Vanilla

I am a vanilla. 
Most of my friends are a chocolate.
No, it is not what you think.
It is about ice cream flavor preference.
I just want vanilla. French vanilla.  The good kind.  The kind with the specks of beans in it.  The kind that bursts with a flavor that makes me soooooooooooooooooooooooooo happy.
I think this means, elementarily, that I am a relatively simple person.
I like things basic.  Tasteful.  Clean.  Pure.
But, wait.
Maybe, what I really love about vanilla ice cream is the clean slate it offers.  To pour hot fudge on.  To add rainbow sprinkles to.  To top with heaps of marshmallow fluff and whipped cream and that one, perfectly stemmed red cherry.
It is like a page before me.  White, empty, waiting to be embellished and, hopefully, hungrily devoured.
Most of my good friends love chocolate ice cream.  Now, I LIKE chocolate ice cream.  I really like pistachio ice cream.  Or butter pecan.  Or coffee flavored.
I like ice cream.  Similarly, I like just about any book or article or movie.  I am that person who, once I begin reading or watching ANYTHING, no matter how drab it becomes, must finish it.  I will prop my eyelids open with tooth picks to accomplish this.  EVERYTHING must have an ending.
Why should ice cream be any different?  Two scoops?  Three?  Scrape the spoon on the bottom of the dish to be certain it is all devoured.  Finish it.
Give me a pure vanilla page.  Let me color it and fill it.  Let me share if you are my friend.  Let me finish what I start.  Let me be satisfied in the simple completeness of a beginning and an ending.
Is this something innate?  Is this something peculiar to me?  I believe it is just a basic, human need.  In today's world of technology and constant jumping from one activity to another, many endings are skipped. Much of life is left uncompleted.  All of our ice cream flavors are blended into one, over flavored heap of a messy sundae.
This weekend, I challenge you to try a scoop of vanilla.  With nothing on it.  And, oh, go ahead... lick that bowl clean!

Popscicles and Slushies

Popscicles and slushies.
I don't like them anymore.
Days of yore, they were soothing on hot days; flavor bursts of happiness on a too hot tongue; sticky sweetness that dripped down the wooden stick and deposited itself between your fingers.  Colors of joy and flavors of  choice.  Orange, cherry, grape...and my favorite: Blue raspberry.

Somewhere around my daughter's 4th surgery, the new definition of popscicles and slushies came to be.  They were first "food" after surgery.  Ideally, she, too wished for blue raspberry. As the anaesthesia wore off, the blue spittle of vomit changed the meaning of popscicles and slushies for me.
When Madi was about 8, I rushed to recovery to find a nurse chuckling above my daughter's bed.  "What is so funny?",  I demanded.  The nurse waved her arm across the room, as if to cast a magic spell.  "See these kids?  All of them whining, crying, wailing?  Your daughter wakes up, asks for you, and then tells me to start bringing Popsicles to the other kids who are crying.  She says it will make them feel better."
And why wouldn't it?  Comfort comes in the strangest forms.  A little frozen juice; some flavored ice; a soothing memory even in life's hardest moments.
I do not want popscicles or slushies anymore, but Madi does.  She does relate them to surgery, but not in a bad way.  They made her feel better.  They trigger different thoughts for me, now.  As the memories of her pain and sickness fade with time, maybe I will want a blue raspberry slushy one hot day.  Who can say?
There is a challenge here.  In life's most difficult times, can you find comfort?  In something familiar, something that settles your upset, something that you remember fondly?  I believe we all can, and this is one of life's unexpected gifts.  When pain comes; grief strikes; the world seems to end, there will be something that brings unexpected, and sometimes, unwelcome comfort.
If you cannot embrace it, simply coexist with it.  There is always the chance you might decide you want it around one day.

Making Amen-Ds

Hallelujah to the possibilities of Fixing Things.  Making Amen-Ds.  Do-overs.  Second chances. 
Whatever you wish to call it... it is a God send.
I cherish all those who have crossed my path.  Even those who have crossed me.  Back stabbed me.  Driven me to the edge and driven me to heart ache.
Each person has shared a part of their soul, their being and their essence.  Sharing is caring... however twisted that version may be.
Retrospect brings a certain healing for me.  Sometimes, it takes days.  Sometimes, it takes years.  Sometimes, that healing is so covered in band-aids and old bruises and pain that I do not even recognize it has healed- if even just a little bit.
I am, basically, a happy person.  But, alas, never believe that someone's smile is their FEELING.  That smile?  It is SHOWMANSHIP, taught by my Mama the dance teacher and ultimate actress.  "Never let them see they got you down".
My greatest problem with this theory is that I am also a CRIER.  Not a few genteel tears cascading romantically down my cheek kinda crier.  Nope.  Ugly, red-eyed, snot blowing, gut sob CRIER here.  I cry when I am really happy.  Really sad.  Really angry.  Really confused.  Do you sense a theme here?
In the moment, this trait gets in the way of my ability to express my true emotion.  It is disabling.
So.  God Bless the opportunity to make Amen-Ds.  For me, that is often via written word.  I love me some letter writing; email sending; facebook messaging.  Partly, because I function best if not face to face when apologizing or venting or explaining.  Mostly, because I need the chance to let my words dance.  That writing is like choreography.  I can choose my dancers; change the punctuation and flow of the tune; choose abrupt percussive words or lacey loose language to captivate and titillate.  I am, ultimately, in control.
If you are reading this, and have been on the receiving end of my attempt to make Amen-Ds, you most likely know me well enough to understand my tears.  To accept or decline my attempt at a makeup or a second, third or fourth chance.  You know that this blog post, too, is directed at You.  At all of You... who choose to move forward in this crazy world as a part of me.
Amen-D.

3, 2, 1 Contact

I am that person who creeps you out at the stop light by making eye contact with you.
I can't help myself.
I am always inserting myself into the car beside me, the truck across the way, the bus rolling under the swinging yellow light on a slightly windy afternoon.
Even in our little city, the chances I know anyone in the other vehicles is slim.  That old lady (q-tip head) slowly cranking the wheel in a left turn... is her arthritis bad today? Is she lost in thought of another car ride long ago, when her lover stroked her thigh... or to a time when singing children cajoled in the back seat?  That stern looking truck driver with the dark beard and darker eyes; is he wishing he was in a state where license plates were the same as his?  Is he lonely?  Or is home a lonelier place than the road?
Those young boys, with the loud bass beat rocking their car and cigarettes riding low on their lips... are they dreaming of being cool as they gun their engine and fist pump to the beat of the music?
The story teller in me has always played this game.
  On those occasions when I lock eyes with someone in a car near by, I wonder if they are making up the story of my life.  When they see me squinting through the sun streaked windshield, do they see me as a somewhat disheveled woman, mid-way or more through my ride on this earth.... do they know that my sadness has matched my glee?  That my love for those around me is fed by the love of those I have lost?  Can they picture me, young and wild with my sun-tanned arm out a rolled down window, long hair streaming in the wind, singing off key to a too loud FM station or cassette tape? 
3,2,1 Contact.  It is just the story of another life.

Almost Arrested

Almost Arrested.
Literally.... One hot summer night, I was celebrating a reunion night with my sorority sisters.  We had joyously "passed the loving cup around"... and around.  And around.
We wisely chose to walk downtown.
En route, we came across a large construction area and a line of bright orange cones.
The cheerleader in me was ecstatic.  Cartwheeling,  Herkey jumping and Dancing down the road as I collected orange cones as my makeshift megaphones.  All in good fun, until I was Almost Arrested.
The swirling color of lights and the voice of the officer caught me mid-cartwheel.  "Ma'm, you need to go back and return those cones, please".
Ummmm. Nooooooooooooo. I was headed downtown.  I was not much interested in succumbing to his request.  My sorority sisters urged me to heed his "advice".  I sassily refused.
For your information, an escort to the back seat of a cop car will quickly sober one up.  The cones were returned.  I did get downtown, just a bit later than anticipated.
Figuratively... we all have moments when we are "almost arrested".  When a deer crosses the path of our vehicle.  When we come to a screeching halt  at an intersection when someone else does not.  When your life passes before your eyes.
 For a bit, you listen to that voice in your head and heed what life is telling you.  Then, there you go... off on your normal path to personal destruction or construction.  (Whichever you choose to call it).
Being Almost Arrested did not stop me from cartwheeling through life.  I still jump high and I am still, definitely, on megaphone level most days.  Oh, and I am still sassy.

Be A Rocker

My Mom TOLD me what to do a great deal of the time.
She rarely gave ADVICE.
There is a difference.  What I am told, I rarely do.
What I am advised, I take under, well... advisement.
When I was a new Mom, my mother was an amazing and proud Grandma.
About day three of motherhood, she offered me the best advice I have ever been given.
She said there are a few basic rules to being a Mom, and if I followed them, everything else would be cake.
1.  If the baby cries, something is wrong.   She is hungry, has a wet diaper, or is over stimulated or overtired.
2.  Be a rocker.  Sit in that rocking chair and rock that baby.  When she is grouchy, when she is sick, when you are grouchy, when you are sick.  It is the time of your life you will never regret spending doing nothing else but rocking that baby.  Be a rocker.
To this day, I stand by these two mantras, and I share this advice with all new Moms (and Dads) that I meet.  I went out and bought Step Daughter, Cass and her fiance, Kyle, a glider rocker for their baby Kreighton because I simply could not imagine NOT rocking That Baby.

Madi once had a physical therapist who was VERY upset about the predominance of rocking chairs in my house.  There was one in the living room; one in the play room; one in the nursery; one in my bedroom.
She TOLD me that it had been proven that babies who were rocked were clingy and co-dependent as children and teens.
Wish she had been there when Madi told me, as she headed off to Kindergarten on the bus, that I was NOT allowed to follow her to school because she was NOT a baby.
At that moment, I was happier than ever that I had rocked my baby.

Mom is gone now.  The rockers are gone, too.  I have one in the Croghan house attic, waiting for the day that Madi can Be A Rocker.  I hope I can pick a night when the moon is bright and the stars hang like icing in the sky to share her grandma's advice.  I hope that she takes it.

Rock on...

Know It All?

To know or not to know.  That is the question.
I do not know.  That is the answer.
Things I would like to know:
If I have a disease I can battle and win -- so that I can begin the battle.
If my Man is cheating on me-- so I can disembowel him.
If my Kids are involved in life threatening activities-- so I can kill them.
Things I would not like to know:
Crap Suzie said about me three days ago that was overheard by Thelma who told Laurie to tell me.
What the other business who is in my business is up to.  I do not care.
If I am going to die tomorrow.  Too much pressure to make today a great one.

Really, who wants to be a Know It All?  In the truest sense of the phrase, it carries a lot more problems and issues than it does to be a Know Enough.

I want to Know Enough.  Know enough to shut my mouth and hear what my friend needs to say.  Know enough to assist someone who needs me and leave someone alone who does not want my assistance.  Know enough to trust my kids until they lose that trust by their actions.  Know enough to believe life is fragile and enjoy the day in front of me.

I do not Know It All.  I do not wish to Know It All.  I love waking up and staring at a new day and thinking, "what can I learn that I do not know today?".  Really.  I do.  I am just that strange. 
The next time that you call someone a know-it-all... take pause.  Isn't that label a huge burden?  The next time someone is ACTING like a know-it-all remind them it is enough to be a know-enough.

Thou Shalt Not...

Judge.  Thou Shalt Not Judge.
I have a REAL hang up with those who judge others.
Let me be clear.  I have opinions.  Strong ones.  And I state them.  Often and clearly.
I may not agree with you or your opinion or your choice, but I will never judge you because you differ from me in your beliefs or lifestyle.
And, if you choose to judge me... I am a goner.  Done.  Hasta La Vista.
More importantly, if you judge those I love... I will probably take you down with a verbal lashing.  You will most likely remember this.
The irony is, after I have "those moments", I feel like I just judged someone for judging someone else.
Ironical, right?
I know that many will say that there is "someone" waiting to set judgement on us all.
I have a problem with that.  I do not care what I learned in Bible school or what The Book says, I cannot wrap my head around some Great God waiting to cast us aside because he DISAGREES with us.
I am not talking about evil here.  Evil has no place in society.  Taking evil out of the picture is not passing judgement; it is cleaning the society.
I am talking about those who have different lifestyles; religous beliefs; color of skin. I am talking about choosing not to like someone based on bias or the simple fact that you choose not to know the entire story.
This is a bit twisty and windy... but, bear with me.  What if This Is It?  What if it isn't?  When you wake up tomorrow, try looking in the mirror and choose to judge one person only.  You.  And judge yourself kindly.  Remember all the past that has molded your present.... and choose to like yourself.
Sounds possible?  Make it probable.
Thou shalt not judge... Thyself.
Maybe then, judging others won't be necessary.

 

Forced Choices

I am defined, ultimately, as Madi's Mom.  With that, I have no issues.  Because she is an "exceptional" child with "special" needs... I am often told how amazing it is that I have "done so much for her".
I am confused.  Is there a choice?  This is my child.  She is the love of my life.  Would I not take care of her?  Would I not do all I can to make her life the most amazing it can possibly be?
I call this the Forced Choice of my life.
Also, the absolute easiest decision I have ever made.
When a Doctor looks at you and says, "enjoy her, I do not expect her to live past age ten"... the disbelief is inexplicable.
What else does one do but try every road, take every path, explore every option?
I hit the jackpot.  The VEPTR project saved my child.
Yes, she has had 39 major surgeries and spent much of her life in the hospital.  Yes, I have sat by her bedside and done all any Mother would do.
 I have a talented, lovely and intelligent sixteen year old daughter.  Her medical history is only a small part of what defines her... and, at the same time, it IS what defines her.  Defines us. 
Somedays... more aptly, some late nights and early mornings, My Mama Guilt wraps around me like a heavy blanket.  Because, you see, Madi never made the choice to travel her medical road.  It was All Me.  At the worst moments, I feel guilty for her pain and her worries. 
Ultimately, morning arrives and I see her sweet face, and I know that there was never another choice.  Every day she is here is a celebration.  Every moment I spend with her I know that she is my greatest accomplishment on this earth. 
We all face those moments when we are forced to choose.  That choice we make, bad or good... right or wrong... was forced upon us and we faced it.
Know, when you see yourself in the mirror, it was your choice and you MADE it. 
Good for you.

Security

Security.  Those loveys that we hold precious in childhood.  Blankies, stuffed animals, what have you.
I loved the satiny silk on a baby blanket so much that I cut it off and put it in my pocket when I went of to Kindergarten.  I am not gonna lie... if I am REALLY sick, sometimes I will wake up and still find my fingers wrapped in the silk of my blankets.
My brother was such a blankie baby that we once traveled a long distance on a family trip- only to pack it in and return early the next morning.  The reason?  We forgot his blanket and no one could tolerate his screaming.... Least of all the relatives we were visiting.
My daughter had the strangest security item ever.  I had a Victoria Secret satin night shirt I wore when she was tiny.  Every  night I would tuck her into bed wearing this night shirt and say, "nighty night... are you comfy cozy?".
One of her first words was "cozy"... which she deemed the name of said night shirt and promptly stole it from the laundry pile to become her blankie.  True story.  That "cozy" went everywhere with her.  We got some weird looks on that one!
To identify, at such a young age, with one item.  To need it.  To love it.  To name it.  The feelings of love and security we associate with said object run very, very deep.  Such primal need for something that is "just ours" and we are so attached to.  Foreshadowing, I would say.
What is your grown up security blanket?  Is it a person you "need"?  A hat you wear?  Is it something darker... alcohol?  Drugs? 
We are strange and funny beings.  Our habits and our needs run deep and are often kept private.
Is secrecy entangled with security?  How safe do you feel when you are with or using your "lovey item".
After posing this question, I believe it is time for my nighty night glass of Merlot.
Ahem.

Ethics...Work it out

I have hang ups about Ethics.
There are so many different takes on the word. So let's start with a favorite take: The Work Ethic.
I know I have a strong one.  Placed there by my hard working parents.  Encouraged by a force within me I have yet to define.  I am the original Energizer Bunny.
Now that I am 5 decades plus old... my batteries dim quicker than in my youth.  This leads me to wonder... REALLY, where did this come from?  And why do some people seem to have NO drive or work ethic???
In high school, many people did not care for me.  I was an A student, Cheerleader Captain, Beauty Queen, Dancer, Class officer, Student Council Officer and I can see where I was, ummmmmmmmm, irritating.
But let me be clear- I WORKED MY BOOTIE OFF FOR ALL OF IT!  Nothing came "easy" and I was a determined over achiever.  I am also quite certain I could have been a poster child for Ritalin long before people were labeled ADHD.  (I am sure I will touch on my feelings about this Ritalin thing in a separate rant of a post)....
In College, I was often TOLD that my high level of energy and goal attainment was irritating.
Note to the reader: I never cared.  Seriously.  Never cared if I was irritating!
Flip side to being irritating is that others find you adorable.  They love how hard you try and how hard you work and how much you wish to be as perfect as you are able. 
Teachers, in particular, love a student with a work ethic. 
As a teacher, I can state this emphatically.  I strongly believe that all those children who are taunted and called "kiss butts" because a teacher favors them are truly just being recognized for their work ethic.
I have a somewhat unpopular stance as a teacher.  I believe, contrary to what you will often be told, that every teacher has "favorites".  A favorite is someone who "clicks" with you.  Someone who attends class regularly, enters with a positive attitude and... wait for it... has a GREAT WORK ETHIC. 
I have had hard working students who have not been personal favorites of mine... but have found a niche with another instructor at our studio.
I remember, Summer mornings, being anxious to run off to the beach and meet my friends.  My mother would stand in the kitchen with A List of Things To Be Done before I could go.  I would sigh, take the list, and finish each chore.  She would check that every item was completed to her wishes, and then... let me go.  With my 9 1/2 years younger brother in tow. 
I rarely complained.  Why?  I cannot tell you why, exactly.  I loved my brother then, as I do now.  I guess I just expected it was part of The Deal.
Perhaps if The Deal included a bit more work and a bit less reward for some, our society would be in a better place.  I want to stress that I am not finger pointing at our youth.  My age group is filled with slackers.  This is not a rich or poor topic; it is a generalized source of fact. 
There is, indeed, a buzz in some to get up, get going and get it done.  Still, a little push of kindness from others might plant the seed in some of those less inclined to chomp at the bit.  Yes?
Yes.

Those Imaginary Friends

I have a theory, of sorts.
It has to do with Imaginary Friends.
Simple test.  Did you have one?
Yes?  Well... who was it?  What were they like?  Did you name them?
I will give you three examples.
I had imaginary FRIENDS.  This was, in part, due to the fact I was an only child for 9.5 years and I was VERY social.  So, if friends were not around, I created them.
However... primarily, my imaginary friends were Batman and Robin.  Go there.  I was, at a very young age, involved in hero worship.  Yes.  I picked MEN to save me.  Yikes.  What  a beginning.
My daughter, also an "only", had an Imaginary friend, too.  Her name was Sparkles and for about a year, she LIVED with us.  Her own car seat, own place at the table, own pillow and blanket in bed... The Works.  We flew to Florida when Madi was 4 and had to pack her her own backpack of stuff for the trip.  However, when we arrived, my daughter unceremoniously announced that Sparkles was gone.  Seems my daughter  had killed her by pushing her out of the plane to her glittery doom.  Yikes, again.  What an ending.
I have a very close friend who says she NEVER had imaginary friends.  Ever.  She did have siblings and perhaps that is part of the formula here... but she also has been one of the most strong and stable people I have ever met.  Her relationships reflect that.
I dunno.... Batman and Robin saved me many a day from the holds of the bad men as I perched in peril on my Sears swingset.
Sparkles never appeared again after She was replaced with the Real Magic of a trip to Disney.
Does a house full of siblings give you enough Real Drama and interaction to disperse of Imaginary Friends?  My gut says, "No".  I am willing to bet MANY children with MANY siblings resort to Imaginary Friends to ESCAPE said siblings.
Therein lies The Rub.  Imaginary friends appearing  are just those with flairs to create.  We create what we cannot even express as A Need in our young lives, and we fill that void with The Friend of our choice.  Hero, Sparkle, Furry Beast to protect us... the form varies.  As we age, those Imaginary Friends seem to appear over and over in our lives, don't they?  Hmmmm.  I spent a whole lotta time in my life looking for a Hero instead of a Man.  Guess I should just be happy my Imaginary Friend was not a blue furry beast.

here I go again

Those who have known me -- really known me-- in my life, know that I am a writer.  I have set it aside through all my five decades to be and do other things.  Perhaps I find that writing is a distraction to Real Life.  Perhaps my writing is too much like My Real Life. 
The reason I write has never been the question.  The reason I don't write has.
Now, I sit partially through my 50th year on this earth and realize it is time to Do This Thing.
I have no cause.  I have no vision.  I have no line of thought.
I have a NEED to do this.
Some chapters will be about my day to day life.  Some will talk about my work as a Dance Studio Director and how being a dancer has shaped that life.  Some will be about motherhood or being a step mom of sorts.  There will certainly be chapters on love and belief and spirituality.
Family will be discussed... sometimes veiled, sometimes not.
Friends. The same.
Read it or don't.  This is not to be a published book nor a rightful path for others.
It is a reflection on what I believe I should have written All These Years.  It is 2014 and before.  It is what 2015 and beyond might be.  Should be.  I hope will be.
Most importantly, if This Is It... I want It to be spoken and written and read and enjoyed and disputed. 
A Life Unspoken Still Exists... however quietly.  Quiet has never been my thing.