Stubborn

Sometimes I can be stubborn. It usually rears its head at odd times. When Mike wants to turn up the heat and don't want to, or when my boss tells me we might need to move rooms and I don't want to. I can feel it deep within me, this small little girl stomping her feet and screaming, "NO! I don't want to! You can't make me!!" That's how I feel tonight. I don't want to write and nobody's going to make me. I want to sit here and watch Dancing With The Stars, eat food I shouldn't eat and do nothing but judge them for wearing scantily clad clothes on a family show. "See, I was writing and I missed Melissa Gilbert!" I told you I did not want to write. I have nothing of any real value to say. I feel cranky and probably tired and I do not want to write. The great thing is, I'm an adult and I can choose not to write. So, I am making a very adult decision - I am NOT writing. The End.

Distracted Growth

I’ve noticed, that since starting the writing challenge, I am quite distracted by all the writing I am doing in my head. The other night I was leaving my writing group and almost took a wrong turn and ended up in Loveland instead of Arvada because I was busy thinking about how I might end my latest post. As I swerved across traffic to right my wrong, I wondered if I was too mentally impaired  to drive. Today, as I was coming home from the grocery store, I became lost in processing how I might craft this percolating topic into a blog post. I’m not really sure how long I sat in my car before remembering that my chicken might be thawing in the back end.

This weekend I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, the subtitle is Some Instructions on Writing and Life. My intention in visiting this wonderful oasis was just to have some one-on-one time with a friend. I had no intention of buying anything. I was in denial. I left with $45.00 worth of books and somehow my friend escaped with spending barely $5.00. It was her idea in the first place. Just not right! But, I couldn’t not buy this book. I have heard so many great things about this writer, and I read just enough that putting it back on the shelf was out of the question. So - now I can fill my head with more ideas about writing. Good thing spring break is coming; I may be in a walking writer’s coma by then. I’ll need the vacation to either lose myself in writing, or recover and find balance again. My problem is usually starting the process, the blank page scares me. Either way, I am noticing that my ability to sit down and get to writing is improving. Yay me!

Now, I’m off to write another letter of recommendation. Not my favorite writing, but writing none-the-less.

Alone

It’s been an unusually busy week. I’ve seen friends almost every night this week. Oh so fun! But, I can only take that pace for so long, and then I need to be home. Tonight, I was given the gift of an evening, alone, in my house. God bless my mate! He took the kids and headed off to spend the night with a group of our friends. When I told him I would love to stay home, he said, “Go for it!” It took me a few minutes to decide that being home, alone, would be good for my soul. It’s amazing all that one can accomplish and enjoy without children clamoring for attention!

Natalie’s Night - Alone

1)      Took a nap

2)      Straightened the entry way

3)      Made dinner – for oneJ

4)      Watched “Worst Cooks in America” and ate dinner

5)      Cleaned my kitchen

6)      Threw in a load of laundry

7)      Went for a walk

8)      Put clothes in dryer

9)      Vacuumed

10)  Folded boys’ laundry

11)  Put laundry away

12)  Wrote a blog

God bless my husband!! I hope his evening was as enjoyable as mineJ

The Life of A Hallway

I am conflicted. As I walk up the short flight of steps to our small condo, nestled between two other little abodes, I am conflicted. I long for more space, for a yard to call our own, for a bathroom that does not double as a bike rack, for children’s bedrooms that aren’t constantly explode with toys when the door is opened.

And yet, it is our home.

It’s the place where my mate and I painted, hung light fixtures and purchased items to make it our own. The place where we started and completed our family.  The place that has been accumulated memories for many years. Eventually, when we pack our belongings and move to a new house, it will be bitter sweet.

One of the spaces that I will miss is our hallway. It’s a short hallway that connects our living room to our bedrooms. On one wall there is an 8x10 photo of my baby and toddler, their cute little toes peeking out at me. As the children have grown we’ve added a simple wood-framed bulletin board that overflows with art work and special papers from school. At Christmas we take down all the clutter and transform the board into a construction paper nativity scene. Each day we add a laminated figure to the setting, impatiently counting down the days until December 25^th. When I remember, there is a little treat, in the present box hanging next to Bethlehem. More often than not the boys have to remind me to add the surprise, thus losing the mystery of how these gifts arrive each morning.

At the end of the hall is a mirror, a kind and loving mirror. When we moved it from our last home, something happened, and now it has a slight bow that causes the image (me) to look thinner than reality. It’s a beautiful gift to my ego. Everyone should have such a mirror. Now-a-days the bottom half is forever covered in small handprints, as it is a common place of entertainment.

Most nights, as I travel to bed, I stop to pick up random toys that never quite made it anywhere. Masks that have been discarded for a better costume, Nerf darts that were used for the impromptu attack, teeny-tiny Legos that hide in the corners of the carpet, and socks that lost their way on the trip to the hamper.




 

 When Greyden was a baby the hallway was a bedroom. Each night we would wheel his little bassinet from our room to the hall. His baby noises kept me from sleep, and I just couldn’t bring myself to put my fragile infant in the ginormous crib in his bedroom. Last summer it became a climbing wall, as Zak learned he could shimmy himself to the ceiling and back. Over the weekend (instead of playing in the warm sunshine) we threw an orange and black foam football up and down the hallway. Our time together was marked by shouts of congratulation for the perfect spiral or effortless catch. Daddy “horse” has galloped many miles, down this hall, with young cowboys on his back.

 It’s amazing how memories can settle into the most mundane spaces, like a hallway. Even with these precious memories, I still dream of more space. I wonder what memories our new hallway will hold. Will my boys plunk themselves down on the floor as they nervously call and ask a sweetheart for a date? How often will our teenagers sneak out after curfew, paying close attention to the squeak on the third floorboard?  Will they stop to adjust their tie in the mirror before venturing off to their first prom? How many tears will I cry as I watch them pack for college and take their final box to the car?

And so, I am conflicted. I dream of more space, but wonder if I’m truly ready to say good-bye.

Choice: Free Money or Blog?

Tonight, I chose to write a grant instead of write on my blog. I'm excited because it is a grant to purchase non-fiction mentor text and professional writing books that support non-fiction instruction. It felt very rewarding to press submit. I will know by May 15th if they accepted my proposal.

So sad about not being able to blog. As I walked the rows of testers, I came up with a great topic. I even started formulating the words in my head.

Now it's a choice between sleep and blogging. I choose sleep.

Hopefully the inspired post will still be lingering in my head tomorrow.

Need to Breathe

Last night I went outside
my normal Monday routine
I traveled to Cherry Creek
for dinner at the Kona Grill
shared some Red Velvet Cake
almost more delicious than sex

Piled into a Mercedes
with six of my friends
giggled and chatted
our way to the Ogden

Stood for three hours
lost all personal space
swivelled my hips
shook my bootie
to the beat of the drum

So tired I'm delusional
but the memories
make it worth the trip
out of my normal routine

Dirty Little Secret

…It is of immense importance to learn to laugh at ourselves.

-Katherine Mansfield

Last night we traveled to Castle Rock to attend a fortieth birthday party. It was a special party. Our friend wasn’t expected to live to forty, or thirty, or even twenty. It was a special party. We went to see his pregnant wife. His pregnant wife who never thought her dream would become a reality. It was a special party.

As we stood in their kitchen, we reminisced about our first meeting. It was a meeting that sealed our friendship in laughter.

It was several years ago that we met on a cold winter evening. We had decided to meet at church and then go for a pleasant dinner at the Chart House, but Zak’s smashed finger changed the direction of our evening. We needed to take Zak home but we didn’t want to miss a chance to be together, so we invited them instead to our home for take-out pizza.

There was one big problem with our great new plan, our house was a disaster! It’s ok if long-time friends see our day-to-day living, but new friends should see the best side of us (at least once). I guess there was one other slight problem, when we decided to alter our plan – we weren’t actually home to fix the chaos.

After a private “what are we going to do” conversation, Mike and I sprang into action. It was decided that he would leave ahead of us, in hopes of having a few minutes to return our home to some semblance of order. It was a risky move, but the only viable option. I tried my best to stall, before piling us into cars and making our way to our soon-to-be clean home.

As I opened the door, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and marveled at all he had accomplished in such a short period of time. The toys were neatly stacked in their basket, the assorted piles of junk that had been living on our counter had disappeared, and the most masterful piece of all was the kitchen. The stack of dishes that had taken up residence in the sink was gone. I was in awe of my mate’s magical powers. Truly impressive. The thought that ran through my head was, “Who knew he was so gifted at the art of clean-up. If he’s such a magician, why doesn’t he do this more often?”

Mike went to settle Zak in for the night, and our guests and I delved into getting to know each other better. As we chatted, I entered our little kitchen. They leaned against our tall counter as our effortless conversation continued. I began pulling glasses from the cupboard and filling drink orders. It didn’t take long to forget the stresses of the evening and settle into a natural rhythm of discussion. Before the pizza arrived, I realized that we had nothing to serve for dessert. A good hostess always serves dessert. I mentally ran through the items in our pantry and refrigerator. Since serving graham crackers and peanut butter to our new guests was out, I decided on the pie I had been keeping in our freezer.

I turned on the oven and continued preparing for our meal. It was when my new friend pointed out that smoke was seeping out of our oven that I remembered Mike’s little secret.

“Don’t turn on the oven! I crammed all of the dirty dishes in there.” Mike had whispered to me before leaving the room.

Horrified, I had to open the oven – thus revealing our dirty little secret to our fresh new friends. I tried to discreetly peak into my appliance, but it was official, my dishes were on fire. We were busted. There is no faking perfection with flames bursting from your dinnerware.

Our reminiscing has caused me to I reflect on who I have become since the day of flames. At the time I was a perfectionist, now I’m a recovering perfectionist. Fortunately, for everyone around me, I am recovering cause being around a true blue Mary Poppins (fairly perfect in every way) can be a real downer. Who wants to be with someone who tries so hard to do everything perfectly, who often times thinks their way is the perfect way. Being a perfectionist is exhausting. It’s much more fulfilling to make mistakes, to take risks, to be honest and tell the world (or at least my faithful followers) your house is a mess, or set your dishes aflame – and laugh. So, thank you to all my imperfect friends who are brave and authentic with me. It calls me out, keeps me out of hiding, and reminds me each day to be me, imperfectly human – me.

Author’s Note: My goal today was to bust out a story and post it. I'm insecure about being a storyteller. I have another story I started over a week ago, but I’m struggling with wanting the “perfect” piece of writing. Ironic isn’t it? So, here’s my attempt at slice of life storytelling.