Color me Calm and Carry On...

Did you know that colored pencils can sell for up to $179 per case? And did you know that people actually buy them? They do. I know this because I asked the store clerk at Blicks Art Supply shop. And the people that buy the $179 pencils appear to be sane. I know this because I asked that too. Sane individuals (or those who hide their crazy well) purchase a colored pencil for over $10 a piece because the package says they’re high-quality and that they’re made in England, and well let’s face it that kind of ups the cool factor. “I only buy designer colored pencils from England” sounds much more posh than “I got my Crayola color pack at Target.” 

I like to be cool. I love quality items. I’m sane. But the hell if I’m going to buy colored pencils at that cost. I mean, if crazy and ridiculous had a baby it would come in the form of a $14 colored pencil in Ruby Begonia. No?

I’ve been learning a lot lately since I decided that there was an inner artist in me that needed to be recognized. Her name is Savannah (aka multiple personality number 3.) She’s quiet. Mysterious. Subdued. Curious. Sweet. Innocent. Child-like. She doesn’t like high heels or loud chatter and resides in the introverted corner of my mind peeking out every so often to be sure she’s not forgotten and then slips away just as quietly. Like a soft sheet being pulled over my head.  She is the calm to my storm. My little tap on the shoulder reminding me that age is timeless and sometimes I need to embrace the 10-year old inside of me because she never really left.

She likes to shut out the noise, put a bubble around me and say “Shhhhh” to the world . Breathe. Exhale the negative vibes that this earth is suffocating us with. Shut out the violence, the terror and the injustice and just be one with the mind. Focus on one thing. Breathe steady. Feel peace in my heart. Savannah is my inner artist who understands the benefits of a calm meditative state. Peace, serenity, love ....shit like that.

I planned to buy an adult coloring book after I read an article about their multiple benefits for calming the active mind but my co-worker beat me to it and bought me one. Yay! Random Christmas presents are the best. Or perhaps he too believed I needed to calm the hell down and color something to relieve the stress.  Either way, I accepted it with the glee of a 10 year old.

I wanted to get some fancy pencils to go with it hence my trip to the art store. I got a beautiful set of 24 and did not blow over 100 dollars on them either because I’m not crazy and my other 2 personalities were thinking of all the shoes they could buy with that money. Anyhow, I colored my little heart away.  Had my honey matcha tea to sip on, the sounds of waves crashing in the background and heated slippers on my feet. I found my Zen. Savannah was happy.

I plan to continue doing this. I like this introverted side. It feels hopeful. Proud. Real.

However, if I had bought the $179 pencils I would have been coloring so carefully to not break a tip and judging every stroke wondering if it indeed was that wonderful of a color pencil to be worth the money and trying my damndest to make the picture perfect and not go out of the lines so that my art would look like it was worthy of the hundred dollar lines of colors splayed around the angles. Good-bye peace and hello stress. There would be no calm to my artistry; it would be a tension grip on an expensive stick of wood mixed with tight muscles and a pair of shoes taunting me in the back of my mind.

Instead I have my cute little not-too-expensive but not-too-cheap pencils that work just fine and a nice little coloring book that has no agenda or expiration date. It will be there when I need it and sit peacefully when I don’t. It’s therapy in the form of bright shades of color mixed with effortless magic. It’s trans-formative to the mind and nurturing for the soul.

Go buy one. You won't regret it.

We can all calm the hell down together. Yay!

And if you decide to get the designer high quality fabricated -in -England colored pencils don’t tell me about it. I refuse to believe anyone I know is that crazy.

                                                                   

Run Run Away

Back when I was rebellious and felt a need to express my rebellion (I kindly tuck it inside now where it’s safe), I used to crank music just to let everyone know I was in that “I don’t give a shit” mood. I’d usually put in a Heavy-Metal cassette tape (remember those?) it was a “mixed tape” actually (the special ones) and crank the volume on my stereo as loud as I could before the speakers cracked just to be sure my parents reached the max level of irritation. I was a fun one.

Anyhow, back to this mixed tape. It was one a past boyfriend made for me which included various rock songs that we listened to together. I’d always forward the tape (remember when we had to do that?!) until I got to this specific song that I loved. It hit the “rebellious” part of my heart that freed my soul and loosened my bones a bit. It brought back memories of my skipping school to hang at his house (he was a bit older) and we’d lay on the couch eating potato chips for breakfast and smiling at each other for hours. It was a time when I didn’t give a shit what people thought (ok I still have a little bit of that in me) and I had no respect for authoritative figures and an impulse to break rules that didn’t cater to what I wanted to do at the moment. (I know. Can you believe I used to be that way?!) The song was called Run Run Away by the group Slade. You’ve probably never heard of them but I’m telling you, it revved me up like no other. It was like a gust of wind would sweep up my insides and give a therapeutic shout at the world, a bigger than life but giddy F-YOU. Bright eyed. Alive. Careless. FREE.

Some things you never let go of, music is one of them for me. So when I’ve had a grueling day and I want to revert back to the carefree attitude of that teenage girl who would skip school when her heart desired and  sneak out at midnight with the current boy toy to drink beers at the cemetery, I throw on a little Run Run Away by Slade. For a moment I smile and feel alive. I laugh how much I’ve changed and yet remain the same. The school uniform has turned to work attire and the boom box is now itunes on blue tooth, but the spark of that heavy metal I-don’t-give-a-shit feeling in my heart stays the same.

And I still belt it out at the top of my lungs.

And I still don’t care who sees me.

And I STILL think there’s a 16 year old trapped somewhere inside. Thankfully :)

Memories of my magical Mom

I was 3 years old in this photo. My socks were slightly damp and I was craving a bologna sandwich. I know this because I have one of those scarce memories that spans back to when I was still being rocked in a blanket and wished I could talk. People think I’m nuts when I say that but it’s true. Images and memories imprint my brain, and once they’re there, they stay. I recall my sisters giggling as they dragged me around on the floor by the feet of my footed pajamas and being irritated by the itchy carpet rubbing along the back of my head. I smiled only because they were laughing but didn’t know how to tell them to stop. I was probably 18 months old. I remember the first day my Mom tried to potty train me and how I thought “it’s about time” as I was waiting to sit on that little wooden potty chair forever. I also remember being bought a particular Raggedy Ann doll at a church festival while my Dad carried me around in the sticky humidity. I once told my Mom I remembered the entire conversation her and my Dad had that day about why I would want such a ridiculous looking doll when there were so many other ones to choose from but it was so hot who cares just buy the thing. She remembered it then, and laughed when we realized I was only two.

But... back to this photo, I know my socks were wet because a particular puddle of slush called my name as I jumped off a doorstep and the edge of my shoes got submerged. My Mom said “Oh Melanie, now you’re going to have wet socks all day...”

All day it was. My Mom was an Avon lady. It was delivery day. I loved the start of this day when the doorbell would ding and she would get her big Avon order in the mail. Back then, (my how things have changed!) she would hand out little Avon catalogs to all of her clients and they would phone in their order that she would hand write in her tablet and then call in at the end of the month. When the box came, I got to pretend that I was a little Avon lady too by putting together the orders. We would lay it all out on the dining room table and she would open up 20 or so empty Avon bags, and read aloud the contents of each persons order. It was my job to find the items and place them in the bag. I’d be in my pajamas sitting on the table ready to work. She would say “ok let’s find the bottle of pink bubble bath, ok that goes in this bag. And now we need a roll-on deodorant with the green cap, can you find the green cap? Ok that’s it, put it in this bag, and how many chap-sticks do we have? Can you separate them by the colors?....” and so on. We would tear off the carbon copy receipt and slip new Avon brochures in the bags and load them in the backseat of our big white Cordoba and off we’d go to deliver.

The memories I have of helping her deliver Avon items are in bits and pieces. You see, I’m not sure that my Mom actually sold Avon to make money as much as she did for the joy in it. She liked people. She liked chatting. She liked staying busy and she really did love Avon products, so why not sell them? My Mom loved interacting with people. If it was a profession to make small talk she’d be the president. Sometimes I’d be holding onto her leg, pulling at her coat for an entire 20 minutes as she chitty-chatted away during one of those “Avon deliveries” as if the day was timeless. It was like a house-hopping talking fest all day long. Lots of conversations. Lots of houses.

One lady’s home had a really intricate doll house. An antique I was told. It was taller than me and beautiful. I was told to “just look” but as soon as they left the room I was touching everything. I had to see if the dinner plates were glued to the table and the bedding was as soft as it looked. Do the cupboards open? Do the knobs turn? It was magical.

One place had a bunch of really loud kids, I think it was a daycare or something and this woman would keep yelling at random children “Tell Johnny to get off the roof!” “Turn off those cartoons and do some homework!” “If you don’t stop running up and down those stairs I’m going to ground you for 2 weeks!” I didn’t like this woman at all. I wondered why she was so angry. She had messy hair and looked tired. I also recall a box of Twinkies on her kitchen table and wondered when she would offer me one. I’m a kid. That’s what people do right? Nope, never got one. Like I said, I didn’t like the lady.

One house had a little boy with no hand. Really. He came running down the stairs and instead of a hand holding the banister, he had this stub that ran along the railing. I wondered if he could feel a tickle at his wrist. It was his right hand and I remember thinking, “What if he was right handed? That would be so hard to have to learn how to draw with your left hand.” When we drove away I remember telling my Mom that he had no hand and I thought it looked the end of a hot-dog. She sort of paused and shut her eyes a bit with a half smile which she would do when she found something sort of amusing but didn’t want to acknowledge the humor. Then she’d say “Oh Melanie.” shaking her head and remind me how lucky I was to have both of my hands.

One house always smelled like fried hamburger even though there was nothing on the stove. I could never figure that one out.

And then there was this one time I’ll never forget. This was the day I felt embarrassment for the first time. Mom was on a chatting rampage even though she put the Avon order on this woman’s kitchen table 30 minutes ago. I felt antsy, my jeans were too tight and I was tired of playing around with these big tower blocks in the living room. I figured I’d hint at my impatience by crawling up on her lap. I was sitting on my Mom’s lap, sort of uncomfortably swaying from cheek to cheek. I thought I was sitting on a pair of her mittens or something. Finally my Mom had me stand up and looked at my bottom and saw this bulge so she pulled out the back of my jeans and saw that a balled up pair of underwear (with pink flowers on them) was shoved up the back of my pants. Must have gotten stuck in the leg in the dryer she said. She pulled out this pair of underwear, held them up and she and her friend started laughing as my Mom said “I thought something was in there!” I was 3 years old and red with embarrassment especially since the underwear thing was such an object of pride for me as I was officially potty trained (in a day) and a BIG GIRL now, hello. They still chatted for another 30 minutes or so but at least my jeans didn’t feel so tight....

Back to the photo though! I don’t know who the person was that took it, only that we had delivered an Avon order to her and were walking back to the car (note the white Cordoba in the background) and she wanted us to take a quick photo. My Mom smiled gently and said “Well ok” and quickly picked me up. As soon as we got into the car I was about to tell her that I was hungry when she said “I bet you want a bologna sandwich don’t you?” I remember believing that my Mom could read my mind because that’s exactly what I was thinking. So then I was trying to think all of these random thoughts and see if she’d pipe up with some more miraculous mind-reading skills. I remember I kept saying the word "red" over and over in my mind to see if she'd ask me why I was thinking about the color red. But nothing happened.....

Until we got home and she said “I bet you want to get out of those wet socks don’t you?” She was spot on!

For this photo, on this day, these are the things I remember: Wanting to be an Avon lady when I grew up but knowing that I would just put their order on the front step and get on with the day, having a mad craving for a bologna sandwich and thinking my magical mind reading Mom was the greatest woman in the world.

I wish she was here to read this.

Here’s to hoping she can still read my mind.

Year number three and the progression of grief

Today. It’s been 3 years today since my Mom passed away. I’m not good at grieving and dealing with things that mess with my heart. Instead I block them out and pretend them away. If something bothers me I envision twisting up my feelings like a baseball and tossing them off into distance and saying “take that sucker.” It’s a problem and a savior all in one. My psychiatrist said if I have trouble verbalizing my feelings, I should journal them. It’s not healthy to let things bottle up you know. But of course. So here I am, uncorking the bottle of grief I have over the loss of my Mom and letting it spill out onto this blank white sheet of therapy and see what happens. I’m just going to let my heart ache and my fingers tap away for the whole world to see because when it comes to me and keyboards, I don’t hold anything back. My heart if very heavy right now so here goes....

No Title

Tremors. Flow and wave
inside and out
from minutes to days
years go by, can I say that yet?
Because it still feels raw
and endless
a wreck.

My heart. The beats go astray
tip tap, swoon crack
unpredictably finding their way
Can the halves be glued
into a mended disguise
a strong look of blank
behind the cheer filled eyes.

Memories. They steer my mind
A jerky wheel
drives the silent cries
peeking up reminding me
of that missing
hole
that forever will be.

Regrets. Their presence cuts through.
you say you don’t have them
but God knows you do.
Had I known
how little time she had here
how different I’d be
how I’d love without fear.

Alone. The safety this gives.
If I don’t emit sadness
perhaps it won’t exist.
I tuck it away
me myself and I
a shield of armor
guards the lonely hearts cry.

Emotions. Sway up and down.
my tilted balance beam
on a cold merry-go-round.
Trying to maintain
be pleasant, show peace
While your heart wants to
scream give her back to me.

Lies. In my bones their planted.
No chance to let go
of the pain they granted.
I intended to mention
these burdens I carried
but now she’ll never know
her beautiful ears are buried.

Guilt. A brick in my chest.
Swallowed me up
as she was laid to rest
My voice was silent
choked by denial
A blocked out act
disguised with a smile.

Why. So many of these.
forever coming at me
like the wind in the trees.
Did my heart shut down
to protect my mind
or was I too numb
to speak or try.

Wondering. Things she wanted.
dreams that were broken.
Conversations robbed of words never spoken.
I want to shake away
the thoughts of not knowing.
obtain it as is,
open my heart and keep glowing.

Acceptance. Like a light through the fog.
it flickers, it dances
It goes off and on.
And when I can’t see it
I start fresh again
I create, I become it
Or sometimes pretend.

Love. How far can it travel.
Does she see, does she know
The feelings I unravel.
The thoughts I think
and how I miss her hair
the ache I feel
every day she’s not there.

Love. Can it cross over all
Does she feel, does she hear
when I cry in my car
I look at her face
every lash, every pore
every mole, every scar
I imprint it once more.

Love. It’s infinite and final.
It adheres, it releases
it comes back once in a while.
It remembers, it hugs
never letting me go
sometimes you must be emptied
to once again become whole.

Love. It’s my greatest strength
I trust in my knowing
that some bonds never break.
Losing my Mom
was my worst fear, my deepest ache
but when I lay in bed at night
I know
somewhere
she’s awake.

Before it all fades away...

Time. It doesn’t just fly lately. It has become a speed demon. Tearing through the crevices of my brain, picking up memories and dropping them down during random moments of my day. Peeking through the door of my heart, shutting it with a jolt only to reopen it again, getting it all warm inside and then slowly fading back to normalcy. I’m talking about motherhood. Life. Feelings of watching your baby grow up while his needs for you slow down. The feeling of being too needed, sometimes needed, and at times not needed at all. How quickly things evolve from year to year. Pacifiers turn into blow-pops. Diapers to boxer briefs (his favorite). Teethers to toothbrushes. The heartfelt books of Good Night Moon and Mommy Kisses have given way to video games and something called a 3DS that he is teaching me how to operate.

I don’t even know where this blog is going but what I do know is that my baby, my little pancake faced munchie, my love, my only is turning 8. Eight. EIGHT! And it’s making my heart turn to absolute mush and a knot ball up in my throat every time I look at him. I need to pour it out somewhere so we don’t have one of those weird mommies at the birthday party that looks all teary eyed red faced and emotional during the candle blowing. So I’m going to spew out all of my emotional love onto this little keypad and let the open page catch the dramatic thoughts of unconditional love and contain them peacefully here so I can have a nice clear open heart for celebrating this new age of my lovely Landon.

Peering through old photos today I am reminded how quickly we forget the moments therefore I am going to simplify my wide array of thoughts and contemplations in my mind of disarray and keep it simple. I’m going to grasp this very moment in time and embrace the top five most recent memories of Landon that squeezed my heart. I promise to stop at 5 or this will go all day and then we’ll have a frazzled Mommy trying to shower and clean a house at the same time.

1.) Today. This morning. Bright and early. I hear padded feet on the carpet and the light flick on in the bathroom. My little Landon is awake.
There you go. That’s the first one. My heart is squeezed the very second I hear him every morning! But really, it’s because he’s such a sweet morning person who always quietly gets out of bed with those long skinny legs and whispers “good morning” in that soft little voice. Tip toes down stairs, let’s Nico outside, turns on his cartoons just to have the t.v. on but is really playing a video game at the same time. He’s so routinized like a little adult. I swear those legs get taller every day and one day we’ll have to raise the ceilings just to accommodate those legs. Am I being too dramatic?

2.) Our pinky swears. We pinky swear to everything. I mean everything. Pinky swear that I can live with you until I die Mommy? (of course!) If I eat my whole sandwich can I get an ipad game? Better pinky swear. Hey Mommy, pinky swear that a robber will never come to our house? Sure! These little pinky swears make my heart want to burst. Not because a pinky swear means much because as we know half of these things will never actually happen! What I love about them is seeing his smile when our eyes connect and our fingers interlace. I love how his warm little pinky wraps around mine and they bend into that little curl connecting in that meaningful “vow like” form. Those 2 seconds where our pinkies lock makes my heart squeeze because I know that one day that little pinky will outgrow mine. One day this may not seem so cool to him and snuggling won’t be an anticipated form of lounging or me acting like the “tickle monster” will be annoying instead of funny, but I’m hoping that this pinky swear thing will keep going. I’ll take it as long as I can get it.

3.) His deep thoughts. The conversations I have with my “almost” 8 year old son are probably the same conversations that are discussed by psychologists and scientists and therapists. The most important conversations exist on the drive to and from school. The most recent one began when I put the car in reverse and said “So how was school today? What did you learn?” He responded by stretching his finger along the side of his cheek, looking up to the right and saying “I don’t know, the same stuff. Today was strange for me because I was doing a lot of thinking about life and how I got here and the meaning of it all.” I could write an entire blog on the deep thoughts he expresses and how many times I say “How do you know that?” He is wise beyond his years, an old soul in a tiny body. My heart tightens every time he expresses knowledge of things that most kids would never contemplate and yet he cares so much about. One day the women are going to swoon over his sensitivity. OK, I’m getting teary eyed- on to the next!

4.) His bravery and calm demeanor. It sounds odd to cite this but it stands out. In the sense that he’s never been a big cry-baby if he doesn’t get his way or win a prize. He’s not a whiner that begs for toys in stores. I’m grateful for this. It may have something to do with our parenting and that we never “gave in” to behavior like that but he has never really exuded it either. I look around at some kids bawling at Target because they want a toy or box of cookies and a hanging-by-a-thread Mommy who is not giving in to it. Every time this happens Landon looks at them in this puzzled way and usually whispers “Mommy that kid is crazy.” Most Moms would probably be able to say “You used to act like that too when you were 3,” but I can’t. Instead I squeeze his hand, look at him and say “Thank you so much for never acting that way.” Just this past week at the grocery store a kid was begging for some orange pop and stomping their feet and dragging along the cart and Landon turns to me and says “I don’t know why he wants pop, there’s way too much sugar in that. Can we go find the avocados?” My heart was squeezed and then it melted.

5.) His beautiful imperfections. Or rather his unique attributes. By this I mean his physical features that I find so endearing because our genes somehow formed this magical little being of cute quirkiness and at “almost” 8 (19 hours precisely!!) he is growing into such a little man! I love how his brown eyes aren’t uniform, the one that slightly droops is my favorite. His ears don’t match and I think it’s a sign of intelligence right? I'll just keep telling him that. I remember how the left one came out dented when he was born and I thought “I have a cone headed, bent eared little peanut and I think my heart is going to explode with love.” His mouth is going through an oral challenge with losing almost all of his upper anterior teeth and them popping in at random and his back tooth was extracted and a spacer put in and he never complains. He smiles that big toothy grin with pride and my heart gets squeezed every single time I see that face light up. I wonder if he knows how perfect he is to me? Or how much I want to kiss his face all day long but I don’t because I’d look like a lunatic. Does he have any idea how pure his heart is right now at this age and how much I want to preserve it somehow so that the world doesn’t taint it? Does he have the wisdom to not alter the confidence he holds at this moment in time? Will he always be able to come up to me and say “Mommy I have a question” and ask me anything under the sun without worry that I’ll judge him or fear that I won’t be able to answer? I tell him all this now, but will he remember?

That is why I am putting these thoughts out there right now at this moment, before the feelings are forgotten and it all fades away again.

Now I’m off to prepare birthday party games and open up to new “moment in time.” After I go kiss that 7 year old face at least 100 times because I need to embrace these moments when I have them. The kissing monster will always be allowed forever and ever right? I'm going to make him pinky swear to that.