For 2010

...Men are that they might have joy...

For 2010...more joy.

(The image is Maxfield Parrish's painting Ecstasy, my absolute favorite.)

Turning 28 and Who I'm Not

I turned twenty-eight this December.  My mood was as bleak as the weather.  I cried in the kitchen most of the night while making dinner.  I wasn't sad I was older.  That doesn't really bother me.  It was that it had been ten years since I had turned eighteen and things have not exactly turned out as planned.  To say I was full of idealistic romantic nonsense is an understatement. 

I found a piece of paper I had written down 100 goals in one of my classes my senior year.  While I've accomplished twenty of them, I'm not exactly sure the goals were that difficult or that...sane.  For your reading pleasure I've plucked just a handful of inexplicable goals. 

Ahem. 

Number 66:  Take a ride in a dryer.  Hmm.  I'd like to say I don't remember what this was all about but I do.  I overheard a classmate talking one day in seminary about how her and her friends had gone to a local laundromat and taken "rides" in the over sized dryers.  For whatever reason her story set my imagination on fire and I just had to experience the thrill of...of...extreme heat, dangerous conditions, and vomit inducing dizziness? 

Number 69: Be a massuse.  That's right, a MASSUSE.  Not that being a masseuse is not a worthy goal, but my spelling was horrendous.  And that's definitely not going to happen.  With Ava climbing on my lap fifty times a day and commanding I rub her back I give all the massaging I can deal with. 

Number 72:  Own lots of lingerie.  At least I spelled that right.  This list is just making me sound dumber and dumber isn't it?  So ambitious.  I have to think that for a hormonal eighteen year-old the forbidden mystery of lingerie must have seemed intriguing.  I wonder what the teacher grading my paper thought?

Number 81:  Never see a rated R movie.  I must have either been lying to myself or I had suppressed the memory of ALREADY having watched a rated R movie.  I was in 8th grade sleeping over at a friend's house.  She put in a movie.  I asked what it was and she replied "Pretty Woman".  That was one of those moments when I pictured my story being featured in The New Era.  I would valiantly suggest we watch a more wholesome movie and feel that warm glow from not giving into peer pressure.  Then Richard Gere popped up on the screen and I didn't open my mouth for the next hour and a half.  Not proud.

Number 82:  Quit drinking caffeine.  Still working on that one, curse you Coca Cola.

Number 85:  Live to see world peace.  I'm sure I pictured myself lounging in one of my many pieces of lingerie, resting my arthritic MASSUSE fingers, sipping on a glass of water, and reflecting on my thrilling ride in a dryer while I watched the crawling news banner run across the bottom of CNN announcing WORLD PEACE HAS BEEN ACHIEVED!  GO OUT AND HUG A STRANGER!  Noble?  Yes.  Realistic?  Probably not. 

Number 88: Make dinner for a week.  HAHAHAHAHAHA!  Someone else making my food for 19 years must have dulled my wits.  I wonder what I imagined would happen after I grew up and got married.  A handsome Italian husband who cooks and cleans?  We are wealthy enough to eat out every night?  Or I have a live-in chef?  My bet is on number three.  I didn't even know how to clean a toilet properly until I was 20.  At least I can check this puppy off of my list!  Score one for me!

Number 93:  Get a pettacure.  Once again spelling.  I was a country gal, okay.  The closest I got to a pedicure was sinking my tootsies into the manure laced muck in the bottom of City Creek as I waded.  I can also check this one off but I'm still waiting for a decent pedicure given by someone who will actually massage my feet instead of soaking them and then painting my toenails. 

Number 43:  Get tan.  This one is laugh worthy.  By now I've accepted my ghostly pallor as something I can't change unless I want to subject myself to cancer causing tanning bed rays.  I already have enough premature lines showing up on my face, I definitely don't need an accelerant. 

Number 48:  Have tonz of grandkids.  Tonz.  I remember when I used to use words like this.  And how back in the day it was cool to replace an S with a Z. 

So I guess while I'll never be eighteen again with so many question marks about my future staring me in the face I can say if I made a list today it would be quite a bit different.  Hopefully these last ten years have taught me a lesson about what is meaningful and worthwhile. 

The fact is I did let my regrets about the things I have not accomplished get me down for a couple of hours on the evening of December 6th, but whenever Ava says something that makes me laugh or tells me how good of a mom I am (praise I don't really deserve) I realize the work I am doing now, though at times tedious and thankless, is something that will make a difference in the world.  Because it makes a difference to Ava. 

I'm not the adventurous, globetrotting, lingerie owning, tan, athletic archaeologist/novelist/social worker/ballet dancer married to a foreign good-looking man of wealth.  But you know what?  I'm okay with that.  I'm a restless stay at home mother of one, who continues to learn lessons about love, patience and faith from a group of amazing people in my life.  I struggle with my self image, my weight, and where I'm going in life.  I love to laugh and dance and read and write.  Some days I get lonely and depressed.  Some days the house is an utter disaster.  Some days all I can do is grit my teeth and pray to make it through.  I'm human.  I'm trying to do better.  I know who I'm not, but I'm still trying to figure out who I am. 





 

I've Been a Scrooge

I haven't been in the mood for Christmas.  Really, it probably would take some weird hallucination with three ghosts in it to put me in the mood.  Also, I'd like to report/complain I'm still sick.  Three weeks.  Three weeks of coughing, not being able to breathe through my nose, having no energy and I hate to admit this because I'm only 28, but peeing my pants every time I have a cough attack.  Listen, I had bladder issues before I had a child, as my closest friends can tell you.  And now you all know too.  Merry Christmas! 

I needed something, anything to boost my spirits.  So I rented Julie and Julia.  Any movie that centers around food instantly appeals to me.  For example, who can resist the magnetic pull of the movie Chocolat?  It combines chocolate and Johnny Depp.  Absolutely magical.  Back to the movie at hand.  I loved this movie.  I loved Meryl Streep as Julia Child.  I loved Julia Child herself, and her fearless approach to life.  She truly was one of a kind.  And what I loved most was the portrayal of Julia Child's marriage.  So great.  If you're in the mood to watch some yummy food and spend some time in Paris with a legend then pick this movie up.  I have to warn you that I like intimate movies, where the focus is on relationships, so if you're looking for action...this is not your movie. 

And that's all I've got to say about that.

Keepin' it Real

Let me explain.  For the second time this winter I've come down with some sort of flu.  I won't go into the misery I have been in for days all I can tell you is that two nights ago at 4 in the morning after having thrown up again from coughing so hard I crawled into bed with my husband woke him up and ask him to please load his gun and put the old girl down.  Thankfully he declined and rolled back over and went to sleep.  Tuesday morning I woke up and knew Ava was awake.  She had turned on the t.v. and I could hear Dora's annoying voice.  I had no idea what time it was.  I got up and entered the living room to the scene above. 

The advent calender had been plundered and pillaged.

She had scattered cheerios far and wide and somehow managed to knock my beloved Monet painting from off the mantle.  It had looked like some rock star had come and trashed the place.  A 4 year old rock star hopped up on sugar and chocolate.  She smiled sweetly at me, bid me a good morning and went about her business like any other morning.  I was still fighting a Tylenol PM hangover and all I could manage was a feeble hands on the hips pose and look of consternation on my pale face.  Then I took a coughing fit and lost all composure.  I collapsed into the recliner and wondered who takes care of a mother when she's sick.  Turns out, no one.  We take care of ourselves.  Or try to.  Which leads to the moral of the story...next year I'm getting a flu shot and every year after that.  The end. 

A Small Rant about Tiger Woods

Listen, if you're like me on one hand you're already tired of hearing all the sad sordid details of the whole Tiger Woods fiasco, on the other you grow more flabbergasted that a man of such high profile thought he could mess around on his wife with an ever growing harem of women of such low moral character and think he would never suffer any repercussions.  I just have to make a few points here and then I promise I'll return to my world of embarrassing personal stories and tales from the frontlines of motherhood. 

1.  It's not that he cheated.  It's that he did it in such a serial way.  Allegedly he had a personal trainer spot good looking women and would have him go up to them and introduce them.  This happened over and over again.  If you listen to any of these clearly money motivated, fame chasing Jezebels they all tell a basically similar story.  Tiger says his marriage is on the rocks, or that it is just for show.  Bada bing, bada boom.  Said Jezebel is ready to pick up the pieces when he finally leaves his wife.  OK.  What gives a person the right to think he can walk through one woman after another while still pretending to be a family man? 

2.  These women are making me want to scream.  Tiger is such a horrible guy...blah, blah, blah.  I feel betrayed...blah, blah, blah.  Of course I feel so sorry for his wife which is why I'm running my mouth to any media outlet that will give me air time or compensation, I'm sure this will make her feel better that my sincerest apology along with lurid details about her husband's affair with me is being broadcast into millions of homes.  Listen ladies, YOU had an affair with a married man.  This makes you just as culpable as he is.  You can try to justify your reasons all you want, the truth is you didn't give a damn about his wife or his family.  All you saw was a billion dollar man willing to open the door a crack to the "good life".  It wasn't about love.  It wasn't about manipulation.  It was about selfishness and power and a total lack of empathy for a fellow woman and a total lack of respect for the boundaries of marriage.  Don't try to spin it any other way.  The whole world knows you are lying.

3.  Major news corporations acting as if this is a hard hitting news story.  What has gone wrong with the world that half of all the national news each night is based around the lives of celebrities.  Those kinds of stories used to be reserved for Entertainment Tonight, but now it seems celebrities are now news worthy enough to be constantly shoved in our faces.  I don't know Tiger personally.  Or any other celebrity for that matter, except for having met one very un-magical David Copperfield on one occasion.  And I guess I have a bit more respect for an Athlete than I do for say an actor because really, why are actors famous?  Because they are willing to do ANYTHING on camera for millions of dollars and call it an art form.  What kind of moral character does this speak to?  I really don't need these people glorified for every little happening in their self-indulged lives that lack anything close to reality on the nightly news.  Save these stories for the right media outlets.  The world is a big place, maybe if we stepped outside of America once and while and looked around we might see what is really going on outside our largely entitled, privileged nation.

4.  Defenders of Tiger Woods trying to diminish what he did to his wife by saying that Elin stands to get a lot of money if she stays with him.  As if this somehow balances the scales.  I would be insulted if a man that had vowed to love, honor and cherish me did what Tiger did and THEN offered me more money to stay.  What do I look like?  A prostitute?  Someone you can pay off?  When did marriage become some business deal where emotional pain can be salved by money?  I know many women who marry these sorts of men are obviously attracted to more than just the guy's personality.  But it's just sad if you sell your dignity and your happiness so that you can drive a luxury car and wear over sized diamonds.  Shallow and insipid.  Hopefully, Elin won't be another Mrs. Kobe Bryant.

5. Final point- I promise.  It is sad for his wife to have to hear all the crappy details about her hound of a husband and his minions of air headed bottom feeders, but the only bright side to this is it has to be killing Tiger Woods.  For a man who thought he could pull so many strings and retain his reputation as a family man he has to be getting exactly what he deserves right now.  He likes his privacy so they say, but all his vile misdeeds are being flung over the fence and into the media trough for the whole world to consume.  Regardless of if he is truly sorry, I'm pretty positive he is sorry for the type of women he consorted with.  I've kept thinking, I shouldn't be judging him.  I don't know him.  But his actions speak of someone who believed their own desires were more important than anything.  I have no respect for a man that so wantonly and repeatedly hurt and betrayed his wife and for all we knew would have continued to until he was caught.  It just goes to show that a God given talent, successful career, billions of dollars in the bank, a beautiful wife and family are not enough for some people.  It really boggles the mind.

Wonderfully Weird Ava

I know, it seems like every post I do lately is a tribute to someone.  I don't know why.  I've always believed if you love someone you should tell them, because you just never know when time will run out.  That's why I tell the checker at Dillard's who is ringing up my huge bra that I like her earrings.  Maybe that girl gets sick of ringing up huge bras, maybe she's been taking a lot of flak from her supervisor for not folding those t-shirts just right, maybe she needs me to tell her I admire her taste in earrings.  You never know when the next time you'll get into Dillards will be...until your new bra's under wire snaps and proceeds to stab you in your boob at a wedding luncheon and you have to smile and make small talk when it feels like Stewart Little has invaded your undergarments and taken after you with a pokey pin.  That girl needed my compliment.  I just know it. 

The point is it was my baby girl's 4th birthday last Monday, the 23rd for those who don't want to try to count backwards in your head because you're just dying to know.  I did take pictures of her and her father playing in the snow that afternoon, but my computer is taking forever to download, so once again for you visual people out there, STBY.  That's a trendy acronym for Sucks To Be You.  I never use acronyms.  And I have no idea if it's trendy. 

Moving on.  Like I said Ava was born in 2005.  Her due date was on my own birthday, but due to my high blood pressure AKA "My doctor is going out of town for Thanksgiving and she wants that baby out now", I was induced two weeks early.  Like most blessings in my life, Ava came along just when I needed her, not exactly when I planned.

I got pregnant two months before Ava was conceived, once again unplanned.  For those of you squirming in your seat at the word conceived who are worried about where this is going I'll relieve the suspense and tell you I'm not going THERE.  I will say for a 22 year-old who had taken Adult Roles in high school and thought she was pretty book smart, I didn't know a whole lot about the effectiveness of certain methods of birth control.  And I'm glad, because maybe Ava wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for my ignorance.

So I got pregnant and then I miscarried.  A week of migraines, dizziness and throwing up is a week that has been burned into my psyche.  It's funny, because I hadn't known I was pregnant until I miscarried but I mourned for that baby.  I laid in bed and wondered what I had done wrong in my life that would cause God to smite me with a curse.  I wondered if it was too much kissing back in high school.  I wondered if it was the Coke I drank.  I wondered if it was all the days spent at the gym over the last month or so.  I wondered if it was those hot wings from Pizza Hut.  As irrational as it was I was certain I had somehow killed my baby.  I pleaded with Heavenly Father for forgiveness, for reassurance, for comfort.  I had wanted that baby, badly.  As fate would have it, my brother and his wife got pregnant at the same time.  I remember telling my sister-in-law that I had miscarried.  I thought about how for years I would look at their baby and think of the one I had lost.

Two months later and wham-o!  Ignorant Inez strikes again and I'm pregnant.  I quit the Coke.  I quit the gym and I definitely quit the hot wings, in fact they were the least appealing food on the planet for the next nine months.  For the first few months I prayed like I had never prayed before.  Please let me have this baby, please let me have this baby.  I lived in constant fear that it would happen again.  I even called the doctor one time and told them I suspected I might miscarry.  The reply was, "We can't do anything about it.  If it's going to happen it's going to happen."  Something that hurt at the time, but a motto that pertains to just about anything that's out of your hands in life.

I am so grateful that Heavenly Father gave me Ava.  She is my sunshine, as cliche as that sounds.  She's made me a more empathetic human being.  She gives me a reason to be and I almost can't remember what it was like to be just me.  The pettiness of that existence pales in comparison to the smelly, wonderful, awful, joyous calling of motherhood. 

She's four.  What can I say?  It's like Dickens and his Tale of Two Cities..."It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times."  One minute she's my best girl, the next she is some monster that surely could not have come out of my womb.

Yesterday I told her that I'd always love her even if I get mad at her sometimes.  She told me she didn't love me when she's mad at me.  Figures.  You wait, I thought.  You wait until you have kids.  Then I told her she could do whatever she wanted to do in this life.  She replied, so can you mom.  You know I almost believe it when it comes from her lips.

Then today my husband had a friend over to play video games.  Have you heard of Call of Duty?  I have.  I hear the stupid guns sound effects nearly every night.  Back to the story, so I shut the door to use the bathroom and I hear Ava run down the hall and announce, "Don't go in there, Mom's pooping!"  Really, I just about took up permanent residence in there.  I thought about waiting it out until the friend in question went home.  But instead flew out of there in record time, thereby proving my daughter's assessment wrong.  Beet red, does not even begin to describe the shade of my embarrassed face.  And P.S. I was not pooping!  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Still I love that little weirdo.  She is nearly always happy and silly.  On occasion I come up against her brutal honesty and her mean scowling face, but I love her anyway.