie together ideas and things I've read and current events.  Almost everything I take in, I can then connect to something else and I start forming the flow of the words in my head.  Weaving it all together, fitting the pieces in place.

So this, in and of itself, also has meaning.  That I am supposed to do this.  To write.  To share my crazy, interconnected thoughts.  To attempt to make sense of all the seemingly disjointed things.  Maybe it isn't always timely or pretty, but it is full and complex.

And you are all meant to read it and contribute and make it even more interesting and relevant.