Dear Journal,
How did I end up with my head stuck in the bathroom sink? I have an instant image of the fire department using crampons and pitons to crawl over the pile of yesterday’s laundry to rescue me and then how will the media twist and shout! T. ...to be continued.
For a Mom, each day dawns bright, happy and hopeful—filled with innocent potential. I wake giddy, excited and ready to take on whatever zips my way. The excitement overrides the memory of the missteps from yesterday and there is only optimism for the new day.
I live like I’m waiting in line for a thrill ride—patiently in queue with other stout-hearted adventurers, safe and secure in the knowledge that others have shuffled patiently down this same path before me and they have bested the challenges yet to come, so I can too! I’m up for whatever action-packed thrill life has in store.
Reality Bite: Ignorance is bliss.
Showing posts with label Cpt 1: Zero Gravity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cpt 1: Zero Gravity. Show all posts
Tuck and Roll
I’ve never felt the need to experience the masochistic thrill of the newest coaster adventure because I get my daily adrenalin rush from living life. One day, when I wasn’t looking, my daily ride turned into a roller coaster.
As each exciting day proceeds, tension builds and I feel the stress begin to ratchet up and up and up. There is an ominous awareness that at any moment, the day will reach it’s apex—the highest peak—and from that point on, I will experience one disastrous down surge after another and the trivial upswings will only grant me enough time to grab a breath and to amplify the dread for the encroaching swoop.
I am cautious and smart about thrill rides, so one would think I would be happy being the designated holder of the glasses and phones, content to stand back and watch other riders and merely recall the unpredictable sensations, but I can’t lock myself away at home and avoid living life.
So, when the ride I’m on squeals abruptly to a halt and I collapse with every muscle puddled and sagging, I feel my stomach gurgle from the ecstatic thrill of survival. I have managed to lose the glasses off my face and the remnants of my half-digested lunch onto other screaming combatants without mechanical means. And I am reminded once again, that there is no fee for this adrenaline rush; it’s a daily freebie!
Dear Journal, The children are blistered and worn out from the park yesterday. They danced in the fountain with their sneakers and then they wore them wet for the rest of the day. Voila! Soggy white blisters as consequences of their bad choices. Yesterday they couldn’t be bothered, so today they pay!
I explain that there is a reason that amusement parks are not called maximum-thrill, go-for-the-gusto, as-if-the-world-were-ending parks. Consequences. Living in after-party pathos, Terina
It is my goal to learn how to savor life’s thrills and spills, and somehow, in spite the erratic ups and downs, maintain a tenuous control amidst the turbulence. I’m going to appreciate and find joy in the adventure because that is what makes life more exciting than any whirling, twisting, twirling, tilt-a-zoomer, ever could.
Reality bite: That’s Life and choosing to love whatever the Lord sends, changes everything!
As each exciting day proceeds, tension builds and I feel the stress begin to ratchet up and up and up. There is an ominous awareness that at any moment, the day will reach it’s apex—the highest peak—and from that point on, I will experience one disastrous down surge after another and the trivial upswings will only grant me enough time to grab a breath and to amplify the dread for the encroaching swoop.
I am cautious and smart about thrill rides, so one would think I would be happy being the designated holder of the glasses and phones, content to stand back and watch other riders and merely recall the unpredictable sensations, but I can’t lock myself away at home and avoid living life.
So, when the ride I’m on squeals abruptly to a halt and I collapse with every muscle puddled and sagging, I feel my stomach gurgle from the ecstatic thrill of survival. I have managed to lose the glasses off my face and the remnants of my half-digested lunch onto other screaming combatants without mechanical means. And I am reminded once again, that there is no fee for this adrenaline rush; it’s a daily freebie!
Dear Journal, The children are blistered and worn out from the park yesterday. They danced in the fountain with their sneakers and then they wore them wet for the rest of the day. Voila! Soggy white blisters as consequences of their bad choices. Yesterday they couldn’t be bothered, so today they pay!
I explain that there is a reason that amusement parks are not called maximum-thrill, go-for-the-gusto, as-if-the-world-were-ending parks. Consequences. Living in after-party pathos, Terina
It is my goal to learn how to savor life’s thrills and spills, and somehow, in spite the erratic ups and downs, maintain a tenuous control amidst the turbulence. I’m going to appreciate and find joy in the adventure because that is what makes life more exciting than any whirling, twisting, twirling, tilt-a-zoomer, ever could.
Reality bite: That’s Life and choosing to love whatever the Lord sends, changes everything!
…as they were
Once upon a time, early in this grim tale, there were days that were all one repetitious round of sameness. Had I know that giving up the world of business to stay at home meant regaling myself to a year-long cycle of bottle, diaper, nap, bottle, diaper, nap, I may have entertained second thoughts and let sleeping babies lie.
Dear journal, whee, wipe out
Life is dull enough that I’ve decided to liven it up with a second child—no, not with another of my own yet! I’ll match my two month old with another two-month-old by becoming a day-care-mother. It’s a service to the community and I can certainly do bottle, diaper, nap, times two. Wish me well, Terina
What I discovered is that adding the second child compounds the excitement exponentially,[1] which makes things considerably more interesting and the excitement of life’s ride ratchets up.
The next season of motherhood changes by only one variable. Bottle, diaper, nap is joined by crawl, which mutates to walk, and as any mom will tell you, mobilization begins the independent surge toward the parent’s roller coaster existence.
Dear Journal
I promise you that I have everything in common with the persons in the handicapped parking place. I park in the open stall next to the shopping cart that some thoughtful stranger has neglected to push to the cart return, then I proceed to disconnect and transfer the children and their bags of life support to the transport that will deliver us to shopping safety.
As I inch past the handicapped zone, I’m reminded that this process is preparation for the onset of oxygen tanks, arthritis and wheelchairs, because no matter how fast I move, the little old lady in the front stall still beats me in the front door dash.
Shuffling along, Terina
Reality Bite: But, next time … next time, watch out!
[1] For those who have not yet suffered through sixth grade math homework, it means the little number situated at the top, right of the big number, and trust me, it never adds up to anything good.
...par
Dear Journal 2003,
The alarm rings and as I roll over moaning, I hear a voice from the opposite bedroom, “Mom!” I groan again. “Mommy, I think I wet the bed.” Why do things always happen when the laundry manager is out of town? Could it be that he’s always out of town? Cursing his business schedule once more, I mutter, “Get up, change your jams and come in here.” The alarm continues to ring. Oops, I’ll write more after preschool pick-up. …Terina
My essays are all about the reality track I’m on—the ups and downs and ins and outs of a life that is lived moment to moment, from the depths of boredom to the peaks of excitement.
I just read a news article by an “expert” (all journalists are experts automatically … somehow) maintains that there is some sort of choice to be made at the cusp of adulthood—one that I made unwittingly. She maintained that women choose to either have a career or be a stay-at-home-mom. And that choice results in either stress or depression, respectively, and in her mind, both will require medication. What?!!! I know that the journalist stated the opinion to create controversy and that journalists get it right by getting it all wrong, thereby appeasing their editor whose job it is to sell papers, but still, what concerns me is that other innocent persons may not be as jaded as I and they just might buy into this opinion and that bothers me.
I resolve to correct this presumption because having made both choices individually and simultaneously, I can spout equally well from both sides of my mouth, and speak solidly to the fact that women can be both stressed and depressed while working and staying at home, and how is that a bad thing? I’m living the unscripted version of life, complete and uncut, unedited, and reality driven. Most of us do. We can’t be squished into little shapeless tubes of statistics to be squeezed out whenever an ad campaign or a pharmaceutical manufacturer needs consensus.
We are individuals with original stories of life that prove—in this era of televised sensationalism, that while normal life may be too dull and mundane to merit a reality show or a docudrama and even too convoluted to blog, the risk puts it at such an excitement level that it’s worth a retelling just to try to make sense of it all or for the pure entertainment value.
Dear me,
I’ve started a blog site… a new one, every day this month. First, I forgot the sign on, then the password, and then the user id. Finally I wrote it all down and then misplaced the paper. I’m one of a million new bloggers monthly. Do you begin to suspect that there are a mere thousand of us, in forgetful insouciance opening a new blog, a thousand times a month? I’ve joined the Boring, Life Of Geekers, B.L.O.G.s
The alarm rings and as I roll over moaning, I hear a voice from the opposite bedroom, “Mom!” I groan again. “Mommy, I think I wet the bed.” Why do things always happen when the laundry manager is out of town? Could it be that he’s always out of town? Cursing his business schedule once more, I mutter, “Get up, change your jams and come in here.” The alarm continues to ring. Oops, I’ll write more after preschool pick-up. …Terina
My essays are all about the reality track I’m on—the ups and downs and ins and outs of a life that is lived moment to moment, from the depths of boredom to the peaks of excitement.
I just read a news article by an “expert” (all journalists are experts automatically … somehow) maintains that there is some sort of choice to be made at the cusp of adulthood—one that I made unwittingly. She maintained that women choose to either have a career or be a stay-at-home-mom. And that choice results in either stress or depression, respectively, and in her mind, both will require medication. What?!!! I know that the journalist stated the opinion to create controversy and that journalists get it right by getting it all wrong, thereby appeasing their editor whose job it is to sell papers, but still, what concerns me is that other innocent persons may not be as jaded as I and they just might buy into this opinion and that bothers me.
I resolve to correct this presumption because having made both choices individually and simultaneously, I can spout equally well from both sides of my mouth, and speak solidly to the fact that women can be both stressed and depressed while working and staying at home, and how is that a bad thing? I’m living the unscripted version of life, complete and uncut, unedited, and reality driven. Most of us do. We can’t be squished into little shapeless tubes of statistics to be squeezed out whenever an ad campaign or a pharmaceutical manufacturer needs consensus.
We are individuals with original stories of life that prove—in this era of televised sensationalism, that while normal life may be too dull and mundane to merit a reality show or a docudrama and even too convoluted to blog, the risk puts it at such an excitement level that it’s worth a retelling just to try to make sense of it all or for the pure entertainment value.
Dear me,
I’ve started a blog site… a new one, every day this month. First, I forgot the sign on, then the password, and then the user id. Finally I wrote it all down and then misplaced the paper. I’m one of a million new bloggers monthly. Do you begin to suspect that there are a mere thousand of us, in forgetful insouciance opening a new blog, a thousand times a month? I’ve joined the Boring, Life Of Geekers, B.L.O.G.s
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