dog house
February 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have abandoned the fantasy of a clean, unmarked home. Instead, I overlook the rumpled duvet with lines that conform to the dog’s sleeping shape. I accept my clothing carries fine strands of dog hair like a name lovingly penned on a child’s garment tag. Tiny scratches from four energetic legs are accidental mementos similar to a toddler’s sticky hand print on glass. I live in a dog house.
Cursing such inconveniences as dog hair and tiny scratches are done in tones of endearment. That Dog is, after all, ours. She is the one that chases through our legs and nuzzles an open palm to be near us. She roughhouses with my husband and children, but curls into the side of my back in the middle of the night. She waits patiently each time we leave and greets us with unbridled enthusiasm for no more than returning.
There’s no doubt we’re in trouble, our hearts have gone to the dog.
forget me not
February 4, 2011 § Leave a comment
As I began to scribble my stories, one character abided quietly in the margins.
In the beginning my husband was a classmate, our time together was limited to the space of a college English class. I was endeared by the undertones of kindness and love that were threaded in personal stories he shared, I noted his confidence and easy humor, but my attention was absorbed by classwork and multiple part-time jobs. Our class ended and we parted ways for the next two years, never to cross paths on the small, private campus we shared until one evening late in his Senior year.
Drawn away from my books by a phone call from a St. Patrick’s Day celebration I begrudgingly set my studies aside and made my way to the festivities. Slurring speech and green beer flowed around me while I kept an eye open for an opportunity to excuse myself. Then, a familiar face offered me a chair in a quiet corner and took a knee settling in to catch up on the years between an old class and that moment. I was happy to see him and our conversation was easy.
Months later, he was long graduated and , unbeknownst to me, traveling across numerous states to serve as a groomsman in former classmates’ weddings. With little more than a wish for friendship I sent a note to his home address listed in our college directory. After a spell I forgot about my note.
Then, out of the blue, he called. We slipped naturally into an ongoing, long distance conversation. We filled the distance with details of each other’s days. Notes and flowers punctuated our phone calls and I recognized there was something beautiful between us.
Still, I was entering my Senior year and not sure a relationship could grow in the demanding space of school work and an uncertain future. My concerns were balanced by his determination, patience and respect formed a foundation that supported all that we shared. We moved forward together and have ever since. The conversation is still easy, respect and patience constant companions.
early bird
February 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
I wish I could paint the moment I met my son. He looked at me with large brown eyes and I could not speak for the overwhelming beauty of his tiny soul. I slipped my fingertip into his firm grasp and pleaded silently that he know what I could not say. It was a handshake of sorts, a new partnership in my endeavor as a mother. I promised to do my best if he could hold on tightly and know that he was loved.
I stumbled through my first months as a new mother. The book What to Expect When You’re Expecting was unfinished and my first Lamaze class a date yet unmet when my son came into this world prematurely. I was intimidated, unprepared, and overwhelmed.
I counted my blessings between emotional greetings and departures from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit that was my son’s first home. Hospital visits were weighted with the worry of first time parents and magnified by monitors hovering over sleeping infants where musical mobiles ought to have been. Oblivious of our audience, my husband would sing What a Wonderful World in the gravelly tone of Louis Armstrong to the tiny bundle tangled in tubes and I would nestle our son against my skin feeling more complete with him near.
While I felt helpless and weary for my inability to make everything better, my son met his challenges with energy and strength. Tiny hands repeatedly removed the breathing tubes until doctors understood he could breathe on his own. My husband and I had sought his bedside hoping our love would give him strength, but it was his strength that gave us hope. It is this memory I recall each time he faces a new challenge. I watch my son and wait for signs that he is okay; eager to help, but aware of his strength.
special delivery
February 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have never outgrown my enchantment with the mail. Each day I look forward to the sight of our mail lady; I am eternally curious and hopeful for unknown treasures within her shoulder bag.
For some, brown paper packages are the hallmark of special deliveries. I am endeared by simple, sometimes unexpected notes. Indulgently thick card stock and whimsical pen strokes become tokens of friendship. Each message is intimate, a moment in time captured and tangible.
A letter’s author casts a sentiment into the future while the recipient reaches back gathering a moment of reflection; lives overlapping on paper. Wedding and birth announcements bring joy and celebration, drawing me into another’s exuberance. Family photos collected during the holiday season freckle my fireplace with well wishes. Thank you notes resonate as moments of gratitude and respect, gestures of appreciation.
Still, my favorites are unexpected love notes from my husband, a sentimental overture reminiscent of early correspondences when our affection stretched across miles and busy schedules weaving us into one another’s days. I am saving many of these in hopes one day they will offer our children an authentic snapshot of their parents’ love for one another. I am saving these pieces of our past in an envelope for the future.
puppy love
January 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
Temporary insanity, our judgement clouded by sentiment, we adopted a puppy. The homecoming was intended, but unscheduled. For years our son had begged for a canine companion. My husband and I danced around the subject avoiding a commitment by pledging One Day. Still, the calendar gave no indication that One Day was That Day.
In a moment of spontaneity I suggested to my husband we visit a local pet store with both children and attempt to identify, individually and collectively, our prerequisites for picking a puppy. Breed, adult size, personality were concepts we had yet to discuss. Logic was soon overpowered by animal attraction. One by one, we were each drawn to a crimson bundle with eager green eyes. On clumsy puppy paws she tumbled onto our laps finding a home in our hearts.
We can mark the passage of time by our pup’s stages; stuffed animals, slippers, and socks have fallen victim to teething and teasing. Errands and excursions are scheduled around our furry family member’s comfort. Guests have weathered kisses and full-contact embraces with shock and grace. Chaos is as common as cuddles and smiles as prevalent as apologies. It is, after all, a dog’s life.
a book
January 27, 2011 § 1 Comment
A book. Such a small thing in which to lose an entire person. Just as an author breathes life into her characters, these characters draw me through the Looking Glass into their world.
As a child I was an early reader and this interest was a companion in times of change. My parents divorced when I was very young, forever altering the landscape of my life. Homes, friends, expectations became unpredictable. Still, the familiarity of the written word gave me peace. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. by Judy Blume, accompanied me on my journey into puberty when my own mother was miles away. The comfort and guidance of a woman’s voice anchoring me in a sea of turbulence.
Books fueled teenage fantasies of first loves and inspired daydreams during algebra. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, predicted complicated suitors with confusing messages of disinterest and adoration; Mr. Darcy was the standard by which I measured the boys in high school.
Later, required college reading would help me identify a passion in the vast world of academia. Shakespeare, Descartes, Min-Zhan Lu, and Foucault challenged me to push against my own boundaries and awakened a student of English, Philosophy, and Sociology. I started to see language as an instrument with which I could mold the world around me.
As a mother, books are part of my children’s daily regimen, nurturing their imaginations with pages of well loved books. Before they could read, each child would nestle into my lap, our time together a meeting place for exploration. On countless afternoons Shel Silverstein lead us down a magical sidewalk where humor and creativity inspired laughter and conversations centered in curiousity. Over time my children began to request new titles, their choices spoke of unique personalities finding their way in literature; picture books became chapter books, non-fiction evolved into research for their own ideas.
My story is common to many. Still, my passion for the possibility lurking between the covers of a new title calls to me and I am happily lost to another journey with an old love.
dance lesson
January 23, 2011 § 3 Comments
In a moment I could not have predicted, a routine childhood experience taught me an extraordinary lesson.
My daughter lives in a space of possibility. Each day we begin a new story weaving dramatic moments into the mundane; I quietly marvel at her creativity and confidence. Countless evenings my husband, son, and I fulfill the role of audience to living room theater and dance performances. Some time ago, hoping to draw upon my daughter’s natural interests, I enrolled her in a popular local dance class.
Prior to the first class I enthusiastically prepared for a new chapter in my daughter’s life. I purchased leotards, required shoes, tights, and tote. When the big day came the air around my daughter was charged with electricity born of her enthusiasm.
In the studio, the girls gathered around the instructor, each a familiar face to the teacher and one another. I held my breath hoping my daughter would find her place among the tiny tutus. As the group began the ritual of stretching my daughter looked lost, but stumbled into the others’ examples with a smile and eagerness to learn. My daughter’s joy was mine and I relaxed into the background of mothers visiting quietly in the adjoining room.
With the sudden unexpectedness of lightning on a cloudless summer day, the teacher said something unkind to my daughter. I watched my ballerina stop, the teacher’s words washing over her and robbing her of her smile. As clearly as I shared her joy, the heartache and confusion casting pain in my daughter’s eyes stole my breath.
Quickly my mind asked “Why?” and “How do I help?” Just as I was searching my mind for how to mother and protect, my daughter lifted her tear-stained face and approached the teacher. In a small, but firm voice my daughter said; “Excuse me. What you said hurt my feelings. You should say sorry.” And then my own tears came as easily as my heart filled with pride. My daughter’s spirit eclipsed the injury.
A couple of years have passed, but the picture I took on that first day of class hangs proudly in our home. It is the day my daughter taught me a lesson about life and how to live gracefully with pride.
love letter
January 21, 2011 § Leave a comment
My blog is an experiment of sorts, an exercise in faith. I often lack the confidence to share my words outside of letters to those I love. This space is becoming a love letter to myself, that piece of me that waits patiently to be acknowledged. With each simple entry there is a whisper in my mind that echos through my spirit resonating with something silent…
scribblechic 