@AdviceToWriters: What no wife of a writer understands is that a writer is working when he’s staring out the window.
~ Burton Rascoe
While we had the snowy days, I had time to cook. I also made roasted pork chops. I intended to cook a roast, but I accidentally froze the wrong package. The pork chops were okay, but the roasted vegetables would have tasted better with th roast beef instead of the park chops. At least I can still improvise in the kitchen.
Just write. Just keep writing. It shouldn’t matter what comes out. Just keep writing. Consider the day. Consider the personalities. Consider the mood swings. Consider the odd interruptions and strange silliness that percolate through each day.
I’ve gotten away from writing. Fearful that I lend too personal, accidentally revealing confidences that don’t want to be revealed. In 2011, when I embarked upon the first “write once a day” challenge, it seemed easier – though it was hard. I found a rhythm for nine months that allowed me to write, to digest, and write in a way that I could explore and vent without betraying perceived needed secrecy.
Do you ever think about laying down your roots? Establishing yourself to place, and making it work? I think about it often, but I haven’t considered it like that until now.
In my twenties, I moved around, I quit jobs, and I started and stopped going to school – more than once. I struggled to come of age, in a sense, trying different hats on to see what fit, never satisfied with where I was. Eventually that path had me follow a boy out West, a place I long coveted, and I suppose I used him as an excuse to make that experiment a reality. The first few years here, I had the same patterns – though my hand was sometimes forced, rather than me choosing to jump ship – the choice was sometimes made for me.
And then, I found out I was pregnant. My mind began to flash back to when I was a child, something it continues to do now that we are raising our son. Flashing back to the constant moving. Flashing back to the new adventures and many unsuccessful attempts to “make friends”. Flashing back to the countless teachers, the borrowed clothes, and never feeling a sense of home – except at my grandparents house.
Already, I was repeating patterns I vowed to never repeat, and I suppose another vow surfaced – create a stable home for our son.
Serendipitously, I stayed home until he was three years old, although it certainly didn’t feel like a blessing at the time. We woke up together, ate together, dressed together, visited the library together, made cookies together, started a food club together, volunteered together, waited for daddy together. And, then I got a job. And, then, we put him into three different schools over the course of three years while I next learned how to navigate working motherhood while my husband worked varied shifts at his union job.
And, now I’m thinking about that relationship that brought me out here… we were never settled where we were. It was always a temporary thing until we made the move. There was no desire to have a career, there. There was no desire to have a permanent place, there. We always had one foot out the door. And, now I know that’s not how I want to live. I want to be rooted, at least for a while. I want to think in the now, not the future.
I’m not saying to neglect planning for a rainy day, nor am I saying to not save for that next big thing. But, I don’t want to worry about it anymore. I don’t want it to come up in conversation. I want to enjoy exactly where we are right now. I want to appreciate everything around us – right now. I want to savor these moments, because they won’t last forever, and I want to learn from them. Right now.
We’ve moved. After being a lifelong renter, I am now, with my husband, a homeowner. We purchased a house near our old home, only about a mile a way. It’s a little closer to our son’s school. It’s near a park. And, it’s near our favorite bus line.
We closed on the house on November 27th, the day before Thanksgiving. Since, we have experienced lessons in choosing paint, learning to decide on furniture, and cleaning together the old house. Despite our best attempts, the landlord was disappointed in our cleaning. But, I am hoping we are each walking our separate ways. I hope to write more on the last year as we begin this new year, now that I feel I can discuss the challenges we faced.
We are here, in 2014. This is the year that will mark my eleventh year in Portland. This is the year that will mark our son’s 7th birthday. This is the year that will mark my 36th birthday, and our 8th year of marriage. The food buying club has worked, together, now for 4 years. Levi is in his second year of school at Holy Cross, and he is, now, doing well, comparable to his first year of preschool.
Monday, we will go back to school. Monday will be the first time we will start our day, our complete day, from the new house.
In addition to living in a new house, in a new neighborhood, with new logistics. I will be starting the Executive Leadership Academy from Willamette Valley Development Officers. This is a 10-month program designed to propel people into the next stage in their career. Since graduating from college in 2008, I’ve been struggling to find the right fit for me, for the long-term. I have explored different schooling, volunteering, and job opportunities. And, I hope this one fits the bill. It covers a variety of topics that are quite logical, as well as being paired with a mentor.
So, new house, new routines, and new education. Here’s to life in the new year. Happy 2014!
Sometimes… sometimes it feels like it just comes down to a few moments. There are so many moments that make up a day. One moment, someone complements you… and you are feeling elated for being noticed. In another moment, someone unjustly yells at you, and you are feeling deflated for the accusation and unjusticeness of it all. But, they are all just moments.
Two night ago, I had, what felt like, a successful parenting moment.
There are so many books, so many ideas, so many ways to parent. And, in this place I call home, so many of them fly in our faces daily… so many things with which to pick and choose. As a parent, I want my child to be successful, in however he defines that success. I want him to be kind. I want him to be thoughtful, courageous, and brave. I want him to have a good understanding of a moral and ethical right and wrong. I want him to be a strong communicator in which he will have power over his ideas. So, much, we want for our children.
And, often, I sit there looking at him, and my brain cannot help but flash forward to the moments that are to come – graduating from the various grades (K (done), 8th grade, senior year in high school, perhaps college or beyond?), working his first job, enjoying his first relationships. And, I come back from that flash forward into this moment – into the here and now – and I know that these choices, these actions are shaping those outcomes, for better or worse.
Some time ago, I realized that we all come from dysfunctional families. No family is perfect. Some families yell too much. Some families don’t say enough. Some families widdle away their monies on exotic vacations while others are so spendthrift, they enjoy little outside their homes. Some families are so afraid of the outside world, they shut their children in under the guise of protection. Some families are so afraid of being shut in, they expose their children to things they are perhaps not ready for…
And, where does our family fall? I would hazard a guess that we are somewhere in the middle, having experienced various extremes in our own lives, my husband and I hope to carve out a better future for our son.
And, I hope I had a successful parenting moment in that carving because there are so many moments that, when in reflection, I know I could have made a better choice.
We are clearing out the old, getting ready for the new. Three adults buzzing along, trying to get work done, and the six-year-old just wants to play. He had just got done helping me clear out a space, when he changed tactics and forgot “helper boy” and recalled “silly boy”. I went back in the house, and he turned the back lights off – so those working out back could not see – and then he gaily ran through the house and hid himself in his (old) closet.
We’ve had an awful lot of rule bending lately, and the line has moved. I know I need to keep the line firm. But sometimes, you just need to kick up your tired feet. But, is this the way he’ll behave on a job someday? So, I track him down. I am not angry so much as imbued with my parental duty. I walk as my feet echo in the bare room on the bare floors. I hear him giggle. I walk towards the giggle. I walk in his old room. All is quiet. I am certain he is… yes, he is – behind the door. I fumble for his hand, I have yet to say a word, and I grab it. He knows something is wrong. He resists. I grab hold of his coat, careful not to grab harshly onto his arm, trying to grab the hand, which has turned into a fist, instead.
We were discouraged from using this tactic previously. Yet, I am firm in its use, and continue to walk him.
We walk through the bedroom, the hall, the living room, into the kitchen. At which point he starts shouting, “No, no, no, you haven’t even told me what’s wrong!” (I prefer to seat him, talk, set timer, review, apologize, move on.)
I set him on the stool, “You have to have a timeout for being rude.”
The timeout ticks by. I get a few more items cleaned up. I go back to the kitchen and it’s nearly done. He pops up after the timer hits zero. We sit. We review. I remind him, twice, of what he did. He says he doesn’t know how, and resolves that he was trying to be silly or mean. I explain that the mean behavior is the rude behavior, and he has a Eurka! moment. He thinks, calmly now, “Oh, I understand,” legitimately understood.
There was no yelling. There was no gnashing of teeth. There was an exchange, and it was perhaps one of the most pleasant timeouts w’ve ever had.
Cheers to understanding. Cheers to a new year. Cheers to new beginnings.