dar liomsa (in my opinion)

When Wednesday is cloudy and cool, I'm glad it's only Wednesday.

That middle of the week day , a stepping stone to the week's end.

When Wednesday is sunny and warm, I sometimes wonder what Friday will bring.

A sunny and warm Friday starts a weekend off right, cloudy ones take the fun out of it even being Friday.

These are the things I think about when Wednesday is cloudy and cool.

These are things I think when I have a lot of time on my hands.

Signs of Spring

 

Budding trees. Singing birds.

Daffodils and tulips emerging through the cold dirt.

Bees, spiders, ants, and mosquitos.

Clumps of mud tracked in on every  shoe.

All.

Over.

The.

House.

Hello, Spring.

I've missed you?

 

A recent, lazy sunday afternoon found us  sorting through stacks of photographs on the living room floor. This activity made me realize something.

Two things actually.

One, I am no longer at the age where I can sit comfortably on the floor for any length of time. This, I did not realize until I attempted to stand up.

Two, photographs are treasures. We don't realize it at the time, but every picture has a story to tell. It's  amazing  how many details we capture without even knowing it.

As we looked closely at pictures from birthdays past, we not only discovered loved ones who are no longer with us, but also bad wallpaper choices and questionable hairstyles.

Closer examination of my own childhood pictures, allowed my children to discover something I kept hidden in my past. A secret revealed.

A random photo of my messy teenage bedroom, which provided all the ammunition my messy teenged daughter needed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The children in this house are growing by leaps, bounds, and shoe sizes.

I don't dare to try to wrap my head around it.

A house that was once filled with diapers, sippy cups, and Fisher Price is now a haven for video games, cell phones, and iPods.

Children who once ran screaming in and out of each room, now sit a little more quiet as they text and challenge each other electronically on their devices.

These children, who appear to be growing out of every stitch of clothing and every toy, are still my babies.

I know this because, each morning they sit sleepy- eyed in my kitchen waiting to be served.

These independent beings who have their own phone numbers, emails, and itunes accounts sit as if they were just strapped into a hi-chair, waiting to be fed.

Each morning as I make my way to the coffee pot, barely an eye open, they can be found sitting in wait.

Mom, can I have a cup of tea, I want cereal, can I have toast?

These same children, who once they arrive at school, have to fend for themselves, sit and wait to be served.

I have no one to blame but myself, these little monsters I created. The pattern I created when they were young is hard to break.

Some days, I sneak away and pretend I don't hear their cries.

Some days I have a selfish moment where I shower and dry my hair, to drowned out the whining.

And amazingly on those days, they find food, plates and cups and do it themselves.

Amazing.

It is once again, Spring! (well, almost)

That time of year when well-meaning friends invite me for brisk neighborhood walks, or to participate in organized exercise class.

They, like me, know that Spring is just a warning. It's the universe's way of whispering, "pssst, lady you know summer is coming right?" "You know you will be expected to wear a bathing suit, tank top, perhaps shorts at some point."

Spring is so nice that way, offering warm enough temps to remind us all that we need to get our butts in gear, or at least pretend to.

Many exercising regimens start off with  high hopes and  'Gung ho' with laced up sneakers and tight ponytails.

But let's be honest how long until one of us gets a headache, a sniffle, a pulled muscle, then that's the end, for both of us. Because, certainly one can not walk alone.

How long until, spring rain spoils the fun?

It is just a matter of time, before one of us creates the ultimate excuse to no longer participate.

But for now, it works.

As I watched my favorite morning news show, I was introduced to, yet another, celebrity touting a memoir.

I totally get that their name shoots straight to the top of the "publish me" list, due to their fame.

Yet, I am so envious.

Apparently what they are offering, besides the fact that they are already newsworthy names, is their cool drug-addicted past.

Damn, I so should have picked up a drug  habit as a teen.

That would be my foot in the door, now.

Who am I kidding? I would have been a lousy drug addict and probably wouldn't have the ability to write as I do today, if I had.

But, sometimes, when I watch these morning news shows,  watching the interviewer grab the box of tissues as they hold hands and inflate the authors head for being brave enough to share such a tough story. I get a little angry (read: jealous)

Because, you know I've got a tough story, and I've been brave. Brave enough to walk through a grocery store with un washed hair, leaky breasts, and un shaved legs, just days after giving birth.

(In hind sight, if anyone had seen me that day they might have believed I had a drug problem.)

Hey, maybe its not too late to fake one.

I'll have to squeeze it somehwere in my memoir, could be totally be the key to getting published.

So there I was, explaining last night's dream to my friend.

A hilarious, strange dream that, as it left my lips sounded, well, a bit creepy.

The scene, the clothing, none of it made sense. Add to that the creepy look that overcame her face as I continued with the details.

A look that kind of hinted, "why are you dreaming about me?"

A question I was not prepared to answer, I simply woke, remembered the dream and felt the need to share. Never once considering how strange it all sounded.

Are we responsilble for our dreams? Does it mean we are thinking about certain people without realizing it?

These questions ran through my  head as I realized I could not take back what I had said.

I could not change that creeped out look on my friend's face, nor the way she will look at me forever.

 

What do you mean, your cleats don't fit?

Pull up your socks up, squeeze your foot in, come on loosen the laces.

There is no way those cleats from last spring no longer fit!

Yes, I know you're a child. Yes, I know you're still growing.

I'm just a little frustrated that your growing is costing me money. Every year.

What do you mean you can't wear sneakers to your softball game?

You know, when we were kids we never wore cleats?!

What do you mean when I say 'when we were kids' you know it's going to be an old boring story?

What do you mean I have no idea what it's like to be a kid?

WHAt do you mean?

Do you know hard it is to get a book published?

Nope, and quite frankly, I don't want to know.

I've read Chicken Soup for the Soul.

I've read about the old man who ran and won a marathon.

An old man who, had he investigated it further, or taken time to think it through would have clearly understood he had no business running in a marathon.

The mere fact that he never stopped to ask, was key.

If one looks around and dissects an idea long enough, the evidence will be mounting. The ideas and reasons why one should not try something will abound.

Instead, I feel it safe to don blinders and earphones whenever possible, you know, to tune out the nay sayers and theorists, that are here to keep you from your dreams.

Therefore, I do not care how hard it is get to get a book published.

If it weren't hard, it wouldn't be worth doing.

 

 

(This conversation took place in my head as I  fired off query letters to literary agents  last week, in between vacuuming up dog hair, making beds, and trolling Pinterest for recipe ideas.)

When I look back on my first posts on this blog, it's all about my three-kid-circus and the cleaning that occurs as a result.

Over time, I have broadened my horizons and blogged on other things like relaity tv stars, poilitical sound bytes, overheard conversations and rudeness observed in Wal Mart.

I can't imagine the well running dry anytime soon, what with my kids still making messes, political sound bytes getting better (read:dumber) by the minute, reality Tv shows filling every time slot, and Wal-Mart still being Wal-Mart.

So as long as there is air in my lungs and ideas in my head, I will write.

Also, as long as stupid people continue catching my ear, I will write.

As long as I have to make those Wal-Mart runs, be it for milk or poster board, or blog-fodder, I will write.

What I'm saying here is, I will write.