You've Got Mail

Continued from Monday...

I wish I told her this story:

Once, when the whole stay-at-home-depressed-new-mom thing was washing (which wrongly implies that I had regular showers) over me, I wept, WEPT with joy when a piece of mail had my name.

I hadn’t left the house in DAYS, but someone in the universe remembered I existed. 

Even if it was just Victoria’s Secret. 

And then I cried again.

I didn't tell her that story.

I didn't tell her it would get better.

I didn't tell her in a few months sleep would return and she would feel human.

I didn't tell her it would get better, because that was just something I read somewhere.

I didn't want to lie to her. But I didn't want to tell her the truth, either.

To Be Continued...

The Bad Samaritan

Once.

Standing in my church foyer, I asked a new mom, "Don't you just love staying home with her?"

It was a question everyone asked me when I was a young mom. It seemed like a polite thing to say to somebody I didn't know very well.

Holding her baby in one had, diaper bag in the other, she looked back at me. The mom began to cry. CRY! Now, she hid it, or tried to.

With tears in her eyes, she said, "Yes?"

Because that is what you say to that question. You say YES. Even if your eyes are saying NO and your heart is saying NO. You always, always say YES. Just like I always did. I have cried my way through that YES, and I knew exactly what it meant.

Know what I did next?

I walked away.

TO BE CONTINUED...

The One With The Motorcycles

Big Kid: When I grow up, I'm gonna get a motorcycle with just one seat.

Me: Don't you want to share it with somebody?

Big Kid: Neh.

Me: So, not two seats, just one, huh?

Big Kid: Yeah... My friends will want two seats for their wives, but not me.

Me: You don't want to share with your wife either?

Big Kid: No way! She might try to trick me, and that would be dangerous.

Me: Well, you could get two motorcycles like our neighbors and ride together?

Big Kid: I guess. But she'll have to buy hers from her own allowance.

Slacker's Guide to Friendship

I am the following things:

Shy.
Late to return a phone call. As in, all of them.
Happy to be alone.
As a mother of small children, never actually alone.
Quiet.
Private.
Recovering from depression.
Floundering through a crisis of faith. Spiritual battle? God and I are going through "a thing."
Crazy busy.
Sometimes... Just crazy.

All of this has led to the following:

I ended up lonely.

I am good at being alone, but I reached a point where I wanted, needed, a girlfriend or two around, and I was at a loss of who to call.

(I'm serious about the GIRLfriend part. I can't be friends with boys. I don't know if you can. Really, I don't think you can either, but this is a post for a different day.)

Where was I?

Yes! No friends.

I decided to do something about it.

ONE DAY. ONE FRIEND.

Say it with me. One day. One friend.

Every day, I reach out to one person. It can be a visit, phone call, substantial email, or actual letter. It has to be meaningful. (Facebook comments no longer count.)

And you know what? I'm finding it takes five minutes. FIVE MINUTES. I will talk longer if that's what is needed, or I have extra time, but five minutes, to someone else who may be feeling lonely, is a big deal. Let me repeat that: FIVE MINUTES, TO SOMEONE WHO IS LONELY, IS A VERY BIG DEAL. (She says from experience.)

If I haven't gotten back to you yet, well... I am a year or two behind.

One more thing: I first started with a list, but I found that the day I didn't want to talk to Ansley Adams (name changed to protect my catty-ness), I abandoned the list all together. On day two. So: no list. Just a person on my heart. One day. One friend.

How do you keep your friends?

Need a Disney Discount?

THIS is one of the ways we were able to afford our trip. If you have school-aged kids, Disney's Y.E.S. Program  is a fantastic opportunity.

We did research for a year, and this is the only legit way to get discounted tickets. A YEAR, PEOPLE.

Camping. Or Not.

Ya'll. We just got back from Disney.

I know, right?

I loathe theme parks, commercialism, cheesy, syrupy kid stuff, Florida, hot weather (can you see this vacation was not my idea?) AND STILL HAD THE BEST TIME EVER. It was awesome.

Well. There was this one day. One day was not fun.

We, being poor as church mice after buying Disney World tickets, wanted to camp at Disney's Fort Wilderness. It was way cheaper than the trashiest of motels. And also? We are good at camping. Like, really good.

However, as I type this, I realize we are really good at camping in the MOUNTAINS.

Florida? Not so much. Florida. In the summer. Is not pleasant.

96 Degrees - 6:00 PM. We set up.
"Where's the air pump?" I don't know. I don't care. I'm going to pass out. Why can't I breathe? Everybody is just as miserable, all right? Where is the air pump? I don't know, I just asked you! Why are you yelling? I'M NOT YELLING.

97 Degrees - 6:30 PM. We discover yellow flies.
I am "that" mom who refuses to spray her children with bug spray. I figure doctors can cure malaria, but they can't cure DEET. I have no idea if that is actually true. Chemicals freak me out, OK?

Where was I? Oh yes. Yellow flies. They are awful creatures with razor sharp whatever that ACTUALLY DRAW BLOOD. These things only seem to exist in this one campground. I don't know. We were hiding inside a screen tent, sprayed with the strongest bug spray available on the white market, and still being attacked. Brutal.

97 Degrees - 10:30 PM. We settle in for the night. In a tent.
It is freaking hot. I suddenly see why Florida does not have a large homeless population. Or if they do, the homeless where smart enough to hitch a ride to the coast.
Anyway. In for the night. We didn't bring our bags with the sleeping pads. We brought our bags that use an air mattress. After about thirty seconds, the patch, which held just fine in the mountains, melted.

We were on the ground. Melting. Attacked by flies. Bleeding. Facing a sleepless night and three more days of the same.

STILL 97 Degrees - 11:30 PM. We find a motel.

I will say that Disney, (thank you Valerie), was super helpful, and let us move without any hassle whatsoever. If you go to Disney World, please please please do not tent camp in June. And have a magical stay.

Do you have a vacation horror story?

I Don't Buy It

I wrote an essay about a friend. It was predictable. I made it as sweet as I possibly could. "She is my BEST friend, and even though we are going our separate ways, I love her very much."

My teacher scrawled at the bottom of the paper, "I don't buy it."

Stunned.

My teacher was right, of course. I had grown so apart from my friend, I dreaded calling her just as much as she seemed to dread calling me. The friendship was broken beyond repair, and I didn't know how to fix it or even if I wanted to. I was pretty sure I didn't want to.

However, I was confident my essay only showed the part of me that wanted to save the relationship.

I've always wondered about that, how my teacher knew. I wondered how many people see through false writing.

Do readers wonder what is behind false writing? (Confusion? Denial? Hiding? The failure to find the poignancy of real life which is never black and white?)

Or do readers simply leave the work behind, feeling that something is missing?

As Ted Kooser said, Your feelings will surface no matter what you are writing."

Sometimes, I wonder if you see through me. I wonder if you say to yourself, "I don't buy it."

I struggle with telling the truth to others, because I struggle with telling the truth to myself.

So... Cheers! Here's to honesty. It's not easy to admit the truth to yourself. It not easy to admit truth to the rest of the world after you find it. It's a big deal to live the truth, as bloggers, as...er... livers. I'm cheering us on as we find the truth and tell it. People see it anyway, don't they?

Ode To Running

I am a terrible runner. Just badbadbad. I am slow. My form is all wrong. I never stretch or do enough yoga or negative splits or Fartleks (heh) or even pretend to know what those are.

Remember my tale of the marathon? I finished the last part of the race with the super-nice softball coach? She actually ended up beating me by about 300 yards. And the worst part? I got a Facebook message a few weeks after the race that said, "Oh, haha, I just found out I was racing for two. I wondered why my back hurt so much that day."

That's right, boys and girls. I was bested by a pregnant person.

And this other blogger I became friends with?  She did her first marathon a few weeks after mine. She told me her planned time... and I rolled my eyes... mostly from jealousy.

When I read her  race report, I cried a little. She got an asthma attack, stopped at a pharmacy to CALL IN  a prescription for her inhaler, stopped to vomit, and stopped for a charlie horse... AND STILL BEAT MY TIME.

So, no, I am not a very good runner.

I still love it. I am slow and steady, and I love that one hour of quiet I get every day.

I still enter races, even though I will never win one, because entering races makes me get out there and put in the miles.

In two weeks-ish, I will give you a new race report! This is not a marathon... it's actually something I never expected to do, is very un-like me, but a part of that new fun I mentioned last Monday.

I can't wait to tell you about it!

Out of the Mouth of Babes

My eight-year-old friend was psyching himself up for a cannonball, (he scored a 7.5 if you were wondering), and he said, unabashedly,

"Cheer me on, please."

Yeah, kid. That's right. Way to know what you want and not be afraid to ask for it.

Three Things Thursday: Walking Edition

While running is the only thing that keeps me from returning to a Fatty McFatPants, walking is, and will always be, my first love.

Here are the three best things about walking.

1. Therapy. I am unable to figure things out without s p a c e. Walking gives me just enough of a breather to grow as a human being.

2. Worship. I find God here. 

3. Companionship. Or quiet. If I'm with someone, the act of exercising, the art of moving, keeps me talking. This is pretty much the only way you will ever get anything out of me. That, or give me a computer. I can't talk to human beings if I'm looking directly at them.

If I'm alone on a walk... well... then I'm pretty happy. Seriously. It's better than the ocean for me. Walking is my happy place.

Walking? Yes? No? Yo?

Ode To Music

First, this. I am actively trying to avoid name dropping bands as I write this, because that can only go one of three ways. You will think my musical taste vaguely cool, or you will see that I am desperate to seem cool to you, or you will be annoyed and/or horrified at some of the trash that comes through my speakers. MY music is not the point of this. The point is my life of music.

Second, a quote. I am so sorry that I didn't write down where it came from. If it came from you, tell me in the comments and I will edit this and sing your praises. Someone, someone brilliant, said, "Never make fun of a person's music. It is a part of them, and they will take it personally." Man. I am sorry, everyone in high school. I was a jerk. I apologize. Forgive me?

Third, a story. I have this friend who shall remain nameless. For the purpose of this story, let's call her, "my sister." Once, after she was a grown-up, she was dating this musician. I mean, he had a day job, but he played bass in a band on the weekends, loves music, blah blah.

Once they were out on a double date, and "my sister" said to the other girl, "Oh, I remember when music was a big deal to me. Going out to shows, knowing whatever was cool... wasn't that so long ago?"

And the girl looked at her, horrified, and maybe / probably told the musician, and he never called "my sister"  again.

I, who suffer from Inappropriate Laughter Syndrome (ILS), laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

Oh, how I UNDERSTOOD "my sister"!
Oh, how I UNDERSTOOD  the horrified girl / cold-turkey non-calling bass player!

I wish I could explain how music DIES in my family. My mom needed, "Peace and quiet." My dad listened to classical, blues, jazz, James Taylor, and we had a good bit of Johnny Cash lying around, but music wasn't a THING. I did piano lessons, and band, and learned to read music, but music was for special occasions. Nobody listened to music in the car, or to fit a mood, or to live life. It was an afterthought.

I found music in high school. I learned how to play it: better, well. I learned every era of classical music. I listened to everything, EVERYTHING, I could get my hands on. I got my music scholarship. Just an example of the infatuation, here: 

There was this boy... (if I could explain the opposite of physical chemistry, this is what I had with him), but once he gave me this mixed-tape DO YOU REMEMBER THOSE, full of R.E.M. and the Cure, and the Smiths and Paul Westerberg. The boy, an artist, did some amazing cover art, and I can not tell you how much I listened to that tape. Honestly, I almost loved him, sans physical attraction and anything actually in common, for the music alone.

"My sister" and I both let music die in adulthood. It was a part of our past. The musicians we dated, the shows we went to... that was all a part of the teenage experience. 

Additionally, some music became a little too hard to listen to. The radio became a minefield of unwanted emotions, and terrifying black hallways that my brain was tired of wandering.

I moved to a town with nothing but soft-rock radio, without Internet, without music stores. My husband, the drummer, fell for kayaking, and I fell fell for NPR, and that was it. The day the music died.

My heart shut down, ya'll. I died, a little, too.

And then, suddenly, I woke up. Like a gift, music came back to me. Soul-crushing-sleep-deprived young motherhood evaporated, and I found myself alive again.

Here I find myself a decade behind. I am like a man, collapsing into the oasis from the desert, making myself sick on water. I can. not. get. enough.

My mom, last weekend, asked me if I still, "kept up with music." 

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, remember? When you were in high school? You always kept up with the latest thing."

"Yeah. I still keep up with music."

I smiled. Yeah. Music was a very big gift, and it had fallen back in front of me, and I will never, ever let it go again. 

I should end the essay there, right? I can't. Music is still difficult. When you give it up for a decade, you find your tastes may have changed. The Better-Half and I have difficulty agreeing. Much of what I love, I am unwilling to explain to my children yet. They will hear about sex and drugs and rock and roll soon enough. They don't really need it when they are six and under. And I know I "should" listen to more Jesus music than I do, but I spent a lot of years battling the "Shoulds" and I don't know... I'm trying.

(AND YET! I have this theory in my "Ode To Drinking" post I have yet to write, that if Jesus were around Earth today, he would have been hanging out in bars. I firmly believe Jesus would have heard more Rock and Roll than most people in my dry county would think. Am I really writing an "Ode To Drinking"?! Yikes. I feel a few more, "Who ARE you?"'s coming.)

Yes, often, music seems out to get me. There is a lot I can't, won't, listen to, because it takes my mind to places I decided my mind shouldn't be.

So there it is. Music and I have a long, difficult and storied history, and if I could leave you with one thing... what...

Just don't let it die. OK? Learn from my mistake, young grasshopper, and never give it up.