Tuesday, December 16, 2014

I am a nurse.  I am a nurse who takes care of a little boy.  I care for a  little boy so full of smiles and laughter that taking care of him doesn't really feel like work  most of the time.  I do things like hold and hug him which any person can do.  I tickle him and and sing the ABC's to him over and over again. I feed him through a tube in his belly.  I make him laugh and hold him when he cries.  It's not world changing, this work I do.  It's not even really life saving.  It's not glamorous.  "Adventures Of A Home Nurse" will never be a t.v. series.  It's exactly what I want to be doing.  Nurturing and loving a child who nurtures and loves me right back.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Quiet

I never used to like the quite.  It unnerved me. I needed the noise of the television to go to sleep at night.  Now, I crave quiet.  My husband laughs at me sometimes.  He says I'm like my grandpa who used to become anxious when there was too much going on. In my defense, too much includes a six-year-old running through the house making three dogs bark while the tiny people in two different televisions babble on and on just as the telephone rings for the 50th time with some ridiculous sales person trying to tell me I've one a trip to Jamaica. 
Currently, the six-year-old is at school, the three dogs are asleep, and the television is turned off.  The only sound is that of  Molly, our lab/husky/boxer who has one blue eye and one brown eye just like her mother, snoring next to me and the clickety clack of the keyboard as I type.  It's glorious. 
The first snow of the season has fallen and the naked trees sway silently in the arctic breeze that brought with it lower than normal temps.  All of life has slowed down.  Smoke rises slowly from neighboring chimneys, careless in it's ascent.  Occasionally I see the flutter of birds wings as they drop from the warmth of their nests to the feeder I've filled with nuts and seeds.  In the quiet I can hear the earth exhale a slow measured breath of release.  The work of another spring and summer is complete. The harvest of fall is over. Now is the time of retreat and renewal. 
I hope that I too will take this time to slow down and renew.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Living

I remind myself daily, that this is life.  We are all living beautiful messy lives.  With our own struggles and triumphs. None of us gets through this unscathed and none of us make it out alive.  So I keep pushing, fighting like mad for what I want and need.  I keep dreaming, hoping, and praying though prayer is nothing like it used to be.  It's often times a silent wrestle with myself.  Sometimes it's a gentle giving in, a letting go.  Other times it is a violent pleading mess of tears.
I search for the beauty in every day moments, nourishing my soul with the sunrise and sunset, Brown Eyed Susans, light dancing across a messy lawn, and the sliver of moon that glides silver and smooth across the pond.   I watch Hayden as he builds forts out of piles of dirt, chases lightening bugs, and fights with every fiber of his being to keep the sun from going down and his best friend from going home.  For him, this moment is all that matters.  Tomorrow is much too far away to worry about and yesterday is a distant memory.  He reminds me to live in the moment, to take hold of today. That's the best kind of living.




Monday, September 15, 2014

When the hormones are gone.

"Everyone told me how little sleep I would get, but they never mentioned how much I wouldn't mind the lost hours of slumber. They never told me that seconds with him would be so delicious I'd gobble them all up and still not be full. Even when he is crying and fussy, which he almost never is, I love being with him. At night I pull his cradle as close to the bed as I can and fall asleep with my hand caressing his chubby little face. If I weren't so afraid of suffocating him he'd sleep next to me. "

Oh the things one will write when in a hormone induced postpartum fog.  Five years later the hormones are gone and I'm left with the reality that there are days when gobbling him up sounds like the best plan of all.  The cute cooing blob of baby goo has been replaced with an opinionated and strong willed four-year-old who stomps his foot while demanding ice cream for breakfast.

I don't love being a parent as much as I thought I would, but I love him.  I love him more than I ever thought I was capable of loving another human.  So, I agree to play another game of memory or build a rocket out of play doh for the 100th time even though I'd rather be watching Grey's or writing a blog post.

Tuesday, July 02, 2013

Thirty Four

In less than fifteen minutes I will turn thirty-four.  I want thirty-four to be a year of more:  more laughter, a lot more laughter. I'd like more dancing and much less worrying. I'd like more time with friends, more lovemaking, more taking the time to soak all of this in.  More exercise and less self hate sounds good; more doing and less being afraid.  More running.  More believing.  More helping. More enjoying.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Expecting Rainbows

We moved here to escape the hustle and bustle of a life that was moving too quickly towards things we didn't want. In search of a more simple life we packed our belongings and headed East through canyons and craters, across mountains and streams.  Me on the verge of having a baby and Erin on the cusp of becoming a teen, we came. We were welcomed with warm hugs and a storm that took out power for days.  The winds calmed and the power came back on, but the storm hasn't stopped yet. It's easy to get caught up in the storm, to focus on the chaos. It's even easier to imagine that there is no storm somewhere else.  I find myself thinking "if I can just make it through this..." All the while I'm bracing myself for the next gust of wind or bolt of lightning.  I don't want to spend my life waiting out the storm or holding on tight for the next bad thing. So I'm going to start expecting the good. I'm going to watch for the rainbow.

Saturday, January 05, 2013

I sit, basking in the glow of the lights from my still-decorated Christmas tree.  The ceiling is still a flutter with paper snowflakes and the cheerful song of the lighted dance hall in my Christmas village  echoes through the house.  Christmas should last longer.  There should be more days snuggled in cozy pajamas, sipping hot cocoa, counting down the days until Santa comes.  This year the anticipation in our house was palpable.  Hayden woke each morning asking when Santa was coming.  He eagerly searched the house to see what our elf, Christopher, had been doing while we slept.  Most mornings he ran to our room yelling out "Mom! Dad! Come and look what Christopher's done!".  There is no greater joy than seeing the twinkle of belief in a child's eyes.  I consider the ability to believe one of the most important gifts I can give my children.  They are going to need it in the days ahead.  When the monotony of life takes over, I hope they'll dig deep, find that spirit, and remember what it was like to be so excited that they could hardly sleep.  I hope they'll be able to connect with that feeling of expectation and remember to live their lives wide open and waiting. 

Next week I'll repack boxes and take down lights.  I'll tuck the houses from my Christmas village away and say goodbye to the colorful Christmas decor.  I hope that I will take the anticipation and magic of this season with me into the new year.  I hope I'll remember to believe even when things seem impossible.