"Electrical Over Peninsula"

We’re remodeling our kitchen.

I’m amazed at how my kitchen being in disarray affects my mood. I am off center, grouchy. I think my inner compass must be aligned with my kitchen.

The finished product seems very far off. I miss my husband; it’s hard for him to be a husband and a drywaller, painter, and contractor. He enjoys the work; he never complains; he just quietly and steadily gets it done. I find myself struggling with balancing the long term goal of a beautiful kitchen with the need to sacrifice the short term (instant) gratification I receive when I have his undivided attention. In other words, I miss him.

I don't know if I'm being helpful or controlling sometimes. I feel it’s necessary each weekend morning to write down a master list of items for him to do. For example, today’s list says 1. Hang cabinet on fridge wall, 2. Bust out wall, 3. Electrical over peninsula, 4. Trim opening – 2x4 framing, 5. Shop for lights, countertop, 6. Install lights, 7. Patch floor. My list could probably be thrown in the trash, but Trent never says a word. I miss him. When he’s occupied with the kitchen, he doesn’t pay attention to me. I feel disconnected like the wiring in our dining room.

Gifts and Fog

It's time to shake off the holiday fog.

I had a really, really good holiday break. The family get-togethers were spaced out more this year, so I had a chance to catch my breath in between each one. I had quality time with my husband and daughter, too, even though I can think of many more things I wish we had done. We did manage to play a game of "Horseopoly" that spanned over the course of two evenings at our card table in front of the fireplace. I won, mostly due to the acquisition of "Thoroughbred" and "Saddlebred," the Horseopoly equivalent of Boardwalk and Park Place, then gradually developed them with "stables," (the Horseopoly equivalent of hotels). Olivia, our horse lover, was just happy to have the opportunity to buy horses, playing out out in fantasy what she has been asking us for ever since she began riding lessons in August.

On New Year's Eve, we attended the local professional theatre production of Oliver! which was truly wonderful. What a gift to see such a high-caliber production in the local, intimate setting of the Buskirk-Chumley theatre. We waited until the day before to buy our tickets, so we were in the back row on the bottom level. At first I grumbled about the seats, but they were unobstructed, and because the performers were miked, we could hear just fine. I have to admit I was losing my patience with a boy in front of us whose family allowed to leave his seat several times. He had lights on his shoes that flashed every time he ran past us to the door, which he opened noisily as he ran back and forth between the lobby and his seat. He also was allowed to talk and whine during the performance. Out of my frustration, I shot a "shhhhhh" in their direction a couple of times, but it didn't seem to help much. Then, during the climax of the show, he surprisingly called out, "run, Oliver!" which revealed he must have been paying attention after all, at least enough to cheer for the hero. Somehow it was sweet, and several of us chuckled as we cheered for Oliver along with him. He redeemed himself (and his caregivers).

My family and I also received a gift from nature this holiday season. Toward the end of one of our family gatherings at a retreat center in southern Indiana, we decided to take a walk before the sun completely set. As we made our way down the road, we heard an owl call. Olivia quickly identified it - a barred owl, with its distinctive "WHO COOKS FOR YOU?" sound. We looked at one another in amazement. This was no small deal. You see, we have been trying to hear owls for well over a year now, ever since Olivia became fascinated with them in third grade. We've attended State Park and local Parks and Recreation naturalist programs. We've listened each time we visit my parents in Brown County, but to no avail. Until this time. The practicing Olivia had done on her owl calls paid off, because she was able to call back and the owl responded to her call. I marveled at this brief, amazing conversation between my daughter and an owl. 

So the gifts came, some in packages, some in loved ones' responses to gifts given, some in community, some in private. Some with a human touch, others with no effort made. No effort other than being in the right place at the right time. And now, it's time to transition back into my life routine, the routine that involves packing lunch each morning, getting to the bus stop in time, working, securing work projects, making space for writing, school events and meetings, and yearning for the next vacation. It takes a vacation to make me appreciate my routine, and it takes my routine to make me appreciate a vacation. Most likely a universal thing on this human plane.  Happy New Year everyone!

Off Duty

It's December 19th and I cannot put off posting for another day. (My apologies to my readers for the lapse.) I've been cranky as a result of trying to juggle my life responsibilities along with the added list of holiday preparations. The other day I was on my way somewhere and started fuming that the off-duty ambulance in front of me was driving too slowly. An unusual switch - usually I'm swerving to get out of the ambulance's way. Then the brakes lights and turn signal went on and I noticed they were turning into the fire station. Probably where they park the ambulance when it's not in use. 

After fuming more about slowing down MORE so they could turn, I experienced a split second opening of my cranky thoughts, a tiny slit that allowed a better thought to flow in, and I realized the importance of the work the ambulance drivers do. I was glad to see they were heading back to their bay rather than out on an emergency run.

I'm ready to head back to my bay for awhile. I need the rest and the break from my juggling of roles. I need some time to just be...

The Final Box

We moved into our current home two years ago. Yesterday I unceremoniously decided to unpack the last remaining box in our bedroom closet. I knew there was something in there that I must have been avoiding. That’s why it sat there for two and a half years. Laziness hadn’t kept it there. Avoidance had. I excavated through layers of Olivia’s old baby toys, her wooden bear puzzle with the interchangable facial expressions and outfits, her very first cloth book, her original “Po shoes,” the sandals with the Teletubbies characters she walked in during her second year. This box also held some my old belongings from high school that Mom gave me: my senior year concert band program, buttons I pinned on my competition jacket, rusted now around the edges. But that wasn’t the stuff that got to me.

It was the photographs. Of course there were photographs. I found the first ultrasound images of Olivia, made around ten weeks’ gestation, probably at the first appointment with my OB. She was just a little lump inside the gap which was my womb. But she was so much more. This must be what my other two babies looked like when I lost them around this same stage of gestation. The questions came up again: why did I lose them? What went wrong?

There were more photos of me and my family taken during those difficult three years, from miscarriage to miscarriage. I looked fine – my hair was nice – Jane in Columbus was my stylist then. I had a stylist because I worked full time and made good money, so I could afford a stylist. I was exercising twice a week. The classes were in a facility right down the hall from my office. It was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do: push aside my maternal instincts in order to work a corporate job. I did it to support my family and my husband through his career change. It forced me to work on those parts of myself that resisted doing what I hated doing.

Looking at these photos now, I deeply fear that this work-filled period of time consumed my last years of opportunity for having another baby. I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time. I was too busy loving the child I had. And working. For some damn reason the embryos just didn’t hold on. I will be forty two years old soon, and the option of a full term pregnancy becomes less likely with each passing day. This is a reality that is so, so hard for me to accept. I’m the kind of person that likes to keep all my options open. But it’s starting to look like I have to decide if it is time to give in to my body’s failings and call it quits on childbearing.

My friend Iva does spiritual readings. She sent me a message recently that tells me I am not a failure for not having another child, and asks me to release that falsity. She relays to me that after I have moved through this letting go, there will be a gift; a surprise.

I like surprises, but I think I’m going to need a lot of help with this. Time to tap my resources.

Dear God,

HELP!!!!!!

I’ll think of a more refined prayer tomorrow. Although I don’t think that’s a requirement, is it?

The Results are in

Drumroll ......... My daughter will be the Scarecrow.

Have you seen those cute clay jars with phrases on them like "Cruise Fund," or "Dreams," or "Shoulds & Oughts?" They've been around for awhile. Well, I need one right now that says "Things to Let Go Of." That's where I can neatly put any suspicions I have regarding the politics involved in how the roles were assigned. Then I can put the lid on the jar and place it neatly on the shelf next to my fireplace.

Elaine Mellencamp wrote a guest article for the Herald Times on September 9 about the politics involved in her boys' sports program. I could write a similar article about the politics I suspect are involved with children's performing arts. But I think I will stick to my little jar this time. My little jar and this blog forum.

That leaves me lots and lots of room to feel very happy, because the Scarecrow will be a very fun part for her. It suits her personality very well. She's goofy. I can totally see her pretending her legs are made out of straw. She's bright and loving. She wouldn't be happy running around in a gingham checked dress all day.

I am actually very excited that she continues to earn lead roles when tons of kids are auditioning. That's pretty cool. I'm a proud Mom. But I can't help wondering if there was anything more I could do to give her the best opportunity possible to win the role of Dorothy.

The larger question here is this: What is within my control? What I can do to ensure that my daughter's light isn't overlooked in this world (or at least in this community)? At what point does that responsibility shift from me to her? I'm forty-one years old, and it feels like I am just now starting to take responsibility for shining my own light. I think she'll get it before then. She probably already has it. And "it" overrides politics, doesn't it? It's too wonderful for the pettiness of politics.

In the Beginning...

...I started a blog. Talk about Blank Canvas Anxiety! I'm just diving in, without a clear idea of what subject matter I will cover. I just want to write and share my thoughts with whomever is interested in reading them (hi, Mom.) I came up with the name Cozumel Dreamin by combining one of my favorite vacation spots and one of my favorite things to do. Nothing more glamorous than that. A close runner-up was Choco Mom (one of my favorite things to eat and definitely my favorite thing to be).

Today my daughter auditioned for a part in The Magical Land of Oz, a children's musical being staged by a local theatre organization. At the ripe old age of nine, my child is an "Old Hat" at this kind of thing. She wasn't nervous at all. It is I, always I, who is more nervous. At first she wanted the role of Toto, but Toto has no lines. So then she switched her interest to the Cowardly Lion - a really fun part in my opinion - and now she really wants to be Dorothy. I want her to be Dorothy so badly, that I secretly (or not so secretly now that I've posted it on a blog) imagine myself wrapping my fingers around the neck of the person responsible for denying it to her, if in fact that is what happens. (Okay, now I'm taking a deep breath and smoothing the wrinkles out of my skirt as I gently sit down and re-gather my dignity. Actually I'm not wearing a skirt, but still...). 

The scene wasn't a suprise - A church hallway packed full of Moms and daughters (and a few sons) with neatly combed hair. I know every single Mother there was thinking the same thing. Why don't mothers in these situations just throw away the pretense, get it out in the open, and have a free-for-all-my-daughter-is-more-talented-than-yours Mama Cat fight in the hallway? You know, just to break up the tension a little.

In all sincerity, I did have a coping strategy. I prayed for a peaceful and clear mind. I took my journal along and planned to find a quiet place to write during the audition. But then I saw a friend and we sat down and began a nice chat. My husband was her grandson's band director about seven years ago, before he switched careers (another story for another time) so we have a lot of memories in common. Her grandaughter is my daughter's age and loves theatre too. So I decided to leave my journal in the car. Then another friend from my writing group joined us - I introduced my two friends, and we had a really wonderful conversation. Before I knew it, it was time to meet up with our kids again.

Wow. Sometimes you get what you pray for - in a different way than you expect.

My daughter felt really great about her audition. And I have to trust the Powers That Be to make the best decision based on the talent they saw today. And I'm sure she will have a great time - no matter what (I say as I smile through gritted teeth).