ramblings

It's Friday afternoon, and I feel adrift. Somehow (hmmm, I wonder really) I managed to get whatever bug Miss Bea has been fighting. I don't have the nasal congestion but I feel a little worse for the wear, and my throat is mercilessly scratchy.  I went to Biblestudy this morning and now I am worried that I may have exposed the other mamas. Deepest apologies if anyone feels yucky.

So it's a new year. And for once, I really don't know what my goals should be. I asked Russ what he thought, and wisely he said that he couldn't answer it without it sounding like he wasn't happy and wanted an improved version of me. Sometimes he is so tactful.  Later he told me that one of my resolutions should be to wear tighter pants. Funny man.

At group this morning (I always think of it like that because it is a form of talk therapy really) we all did this mini-catch up. I sat there listening to these lovely women share their hearts and I was very aware of how little we ever know about each other. What can we really glean from a brief summary?  Of course there was good news, new jobs, new babies, new pregnancies, but there were also resolutions to "do the next thing" and confessions of anxiety--real physiological anxiety, not just some vague nervousness.  When it was my turn, I didn't really know what or how to summarize what I am feeling. I said something, but when I was done, I was dissatisfied. Sometimes spoken English eludes me, and I feel like I am communicating about 45% of what I want to say but using 156% of the words necessary. So I am going to try again here, in this safe little corner of the internet.  I rarely write anymore. That is something that bothers me. I love words. I love to string them together like sparkling beads knotted on a silk cord. I also like making jewelry. Non sequitor. So here goes, a rambling dissertation on the state of my uneasy heart.

My babies are growing up. And I feel like I am losing them. They test me and strengthen me. There are moments of blinding perfection and joy coupled with hours of willfullness and oppositional defiance. Bea insists on being held. Almost constantly. It is exhausting, yet, I can hardly make myself put her down. She is my last baby. And when I look at her determined chin and bright eyes, I scarcely see that wee babe I remember. So I hold her. Close. Everett, oh, my sweet boy. He is so imaginative. His desire for television is remniscent of my own as a child. I hope that when he learns to read, he finds books as captivating. I want to push pause or rewind so often with him. His lanky limbs and energy are the same only bigger and more. Yet, there is a tenderness and sweetness that is new in his personality. I find myself wondering if I am doing it right, what can I do better, how do I show them how important they are and how much I need them?  I wonder what comes next.  The corner seems to get closer everyday. And while I don't know exactly what's around it, I know that it will be very different street. Bea can go to preschool next year and Everett will go to kindergarten.  It makes my stomach ache to think about it. My life has been so completely consumed with planning first around feeding and naps and now around activities and refereeing that I don't know what I might do with that time.

So what if I got a job. That's what people do. I even have two degrees, surely I could dust them off and find something interesting to do. Right. The other night, I did a brief job search among the North Carolina colleges and universities, just to test the waters. North Carolina because, quite honestly, I want to go home. I miss it there. My roots here have never really taken. I was transplanted and thrived in the fertile environment of Raleigh and my heart wants to be in the South.But back to the job search.  I found a few that looked interesting and a couple that I might be qualified for. But, the kicker was a dream job as head costume designer for the intermural theater at NC State. I desperately wish I was qualified for that job. Aside from reading and writing, Fashion/Costuming/ and Textiles is the other field that fills me with excitement and passion. It makes me sad that even though I knew this at 16, I never pursued it because I was scared of being silly and shallow. That was a mistake. So I have a BA in Psychology and a MA in English. And while they were interesting classes, the jobs that they qualify me for do not garner the same excitement as the job in Costume design. I am realizing now that I may need to fluff my resume a little before heading into the workforce. I haven't worked outside the home since two weeks prior to Everett's birth and the thought of returning is daunting. But if not that, then what?

We are still so unsettled where we live. I thought that it would get better and at times it does, for a few weeks or months at best.But then, "it" hits and I am miserable and Russ is miserable and the only thing that would help is being somewhere else. Somewhere bright and blue, with museums, and mountains, and things to do in the middle of January. Maybe I am just some sort of anti-social, misanthrope these days, who doesn't know how to be nice anymore. Or maybe it is only seasonal affective disorder. Or the post-Christmas blues. 

Regardless of cause, I am feeling a bit like having a wee pity party.  And I know that is ridiculous, because even as I complain, I see the tremendous list of my blessings scroll before my eyes. And I try to hang on to those happy, azure feelings. Those bits of perfect sunshine. But, right now, I can't. And I dare anyone to suggest a solution.

I re-read Anne of Green Gables ( my mother put it in my stocking, wise woman she). I had forgotton how akin to Anne I felt when I first read it. And strangely, I still do. I am going to re-read the entire series, it actually covers Anne's entire life, which offers readers an unusual closure. So often books end, and those, like me who get attached to the characters are forced to end the relationship according to the author's whim. But L.M. Montgomery is gracious enough to give the readers a chance for a proper farewell. I digress though, because my point in bringing up Anne, is that she allows her self the utter desolation of her feelings.  Of course she is remembered as being a cheerful and imaginative character, but I love that her depth of emotion is fully expressed in both joy and sorrow, even what seem like trivial sorrows.

So, today, I lay amongst my down blankets, wearing the most unflattering sweatshirt, fleece pants, and wool socks, allowing myself the luxury of feeling down. Why not?  The dishes in the sink won't get dirtier, the house might, but maybe by morning some of this ambiguous angst will dissipate and I will greet the day with a more chipper attitute. Maybe I won't. It certainly won't change the love I feel for my children, or my husband, or the gratitude I feel for the intangible (and tangible) treasures in my life. But maybe giving myself permission to be less than 100% is exactly how I need to start this new year.

Maybe my goals shouldn't be doing more things. Or even doing new things. Instead perhaps, I will unearth  parts of myself that were abandoned somehow along the journey. So I will ponder, and search, for those dusty gifts that have languished as I have aged. What could be more appropriate as I look forward to that milestone birthday of 30?  I will let you know what I come up with.