....why your brain works overtime when you can't sleep.
I normally don't blog this late at night. I normally don't do anything (since becoming a mother, that is) this late at night; except for drooling and occasionally making it through to the end of a movie in one sitting. Which I usually end up paying for the next day and I'm then left to wonder how in the world I used to pull all those late nights, of long ago. I must have been nuts.
Tonight I am awake thanks to an insistent and ominous sore throat that leaves me slightly dreading the illness it is heralding in. And of course, since I want very much to just ignore my sore throat and fall asleep my brain is on over drive coming up with all sorts of interesting thought topics just to keep me awake. And therefore focused on my sore throat. So I can think of more ridiculous things. Just to keep me awake. And therefore......you get the picture.
Some examples of my random mental wanderings: where my daughter's secret hiding place is located. My husband and I know she has to have one. Too many things keep disappearing never to be seen again. Like the lid to our Vaseline jar. And the computer remote. And one of the butterfly window decals we just bought. One minute she has them firmly in hand. Then the next minute...POOF! Vanished without a trace. This does not sit well with me. As someone for whom a misplaced object quickly becomes an all-consuming must-find-now fixation (I take after my own mother in this) I am a bit on edge. The Vaseline lid was the first to elude us, months ago now. And I freely admit, I tore the house apart looking for it. (For one thing, how can Vaseline continue to be Vaseline with open exposure to the air?) But to no avail. Then the remote. Followed in quick succession by the butterfly. Maybe I should return all those board books I checked out from the public library. If my daughter's going to continue on in this "now you see it, now you don't" streak it might just be the smart thing to do.
Another thought: What am I going to get my husband for his birthday? This I actually spent more time considering. Yet it has a shorter paragraph. Yeah. That's how stumped I am.
Is my husband's cousin coming to visit Saturday? If so, is it for a meal? And if so again, what am I going to make?
My daughter hates milk. How can I manipulate her into drinking it? Maybe there are helpful hints on the Internet?
I have Bible study in the morning. In the whole entire course of this week, tomorrow is the only day I have to actually be awake, coherent and dressed before 8 and wouldn't you know it......it's 11:30 and I'm still up. Maybe I shouldn't go? Maybe I should email my regrets now? But what if I wake up tomorrow (assuming I actually sleep and therefore have something to wake up from) and I feel guilty for bailing yet I've already said they could go on without me......? Maybe I shouldn't email? Maybe I should just resolve to go, no matter what?
And on and on the thoughts circle; like a pack of wolves. I think they're trying to find a weakness in my sanity. I think they want to separate it from the pack and kill it.
You see, even my trying to make sense of the senseless is whacked. And slightly paranoid. (And I wouldn't even tell you how many typing errors spellcheck had to catch for me.)
Ok, well, here's to crazy thoughts. At least they are an infrequent enough occurrence that I am able to recognize them when they do show up.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
....how isolating Winter really is. I find I never fully realize it until the thawing begins. Then, as the earth awakens, so do my senses and my social life. Neighbors I haven't seen for literal months suddenly materialize and have time to linger by the mailbox, stop by the open garage door and catch up on how we've been.
Smells begin to stir in the warming air; somebody's supper cooking near a slightly open window has never seemed so intense and so welcome. And the dead soggy grass, soured by months of stagnation, has never seemed so unavoidable and unappealing.
Sounds, too, that have long been muted and muffled by the constant blanket of snow roar into life. I can hear the neighborhood children playing and airplanes flying overhead, the distant hum of the freeway and, of course, the sweet, sweet melodies of the returning Robins and Finches, Larks and Blackbirds.
Somewhere in my mind is a vague recollection that last fall I was sick of all that noise and commotion. Back then I was ready for the respite provided by the cold, quiet solitude of Winter. But I've had my fill. Dormancy need last only so long. And like a traveler, sensing in the foreign wind the familiar call of home, I ready for a return to life.
Smells begin to stir in the warming air; somebody's supper cooking near a slightly open window has never seemed so intense and so welcome. And the dead soggy grass, soured by months of stagnation, has never seemed so unavoidable and unappealing.
Sounds, too, that have long been muted and muffled by the constant blanket of snow roar into life. I can hear the neighborhood children playing and airplanes flying overhead, the distant hum of the freeway and, of course, the sweet, sweet melodies of the returning Robins and Finches, Larks and Blackbirds.
Somewhere in my mind is a vague recollection that last fall I was sick of all that noise and commotion. Back then I was ready for the respite provided by the cold, quiet solitude of Winter. But I've had my fill. Dormancy need last only so long. And like a traveler, sensing in the foreign wind the familiar call of home, I ready for a return to life.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
....the exact, official, indicator of Spring. Is it indeed the vernal equinox; the position of earth and sun? Or is it instead the somewhat mystically interwoven ties between the full moon, Passover and Easter? Should we rely upon the daring of a testy old groundhog? Or is the gallant Robin, faithfully returning to a bare and wind blown land, a more suitable harbinger?
Back in my childhood years Spring traditionally began the first day Mom could finally hang the wash out to dry. It would be a nice day, of course. Warm in the sun yet with a cool wind sweeping the gossamer clouds across a pale blue sky, stirring the stark, leafless branches of the trees and reminding us that winter was not quite altogether departed.
Mom would have gotten up early that morning, while the sky was still a steely gray against the sunrise, and run the washer non-stop. By the time my brother and I had come downstairs, eaten breakfast and pulled on our mud boots there'd be any number of baskets, wet and waiting, to be hauled outside. We'd do that, working as a team. And after Mom got the clothespin apron we would all hang up the laundry together.
As always the sheets went first; their huge lengths of snowy white cotton still warmly damp and heavy. All winter long they had been hibernating in the deep drawers of the upstairs bureau while we favored the warmer flannel bedding. But now they once again resumed their rightful place of importance as Mom swung them over taut clothesline after taut clothesline until they formed thick white halls across our yard.
And that's when the true magic of the day began. Mom never received much help from us after the sheets were up. No, we were too distracted, too entranced by our imaginations. Those rows of cotton sheets, with very little effort, became new and exciting places; the snow Queen's somber palace in faraway Narnia. Or, as the brisk wind caught their right angle corners and set them flying, billowing up and whipping fine sprays of clean water into our faces, they became the great canvas sails on a pirate ship bound for distant lands, in search of exotic treasure.
We'd chase each other back and forth through them, ducking under and around, running this way and that until our boots were caked with mud and our faces were flushed with laughter and the sting of the cold wind. And all the while Mom would stand there, pretty as a picture, with her bun tugged loose by the wind and her skirt hugging her knees. She'd diligently carry on with the laundry, finishing off the bedding and starting on the shirts and dresses and my brother's little pajamas with the feet.
Eventually we'd tire of our games and she'd have hung up all the clean clothes there were and then it was off with the boots and into the house. Our afternoon routine commenced with very little thought of the laundry outside. Rather it was left to the devices of the sun and the wind until Dad came home from work and helped to bring it all in.
Then the house was filled with the distinctive and aromatic fragrance of the outdoors. Unforgettable in it's uniqueness, evocative in it's familiarity, it's the scent detergents are supposed to mimic but never do. Clean and fresh and new, like a deep breath, it filled the whole entire house with a renewed sense of vitality. And days later, when Mom tucked me into bed between the chilly layers of those same sheets and my brother slept snuggled up in those same foot-ed pajamas the smell would still be there. Sweet and comforting, like a lullaby it whispered promises of green grass and gentle rains and returning song birds. Promises of Spring.
I'd fall asleep remembering that perfect 'first laundry day' and dream of all the others that were yet to come.
Back in my childhood years Spring traditionally began the first day Mom could finally hang the wash out to dry. It would be a nice day, of course. Warm in the sun yet with a cool wind sweeping the gossamer clouds across a pale blue sky, stirring the stark, leafless branches of the trees and reminding us that winter was not quite altogether departed.
Mom would have gotten up early that morning, while the sky was still a steely gray against the sunrise, and run the washer non-stop. By the time my brother and I had come downstairs, eaten breakfast and pulled on our mud boots there'd be any number of baskets, wet and waiting, to be hauled outside. We'd do that, working as a team. And after Mom got the clothespin apron we would all hang up the laundry together.
As always the sheets went first; their huge lengths of snowy white cotton still warmly damp and heavy. All winter long they had been hibernating in the deep drawers of the upstairs bureau while we favored the warmer flannel bedding. But now they once again resumed their rightful place of importance as Mom swung them over taut clothesline after taut clothesline until they formed thick white halls across our yard.
And that's when the true magic of the day began. Mom never received much help from us after the sheets were up. No, we were too distracted, too entranced by our imaginations. Those rows of cotton sheets, with very little effort, became new and exciting places; the snow Queen's somber palace in faraway Narnia. Or, as the brisk wind caught their right angle corners and set them flying, billowing up and whipping fine sprays of clean water into our faces, they became the great canvas sails on a pirate ship bound for distant lands, in search of exotic treasure.
We'd chase each other back and forth through them, ducking under and around, running this way and that until our boots were caked with mud and our faces were flushed with laughter and the sting of the cold wind. And all the while Mom would stand there, pretty as a picture, with her bun tugged loose by the wind and her skirt hugging her knees. She'd diligently carry on with the laundry, finishing off the bedding and starting on the shirts and dresses and my brother's little pajamas with the feet.
Eventually we'd tire of our games and she'd have hung up all the clean clothes there were and then it was off with the boots and into the house. Our afternoon routine commenced with very little thought of the laundry outside. Rather it was left to the devices of the sun and the wind until Dad came home from work and helped to bring it all in.
Then the house was filled with the distinctive and aromatic fragrance of the outdoors. Unforgettable in it's uniqueness, evocative in it's familiarity, it's the scent detergents are supposed to mimic but never do. Clean and fresh and new, like a deep breath, it filled the whole entire house with a renewed sense of vitality. And days later, when Mom tucked me into bed between the chilly layers of those same sheets and my brother slept snuggled up in those same foot-ed pajamas the smell would still be there. Sweet and comforting, like a lullaby it whispered promises of green grass and gentle rains and returning song birds. Promises of Spring.
I'd fall asleep remembering that perfect 'first laundry day' and dream of all the others that were yet to come.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
....that schizophrenia is one of the symptoms of teething. You hear about the drooling, yes. The ear rubbing and frantic chewing, of course. Even the loose stools. I thought I was prepared, having anticipated all of that. But then came the sudden, violent mood swings. The happy one minute, screaming the next emotional instability. Call me naive I thought that stuff came later; like in the terrible twos or during the hormonally charged onslaught of puberty.
Alas, I was wrong.
My daughter is possessed. She is tight now in the very throes of teething and let me tell you any little thing can set her off. Putting on her bib. Pulling off a sock. Giving her a Cheerio when the much more enticing fruit puff canister is in sight. I’ve taken to relaxing some rules and offering some bribes just to gain a bit of peace. Whatever she wants I let her play with. Three things that really seem to work: the remote, the humidifier and Victoria Secret catalogs. (Don’t tell my husband about the first thing. And as to the last thing…..well hopefully the unrealistic images won’t scar her for life. I figure in her mind those women with their large bosoms are less fixtures of unattainable beauty and sexual shallowness and are instead something like items on a buffet menu.)
To compound this joyous rite of dental passage, my little girl decided she needed a cold on top of everything else. So along with the copious amounts of slimy drool we also have even more copious amounts of snot. (And by copious I mean astounding.) In between all the chin wiping, Vaseline smearing and oral gel applying my daily list of ‘to do’ tasks includes nose sucking.
I am one lucky woman.
With so much moist DNA free flowing around me I’ve elected to fore go the usual showering and getting dressed routine. I mean, really, why bother. Seeing as how the outdoor temperature is staying well below zero this winter I’m not leaving the house. Especially not with a sick, not to mention crabby, one year old. And what’s the point of getting clean and putting on nice clothes only to be coated in saliva and green shellac a mere 15 minutes later. So these days you’ll find me calming temper tantrums and singing ‘my favorite things’ attired in bandannas, slippers and sweat shirt/pant combos that were baggy on me before pregnancy enlarged them.
It’s amazing my husband still comes home from work at all.
Hopefully the process will be wrapping up soon. Already the milky white and razor sharp edges of those first bottom 2 teeth have surfaced. A lull in the storm (you know, before the upper 2 make their presence known) has got to be not far off. And well, colds can’t last forever. If the amount of readily available mucous is any indication of a body’s ability to fight off germs those suckers haven’t got much of a chance. There’s only one question though. When all this drama is over and I’m no longer cleaning faces and soothing crying spells what am I going to do with all my time. What’s more, what am I going to talk about?
Alas, I was wrong.
My daughter is possessed. She is tight now in the very throes of teething and let me tell you any little thing can set her off. Putting on her bib. Pulling off a sock. Giving her a Cheerio when the much more enticing fruit puff canister is in sight. I’ve taken to relaxing some rules and offering some bribes just to gain a bit of peace. Whatever she wants I let her play with. Three things that really seem to work: the remote, the humidifier and Victoria Secret catalogs. (Don’t tell my husband about the first thing. And as to the last thing…..well hopefully the unrealistic images won’t scar her for life. I figure in her mind those women with their large bosoms are less fixtures of unattainable beauty and sexual shallowness and are instead something like items on a buffet menu.)
To compound this joyous rite of dental passage, my little girl decided she needed a cold on top of everything else. So along with the copious amounts of slimy drool we also have even more copious amounts of snot. (And by copious I mean astounding.) In between all the chin wiping, Vaseline smearing and oral gel applying my daily list of ‘to do’ tasks includes nose sucking.
I am one lucky woman.
With so much moist DNA free flowing around me I’ve elected to fore go the usual showering and getting dressed routine. I mean, really, why bother. Seeing as how the outdoor temperature is staying well below zero this winter I’m not leaving the house. Especially not with a sick, not to mention crabby, one year old. And what’s the point of getting clean and putting on nice clothes only to be coated in saliva and green shellac a mere 15 minutes later. So these days you’ll find me calming temper tantrums and singing ‘my favorite things’ attired in bandannas, slippers and sweat shirt/pant combos that were baggy on me before pregnancy enlarged them.
It’s amazing my husband still comes home from work at all.
Hopefully the process will be wrapping up soon. Already the milky white and razor sharp edges of those first bottom 2 teeth have surfaced. A lull in the storm (you know, before the upper 2 make their presence known) has got to be not far off. And well, colds can’t last forever. If the amount of readily available mucous is any indication of a body’s ability to fight off germs those suckers haven’t got much of a chance. There’s only one question though. When all this drama is over and I’m no longer cleaning faces and soothing crying spells what am I going to do with all my time. What’s more, what am I going to talk about?
Friday, March 13, 2009
...how much of your life you will spend occupied in 'busy nothings'. I can guarantee that there is precious little of my day spent staring off into space and I am usually so exhausted by the end of it that it's all I can do to pull the covers back and climb into bed. Yet I am always forced to ask myself, as unconsciousness lingers somewhere very near by, "What have I really done today?" And the answer? Unfortunately it ends up going something along the lines of, "The same things you will do again tomorrow." Thus the 'busy nothings'; all those endless, time consuming, must-get-done tasks that keep coming around and around and around. Dishes. Laundry. Teeth brushing. Diaper changing. Do any of us ever realize how much of our life is devoted to these things? Probably not unless we sit down and intentionally take stock. I dare you to do it sometime; to total up the amount of hours you invest every year in, say, getting dressed and getting undressed or letting the dog out or wiping toothpaste splatter off the bathroom faucet. It really is quite scandalous when you work it all out into bare facts and figures. So then why I am always in such an urgent hurry to get these things done? Why do I feel guilty when I miss one evening flossing session or let the laundry pile up or head to bed without having emptied the sink drain? Inevitably there is another opportunity to do each of these things waiting just around the corner. In fact, I will most likely spend the rest of my life doing these things. So why can't a mini-lapse from this 'to do list' of mine feel less like irresponsibility and more like a reprieve ? Why can't I embrace a chance to pretend, for one small moment in time, that I can escape the mundane assault of my every day routine? Honestly I don't know. But in an effort to save my sanity I think I'm going to give myself permission to slack off now and then. Nothing crazy, mind you. I'm much too "type A" to let anything slide for very long. But, well, the fact of the matter is if I'm to end every day a virtual zombie facing a virtual repeat of today's itinerary tomorrow I might as well shake things up a bit. And then, every once in awhile, as I close my eyes and ask myself the fateful question "What did I really do today?" I can smile, with both drowsy smugness and satisfaction and answer "Not everything I was supposed to."
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