Just another day...

In my quest for creative freedom, I thought it might be helpful to share just what I'm up against.  Let's start with Tuesday night.  Cue 1 a.m. wake up of the 3 year old, with full on tantrum screaming in a night terror that lasted 20 minutes.  During this time, I have to hold him in full restraint from behind so that he does not bite and scratch the crap out of me.  I finally get him to bed when the toddler wakes up.  He had his vaccinations on Wednesday morning, so of course, he is going to wake up screaming with slight fever and extreme crankiness.  Around 5 a.m. I get them both back to bed.  Climb into bed myself.  Cue 6 a.m. wake up of my daughter who is getting ready for school.  Off she goes by 6:30.  I head back to bed for 2 hours while my mother-in-law (who I am grateful to for sleeping over) gets up with the babies.
Our new sitter starts today so that I can attend my writing group.  At writing group I am literally slurring my speech and feel like I am going to fall asleep in my latte.  Fight my way through, share some writing, give some feedback, and then I'm heading back to the house to relieve the sitter.  Toddler refused to nap for her, so I put him down for a shortened nap because I have to leave an hour after I get home to pick up my teenager from school early so that he can babysit so that I can take my daughter to a doctor's appointment.  A three year old who insists on running through the office jumping on chairs and a toddler who screams the entire time are my joy as I try to dismiss my eldest from school.  I leave, spewing apologies to the office staff, when my three year old tantrums in the foyer because the door with the handicapped button has already been pushed and we have to wait for it to close so that he can push the button himself.
Home again to get my teen settled with the babies, pound down 2 mugs of coffee and a 5 hour energy because I can't keep my eyes open, then off to the doctor with my daughter.  Nothing major wrong, just a slight virus, but she should stay home for the next day.
Wednesday night, bedtime.  Toddler goes down without a problem, but my threenager is repeatedly getting out of bed.  Trying to stick to the recommended system of walking him back to his bed, but have done it so much, I've already walked 1/2 mile in my own house, so I lay down with him until he falls asleep.  Quick bath because I deserve one and I haven't showered in two days, then off to bed.
Cue 2 a.m.  and I hear banging.  Said threenager is up, has turned on all the lights, and is cleaning his room and losing his shit because he can't make his bed "just right".  Convince him to come to my room to sleep, he brings with him a blanket and his now stripped off pajamas.  They must remain in a ball in between he and I in the bed and I mustn't touch them in anyway.  Try to fall asleep on 1/4 of a mattress and no pillow.
Next morning, doctor's appointment for me.  Waiting for the sitter, I happen to glance at Facebook and see I have a message.  She isn't going to make it, her daughter is sick.  It is now 25 minutes before my appointment that takes 20 minutes to get to.  Throw a diaper bag together, put jackets over the toddler and threenager's jammies, and put them in the car.  Last minute, remember to put stroller in the car.  Forgot the diaper bag.
Get to the doctor's office and it is literally the size of a closet.  No room for a stroller, though I jam it through the door anyway.  Cue toddler screaming that he wants out of the stroller.  Try to distract him with YouTube videos of trains.  9:15 appointment.  Get seen at 9:45.
Nurses insist on taking the babies and my daughter out of the room "so the doctor can concentrate".  I can hear them screaming down the hall the whole time.  Finish with the doctor, nurses bring the babies back.  My toddler is literally climbing up one woman as she tries to hold him, like trying to hold a feral cat.  I apologize profusely.  They feign understanding, but I can see "get the fuck out" in their eyes.
Driving home, my head is pounding and I am holding the steering wheel so tight my right hand goes numb.  Trying to practice my yoga breathing, but all I can think of for a mantra is "fuck".  Try to go Seinfeld with it and "serenity now" my way through.
Toddler falls asleep on the way home.  He's down for a nap now, and though I have told them repeatedly to stay downstairs, my threenager and daughter are having belly races down the stairs.  It's only a matter of time before they wake him up.  I've accomplished nothing today, save this blog, which I am writing so that I don't go insane.  I daydream of time management skills and setting boundaries as I down another cup of coffee.

Lame Duck

O.K. folks, here we are, officially in "Lame Duck" season...the time between Christmas and New Year's Eve when resolutions are born and old habits prepare to die.  I've never been one to make and keep resolutions, but this year, I'm holding myself accountable.  I really need to change my mindset.  I'm constantly stuck in this vicious circle of "brilliant" ideas that never come to fruition, closets that never get organized, kid crafts that go horribly wrong, and general malaise for everyday life.  I'm a dreamer, I spend most of my day day-dreaming of what I could be doing, should be doing, but I just hang there like a dense fog, taking up space and doing nothing.  I started this blog (years ago now) after a recommendation from a therapist to journal to motivate self-change.  I have a notebook, a sacred notebook, that I keep with me always, but it's meant for ideas, not the mundane chaos of my daily life.  I was supposed to write on this blog, to put myself out there---his thinking was that if I made my ideas public I would hold myself accountable and actually produce the things I wrote about.  Not so, my friends.  My brain is far too tricky for that...first I would only write about things I had  finished already, then I put off writing altogether because I knew I'd never accomplish the things I was writing about.  That brings me back to New Years Resolutions.
I'm like an old car...one that you have to roll and then kick-start while shifting gears.  I need momentum to get going.  I can't just whip out a resolution on New Year's Eve and start it the next day.  So I'm taking this time to build up my momentum.  Putting this experiment out there is actually kind of scary.  The accountability.  I second guess myself so often that I talk myself right out of doing the things I want to do.  This time though, I have a plan.  I've joined some online FB groups that support creativity, I bought a physical day-planner so that I can mark off and see the time I have to work on a project, and I'm in the middle of hiring a reliable sitter.
I'm hoping that this project, this time I will spend "Wrestling My Muse", will be therapeutic as well.  I tend not to be too public about it, but I do have a mental illness.  It's getting worse, not better, with age and I think that some of my depressive episodes can be linked directly to not giving fruition to an idea that's nagging me on the inside.  That said, I know that in my manic moments the ideas flow forth from an unfettered faucet and I can scarcely keep up.
So that's it friends, I'm officially on the mat.  Wrestling my soul to the ground to eek out whatever nuggets of beauty may reside inside. Wish me luck.

Reviving "Five Ways"

"Sometimes you put walls up, not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to knock them down"
-Socrates

Social Media is supposed to bring people together, but how often do you really connect with somebody online?  Our communication has been broken down into "like" and "dislike" buttons, short acronyms, emoji's, and one line responses.  How often do we mindfully attend to those around us?  To our social circles online?  How often do we come away from reading our updates feeling full-filled?

We have witnessed many stories over this year of violence and unrest because people feel they are not being heard.  They feel alone, angry.  They turn to violence because it is the only outlet that receives attention.  Occasionally though, there is that one story.  The one person who stopped a chain of horrific events with one act of bravery.  The one person who prevented a suicide with a simple act of kindness.  Lives can be changed.  Because of one person.

That moment when you connect with another human being can alter your thinking and change the course of your life.  When it looks as though there is nothing left to live for, when the future looks bleak, a smile, a wave, a friendly glance can repair a soul and feed a starving heart.

Taking a moment to be present in your life can have a ripple effect.  Your kindness leads to another kindness and another until there are waves of kindness sweeping the nation.  We all want to be heard. We all want to be recognized.  We all want to know that we matter.  To someone.

Last year around this time I tried a little experiment called "Five Ways".  I asked friends on Facebook to choose 5 people to private message.  Five people that they hadn't spoken to in a while, or maybe had recently had a falling out with.  I asked that in that message, tell the person in a short letter five ways that that they have had an impact on your life.  Anything from them having shared the best recipe for sugar cookies to having cheered you up with a funny meme when they thought you were having a bad day.  I think that today is a great day to bring that back.  Let's focus on what's really important:  those people that touch our lives.  This year I would like to dedicate the "Five Ways" campaign to my dear friend and former student, Peter Benn.  Peter taught me to slow down and appreciate the simpler things in life:  holding hands, laughing, singing, snuggling, and how important it is to know that you can always "lean on those you love".  Please take a moment and join me in this endeavor.  Scroll through your email lists or your phone contacts or your FB friends and chose five people to reach out to.  Tell each person five ways that they have touched your life, helped shape who you are, or how they may have helped you without even knowing it.  It only takes a moment and it could mean the world to somebody.  Many people fight silent battles every day, battles that nobody around them knows they are fighting.  A kind word from a friend, even if you haven't spoken in years, can be just the thing that turns their lives around.  If you know about hashtags, you can re-post this with the hashtag #fiveways.

Flash Fiction Friday

Having just come off of a month of writing with NaNoWriMo, I'm trying to keep the momentum going with a "Flash Fiction Friday".  I've never tried to write a "crime" story before, so I thought I'd give it a try.  If you have the time, I'd love some feedback. 

The Job

He wakes up at five in the morning with a heavy heart.  Silently, as to not wake his wife, he slides out of bed and dresses; she murmurs “I love you” in her sleepy state anyway.  He goes to the kitchen, starts the coffee, and brings the steaming mug out onto the back porch.  The crisp morning air helps him to wake and he looks out over the trees at the rising sun.  He says a silent prayer, finishes the coffee, heads inside.  He grabs his keys, locks the doors, and starts the car.

At work he checks in and is given his assignment.  He fills a Styrofoam to-go mug with less-than-stellar coffee and nods to his coworker who’s heading out the door.  The place is bustling with activity, even at this early hour.  He keeps his head down to avoid the perky receptionist, who always has too much to say.

Today he’ll be working the rural areas, down by the schools, the back roads and the quiet homes.  He can’t help it, but he feels a certain relief in that.  Quiet is safe.  Quiet is good.  That said, he never shies away from Danger.

The Man gets in his car and starts to drive.  The sun is now fully in it’s rightful place in the sky and the world is live with October color.  It’s kind of relaxing, driving with the sun shining and the brilliant leaves blowing by.  He circles through the first neighborhood.  Children are out waiting for buses.  Mothers in big sweaters and pajama bottoms hold steaming mugs as they watch over their babies.  Most of the kids wave as he drives by and he waves back with a smile.  For the little boy in the blue house, he flashes the lights.  Just once.  

Out of the neighborhood he continues his route.  Down the winding back roads he comes behind a silver Honda, speeding, but not recklessly.  He falls in behind the car, pacing it.  The driver notices and slows to a near crawl.  At the the fork in the road, they go their separate ways.

Another road, another neighborhood.  He crawls through, looking for anything out of the ordinary.  Most folks are off to work at this point.  He guards their treasures while they are gone, one house at a time, until he’s sure all is well.

Back at the neighborhood entrance, he falls in line behind a white Oldsmobile.  He can see The Driver glancing once...twice...three times in the mirror to look back at him.  Instinct and protocol, those are the two things The Man has to go on, and this time instinct is telling him that something is not right.  The driver turns left.  So does The Man.

The Driver drives slowly, almost too slow, following the winding road farther and farther from the houses, then pulls suddenly into the school parking lot.  The Man stays behind him.  As he drives, he types The Driver’s license tag number into his computer.  Nothing comes up.  But still, that nagging feeling is there.  The Driver parks.  Sits for a minute.  He’s looking around a lot, glancing back at The Man who keeps his car running a few yards away.  The Man can see The Driver now, he’s young.  Maybe twenty.  Maybe younger.  The Driver cracks a window and starts to smoke, then suddenly puts his car in gear and pulls off.  The Man follows.

They drive further down the road, to a less populated area.  The Driver starts to pick up speed, he’s weaving slightly over the line at the curves in the road.  Still pacing the car, The Man makes note of the speed.  “That feeling” is washing over his body.  Something is not right.  The Driver is now looking back at The Man more than he’s looking forward.  The Driver misses a stop sign at an empty intersection.  Now is The Man’s chance.

He flicks on the lights and siren.  The car speeds up for a moment, then slows and pulls off onto the shoulder of the road.  The Man makes notes on the make and model and calls in to headquarters that he is making a traffic stop.  Still “that feeling” is eating at him.  He says one more silent prayer and opens the car door.

One hand on his weapon, the other in a non-threatening open gesture, he approaches the driver’s side door of the Oldsmobile car.  He can see The Driver, just looking down, head hung low.  The window is still up.  The Man reaches out and knocks on it three times.

No response from the driver.  Not even a flinch.

The Man knocks again, this time shouting a little to be heard, “License and registration please, Son”.

Nothing.

“That feeling” is welling up, but duty pushes him forward.  He can see now that The Driver is no more than a teenager, maybe eighteen.  His hands are on his lap.  The Man leans forward to get a better look inside the car.  He sees a blue duffle bag on the front seat.  A long black raincoat in the backseat.  He can faintly hear music playing.

This time The Man shouts quite loudly “Son, you need to step out of the car.  Now.”

The Driver turns to look at him, his eyes blank, his mouth in an eerie crooked smile.  He rolls down the window.

“Sorry, Officer.  My favorite song.  What did you say?”

The Man repeated his request, stepping back in the proper stance, hand still on his weapon.  The Driver smiles again and turns to reach across himself and unbuckle his seat belt.  He then unlocks the door and kicks it open.  The Man flinches for a second, only a second, but doesn’t react more than that.  The Driver steps out of the car, then leans against it, cocky.

“What’s the problem officer?” he asks, with a wry smile.

“You blew through that stop sign, son.  Didn’t you see it?”

The Driver just stares at him.

“Please turn around, son.  I’m going to detain you and search your car.”  Protocol.

The Driver laughs.  “The hell you are.  I haven’t done anything wrong.  Just write me a ticket.  I know my rights, Officer”.  He says the last word with a drawn-out snarky drawl.

“Kid, turn and face the car” the Man repeats, keeping his tone strong and even and reaching behind him for the cuffs.

The Driver hangs his head, as if in defeat.  Then everything changes.

The Driver lunges at The Man, knocking him back but not over.  They start to struggle.  The Man repeats his command for The Driver to put his hands behind his back.  To stop resisting.  The Driver headbutts The Man square in the chin and then suddenly The Man feels a sharp burning in his arm.  He ignores it and wrestles The Driver to the ground.  With his knee in The Driver’s back, he twists the kid’s arms behind him and applies the handcuffs.  The kid is swearing and spitting and calling The Man every foul name in the book.  The Man hits the button on his shoulder, calling for back up.  He hoists The Driver to his feet and pushes him front first into the back of the car.  He spread the kid’s legs and pats him down from head to toe.  He finds a wallet and a pack of mangled cigarettes.  With the kid spitting and still spewing obscenities, he carefully places him in the back of the cruiser and closes the door.  

The Man realizes that his arm is still burning.  He looks down and sees blood trickling down his hand from under his sleeve.  He reaches up to the top side of his bicep and feels warmth and wetness through the tear in his uniform.  He swears to himself and calls in for a Medic.

He approaches the Oldsmobile once again.  On the pavement where the scuffle occurred lies a black box cutter, blade protruding, covered in his blood.  He walks to the back of his cruiser and takes out an evidence bag.  Carefully, he uses the bag to pick up the knife and lets it fall inside.  He lays the bag on the trunk of the Oldsmobile car.

The second cruiser arrives and the officer notices that The Man is bleeding.  The Man shakes off his concern and starts to lean in to inspect the car.  The second officer approaches the car from the passenger side and removes the duffle bag and places it on the hood.  They continue to search through the car.  They find nothing else, save the black raincoat, which the Man brings out to the hood as well.

The second officer opens the duffle bag and lets out an audible “Fuck”.  Hidden under a couple of t-shirts is a small arsenal.  A Glock, A Sig, and a Hunting rifle.  There are plenty of bullets for each.

The Man puts his hands in the pockets of the rain jacket.  He pulls out a folded piece of paper.  He unfolds it and reads with widening eyes.

“Today is a day that will go down in history.  Evil shall overcome when good men do nothing.  Good men, they do nothing.”

The Man gingerly places the note in an evidence bag and hands it to the second officer to read.

“Shit, Man” he says “You saved the fucking day”.  

If only it were so simple.  

In the weeks to come, The Man is placed on administrative leave siting unlawful arrest and police brutality.  The Driver is claiming that he was using the box cutter to defend himself against The Man.  He is claiming that the items that The Man found in his car, that they were for shooting practice and hunting.  The town is divided; the kid comes from “a good home”.  Nobody seems to see that the guns were real, that the bullets were real.  The kid suffered a few bruises, but his parents are screaming for The Man’s badge.  The Man’s supervisor thinks everything will be fine once they get to Court.  The Man only hopes that is true.  

The Man sits on his back porch a lot now.  His cut is healing, but the damage to his muscle will need physical therapy.  He keeps to himself a lot, sitting silently, looking over his backyard at the trees and the birds.  He keeps wondering how different things would be if he had just written the ticket and walked away.  He wonders if the kid had pulled into the school for a reason, a reason other than getting the police car off his tail.  He wonders where the kid had really been headed.  He wonders if maybe, and this is a big maybe, if maybe he really had gotten the whole thing wrong.  He takes a sip of coffee, leans back, and doesn’t really think so.

 

The Choice

I had a choice today.  I was out running errands with two toddlers and they were getting cranky.  I needed a gallon of milk and a pound of ground beef for dinner.  I was dreading going to the big grocery store, certain of the tantrums and bribing that were going to try my patience and my wallet.  The skies were clouding over and a rain shower was impending and I didn’t relish the idea of carting the kids through a busy parking lot either.  The grocery store was coming up on my right, and I was just about to turn in, when I thought of Provisions in Downtown Waxhaw.  

Provisions is the kind of store that you think only exists in the quaint small towns of 50's sitcoms.  It sits in a quiet brick building at 107 W. South Main Street.  There are bells on the brilliant green doors that jingle as you pass into the store.  The music is loud, but inviting.  They played a particularly cool bluegrass cover of the Pixies “Where is my Mind?” (if the owner, Tyler, reads this, please let me know who it was by!).  The shop was busy, but not crowded.  The lunch crew was bustling about, taking orders.  

My son bolted for the games set up on the tables in front of the windows.  I hesitated for a moment, then decided it was better to leave him occupied then drag him around the store.  A few minutes later I heard a crash and ran back up front, dreading the scene.  But Tyler (the owner), sat down with my son and assured me there was no problem.  It was just the Connect Four game, he’d let the pieces crash onto the table.

I was starving, so I ordered a cup of tomato soup and the cheeseburger pizza to go.  I then grabbed my pound of ground beef and looked for some raw sugar, but there was none on the shelf.  I went up to pay, forgetting my milk.  The cashier, Hannah, was so friendly!  We got to talking and I remembered the milk.  Then, upon mentioning the sugar, the staff and Tyler went out of their way to go and package some up for me out back.  While I was waiting I saw that they had the dark cocoa dusted almonds that I love, and being in such a good mood from the music and the friendly staff, I added a super big M&M cookie from See Jane Bake to my order (for the kids, really…).

While waiting for the sugar, I got to have a nice conversation with Hannah, who, it turns out, spent a few years living in Massachusetts, which is where I’m originally from.  We spoke about how much we enjoy life in Waxhaw, the people and the sense of community, and how we both try to support local businesses and local farms whenever we can.  I love seeing pictures of the chickens that lay my eggs on Facebook.  They’re running around, truly cage free, in the grass and sunshine.  They look happy.  

My toddler started fussing (he was overdue for a nap).  One of the other staff asked if he could have a lollipop, which cheered him up immediately.  She gave a pop to both of my kids and they stayed quiet (and happy) for the rest of the time I was there.

Provisions also has a loyalty card.  Each time you shop and spend at least $20 on their products, you get a percentage off of your total order (5, 10, 15, and 20 percent).  I’ve already gone through one card, and when it gets to that 20 percent, you see a significant difference.  All without clipping coupons.  All while supporting your neighbors.

I had a choice today.  To support big business or shop local.  Now, did I spend more money than if I had shopped at the grocery store?  Maybe.  Did I make some impulse purchases?  Absolutely.  But my purchases are making a difference.  They are supporting my neighbors, my community, the place I call home.  I love Waxhaw just the way it is.  If we don’t support these local businesses, the Wal-marts and Targets of the world are going to swoop in and take over.  Main street won’t be main street anymore.  Too me, that’s a cost I’m not willing to pay.

https://www.facebook.com/provisions

https://www.facebook.com/See-Jane-Bake

How do YOU do it?

Who would think that striking balance in your life could be such an elusive goal?  I was speaking with a friend a few weeks ago, about the “used-to’s”.  You know, the conversations we have as Stay-At-Home-Moms about the things we “used to” do.  Juggling a job along with a husband, and children. Writing reports while making dinner.  Managing other adults instead of teams of toddlers. But it’s not reminiscing in that “God, I wish I were doing that instead of this” way, but more of a “What the hell happened---where did those skills go?” kind of way.  

I am always striving to be present, but have so many places to be present in.  My life as a mother.  My life as a wife.  My place as a writer and creative being.  Sometimes I get so depressed, looking at my dog-eared notebook of ideas and story-starters (the dog ears are for the “really good” ideas that I’m really going to do...someday).  Most days I’m so utterly exhausted, I don’t think I can read another story, build another train track, wipe another tear away.  

I guess, what I’m saying is: How do YOU all do it?  You Mama-bloggers and musicians and artists?  I feel like it’s something I want to recapture, that part of myself, but I’m at a loss as to how.  I thought starting this blog would motivate me (it hasn’t).   Every time I sit down to write or paint or play music, I feel this instant guilt.  Almost as if my body is crying out for an interruption, my hearing becomes canine-esque in it’s ability to zone in on the slightest unhappiness beckoning for my attention.  Is it really as simple as setting aside five minutes a day?  Do you hire sitters?  Do you involve your children? What do you do when your family constantly interrupts you?  Will I ever really find the time to finish all of those half-finished projects in my desk and scattered about my garage?  

I’m blessed to have so many inspirational women in my life...so I’m asking you all, how do you do it?

The Shame of Mommy Shame

It's been so long since I bared my soul on here.  I think about this blog a lot, and how I neglect it, like I feel that I neglect each of my 5 kids.  Which is also a contradiction, because I live for my children.  Their needs always come first.  I can't tell you how many times I've heard the advice 'take care of yourself first, then taking care of your family will be easier and more fulfilling".   But how the fuck do you do it?  Anytime I take a minute to myself, whether to use the bathroom or jot down an idea in my notebook, I'm instantly bombarded by thousands of tiny voices telling me "you should be nurturing his preschool mind, you should be singing to the baby, you should be having a heart to heart with your preteen".  I feel like I am in a constant rush against time, that if I don't suck the childhood marrow out of every moment, if I don't make the perfect Mommy decisions, my kids will suffer the consequences. 
Being a bipolar parent sucks.  I knew it was going to be hard, but not this hard.  I've worked extremely hard to ensure that my kids have a much better family life than I had growing up.  They've never felt pain, they're rarely denied their whims and wishes, they've never been dealt anything but love.  But I fear I have gone too far.  I never thought of it as "spoiling" my children, we don't "over indulge", but I never saw the problem of letting them pick out snacks at the grocery store, or have a cell phone (it is the digital age), or play sports or buy name brand clothes.  They're generally good kids.  They get good grades and they are respectful of (other) adults.  But, I have NO time to myself.  My needs are never met.  They just walk all over me.  And I let them.
The creativity that accompanies bipolar is probably the worst aspect that interferes with my parenting.  I have this constant flow of ideas that bombard my brain day in and day out.  I want to embrace them, be the most fun Mommy out there, but I never have the time.  I Pinterest.  I follow Facebook and Instagram.  Then I isolate myself and stay away from all social media.  Sometimes it depresses me;  I see all of those happy Mommies doing hands on projects and teaching art and math and science while they cook dinner.  And I think "Fuck, I could be doing that.  I should be doing that".  And I feel that Mommy Shame.  And I cry.   And  I lash out.  Because I should be better.
That's the irony in all of this.  The yelling and the depression and the episodes of instability are all related to wanting to be the best Mom I can be.  I spend the majority of my therapy sessions discussing parenting strategies INSTEAD of what's been wrong with me.  It's like this (forgive the pun) crazy defense mechanism.  I can't delve in to the problems I'm having because they just aren't that important.  But the problem is, they are. 
I read an article tonight on Scary Mommy called "Hitting the Breaking Point" by Toni Hammer.  It was one of those instances when the author IS you.  There's no getting around it.  And I cried, because I have the same options she does.  I just don't know how to take them.