May 14, 2013--The fight starts here.

I try really hard to not go on major rants in my blogging.  I take pride in the fact that I make a conscious effort to keep my writing clean, logical and as unoffensive as possible.

That being said, I feel the need to go on a (*tiny*) rant.

Before I start, please feel free to read this article.  It will give you something to reference as I proceed to go a little bat-shit crazy.

Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch, is a pompous ass.  (And he's ugly to boot, but that's besides the point.)  He also has an extremely skewed viewpoint on what makes people "cool."

Statement #1: "According to this popular teen clothing retailer, fat chicks will just never be part of the 'in' crowd."
   
     **Issue #1: What constitutes a "fat chick?"  According to Abercrombie and Fitch, any woman who wears anything above a size 10.  So, the following women could either just barely, or not at all, wear clothes from this retailer:

Marilyn Monroe--size 12

Cindy Crawford--size 10

Kate Winslet--size 10/12

Jessica Simpson--size 10/12 (pre-pregnancy); she's kept some of her curves since then, and just let me say how much I admire her for having the nerve and the self-confidence to shoot that magazine cover.

Beyonce--size 10 (pre-pregnancy)

Jennifer Lopez--size 10

Adele--size 18/20

     **Issue #2: What constitutes the "in" crowd?  Last time I checked, all of the women above were beautiful, successful and rich people.  I'm pretty sure they would all be considered "in."  Marilyn Monroe is remembered as being the most famous "sex icon" in history.  She's considered one of the most beautiful women of all time.  Cindy Crawford is likewise considered one of the most successful models of all time.  Jessica Simpson is an actress, singer and fashion designer and I couldn't put a number to the amount of adolescent boys' wet dreams she's shown up in.  The same can be said of J-Lo.  And every aspiring female singer today at some point wishes they could be Adele.  She has sold millions upon millions of albums and has won a Grammy.  She's also not ashamed of her weight.  She has no reason to be.  

Alright, so maybe Mr. Jeffries didn't have the rich and famous in mind when he decided that "fat chicks" were not welcome in his store.  In an interview he stated that "in every school there are the cool and popular kids and then there are the not-so-cool kids."  So we're talking high school, here.  Okay, fine.  

Jacob Becerra, Lauren Calbreath, Camille Carpenter, Wesley Copper, Anisha Davis, Katie Ivie, Alicia Kirgan, Melanie Mayes, Doug Pritchett, Crystal Wilson, Lexi Batsios, Lindsay Bayer, Chris Crider, Amanda Gass, Carolyn Kinnunen, Mary Miller, Melanie Mooshegian, Liz Moulton, Josh Turck, Cory Fischer, Emily Gavilsky, Adrian and Leandro Gonzales, Amanda Marti, Karolyn Page, Maggie Ronk, Kelsey Roseman, Rebecca Vance--These were all people that I went to high school with that were "popular" or "cool."  They were all also of a size that would have prevented them from shopping at Abercrombie and Fitch.  So Mr. Jeffries assumption that "fat chicks" or just fat people in general will never be part of the "in" crowd?  Yeah, guess that's been blown straight to hell.

Statement #2: "We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends."

     Issue: I went to high school (as most of us did).  I don't know about other people, but in my case, the "attractive all-American kids"--the popular kids--were assholes.  They didn't have great attitudes.  They had superior, pompous, snobbish and mean attitudes.  They took pleasure in talking down to the "un-popular" kids--whether they were skinny or fat--and were downright mean and nasty to a lot of people.  And sure, they had a lot of "friends."  Friends who talked consistently about each other behind each other's backs, friends who didn't hesitate to steal a boyfriend or girlfriend because it might raise their status in the popularity food chain, friends with squeaky clean facades for faces and nasty personalities underneath.  

Sure, they all dressed nicely.  The skinny ones with money wore Abercrombie and Fitch, American Eagle, and H&M.  The heavier kids that were popular were just out of luck, I guess.  They had money and it was evident.  It didn't change the fact that many of those kids' "reigns" lasted up until graduation.  And then we all entered this huge place called the Real World.  And suddenly being popular didn't open nearly as many doors.  Neither did an Abercrombie and Fitch label.

Statement #3: "Abercrombie is only interested in people with washboard stomachs who look like they're about to jump off a surfboard."

     Issue: Does Mr. Jeffries stop every customer at the door, ask that they raise their shirts to prove they have a six-pack and if they are found lacking, are they turned away at the door?  C'mon, man.  Out of all the skinny and popular guys I went to school with, maybe a hand full actually had washboard stomachs.  The number of girls with that physical attribute was even less.  I know, because I changed with a bunch of them during gym class for four years.  

Oh, and not be petty Mr. Jeffries, but you look like this:

So...if Abercrombie is only interested in "surfer-dudes" with washboard abs....you're missing the tan and you're missing the six-pack.  You're setting a great example for your company's expectations.  **dripping sarcasm found here**  Why the hell is Abercrombie interested in you??

Statement #4: "Listen, do we go too far sometimes?  Absolutely.  But we try to push the envelope, and we try to be funny, and we try to stay authentic and relevant to our target customer."

     Issue:  You try to be funny?  Do you hear anybody laughing?  Surely the people who can't walk into your store for fear of being criticized or demoralized aren't.  Oh, but that's right.  You don't care about those people.  You made that quite clear when you stated the following:

Statement #5: "A lot of people don't belong {in our clothes} and they can't belong."

and

Statement #6: "Are we exclusionary?  Absolutely."

Now, there are those out there I'm sure would argue that you have the right to advertise however you like, you have the right to target a certain customer base and that Mike Jeffries is perfectly justified in his opinions.  And those people would be right, he most definitely does have that right.

And I'm sure there are those out there who will say that I am only angry about this because I'm most likely a fat, unpopular woman who needs something to bitch about.  I am indeed overweight, weighing in right now around 250 pounds and the list of people I consider real friends is very short.  

However, in high school, I wore a size 12 jean, stayed physically active and was a fairly attractive person.  I didn't believe I was an attractive person at the time--the media told me I wasn't because I was "fat," the people I went to school with told me I wasn't because I wasn't "popular," and I had no sense of self-confidence to tell me otherwise.  But I wasn't fat in high school.  I was healthy in high school.  

Today, I've had two babies within two years and put my weight and self-image to the side to focus on my two daughters.  My anger with the CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch has nothing to do with the fact that I can't wear his clothing.  I wouldn't wear it even if I could--it's cheaply made, way too expensive and I would in no way support a man whose vision focuses on ripping young girls apart.  It has everything to do with the fact that I have two young daughters who before I know it will be facing the social pressure to buy "cool" clothes from places like Abercrombie and Fitch; who before I know it will be facing the social pressure to be a size 2 because that's what's "cool."  Unfortunately, a size 2 is not in my daughters' genes.  Before I know it I will be contending with everything from media to store advertising to anorexia and bulimia to diet and exercise to halter tops vs. t-shirts.  It is a hard enough task for a mother to love herself and her own self-image enough to truly encourage her daughter(s) from early on to love themselves and their own body images.  A mother has to take on the world--literally--and try to convince her daughter that she is right and everybody else is wrong.  That being a size 10, or 12, or 14 is perfectly acceptable.  Hell, that being a size 20, or 22, or 24 is perfectly acceptable too.  That beauty does not equate the number on the label of your dress.  That health is so much more important than anything else.  That numbers are subjective and mean very little in the grand scheme of things.  That a beautiful, compassionate, loving and non-judgmental personality is so much more important than a tiny waist.  That a person's state of "coolness" is determined by them and the people who love them, not some dumb asshole who is so insecure about himself that he takes pride and pleasure in tearing other people down and making them feel inadequate.  

Yes, Mr. Jeffries, you have the right to exclude people.  You have the right to advertise to a certain audience.  You have the right to hate fat people because deep down I think there's a good chance you hate yourself.  You have the right to run your business however you see fit and however you think will make you the most money.

I can only hope and pray to God that by the time my girls are old enough to even consider shopping at a store like yours, your company has lost so much money due to your stilted and prejudiced opinions that Abercrombie and Fitch is no longer an option for them.

As I said at the beginning of this, I try really hard for the most part to not be crude, to not be rude, to write with a sense of maturity.  But in this case, I feel the need to make an exception.

I'm sending a little birdie your way, Mr. Jeffries, and the message it carries is very short, simple and succinct: 

FUCK YOU.

Thank you and have a nice day.

May 13, 2013--The Second Sunday in May

I've never really taken the time to do a lot of online reading before.  News articles, blogs, updates on the Bears, etc.  There was always something else to do.

But lately, I've found myself intrigued by what other people have to say, especially when it comes to being a mom and parenting.  I would guess this is probably fairly typical for most parents, but I find myself questioning myself a lot these days.  Having two girls and watching them interact, I constantly am second-guessing how I should react to this scenario or that scenario.  I didn't have a sister and although I did have a brother, I don't remember a lot of our younger years interactions.  Plus, we were three and a half years apart.  My girls are separated by a scant nineteen months.  It changes the dynamic just a little bit, I'm sure.

But I digress.

As I said, I take the time to read quite a bit online now and yesterday I was amazed by the wide spectrum of opinions, statements, reactions, etc about the fact that it was Mother's Day.

My Facebook feed yesterday was inundated (as I'm sure most people's were) with statuses wishing women a Happy Mother's Day.  Many (including my own) had specific women tagged, ranging from mothers, to mother-in-laws, to sisters who happened to be mothers, to aunts, to friends, etc.

One of my friends, who is not a very big fan of children (which is completely his right) wished a good day to women who have chosen to deal with the massive amounts of poop, vomit and pee that accompany a small child.  It was drenched in sarcasm.  Another friend's status gave a shout-out to all the women who have adopted, or fostered, or simply chosen not to procreate.  A family member stated later in the day that there was nothing wrong with celebrating those who choose to be parents and if other people have a problem with such set-aside days, they can simply shut up.

I read one blog that I later shared, written by a mother who spoke lovingly of her four sons and her appreciation for the same-old, same-old gifts she is given every year and the sloppily hand-drawn cards she is presented with.  She then went on to say that part of the reason she is so grateful for these things is because she knows there are many women out there who do not have the same privilege.  She spoke of the women who have lost their children due to miscarriage, to stillbirth or to late complications.  She mentioned the mothers of Aurora, CO and Newtown, CT who are spending this Mother's Day without the children they have had by their side for so many years.  She spoke of the Boston bombing and the families--mothers, fathers and children alike--who were ripped apart so recently.  She wished blessings on them all and said an extra thank-you for her own children who spent the day safe in her loving embrace.

I read another blog, written by another woman, speaking out for all those women who do not hold the title of mother and are "excluded" on this celebratory day.  She wrote in support of the women who put their careers first.  The women who do not believe it is fair to be bring a child into this degenerative world in which we live.  The women who are not married and don't wish to have children outside of marriage.  She gave a shout-out to the women unable to have children for whatever reason, medical or otherwise as well as to those who have lost children.  Her message was basically that either mothers in general or whoever came up with the concept of Mother's Day or the mothers who are loud and proud about their state of motherhood should get over themselves and quit lauding their own state of being over those who have chosen a different lifestyle.  It was in response to people like this that I'm assuming my family member was commenting on.  

I have a friend who recently lost her son.  Those of you who have kept up with my blog probably know of whom I speak.  Her greatest wish in life has always been to be a mother.  Her greatest loss was when her son died in her arms at the age of only three weeks.  She has since agonized over how she would spend this day that is set aside to celebrate motherhood.  She has questioned whether she is still a mother at this point, or more accurately, should she celebrate being a mother when her son is no longer with her.

All this being said, I would like to give (without being too long-winded, I hope) my response to the wide spectrum of statuses, blogs, statements, etc., I was exposed to yesterday.

The day is called Mother's Day, yes.  Whether you are a mother or not may or may not be your choice.  Whether you are or you're not, you have a mother.  Each one of us came from another.  And I know that not every one of us is blessed with a good mother.  I would go into detail about another family member of mine, but that might not be the smartest thing I've ever done.  Suffice it to say, I'm familiar with the not-so-good moms as well as the awesome ones.

The point is, we all owe our existence to a woman that at some point, somewhere, somehow, gave birth to us.  The life we are living is due to a woman, a mother, growing us in her body for up to nine months and then expelling us from her body and setting us loose on the world.  That in and of itself, should be reason to celebrate.  Celebrating our mothers, in a way allows us to celebrate ourselves.

If you have the most awesome mother in the world, use the day to remember that fact, and to tell her so.  If you had a not-so-good mother, use the day to remind yourself of the kind of person you don't want to be, the kind of parent you don't want to be if you've decided to have kids.  

If you're a woman who has been blessed with children that are living with you now, use the day to embrace your state of motherhood, hug your children tight and appreciate the wonderful gift you've been given.  Use your influence well and remember that your children will emulate you--be a good example.  And yes, don't be ashamed to take a break by hiding in the bathroom, taking an unscheduled nap, or hiring a babysitter while you go out to dinner.

If you're a woman who has lost a child, remember that Mother's Day does not change what happened one way or the other.  If you celebrate it, it doesn't mean you're not showing enough respect or grief for the child you lost.  If you don't celebrate it, it doesn't mean you're a martyr.  Only you can know how best to handle the day and no one has any right to judge how you do so.  Losing a child makes you no less of a mother, though, and we mothers who have not suffered your pain will still do all we can to support you because we can only hope that were the situation reversed, you would do the same for us.

If you're a woman who gave up a child, you are a stronger and better mother than many.  Giving up a child knowing that it's the best decision for the child, even if it's not the best decision for you, makes you the best parent you could possibly be.  You're allowed to celebrate the fact that you did what was right, and if you don't want to celebrate, you're perfectly justified in that as well.  That's another kind of pain that most of us don't and can't understand.

If you're a woman who has chosen to not have kids, for whatever reason, use the day to celebrate your own mother, or if your own mother is a not-so-good parent, just treat the day like any other.  I mean, seriously, you are allowed to not want kids.  You're allowed to not have kids.  You're allowed to put your career first. Making those decisions does not in any way make you less of a woman (and if any mother tries to tell you differently, they're wrong).  Some women are not meant to be mothers, and if you are one of them, thank you for knowing that, acknowledging it and not adding to the burden of the system.  Women who do not have kids are to be admired for their accomplishments just as much as women who choose to stay home and raise children.  

However...if you are one of these women, you also have to realize that you made a decision and you can't resent the presence of a holiday that has been around for over a century.  That would be like the Jews complaining that Christians celebrate Christmas, just because they don't believe that Jesus is the Christ, or worse, Christians complaining that Jews celebrate Hanukkah.  That would be like resenting Secretaries Day (I think it's called Administrative Assistant Appreciation or some such thing these days) because you don't work in an office or hating Thanksgiving/Turkey Day because you decided to become a vegetarian.

There will always be holidays that don't apply to someone.  Should we not celebrate Valentine's Day because not every person is in a relationship?  Should we not celebrate the 4th of July because not everyone feels patriotic?  If you don't agree with what a recognized holiday celebrates, or if it doesn't apply to you, simply enjoy your day off, or the awesome store sales, and move on.  Celebrate the fact that you're not a mom and don't have to deal with the poop and the vomit and the 3am feedings and the whining and the PTA meetings.  Celebrate that you can still sleep in on your Saturdays and go out with friends without considering whether or not you can find a babysitter and have sex in whichever room of the house you please whenever you please because you don't have to worry about your toddler walking in on you screaming, "Mommy, I have to go potty!"

And for those of us that have decided that having to schedule sex and waking up at 7am seven days a week and going on dates to the kiddy park are worth the little people that cover us in kisses and hugs and homemade cards with handprints (and yes, the poop and vomit, too)...don't begrudge us that.

My own personal opinion is that being a mom is the greatest gift and privilege I could ever have.  I also know it's not for everybody.  That being said, Mother's Day is just a day.  To some, it's everything and to others it's just another Sunday.  To each his own.  Let each woman celebrate the day as she sees fit.  

If all you've got time to do is bitch about how another woman is spending the day, you're wasting it--no matter which category you fall into.  Just saying.

May 1, 2013--Pain has quite the fallout...

Pain is a really strong thing.  And I don't just mean physical pain.  Emotional, psychological, mental pain--it's a really strong thing.

I've done quite a bit of self-evaluation recently and I've come to a couple conclusions:

The first is that for most of my life I've been a pretty judgmental person.  I've viewed the world in black and white, in right and wrong, with no real middle ground.  No grey area.  The problem with that is, the world isn't black and white.  There is grey area.  I've ignored that and made judgments, wrong judgments, about a lot of things, a lot of people.

The second is that I've taken my high pain threshold for granted.  Most of my life I've dealt with pain, physical pain, well.  But it's been short-term pain.  The long-term pain I've dealt with since my car accident has come close to unhinging me at times.  In the past 18 months there have been times when I've been so focused on how much pain I'm in, that I've missed all the good that was going on around me.  I've missed moments with my kids, picked fights with my husband, ignored the chances handed to me to make and keep friends.

The third and final is that I don't deal with emotional pain nearly as well as I do (or did) physical pain.  I took a pretty heavy emotional blow a few years ago from someone that I had counted as a very good friend and I have let that situation taint my judgment about more recent happenings.  I judged another very good friend based on what the other had done previously and it was a huge mistake.  Huge.  I severed a longstanding relationship and now I don't know that it will be able to be repaired.  I've taken steps to try but it will be a very long, very slow process.

The combination of the emotional pain I've been hanging on to for far too long and the physical pain from a car accident and pregnancy did not make for a good cocktail.  I drowned in my pain for a long time; I let it consume everything.  I let it take over who I was as a person, I let it control my actions, I let it sway my decisions.  And now I'm being forced to try and make amends for things I did, for the person I was.  It's a large pill to swallow.

Saying sorry to a person I care for deeply, to a person I threw away like garbage, was not easy.  Listening to her figuratively rip me a new one and put me severely in my place was harder.  I've never been one to readily admit when I was wrong.  I've never been one to think I was wrong, let alone tell someone else I was.

But I was wrong here.  And while admitting it wasn't fun, it was easier than having the person I admitted it to tell me she wasn't sure she believed me.  It was easier than having her tell me that I should be sorry, that I had shown my "true colors" and that she didn't need me.  It was easier than having to finally admit to myself that I had acted like the people I have condemned for so long because they treated me like I treated her.

That's not who I am, but I was so bogged down with the things I was going through, the hardships I was dealing with, the pain I was in, that I couldn't see the things she was going through, the hardships she was dealing with, the pain she was in.  I let my pain control me.

Don't let your pain take over.  Don't let it become the only thing you can focus on.  Don't let it control you.  Because it can cause you to make some bad decisions, it can make you do some awful things.  And it doesn't make for a very good excuse, even if it is a valid one.

Get help.  See a doctor.  Talk to someone.  Don't shut people out because you think they can't or won't understand.  Keep your people around you and do whatever it takes to keep them close.  Because without the people you care about, who care about you, around you, all you have left is your pain.  And pain isn't a real nice companion.

Pain is a really strong thing.  Don't let it be stronger than you.

April 29, 2013: So I tried to write a novel...

I've always been fairly confident in my writing abilities...on a small scale level, at least.  English classes were always my forte in school.  Grammar and spelling were never challenges for me--and improper grammar and spelling are one of my pet peeves to this day.  Stringing words together has always come naturally for me.

However....

I've always kept my writing somewhat contained.  The longest piece I've ever written was the twelve-page research paper required in some college class I've long since forgotten.  I've written some short stories, placed in a small contest or two.  I've done the same with poetry.  But longer pieces...novellas...novels...I've always shied away from those.

Until recently.  My sister-in-law asked me to sign up with her to do one of NaNoWriMo's summer camps, where you try to write a novel in a month.  I didn't figure on being able to do that.  I actually pretty much figured when I signed up that I wasn't going to do it.  But nearly a week into the month of April, I sat down and forced myself to start writing.  I'd set myself a goal of 30,000 words and on the 26th of April, I had a final word count of over 34.000 words.  In less than three weeks, I've "written a novel."  Well, more like a novella at this point.  But I'm a NaNoWriMo winner.

Here's the thing....

While I was writing, I was really excited about what I was doing.  Every time I got to update my word count and saw the progress I was making, I was exhilarated.  I really hadn't even planned on doing this, and now here I was actually doing it.  I hit my 30,000 word mark and felt ten feet tall.

Since then however, I have realized that it's not really a novel at this point.  It's just a word count.  It needs a lot of work...and I mean, a lot.  The ending's not even fully completed because I can't get it to come out the way I want it to.  Sitting and talking to Chaz about it Sunday night, I told him that I was having trouble because the ending felt contrived.  And when I briefly explained the plot to him, he told me that the reason my ending felt contrived...was because it is.  In real life, my plot wouldn't work the way I've written it.

I've picked up on that a bit as I've written.  I've had to stop a number of times and think about how I'm going to make things work.  Turns out, it's not working at all.  It need a major overhaul.  And I mean, MAJOR.  Looking back at what I've written, I like the voice it's written in, I like my word choices, I like the ease with which it's read.  But the plot sucks.

A crappy plot is what has held me back in the past.  I'm just not good at putting together a long, detailed, organized plot.  In the same vein, it's why I'm not a good chess player.  I don't tend to think that far ahead.  I don't know that that means I'm not a good writer/author, or it just means I'm not meant to write a novel.  Or maybe it just means that nobody...well, not nobody, but at least not me...writes a bestseller in twenty days.

Now I have a decision to make:  do I leave it as is and walk away, simply happy with the pride I feel in reaching a goal I set for myself, or do I go back and read and edit and reshape and recreate until I have a piece of work that I'm truly happy with?

I do know that now that I've written such a large piece (whether it's good or not), I know that I am capable of sticking with something long-term--so I can't use that as an excuse to not do it anymore.  I can do it if I really put my mind to it and decide I want to do it.  And that is refreshing to know.


All artists, I've been told (from a friend who is also an artist in her own right) go through this process of taking their raw first drafts and shaping them into the final works they become.  Now I have to decide--am I really an artist?

I guess only time will tell.

April 22, 2013--An old love, rekindled.

I had forgotten just how much I enjoy listening to music.  Simply sitting and listening to music.

Music has always been fairly prominent in my life.  I grew up listening to "the Oldies" with my parents.  I developed a healthy appreciation for a number of "old" groups: Journey, the Monkees, Kansas, The Who, REO Speedwagon, Toto, Asia, to only name a very few.  My mother was also a country fan (my father was not) so on the rare occasions that she got to control the radio controls we listened to Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, Faith Hill, Reba, Randy Travis, George Strait, Alan Jackson.  And of course I developed a taste for a number of the artists who became popular during my own youth: the Backstreet Boys and N'Sync, Britney Spears, Savage Garden.

My tastes were fairly eclectic and they grew more so as I got older.  I went from listening to what my parents listened to as a young child to listening to the more "popular" stations as a "tween."  In high school I  was introduced to a number of pieces from musicals and there was born my great love of musical theatre, which continued on into college.  As did my love for certain movie scores and soundtracks--Braveheart, Lord of the Rings, Jurassic Park, Titanic.  (Say what you want about the movie itself, the music is amazing.)

I started taking piano lessons in the 7th grade and while I never had the discipline to become very proficient at it, I did learn enough to plunk out the few songs that I liked well enough to really learn.  In that, however, I learned that I did indeed love the sound of the piano and started listening to solo piano music.

It was in college that my love of music and my appreciation for its diversity really soared.  I sang in the choir and somehow found myself, with no experience whatsoever, playing in the pep band.  That led to a semester of playing percussion in the concert band as well.  I started college as a music education major so the necessary classes exposed me to a lot of music (mostly classical) that I had not heard before.  It was amazing; absolutely amazing.  I discovered a deep love for Beethoven, his Moonlight Sonata being my favorite piece.  After a fair amount of study in one of my classes, I was able to listen to a few bars of his 5th Symphony (duh-duh-duh-duh) and identify which exact part of the piece it was.

Everywhere I went, no matter what I was doing (working a job probably being the exception) I listened to music.  I listened to music during music classes, I popped in my headphones and listened to music as I did homework.  I had a playlist set for when I went out and walked or ran (cuz I actually exercised back then) and I had a number of soundtracks and mixed CD's in my car, just waiting to be blared with the windows down.  Often, when I had some time to myself, I would lay in bed or sit out on the quad and just listen to music.  I took such enjoyment from it that I didn't need to be doing anything else.  I could just listen and it was a perfectly acceptable way to spend my time.

Somewhere along the line that changed.  I quit listening to music regularly.  Chaz and I got married, we had two kids and now my life revolves around Disney movies and Madden '11.  It's not often that I control whatever electronic devices necessary to just listen to music and more particularly the music that I want to listen to, rather than the music that's going to keep everybody happy.  (And I'm not just referring to my husband; my two year old's fairly adamant about what she wants to watch and/or listen to.  It doesn't often coincide with what I want.  And for anyone out there saying, be the adult, listen to what you want, she'll get over it--try listening to music for enjoyment while a two-year-old cries/fusses/whines/screams about it.  Kind of defeats the purpose.)

For instance, when I would drive around Naperville, or take the four hour drive home from Naperville to Granite City, I would put in the soundtrack to Rent or Moulin Rouge or Jekyll and Hyde, blare it as loud as I might want it, and sing my lungs out.  I knew the words to all the songs, I listened to them that often, and I would just sing and sing and sing.  I don't do that anymore.  And I'm not exactly sure why.  I just haven't done it.  One reason, I'm sure, is that it would drive Chaz absolutely bonkers.  Not the me singing part (or at least he'd never openly admit it if it did) but the musical part.  Listening to the soundtrack of Rent isn't really his thing.

Anyway, the point is, I've been writing lately.  My sister got me hooked into doing this Camp NaNoWriMO thing where you try and write a novel in a month.  So far it's going much better than I ever imagined.  Not the point, though.  The point is that while I've been writing, I've been listening to music.  I normally do most of my writing between 9pm and midnight or so; it's after the girls are in bed and before Chaz gets home from work.  So I "have the house" to myself.  So I pull up Pandora and let the music play while I write.  What I have found, especially the last couple of days, is that I will be writing and then I won't be.  I'll simply be sitting there, listening to the music.  Immersing myself in the melodies and harmonies, identifying the instruments used, admiring the tonality of someone's voice, singing along without realizing it.  And when I catch myself and try to go back to writing, I find I can't really concentrate.  The music is pulling at me and all I want to do is sit there, relax and listen.  Enjoy.

I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed just listening to music.  It really does bring me happiness, plain and simple happiness.  Music.  The universal language.

I'm going to start speaking it again, I think.

April 18, 2013--Would you keep reading?

Simple question for you guys: after reading this, would you keep reading?
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The sun had long since reached its zenith and was making its slow and steady way toward the horizon.  Bright rays stretched their fingers towards the bay and making contact, caused the water to shimmer and dance.  The sky was still a vibrant blue with just the slightest hues of red and orange coming to life in the far off distance.  The artwork of afternoon was still in its early stages; the shades and images of late afternoon, twilight, dusk and finally night were still a fair ways in coming.

The water, bathed in sunlight shifted and swayed, changing colors from cerulean to aqua to stone grey and back again.  Its depths shimmered in shades of dark and light, creating patterns with no discernible beginnings or ends.  Waves lapped the shore in a gentle, constant rhythm, brought in by the light wind that held a hint of chill, creating a soothing soundtrack to accompany the breathtaking backdrop.  Couples walked hand-in-hand along the beach, their footprints imprinted distinctly for a moment, then disappearing, washed clean by the lull of the waves.

Far off in the distance, a handful of grey clouds appeared, a brushstroke of haze added to the emerging fire of the imminent sunset.  Whether they would creep closer and evolve from haze to smoke...that was still uncertain.

The old Catholic church, proud-faced and majestic, seemed to float in the middle of the bay.  In actuality, it sat on a small isle a few hundred yards from the shore.  Its white stucco walls shone pristinely in the sunlight and the slated roof, a deep brick red in color, had taken on a copper-like sheen.  The front doors were ensconced between two diamond-paned stained glass windows and when opened welcomed those who would come into a thirty foot high narthex, topped with a rounded bell tower.  Opposite the front doors, a massive pair of oaken doors opened into a vast nave.  More stained glass windows depicted famous scenes from the Holy Bible, most prominently that of the Lord’s Crucifixion, Burial and Resurrection.  At the front of the church was the sanctuary, with the altar always garbed in the appropriate attire of the church year.  Atop the altar stood an elaborate Crucifix, depicting the Lord in the throes of agony.  And to the side stood His mother, the Holy Virgin Mother, Mary.  The immense space seemed to stretch beyond time and echoed with the thousands of voices that had once spoken here, voicing the history of centuries past.  Intended to be a physical depiction of the Lord’s miraculous walking on water, the church had been built on the small island specifically and named The Insula, or simply “the island.”  The church had been erected over two hundred years ago and although renovations had been made, they had stayed true to the original aesthetic of the building.  While modern conveniences had been added and old supports replaced with new, the church looked the same as it had when first built.  

The bridge was sturdy, wooden, and it provided safe passage from the quaint little town of Wren, Massachusetts and its lovely beach to The Insula.  It was lined with old time gas lanterns, though it had been many years since gas had fueled them.  They ran on electricity but the picturesque appeal remained.  Lit at dusk each night, they lined the path trod by millions of feet and even in the darkest night left no one in doubt of the location of a place beloved by natives and popular with tourists.

A lone figure stood in the middle of the bridge gazing across the bay.  Garbed in a light overcoat, the collar upturned, the figure was distinctly male though that was all that was distinct.  A golden retriever lay contentedly at his feet as though the bridge was familiar to the canine and reclining against the bridge’s rail was a black umbrella.  Despite the bright sunshine and the calm water, the man seemed prepared for a storm.  His silhouette was a familiar one to the people of Wren, for he often frequented the bridge leading to The Insula.  He never crossed all the way, never went inside.  Always he stopped halfway across.  And there he waited, though no one knew for what.

As he waited, his gaze fixed and distant, the wind picked up suddenly.  As it whipped through his hair and the coat of the retriever, the waves became choppy and turned grey.  The sky lost its brilliant hue and the grey clouds that had hovered so distantly, so out of reach, began to race inland and brought with them the scent of rain.  There was a distant rumble of thunder and a brief flash of lightning.  

A storm was coming.

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Thoughts?

April 6, 2013--It's All About the Attitude

The past few days have shown me that I really can do more than I think I can.  That my attitude really does have a major effect on how well I handle the day-to-day things.  And now that I've finally acknowledged that realization, I can't decide if I'm proud....or ashamed.

Being rear-ended by some texting teenager while six weeks pregnant really sucked.  An extremely uncomfortable ambulance ride took me to a hospital filled with (in my opinion) arrogant and incompetent people--I mean seriously, when I told the doctor I was pregnant, he told me I probably wasn't, then when the pregnancy test came up positive, came back and informed me I was indeed pregnant (well, duh!) and because of that, he couldn't do anything for me. Go home, take some tylenol, have a great day! 

That's it?  Gee, thanks doc.

The next nine months were the most painful of my life.  Words really cannot express how much pain I was in--constant, never-ending pain.   All while chasing down an energetic one-year-old.  If you don't believe me, feel free to ask Chaz.  He will be more than willing to tell you how impossible I was to deal with throughout those long, interminable nine months.  It was a living nightmare.

Things got a little better after Daphnie was born.  I mean, I wasn't carrying a nine-pound baby in my uterus anymore--that took a bit of pressure off of my back.  Of course, now I was carrying a nine-pound baby around on my hip, so it pretty much equaled out.

The point is, I've still been in a lot of pain.  Day-to-day, constant pain.  Granted, now it's more like a constant 7 instead of a constant 9, but it's still not a walk in the park.  Unfortunately, this has not had the greatest effect on my parenting skills...or my marriage.

Chaz has said a number of times during some of our more serious discussions that I am not the woman he married.  And he's right.  I'm not.  The woman he married was in shape, active, fun (in his words).  Now my idea of fun is sitting on the couch with a can of Dr Pepper watching Grey's Anatomy while the kids nap.  I am constantly stressing.  About everything.  Money, the kids, the future, the failing plumbing, money to take care of the failing plumbing, bills, the kids, am I a good enough mom, getting to church, money, the kids, am I putting enough effort into my marriage, is Chaz bored with me, am I making Chaz happy, buying a new house, money.  And so on it goes.  All while living each day in pain.  Definitely NOT who I was four years ago.

Chaz made the comment to me the other night while coming home from the grocery store that he doesn't feel like I'm ever happy.  He comes home from work and I'm tired and worn out and stressed.  I hate that he feels that way because I don't think of myself as an unhappy person.  But if you were to randomly ask me how I was feeling, happiness probably would not be the first emotion that would come to my mind.  I had to really stop myself from not beating myself up when Chaz told me he doesn't ever come home to me happy.  I had to stop myself from only hearing "You have failed.  You're not good enough."  Because that thought process did pop up almost immediately.  But I knew he didn't mean it like that.  He was just trying to be honest with me.

One of the other things he said to me that I've spent the last few days pondering over is that if I'm going to be in pain anyway, one way or the other, shouldn't I have a better attitude about it?  Instead of focusing on how stressed I am, how unsatisfied with things I am, how much pain I'm in every day, shouldn't I really try to have a more positive attitude about things and make the best out of things?

My immediate reaction, again, was resentment and anger for being told I wasn't good enough.  That I wasn't handling things properly.  That I was a shitty wife and mother.  But after that immediate reaction, I acknowledged to myself that he was right.  I do tend to let myself get mired down in negativity, more so when he's at home.  When I'm at home by myself with the girls, I do try really hard to stay positive, to be in a good mood for the girls' sake.  But when Chaz gets home, he's able to take some of the load of the girls away and I'm free to sink into the tiredness and the frustration that I've been hiding all day.  And that's not fair to him and it's really not fair to me either.  Because in the end, I'm selling myself short.

I've been sick since Tuesday.  Congested sinuses, sore throat, achy body, headaches.  And both of the girls have been sick since Thursday.  And Chaz has been working overtime.  12 hours on Friday, working today and tomorrow (his normal two days off).  So I've been sick, dealing with two sick babies by myself for the most part.  Sounds like a recipe for fun, yeah?

So last night was absolute hell.  The girls were up all night and I do mean, all night.  I don't think they finally went to sleep until about 4am and then Daphnie was up again at 6:30 and Aubrey was up at 8:30.  I've been going on practically no sleep, feeling like absolute crap all day, dealing with two very tired, very fussy babies.

However, the day has not been bad.  The fact that the girls didn't feel good completely took precedence over the fact that I didn't feel good.  I've spent the day with either one or the other or both girls cuddled up on my lap, dozing in and out, fussing here and there, watching the same Disney movies over and over to keep them as happy as possible.  I've been giving out cough medicine and tylenol, cleaning up vomit, taking temperatures and speaking to a nurse.  All the while my nose has been either stuffed up or running like crazy, my throat is on fire and my back is killing me.  Yet none of that has really seemed to matter all day because I've been so focused on trying to keep the girls as comforted as possible.

Chaz got home from work around 4 and I was so grateful to see him but I didn't immediately sigh with relief, hand him the reins and go into hiding.  Did I refuse to ask for help....no.  But I didn't give him the attitude I so often have in the past--that oh great, he's home from work, it's his turn to deal with the kids and I can have a break attitude.  And I've done that when I've been well, when I haven't been dealing with some sort of sinus infection or whatever this is, when the girls have been well and well-behaved and the day hasn't been that bad.

Chaz has a point.  All things being equal, it really does come down to attitude.  I'm going to be in pain either way so I can either wallow in that knowledge and be miserable, or I can live my life and enjoy the moments I have with my family while they're available to have.

I'm not saying there won't be days that will be rough for me, where I will feel overwhelmed and tired and frustrated and be counting down the minutes til Chaz walks it the door.  And that's ok.  And if you don't believe that, feel free to check out this dad's blog.  (Seriously, it's amazing for anyone with young kids!)  But I really do need to remember that the day will take on the hue of whatever mood I'm in.  So if I get up in the morning and decide that it's going to be a good day, whether that means doing three loads of laundry, cleaning up the kitchen and having dinner on the table at 5pm, or spending the day camped out in the living room building block towers with the girls, it will be a good day.  And if I stay busy, if I stay happy, maybe the pain won't get in so many punches.

As I said, coming to this realization has filled me with equal parts pride and shame.  Acknowledgement is the first step and now I can take the next steps in living a better and happier life and providing happier lives for the people most important to me.  For that I feel pride.  That it's taken me this long to come to that realization, acknowledging that I've probably made my husband's life a living hell more often than not because it's been easier to whine and complain and blame him for "not understanding"--yeah, that's not such a hot feeling.

Admitting your flaws in not easy.  Of this, I am well aware.  But once you're able to admit those flaws--and I mean truly admit them to yourself and fully embrace them as part of your being--taking charge and making changes is that much easier.

I thank God that He blessed me with a man who has accepted me, flaws and all, and more importantly does not shrink away from bringing me face-to-face with those flaws and demanding that I do something about them.  But not for his sake.  Not to make his life better or easier.  For my sake.  To make my life better and easier.  To make me more satisfied and happy with who I am as a person, as a wife, as a mother.

I am truly blessed.  Even with the congested sinuses and the sore throat and the fussy babies.  I mean, c'mon--a girl can't have everything, right?