The Constant in the Chaos

My fingers race over the keyboard, thoughts tumbling onto the screen.

Pausing, I read what I’ve written.

Sigh.  Select the text.  Delete.

More slowly, I begin again, attempting to form the sentences in my head before typing.

I read what I’ve written.

Sigh.  Select the text.  Delete.

Pushing back my laptop, I read the jotted prompt in my little notebook:

“The top area of your life where you would like to apply the Just.Be.Enough. mission of standing taller.”

My cursor blinks at me, the screen blank, glimpses of ideas scurrying around my mind, ducking behind columns as I try to grab them, pile them together, decide which part of my life most needs this important mantra: Just.Be.Enough.

I idly flip the pages in my planner, take a drink of water, reach for the book on the corner of my desk, ready to distract myself with another one of the endless tasks on my to-do list.

My nails are unpainted.  I need to empty the dishwasher.  There are new songs I want to add to my running playlist.

Each thought is a bouncing ball, a tiny sphere of pink rubber ricocheting back and forth in my mind, bumping against other thoughts, rebounding off each other, crowding the space and making it impossible to follow any one thought to its final destination.

Again, my eyes go to the prompt:

“The top area of your life where you would like to apply the Just.Be.Enough. mission…”

I jot notes.  Running.  Writing.  Self-Image.  Parenting.

Running has been a struggle lately; after the half marathon I need to rediscover what it means to run without a clock, without mileage expectations, without a goal other than the joy I find in running.

I’m writing and editing and collaborating on amazing projects, but I am unsure what all of those things mean in relation to my own professional path, unsure if it can even be considered a professional path.

Preschool has reawakened my worries about moving, where I want the kids to go to school, when we’ll be able to consider a move at all.

Dylan resisted going to bed tonight, and as he buried himself into my chest, I breathed him in and vowed to spend more time enjoying each little phase of their development instead of worrying about timelines and schedules.

“The top area of your life…”

I study the words I’ve doodled.  Which area is top?  How do I determine where I need to most accept my limitations and embrace my strengths, when I’m so unsure about so many of my end goals?

Deliberately, I reach for the computer.

I have not had a moment of clarity.

I can’t declare that I am enough as a runner, a writer, a mother, a wife.

I am uncertain about where any of these paths will lead.

Without a goal, a destination, I cannot state with certainty that I am enough.

There is only one certainty.

Today, in a parking lot, I held Abbey’s hand, her other hand holding Dylan’s small fingers.  Ryan completed our small chain, holding Dylan’s other hand firmly in his.  Our eyes met briefly, over the heads of our children, a smile holding the four of us together.

I am unsure where my path will lead, but I know who is walking at my side.

And that is enough.

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Step Away from the Planner

Like sheep lithely clearing a fence in a picturesque meadow, my to-do list cycles through my head as I sink into my mattress each night.  It greets me every morning, reminding me of mundane tasks like steaming the floors and lovely treats like a day at the zoo for all four of us.

Abbey and Dylan are more than willing to participate in the fun outings but slightly less willing to check off things like “print out preschool information.”  

So after stories and kisses, stars projected on the ceiling and musical toys lulling my children to sleep, I throw my balls in the air, watching them spin up and down, my hands deftly catching and throwing, juggling with the few hours I have before climbing into my own bed.

Working through blog ideas on the treadmill while calculating weekly mileage in my head, I return home to comment and reply and read and write and schedule posts, tossing in laundry in between.

I curl my legs under me, settling into the couch to read a chapter or two of a book I’m reviewing or sometimes one I’m not, until thoughts of the parenting book languishing on the shelf guiltily creep into my consciousness, making it hard to concentrate. 

I pull out the preschool information, planning out my back-to-school plan of attack.  A lump forms in my throat, and I gently place those papers out of sight for another day. 

Ryan sits nearby, studying, working through statistical problems in penciled notes I can’t even begin to understand.

Check…I draw a line through one item, then scribble three more under the tasks left unfinished.

Red digital numbers glow in the dark when we finally get to bed, mocking us with the limited hours until Abbey awakes.

When Ryan suggested we take the night off to watch a movie on my birthday, I resisted, thinking of what I could accomplish in that same two hours.

Then I saw his eyes, impossibly blue and caring, the eyes of my best friend.

I closed the laptop, set aside my planner, still tense and worried about what I was leaving unfinished.

A few minutes ticked by; I made an effort to breathe, to relax.  Slowly, it stopped being an effort.

For that night, I wasn’t a blogger, a runner, a laundress.

I was laughing on the couch with my husband, fingers linked, unfinished lists forgotten.

Content.

This post is part of a weekly link-up at Just Be Enough.  Please join us and share your story.

My Universe

our little family became my sun

Mama Kat prompted us to write a 6 word memoir

it's both tougher and simpler than it sounds

Jackpot

We're back from Vegas, and I wanted to let everyone know that we hit the jackpot. 

If you define jackpot as countless uninterrupted showers, complete with putting on my make-up without sharing it with either of my kids, then I won.

If you define jackpot as hours and hours of time with Ryan, laughing about nothing and talking about everything, then I won.

If you define jackpot as drinking a banana colada on a beach (a man-made one, but there was sand!) while devouring Water for Elephants and In Style magazine, then I won.

If you define jackpot as taking a long, leisurely nap while Ryan played blackjack for a couple hours, then I won.

If you define jackpot as having an impromptu dance party while getting ready, with the music loud enough that Ryan called from outside of the room to see what exactly was happening inside, then I won.

My favorite winnings, though, came back in Michigan when I got to hug and kiss Abbey and Dylan millions of times while hearing about all the fun they had with Grandma and Grandpa.

As for the money kind of jackpot?  I guess that'll have to wait until our next visit, because my paltry $30 in gambling money stayed in Nevada.

probably the best of the five pictures I took

it's like I forget what to do with a camera when the kids aren't around!

And my not-at-all professional travel opinions are:

Mandalay Bay - two enthusiastic thumbs up (I told Ryan I never want to stay anywhere else, but who knows when it's time to plan again)

Viva Elvis by Cirque de Soleil - two thumbs up with reservations (I get that the slow songs are some of his biggest hits, but they didn't hold my attention)

Burger Bar (Hubert Keller) - casual but delicious and maybe my favorite meal, even though I got a Cobb salad (I don't do burgers)

Feel free to share your Vegas favorites!  I love hearing about other people's vacations.

Happy Anniversary to Us

Six years ago today, my girlfriends, my mom, and I breakfasted on fruit and bagels and toasted with mimosas as we got our hair done despite rain and wind and unseasonably cold weather.

Six years ago today, I slid into a dress that made me feel like a princess and a veil worn lovingly by my mother, a garter steeped with the importance of sorority traditions, and a strand of pearls precious because my grandma gave them to me.

Six years ago today, Ryan and I broke tradition and met each other before the ceremony, a moment that happened in an alcove of windows that let in streams of natural light and made me more certain than ever that I was marrying my best friend and the love of my life.

Six years ago today, I danced with my husband and danced with my Daddy and danced with my girls and danced with our guests and loved every song played by the DJ.

Six years ago today, Ryan and I ended our reception surrounded by our friends swaying to Piano Man by Billy Joel.

Six years ago today, I became a wife.

Happy Anniversary Ryan.

I love you.

xoxo

we definitely needed umbrellas April 23, 2005

maybe that's why Abbey loves the rain

The Countdown is On

In four weeks, Ryan and I will board a plane to Las Vegas while my parents tuck the kids into bed and get ready for a few fun-filled (hopefully) days of grandparents-grandkids time. 

Talk of this trip started so very long ago, and thankfully it was booked a while ago as well, because the fabulous deal we got is long gone in the mire of rising flight costs.  At one time, it seemed so far away, and now a month from our departure date I am worrying about a laundry list of things, some significant and some absolutely shallow:

- Most of my warm weather (ok, all weather) clothes are mom-casual: cotton sundresses, casual skirts and t-shirts, fit flops (which aren't really cutting it in the tush-toning department, by the way).  How am I supposed to translate that wardrobe into the world of sequined Elvises and ultralounges?

- I am leaving my babies for four nights.  Abbey and I have been apart for two nights and Dylan and I have only ever been apart for one.  My heart hurts when I think about missing four bedtimes and all of those sweet snuggles and kisses and smiles.

- I am leaving my babies for three days.  My mind is boggled by the idea of laying by a pool and reading a book for as long as I want, or (gasp!) having a cocktail and then taking a nap in the middle of the day.  Will I even remember how to do those things?

- This is the first vacation Ryan and I have taken on our own in years.  I am all giddy excited, in a giggly, goofy kind of way.

- My packing list has already been started and revised.  Spirit charges for all bags (carry-on and checked).  We need to use our space wisely, and that's a foreign language for a card-carrying member of Overpackers Anonymous.  Does Mandalay Bay have decent toiletries?  A serviceable blowdryer?  These are pressing questions, because I need room for my shoes.

- I love shoes.

- There is a pool at Mandalay Bay.  And an actual beach.  That means I'm going to be donning a bathing suit, and not in a jump in the pool quickly and hide under the child float kind of way.  I am perpetually pale and still need to come to terms with my post-baby body.  Sigh.

- I am leaving my kids.  Gulp.

 

Vegas circa 2006

to be young and not self-conscious in a bathing suit...

(aka gratuitous cute kid pictures)

Sunshine After Snow

Planning a wedding for the end of April in Michigan means accepting that the weather cannot be slid into a pocket of a shiny wedding planner or checked off a to-do list, like “find romantic smoky-eye photo” and “pay eight trillion wedding vendors”.

Marrying my best friend and the love of my life made it easy to laugh at the snow covering the ground as our plane took off, as did the knowledge that the beaches of Hawaii were waiting patiently at the end of a long flight, with a few day’s stop in southern California, land of beautiful weather.

My first Hawaiian cocktail: a pina colada, sticky sweet and icy and garnished with a little umbrella and a slice of Hawaiian pineapple. Relaxed and content and surrounded by sand, I sipped from the coconut-infused rum, cool sweat from the glass dripping welcome relief from my warm hand to my (still basically lily white) legs.

I slid the garnish from the glass without thinking, nibbling at the edge of the pineapple.

Sunshine flooded my mouth, dancing across my tongue and leaving a trail of nectar on my lips.

I forgot that the pineapple slice was only the drink’s garnish, an afterthought grabbed by the bartender from a black, plastic nest of similar slices. I devoured the rest of the fruit, ignoring the sticky juice on my fingers, the napkin that came with my drink long-forgotten on a table somewhere.

I’d eaten pineapple before, appreciated the sweetness of the fruit, the slight tartness, the juice seeming to be held together by tender threads of flesh.

This pineapple was different, eaten from the edge of a glass, my new wedding ring a pleasant, unfamiliar weight on my hand. The fruit captured the languid sunshine of the day, clinging to the roof of my mouth and corners of my memory like the brown grains of sand that remain in tiny folds in my suitcases.

Before that day in April, I had tasted pineapple, but not pineapple cultivated on ground only a few miles from my beach towel. Before that day in April, Ryan and I had traveled together, but not as a married couple, a team, a complete circle. Later that day, we decided to forego our planned island hopping and settled into island time.

Friends and travel forums extol restaurants around the island that boast delicately prepared fish and extravagant wine pairings, but I found myself looking forward to bowls of fresh fruit eaten at our breakfast buffet. Those chunks of pineapple, surrounded by mango and papaya, were a stolen dessert, one eaten before setting out to snorkel or swim or nap.

Dessert in the morning, day after day, promised that life could not get any better, and I think about those moments now, years later, when I add a whole pineapple to my cart, balking at the cost of the pre-cored, plastic containers of fruit.

When I needed a healthy treat to add to a party menu, I slid chunks of pineapple onto kabob sticks along with strawberries, melon, kiwi, blueberries, and blackberries, a rainbow of flavors, as delicious as they were healthy.

When my miscarriage shook my faith in my own body, I carefully separated the core of the pineapple, eating the tougher, bitter part of the fruit, fervently willing myself to believe the old wives tales that promised increased success with implantation.

When Abbey was ready to start “cutting things” with me in the kitchen, I armed her with a pink plastic knife from Ikea and showed her how to turn the long strip of fruit into bite-sized pieces. We ate her handiwork from the cutting board and from a bowl and from the refrigerator until the acid rendered our taste buds inoperable.

Planning a wedding for the end of April in Michigan meant giving up control of the weather. I hadn’t expected snow on the ground, and I hadn’t expected to discover a fruit I had eaten countless times before, but both unexpected moments are precious threads in the tapestry begun when a simple circle slid onto my finger and my heart.

This post is part of The Red Dress Club's RemembeRED, an exercise in memoir writing.  The prompt: This week, we'd like for you to write about your favorite fresh fruit or vegetable.

Concrit is always welcome!