sueeeus

The way he says, “Mama?”, staccato with the emphasis on the last syllable, and a tone so sweet it can make my heart burst.

my sweet nature boy

The way he says, “Mama”, long and drawn with the emphasis on the first syllable, and a tone so sweet it can make my heart burst.

tiger beat

The way he can entertain himself for hours with sticks and leaves and rocks.

ceaseless fascination

The way he can entertain himself for hours with pots and containers and lids.

water child

The way he’s so full of life that he can’t contain himself.

dancing to the beat of his own drummer

The way he so enjoys the moment, that departure therefrom is epic tragedy.

the prince holds court

The pictures he draws for me.

poetry in motion

The food he shares with me.

when you drink from a big boy cup

Motherhood.

It’s a love that aches, a love that makes your heart burst, a love that makes your soul sing.  A love that holds the hopes and dreams and cares and responsibilities of the lives you’ve been entrusted with.

les petites choses

To protect and nurture.  To impart knowledge, consideration, compassion, and respect.  To raise up well.  It’s no small thing, this job, and there are so many versions of how it should be done.

I am doing my best.

And my boys, though they have their moments, are good, good boys.

Sometimes I feel as though I’m spread too thin and I just don’t know how to hold it all together.

I want to be able to give my kids the kind of attention that they need without being manipulated by them.  I want to give them love and support, and I want to nurture them, but I also want to give them direction and I want them to learn to respect others and to be obedient.  I so want them to grow up to be good, upstanding people in this world.

I also want to be able to give due attention to my new found love, and to nurture this relationship so that it can grow and flourish.  I so want it to work.

And I’d also like to give myself some attention, in which I can somehow recharge my weary self so that I have something to even give to the people in my life.

I’m recognizing that when Skills is here, my boys behave badly; there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Clearly, they are competing for attention, and choosing the path of least resistance, which has the most immediate attention-winning potential, albeit negative attention.  I have to be swift and immediate when administering correction.  Everything is disrupted, and in the end, nobody is happy.  It’s exhausting, especially to my gentle, harmony-seeking soul.

Today I had some time alone with BB, and it was nice.  He behaved well, for the most part.  We painted some of the living room while LB napped.

I love his drawings

He was so worried about getting into trouble, he didn’t want to tell me if he spilled a drop of paint, or got some paint on his fingers.  Bless his precious little heart.  The boy is constantly in trouble for not listening or helping himself without asking or not sharing or complaining about what’s for dinner.  He loves to draw, and I’m thrilled to see his confidence and ability grow as he draws and draws and draws.  He’s got great imagination, and I try to let him know how much I like his drawings.  I save almost all of them.  Some day when he’s older I will show him, and he will know that even though he may remember me barking at him constantly, I was always loving and appreciating him.

the artist at work

He doesn’t know that I watch him when he draws.  I see him, intent on his work, and my heart swells with a mixture of emotions — some joy, some wistfulness, much love.  My little boy, alone, entertaining himself.  I need to be more interactive with him, somehow.  Somehow.

Later, BB was tired and LB was wide awake, so I brought LB downstairs with me, snuggled him next to me on the sofa under a soft blanket and we nibbled on crackers together.  He was so happy, there in my arms.  It was sweet to have some one-on-one time with him.  I got to fill up on toddler sweetness, as he’d raise his beautiful little face to look at me and giggle as we ‘talked’ about how yummy the crackers were.

It’s amazing how small moments as these can be so energizing and healing.  To share positive attention with my children, to hug them, tell them I love them, smile into their eyes –these things are so fulfilling.  And yet, somehow, moments like these seem so few and far between.

How I wish I could figure out how to balance it all, how to see and assess the moments and deflect or divert situations before they escalate or explode.  It’s like I’m a bomb squad of one, under constant pressure to figure out whether to cut the red wire or the blue wire.  Or maybe the white one.  Unless there’s a green one.  Or it could be the black one.  It’s exhausting.

I have about ten drafts hanging out around here.  Some go back a few years, even.  This one I started last November, but it mostly still applies.  It seems that my emotional state tends to be somewhat of a broken record, anyway.  So here goes.

I wish I had somebody to talk to right now, but since I’m a blubbering fool, I wouldn’t be able to speak coherently anyway. I do have someone to talk to, several, in fact, and I’m truly grateful — yet I don’t always feel like I’m truly understood.  It would be nice to be understood.

~*~*~*~

It can be a serious character flaw, to want to please one and all.  It would behoove me to grow a backbone.  It could come in handy both in my professional life and my personal life.  Instead of standing tall, puffing out my chest, and deflecting the onslaught with wisdom and grace, I take it, and take it, and keep on taking it.  But later, I have to pay the piper.  It all goes inside and churns away at me so that I find myself short of breath.

I wish I could be like Superman.  The way he soars up, up, and away, closer to the sun, folds his arms across his chest, closes his eyes, and rests and recharges.  Then he’s all strong and rejuvenated, and ready to blaze into action.  Me, I hear the cacophony of demands, wails, criticisms, insinuations, whines, expectations, opinions and complaints, but rather than filter through it and find the nuggets of goodness, I feel as though I’ve got kryptonite shrapnel embedded all through me, and I’m incapacitated so that all I can do is curl into fetal position while I’m kicked around, hoping for it to end, searching my mind and my will for some fragment of strength to hold onto and pull myself up, up, out and away from this mess.

Is it very helpful to be told I should be stronger?  Not much.

I commented to some of my work friends that I should develop a shell to shut these things out, but they almost all said that if I did, it should be selective to only those necessary.   In a way, that’s a heartening thing to hear.  It perhaps supports that there is value and merit in the kindness and softness that exposes my vulnerabilities.

~*~*~*~

What’s in a name?  I’m wanting to change my name.  I didn’t have it changed in the divorce, because I didn’t have any hard feelings toward Gadget at the time, apart from the simple fact that the marriage absolutely had to end.  Mainly, the kids have the same name, so I thought it would be less confusing as we go through life to have the same name.

However.  As time goes by,  and shades of character unveil, I find myself wanting to remove all traces, insomuch as is possible.

I could take back my maiden name, but I hesitate to do that.  I think that I associate it with an identity of who I used to be, rather than who I am.  That was someone from a previous life.  Someone who wasn’t as sure of herself as I’d wished her to be.

It raises the question, ‘Who am I?’  Which prompts the response, ‘24601’.  What if I changed my name to Valjean?

Sueeeus Maximus Valjean.

I kind of like it.  People will think I’m whacked.  Which, maybe I am.  My dead brother would totally get it, though.  He’d dig it.

~*~*~*~

BB has told me several times lately that he wants me to become a vampire so that I “don’t never die”.  It troubles me somewhat that my mortal demise is so prevalent in his thoughts.

~*~*~*~

I do need to be stronger.  I get that.  I just don’t want to be told.  It’s another one of those character flaws.  I’m pretty sure that if I could get rested, I might just be stronger.  It’s so elusive, though, is rest.  Meanwhile, the children call.  I hear the youngest crying.

How one word can represent so many things.

A substantial part of what I do for a living is evaluate things for reasonability.

With interpersonal relationships, I expect reasonability.  I don’t get it, but I expect it.  It would seem that it would be a reasonable expectation.

I had such a busy work day yesterday.  I have to say that I rocked, considering the quantity and diversity of things I had to do.   And I did it all.  I pulled it off.  Sometimes I astound myself, because seriously, I don’t know how I managed it, except that I was in the zone.  And in the midst of the fray, I received an advance copy of the magazine in which my article is published.

It’s just a short article, and it’s been revised so many times I can hardly recognize it any more.  It’s probably crap, mostly, and boring to read.  Even so, there’s no way to explain the magnitude of what that small article represents –how much energy and life was consumed in that project.  My marriage gave up the ghost while that project came to life.

Volumes of life, my life and breath, reduced to a few pages.  It’s small, probably trivial to most, but it means something to me.  I have a small sense of pride and accomplishment.  I worked so hard.  And then I got to write about it, for the world to see.  These things don’t happen every day.  There are only so many writing opportunities in my sphere.    (Actually, I write all day, every day, in one form or another, but it’s not the stuff for glossy print.)

The moments in the spotlight are few and far between, and I don’t seek the spotlight anyway.  I did get a moment of glory, way back when, though.  It was exciting, but in all honesty, I didn’t think I did anything that remarkable.  I was just doing my job, and my team happened to be involved in something that got a lot of attention at the time.

Even so, it’s kind of fun to have this yellowed newspaper article stashed away in my memorabilia.  Few and far between, indeed.  Twenty years span these two accomplishments.

All in all, I think I’ve done well for myself.  It’s not the career I intended –how many years I obstinately refused to call my job a career!  Only in the past few years have I acknowledged that it is, after all, a career.  The better part of my life.  Twenty four years.  It’s turned out well;  I am so fortunate, so blessed!  I’m as high as I can go.

I think that means that I have arrived.

Yay me.

Words of wisdom uttered by my mother. I don’t remember the context of those words, or why she’d use them, but she used them enough for me to associate them with her, even though it is a quite common phrase.

I am ultra sensitive. I always have been. I am happiest when those around me are happy. Like a chameleon, I reflect the moods of those I am near. It’s not necessarily a good thing. I’m empathetic. It can be a good thing, but it’s not always constructive. It could be constructive if I would remain vigilant and understand but not react to the emotions around me. But often, I’m not vigilant, and when that happens, then it doesn’t serve me (or anyone) well at all. My own fault.

It would serve me better to be a beacon. A light shining brightly, impervious to its surroundings. I have light within me. A fantastic light. I should let it shine brightly. As the children’s song goes. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

In so doing, I might just shield myself from the misperception of words and emotions wielded by those around me. And for the onslaught of words and emotions that are deliberate and not misperceived, I can just consider the source, and keep on shining.

Oh, if only I had the presence of mind and discipline of emotion to hold on and ride the wave of effervescent new love, never to let go. If only. It’s so glorious, to be distracted from the confines of everyday life and whisked away to new levels of thrill. Such a fantastic high.

I wish I knew how to hold on to that, and not let the other things take root. The nits, the picks, the responsibilities, the obligations, the necessities. Not to mention the blind sided attacks of emotion, mood swings, embittered exes. The small things that turn into monumental things, like missed communications and mis-communications. Assumptions here and there. Careless! Taking things for granted. How deftly these things can creep in and take hold! One must remain vigilant, in order to keep the home fires burning strong.

Picture a potter at the wheel. The wheel spins, and the artist has the clay under control, taking shape, a beautiful form. Such a fine, fine balance, because if the artist falters for even a moment, what was a work of beauty, exquisite in form, is suddenly ruined. Ruined, in the blink of an eye. Thank God my life isn’t necessarily that extreme, and nothing is truly ruined. Oh, but there is often much damage control to be run, and the running thereof is nothing short of exhausting.

These are the four agreements. Be impeccable with your word. Don’t take anything personally. Don’t make assumptions. Always do your best. These are the things I try to remind myself, to keep myself in check.

I’m trying to be a good parent, a good role model, a good example, a good friend, a good partner, a good person. I don’t make everybody happy all of the time. I wish I could. It makes me happy, for those in my sphere to be happy, and to know that I contribute to their happiness.

Happiness should be easy. It’s all about love.

But sometimes it doesn’t seem easy at all.

Sometimes.

Maybe it’s because I am just. so. tired.

Orchids - Commissioned for my birthday by one sister and lovingly arranged and delivered by the other. Exquisite.

First, begin the day by saying good morning and squeezing all the people you love.  Get the children to jump on the sleeping man and wake him up.  Take an ancient opiate pill hoarded from long past surgery to ward off the headache and also to determine if any pain killing effects remain, in preparation for future events.  Fill the grownups with good strong coffee.  Feed the children waffles.  Ascertain that the ancient opiate pill was past its point of efficacy.  Drive to the country, stomp about in mud and muck, feed the ponies and the mules from your outstretched hands.  Pack the children in the mini-van and follow the biker dude as he rides his classic chopper through winding country roads.  Look mom, no hands!  Crazy man.  Happy man.  He turns heads.  Arrive home, safe, sound, intact.  Admire the one you love as he admires the ones he loves –Snow White and Black Beauty, the sports car and the chopper, adorning the driveway.  Wash muddy clothes and shoes.  Venture out to buy fishing licenses in preparation of many fun days ahead.  Goodies for the children at Dairy Queen.  Visit Home Depot to look at outdoor grills.  Buy the super deluxe whiz bang stainless steel version.   Make a big production of going to the paint section to pick up two 5-gallon paint stirring sticks to construct the paddle threatening device for misbehaving 5  year olds.  Make impressive and dramatic whacking sounds in demonstration of what’s to come, should resident 5 year olds continue to behave badly.  Pack everything in the mini-van –super deluxe grill, three children and two adults.  Return home to briefly regroup (edited to omit any child meltdowns that might possibly have taken place).  Take two of the previously determined to be ineffective opiate pills in hopes that they will work.  Reload the mini-van with four adults and three children, drop the children off with their cousins, and let the grown up activities begin.  Cheerfully overlook the dismay that the opiates were a waste of time.

Visit a tattoo and piercing venue and indulge in some self-mutilation.  Nervous anticipation.  But it didn’t hurt more than a pin prick.  (Or maybe the opiates had some juice left in them after all.)

diamonds are forever

Feast on seafood.  I even had a pint of beer –Guinness stout on tap. (Pictured is a flagon of Stella.)

We devoured the whole mess!  And after, a round of Yukon Jack (a very sweet whiskey).

my own carnage

Collect the children.  Take note of the fuchsia nail polish adorning the 5 year old boys’ fingernails.  Motor back to home base, shuffle the children off to bed, and spend the next couple of hours chatting amongst the adults, drinking shots of espresso, tequila, or both.  Say goodbye to friends.  Collapse.  Say goodnight to the one you love.  Sleep.

~*~*~*~

Wake up at 3 a.m.  feeling wired, guilty and remorseful for having exposed one’s system to more drugs and alcohol in one day than in the past five years combined.  Load the dishwasher, to at least be a little constructive, and make mental note of gratitude at not having a spinning aching head or retching stomach, while pondering the latency of the espresso effects.  Return to bed to attempt to get some rest.

Broken families.  They are everywhere.  What is it about people, some people, that they play push-me-pull-you with the children and use them for leverage?  Can they not look past their own pride or agendas and see the selfishness?  Do they think the children are oblivious to these things?  Such fools.  It makes me so angry.

Gadget’s not taking the kids next weekend, since he supposedly has work commitments.  I tend to think he’s intentionally trying to put a wrench in any plans that Skills and I might have.  I don’t know this, so maybe it’s not a fair assumption.  Considering the source, along with previous behaviors, though, it’s not an invalid assumption.

Skills’ ex (ex-wife, and mother of his daughter, as opposed to scorned STD-drama ex-girlfriend), has asked that he take his daughter next weekend, because she had such a good time last weekend, and it would be great for her to spend more time with her dad.  That’s great!  Really, it IS.  He’s a bit put off by the timing, because he wanted to do something special for me.  Birthday weekend and all.  You know, a holy day.  [His words, and I think it’s sweet.]

I say we make the most of it, and do something fun with all of our children.  It will be sweet.  It will be great.  (Just let me have some cake, okay?)

A birthday spent with people I love.  What could be better than that?

The travail comes from not knowing if the ex has got something up her sleeve, not knowing if she’s going to yank the rug out from under his feet and not let him see his girl for who knows how long.  She’s done it before, so he’s concerned she’ll do it again.  It puts him in a difficult place. Because it’s manipulation.  Just like Gadget.   They’re both trying to manipulate us in their own respective ways.

I say, make the most of it.  We don’t know what the others will do, what agendas they may have, what tricks they might pull.  We should just maximize the time that we do have, make the most of it, throw our arms about our kids, squeeze them tight, say I love you, and have some fun.  Live fully the moments that we have.

Besides that, when these people see that their games and manipulations don’t affect us, that we go on living joyfully and embracing whatever comes our way, they are the ones confounded in the end.

Take that.

(And God bless the children and help us, who are trying to be good parents, have the wisdom, patience, and presence of mind to give them all that they need, and to shield them from the conflict.)