Feeling Down

Yup. Feeling down, sorry for myself, and just plain old tired. It has been a helluva year. Trey was deployed (again)...and I am proud to say that I survived. I forget to pat myself on the back for some of these things. Instead I like to focus on all the help I had and the things that I could have done better. Why so hard on myself? Not sure. Age old question, and one that I plan on tackling real soon.

Is my current mood because we have relocated again? This time to Annapolis, MD. Another move. Another ball of emotions - leaving loved ones and friends behind, and the stress of making new contacts and a support system in our new home community. Honestly seems like the "home" word is really the ultimate thing in question. Am I doing a good enough job of creating a "home", as mobile as it may be, for my kiddos. If I didn't have to worry about the decisions of normal life (which school for kids to go to, where to live, associating and becoming part of our temporary community) over and over again would I spend more or less time on worrying about the bigger things.

And, although Trey is currently physically here and in his dream job which makes him figuratively not "here", I really feel like I am doing it alone making the decisions all the more mine...and with that the feelings of responsibility and guilt.

Feeling so wrong about my decisions to take Cole in for evaluation. We have gone through so many doctors and not a one is definitive about him. Who knew medicine was an art form? I think he just may be a normal 7 year old boy with an attitude and demeanor thrust upon him by his genetic coding. We now know he doesn't have AS (today), now the news is ADHD...I don't know. New pediatrician wants another evaluation. So tired. Tired more for Cole. Really, more testing? Again, no problems ever noted at school. Is this all me? I just want him to be happy and carefree. Hmmmm...??? Carefree might be a stretch...again, because of his genetic make up. Case in point.

I'm tired. I feel like I can't do anything good...maintaining friendships, parenting, partnering.

I need to take a step back and really look at the positive. Focus. Appreciate. Be thankful.

Help.

Oh yes, and it is hardly helpful for my feelings of inadequacy to be surrounded by mothers that home school. Did I miss the boat on this one?

Boojiboo Flirty Apron GUEST GIVEAWAY!!!!

Boojiboo Flirty Apron GUEST GIVEAWAY!!!!

Such a throw back...love this!

Time Keeps Marching

Cole graduated from Kindergarten today. Watching him perform his songs up on stage reminded my how much he resembles his father: same mannerisms, same gait, same "fidgety staring off into space" type of attitude. They are so similar, and I think both are ready for a good old daddy and son reunion. Still counting down the days until Trey's homecoming, but today reminds me to stop and smell the roses. Cole has grown so much, and I don't want to under appreciate any of my precious time with my children. Congratulations my little boy.

My Pink Satin Sheets

I am eagerly counting down the days to Trey's arrival. We are finally at a point where the goons and I can bear to make a count down chain now that the number of links on the chain can easily be draped around our banister rather than wrapped around the national deficit (just kidding).

I have done a number of things to help make the countdown go faster for me, or, I should say, have tried. I always feel that the home stretch is the part of the deployment that crawls by at a snail's pace. So, I have merged two lurking vices in my life to help get me by: my insatiable need to make lists, and the ever present feeling that I will never have enough time to accomplish the tasks on my said lists. With a list (one thing for each day we have left of deployment), it is a sure bet that I will complain and find that there is really NOT enough time before Trey's arrival to put a check in every item's little "done" box. So, I win either way.

Many components of my list are goals and tasks to get the house back to 'Trey ready' status: get my clothes off his side of the closet, remember the bathroom will need to be shared upon his return so get my crap out of his drawer space, clean out garage, tackle household filing and shredding, stock refrigerator, blah, blah, blah. . .

Nearing the end of my list construction, there was one item I knew I needed to add but literally I started to mist over at the thought; I really really really want my husband back, but I don't want to take my pink satin sheets off our bed. Yes, I bought my pink satin sheets the day that Trey left for deployment. It was something special and symbolic to me of carrying on by myself. An indulgence of pure girlishness. A luxury that comforted me on those nights I fell into bed exhausted and frustrated. No matter how difficult the day, I could look forward to the welcome of my soft pale pink heaven to help make me face another day. I will happily divulge my sheet secret to any other military wife who may ask for a deployment survival tip.

Yet, I know I must say goodbye to my sheets before Trey returns. In a way, I think I may have a hard time sharing them with him, ever. Difficult to put into words, but they are one thing that was just mine during his absence. Is this selfish? Doesn't really matter. Even if I kept them on, I have a funny feeling that Trey would make a, albeit cute and missed, scrunchy face that would permeate, "I love you but I am not that comfortable with my masculinity to sleep on these way too girlie sheets".

So, Item #50: Remove lovely pink sheets from bed. Wash, and store for next deployment.

Seems silly, but they will be missed.

Bye, Bye Diapers!

I never thought I would be a person obsessed with bathroom habits, but motherhood does strange things to a person. In fact, two of the biggest lessons I have learned during motherhood is to never utter anything containing the phrase "I would never. . ." because you will eat your words at some point in your mothering career, and to not loose your cool over potty training.

The latter proves more difficult than one would imagine as most honest mothers would tell you that potty training is topic number one in Whose-a-Better-Mommy competition. (If you totally understand what I am getting at then read Ayelet Waldman- I loved her when she wrote her controversial husband essay, and I love her new book even better.)

I beat my anal retentive self up over the difficulty both my boys had becoming fully potty trained. Let's just say that we had no problem with the #1 department, but my kids had major hoarding issues in the other potty training deposit. I have blamed it all on genetics; Trey is phobic of all germs and perhaps would go around the world wearing a hazmat suit if it was socially acceptable, and I HATE public restrooms. (I hate the word "hate", so this is big!)

In college, I would time my bathroom visits to the wee hours of the morning. I would enter the stall with a cleaning product in hand and only proceed to use the facilities if I was completely sure that I would be 100% alone. I ate nothing but JELLO for two days before I delivered Cole to make sure there was no "code browns" during my labor. In fact, I am pretty sure that Trey still doesn't think I poop. At least this is what I tell myself. Therein lies the issues with my own children's potty issues.

So, today is a momentous day! A turning point in our lives! Freedom! It means Jack can head to school in the fall, that he can go to the Oceanears Club during our Disney Cruise allowing Daddy and Mommy some alone time, and I can completely take the cost of diapers out of the family budget. AND, I can cross one of the 50 some odd goals I had written out to accomplish during deployment. . .only 49 more to go. I always seem to add to that list with little done in the crossing out department. Another topic for another day.


. . .It also means that my single friends can come visit and no longer be horrified to see Jack in a corner with his pants down "creating" wherever he sees fit.

Grosgrain: SHABBY APPLE Marseilles Dress GUEST GIVEAWAY!!!!!!!

Grosgrain: SHABBY APPLE Marseilles Dress GUEST GIVEAWAY!!!!!!!

When does a mommy of two active boys and one crazy dog get to wear something this beautiful? NEVER! But. . . I can dream.

Craving Mad

The men in white jackets may be coming to lock me up. I am going crazy and have decided to start my own business.

Decided to name the business Craving Mad. I will be selling my Uncle Elbert's famous pickles as "Raid the Ice Box Pickles", and my "Sweet Dreams" organic gourmet marshmallows recipe.

Excited, nervous, and invigorated. Good to have a new project.

Picnic Frock GIVEAWAY!!!!

Holy pajamas...this is beautiful. Would love to wear this to welcome Trey home. One can wish.

Picnic Frock GIVEAWAY!!!!

Grosgrain: Milk Weed Skirt GIVEAWAY!!!!

I wish I had the talent and time to make some of these lovely creations. Gorgeous!


Grosgrain: Milk Weed Skirt GIVEAWAY!!!!

Gathering Thunderstorms

Sleeping. Sleeping.

Lately in our house, sleep is illusory.

I am not sleeping well becuase...well...I am sleeping alone. Jack isn't catching enough winks because he can't decide which end of the big boy bed to place his head, AND has made the command decision to give up naps. Trey's major complaint about deployment has been the lack of much needed sleep. Even Boomer has become more restless during the night; wandering around the house to find the best place to protect and defend his pack. Strangely, Cole seems to be the only family member undisturbed by life's worries and changing patterns. He sleeps and sleeps and sleeps.

I am convinced that his well rested nights lead to his disturbingly cheerful outlook on each day's beginning, thus leading me to believe world peace may be simply solved with more sleep. Anything is possible after a night of relaxing undisturbed hibernation. Daunting tasks and troublesome thoughts seem less so the morning after eight hours of deeply restorative rest.

Last night, I knew that I clearly needed to pencil in more sleep. I was losing my patience with the boys, complaining about simple tasks, and approaching everything with muddled emotions. Life seemed out of control. Control and I have a love/hate relationship.

It was actually a picture perfect night for sleeping. A gift. A cool evening filled with spring sounds, soft salty wind blowing, and a passing thunderstorm. Am I kooky because I sleep the best during a full blown thunder storm? Seems sort of tempestuous, but I love it. Nature's way of shedding some therapeutic tears, hammering down her worries, and cleansing her spirit. I think we all need a good thunderstorm in our lives now and then.

And, the VERY best thing about a night-time thunderstorm is splashing in the puddles the next morning. Laughing while stomping through the tears and perhaps words to live by.



Jack's picture of a thunderstorm.

Buggies

The past few days here have been GORGEOUS! Warm weather, nice breeze, and a bearable "moderate" pollen count. Beckoned by the outdoors, we have spent that last few days outside and unplugged.

Since Cole and Jack are only just now beginning to understand the gift of a sibling, there are many mysteries they have still yet to uncover together. With spring in full bloom, bugs have become the most recent fascination for the goons. I love watching them figure out how to pick them up, hearing them giggle as they are tickled by the creepy crawlies, and taking pictures of the fun.



Yes. I know he is naked. Modesty does not factor into the goons' vocabulary.


Gloves. Both boys would prefer to keep their hands clean; a quality they inherited from their father. I believe the dirtier the better - hence why I had pin worms for most of my childhood.



Lady bug landing pad.





Difference between my goons....

Cole places the caterpillar in his pocket for later. Later, he sits on the caterpillar and erupts into tears.



Jack just "smushes" his caterpillar "real good" when he is done, but (of course) not with his hands.

Learning Emotions

One of the challenges Cole faces is recognizing and interpreting body language and emotions. I found this difficult to understand in the beginning as Cole MOST CERTAINLY emotes although sometimes not at the appropriate level for a given situation. This continues to be a challenge for me to discover if the emotional learning curve is due to his age and sex or Aspergers.

Right now we are working through a number of interventions that help give Cole the specific definition and facial nuances that go with different emotions; frustration means the following and is usually accompanied by furrowed brows and a down turned mouth, etc.. It is SO hard for me to break this down for him as I have a hard time thinking this way when it comes to emotions. Emoting comes as naturally to me as breathing, and I don't consider my existence important if I don't try to tune into the emotions and needs of those around me. It is extremely weird to turn feelings into a science lesson.

Recently, I was a little down in the mouth and Cole turned to me to say, "Mom, are you sad right now?". (These type of questions pop up a lot with Cole...because he just isn't sure...sometimes I have to give him a number on a scale to let him know where I am with certain emotional states).

"Yes Cole. Mommy is a little bit sad," I replied half-heartedly because I know how difficult and uncomfortable it can be for him to work through other peoples' emotions.

"May I be excused from the table?" he asked.

"Yes, sweetie." I answered. As he left the table, I started to tear up as I expected to get little empathy and understanding from him, but it still is difficult for me to accept. Cole loves me,and loves to cuddle, and hear that he is loved, but is worried to the point of avoidance when dealing with others emotions appropriately. I sat at the table feeling very alone and bereft.

Cole came back downstairs with two pieces of paper in his hand. He put them both in front of me. "Mommy, I made you a card to feel better. This one says "I love Mommy", and this one is a picture of my Daddy because I know you miss him. I miss him and it makes me sad", he very matter of factly explained.

I started sobbing. He gave me a hug and started patting my back to tell me it would be okay. He started to cry a little, so I pushed him back and looked into his big cow eyes...and we shared a "forever" type of moment.

It was so important for me to know that we have be doing a good job, since the beginning, teaching Cole to interpret his and others emotion; validating that I am not a horrible mother. My little boy loves with all his heart. He understands more than I sometimes give him credit for. He approaches emotional situations in a more adult-like and logical fashion than I am capable of...and sometimes I am the student.

Time to Clean House

I am procrastinating. I have elevated it to an art form. Clearly it is time to clean the house. Just discovered Jack in a bathroom chasing floating dust particles with a piece of wet toilet tissue exclaiming, "Mommy, there are yuckies in the air!"

In addition to chasing 'yuckies' around the sun streaming windows, Jack is in the midst of full fledged potty training. He just had an accident and decided to take care of the matter himself. So, he stripped, threw his clothes in the washing machine, and headed to the bathroom to get a towel. The towel is now on the floor covering up the offending spot...with my Jack on top.

I guess I will stop making Lego buildings and get the vacuum cleaner out to actually use it this time. Last time I had it out, it sat so long it became part of the house decor...actually thought about giving it some ears and making it a part of the Easter decorating that was last minute.

An Intricately Woven Tapestry

I have realized many things about myself over the past 9 months; some are new revelations and others were always there lurking behind denial. All in all, this is the year that I grew up. Two kids, a husband, and a career could not force me into adulthood...but this year could...and did.

I hate to announce that I am officially back into the world of blogging because in all honesty my self inflicted sabbatical came about as a result of my need to be utterly honest, and I found that the only place I could do this was in a private journal. Journaling has provided me with a way to organize some of my more chaotic thoughts and to perform a ritualistic form of my own self-therapy. Less profound than James Joyce but with the same stream of consciousness type of writing, I have worshiped my journal.

The other evening after discussing with a dear friend the wonders and hidden evils of social networking in the world of Facebook, I set back to read through all the journal entries that I have penned over the years. Since they go back to the fifth grade, it took some time. [I know. Where is the connection between Facebook and my journal. Be patient. I am getting there.] I came to the conclusion that although less public, less scrutinized, and less likely to be used as a basis of comparison in all aspects of my life, my journal lacked connectivity. Albeit a lovely momentary band aid for some of my more throbbing emotions, I was not taking the time to connect and perhaps learn the greater meaning from some of the emotional journeys I was undertaking with my pen in hand. In other words, I felt the need to head back to a more public place (although since my absence, I am hoping less so) to force me to organize my thoughts and give more life to my experiences.


MY OWN PAST PERSONAL EXPERIENCE SHOWS THAT FOR ME AND I AM IN NO WAY SUGGESTING OR IMPLYING FOR EVERYONE, the equation is as follows:

Public Platforms + Personal Platitudes = Disaster
Private Platform + Personal Ponderings & Probings = Self Discovery

(Okay! So, although somewhat convoluted...therein lies the Facebook connection.)

With this equation in mind, today my lovely Turkish rug arrived in the mail from Dubai. Trey's exquisite taste was evident in every detail. The richness and vibrancy of the color, the soft cushy plushness, the ancient tribal patterns, the delicate braided fringe, all whispered to me to abandon myself upon it's weft and waft to sob my heart clean.

I cried because my husband was the last person to touch it. I cried for myself and my losses. I cried for my family that was and what is to be. I cried for my sons. I cried because everything seemed to be woven together into one huge ball of pain living in the pit of my stomach.

Since my parents pending divorce, my son's diagnosis, and my husband's departure I have yet to have a good cry.

It felt wonderful.

And, I wanted to record it here in a more public place.

Just for today.

I am not going to worry about how I may feel about it tomorrow.

It Died

Yup! My cutting of the infamous rubber tree plant is officially dead. Ummm...not sure what this says about me and my ability to care for other living objects, but it is probably not good.

Grandma Fran's Birthday

Today is my glorious mother's birthday. My sister and I have planned a perfect night in; Scrabble, Velvet Chicken, Vaughn Monroe, and some chatting by the fire.

In honor of mom's birthday, Cole decided to write a special poem. I think it sums her up rather nicely:

For My Grandma
by Cole Wilson

Roses are Pink
Violets are Red
But everything is Grandma

The End

Oops there goes another.....

My grandmother had a green thumb that may even put Mr. Green Jeans and Liberty Hyde Bailey, Jr. to shame. She was the type of gardener that would scout the local stores for the sickly sad little plants whose prices had been slashed for a quick sale. Lovingly and patiently she would nurse them into healthy and huge oxygen producers.

One of her largest success stories came in the form of a rubber tree plant, more like a sprig, that was purchased on sale from K-mart. It was the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree of rubber tree plants. She was able to take the little plant from a sparse twig to a tree that strained to escape the confines of her cathedral ceilings.

Over the years, my grandmother would give visiting family members and friends clippings from this prodigious plant. It was one of the only ways that she could keep the beast contained and she loved "passing it on". There are cuttings spattered across this coast from Florida to New Jersey.

My mother now has the largest surviving sprig of The Rubber Tree plant. Last night, Trey and I helped to re-locate the plant inside as the first of the winter frosts was set to descend upon Virginia Beach. Moving the tree takes two adults on the bottom, with the help of some well placed furniture movers, and a third adult positioned at the top of the plant to help coax the branches through the doorways. Now that we have the process down to a science, we can get the monster moved in under 10 minutes.

The Rubber Tree has become an odd tradition in our life. When we call mom, we usually ask about how the tree is faring. Does it seem happy in its new location? Has it been set a kilter by the wind? Clearly, this tree and its well-being intermingles with our happy memories of my grandmother.

Yesterday, my mother thoughtfully cut me a new sprig off the tree so that I could plant it here at our new place so I could have my own reminder of my grandmother at my own home. She carefully placed it in a bucket of water to root. She gently reminded me to remember to put it in the car before I left.

I forgot it...

Another Departure

I love you.
I'll be back soon.
The deep sound of footsteps disrupt a dark day's start.
A kiss.
shallow silence

Awake again.
I'll take care of you.
I gaze at an image of a pasted face.
Which mask today?
simple survival

Come back.
I'll never leave.
Happiness may once again mingle with reality.
I remember who I am
with you

Life is Beautiful

I am officially an adult child of divorce.

My absence from the world of blogging has been in large part due to the fact that my parents have decided to divorce after 37 years of marriage. I have no words to describe the bevy of emotions that I have been through recently. I have had to completely reorganize my own understanding of my identity and sense of self. I am sure that later blog entries will serve as a sort of therapy for some of the unresolved feelings. But, today, it struck me that it is high time to get back to the things I value in life.

Mostly, I value life. I want to enjoy this life I have been given, and recording the daily musings of my little life makes me feel happy. During my blog sabbatical, I took to writing in my bedside journal....it seemed less public and more appropriate for some of the things that were pouring forth from my heart and soul. This small act of 'journaling' is something that I have not done since I was pregnant with my first goon, and I found that I truly missed the intimate act of recording my thoughts with ink and paper. I can retrace my state of mind not only in the meaning of the words but in the handwriting, the strokes, the pressure to paper, and sometimes the occasional water mark. It has become a lost Art.

Here is to a new beginning. One that I promise to approach with honesty and a truer sense of self.

Pickles on the Porch

It's official. We are now Old Beach residents down here in the heart Virginia Beach.

We have moved in, and unpacked almost every box. Quite an undertaking, but we were motivated by sheer need to establish some sense of permanence for the goons.

Every sentimental piece of furniture we owned was damaged in some way in the move process. So what...no biggie. We are together for the meantime. All the material items that we did fine without for two months now seem superfluous. None of it is really important. Home is not made by the pictures on the wall and/or the seating arrangement in your living room. It is the memories, rituals and traditions that make your home a home.

Funny, with all the boxes unpacked and most of the pictures up on the walls I didn't feel like I was really home until I cracked open MY first jar of home-made icebox pickles (Uncle Elbert's recipe). Truth be known, I have had already had my fair share this summer albeit at my mom's house...so, they weren't really mine.

I enjoyed an entire mason jar of these perfect pickles while sitting on the back porch under the crepe myrtle tree.

I didn't feel the compulsive need to move or get something done. I only shifted ever so slightly every few minutes to catch the best whiff of the tangy saltiness in the ocean air.

Home sweet simple home.