Letting Go of a Classic

Do you have something around your house that you can't seem to get rid of?  Even though it's old, clunky, and considered ugly, by some members of your family?

I do.  It's called my digital clock radio.  In case you haven't seen one in a while, they look like this:  

isn't she a beauty? 

And this big, brown, clunky, beauty proudly sits on my night stand, like she has since we moved in together so many years ago.  

I got this clock so long ago, it feels like another lifetime.  I think it was sometime during my Middle School years, but due to the "Senior Moments" I've been experiencing of late, I can't be sure.  I do, however, remember being very excited when I got it.  Because by owning it, I became A Big Girl. A girl no longer dependent on her father, for her morning wake up call.  A girl who could, instead, hit her snooze button every nine minutes for as long as it took to drag herself out of bed and into the kitchen where said Dad would have a hot, delicious breakfast waiting.  (So, apparently, not that big after all)

Additionally, I remember going to K-Mart, (remember this was the Pre-Target Age) to pick her out.  Wondering, when I got there, how I would ever choose the right one for me.  For staring back at me, from the shelves, with blinking eyes of red and green, and cloaks of brown veneer, was an array of the most advanced timekeepers I had ever seen.  

It didn't help that I could feel my dad's brown eyes boring into the back of my head.  Silently urging me to hurry up and just pick one.  He just couldn't appreciate my dilemma.  He didn't understand how by purchasing The Right One, I would transition from baby girl, to full-fledged adult.  Or, at the very least, a much cooler preteen.

Finally, though, I found her.  Or maybe my dad,  tired of waiting, made the choice for me.  Regardless, I was happy as hell and couldn't wait to get her home and plugged in so I could tune the dial to KJR and start listening to the smooth sounds of the 70s.  (Yes, I was as cool then, as I am now) And as we drove out of the K-Mart parking lot, headed for home, I actually felt myself becoming cooler, more mature, more modern.  Techie, even, before techie was even heard of.

After removing her from the box, and blowing the dust off her glorious faux-wood exterior, I sat on my bed and examined every inch of her; every dial, every button, every switch.  Already practicing with the cool "sleep" button, that promised to lull me to sleep later that night, and wondering how I'd wake up the next morning.  Would it be to the buzz of an alarm, or the sound of music?

Just a few hours later, though, I realized that cool "sleep" button  wouldn't be getting much use after all.  For it didn't lull me to sleep, as promised.  It just kept me awake, my mind on overdrive.   And the next morning, my choice of alarm also became abundantly clear.  Softly played music won out over the buzzing alarm, which rather than wake me gently, sent me into a full-fledged panic.  This was not, I felt, a good way to start one's day.

I have since learned that my sleep requirements are very little; a bed and a dark room and I'm good.  Ironically, though, I can fall asleep on the couch, with my family talking and the television blaring.  And, years later, I rarely even have to set an alarm.  My internal clock is so finely tuned to Dave's wake up time, that once the clock strikes 5:40,  the animals and I know it's time to start the day.  

I do still listen to my clock's radio, though.  (Just not at night)  And Bob Rivers has brought KJR back into my life.  Every morning I laugh along with him and his crew while going through my morning routine.    Although, admittedly, if I want to hear with any clarity, I have to stand RIGHT IN FRONT of her.  For the minute I step away, the music and the voices are gone, replaced with crackling, incomprehensible static.  (But, it's very hard to apply mascara while standing next to your bed)

And that's not her only fault.  God forbid we lose power!  Because if we do, and I need to reset her, I might as well just say goodbye to my family, because they won't be seeing me for the rest of the day. For the switches that used to allow me to travel back and forth through the hours with ease, now stick.  And when I do, finally, get them to work, and the numbers to move, they move  so slowly I can actually hear the impatient sighs of Father Time.

And, yet, I keep her.  Why? When all of my other preteen and adolescent possessions are long gone.   

I don't know.  

Maybe it's because she is the last of an era.  Maybe I like to think she's of an age that she's become fashionable again. 

I do know I could certainly do without her.  I could definitely put the space she takes up to good use in another way.  Just imagine how many more books I could get on there if she was gone?

I could even join the Twenty-First-Century, and use the alarm on my IPhone. Like Dave does.  Like the rest of the world does. 

But I don't.  

We've been through way too much together:  high school drama, college, first loves, heartbreaks, marriage, nursing babies, infuriating toddlers, a breast cancer scare.  And so I let her stay.   

Mostly, though, because I would miss her.  I would miss her peeling brown "wood," and those green eyes I can see from both near and far--even without my glasses on.  Those eyes that, every day, tell me when it's time to pick up Nora from school.  Those eyes, that have ticked away the minutes,--one. by. one.--while I waited, sleeplessly, for my oldest daughter to make it home before her curfew.  

So, while she's not the beauty she once was, (who is?) she has been one hell of a clock.  And, despite a bit of suffering over the years, a perfect room mate.  She has been spilled upon, knocked over, bumped, scratched, and until recently, and thanks to a much younger Annabelle, adorned with a Scooby-Doo sticker.  And in all these years, she has never failed me.  Unless you count the times when I, incorrectly set her.  But, in her defense, how is she to know that I really want to wake up at 6:00 a.m. and NOT 6:00 p.m.?  She just does what she's told.

And so, until her buttons and switches no longer move at all, I think I'll keep her. After all, she does make a pretty good coaster.  

xoxo
S-


P.S.  
I realized I have one other item that could be added to the list of relics I can't seem to part with:  my big, fuzzy, and oh-so-sexy, pink bathrobe.  Actually, it's not really THAT old.  It's just so pink, so plushy.  So plushy, in fact, that when I wear it, I feel like a walking stick of cotton candy.  And it's so warm that after just one cup of coffee in the morning, I am sweating.  But it was the first real gift Anna ever bought me for Christmas.  With her own money!  So, sap that I am, I'll probably be sweating it out, for years to come. 

Or I could just throw it in the closet and bring it out on those days when the power goes out and I need to keep warm while setting the clock.  

What's Happening Today?

Big has a big test on The Art of South East Asia (Good luck Big!)

Little is presenting her report on Andrew Johnson, the 17th President of the United States.  And the only president to return to the Senate following his term in office.  And the guy who bought Alaska for $7 million.  Which is a good thing, because if he hadn't, my sisters would now live in Russia.  

Mr. is back to work, after a week off to play in the woods go hunting.  
He'd rather be hunting.  

And, apparently, grown men are showing up at Safeway still clad in their pajama pants .......

xoxo-
S-

The Answer Is....

Who looks up adverb placement on-line?  

(a)  Someone who is waiting for her chicken casserole to finish baking  
(b)  Someone who is a perfectionist   
(c)  Someone whose grammar skills are lacking  
       I don't even know if that phrase is correct  
       Maybe it should read: someone lacking grammatical skills  
       Or, someone who IS lacking grammatical skills 
       Or, someone who needs to review her third grader's English homework
(d)  Someone named Me 
(e)  All of the above


Correct answer:     E



I'm going with "B."  (Not that this is necessarily a good thing:)

I Heart Thursdays

I had such a great morning today.  After I left the physical therapist, that is. After she was finished, poking, prodding, stretching, hurting, massaging, my poor hamstring.  (By the way, did you realize that your hamstring (singular) is actually comprised of three muscles.  So why don't they call them hamstrings (plural)?  At any rate, I injured mine months ago.  And my kind P.T., Sarah, has been helping me on my road to recovery.  It's been a long road...

After my P.T. session, however, is when my day really started.  First, I bought this, as I was grabbing a coffee at Fred Meyer.

Mumford & Sons: Babel

I LOVE this CD!  I know...old school.  While it's certainly convenient to download songs/music nowadays, once in a while I still love having something tangible.  Something with a picture on it.  Something with lyrics printed on it. My family appreciates this too, because then they don't have to suffer listen to my versions of the songs.  (I can be quite creative)

See!  Lyrics!  Now I won't have to make up my own :)

With my new tunes playing, I drove downtown to the Tacoma Farmers Market, where I was sad to see the sign stating that today is the last day of the season. Which explained the small crowd.  So, in less time than usual, I wandered down Broadway, bought my salad veggies from Terrie's Berries 

Dinner

and then, bought my lunch: Veggie Korma, from Gateway To India.  Yum!  

Lunch-my favorite

Actually, this was supposed to be my dinner.  With Dave gone for the week, dinners around here haven't been very planned.  And unable to resist the smell, once I got home, I decided to split it in half and make two meals out of it.  Ya, that did not happen.  Let's just say, I'm extremely full and the aforementioned veggies will be put to good use in tonight's dinner:  salad.  (Nora will be thrilled!)

Then, with JUST ENOUGH money left over, I bought this sweet purse.  

My new bag from Atlas Past
atlaspast.etsy.com

And when I say just enough, I literally mean just enough.  The sweet girl who was selling them, even waived the sales tax for me.  She also said she's a member of The 253 Collective, which is located across from The Swiss, and which I will now have to check out.  (Or, maybe I'll just look her up on line: atlaspast.etsy.com)

So now I'm home: stuffed, broke, and happy.  

Happy Thursday 

xoxo

S-

Recycling Day

Monday morning I decided to remove the three, empty, mini-bar bottles of 

Jagermeister, that have been rattling around in the door pocket of my van since last week.  They have been there since Nora discovered them outside the playground fence, at her school.   I'm pretty sure her exact words were, "Mom, someone littered bottles at my school!" Since she was very indignant about the whole matter, without even looking up (it was raining), I just told her to put them in the car and we'd add them to our recycling when we got home.  

Then, proud of her clean-up efforts, she brought them to me for inspection. At which point, she wanted to know what kind of bottles they were.  To which I simply replied, "they're alcohol bottles.  

"Oh like your wine?"

Um, no.  Not even close.  "No, honey.  This stuff is really bad.  Bad tasting and bad for you.  So you should never drink it."  I didn't add, it's the kind of alcohol that makes you  fall into the bushes, while attempting to walk home, after drinking some at a party.  (When you're young and dumb, that is--Or so I've heard)

"Oh, okay,"  she said, satisfied with both my answer and her good deed of the day.   Then, she tossed them on to the front seat of the van and buckled up.  As I was getting out of the car at Albertsons, though, that sparkly green glass caught my eye and I thought there is no way I am leaving those bottles on that seat, in plain sight, for everyone and their mother to see!  People I know shop here!  So I stashed them in the door pocket, where they were all but forgotten.   

Until yesterday, when I pulled into the driveway and saw the garbage cans, and recycling bins lining the street.  Quickly, I grabbed the bottles from their hiding spot, and headed toward my own glass recycling bin, where I planned to stuff them under our own collection of wine bottles deposit them.  And that's when she drove by: my neighbor.  And she waved, of course.  Because that's what good neighbors do.  And so, of course, I waved back.  Trying very hard not to look like a cheap drunk.    

Ahh...what's a girl to do: appear unfriendly by not waving at her neighbor, or have her think she's a closet alcoholic?   

Oh well, too late to worry about that now.  Like all good neighbors, over the years we have learned that  what happens on the curb, stays on the curb.  

Cheers!

S-

Delish!

After Nora Jane and I went to The Haunted Ballet last Sunday, we walked around the corner to my new favorite bakery: Corina.

And since the ballet had just ended, there was a long line of patrons ahead of us.  A few of our Girl Scout friends decided the wait was simply too long. Or more accurately, their moms decided it was too close to dinner.  Either way, they dumped us and headed home.

Nora Jane and I, on the other hand, believe there is no line--no wait--too long when it comes to fresh baked cookies.  So we waited.  And waited.

But it was SO WORTH IT.

Because this is what we got:

Chocolate Chip Cookie
from Corina Bakery

And, because I am a coffe-aholic, and can't eat a cookie without it, I also got this:

No you're not going blind.
The ink on this cup is very light.
So I'll read it for you:  Corina Bakery

And they were both DELICIOUS!

So delish, in fact, that after I dropped Nora at school this morning, Jack and I drove back downtown to pick up what could easily become a bad habit.

Luckily, they aren't just around the corner from my house.

xoxo

S-

The Many Faces of Nora

Over the years, I have learned how to juggle the different faces, the different masks, if you will, that we wear when interacting with others.  "The Sonja" my husband and daughters see, for instance, is brimming with confidence, wit, and insight, just to name a few. (ha!)  "The Sonja" I share with the outside world, on the other hand, (while still being very insightful, of course) is often more quiet and reserved.  

This phenomenon is by no means unique to me.  It's something we all do. It's perfectly normal.  Nothing to be ashamed of.  It's just what we do.   And by adulthood, after spending a lifetime  perfecting these skills, we become really good at it.  

What I hadn't realized, though,  is that my eight-year-old, already seems to have this mastered.  Thus, I was shocked when I picked her up from school last Friday, and saw how quickly and adeptly she, too, shifts between her very distinct and separate selves.  The one she shows to the world.  And the one she shares with me.  (Lucky me!)

The first Nora was all smiles as she ran up to her lovely teacher and gave her a goodbye hug.  She looked happy, carefree, and ready to run to her Mama and start enjoying the weekend.  The second, No-Longer-Smiling-Nora, was none of the above.  This Nora came to me with a droopy head, sagging shoulders, and tear-filled eyes.   

What had just happened?  And happened before we had even exited the playground!

When I asked her what was wrong, she lifted her head, showed me a face full of tears and despair and cried, "I have so much homework!  I'm never going to get it done!"  

Ka-Boom! In the blink of an eye, my confident and composed little daughter, exhausted from her late-night, homework-filled week, suddenly became an eruption of fatigue and emotions.  Right before my eyes!

I looked into her beautiful freckled face and, in the most positive voice I own, said, "don't worry, Honey.  It'll all get done."

"But it's too much, mama!"  

So much for The Positive Sonja. And I thought, I want that other Nora.  The one she, apparently, left with her teacher.  

"Okay kid," I said.  "No more talk of school.  We are going to see a movie.  You need to decompress."

Oh my gosh, did I just pull a Dr. Phil on my eight-year-old?  Thinking back now,  I can't remember if I actually uttered these words, or if I simply thought them in my head.  It doesn't really matter.  I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have heard them anyway.   She was too busy removing her backpack, tossing her lunchbox on to the floor, crawling over the soccer balls that have been rolling around back there for a week, and clambering into her  seat. 

By the end of "Hotel Transylvania,"  however, My Nora seemed a lot more relaxed and was even laughing.  Exactly what she was laughing at, though,  is beyond me.  The movie was NOT that funny.  Then again, I'm not eight.  

Not ready to go home and face The School Nora, we wandered next door to Barnes and Noble.  Okay, honestly, it was so I could pick up the next  Jo Nesbo novel.  For you see, I have discovered yet another side of myself: The Dark Sonja. The one who is completely addicted to Norwegian crime dramas.  And FYI:  When they say, "Maddeningly Addictive,"  they aren't kidding.  I've seriously lost sleep over these books.  

Looking for a little grit and crime?
Check these books out.  

Finally, we topped off our night by throwing nutrition to the wind and driving through McDonald's for a delicious dinner.  I'm not kidding.  Once in a while, nothing tastes better than a Quarter-Pounder With Cheese and Fries.  

And it was a great night.  Just what we both needed after a long week.  

Later, however, as she readied herself for bed, I noticed her anxiety rising once again.  Calling forth The Super Positive Sonja one more time, I tucked her in, pulled her blanket up to her chin, and tried my best to convince her that everything would get done.   And not to worry. 

The next morning, when she woke me at seven a.m., asking if she could start working on her project, I knew I hadn't been that convincing.  So, I blinked my eyes a few times, asked if I could get some coffee first, and then we hit the books.  

And she worked on her paper before soccer.

The Pajama Clad
Pre-Soccer Writer

She worked on her paper after soccer.  After The Ladybugs DESTROYED their opponent.  After Nora Jane scored a goal.  (Nothing helps relieve stress better than a little physical exercise...oh okay, maybe a win.)

Post Soccer:
Note she didn't even want to change out of
her uniform before hitting the books

Finally,  after a little post-Halloween party work, the rough draft was done!  

Meet Artemis:
Goddess of The Hunt

Dressing up, she found, is also a good stress reliever.  Especially when you get to go through all your Sissy's weird jewelry.  And even if none of your friends know who you are.  (Well, at least they didn't think she was Katniss from The Hunger Games)

By the time School Nora went to bed on Saturday night, she seemed much more calm, if not very tired.    

When I woke up Sunday morning, I was very happy to see Mom's Nora looking down at me.  And she wasn't asking to get to work on her paper. She was asking if she could snuggle with me.  When she decided it was time to get up, we went to Starbucks for coffee and cinnamon rolls.  Then she watched a movie.  Then she revised and edited her paper (per her teacher's instructions).  Finally, for fun,  we went to The Haunted Ballet, where she saw her classmate perform.  At the end of the performance, when I saw My Nora clapping for her friend, like a proud mama,  I knew it was the  perfect ending to a very long weekend.

I don't know if this weekend taught My Noras that life is about balance.  I do know that she worked hard.  She played hard.  And she found a little time to relax.  Just as it's taken me a lifetime to learn how to share my selves with the world, it's probably going to take more than one weekend before she realizes that as long as she takes life one day at a time everything will be alright in the end.  Because the alternative, worrying needlessly, will only result in her becoming her mother.  
(Now, if I could just convince her Sissy of these same things...)

xoxo
S-

Yard Work

Recently, I drove to my dad’s house for a visit, and to help him with his yard work.  The visit, he was expecting.  The yard work, he was not.  That was going to be a surprise.   Not that he likes surprises--or help, for that matter. 

My dad is seventy-two-years old.  Hardly old, by today’s standards.  But his body clearly shows the wear and tear from each and every one of those seventy-two years.  He has degenerative heart disease.  He has COPD.  His blood pressure is so low, I don’t know how he even functions.  He has to wear a knee brace simply to walk outside to check his mail.  He sees a vascular surgeon twice a year to monitor his very-blocked carotid arteries. He takes medication for  a myriad of ailments, not to mention a whole host of vitamins, minerals and fish oils.  He has so many pills on his kitchen counter, he could supplement his Social Security with Black Market pharmaceutical sales.  In short, he is one unhealthy man.  

While his current health issues are due to the bad habits of his former lifestyle,  said habits were, unfortunately, given up too late.  Thus, the basic daily chores we all take for granted, like mowing the lawn, vacuuming,  walking the aisles of the grocery store (without leaning on the cart handles for support) he simply cannot do.   As such, he rarely cuts his grass and his once neat and tidy yard, has gone from looking just neglected to fully abandoned.  

This is where I came in.  I was going to remedy the situation by cutting the grass for him.  Unfortunately, while my dad seems to have come to terms with the fact that he can no longer perform the tasks, which are necessary for maintaining his home, he has NOT reached the point in his life where he feels comfortable accepting help getting said jobs done.  Even from his own daughter!  Or maybe, especially, from his daughter!  Knowing this was going to throw a huge wrench into my plans, I decided to butter him up a bit before springing my surprise on him.  So, on the way to his house,  I stopped at Subway and picked up one of his favorites: the all meat, all cheese, absolutely no vegetable sandwich.    (Yes, I am aware that sounds like I'm dealing with a toddler.)  Leaving Subway, with our sandwiches in hand, I was feeling pretty confident my plan would succeed.  As I pulled into his driveway, though, knee-high dandelions banging against my van’s undercarriage, and scanned his yard, I realized the enormity of the task ahead and became even more grateful for the afore-mentioned sandwiches.  It was going to be a long day.  

After we’d eaten, watched some Fox News, (the only channel on his television) and discussed all of our “usuals:” the dog, my kids, my sisters in Alaska--no I haven’t heard from them either--his weekly trip to Rite-Aid to purchase his Lotto Ticket, our useless president, I summoned the courage to ask him for the shed key.  

“Whaddaya want that for?” he asked.  Although I’m sure he knew exactly what I wanted it for.  

“I am going to cut the grass for you and the mower is locked inside.”  

Knowing the next words he spoke would have no truth to them, he turned back to the television and said flatly,  “Oh you don’t have to do that.  It’s fine.”  

“Dad!” I said, trying NOT to sound like my former whiny teenage self.  “It looks terrible!  The dandelions are up to my knees!”  

“Well it can’t be cut,” he replied curtly, still looking at the television.   

“Why not?”  I asked, still sounding like a bratty adolescent.  

“It’s too long.  It needs the weed eater.”  

“Well, there’s one of those in the shed too.”  

“Nah!”  

And just like that, the conversation ended.   Just like it always does when he doesn't want to talk anymore.  (So much for my buttering up)  My dad is a firm believer in the  "better to be quiet than mad" philosophy.  And over the years, he has become The Master at this.  For  he believes avoiding conflict--At. All. Costs.-- promotes peaceful, harmonious relationships.  I THINK, it just shows that he doesn't like to be told what to do. And I don't blame him.  Who does?  

So the grass did not get cut.  The dandelions, knowing they had won another round, smugly waved goodbye as I backed out of the driveway.  They too, it seems, know that my Dad is still my parent.  I am still his child.   The child who does not talk back to him.  The child who does not argue with him.   Even when my argument is in his best interest.  Some things, I've learned, do not change simply because time passes.  Take those snotty, adolescent , under-the-breath-mumblings, for instance.  Occasionally they still slip out:  “Fine, but I’m bringing Dave up next week and we’ll bring our own mower.”  

And that’s precisely what we did.  One week later, I texted him (coward that I am) at 8:30 in the morning and informed him that Dave and I would be up to mow his lawn later that afternoon.  As the clock struck noon, however, and we rounded the bend along the water, and caught the first glimpse of his house through the trees, we noticed things did not look right.  Where were all the dandelions?  Dave looked at me and said, “maybe you shouldn’t have told him we were coming.”  

We continued our drive, along the beach, around the playground, and into his driveway.  And there he was; standing alongside the driveway, wearing my grandpa’s old grass stained coveralls and Fenwick cap, struggling to hold on to the weed eater, sweat pouring down his face, wearing the smile of a kid who had just been caught with his hand in the candy drawer. 

I was not happy.  

What was he doing?  I’d come!  We'd come! We were going to do this for him! We were going to help him!  

But he wouldn’t have it.  He may not be as capable as he once was.  But he is certainly still as stubborn  proud as ever.  

Dave decided to take his time parking the van, while I kissed him hello and demanded asked  “what’re you doing?  I TOLD you we were coming to do this for you.”  My voice, once again, coming across much too whiny. 

“Why?”  he asked, with that damn grin of his.  

I had no response to this ridiculous question.    So I walked into the house to get him a glass of lemonade.  I knew there would be a full pitcher of Crystal Light in the fridge.  Yard work days are the only times he ever makes it.  

By the time I returned with his drink, he had moved away from the fence, leaving the weed eater barely visible behind the long grass that had yet to be clipped, and was sitting on top of the wall adjacent to the driveway.  The wall he built from old railroad ties thirty years ago.  The wall that, like the lawn, the roof, and the deck, now needed help.   

My heart sank seeing him sitting there, like a toddler suffering through an undeserved time-out, his body, like the wall he was sitting upon, collapsing into itself.  I blinked away the tears starting to form behind my sunglasses and wondered “where did my dad go?”  For the man sitting in front of me was not my dad.  My dad was strong.  My dad was capable.  My dad never needed a hand from anyone.  In fact, the only person I remember ever helping out at our house, while I was growing up, was my Grandpa.  My dad’s father.  And I’m SURE he was never asked.  He simply showed up.  Wearing those exact same coveralls, work tools in hand, and worked quietly alongside my dad until he called for a coffee break.  Then he would pile his tools, and my dad, into the cab of his pickup and drive the one block stretch of road back up to his house where my Grandma would be waiting with a fresh pot of coffee, cookies and sandwiches.  

Now, this man who had never relied on anyone, was watching his son-in-law take care of his lawn.  Something, until this day, he had always done for himself.  And he didn’t like it.  (although he does LOVE his son-in-law)  Then it hit me.   This man that I love.  This man that I adore, will not be around forever.  One day he will completely shrink into those overalls and be gone. 

My dad sat on that wall until Dave finished with the yard.  Not because he was watching, or keeping an eye on Dave, but, because he wanted to feel useful.  He wanted to feel as if he was contributing.  He wanted to feel like he was still taking care of himself.

Later, as we said our good-byes, with the usual kiss for me and handshake for Dave, my Dad said,  “Thanks Dave.  For everything.  I really appreciate it.”  And we all knew he meant it.

Driving away, though, dandelions no longer taunting me, I felt terrible.   As if I'd over-stepped an invisible boundary.  Today, for the first time, I'd become the parent.  I had told my Dad what to do.  And neither one of us, liked it.  Who the hell am I to tell him what to do?  Or how to take care of his house, his yard?  If he wants to wade through a sea of dandelions, on the way to his car, then why shouldn't he?

Thank goodness the weather is turning and we won't have to worry about the lawn for a while.  I don't think either one of us could handle it.

Is Blogging Self-Indulgent?

After initially starting this blog, I mustered up the courage to mention it to a few friends.  Yes, I  actually "mustered up," because I was afraid of their reaction.  And sure enough, my fear was justified.  (I should preface this by saying that ALL of these women, except one other stay at home mom, work outside the home.  They ALL have families.  And they are ALL busy.)  Following my announcement, they all smiled their half-hearted, "oh that's nice" smile.  Except for one.   The one I can always count on to say exactly what's on her mind.

And she did:  "Isn't that a little self-indulgent?  I mean who has time to sit and write about her life all day." 

Well, she, surely,  doesn't.  She's a judge.  And if she's not at work, she is thinking about work, while commuting to and from work.  She does, however, have the standard weekend free time.  And like most of us, she spends it doing her favorite things: cooking, baking and knitting very cute monkeys for her friends' kids.  (And for the record, I love this woman.  I just wish she would fine-tune the filter that goes from her brain to her mouth.)

Not really sure how to defend myself, (not even sure I needed defending) I quickly replied, "oh, it's just for fun"  and then moved the conversation on to safer topics.  To food, to work, to our kids.  To anything, but my blog.  

But her words struck a nerve.  And they have stayed with me--for a long time.  Too long!  (evidence that I clearly overly-obsess.  Wait- is it possible to overly obsess?  Isn't that by definition what an obsession is?  According to Dictionary.com, YES!  The domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire, etc.) Domination and persistent being the key words here.  But enough obsessing.

Unfortunately, like with most things, I took my friend's words much too personally.  It's a problem I have.   And so the obsession continued--for months!  And with it,  the questions: Was she right?  Am I being self-indulgent when I spend time blogging?  Don't I have anything better to do?  Shouldn't I, instead, be focused on my Stay-At-Home-Mom duties?  You know; the dusting, the sweeping, the mopping.  And, God Forbid,  the cleaning of the oven.  Until finally, to shut them up, I stopped.  Oh, every so often I'd pop in and reread an old post, but just as quickly I'd move on.  To more important things.

But I missed it.  I missed the act of writing.  I missed sitting at my desk.  Logging in and clicking away on the keyboard when the words came fast and furious.  I even missed staring at my fingernails, or out the front window, or at the calendar Nora made me for Mother's Day last year, when they did not.  I missed the whole process.

And so, instead, I did what I have always done.  I wrote in secret.  The old fashioned way.  With pen and paper.  In bed at night, while Dave and the girls slept.  And I have the scribble filled papers, in my nightstand drawers, to prove it.   It was a win-win situation, right?  I mean, I got to write.  But it was TOTALLY on my time.  It wasn't taking any time away from my real job.  Everything was getting done.  And everyone was happy (if not a little sleep deprived).

But then one night, my sweet husband rolled over, probably because the light from my head lamp was keeping him awake, and asked, "why don't you do that during the day?  Then you won't be so tired."  I could have kissed him!  I probably did.

So after much thought, because that's what we obsessive types do, I resumed my blog.  Self-indulgence be damned!  Okay, that's not true.  I will never be one of those people who doesn't care what others think.  Despite what I tell my children.  Because, like everyone, I want to feel accepted, and respected.  What I can do is try harder.

So the next time someone wants to know just who the heck I am, blogging away when my kids are at school and my husband is off at work, I will say,

I am Sonja

I am a college graduate
I am a teacher (of the unpaid variety)
I am a mother, a wife (not in that order)
and
I am a writer (also of the unpaid variety)

And I will write.

Because writers write.  Whether it's a blog, or a journal, or a story, or an email to a far-away friend.   (Hi Angie, in Italy!) Because that's what we love.  Because the thoughts keep coming.  They are always there, rattling around.  A "whisper....pestering (me) all along from the back of (my) mind."(From The Life of Pi.)

I know now that it doesn't matter how or where I put my words. It doesn't even matter if anyone ever reads them.  What matters is that I take the time to put them somewhere.   Because writing helps me get through the day, through life.  It allows me to feel creative, when so much of my time is spent pursuing the mundane.  In short, it makes me feel good.  And if feeling good about one's self is self-indulgence, well, then, so-be-it. 

So to all those out there who think blogging is a self-indulgent waste of time, let me just say, I disagree.  For anything that allows us to feel creative, articulate, witty, serious, and free, has to be a good thing.  Now if you're just worried about the laundry, or the dishes.  Don't.  Because, like we've all heard before, life is about balance.  And if you pay any attention to the frequency of my blog posts, you will note that my blog is certainly NOT my top priority.  What you WILL note, is that it's a part of who I am.  It's part of what makes me tick.

And like I have always told my girls, if you want something bad enough, you have to go for it.  You have to do it.  And so I'm doing it.  I'm writing for me.  For no one else.  Well, maybe for my oldest daughter.  Because on my last birthday she gave me the best gift; a journal.  "So I'd have a place to write my ideas, and stories, rather than ratty pieces of paper."  She was right.  I do need a place.  And it's right here.  So I'll write for her too.

xoxo-
S  

I Gave In

Despite Mother Nature's attempt to fool me into thinking it's still Summer, (recent sunshine and warm temperatures) I have succumbed.  Time moves on.  Calendars don't lie.  It's definitely Fall.  Thus, I have abandoned my afore mentioned hope of clinging to Summer.  I am ready for cool mornings, sunny afternoons, and soups!  To prove my commitment to the change of seasons,  I got to work.  

I:

(a) Cleaned out the gardens, (now I just need to get some spring bulbs)

MY veggie garden

NORA JANE'S  non-veggie garden
This year she had strawberries and zinnias--
a beautiful combination

(b) Collected the last of this year's bounty

Tomatoes anyone?
REALLY!  My family does NOT like tomatoes.
We WON"T be growing them next year :)

(c) Planted a tree

Baby Japanese Maple

(d) Made Vegetable Soup with Nora. Nora who does NOT like vegetables.  Nora who does, however, very much enjoy stirring the pot. 

Stirring the vegetables that DID NOT come from our garden,
but the local grocer.

(e) Baked Pumpkin Spice Cookies

Delicious even without frosting.
(Or so says Dave)  But who would want to omit the frosting?   

(f)  Bought a new North Face Vest (in black!)  Perfect for Saturday morning soccer games!

(g) Put up a few Halloween decorations on the mantle, (so lame...not worth photographing)

And yesterday, I even, 

(h)  made Scarecrow Cookies for Nora's Girl Scout meeting.

So Goodbye Summer.

Hellooo Fall!

S-