3 years of this nonsense

Well looky here. February marks this blogs’ 3 year anniversary. And 3 years that we’ve been in Indiana, too.

Flashback: Colts Win! I have a meltdown and injure myself on purpose! Good times those were, good times.

When I think about it, I started writing here for 3 reasons:

1. To pretend that I was in close contact with my friends in Boston because I so, so, SO did not want to be in Indiana

2. To procrastinate while working on my MFA thesis

3. To connect with other new parents/find a virtual community

Point the first: I communicate with my Boston friends mostly through Facebook now–I don’t even know if they read my blog. And despite an incredibly difficult year (or two) I have adjusted to life in the midwest. (And I’ve got the 10 extra pounds of sitting on my rear in a car to prove it!) Mostly, I don’t think about Boston anymore. I’ve hardened my heart to it.

Sweet Cheeks and I forget the names of places we used to frequent–possibly on purpose. I haven’t been back in two and a half years now. If I reminisce too much, the stitches holding my heart together start to fray. (A little too dramatic? Have you been READING this blog for the last three years?)

Point the second: Academic me/possible educator me feels pretty dead now. I re-read my thesis last year and it kind of did suck. It’s like a first draft. But I wrote it going through one of the most difficult years in my life (new baby, PPD, moving) and I’m giving myself credit for finishing it at ALL.

My MFA did give me the gravitas to be a part of Our Stories, though. And I really like reading what other people are working on and providing some editorial advice. Also, check out the new interview with Karen Bender. The first question about balancing a writing life with motherhood is mine! (Spoiler: It’s not great news for those of us who aspire to write while raising children.)

Point the third: This is where my blog has had the most success. I love my regular readers and the back-and-forth we have on each other’s posts. Just knowing that there is nothing I am experiencing as a mother that is unique reduces a lot of stress for me. 

I still think about closing up shop several times a month. I wonder if blogging takes away from other writing, from spending creative energy on my boys, from many other endeavors. But knowing that my new local friends and other blogging friends care enough about what I have to say that they return week after week keeps me going. And that’s  more than enough for me.

Eulogy (to my own complacency)

A woman who worked for my company in Boston died a few days ago after being diagnosed with sarcoma six years ago. She was 51. Last year, her eight year old son died of the brain tumor he’d been diagnosed with when he was two. They were often in the same hospital going through treatments at the same time.

I wonder if the grief of losing her son hit her body a blow it couldn’t withstand. Grief can be so physical. I wonder if she was torn–leaving two older children and a husband behind–but maybe she wanted to follow her little guy into the darkness/into the light. If it were me, I can imagine the worst thought would be that of your youngest alone in death. But this is just me. I can’t presume to know how she felt. Death does that though, doesn’t it? It reflects back on you.

I think about where I was fifteen years ago, when I was 20, and all the parts of myself I’ve found since then and all the people I’ve loved. And I think about where I’ll be fifteen years from now, when I’m 50. Did Sheila for a minute imagine, when she was 35, that she would get pregnant in her early 40s and then spend the rest of that decade fighting on behalf of that child and for her own destiny, and that she would lose both battles?

It’s a nightmare vision. It’s the stuff of panic attacks that grip you just as you start to fall asleep. It’s the absolute fear of motherhood.

My impulses are so tired and worn. There are no guarantees. Life promises nothing. Make the most of every day. Even the beautiful and wealthy die–sometimes young.

But really. In the end, what I’m going to take from her death is to remember what I learned when my aunt (who went to the same college as Sheila–errie) died of cancer in her early 40s:

Live without regrets. Speak up. Find joy. Take advantage of opportunities. Give thanks. Have some fucking fun.

Translations

Should you ever find yourself alone with Patter, you may discover a small language barrier. Please to allow me to enlighten you:

Eye wan deet doo = I want a tissue with which to wipe my pathetically runny nose

Mommee? Eye wan gree chi = I want cream cheese on a bagel. Like, 5 minutes ago.

Mommee? Eye wan goo key = I want any cookie you happen to come across

Mommee? Eye wan doggie = I would very much like a soft, drooly pet

Eye bumped! = That bonking sound was my skull hitting against the nearest hard object

Brudder? = Wherever has my tormenter gone?

Upeeeeeeeeeeee! = Pick me up, woman!

And, that’s pretty much all you need. You’re welcome.

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Important health update!: Patter has yet another ear infection and possibly strep throat. I spent the afternoon with him asleep on my lap while I watched Up and wished he were healthy enough to take for a jog in the stroller since the sun was out and the temperature was over freezing. But had that been the case I would have been at work. So.