On [Not] Keeping Score

Not too long ago, I had this really bad habit of keeping score. Here's what I mean. In my head I kept a running list of all the stressful events that had occurred in my life over the past five years or so. It was a breathtaking list, too, that involved moving out of state twice, dealing with a major death in the family, buying a house and undergoing therapy for nerve pain. Anytime anyone asked about my life or my stress level, they got a full rundown of the list. In detail.

Surely no one else had endured so much stress in such a small space of time. It was almost like a competition: look how crazy my life is! Or maybe, I hesitate to admit, it was a plea for sympathy or attention.

I used the list to justify bad attitudes and reactions to stress. I used it to assure myself that I was doing ok...under the circumstances. I used it as a cosmic scorecard. Ok, I've had my fill of stress now. Time for a break. 

Then I miscarried. I started to add the event to the list. And then, I started thinking: Why am I even keeping this list? 

Why don't I have a corresponding list in my head of great memories I've made over the past 5 years?

Why don't I tell people about all the cute stuff William has said and done?

Why can't I remember half the cute stuff he's said and done??

Why am I always complaining and painting a tragic picture of my life?

See, right after the miscarriage, I had a dream. One of those realistic dreams that wake you up from sleep. In this dream, I was wearing my wedding dress at some kind of event. Calvin was in a suit. And we were spinning across the floor, dancing and laughing. Carefree. Obviously deeply in love.

I was watching myself from the sidelines. Watching that young woman I was with the glowing eyes and beaming smile. She looked at me as she whirled by, so young, so beautiful. She said something to me as she passed. I'm not sure what it was. But I think it may have been, "Look at what you have."

So I did. And I discovered something. I have so much. Not just food on the table or cars in the driveway. I have the love of my life right here with me. I have a wonderful child with this man. I have a heart that's full of love and peace. Enduring a parade of stressful situations has been worth every minute I get to spend with these people I adore. I have no reason to keep score.

So I'm throwing away the scorecard. No more complaining. No more dwelling on the past. I need room in my head for all the great memories we're making.  

Finding the Value within Myself

It's been two weeks since the loss of my pregnancy, and I think I may be finally coming to terms with it. Of course, that has involved a lot of gardening...and writing...and jewelry making. Anything that isn't crying. Not that I haven't cried. I have.

It's not just that I wanted this child and lost him. It's all the other emotions that come with it. I had to adjust to the whole idea of becoming a mother again after deciding I wouldn't. Plans to get a job were interrupted, rearranged. William and I talked about the baby, especially when my belly started to grow. I had just bought maternity clothes, had just got over the persistent morning sickness. The baby's heartbeat was strong at 10 weeks. My big ultrasound to confirm the gender was only three weeks away. I expected to feel the kicks at any moment. And then I go to the doctor to find out that the baby had been dead since week 13. Now I'm back to square one, unsure of how I will move forward. My mother-in-law calls it "emotional whiplash."

I think that description is quite apt.

It's amazing the kind of clarity that can come out of these situations. For instance, working as a way to cope with my pain has shown me exactly how much I am still capable of doing. Being stuck in the hamster wheel of housewifery for the past three years had made me think I had lost the energy, creativity and initiative that I possessed in college. Now I know that it's still inside of me.

I think it's very difficult for young women to realize the full extent of their value. Society says women are basically useless unless they're bringing home a paycheck. The problem is, even when we are bringing home a paycheck, our work isn't as appreciated. Women still earn 77 cents for every dollar earned by a man. And for those of us who stay home to raise our kids, the enormity and (sometimes) drudgery of what we do is overlooked. "Oh, well YOU didn't have to battle morning traffic, or sit through a boring meeting, or miss lunch because an overbearing client was breathing down your neck," husbands will say. No, but I spent the day wiping up urine and puke, wrestled a cranky toddler, and ate a sandwich that had fallen on the floor. Sitting through a boring meeting sounds like heaven. Do you get to pee there without someone watching you, too??

So how do I cope? I find the value within myself.

And that's hard to do when people's expectations of what you should be doing are numerous and unrealistic. Breastfeed until your child is 3. Socialize this many times per week. Cook breakfast for your husband (or you don't really love him). Iron his underwear. Shine his boots. Don't let your child cry, ever. Use that degree you earned. Work off that belly fat. No VOCs. No GMOs. Organic only. Co-sleep. Don't co-sleep. Use only rear-facing carseats. And for heaven's sake, no more than an hour of TV per day. Really, WHAT do you do all day?

I could go on. But here's the thing: life is more than living up to arbitrary standards of perfection. And that's a HUGE admission coming from a self-proclaimed perfectionist. Just because I'm a wife and a mother doesn't mean I stop having my own dreams and goals. I need to learn, to try new things and fail at them, to be a human being. It's through exercising my talents and pursuing the unique opportunities available to me that I find a life worth living. In that regard, I'm no different from a man. My child is not going to remember in 10 years whether he ate homemade baby food or not. And he's not going to feel less loved because I bought him Gerber peas instead of growing my own in the backyard. What he will remember is the time we spent together. And whether I was a happy, secure, fulfilled individual or not.

I feel like I've hit a major milestone with this epiphany. I have value within myself that's not defined by a paycheck or a pat on the back. What I do matters to me, and that's what ultimately matters to those who love and depend on me.

The Wonder of Discovery

I finally put my finger on what is so special about being a mom. It's seeing my child discover his world and his abilities.

Every day I place my son on the floor, and he crawls toward the first thing that catches his interest. It may be something he played with the day before, but he wants to check it out again. He claws at it. He waves it. He puts it in his mouth. He pushes it across the carpet. The whole time, I can see his little mind working behind his eyes, trying to grasp the definition and purpose of said object. He pulls himself up to the bottom shelf of my bookcase, and he positively beams at his tiny accomplishment. I push new foods into his mouth, looking for his reaction to an unfamiliar taste. It's a wondrous time.

I believe it's the excitement of discovery that makes life full and worthwhile. It's the source of butterflies when a young couple falls in love. It's the rush I feel when traveling to a new destination. It's why parents take their children to zoos, amusement parks, and space camp. It's why people get such a thrill out of giving and receiving gifts. Experiencing something for the first time is special, but it is even more special to create a first experience for a child, spouse, or friend.

I imagine this is the main reason so many parents struggle with raising disabled children--for them, discovery is limited. Depending on their disability, they may never feel the sense of pride at learning to walk on their own, the thrill of competing with their peers, or the pleasure of falling in love. Having the burden of caring for an especially dependent child minus the reward of seeing him or her develop and discover in normal ways, I imagine, must be crippling for those parents. My heart goes out to them.

Yes, parenthood is still mundane at times. Scrubbing plum stains out of my baby's clothes isn't the most stimulating task. I'm still looking forward to going back to work full-time after I earn my teaching license. But at the moment, watching my little boy learn and grow in these little ways makes the days go by just fine. And I am thankful.

P.S. I hope you like the new blog design. Let me know what you think!

Learning to Laugh

Sorry if it seems I've abandoned my post lately. The past ten days have been unreal. First, my husband sold his truck--which is kind of a good thing because I now get to choose a mid-sized car to haul William around in. I've spent all week test driving cars WITH LEATHER SEATS! However, the day my husband cleaned out his truck for the sale, he dragged into the apartment two large saws and three Rubbermaid storage bins full of stuff he had been storing in his truck. I flipped out, especially when he suggested using the nursery closet to store the tools.

I've got news for you, buddy. I just organized the nursery closet, and it's packed to the ceiling. Good luck.

Fortunately, he managed to fit it all into his closet instead. I'm just frustrated that this place is about to burst at the seams.

Next, the TV went out. Yes, the beautiful 42" HD 1080p TV that we shelled out a thousand bucks for 18 months ago DIED. Also, the warranty has expired, and to fix the problem will cost the same amount as buying a new one. I'm not happy about missing new episodes of The Biggest Loser. I'm also not happy about spending another small fortune to replace a TV that should have lasted for years.

Know what else died this week? The childhood pet my brother and I shared: a giant tabby cat appropriately named Mr. Big. He had been a part of our family for 14 years. Two days ago, our mother accidentally ran him over in the driveway. This occurred on the same day I took William to the pediatrician, where he received his first vaccine shots. My heart broke when I heard him scream from the pain. I think I would have hurt less had the nurse instead jabbed the needle straight into my breastbone, Pulp Fiction style.

When my husband arrived home the afternoon of the flat cat/poked baby fiasco, I recounted to him William's painful day, then tearfully filled him in on the details of Mr. Big's demise. He snorted, then started laughing. Which, of course, made me laugh, too. Call it the absurdity of death.

My husband's thought was that Mr. Big had had enough of being old and living with my parents, and had decided to hasten his journey to the big litter box in the sky. We joked about the cat lying in wait for the car to back down the driveway, looking for the right opportunity to throw himself under the tires. Granted, it wasn't a bad way to go for the old fellow. Animals don't die gracefully from old age; it's a horrific process that can take days or even weeks. Mr. Big shuffled off this mortal coil in five minutes.

My depression has been bad recently, so learning to laugh at these little situations helps. I'm also teaching William to laugh. Babies can't laugh at birth; the ability is a developmental milestone that comes around the time they learn to coo. I've been on pins and needles for weeks waiting to hear Will's first real laugh. It finally came about two weeks ago when I bounced him on my knee. If I could bottle up the feeling that sound evokes within me and sell it, I swear I'd be a millionaire within a week. It's more healing than Prozac and more addictive than crack. But while Will smiles in spades, his laugh is still rare. Every day when I see his eyes shine a little brighter, I hope for the connections in his brain that will allow him to laugh long and loud, and thus shed a ray of light into my darker days.

In the meantime, I've started a second novel. This one is a fantasy. But don't fret; I haven't given up on getting the first one published. I'm taking a short "time out" to perfect my query and make some small corrections on the manuscript. Trust me: when I finally snag a publishing contract, laughing won't be hard to do at this house.

Fleeting

Only two months ago was William a tiny bundle in his bassinet. Only three weeks ago did he require only formula for a meal. Only a week ago was he happily sucking at my breast.

I know why parents say children grow up so fast. They develop so quickly in the first year, going from tiny, helpless beings to walking, talking people.

I realize these moments with my son as an infant are fleeting. Already has his skin lost that incredible velvety softness it had when he was first born. He's outgrown half of the adorable outfits I received at my baby shower, going from newborn diapers to size twos in the blink of an eye. Today I kiss his soft, little head; who knows when it will be obscured by thick hair? His toothless grins melt my heart, but for how long? He's already teething.

Will I be able to recall these joys years from now? Will I remember the way he gazed into my face as I held him to my breast? Will I remember his first smile? Will I always have the memory of his softness and his sweet baby smell? I can hope.

Perhaps, however, some situations should be fleeting. My husband and I finally managed to work through the tension in our relationship. We once talked late into the night recently, and it was like having my best friend back. Now we're trying to spend more time together, even if it's just cuddling right before sleep. It's tough, though, with William in the picture and all the hobbies I have going. Plus, my husband's superiors ended up assigning his crew duty every other day after all. Not cool. Hopefully, the new schedule won't last long.

Speaking of Dissertations...

At last, I've finally made up my mind. I've decided to pursue a Master's degree in English. What did it, you ask? I found a graduate program through Old Dominion University that specializes in English composition. It also offers a certification for people who want to teach writing. It's absolutely perfect for me.

Now the real fun begins. If I want to start this fall, I need to submit my application, get letters of recommendation, take the GRE (Graduate Readiness Exam) and request my transcripts before June 1. If I can accomplish all of that in time and get accepted, then I have to start looking for childcare for William. The thought of leaving him in another's care, even to start this exciting phase of my life, is distressing. I know no one will care for him like I do. My husband informed me a few nights ago that he's taking me out to dinner for Mother's Day, sans baby, and he's arranging the childcare. I nearly freaked. But I know the day I leave William with a sitter must come eventually, and it will be good for me.

*Sigh*



He's just too precious.



The day is coming: tumbles, falls, bumps on the head, nightmares. I just want to be there for him. He cries, and I want to cry, too. But we both need to grow beyond each other. And I want him to know that I did everything in my power to fulfil my dreams and reach my full potential.

In Celebration of Spring

There's nothing like gorgeous weather to lift one's mood. The weather here has been so beautiful that I decided to celebrate with a poem I wrote when I was in college. Enjoy!


Spring Dissertation

Allow me to digress...
Lie, and wait, and attempt to digest
The spring in me, the time by
Which I would fling dandelions at the sky.
Study a plot while I repose--
Not Moliere, but new grass
Softer than pillows.
Research Picasso's method in cloud formation
And still relinquish compilation
For something slightly less awesome:
Showering in loose cherry blossoms.


Thanks for reading!

A Song for William

May you reach the heights of happiness that I have never reached,
And your breast contain the fire of every sermon ever preached.

May you come to smell the roses that ever smelled so sweet,
And if you chance into the rain, find courage to go out again.

May your hands find the sand and build a castle great,
Never leaving the best of you to either chance or fate.

May the song of the nightingale come neither too late nor too low,
And let every lover's kiss be genuine and slow.

May you always approach the knocks of life with gentle manly grace,
And never turn away when the sun is on your face.

Winding Down

Sorry, dear readers, to leave you in the lurch. The past few days have been insane. I've cleaned and reorganized the nursery and living room, purchased several pieces of furniture, and finished an advanced beading project--all while nursing my son and changing diapers. I sat down to write at least twice before and then realized I was too exhausted to put two words together. So here I am a week later.

I finally managed to work out my feelings with my husband, though it got worse before it got better. Last weekend we went to breakfast at IHOP and talked things out. The rest of the day went beautifully, and by evening I was glowing. Then...well, my husband (unintentionally) did something I respectfully asked him not to do, and the consequences of said act resulted in him waking the baby about two hours after I had put him to bed. I ended up having to get out of bed three times to soothe the little one. By the time I got him back to sleep, it was 1 a.m. Had I been any more furious, I'd have foamed at the mouth. (I don't take missing out on precious sleep very lightly.)

So we had to work that out as well. And we succeeded in short order, and the home situation has been good ever since. Moping (on his part) and stewing (on my part) have ceased, intimacy has returned, and my hair remains attached to my head.

And I'm still off my Prozac. Ha-ha!

Body Be

What the hell? I thought to myself yesterday as I prepared to check out at the craft store, baby William in tow. On the checkout rack was a popular tabloid with the headline "Best Winter Beach Bodies" and a photo of a famous actress and her family strolling the shoreline of some tropical paradise. Really? Have we honestly reached this point in our culture, where women are expected to obsess over their body image all year round?

Oh, right. Silly me.

But that wasn't the worst offender of the day. At the grocery store, another magazine devoted to exploring the alleged intricacies of the never-ending "Bradjennelina" lust triangle trumpeted news of Jennifer Aniston's new "Revenge Body" designed to snag Brad Pitt and turn Angelina Jolie green with envy...as if Brad's just sitting around waiting to throw his affections to the woman who can produce the tightest buns.

(It's far likelier that he's a despicable shmuck who has figured out that he can play two women all he wants and get away with it...or that the media is making up the whole thing. But I digress....)

Revenge body? Ok, I'll admit that there might be such a thing. After all, what woman hasn't dreamed of showing up to her high school reunion looking far more fabulous than she did in the 10th grade just to stick it to every guy who ever rejected her? But the implication that an attractive, talented woman would pour all of her energy into producing a lovely body just to catch the eye of a man with flighty intentions is disturbing, disgusting, and just plain wrong in my book. And how many women buy into this load of horse hockey!

Granted, I'm no Jennifer Aniston, especially since just giving birth. I have stretch marks on my thighs and loose skin hanging from my belly. But I still have reason to like my body. It is mine, after all. And as my husband pointed out, that patch of loose skin is incredibly soft.

There's too much in society that forces women to feel bad about themselves: we're told that we're not sexy enough, smart enough, successful enough, feminine enough, adequate mothers. But women were never meant to be shoehorned into a narrowly defined ideal type. We are much stronger and much more valuable than that.

If you are a woman, take a moment today to celebrate your body, no matter what kind of body you have. Turn a deaf ear to a culture of "revenge bodies" and "winter beach bodies" and know that you are beautiful in your own way.

Merry, Merry Christmas

Yes, dear readers, I'm still here. I haven't gone into labor yet, although the time is drawing near. I had my first real contraction yesterday, and my back and abdomen still feel tight and achy. We'll see what happens today. I'm sooo ready to meet little William!

Unfortunately, I'm spending today alone in the apartment. My husband was assigned 24 hour duty on Christmas day, so I won't see him until 9 or so tomorrow morning. We celebrated Christmas yesterday by opening all of our gifts. I managed to surprise my husband with an expensive, high-powered flashlight that he had been eying online. The thing can light up a building. My gift? A Plano 777 tackle box from Bass Pro Shop. Now, I know what you're thinking: a tackle box? Well, I've been waiting for weeks to get my hands on it. I'm using it as a bead caddy and tool organizer for my jewelry-making hobby. I spent two hours or so yesterday setting up all the compartments and arranging everything (it's a HUGE tackle box). I was more excited than a kid in a candy store...still am. I'll be making some more jewelry today.

In the time I haven't been blogging or playing with my tackle box, I've been trying to get everything ready for William's (and my mother-in-law's) arrival. So far I've stocked our freezer with 2 quarts of New England Clam Chowder, 24 burritos, 3 nine-inch deep dish chicken pot pies, and 16 chicken burger patties...all homemade by yours truly. I've also been cleaning and organizing the apartment bit by bit. One thing that has helped tremendously: a new computer desk. Up until a few days ago, the computer and all related electronic devices took up residence on the dining table. It looked terrible. When we moved everything to the new desk, I exclaimed, "Wow! It almost looks like people live here!"

As far as my mood...well, right now I feel relatively stable most of the time. The problem is that with the birth approaching, my hormones tend to fluctuate randomly. I'll be riding in the car or cooking and suddenly feel like crying for no reason. It's a bit unsettling.

As far as my dark secret goes, I haven't told my brother yet. I'm waiting for the holidays to pass first. No need to insert drama in what should be a happy time. Ignorance really can be bliss.

Hope you all are having the most wonderful Christmas ever.

Thankful

OK, so it's no longer Thanksgiving, but I couldn't get this thought out of my head. On Thanksgiving Day, I recalled a poem I had written many years ago as a child, entitled "My House". I won't bore you with the whole of it, but here is an excerpt:

The house that I live in is not a new house:
There is a hole in the wall in which lives a mouse.
The carpet is worn from hurried feet,
And there is a stain on my favorite seat....

Many a day, many a night
I have spent in that house,
And I will regret it
When I have to move out....

Actually, that "house" was a gray single-wide mobile home, and by the time my family moved out of it, I was glad to leave it behind. Having a mouse as a roommate may sound whimsical, until it ran between my feet one night in the middle of a dark hallway. From the size of its shadow, it could have been a weasel. My heart nearly stopped.

My family tried to care for the things we had, but some objects inevitably wore out and there was no money to replace them. My mother had a white rug that lay under the coffee table in the living room, and after months of washing, it began to tear around the edges. The tears quickly widened into holes, but still we kept the rug. To this day, I vividly remember my (and my mother's) embarrassment as I spread that holey rug in the middle of the living room time and time again.

I could go on. But the point is that way back then I was thankful for what I had, even though it wasn't much. (I had friends who had less.) Now I wouldn't dream of living in any domicile that had worn carpet or too many nail holes in the wall--let alone a mobile home with a mouse. Recalling my childhood thankfulness last week was quite humbling, considering that I now own a new car and live in a gorgeous third-story apartment with bay windows and granite countertops. True, I still struggle to find happiness and fulfillment in my day-to-day life--despite the medication, depression still visits occasionally--but I can still be thankful for what I have: a wonderful husband, a baby on the way, a beautiful home, food to eat and clothes to wear.

And I am. Very much.

Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday. Thanks for reading.

Anniversary

As of today, I've been married for two years. Not a long time, I know. But I love to reflect on my life with my husband at special times like this. You see, we may have only been married for two years, but we've known each other for nearly nine. I met my husband when he was only 15; I was 17. And our story--I think--is rather unique.

We met at church and was quickly thrown together by a very cliquish youth group. The guys ran around showing off their tans and football prowess, while the girls talked non-stop about getting manicures and shopping at American Eagle. Being the fashion pariah of the bookworm world that I was--let alone of the preppy beachcomber-wannabe set--I was bored out of my mind at every youth service. And since my husband cared neither for tans nor football, we eventually gravitated toward each other. (He was also wickedly intelligent, which I found incredibly attractive. At 15, he ran the sound equipment for the church's adult services and youth services. He was more skilled at it than adults twice his age.)

We started a friendship that lasted for three years. I soon fell in love with him, but my husband proved to be a tougher nut to crack. At any mention of my feelings, he would avoid me--sometimes for weeks. The turning point came when an old boyfriend (whom I liked) came back into my life with marriage on his mind. Although I ended up telling my ex that I couldn't be with him because I was in love with somebody else, the incident proved to be just the wake-up call my husband needed. Two months later, we officially became a couple.

We dated for over three years, and in that time our relationship went though the fire. Eight months after finally snagging the man of my dreams, I said goodbye to him and boarded a plane to Japan to spend a year in a study abroad program. About a month after I returned, his father suffered a brain aneurysm that rendered him disabled for three years. (A man who had worked for years as a computer programmer now could not drive his own car.) Right as we began planning our wedding, our church split. We had to ask a minister from another denomination to perform the ceremony almost at the last minute. In order to help pay for the wedding, my husband worked two retail jobs for a while--one during the day, the other at night. He survived on caffeine pills and soda. I also took a retail job, despite just having earned my college degree, because I couldn't find any other work. By the time we were finally wed, we were both physically and emotionally drained. Our ages at the time of marriage: 21 and 24.

The fun didn't stop there. We had no money, so we took up residence with his parents. Two months after our wedding, my husband joined the Navy. Four months later, he left for boot camp. After graduating, he flew home, packed up our stuff, and we moved 800 miles away from our families. The week before the move, I came down with a severe upper respiratory infection. I was terribly sick for over a month. But the toughest ordeal was yet to come: a year ago this August, a major stroke took my father-in-law's life. Thankfully, we were able to spend his last two days with him and attend his funeral.

This is not what I intended to write. Last night, I bought my husband an anniversary card talking about how I remember our first kiss, the first time we held hands, etc. I do remember...in amazing detail. That's what I set out to write, because when I think about all the hardships we have endured together, that's what I recall--the joys of our life together. However, I suppose it's never too late to recount some joys.

First time we held hands: We were watching the first Lord of the Rings movie in theaters. The big flaming Eye of Sauron freaked me out.

First "I love you": December 31, 2003. He gave me a romantic greeting card at a New Year's party I was hosting for my friends. Inside the card he had written "This card pretty much says it all, except 'I love you.'" The gesture was extra special because he never wrote notes. Ever.

First kiss: January 4, 2004. We were standing in his driveway at night in the rain. That was the night we officially started dating.

First time he made me feel proud: I received one of two highly competitive scholarships at the start of my senior year in college. We attended a banquet where the winners were to be announced. He told me not to get my hopes up. After my name was called, he said he wouldn't doubt my abilities again.

Wedding day: August 4, 2007. My husband forgot to bring the marriage license to the ceremony. It was eventually located in his bedroom at the bottom of his laundry basket. (Don't ask.) A good time was had by all.

Last photograph: You're looking at it. (Yes, the skinny chic with the non-existent butt is me. That handsome fellow I'm hugging is my husband. Now you know what I look like.) The picture was taken two weeks ago when we visited Middleton Place Plantation in Charleston, SC. If you've never been, it's a gorgeous place. If you go, take bug repellent.

Thanks for reading.

Oh, Husband!

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I went hiking in Congaree National Park, a protected swamp near Columbia, SC.


Last weekend, we took some kayaks back to Congaree and paddled the river that runs through the park. The scenery was more beautiful along the river than on the park trails, but because my digital camera would never have survived all the water I splashed into the boat, I don't have any pictures of our kayaking trip.

As I watched my husband paddling ahead of me, ducking under trees that had fallen across the river and skirting logs barely submerged in the coffee-colored water, I realized I probably wouldn't do this sort of thing without him. In fact, I know I wouldn't. If there's anything I can't stand, it's creepy-crawly creatures, and Congaree is full of them. Cottonmouths and Water Moccasins glided through the water between banks, and spiders waited in webs spun out over the river. I nearly threw myself in the muddy water desperately trying to kill an enormous spider that had landed on the back of my kayak and was crawling toward me. No way could I have handled being on that river alone!

However, I would have missed out on all that beautiful scenery had I stayed home. That thought made me realize just how much marriage has enriched my life. My husband often gives me the confidence to do things I would normally shy away from. And while he's far from indulging my little phobias, he graciously killed the spider on the back of my kayak. :-)

I sometimes like to imagine that I could handle anything on my own if required. However, I certainly wouldn't have a child, or consider jumping out of an airplane, or paddle murky rivers full of dangerous animals by myself.

Yesterday, while driving to the bookstore, my husband took my hand and kissed it. He's usually doing such things. But at that moment, the gesture seemed extra-special. I felt a reverence emanating from him--reverence for being the mother of his child, for cooking and cleaning and loving him the way I do. I was totally swept away.

He's not perfect, of course. He throws his dirty clothes all over the bedroom floor. He leaves a mass of crumbs on the kitchen counter when he makes toast or anything else involving bread. I have to remind him a half dozen times to pay certain bills every month. Yet, I don't care (at least, not that much). What he gives me in return is far more valuable to me than a clean house. His love is the essence of my happiness. Without him, my life would have no light. After nearly two years of marriage, we are more in love today than we were on our wedding day.

Do other women see their husbands in this way? Sometimes, I wonder.

Some Thoughts on Happiness

I have learned that happiness is...


...choosing the path less traveled.


Happiness is...


...being continually awed by beauty, no matter how often you find it.


Happiness is...


...having someone special to love, and being loved in return.


Happiness is...


...a big, fluffy cat snuggled on your lap.


Happiness is...


...waiting to see what's around the next bend.


Happiness is...


...the ability to look up.


May you find some happiness today.

Things that Bring Happiness

Feeling soothed from my day in the snow-capped Colorado Rockies, I thought I would take a moment to recount some of the things that bring me moments of intense happiness.

1. Photography. I love snapping photos of flowers, animals, and architecture, taking pains to frame a masterpiece.

2. Writing. Well, not always. Some days, writing causes me no end of angst. But I'd rather be writing than not.

3. Good food. I love cooking and going to restaurants. Nothing soothes the soul in my opinion like scrumptious eats.

4. Consulting. Using my skills to help others gives me a great sense of purpose.

5. Raw, passionate, emotionally intimate sex with the man I love. Need I say more?

Today, as we rode through the mountains taking in the wonders of the nature around us, grandmother commented, "It amazes me that those trees can grow straight out of bare rock like that. I had one at home I tended with loving care, and it died." Maybe that's exactly like life: too pampered, and we die inside. There's no pride or character to be had without hardship. Besides, those trees on the mountainside have one heck of a great view.

A Glimpse into Age

I've been a bit lax in my blogging duties over the past couple of days, mainly because I recently flew 2,000 miles to Colorado with my husband to visit his aunt and grandparents. They are lovely Midwestern people with lovely Midwestern manners, so I'm having a fairly good time despite the darkness that still occasionally claws at my mind. Right now, I can see the golden glow of the sun setting behind cloud-draped mountains from the sliding glass doors off of the living room. Tomorrow, we are going up into the mountains for some majestic sightseeing, and then to a mall to window shop.

Today, however, was a little sad for my husband. He decided to drive about four hours from Boulder to Wray, Colorado to visit his grandmother on his mother's side, who was admitted to a seniors home nearly a year ago when her husband died. He went knowing that she probably wouldn't remember who he was. Over the past few years, her memory has rapidly faded into the gray shadows of old age, leaving her only with a vague impression of having lived a good life. Names, faces, details of the past and present have become fleeting and irrelevant in her mind.

I walked into the seniors home with my husband and felt a wave of relief: it was the nicest, cleanest seniors home I have ever seen. I remember when my own grandmother was placed in a nursing home when my family saw that she was losing her battle with Alzheimer's, and the building smelled so dank that I could hardly stand to breathe whenever I walked in to visit her. To top it off, my grandmother exerted a vehement independence and forced others to accept her interpretation of reality, no matter how fantastical it had become.

Fortunately, that was not the case today, though it was no less sad. My husband's grandmother welcomed us into her room, overjoyed that a family member had remembered her and stopped by to visit. Here's how it went:

Grandma: "So, how do I know you?"
Husband: "I'm your grandson, your daughter's son."
Grandma: "Well, I'm so glad you came to see me. I don't feel sorry for myself, even though my husband died. This is a nice place. As you can see, I have all the books I want to read. And I don't have to cook or clean or work at all."
Husband: "That's great. I'm happy that you're doing well."
Grandma: "Yes, they even remember your birthday here. As you can see, I had a birthday recently, and they put it up on the wall." [She motioned to a Happy Birthday balloon hanging on the closet door.] "I am eighty...something. I know I'm not ninety. That's just too old."
Husband: "I'm sorry, I don't remember either. But who's counting?"
Grandma: "Yes. So how did you say you were related to me again?"

And for the next hour, we rehashed this same conversation nearly verbatim a dozen times. Three times, she asked my husband to describe her former home on the farm her husband worked for years while she taught elementary school. When she wondered aloud whether she would remember our visit, I stood up and wrote it on the calendar above her bed. When we left, we both kissed her on the forehead, and she cried in gratitude.

Later, in the car, and after a long, teary silence, my husband asked, "If you can't remember the things that brought you joy, how could you remember that you were ever happy?" I didn't have an answer, but I like to think that true happiness leaves an impression on the soul that time cannot erase. I can only hope that we will be so fortunate in the future.