Growth

The glint of the sun is still steely... not yet soft and ripe.  And the naked trees stand in stark contrast to the pastel blue sky.  Beneath my boots, I trod upon tufts of green grass bisecting the worn brown from autumn, newly uncovered of snow.  Somehow, magically, Spring has appeared.

There is a hum in the air.  Birds wake early, trilling into the still dark morning.  Jackets are needed to head off to school but carelessly stuffed in backpacks when coming home.  The atmosphere is electric.  Parties and trips and auctions loom in the near future.  We are abuzz with what to wear, how to look, who to see.

The earth has unfolded her long forgotten skirts and the colors which roll out are dazzling.  The deep purple of the crocus, the bloody magenta of the oak tree buds, the vibrant yellow of daffodils.  My son is a foot taller this spring.  His dirty blonde hair is cropped short and his teeth seem too large for his delicate mouth.  Gone is the baby fat from his face and high cheekbones are emerging.  His eyes are still a slate blue.  He is yet a beautiful child but he flops along, all feet and long limbs, an ambling puppy of the largest breed.

Her cheeks are still full but otherwise, Annelise has lengthened out of her baby body.  Her mouse brown hair easily grows lank if not trimmed but she has cerulean eyes and long thick black lashes.  Her beauty is at once petulant and innocent.  Her eyes are round, where Teddy's are almond, and give the appearance of incredulity.  Her mouth is a cherubic bow.  He is perpetually sun kissed whereas she has the pallor of fresh snow.

This spring in, as the outdoors erupts, I am particularly conscious of the growth of my children.  At seven and half and five, they seem worldly when I was sheltered.  Teddy has still never encountered a soul he couldn't charm and Annelise is still more apt to talk to adults than abide a playmate of the same age... but the softness, the roundness.... it is dissipating.

God, those days when I thought I couldn't stand another moment... what would I give to have those back?  Or would I?  Is it enough to have the beautiful photos from the stellar moments or do I wish to relive it all again?

And in the instant that we believe we cannot abide another moment, when we blink, it has changed.  What now do you wish for?

The Horror

Night yawns out before me, an eternity to grapple with as I twist sheets and stare at the ceiling.  I snap at my children like some feral dog and the sight of my husband's well toned torso is enough to drive me mad.

Yup.  Its bathing-suit-buying time.  That time of year when we peel off the layers of wool and uncover long neglected areas of the body.  Time to take inventory of what has changed over the last year and worse what needs to change in the next 6 weeks.

Blech.  I actually used to relish this time of year.  Before.  Before children, before 30, before I quit the gym for 6 weeks... I hate before.  I remember longing to shed my clothes and don a little bikini.  I recall the lightness I felt in the dressing room, the giddiness knowing that in a mere month or two I would feel the sunlight on my skin.  Ah, sunbathing.  Kissed by the rays, sitting by the pool.

Now, donning a suit is a mission in what I can hide while wearing very little.... the varicose  and spider veins trekking my legs, the bruises from unknown injuries, the cellulite rippling down the back of my thighs, the sad slow pull of gravity waging its war on my middle aged skin.

Alas, I cannot bring myself to purchase the Swimdress yet.  I find that I daydream about swimsuits from the early 1900s... cute!  Fashionable!  Emphasis on fashion instead of the figure!  Although I do wonder how many poor women drowned when their bloomers full of water dragged them beneath the waves.

Last summer we went to Palm Beach for a week and Dave Matthews had the cabana next to us.  While Dave is a great musician, male model will not be a fall back career.  He is though a doting husband and father and when I wasn't totally obsessed with sucking in my gut or positioning the legs in the most flattering pose, I noticed his lovely wife was... well, lovely but absolutely and completely average.  She was not too fat nor too thin.  She had brown hair.  I think she might have had cellulite.  Regardless, she was lovely and he treated her as such.  I wondered to myself how much thought she had put into her bathing suit and parading it out on the beach... she, the wife of a celebrity, sure to be photographed frolicking  on the shore... what must her angst be like during bathing-suit-buying time?

I guess if Dave Matthews' lovely regular wife can sport a bathing suit, I can too.  I mean it's not like the photogs will be out hunting me down on the beach!

Why I blog

So I read today in The New York Times about a Mommy blogger who garners 36,000 hits a day.  And I've read about the bloggers who get major endorsements and make a cottage industry out of blogging.

Where do I want this blog to take me?  Do I need validation?  Do I need an expanded readership?  I'm not sure.

When I started this blog, I wrote mainly to vent demons.  My brothers are still mortified that I air so many family secrets via my blog.  I wrote about Sandy and dysfunctional relationships, suicide and love.  Sometimes I wrote about the difficulties I experience with raising children... and then I wrote about Gran.

I write because I can no longer contain what is within me.  I write because I can't turn to the lady in the frozen food section of Harris Teeter and ask her if her children drive her to drink.  I write because sometimes I cannot even see what is directly in front of me unless it is put into the written word.

Ahead of me lie a 40th birthday party, First Holy Communion, Derby, the addition to the house, the end of school, Nevis, 12 years of marriage... I cannot fathom living these experiences and not writing about them.

For instance, today.  Today I am not in dreary, drizzly Virginia.  I am hundreds of miles away, dreaming in California.  I cannot shake the grip the state took upon me last month.  I traveled to Sonoma with my mother and I have been conjuring up schemes to move there ever since.  I dream of soil and grapes, sun and wine.  I want to own a vineyard.  I want to work the land.  I can still feel the dappled sunshine upon my skin when we visited Jordan.  I see the mustard winding through the pruned vines, yellowing the fields.  I can taste the velvet smoke of Lynmar Estates pinot noir.  It was a heady experience.  The food, the wine, the lush vegetation.  I felt a draw that I struggle to describe.  But here, in this venue, I can.

After Date Night...

He is extraordinary.  He carries himself with dignity and grace.  A little over 6 foot 4 inches tall, he is a commanding presence, yet he is humble and it is reflected in his stature; he stands tall, but not proud.  His eyes are a murky hazel and his hair has long since receeded.  It is his voice, deep and resonant, that commands attention.

I met Tim under the most absurd of circumstances.  A friend of a friend was hosting a 4th of July party in an un-airconditioned apartment in the Dupont Circle neighborhood of D.C.  I had just relished my friends with my latest diatribe about dedicating myself to work and swearing off men, when we entered the sweltering party.  A swirl of vapid recent college graduate girls flocked around a group of balding, pudgy, elitest aging prepsters.  I hoofed it to the kitchen to stow away my beer.  He stood with his back to the only window.  He looked disconsolate.  I asked him if the party sucked as bad as it looked.  That was all it took.

Tim is a Republican... and a catholic.  I'm agnostic and lean towards the left.  I am proud to be southern.  Tim has no geographical identity.  I'm gregarious... Tim not so much.  I'm a disciplinarian... Tim is a soft touch.

He asked me to marry him on the steps of the Capitol on my grandparents 55 anniversary.

We have weathered fierce storms and enjoyed lifes' most tranquil moments.

He is my first thought in the morning and the last before I sleep.

I am in love with my husband.


I have never put to words my feelings about Tim... and after over a year of blogging I still feel inadequate in expressing what he means to me.  A savior?  A lover?  A confidante?  All of these?  I do not possess the words to express the worth of my husband...beyond all of my dreams and wishes, I have landed somehow where I always wanted to be... with Tim.

Occupied residence

The cauliflower in the back of the fridge has turned and the smell is rancid.  I shut the door quickly, hoping that the odor has not escaped because I don't know how to say "Rancid Cauliflower" in spanish and I don't want the tile man to think that the stench is emanating from me.

Last week, I emerged from the shower and realized that I did not have a towel at my grasp.  I dried off dabbing myself with toilet paper.

I run downstairs to use the bathroom so no one will hear anything.

My house has been occupied!  Small men, large men, men without teeth, men who do not know english, men allergic to cats...  I am adding on to my house and therefore have silently invited a whole host of men into my midst.

I rise early, earlier, and dress... sometimes I shower but most times I wash my hair in the kitchen sink.  I would rather be caught dead than have a house full of men see me with dirty hair.

If the dog farts, which he usually does, I audibly cry out so that no one will think it was me.

I am mortified if one of the children has not flushed the toilet, even though I know the workers use the port-o-potty sitting atop my driveway.

I am careful not to swear, especially on the phone when I am talking to Candice.  I pay these men... I don't want them to hear me using foul language.

Did I mention I dried off with toilet paper?

Today though, they installed the light tubes in the kitchen.  And finished tiling the shower.  Tomorrow yet another man arrives, the wallpaper hanger.  And then the floor finishers.  And weeks from now the movers.

I haven't been surrounded by this many men since I spent a year at Washington & Lee University.

Here are some interesting things about men... they can pass by a mirror without stopping to touch their hair, they don't wet their lips, going to the bathroom is precisely that, they love dogs, lunch hour is more like lunch quarter hour, they can wear the same sweatshirt everyday and not worry about it, their jeans always look good, they kind of like killing bugs and don't mind being asked to do stuff that isn't in the contract.

Flip side?  They scratch themselves.  A lot.  They smoke and burp and emit god knows what other sounds, smells and just general nastiness.  They don't care if it is pretty or not, they are following the plans.  They like country music (yes, mostly all of them) and enjoy playing it pretty loud.

So here's to men....at least the ones working on my house. Sleep well, you've earned it.  Live hard, at least as hard as you work... play, laugh, love.  Understand that what you do is appreciated and admired and actually used.  It's been a pleasure, Gentlemen... our time is winding down.  Each of you has given me magnificent gifts, each of you will be remembered.  And when you wonder what you have done with your life... knock on my door.  We are all here enjoying the fruits of your labor.  Salud.

Fufillment

I am standing in the unadorned husk of my new room.  The freshly painted walls still smell faintly.  The unfinished floors look naked and innocent beneath my feet.  The unfiltered sunshine cascades through the new windows.  It is perfect.

Soon, the floors will be finished.  The rug will laid down and the drapes will adorn the three windows.  The rattan blinds will shade the bathroom and the shelves in the closet will be stocked.

For now, the room is is light and therefore luxurious.  Space.  It comes at such a premium.  Stretch out your arms... how much is that costing you?

I grew up in a sleepy southern town.  Our sidewalks, though crooked and bricked, were wide.  Our playgrounds yawned before us.  The local college campuses seemed to meander through the town.

I live now in a house roughly half the size of my mother's.  My husband uses the coat closet in the hall to shelter his things.

How much do I need?  What do I need?  Why do I need it?

Was it a deprived childhood?  Did I run barefooted?  Were my things kept in shoeboxes?  Why do I feel the need to expand?

I bought mirrored vanities for the bathroom.  Mirrored.  Yes.  How very Tallulah Bankhead of me.  the wallpaper is latticed in silver.  The sconces are mirrored with crystal drops.  I have a dressing table.  When did I feel the need to fill my life, my space with such things?  Why?

I was fifteen.  The aspirin had probably not yet burned through the lining of my stomach but the tintinabulation was unrelenting.    I didnt yearn to be famous.  I wasn't flummoxed by society or pressured by peers.  I lay on my mother's bedroom floor and watched the digital clock flash minute by minute.   The ringing in my ears was incessant and I began to worry that my mother would step on my cold body in the morning.  I tapped her awake.  I have swallowed a bottle of aspirin, I told her.

Maybe then.  Perhaps I began to need to fulfill some dreams then.  Lying in the ICU, conjuring up good lies to tell my friends about the bruises from the IV... yes.  I started to want.

It started with a boyfriend.  Then pretty skin.  A great bikini.  A good college.  A respectable job.  An engagement ring.  A handsome husband.  Healthy children.

Can I stop?  Will I ever be fulfilled?

Lately, I fill the void with food.  Rosemary bread spread with butter.  Cambazola.  Almonds, toasted and salted.  Chocolate covered pretzels.  Candied ginger.

And sensuous delights.  Champagne.  Silk pajamas.  Wolford pantyhose.  Chanel #5.

Of course, of course, the truth is.... I am lonely without Gran.  The silk pajamas are cold, the champagne gives me a headache, pantyhose are just pantyhose , Cambazola makes me fat and chocolate covered pretzels make me break out.

As I was lonely at fifteen, missing my father, at 39 I miss Gran.

Yet, now, on the cusp of 40, I know I am not alone.  Missing Gran sucks.  Gone though is the angst that stemmed from thinking that I was going through "this" all alone.  39 is OK.  39 is solid.  I can do this.  I can do 39.

in winter's fold

It is a taciturn night.  The piss yellow of the sun's last rays have sunk beneath the bitter sky.  Water boils over.  Pot roasts burn.  Milk turns sour and crocus,newly emerged from frozen ground lie trampled under bootprints.  It is March.

I hate Spring and its fickle facade.  Inevitably, the japanese magnolias will bloom too early and a curt frost will strike down the budding blossoms.    Rose bushes pushing forth their shoots will be stymied.  And my house, upon which this great extension has been bestowed, will sit and wait for the next thaw so that we might begin with the plumbing.

I am irritable.  Surely, it has to do with the constant shuffle of furniture, the fine mist of sanded spackle, the smell of wet paint.  Yet, no.  I recognize these things as signs of progress.  We are building, moving forward.  The electricians will be here tomorrow.  We plod along.

It is the weather.  This damn nuisance of snow and melt.  It is the outrageous heating bill.  It is the 20 extra pounds I have packed on.  It's the snow days, its the dog, the cats, the children, the dry cleaning bill, the weather report... anything, everything, but... me.

I have become a taciturn woman.  Sugar will not melt in my mouth.  I remember the care free summer days, sun kissed hair grazing my shoulders, the peel of tanned skin around my collar bone, the laze of days unscripted.  How long ago?

If Spring is youth,and Winter old age, then Summer is the blessed knowledge we all long for.  Bring forth the sun, the heat... let me feel the sting across my skin.  I wish to taste the salt upon my upper lip, embrace the summer constellations, dive into deep pools, testing my merit.

I feel nothing for the cold.  I want none of the snows or ice or blizzards. Let me be in a smooth sand, dotted with deserts roses.  I cannot take the pain of cold, the biting fire of freezing.  Let me wilt under the heat of the summer solstice, feel its rays beat upon my brow.


I hate the cold, the snow, the ice, the dark.  There is no romance for me in these things.  Light is joy.  Warmth is happiness.

The air is thin, pierced with the cold.  The dull steel of evening has long past.  The stars a little crisper this time of year... no matter.  I do not need the shine of the stars to know that you love me.  I'm done with winter.  Bring on the spring.