Writer's Block

Writers block sucks. Especially the kind I've been struggling with these last several months... hell, make it a year, or even two.

Unlike streaks of writers block that I suffered in school (both back in the day and recently), there was no assigned paper, no sensation that one late night was all I needed to pound out the 10-page record of all that I'd researched and learned over the prior 15 weeks.

No. Not this time.

This has been a more insidious form of writer's block, involving moments where my soul cries out to feel the scratch of the pencil on paper, to hear the clicking of keys as I memorialize my thoughts in the digital space. Yet, my mind resisted. With each attempt to share with the world the one word that ended the potential and promise of what was to be a vastly rewarding 3rd career, my words faltered.

This post is a good example - it's taken me nearly 3 weeks to complete. An unwavering emotional dam resulted from the subconscious knowledge that once the words began to flow, so would the tears. Tears that have been trying to release themselves from my soul in an unending stream.

Thankfully, time heals. Mostly.

Time, a lot of water, and a multitude of lifestyle changes. No more tomatoes, eggplants, tomatillos, or peppers of any kind, and certainly no 'red' or pepper based spices. Diet Coke is off limits as are artificial flavorings of any kind. Eating out is an adventure in finding food I can enjoy without completely pissing off the waitstaff. (Hint: It takes 3 questions about food ingredients before the manager makes a visit to the table.)

The one word diagnosis that brought all of this into my world?

Fibromyalgia. Fibro for short.

Yup.

Tears have been shed, emotional landslides buttressed, and a healthy outlook attained. In truth, I haven’t been as healthy or happy as I am today in a very long time. Fingers crossed that things continue to move in that direction, fibro or not.

x

F is for Fuhgeddaboudit

When asked what I'm up to these days my response is usually that I'm currently "In transition".

It was, I suppose, inevitable that things would go awry after all of the hard work, late nights and discovering an actual joy with the profession of accounting. Friends, old and new, often expressed disbelief in my newly chosen career.

"You're too vibrant, too outgoing and social to be an accountant" they'd say. Or they'd respond with an incredulous "Uh, really?"

Yes. Really. I love the order, the process, the piecing together of miscellaneous facts to build a financial image. Perhaps evenmoreso, I love the challenge of digging through old records, passed legislation, and case law all for the possibility of determining the answer to a client's question.

I love nearly all of it. Yet, for me, a career as a full-fledged accountant is no longer a possibility. Reading that statement... When I admit the reality of my state in life... it tears my heart out, and I find myself adrift.

I cannot help but continually ask, "Where did it all go wrong?" "How did I miss the signs?" and an even more uncertain voice asks "What will I do now?"

I've stumbled and fallen professionally now at least three times. Each time I've experienced such a change, I've risen, dusted off the debris and began the hard work of starting over.

In 2008 when the housing market crashed and professions associated with that industry suddenly had no gainful employment. As a Landscape Architect, I was unable to frame proposals for projects that were awarding at work rates from the mid-80's.

After a few years at home with the kids, I began the long trek down the path of acquiring entry into a medical program as medicine has always been another untapped interest of mine. Though I did well in my coursework, I was unable to crack the code of developing a successful application and essay packet and was never offered admission into the programs I sought.

It was during the course of acquiring prerequisite classes that I was offered what became my second career -  working as a transcriber for the D/deaf and hard of hearing. Challenging and often lonely work, yet I found that the service I provided for the students I worked with left me feeling joyous in being a small part of their success in higher education.

When that job was unexpectedly no longer part of my life, I struggled to find a new profession, a new Identity, and a new passion that would and could carry me through this second half of my life's story.

And I'd found it with accounting. It met all of my apparent needs, all of my personal goals, and the areas of practice are vast and highly employable. Most importantly though, I enjoyed the type of work and critical thinking that was required.

Long days, late nights... recollections of my days studying landscape architecture... While I didn't LOVE each and every moment, I felt complete.

Most are lucky when they find a career that they love and can pursue at full abandon for the rest of their lives. I'm not sure what to call it when you find an equally passionate path a second time. Fortunate? Perhaps.

But a third time? Miraculous?

As with the first and the second, I've been struck down just as I neared the summit of my life's mountain. Only this time it wasn't the economy or a supervisor who felt threatened by my skills and resilience.

This time my future darkened as the result of one. single. word.

The only thing worth saving

It wasn't the first time I was at University that I met Betsy, it was the first time that I went BACK to school.

Looking back over my lifetimeago, I've returned to school several times. Be it my incessant need to stuff more knowledge into my brain, to explore the mysteries of old and new things or to learn new skills, I've gone back to school during at least three major periods in my life. Each time was for good reason, and each experience gave me the tools necessary to adapt to our ever-changing world.

Along the way, among the most meaningful memories and relationships that I developed while at WSU was the one I found with Betsy.

Thirty minutes into one of the longest, driest classes known to humans (you know, you've had those occasions - either at a seminar, a meeting or in this case, a lecture - where you are so mind numbingly bored that you would swear to two things: 1) time ceased to exist and you were trapped in place for all of your remaining moments and 2) you could swear that you were a test subject for a new form of punishment.)

Back to the mummifying lecture, as my eyes and interest began to wander, all of a sudden an arm was raised as though to ask a question. Only there was something odd about it. The arm was straight up in the air, but the hand fell limply at the end.

How odd. I wasn't the only one to notice - soon soft chatter rolled through the room, and eventually the instructor noticed that something was amiss. Turning fully to face the class, he stared at this small, impish woman and asked what question she had.

Her reply in a singsong fashion reminding me of TinkerBell. "I don't have a question."

"Then why is your hand in the air?"

"It isn't."

"Clearly it is. Either put your arm down, or ask your question."

"I don't have a question."

"Then why is your arm up?"

"Because the shit's so deep in here, the only thing worth saving is the watch."

Well reputed as an uptight no-nonsense humorless ass, upon hearing this little woman's statement, gasps were the only break in the silence, and all eyes in the peanut gallery stared forward widened with disbelief, and in anticipation of the instructors reaction.

A stunned expression crossed his face, and the stern demeanor crumbled into deep rolls of thunderous laughter.

We were in a very strange place. Whether it was respect or fear, people walked a little stiffer, spoke more timidly, and scurried out of his way for fear of garnering too much attention, no one had every heard of nor witnessed any sort of soft side to this curmudgeon. Yet, here before us, was the person, who could now barely stand he was laughing so hard.


A spitfire in her own right, she was and continues to be a spot of sunshine and laughter in the most challenging of times.

Saddle Sore

Well, it was a fun run.

After 4 1/2 years of non-stop work and doing everything that was asked of me and more - even when the amount of work that landed on my plate was far more than any one person can or should be responsible for, it's time for a new chapter in this adventure called 'life'.

A number of students that used our service have graduated, so if the meeting had gone the way of ‘We just don’t have enough work, we are sorry we can’t renew your contract.’ that would have been plausible and an appropriate way of letting me go. While that would have been the kind way of letting me go, it wouldn't have been true.

It didn’t go down that way. Instead Supe went for the personal, using mischaracterizations and skewed situations as an explanation for the decision. As I wrote in Chhhcchhchhhanges this semester has been a rough one.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been this exhausted; Mentally, physically, emotionally, and even spiritually. I have been worn down to nothingness.”

I wrote those words two days after our meeting, when Supe notified me that my contract for the fall would not be renewed.

After more than a week of recovering from such a long and stressful work environment, I’m waking to the fact that the actual job, the people that I worked with on a daily basis and the team the evolved over these last few year - it was amazing, it was more than I could have ever dreamed of, and it had so little to do with the ‘chain of command’.

That chain of command though, I am relieved to be out from under it. I could delve into all of the critiques, the complaints, the wrongs that I’ve seen and experienced, and the questionable behavior of a couple of people that taints the environment for everyone else who wants to be there, doing the hard but rewarding work of providing accommodations, help, and acknowledgement for people with disabilities.

I have heard that one such individual has been, from the time I started working for them, talking poorly and sharing (untrue) stories about me when I wasn’t in the room. It is my hope that those I worked with, those that slogged through the trenches with me know a tale when it’s being spun versus the truth when they hear it.

Those that don’t… well, I’m concerned about them. They are the ones that I worked hard to protect. It is a fact that anyone who works under this person is subject to similar vitriol. The more likely that are to have heard negative or even participated in such conversations, the more likely they are to have similar words said about them. One person in particular, who has been there nearly as long as I was, is completely unaware of all the hate that spewed about them and I wish her luck.

I loved my job, and I explored it to the fringes with everything that I had. Were I given the opportunity to continue on, anything else would have been fine-tuning.

I leave that behind, and now that I’ve shaken off the stress and the disillusionment, I’m moving on to new and brighter things. I’m excited and have a clarity that has been missing for a long time.

I have hope. 

All that it holds

These last two weeks have been a whirlwind - so much so that I’m just now realizing that neither child has school this week and I don’t have to go to work.  (Yes, I am still working as an ICT - I'm no longer mentoring or managing the team.)

Why? Because it’s spring break.

And somehow I missed that.

It all began as a fluke ‘Cool! I'm going to go for it.’ (Wait, isn’t that similar to how Project Purpose started?)

That was followed by a stream of emails, a flurry of meetings, lots of learning and then, disbelief with a lot of pinching myself.

I’m not entirely sure of what I was expecting, but with each passing day I have grown more more excited, and nervous.

After the change in my responsibilities at work left me lagging and looking for a creative outlet, but before my last post, Charles sent forwarded me a Reddit entry in which the owner of a local blogging network mentioned that they were looking for a writer.

So, I tossed my hat into the ring, put together a portfolio, cleaned up my resume and hit the ‘send’ button. And then I waited.

And, waited.
And, played with my plants.
And, waited.
And, watched TV with the kids.
And, waited some more.
And then.

My interview went well, and in the end, even with the competition that was more experienced, more familiar with the overarching subject of the blog, I got the gig.

Yes friends.
I - got - the - Gig.

SQUEEE!!!

I can now add ‘professional blogger’ to my list of occupations. The opportunity to write on a regular basis is daunting, and welcomed. Trying to write on my own, without any sort of deadline is a challenge when it feels like so many other things are demanding of my attention. Now, I have that deadline.

The blog is Farming Fort Collins and it's part of the Scoop Network, and I am excited that the ideas I’ve proposed have been enthusiastically welcomed.

My first post goes live on Wednesday. So, between now and then I need to do some serious planning, put a lot of words on ‘paper’ and hope that some of it works.

I’m indescribably excited and nervous too. And not to worry - Tales from the House of Chaos is not going anywhere.

Fingers crossed for this new opportunity and I hope to see you on the interwebs.

Chhhcchhchhhanges

If the first two months of 2016 are any indication, this year is going to be one helluva wild ride friends.

After working as the Lead ICT for several years and experiencing exponential growth each semester both in terms of clients needing service and new employees, it all became too much. One person cannot schedule, manage and mentor 17 other people at various levels of experience AND cover a full load of work.

After several long conversations and budget reviews, it was decided that a reorganization of the team was needed and in a flash, my creative outlet disappeared. I'm still finding fulfillment in covering classes and providing transcripts to my students, but it's the unpredictable nature of the Lead that I miss.

I've not known what to do with myself.

Gone is the chaos and challenges in which I thrive.

Gone is the position of teacher and mentor.

Gone is the fulfillment of seeing someone experience the joy of helping a student explore all that they are able to do once the necessary tools and services are in place.

Gone is the joy in holding together a group of people from all different walks of life, and truly enjoying each other's company and shared stories.

Gone is any sense of value in the work I've done.

Gone is so much that is intangible, and so much that has become my identity.

Gone in so many ways.

In the days after the team restructuring I grew desolate and restless, drifting from one project to another and not recalling the reason behind what inspired the project in the beginning.

Time has eased the sorrow, but now I need to find a new direction in which to focus my creative energies.

I'm looking forward to seeing what the spring has to offer.

It has to be better.

It all runs together

The last three weeks have been filled to the brim with activities and obligations. It's the perfect storm of schedules.

My team at work continues to grow at a pace I'd never imagined - three new people in the last 5 days alone. Additionally students have been adding classes to their schedules, not dropping them as we typically see.

The result is a schedule that incorporates the needs and availability of 17 people to cover 70+ classes. It is the ultimate puzzle, and can be somewhat taxing to figure out at times. Add in the need to identify and account for substitutes as needed and it's like standing in a tub of cold molasses while a tornado is whipping by.

It's also the start of Girl Scout Cookie Season. For me this means doing a product analysis and making sure that our initial order of cookies gives us enough product to make a profit and yet not so much that we are left with boxes of confectionery crack at the expense of the Troop's bank account.

Kids have doctors appointments, pets need to visit the vet, and somewhere in the midst of it, I need time off to care for myself.

My poor blog has been sorely neglected, tucked somewhere between 'I really need to' for others and the longing of a writer's mind crying out to string words together.

Soon I will be back in gusto - plans are in the works for me to regain a greater balance of life, love and work.

Stay tuned.

Zebras?

I'm nearly certain, based on what friends have shared, that once the kids begin to drive themselves I will miss out on the observations, comments and questions that one or the other offers up when it's least expected.

As they've grown, our conversations have become more complex, philosophical, and even painful to a mom's heart. Yet I know that the best way I can be there for them is to just listen and wait for them to begin asking questions. When they do, I answer them in the most honest way I can.

The 'Honesty is Best Policy' can be uncomfortable or squeamish for me, especially when the topic turns to sex, relationships and other likewise more adult topics, but I answer them as best I can. Nearly every such chat ends with me asking if I've answered all of their questions, or if they feel better. Most times, they respond with a hug and a skip in their step.

Nearly every time they've had an issue, the convo starts with tears and ends in laughter as I share one of my applicable yet embarrassing stories.

But not all conversations are heavy. Some, well some I just don't know what to think of.

Like the one day we were heading home after running errands and JB commented "Anytime I see a package that is black, white, and sometimes brown, I think it's a Zebra turd."

Oh, my.

Season's End

As another season in the garden comes to an end, we rake the leaves, clean the garden and say goodbye to summer's grace.

This time of year is always bittersweet, while produce from the garden continues to be enjoyed thru these colder months, and the list of daily to-do's begins to lessen, it's also a time of loss and sorrow.

There will be no more flowers, butterflies or surprise fruits to be enjoyed. The last vine ripened tomatoes or crisp green beans are quickly being harvested with no more to replace them.

Taking a moment from the hard work and sitting on AunT's bench and looking over the garden an array of memories from seasons' past reveals a sobering emotion.

The sharpness of our memories of AunT is fading. The kids are remembering less and less  of her personality, of their time with her. As they've grown more inquisitive about her, it can be difficult to decide if what they are remembering about her is from their own experience, or one that they've been told and made their own.

They ask more questions about her, aware now that their curiosity don't cause tears to flow as they did in years past.

It is when I'm in the garden that I grieve the most for my Sister.

That is where most of my memories with her were made, where our conversations moved beyond the casual. The garden is where my sister let down her guard and shared her fears, her daily challenges, of her life’s experiences and of all the research she’d done in preparing for life after graduating from college.

We debated, we argued and we shared. She ended nearly every conversation with “Don’t you DARE tell anyone.” She would then stand, right her clothing, breath deep and the facade would be firmly in place once again.

While the memories and tears do not flow as easily as they once did, resting in the garden after a hard day’s work the mood is still one of contemplation, reflection, and in the end, melancholy. That is, until I’m discovered by one of the kids, and they join me and begin the conversation about next year's garden.

As part of each growing season, you reflect on the details of the months past. What worked, what didn't, what you wish you had been able to do had there been more time and energy in the days.

It’s not unlike parenting. I can only hope that my talents extend beyond those of the garden.

Ribbons

It happened just before Thanksgiving. My shy hiding-her-face-in-the-folds-of-my-clothing, comforted in the knowledge that I was 'just outside the door' of her ballet class daughter, requested that I drop her off at class and then leave.

She made her request in the nicest of ways. "Mama, how about if you drop me off and then take some time for yourself, it's such a hectic time of year for you."

"Honey, I'm good, I'll just knock out a lecture or two. I've got stuff to keep me busy."

My response was met with a palatable silence. Not even crickets were going to interrupt it.

"No, Mom. Really. Take some time. Have some coffee... Window shop even." (I paused at this, wondering what alien had taken possession of my dot, as everyone, even the dog, knows that Mama doesn't window shop.)

"I can stay, it's not a problem." I hesitantly replied.

"No. Mom. Leave. Go. Really. It's time."

And with that, we parted in silence. She bounded out of the car and into the studio and I lingering for a moment, watched as my grown and confident young lady laughed, socialized and wildly gestured a story with her friends.

As I drove away, I learned how to breath again... the sting of mom-hurt, taking hold as I realized that my delightful little one is growing and spreading her confident wings, and my role in her life is changing.

I've felt this emotion before. When she no longer wanted to hold me hand when we walked across the street, when she didn't want me to wait for her before school started for the day, and as she put together her last two Girl Scout presentations.

For all of my friends who have told me when I felt overwhelmed and knee deep in the muck of parenting two toddlers and then preschoolers to take 15 or so minutes to relax and then breath it all in and enjoy every possible moment - because their time as children is fleeting - I THANK YOU!

My nearly middle-schooler is quickly shedding any semblance of the child she used to be, and while I am thankful to be the one who gets to watch her grow and rise to meet the challenges of the world around her, I know that I will miss being able to see her in the day-in-day-out once she gains entry into the adult world.

It will then be time for me to watch from the sidelines and cheer her on as her friend and mentor. And I'll be honored to be there for her.

Busy imagined?

It's on days like today that I wonder if being busy is something that we live, or if it is a construct of our minds and ToDo lists.

Looking at the calendar, holidays, birthdays, the semesters end for me, quarters end for the boy, and several performances of the nutcracker fill in the too small squares of the month. Add in various holiday parties, get togethers and spontaneous coffee dates and I often wonder what if anything can be taken off of the ever increasingly long ToDo list.

I swear, there are days when my ToDo list would give Santa's wish list a run for its money.

Thanksgiving break was last week - and after having a full week without work, I'm finding it challenging to get back in the saddle of the schedule and ride it out for the next three weeks. It's this way every year - and even though we have the December Survival Guide down to a science, I am no less in awe over how few hours in the day there seem to be.

So, I wonder. Am I really that busy, or am I spending so much time focusing on the 'what's next' that I've enslaved myself to the calendar to the point where I no longer recognize the quiet moments that exist to re-center a person.

It's a question that many friends are asking, and perhaps that is the source of my curiosity. Perhaps it's also that I'm ready for the winter break, when there are fewer activities and work obligations that fill in those calendar squares.

Whichever it may be, I'm ready for things to slow down for a bit.

My Dream

It was Kait who first asked me if working with her as an ICT or In-Class Transcriber was distracting me from my dream of being a practitioner in the world of medicine. A few days later, JB asked me if I was a doctor yet... "or a doctor's pal - you know, the one who helps people when the doctor is busy or away."

It is the subject of conversation when meeting up with parents of the kids classmates. They remember that I was attending classes, but not what for and the conversation thankfully moves onto catching up to what we have each been up to since the last school event that brought us together.

I am a thinker, a tinker-er and a problem solver. I am dogged and don't give up, and that is perhaps why I am one of the few ICT's at work that is regularly scheduled to cover engineering and other similarly complex subjects or graduate level courses.

Recently I covered for one of my co-workers to scribe a class on the fundamentals of physiology, and I was so drawn into the material that I felt a renewed passion for my dream, my outlandish goal.

When the class was done, and I finished my notes, I experienced a deep sadness and a realization that I will never be a Physician's Assistant, Nurse Practitioner or even a Child Life Specialist. I am able to gain employment as a Certified Nurses Assistant, which is a certification I earned over one winter break during the quick CNA Bootcamp. (It was so fast and demanding that the moto should have been, 'If we can't kick your ass, no one can!')

If I'm really honest though, I'm not physically able to work for any length of time as a CNA. My body has begun paying it's penance for the hard labor and long demanding hours of my youth. My mind would wander and my soul would fade at the long hours and demanding work. Eventually the care I would pass along to my patients would not be up to par with what they needed or what I find acceptable.

I've mourned the loss of this journey, and could not find my way past the sadness until one clandestined event.

Over the years I've volunteered with various departments of the hospital here in River City.  Whether it was working in the Emergency Department assisting patients or distracting children while their parents listened to doctor's prognosis, comforted worried family members, or in the waiting room where I often assisted the lost in finding the right floor or room of a friend or loved one, or worked through the precise and exacting details of a past file for research purposes, it has all been done in the hopes that someone benefited from my efforts and that it might lead to something greater.

When the hospital underwent a significant upgrade in software infrastructure, I and one other volunteer were the lone attendees of a training session on a portion of the program specific to the research we were collecting.

After explaining to Jane what my current career was, and how I'd once worked towards the dream of a professional degree in medicine, Jane commented that I seemed sad about not being able to be able to pursue medicine.

She didn't futz around with her thoughts. "Anyone can be a PA or Doctor. Any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Not everyone can do what you are doing. Not everyone has the ability or interest to sit through those lectures just to make sure that another student could follow their dreams. That's something to be proud of." And then she went back to grumbling at the computer. "I really hate technology."

I'd never thought of my life from that perspective. But with that one fleeting conversation, I no longer mourn the loss of a career in medicine. That time is done.

Instead I've embraced the challenges and opportunities of being an ICT. Where once I was the only one in the classroom, now there are 15 of us on the team. We each have our own stories, talents, and dreams. Among our passions tho, is a shared thirst for knowledge and a drive to help others.

My dreams have come true, it just took a long time to get here, and to wake up and see that I truly am living a dream far better than any I'd imagined before.

High Bar

Today we began our third week of school. During one quiet moment the boy comment that school was so hard this year. He asked why we cared so much about his progress and how well he was doing on school work. The only words I came up with are these...

I ask a lot of you,

only because

I ask that & more of myself.

I don't know if he will find that reassuring or not, as he stumbles and careens through this first year of middle school. This year of changes and pitfalls, and growth unlike any year before.

But it is the truth.

I do ask a lot of both the boy and the girl, and I do ask that much of myself and more. I always have... and it's likely that I always will.

But I will be there beside them - not to claim ownership of their successes or failures, but to help them when they ask, to cheer them on when they think they cannot go one 'more', to ease the pain of failure when it happens, and to tuck them in at night after a long day of school, studies, and the hard physical work of taekwondo or ballet.

It's hard as a mama to let the boy spread his wings and see how well he can fly, to resist the urge to save him from the bruises and tears of growing up. But for him to be successful, to grow and be all that he dreams, I must.

It's what was asked of me, what I ask of them, and what they one day may ask of theirs.

Smooth Sailing

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1840754059/help-john-start-quadshox

I myself have spent limited periods of time in a wheelchair. Needless to say none of my 'rides' were a comfortable experiences and after a bumpy and painful ride through hospital hallways, down elevators where every single lurch of the mechanisms was felt in both body and torn and repaired skin I can easily say that I'd rather have crawled were that an option.

But, I'm fortunate. I am able to leap up out of those metallic and mobile makers. Many are not.

John Morris and Arianna Kilmer. John is the man and 

mind behind Quadshox - a retrofit-suspension kit for 

manual wheelchairs. 

With the nature of my job, the collective bunch of friends that I have, I've had the genuine pleasure of knowing several individuals who are wheelchair bound for one reason or another - never by choice.

Our environment isn't built for wheelchairs. We try; we make things 'accessible' yet we also need to accommodate the forces of nature's expansions and contractions. Expansion joints and the weathered surfaces we walk on is rarely in the forefront of our minds as our knees, hips and spine allow us to traverse without concern.

That isn't the case for someone like John, who is wheelchair bound as the result of an accident. And it isn't the case for someone who cannot afford the Cadillac of cushioning on their chair - their connection to the world.

 John, with the help of a very dedicated group of people have designed a simple, yet highly effective solution that brings relief to those who have not known of anything other than the rough and tumble of what looks like a smooth walkway, but in reality is a jarring reminder of how painful even a short stroll can be.

Take a few minutes, kind reader, and learn about this project. It's in the last few days of fundraising.

John and crew have gone the extra mile; they've shared their project with everyone who will listen, they've beaten the pavement, talked the talk. They haven't just posted a campaign and waited to see what happened.

People think it's a good & noble cause, but it's being left to 'someone else' to help fund it.

Be that someone else! We never know what our future looks like. You never know when illness or an injury is going to change your life dramatically. Be part of what makes it a little easier for someone else, perhaps even your future self.

And yes, I skipped some coffees and backed this project because it's about something more than getting a cool product - as so many Kickstarter campaigns are. It's about helping others... Now it's your turn.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1840754059/help-john-start-quadshox

Zipper Wars

D'oH!

Seeing JB in my 'most-favorite - had-it-forever - and-will-never-be-able-to-find-one-like-it-again' fleece vest took nearly every fiber of my being and a serious case of self-restraint to calmly approach her and ask her kindly to remove my vest from her not-so-little body and hand it to me.

With a deep sigh of relief I took it from her and kindly explained the following.

'JB. Thank you for giving me my vest. Please, please, please don't wear it. Even as much as I know you love how soft it is, and how it wraps around you like a big hug when you miss me, please. Do. Not. Wear. This. Vest. Ever.'

'But why Mama?' she asked, looking deep into my eyes with her own large hazel pools.

Charles, passing by on his way to the garage, stopped momentarily to clarify 'For generations now JB... well really since the invention of the zipper... children and zippers have been at war with each other. They each push, and pull, and tug, doing their best to see who will outlast the other.

'In the old days when zippers were made with metal, they could cause a child great pain and often won that way. Now most zippers are made out of plastic - so they win by doing things that no zipper should ever do... catching skin, or hair or even clothes in them.

'Really, zippers have evolved to become a torture device of Mamas minds and fingers across the land. No matter who the winner is, no zipper or child will ever be the same again. Though Mama could never love that vest as much as she loves your dear heart, I really, really, really don't want to have to go on another epic search with your Mama for another vest like that one. Does that make sense?'

'Oh. So Mama, is that why BW is always coming to you with his zipper undone at the bottom, but together up at his neck?'

'Yes. And wow. Do you remember that struggle to get that bugger down and the coat in working order again?'

Laughingly she replied 'He looked like the kid on Christmas Story, shaking all over the place - remember the time when BW somehow zipped his SHIRT in his coat!?'

'That I do. I also recall the times that you have battled the zipper yourself - only those usually involved hair getting caught in it.'

'OH! I DON"T want to talk about that! It HURT!'

No matter what the contribution to the wardrobe may be, if it has a zipper at some point there will be a great battle between it and it's child before the zippered wonder is banished from the house with a burst of exasperation and relief by Mama.

My vest will not be one of them. I hide it deep in the corners of my closet when not it's not in use.

Deep in the closet.

And, I have Charles on my side.

Rebellion

I have been resisting the urge all day to randomly burst out (in the library or other somesort of quiet place)

"Good Morning People of Earth!" 

Only, not with such clean language and certainly not in a 'quiet' voice.

Instead I leave my gum wrapper on the counter.

 I am a quiet rebel.

A Bagful of Skittles

It was during my Stay @ Home Mom Days (or S@hM days, the 'h' is silent) that the dare came about.

BW and JB were both active toddlers and as the days grew longer and the temperature rose that the challenge of being home all day with little to no adult interaction bean to wear upon my soul. Working through a serious case of Post-Partum Depression didn't help either, but it was the lack of stimulating conversation that haunted me most.

Charles had recently finished his Masters degree and now with the extra time that he normally spent working on his thesis was complete, he used the extra time to pursue the hobbies and interests that he had put on hold while his few free hours off of work and Dad duty was spent programming and finishing his educational and professional goals.

It was during one especially challenging week that culminated into the perfect storm of frustration.

Charles' father and grandfather were scheduled to arrive in a day or two for a couple of weeks and my days were spent trying to prepare the house for guests, keep up with the daily chores while also meeting the needs of the topplers.

The week that his father was to arrive coincided with several invitations from various camping, hiking and cycling buddies, and without realizing the confluence of events ~ he'd said yes to all of them, and I'd agreed that he should go and have fun.

The week had been a peaceful one, which should have been a hint at the ensuing storm... The day before grand and great grand fathers were to arrive, Charles's was invited to hike a 14er. We had been tempting fate, and by accepting the invitation to clime a mountain, Mother Nature must have felt as though she was being mocked.

The morning he left, the house was filled with nervous energy. Bickering, battles of wills involving both children, a sick dog and a literal glass of spilled milk filled the day, and not nearly enough work was completed.

It was the spilled milk that did me in. Flailing toddler arms in the midst of a temper tantrum resulted in a half a gallon of milk flying as though in slow motion in the air, across the dining room and pouring the entirety of it's contents into the carpet.

Charles was late in coming home and the clock was ticking for the relatives arrival and the milk in the carpet was beginning to sour.

I've personally never seen a 'wet hen' but I'm certain that Charles does, as that was what met him when he finally came home.

Once I'd expressed my frustration and had a chance to take a break from the little ones, we quickly readied for our guests and retired for the evening.

After the kids had been put to bed for the 29th time that night, we were sharing stories about our days. I took a moment to apologize for having been so emotional. I mentioned that it was so challenging to be with kids for so many hours in the day without the opportunity to take even a few minutes for myself. (Even the bathroom provided no relief - they sat on the other side of the door, beating it with their little hands, calling for me through the door-jam.)

Charles replied in a very un-Charles like manner.

"Well, if you did have an afternoon to yourself, what exactly would you do? It's no like you have any hobbies or anything."

The truth of his words took the breath out of my lungs and it was several days before I was able to think about what had been said without the sting of his words causing tears to spring forth.

In the time since then, I've taken up many different hobbies, returned to school, begun working full time and volunteering at the local hospital and with daughter's persistence, started a Girl Scout Brownies troop and developed several different social groups.

At the same time, BW and JB have found their own hobbies, and we have had a few weeks where we've not been able to sit down for dinner as a family for an entire week.

Not once has Charles' complained about how busy I've become, though I doubt that he would ask what I'd do if given a few free hours.

Inadequacy

School supplies have started appearing on store shelves, warm evenings with stagnant air render us fodder for mosquitoes and patience is a virtue lost to days past.

I reach this point nearly every summer, and this one is no different. Too much of everything and everyone else and not enough time to think without interruption. The ability to focus on one item is a distant and evasive memory. It's during these last months of summer vacation that my inabilities as a parent becomes apparent to everyone, not just me.

The loudness of unrelenting noise, bickering and constants in their demands leaves me worn out and grumpy and in a constant state of irritation that is one hair away from a complete temper tantrum (a mommytrum).

I hate that person. I hate everything that she is and actively work to evolving into her, this shadow of a destined fate. While I am successful during most days in the year, it is during summer break that I stumble in this endeavor. I fall and fail in such a grand fashion that the sting of my failure washes away the memory of any accomplishments that I'd made the school year before. And I hate myself for it.

Each night as the children are tucked in, I promise to myself that I will do better, I will be more patient, I will spend more time with them, read them more books and be a better mother. But this is an unrealistic expectation. I work from home, and it is the nature of children that they interact with their mamas at least 30 times in an hour, if not more.

This constant is what does me in. During the course of the school year, their brains and bodies are engaged with learning, practicing and constant stimulation. Weekends are a time of relaxing and having fun and getting caught up on chores that didn't fit in our schedules during the week. Given the shear amount of work to be done at home, even those days are often full and moments to relax are cherished. Once school comes to an end though, the days stretch into one long unending and mind-numbing weekend that lasts 80 days.

Teachers eagerly release wiggly children into the wilds of their homes where their active little minds and bodies are no longer being filled with useful and practical bits of information. No, instead they are filled with boredom and irritation at their limited social life. At least that is the way it works in our home. I've work to do if I want to keep my mind sane and money in my account leaving little time to 'play' cruise director.

We've made the hump, and are now on the down slope of vacation, and though that seems like it should be easy from now until the end of August, these are the longest days. Summer vacation is a marathon. And like marathon the easy part is at the beginning. There is a lot of energy and excitement and the challenge is to find the right pace and stick to it so that you don't crash and burn before you finish.

I thought I had it all worked out, but as the days have melted into each other I've come to the realization that yet again, I was mistaken.

My liver and I need to hold it together for 30 or so more days. School starts in 35, but the week or so before is filled with a flurry of Back-to-School excitement that we all find refreshing, like a salve on skin weathered from having spent too much time in the sun and wind.

As has become our ritual, when BW and BB see me at work on a blog post, they inquire about it. In chatting with them about the topic of summer and how I feel as though I'm not as good a mama as I can be. BW paused deep in thought, and replied "Well, mama. If that's true, then I could certainly be a better child. I think we are all doing it just right. It's just a tough season." BB nodded in agreement and said that she missed the homework too.

Together my team mates and I will slog through the next several weeks and hopefully arrive at the end of the season unscathed.

They did make me promise them two things. To laugh more, and to write more. Those are promises that I intend to keep.

Jackson

It became a habit that started by chance.

As was our tradition, we were seeing an 'Arnie' movie, one of the many Arnold Schwarzenegger thin-storyline-but-lotsa-muscles adventures that we'd become accustom to seeing together. Between my arriving late to his house to pick him up, and his step-mom's fussing and slow travel due to snow, we got a late start to the show. When we arrived at the theater at the last possible moment, we managed to find the last possible parking space in a vast wasteland of asphalt.

Everything was off that evening; energy levels, conversation and timing. Finding this last spot and parking by the sad pine tree that was so reminiscent of the Christmas Tree from 'A Charlie Brown Christmas' it was the virtual cherry on top of the series of mishaps that we'd experienced thus far.

So we laughed. The movie was pretty typical - I think it was the 'Running Man' - and the story was painfully appropriate for the miss-mash of our moods. Neither Jackson nor I were in the sort of light hearted spirit needed for conversation and the drive home was as silent as the one there.

In the years following that night, whenever a new Arnie movie came out, we'd meet up, head to the same theater and park beneath the sparse boughs of THE tree, which I'd christened as Tom along the way.

As the decades have passed, our lives have moved in different directions. Each of us has married and we have our own little families. On rare occasions our paths cross, but never for very long. Most of our conversations center around what we've been up to since we last met, but sometimes on the rare occasion we delve into deeper topics, but my overly inquisitive nature and peppering of questions often drives him away until we meet again.

Neither of us lives in the town we grew up in, and our homes now lie in different parts of the country. Even now though out of habit, after my long drive to work I consistently park in a vast lot in front of a sparse and sad looking ash. And as I do, I can't help but remember that lonely little pine from my teens that has now grown to a massive Douglas Fir (or so it seemed the last time I went home.)

To you my friend Jackson, on this day I wish you a Happy Birthday and thank you for your friendship. I hope that the next time we meet up it will be a long and happy conversation.  Until then, I wish you many viewings of bad Arnie movies and good fortune along the way.

~ Amy

While My Garden Sleeps

A surprise spring snow has come to River City burying us in nearly 18 inches of white stuffs, and it's moments like these that I realize that even though I am ready for my little growing space to wake up, Mother Nature has a very different idea at the moment.

Shockingly this spring my schedule, the gardening bug and my energy level all peaked at the same time this spring and I've successfully started and recently transplanted what I hope to be this years crop of Tomatoes, peppers, eggplants.

Pumpkins, melons, spaghetti squash, cucumbers and the obligatory zucchini have all been planted in their little seed trays, and hopefully sprouts that give rise to ropes of vines laden with fruit will soon be seen.

As mentioned in last years post on garden planning it is while it is bitterly cold outside and the wind howls loud and long that it is time to clean and sharpen tools if that work wasn't done with Autumn's fall, to inventory and pull seeds for the year's planting and replenish supplies depleted from last season's efforts.

This spring has been a wildly warm one with more days in the 60+ temperatures than those at or near freezing. Snow and other forms of precipitation have been noticeably absent this season, and water restrictions for this spring and summer have been announced.

With such a warm spring already in place, it is so terribly challenging to resist the urge to dig into the soil and smell it's freshness and feel the dirt beneath my nails as the sun burns my skin. It's at those moments when my 'Toad list' reminds me of all I've left to do before I can play in the dirt.

Even though it can be a challenge to write down and note all the "shoulda's, woulda's and coulda's" that have been come up during the previous years growing season, and during conversations around 'oh! wouldn't it be nice if...' are cataloged and later drawn upon when the overwhelming urge to dig in too soon strikes.

As I learned from a professor many years ago as a student of horticulture, you don't want to work the soil too soon, because it is a delicate eco-system and when you are too eager you can cause so much damage that it will take years for the soil and beneficial microbes to recover and become the source of life you were so eager to create.


Nearly every successful farmer and gardener knows this, but it can be so challenging to keep it in mind when the Chinook winds blow through, the sun is bright and high in the sky and the spring flowers are bursting with color.

Today I am thankful for the snow. Not only for the greatly needed moisture that it provides, but also for the 'pause' it puts into place creating a moment to relax, look at the beauty and appreciate the silence that comes with it as the inches begin to accumulate.

Soon enough spring will truly be here and the free moments in these longer days will vanish with the snow. I will busily transplant happy seedlings into their spot in the garden, or other niches around the house and watch as they grow and mature, offering their gifts by way of fruits and vegetables and other yummy treats.

But until then, I am enjoying this moment, looking out over the blizzard that has formed and enjoying a cup of coffee before having to tend to chores that never seem to end when there are children in the house.

I am truly blessed.