Mom is Just a Nickname

This blog was about my journey away from being just a mom.  And then I got so caught up in other things, I forgot to keep posting. Terrible, I suppose.  Today, my life involves being a mom, a wife, a friend, a struggling student thrown back into the harsh waters of school, an amateur gardener, and an amateur crochet-er.  I flip between the different roles with difficulty. I spend a whole month with my focus narrowed down to just one interest and then abruptly set that aside to focus on something else.  It’s an ongoing struggle to remain focused on any one thing for as long as it takes to finish it.

I also struggle with the feeling that I am tied so closely to someone else that his moods, his preferences…hell, his very presence so directly affect what I do with my life. I read in a book once (I think…can’t remember specifically) the idea of one spouse being like a spring who was only wound up to action when the other spouse was present…and I can relate to that feeling.  Life seems more real and more active when Toph is around.  It is a weird thing to me, to feel that life is on ‘pause’ when he is at work.  I struggle to be productive even though he is gone and it is frustrating to me.  I begin to feel that I have little internal motivation at all.  And it scares me, because what will happen to me if anything should take Toph out of my life permanently? How then will I go on and get done what needs doing?

I write this out of the need to remove the idea from my brain, where it has been resting heavily for many days now.  I expect that very few people ever read this blog anymore with any regularity since my last posts are so old and, imo, kind of uninspired.  What happened to being able to dig into my brain for something deeper than ‘hey these jeans fit me well!” oi.

I believe that words have power.  Words have the power to touch those around me, to let them know that I care, that I am angry, that I am in love.  Words have the power to shape arguments, to mold dreams, to share fears.  Words have a power greater than we give them credit for, even as we mash and mangle them into all sorts of new expressions with text messaging and online dialects.

I cannot doubt the power of the words I type.  Words evoke emotions, and stir passions.  Be the words typed or spoken, their ability to express my thoughts to others is unsurpassed by any other form of communication.  Words clarify that deep sigh, they crystallize that snort of laughter, and they bring meaning to the *shrugs* I type.

I choose my words carefully.  The words ‘hate’ and ‘love’ carry particular strength and I use each with caution.  Words carry unconscious meanings, subconscious layers of baggage hang on their every vowel and consonant.

Words have power. Words are power, when used correctly.

I love jeans that have been worn in, that are soft and comfortable, that mold to my hips but are boot cut so that my calves and ankles are unhindered by the fabric.  I love the faded blue denim that only comes from washing it a hundred times.

Because of that, I have a really hard time buying brand new jeans from a retail store.  The jeans, no matter how well they seem to fit in the dressing room, are always stiff. The colors, no matter how distressed or washed they are supposed to be, are always too bold and brash.

Instead of buying them from retail stores, when I have the time and energy (and need, of course) I go browse at a thrift store or Goodwill.  My size isn’t real common to find there so it takes some time to sort through everything to find my size -I suspect everyone my size does what I do: wear the things that fit until they are too worn to be worth giving away!   When I do find something, though, it’s like finding a buried treasure!

I recently wandered into a Goodwill store to find some jeans for my son.  I did find a pair for him, which he loves.  While I was there, though, I couldn’t resist browsing for myself.  I was pleased to find several pairs of jeans to try on.  I found the same brand and style in two sizes, but the sizes were one above and one below my normal size.  The bigger ones were way too big. The smaller were a mite snug.  I hadn’t had any luck finding a pair that were my perfect size.  Still, I opted to get the smaller size jeans since they weren’t too tight and the price was right.

In retrospect, I got the perfect size. I’ve had them on all day and they fit just right. They aren’t too tight, they aren’t sliding off my hips. They fit where they are supposed to and I feel good wearing them.  How great is it that they cost less than a quarter of what I would pay for them retail, and they were a size smaller than I’m used to buying!?

I’m an optimist, but it’s not just because I was born this way.  I work at it.  When the horrible things are piling up on the plate of my life, I do my best to look to the dessert plate to remind myself of what’s still sweet and good.  It is a constant and conscious balancing act, but without the effort, I’d be drowning in the mashed potatoes and gravy.   I’m creating a full dessert menu  to help remember the sweet things in life, even when the main dish doesn’t look very appetizing.

During the worst times in my life, focusing in on each moment seems to help me appreciate more.  The day of Sullivan’s funeral, I looked up into the sky and saw a rainbow hanging on the horizon above the trees.  I took it as a sign that he was in a better place and soon I would be too, although hopefully still on the mortal plane of existence.  Now, as I sit here with my back thrown out and hurting, I have taken the time to notice the cat curled up sweetly beside me, to hear the comforting sound of Toph typing away in his office, to know that my children are snuggled safe in their beds  –even though they weren’t all that happy to go to bed in the first place!

I’m always happy when they go to bed, though, because it gives me time to journal.  I often find surprising revelations in my written words.  Although I only journal sporadically, I have several old diaries stashed away.  It’s fun to go back and read what I was writing about through different periods of my life.  I see the times when my thoughts were most turbulent, I was often searching for the rich taste of a “chocolate cake” kind of happiness amidst the split pea soup fog in my head.  Every time the sun has melted the fog away, though, I realize that my table has been spread with dessert plates all the while…I just didn’t look in the right places.

Of course, sometimes, the main course of life is like a big pan of paella: spicy, rich and nourishing for the body and spirit!  Then it’s easy to dismiss the dessert table altogether!

Paella!

I’ve gotten some teasing in the past for the souvenirs I choose when on special trips.  Mainly from the days when I was in my senior year of high school, or just after.

For Senior Spring Break, I went to Ocean City, MD with my good friend Ellen and her mom.  We had a blast, despite the chilly, overcast days.  I fell in love all over again with the sounds of Elton John, Live with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, after playing the album with the ocean waves in the background.  We played video games, pool, we poked around what shops were open in that pre-season period.  I considered different tshirts, I considered magnets, postcards, etc.  You know, standard tourist souvenir crap.

I ended buying a blanket.  It was one of those Mexican sarape type blankets which were all the rage with the beach going types then (as I recall).  It was pink, baby blue, and white.  It was rough and scratchy.  I loved it.  And then I hated it (because it was scratchy).  I tucked it into my things, taking it with me when I went off to college…taking it with me when I moved to Ohio.  It mostly lives in my car now, ready to pull out should we decide to picnic or if someone gets cold while we’re driving.  It has been through the wash so often after 12-13 years of use that it is soft and snuggly now.  It is better now than it was when I bought it and each time I touch it, I remember the sounds of Tiny Dancer playing with the ocean waves crashing in the background. I remember the fun conversations Ellen and I had, and what a great time I had with her and her mom.  How lucky I was that my parents let me take that trip away from home for a week.

Not too long after that, I went to Britain for 5 weeks with my brother.  I wanted to take everything home with me, to keep forever the adventures Tom and I found.  Of course, I couldn’t. I didn’t want any of the touristy junk to take home from Britain either.  Who needs that stuff? No, one cold day in Scotland, I bought myself a fuzzy fleece sweater…nothing particularly special to Scotland.  And i got it about 4 sizes too large.  It was soft and snuggly right from the start, and again, I loved it.  My brother hated it. He often told me it was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen. True, it was a dull green color…like overcooked asparagus.   Through my college days, I wore that sweater when I was feeling down or sick.  It was like wrapping a bit of comfort around myself.  I remembered the Highlands, with their cold breezes and hanging fog; the sheep, the streams, the burning fire of the whisky.  Putting that sweater on brought it all back.
I still have it, still wear it often, and it’s better than ever (now that I’ve repaired the button that was missing for years and years!).  It is no longer too big for me, it fits just right.  (Well, this makes me kind of sad. I wish it was still too big!)  But I’m delighted that I can still wrap its warmth around me on those cold, gray days, which are never as pretty here at home as they were in the HIghlands of Scotland.

I may choose weird souvenirs, but I choose things that stay with me.  They may look like junk to someone else, with no sentimental value because they don’t scream where they came from, but to me they carry the memories of wonderful times and transformational trips.  And so many of the things in my home carry similar memories, whether they were a special gift commemorating our marriage, or we dug them out of a dumpster at Goodwill….oh. I wasn’t supposed to mention that, was I? Memories aren’t always Kodak moments!