I woke up early, before the kids, this morning. This makes me a little nervous; rarely do I wake up early, wide awake, before the rest of the house. The three other times I remember this happening include the day Jack was born, the day our car was smashed into the neighbor's yard by a drunk driver, and the day that Ed died. I've decided, though, that I am just aware of the first weekend of Advent and am ready for the season of anticipation and hope to begin.
We pulled out the Christmas decorations last night. Years of looking forward to the holiday season have become habit; I automatically feel an anticipation of wonder and contentment. Of course, now, as soon as I bring up the boxes flooded with memories and dreams of another life, I am forced right back into today's reality: it's now about creating new memories, redefining contentment, and--maybe--*just* maybe--imagining there are new dreams that could be fulfilled (but, shhhh... that's too dangerous yet to think about).
Despite our new reality, we still use the decorations of another life because, I suppose, we are reminded of a lot of the good from that life. And, for all the work and investment that went into that life-I can't completely let go. Nor should I, for my children's sake.
Yet, I only hung up three stockings: Jack, Laura, and Reese. Just like the Christmas card I am sending out this year: from the three of us. Just like the picture on the fridge that Jack drew of the three of us and written above the picture: "I am thankful for my family." And, it's a family of three. I am amazed and proud that Jack could face drawing that picture; I was in the middle, holding the hand of each child on either side of me. The three of us fill the entire frame of the paper-as if there isn't anyone missing. So, I'm not sure why it knocked me over to hang up only three stockings. I had to pause, sit on the couch and let the grief wash over. Reese came and sat by me, hugged me, called me sweetie pie and told me that she loved me. Then, we set out the Advent wreath and candles.
Saturday, December 01, 2012
Monday, October 01, 2012
Comparable Darkness
My front porch light is out. And, it's not as simple as changing the light bulb. Of course. Much like finding childcare. Never simple. Anyway, my front yard is dark. At night, I leave the light on just inside the door; I can see a sliver of its light outside my bedroom window, just beyond the lilac tree. Last year, after Ed died, the back porch light at the old house went out. For weeks, it was dark. Dark, dark. I didn't get it fixed because I was dealing with other pressing issues like not losing my mind. I dreaded that darkness because it seemed to have no soul, no out, like a black hole. I dreaded it because it mirrored what I felt. I will never forget that dark space and my strange, if intimate, connection to it.
This year, a year later, the porch light is out again. In the new house. But, it's not as dark. I am wrestling with the familiar, exhausting reality of daily frustration, isolation and the slow process of building a new life and identity. But, it's not as dark.
I've been taking pictures of the house when I think of it. I never took "before" pictures, but do have some after. The first one, below, is the Southwest corner of the living room. Before, this wall was covered with a big slat of paneling painted light, faded mauve. Now, there are new walls with insulation underneath. The paint is "Nimbus Grey," which is the perfect blue.The picture below it shows the front porch with its newer blue door, part of the front yard and the walk to the door.
I've been taking pictures of the house when I think of it. I never took "before" pictures, but do have some after. The first one, below, is the Southwest corner of the living room. Before, this wall was covered with a big slat of paneling painted light, faded mauve. Now, there are new walls with insulation underneath. The paint is "Nimbus Grey," which is the perfect blue.The picture below it shows the front porch with its newer blue door, part of the front yard and the walk to the door.
The last picture I took yesterday. It shows the blue, blue sky that has been around for the last two months. And, one of my favorite trees (yes, I have at least four favorite trees!): I love the deep red maple leaves. I include this only to document the season, a fall that has been uncommonly sunny and bright (which feels alternately helpful and mocking). There are more pictures. For now, though, it's about light, blue hues, shadows and slivers of hope.
Sunday, September 02, 2012
Labor of Love
I am surprised that I am looking forward to fall. Tonight, when tucking Jack in, he told me how sad he was that summer was over. My response was that it must have been a good summer if he was sad it's over. We talked about what a gift that was- that we could have a good summer, our first summer without Ed. I then told Jack how I used to get the summer blues. Even through my twenties, I would depressed at the end of August. In the last few years, though, those blues have given way to a sweet anticipation for fall. I didn't fully realize until tonight that it's been years since I was sad over summer's end. And, last summer, I distinctly remember feeling filled up by summer--that we lived it as fully as we could have--that I didn't need any more of it.
Maybe it's habit that I'm looking forward to fall; maybe it's that I am just relieved I survived summer-the move, the "vacations" with the kids--who knows. Part of me is also aware of the power of denial and that lurking around the corner is likely a wave of grief so strong I may discover (or re-discover) a fall that isn't so full of the warmth and richness of the changing colors. Or, maybe not. I've learned to wait and see.
I made pulled pork for Ed's family, who came up today to celebrate Labor Day. I needed to find a bbq meal without a grill (I sold that at the yard sale). I spent too much time at work on Friday looking up recipes for pork rubs and coleslaw. But, it was worth it- the pulled pork turned out great. Jack had three helpings- which made it all worth it for me. There was a fair amount of work involved. Hours before Jack and everyone had their first helping, I stood, breaking apart the tender pork butt with two forks, carefully removing a lot of the fat. My lower back was a little sore from standing in the kitchen. I felt like I was standing in Ed's shoes. I was in his kitchen, his domain, his world, giving time to the meal and enjoying it. Jack was playing downstairs with a friend and Reese was taking a nap on my bed. Unlike so many moments that I attempt to do it all and end up completely frustrated and yelling at the kids, I was given the gift of uninterrupted time to finish the meal: Ed's meal. I am unbelievably grateful for that time- - time that will fold over itself in memories- how I will will remember making pulled pork for the first time in our house and how the making of it blends in the years of Ed's holiday meals.
October 8th approaches. It's like a far off storm, or hurricane, that may or may not fully hit us. I am aware of its force, so I imagine I'll be that much thankful for any smooth sailing.
Maybe it's habit that I'm looking forward to fall; maybe it's that I am just relieved I survived summer-the move, the "vacations" with the kids--who knows. Part of me is also aware of the power of denial and that lurking around the corner is likely a wave of grief so strong I may discover (or re-discover) a fall that isn't so full of the warmth and richness of the changing colors. Or, maybe not. I've learned to wait and see.
I made pulled pork for Ed's family, who came up today to celebrate Labor Day. I needed to find a bbq meal without a grill (I sold that at the yard sale). I spent too much time at work on Friday looking up recipes for pork rubs and coleslaw. But, it was worth it- the pulled pork turned out great. Jack had three helpings- which made it all worth it for me. There was a fair amount of work involved. Hours before Jack and everyone had their first helping, I stood, breaking apart the tender pork butt with two forks, carefully removing a lot of the fat. My lower back was a little sore from standing in the kitchen. I felt like I was standing in Ed's shoes. I was in his kitchen, his domain, his world, giving time to the meal and enjoying it. Jack was playing downstairs with a friend and Reese was taking a nap on my bed. Unlike so many moments that I attempt to do it all and end up completely frustrated and yelling at the kids, I was given the gift of uninterrupted time to finish the meal: Ed's meal. I am unbelievably grateful for that time- - time that will fold over itself in memories- how I will will remember making pulled pork for the first time in our house and how the making of it blends in the years of Ed's holiday meals.
October 8th approaches. It's like a far off storm, or hurricane, that may or may not fully hit us. I am aware of its force, so I imagine I'll be that much thankful for any smooth sailing.
Sunday, August 05, 2012
A Week and a Day
We've been in the new house a week and a day. The sheet rocking is nearly complete in the living room, so in the meantime, after we wake up, Reese and I sit on the TV room couch that is currently in the dining room next to the kitchen table. The washing machine went out so I bought a new washer and dryer that was delivered yesterday. All I can say about that was at least I'll get a chunk of miles out of it.
It has been hot in Seattle. This weekend the temperatures are near 90 degrees. Last night, we went to family swim at Coleman Pool. We would go last summer as a family. It used to stress me out, mostly because I resisted the work to get to the pool and then worried about Reese.The stress, preparation and worry overruled any enjoyment in swimming. Being a single parent has forced me to enjoy the times, however small, that are available. So, despite the preparation, the long walk to the pool, the reality that I would be holding Reese the entire time and not able to swim own my own, we went swimming and it was lovely. We went to friends after for dinner, and when we got home, the house was stifling. It was 9:30, but still in the 80s. We watched the Olympics in the cool basement while I caught up on the laundry and even though I was spent, there is a shift in comfort. I like being here, in my house.
In a lot of ways, the house reminds me of our house in Boston. The hard wood floors (oak?) are old; likely the originals from when the house was built in 1946 and they are unevenly stained. When it's hot, there's a feeling that I can't ever get all the dirt off the floor and my feet are sore, cracked and filthy. I meet the end of the day with a steaming hot wash cloth to wrap my feet and take away some of the day's wear and tear. This single act represents my summers of 2005 and 2006 in our house in Roslindale. I have flashbacks to weighing the costs of my feet with the costs of putting small rugs in the hallways and bedrooms. There is also crown molding around the doors, doorways and windows that is very similar. Boston was an amazing place, an experience that is now out of place and time. I relish that I am able to have some of it here with me, now, in Seattle, without Ed, because it keeps him and that magical time more present in my day to day life.
Last night, driving home, Reese asked if we could go to the new house. When I tucked him in, Jack said he is liking the back yard more than he thought. This was a good move for us.
It has been hot in Seattle. This weekend the temperatures are near 90 degrees. Last night, we went to family swim at Coleman Pool. We would go last summer as a family. It used to stress me out, mostly because I resisted the work to get to the pool and then worried about Reese.The stress, preparation and worry overruled any enjoyment in swimming. Being a single parent has forced me to enjoy the times, however small, that are available. So, despite the preparation, the long walk to the pool, the reality that I would be holding Reese the entire time and not able to swim own my own, we went swimming and it was lovely. We went to friends after for dinner, and when we got home, the house was stifling. It was 9:30, but still in the 80s. We watched the Olympics in the cool basement while I caught up on the laundry and even though I was spent, there is a shift in comfort. I like being here, in my house.
In a lot of ways, the house reminds me of our house in Boston. The hard wood floors (oak?) are old; likely the originals from when the house was built in 1946 and they are unevenly stained. When it's hot, there's a feeling that I can't ever get all the dirt off the floor and my feet are sore, cracked and filthy. I meet the end of the day with a steaming hot wash cloth to wrap my feet and take away some of the day's wear and tear. This single act represents my summers of 2005 and 2006 in our house in Roslindale. I have flashbacks to weighing the costs of my feet with the costs of putting small rugs in the hallways and bedrooms. There is also crown molding around the doors, doorways and windows that is very similar. Boston was an amazing place, an experience that is now out of place and time. I relish that I am able to have some of it here with me, now, in Seattle, without Ed, because it keeps him and that magical time more present in my day to day life.
Last night, driving home, Reese asked if we could go to the new house. When I tucked him in, Jack said he is liking the back yard more than he thought. This was a good move for us.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Time Bomb
A few weeks ago my therapist mentioned that this move would be challenging. My response "you think?" She pointed out that the new house solidifies that our family is what it is: the three of us. Ed won't be there with us. Seems obvious, right? For the kids, that reality is far more powerful than I would have realized and I am glad I have language to understand their behavior. With the move only two days away, the tension is thick.
Jack is quick to irrational anger, the kind that makes him throw fake punches at his sister for sitting too content on the couch. He teared up (which is rare, when related to Ed), and expressed sadness that Ed isn't moving to the house with us. It must be safer to take the absence in small parts- rather than dad is gone forever, Jack can articulate a sadness in the less abstract reality of daddy not moving with us.
Reese arouses from sleep -more often from naps- absolutely pissed off. She will scream and yell and demand her dad. I let her work it out- as devastated as I am relieved that she is working through it.
My reaction is little to no patience. I apologize at least once a day for snapping at little stuff that doesn't really matter, but that feels huge when I am days away from completing the packing that is now hours away. I feel like I should be making this move more special- doing things to commemorate the change, but I haven't.
I live in the bitter barn or the grateful den. The mood swings for moving in normal circumstances test just about anyone and I'm on an emotional rollercoaster that has me nauseous. I hate that I am doing this by myself- but still amazingly overwhelmed at the folks who are making time to help me out.
When I worked at a Congregational Church in Bellingham during graduate school, I mentioned to my boss, one of the pastors, that I couldn't wait for life to start once I was finished my Master's degree. He told me that graduate school *was* life. Ed and I spent so much time waiting for life to start; last summer there was a shift and it actually felt like we were learning to live in the moment. Yet, I think of all those years we were waiting for the optimum moment to begin living (and, living, after all, is enjoying the moment). I am working hard not to wait for this move to be over or to get used to the new job before breathing out. These moments of absolute stress and tension,-this time of transition- is life.
Jack is quick to irrational anger, the kind that makes him throw fake punches at his sister for sitting too content on the couch. He teared up (which is rare, when related to Ed), and expressed sadness that Ed isn't moving to the house with us. It must be safer to take the absence in small parts- rather than dad is gone forever, Jack can articulate a sadness in the less abstract reality of daddy not moving with us.
Reese arouses from sleep -more often from naps- absolutely pissed off. She will scream and yell and demand her dad. I let her work it out- as devastated as I am relieved that she is working through it.
My reaction is little to no patience. I apologize at least once a day for snapping at little stuff that doesn't really matter, but that feels huge when I am days away from completing the packing that is now hours away. I feel like I should be making this move more special- doing things to commemorate the change, but I haven't.
I live in the bitter barn or the grateful den. The mood swings for moving in normal circumstances test just about anyone and I'm on an emotional rollercoaster that has me nauseous. I hate that I am doing this by myself- but still amazingly overwhelmed at the folks who are making time to help me out.
When I worked at a Congregational Church in Bellingham during graduate school, I mentioned to my boss, one of the pastors, that I couldn't wait for life to start once I was finished my Master's degree. He told me that graduate school *was* life. Ed and I spent so much time waiting for life to start; last summer there was a shift and it actually felt like we were learning to live in the moment. Yet, I think of all those years we were waiting for the optimum moment to begin living (and, living, after all, is enjoying the moment). I am working hard not to wait for this move to be over or to get used to the new job before breathing out. These moments of absolute stress and tension,-this time of transition- is life.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Shades of Grey
(Don't I wish that it would be one of those kinds of posts..not quite yet...)
I think I've found the paint color for the living room. It's a blue grey and perfect. I wanted the second bedroom grey to match my color scheme and Reese's (since it will be my room for the foreseeable future and then hers), but I've been through about nine different greys and it's impossible to find one that isn't too blue or too green. Besides, that's a lot of grey in the house (at least Jack's room is a bearable Sounders green - from last season, not this year). So, I picked up a light lilac paint sample today and I hope it works. We start painting on Monday (we being me and a few amazing, generous friends). We'll be painting while the sheet rock guy puts up new walls in the living room. Yup, there's no turning back now.
On the drive home from the kids' birthday party today (Ed's brother and best friend, Steve and his wife, were gracious enough to host in part to avoid me having to host in a half packed house and in part to keep the memory of Ed a little further away), I realized how familiar the unbearable has become. My 20 year high school reunion is tonight and I wished I had more foresight to have figured out a way to go. It would have been lovely to see everyone and to remember who I was before I was a Kingston, because I think it would have given me some inspiration. Besides, the drive home from family events is awful. So awful. The kids are tired and tuned out. There's nothing on the radio, so the silence is stifling. I find myself facing the reality of Ed's death in the car- it's so real, I can't wrap my head around it. After nine months, the fabric of a new routine has woven itself around our daily lives, and part of that thread includes the wrongness of our life as three, not four. Long drives home are a brutal reminder of that reality and there's no where to hide.
And yet, there are moments- very brief- that I can feel a surge of something besides common despair. I can't wait to get to the new house. I love it there; I unpacked the kitchen this morning while the kids were at the parade with friends and I was energized. On the drive home, I realize that some of blues were because I wasn't driving to the new house- but because I was driving to our current home, the house I have, in the best of times, put up with. Do you realize that this means that there's a possible FIX for the blues- that they may not actually *all* be permanent? This is HUGE. And, earlier this week, I had a glimpse of what I could be at work, how my job is a great fit and that there's a lot I want to do with it. With this career move, I'm redefining myself and what a gift to have a new professional canvas to draw on.
The paint color in the living room is called Divine Fog. It seems appropriate. I can't see very far in front of the current moment, and though the mood is often heavy and grey, there is some clearling and it reveals something promising, even exciting.
Over the nowhere arches the everywhere. ~ Maria Rainer Rilke
I think I've found the paint color for the living room. It's a blue grey and perfect. I wanted the second bedroom grey to match my color scheme and Reese's (since it will be my room for the foreseeable future and then hers), but I've been through about nine different greys and it's impossible to find one that isn't too blue or too green. Besides, that's a lot of grey in the house (at least Jack's room is a bearable Sounders green - from last season, not this year). So, I picked up a light lilac paint sample today and I hope it works. We start painting on Monday (we being me and a few amazing, generous friends). We'll be painting while the sheet rock guy puts up new walls in the living room. Yup, there's no turning back now.
On the drive home from the kids' birthday party today (Ed's brother and best friend, Steve and his wife, were gracious enough to host in part to avoid me having to host in a half packed house and in part to keep the memory of Ed a little further away), I realized how familiar the unbearable has become. My 20 year high school reunion is tonight and I wished I had more foresight to have figured out a way to go. It would have been lovely to see everyone and to remember who I was before I was a Kingston, because I think it would have given me some inspiration. Besides, the drive home from family events is awful. So awful. The kids are tired and tuned out. There's nothing on the radio, so the silence is stifling. I find myself facing the reality of Ed's death in the car- it's so real, I can't wrap my head around it. After nine months, the fabric of a new routine has woven itself around our daily lives, and part of that thread includes the wrongness of our life as three, not four. Long drives home are a brutal reminder of that reality and there's no where to hide.
And yet, there are moments- very brief- that I can feel a surge of something besides common despair. I can't wait to get to the new house. I love it there; I unpacked the kitchen this morning while the kids were at the parade with friends and I was energized. On the drive home, I realize that some of blues were because I wasn't driving to the new house- but because I was driving to our current home, the house I have, in the best of times, put up with. Do you realize that this means that there's a possible FIX for the blues- that they may not actually *all* be permanent? This is HUGE. And, earlier this week, I had a glimpse of what I could be at work, how my job is a great fit and that there's a lot I want to do with it. With this career move, I'm redefining myself and what a gift to have a new professional canvas to draw on.
The paint color in the living room is called Divine Fog. It seems appropriate. I can't see very far in front of the current moment, and though the mood is often heavy and grey, there is some clearling and it reveals something promising, even exciting.
Over the nowhere arches the everywhere. ~ Maria Rainer Rilke
Friday, July 13, 2012
July 13, 2012
I signed the date a dozen times or more today sitting on the 23rd floor of the Columbia Tower, watching a spectacular light show. Last night, I set out the majority of my "stuff" to be sold at tomorrow's yard sale including furniture and toys and games. The weather forecast said sun through the weekend. This morning, on the drive downtown, I heard "possible thunderstorms" on the radio. In between signatures, I looked outside to see multiple bolts of lightening flashing over the city. It poured downtown, but not in West Seattle (I still texted my kids' summer nanny- Aunt Lisa- to get the tarp over the furniture).
Grief is a double-edged sword that cuts the gut. And both sides cut, usually at the same time. Leaving this house and moving into a new one forces us to face that we are, indeed, a family of three. Ed's not coming back home because we are in a new home. He doesn't know where we live. I sort through our things and pack up our stuff facing that reality. It's a brutal reality. One that I'm glad I took a month from work off for. The brutality of it has me ready to fight. (Or flight, apparently, since I'm moving). I thought I had no patience before, but it's gone now. So much so that I can't stomach small talk or laugh at domestic niceties. I avoid email and conversation so the friends I cherish won't breathe in my disdain and mistake it for a personal attack (I can't imagine what damage I'd do at work). I suppose that if I didn't have the anger, it would mean I wasn't facing this all head on. I suppose if I didn't have the anger, I would sleep the month of July away because God knows I'm tired. I'm beyond exhausted.
Though, driving home (out of the rain), I felt okay. Okay in a way I haven't in a week. For a moment, I had a glimpse of a future. I have no idea what that future is, but to have a sense that there is one, is great. I was reminded of the power of status quo. Like, when Ed & I were married; somehow, despite the fact that we were only 21 and 22 years old, we were suddenly seen as legitimate- that saying "I do" to something we had no idea what we were saying "I do" to transformed us into responsible, credible adults. We would talk about the ridiculousness of that notion, but were also seduced by how easy it was to be transformed. Buying a home is similar. I am equally irritated by this as I am in awe, because it is the power of "normal" that seduces and leaves those less than normal, us outliers, isolated. Though, I felt okay. These days, I'll take "okay" at almost any cost.
I'm ending with a quote that I've returned to all week. It gives me permission to barrel forward and not judge the anger- mine or my kids (who have also been incredibly angry in spurts). But to respect it as the normal response:
She taught me that grief is a time to be lived through, experienced fully, and that the heavens will not fall if I give voice to my anger against God in such a time. -Elizabeth Watson
Grief is a double-edged sword that cuts the gut. And both sides cut, usually at the same time. Leaving this house and moving into a new one forces us to face that we are, indeed, a family of three. Ed's not coming back home because we are in a new home. He doesn't know where we live. I sort through our things and pack up our stuff facing that reality. It's a brutal reality. One that I'm glad I took a month from work off for. The brutality of it has me ready to fight. (Or flight, apparently, since I'm moving). I thought I had no patience before, but it's gone now. So much so that I can't stomach small talk or laugh at domestic niceties. I avoid email and conversation so the friends I cherish won't breathe in my disdain and mistake it for a personal attack (I can't imagine what damage I'd do at work). I suppose that if I didn't have the anger, it would mean I wasn't facing this all head on. I suppose if I didn't have the anger, I would sleep the month of July away because God knows I'm tired. I'm beyond exhausted.
Though, driving home (out of the rain), I felt okay. Okay in a way I haven't in a week. For a moment, I had a glimpse of a future. I have no idea what that future is, but to have a sense that there is one, is great. I was reminded of the power of status quo. Like, when Ed & I were married; somehow, despite the fact that we were only 21 and 22 years old, we were suddenly seen as legitimate- that saying "I do" to something we had no idea what we were saying "I do" to transformed us into responsible, credible adults. We would talk about the ridiculousness of that notion, but were also seduced by how easy it was to be transformed. Buying a home is similar. I am equally irritated by this as I am in awe, because it is the power of "normal" that seduces and leaves those less than normal, us outliers, isolated. Though, I felt okay. These days, I'll take "okay" at almost any cost.
I'm ending with a quote that I've returned to all week. It gives me permission to barrel forward and not judge the anger- mine or my kids (who have also been incredibly angry in spurts). But to respect it as the normal response:
She taught me that grief is a time to be lived through, experienced fully, and that the heavens will not fall if I give voice to my anger against God in such a time. -Elizabeth Watson
Saturday, July 07, 2012
What a Mess
I would post a picture of my kitchen-particularly the dishes in and around the sink-if I knew I wouldn't be mortified later. Reese is asleep next to me on the couch with a fever; Jack is at a barbeque enjoying the amazing 80 degree sun with his friends and their parents (my friends). Of course, I couldn't feel farther away from everyone if I was at home or near the fire pit. C.S. Lewis wrote in "A Grief Observed" that grief was like a veil, or a blanket- not sure which, but it's a film of yuck between the person grieving and the rest of the world. It's awful. And, no one wants to ask how things are; no one wants to taint the beautiful weather and good times. I don't blame them; I look at me through their eyes and am amazed that anyone would want to be even near such awful sadness.
But, like I said, my house is a mess. I am so aware of how my standards are sliding; Ed and I would come home from vacation and the bags would be unpacked within the hour; the cat box cleaned, the garbage put out, the floors swept and the rugs vacuumed. We got home yesterday and the weight of Ed's absence kept me from doing all but what he would do first (cat box, sweep, vacuum). I let my kids have cookies for brunch and Popsicles for dinner. If they brush their teeth twice a day, I feel like I should get an award.
I read something yesterday that it takes about seven years to deal with grief. Seven. Years. I'll be 45. Maybe then I'll enjoy fireworks again. We watched them at Coeur d'alene this week- it was such a great vacation. I wasn't sad at all and genuinely escaped- all of it. The long moving to-do list. The birthday planning. The July without Ed. Anyway, the fireworks have always been my thing- what I loved so much. But, when you are with someone for 16 years, even sharing the joys of my love - and his (have I mentioned that I actually enjoyed watching the European Soccer Championship tournament?)- becomes tainted.
So much is changing. And, I'm working really hard to find out what is worth keeping (getting the kids outside, quality over quantity) and what is judged by a standard that perhaps doesn't fit in my world view anymore (keeping the yard weeded or the kitchen clean all the time). The thing is, there is a big part of me that feels like I'm failing Ed by not keeping *every* part of our life the same. And that part of me wrestles with the one who says that I have so much life to live and here's an opportunity to recreate in a way few can.
I just miss Ed. Which is good, I guess; some days I've been afraid that I'm just missing my domestic partner. But, in the midst of this messy house, all I can think about is having him here.
But, like I said, my house is a mess. I am so aware of how my standards are sliding; Ed and I would come home from vacation and the bags would be unpacked within the hour; the cat box cleaned, the garbage put out, the floors swept and the rugs vacuumed. We got home yesterday and the weight of Ed's absence kept me from doing all but what he would do first (cat box, sweep, vacuum). I let my kids have cookies for brunch and Popsicles for dinner. If they brush their teeth twice a day, I feel like I should get an award.
I read something yesterday that it takes about seven years to deal with grief. Seven. Years. I'll be 45. Maybe then I'll enjoy fireworks again. We watched them at Coeur d'alene this week- it was such a great vacation. I wasn't sad at all and genuinely escaped- all of it. The long moving to-do list. The birthday planning. The July without Ed. Anyway, the fireworks have always been my thing- what I loved so much. But, when you are with someone for 16 years, even sharing the joys of my love - and his (have I mentioned that I actually enjoyed watching the European Soccer Championship tournament?)- becomes tainted.
So much is changing. And, I'm working really hard to find out what is worth keeping (getting the kids outside, quality over quantity) and what is judged by a standard that perhaps doesn't fit in my world view anymore (keeping the yard weeded or the kitchen clean all the time). The thing is, there is a big part of me that feels like I'm failing Ed by not keeping *every* part of our life the same. And that part of me wrestles with the one who says that I have so much life to live and here's an opportunity to recreate in a way few can.
I just miss Ed. Which is good, I guess; some days I've been afraid that I'm just missing my domestic partner. But, in the midst of this messy house, all I can think about is having him here.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Blue Slate
I took the kids furniture shopping today. When we move, I will have no living room furniture. And while I think it makes a lot of sense to live in a house for a while before buying new furniture, I don't want to live too long in a house with *no* living room furniture.
I looked at four couches before Reese started getting loud and Jack's body language screamed I'M BORED. The saleswoman walked away before I had a chance to really think about anything. I'm getting to the point where it's okay to try formerly solo activities (like grocery or furniture shopping) with the kids without getting absolutely annoyed or perfectly isolated. But, I need to find space to look for couches alone. Like the move itself (which happens in about ONE FREAKIN' MONTH!) I'm beyond overwhelmed and have NO IDEA how it's going to get done.
Luckily, I have a lot of experience in seeing things get done that initially seem impossible (moving across the country with no jobs and a toddler, balancing childcare and teaching, adjusting to single parenting...yada yada yada). It's about breaking down the big jobs into smaller ones. It's also about limiting options. I'm of the camp now where good enough is plenty; I don't have time to spend weeks figuring out the best color. So, I'm going with a decision of color for the living room. Well, a tentative decision: blue slate. I realize that picking a grayish color when I live in the Northwest may seem monotone, but I've always come back to blue. And, I do love the beach. It's my most favorite place to escape to. I will always live near the coast and we always vacation near water. So, I'm taking the colors from there (blue, gray, wood) and bring them inside. From here:
To here:
And, I want a gray couch; it will work well with a blue slate and can be punctuated with color and texture. I think the colors will go with the light oak floor. I don't know I'll use yellow, but I like how it pulls in the oak floors and allows natural wood accents. I do have red as accents in my blue living room now, so I may keep that for awhile. One paint color I will sample is Mountain Laurel (Benjamin Moore) but I think I will need to find a rug before anything else.
There's a good chance blue will be in nearly every room in the house, at least for awhile. I always return to blue; it's been my favorite color since I was a kid and as much as I try other colors, it's the one I am most attracted to. I hope it's not reflective only of the layer of sadness in our family. I think if I find the right blues, they will reflect the richness of possibility true grief brought on by true love brings.
I looked at four couches before Reese started getting loud and Jack's body language screamed I'M BORED. The saleswoman walked away before I had a chance to really think about anything. I'm getting to the point where it's okay to try formerly solo activities (like grocery or furniture shopping) with the kids without getting absolutely annoyed or perfectly isolated. But, I need to find space to look for couches alone. Like the move itself (which happens in about ONE FREAKIN' MONTH!) I'm beyond overwhelmed and have NO IDEA how it's going to get done.
Luckily, I have a lot of experience in seeing things get done that initially seem impossible (moving across the country with no jobs and a toddler, balancing childcare and teaching, adjusting to single parenting...yada yada yada). It's about breaking down the big jobs into smaller ones. It's also about limiting options. I'm of the camp now where good enough is plenty; I don't have time to spend weeks figuring out the best color. So, I'm going with a decision of color for the living room. Well, a tentative decision: blue slate. I realize that picking a grayish color when I live in the Northwest may seem monotone, but I've always come back to blue. And, I do love the beach. It's my most favorite place to escape to. I will always live near the coast and we always vacation near water. So, I'm taking the colors from there (blue, gray, wood) and bring them inside. From here:
To here:
There's a good chance blue will be in nearly every room in the house, at least for awhile. I always return to blue; it's been my favorite color since I was a kid and as much as I try other colors, it's the one I am most attracted to. I hope it's not reflective only of the layer of sadness in our family. I think if I find the right blues, they will reflect the richness of possibility true grief brought on by true love brings.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
For the Record
For the record, it only took one glass of wine to write the earnest money check for the house. I went to write the check and couldn't. I did need some liquid courage. If for no other reason than I couldn't face the first big step to securing a home of our own- our one place- alone. But, it only took one glass.
For the record, I interviewed with the President and VP of the college on Friday. The one that would make this interim position permanent. (Oh, interim. I am so intimate with interim. In between. Ctrl+Alt+Delete. Reboot.) All I can hear is Ed's voice on the phone when I was so anxious about interviewing for the interim position. The week before. He was so calm, collecting my nerves like butterflies in a net, keeping me safe and free all at once.
For the record, I'm listening to Morrissey while I type. And I hate Morrissey. But, Ed loved him/the band (I don't even know). It will probably be the only time I listen to a full song.
For the record, the 10th anniversary of the Ballard pub crawl is this Friday and there's a chance that Jack's baseball team will be in the championship on Saturday morning. Remember the summer of 2007? We were in Boston and had found a house with that tiny second "bedroom" off the main bedroom? We also found a place to stay for summer in the apartment of that musician and his family while they were in Europe on tour with an orchestra? (You would remember the instrument he played; I don't.) You had interviewed with CWU on the phone and had just been in Steve's wedding back in Tacoma. I was flying to Seattle to interview with South for the faculty position. CWU had sent the contract and we were waiting as long as we could to sign to see what would happen with my job. Everything was up in the air. And we were so alive with anxiety and possibility. It's like that now. How is it still like that now?
For the record, I'm driving up to Bellingham Sunday with our friends from college days to spread Ed's ashes at Larabee state park. June 10th would have been the 16th anniversary of when we were together despite our verbal commitment to the contrary. We were sitting on those rocks. I made a kick ass playlist for the drive up. You'd be proud.
For the record, I know I have evidence that I will get through this with my kids. But, by God, I am amazed I've made it this far.
For the record, I interviewed with the President and VP of the college on Friday. The one that would make this interim position permanent. (Oh, interim. I am so intimate with interim. In between. Ctrl+Alt+Delete. Reboot.) All I can hear is Ed's voice on the phone when I was so anxious about interviewing for the interim position. The week before. He was so calm, collecting my nerves like butterflies in a net, keeping me safe and free all at once.
For the record, I'm listening to Morrissey while I type. And I hate Morrissey. But, Ed loved him/the band (I don't even know). It will probably be the only time I listen to a full song.
For the record, the 10th anniversary of the Ballard pub crawl is this Friday and there's a chance that Jack's baseball team will be in the championship on Saturday morning. Remember the summer of 2007? We were in Boston and had found a house with that tiny second "bedroom" off the main bedroom? We also found a place to stay for summer in the apartment of that musician and his family while they were in Europe on tour with an orchestra? (You would remember the instrument he played; I don't.) You had interviewed with CWU on the phone and had just been in Steve's wedding back in Tacoma. I was flying to Seattle to interview with South for the faculty position. CWU had sent the contract and we were waiting as long as we could to sign to see what would happen with my job. Everything was up in the air. And we were so alive with anxiety and possibility. It's like that now. How is it still like that now?
For the record, I'm driving up to Bellingham Sunday with our friends from college days to spread Ed's ashes at Larabee state park. June 10th would have been the 16th anniversary of when we were together despite our verbal commitment to the contrary. We were sitting on those rocks. I made a kick ass playlist for the drive up. You'd be proud.
For the record, I know I have evidence that I will get through this with my kids. But, by God, I am amazed I've made it this far.
Monday, May 07, 2012
Eve Exhaustion
I've noticed a pattern in my grief: it's the "eves" that destroy me. The day before Ed's birthday, the day before Thanksgiving, the day before my birthday (well, that's the 8th, so that doesn't really count), the day before Jack's first communion, etc. etc. -- they are all brutal. Those are the days I just want to curl up on the floor and cry for an hour or two. I often do. It may look like I'm not doing anything, but just holding myself through the pain is an Olympic event.
Today is the seven month "eve"-- May 7. Today also marks the birthday of my nephew, the son of Ed's best friend and younger brother. May happens to also be the seven year anniversary of this blog. It is also the day I interviewed for the permanent position of the job I'm currently working in an interim capacity. Add to this list the marking of five years at my current place of employment: the longest I've worked anywhere in my life.
I'm tired. Exhausted.
Last night I was up late thinking through the interview, working very hard to ignore the following:
We're good.
When I was putting Jack to bed tonight he asked how my interview went and how I thought I did. I told him I did as well as I could, which was all I could do. I then channeled Ed, who is so much a part of who I am, and calmly let Jack know that whatever happens we'd be good. We're good, if oh, so tired.
Today is the seven month "eve"-- May 7. Today also marks the birthday of my nephew, the son of Ed's best friend and younger brother. May happens to also be the seven year anniversary of this blog. It is also the day I interviewed for the permanent position of the job I'm currently working in an interim capacity. Add to this list the marking of five years at my current place of employment: the longest I've worked anywhere in my life.
I'm tired. Exhausted.
Last night I was up late thinking through the interview, working very hard to ignore the following:
- My partner, who has been my biggest cheerleader and most honest critic, wasn't there to practice interviews strategies
- This was my first major life step since Ed's death- a life step I would have never come to without him
- Death is a massive "restart" button and I'm in the process of rebooting and have only a very vague sketch of who I am and what this life looks like- hardly the best foundation for convincing a panel I'm a great fit (how do I know I fit if I'm not even sure of who I am?)
We're good.
When I was putting Jack to bed tonight he asked how my interview went and how I thought I did. I told him I did as well as I could, which was all I could do. I then channeled Ed, who is so much a part of who I am, and calmly let Jack know that whatever happens we'd be good. We're good, if oh, so tired.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Let it Be (Natural) Light
The thing I hate most about this house is my bedroom window. My bedroom is a converted garage with the lack of insulation to show for it. I can't see out the window and wouldn't want to if I could. It looks over the garbage at the end of the driveway to noisy 35th. Last year, one night, before I fell asleep, all I could think about was windows. I missed our bedroom window in our Parkland house that looked into the quiet backyard where Ed helped trim the laurel hedges. There was one tree. I missed our bedroom windows in our home in Roslindale, Mass. The one behind the bed frame that brought in the wind and was moved through to the other window that overlooked the back yard. There was one tree there, too. I watched the seasons change through that window. In the winter, I would crack it and breath in the sharp, crisp, freezing air of a New England January. I still smell it now and I can see Ed & I running to the car, freezing, laughing after a perfect night at Matt Murphy's in Brookline.
I'm drunk with grief. Reality is settling in. I break down in absolute brilliant despair cleaning up the kitchen dishes. I imagine I will call these months the thawing out period. I'm finally daring to ask whether it's even possible to ever feel such complete amazing, secure inspiring love. I need to see the possibility. I am so lucky to miss someone so fully and completely.
I need windows. I need lots of light. I need a bedroom window, or windwos, where I can have those moments we all have- where we pause outside of place and time to remember what was and imagine what could be. I want to see outside in those moments.
So, first on the house list: a bedroom window that looks outside where I can see easily and naturally what was and what is.
I'm drunk with grief. Reality is settling in. I break down in absolute brilliant despair cleaning up the kitchen dishes. I imagine I will call these months the thawing out period. I'm finally daring to ask whether it's even possible to ever feel such complete amazing, secure inspiring love. I need to see the possibility. I am so lucky to miss someone so fully and completely.
I need windows. I need lots of light. I need a bedroom window, or windwos, where I can have those moments we all have- where we pause outside of place and time to remember what was and imagine what could be. I want to see outside in those moments.
So, first on the house list: a bedroom window that looks outside where I can see easily and naturally what was and what is.
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
4 Months
Dear Ed,
It's been four months since you died. Our lives have changed so drastically at such a day-to-day core level that it feels like four years. Strangely, though, your presence can be so strong through our memories. I will sit still and can see you perfectly, hear your voice, feel your all encompassing hug.
Jack is doing good. I signed him up for baseball and Keith is going to tackle the whole equipment thing (the bat rules are exhausting; I miss ignoring those emails). Jack's also going to do the half day Sounders camp during spring break. He's a little nervous, but I think it will ultimately be a confidence builder. I hate that you aren't here to play with him. I played soccer in the backyard this weekend (penalty kicks). He put up with me; we both know there is no replacement, but we don't say anything.
Reese is, as always, equally amazing and exhausting. She sounds like Kathleen Turner because of a cold and her eyes are all watery. But, it doesn't stop her from running away and laughing when I try to get her dressed in the morning. She's incredibly smart and picks up on everything. She's talking so much, you'd be amazed.
I'm falling apart at the seams everyday, but faking it quite well. I got a massage yesterday after work; it was brutal. As the guy was working through a particular knotty knot in my shoulder, and I was trying to breath through the pain, I couldn't help but see the metaphor for grief. He would repeat, "breath through" and "let it go." Yeah, right. I never thought breathing and letting go would be So. Hard. But, I tried. And, I try everyday, every moment.
As I keep looking at houses, I'm channeling your good sense. Keep the vibes coming.
Love you,
Laura
It's been four months since you died. Our lives have changed so drastically at such a day-to-day core level that it feels like four years. Strangely, though, your presence can be so strong through our memories. I will sit still and can see you perfectly, hear your voice, feel your all encompassing hug.
Jack is doing good. I signed him up for baseball and Keith is going to tackle the whole equipment thing (the bat rules are exhausting; I miss ignoring those emails). Jack's also going to do the half day Sounders camp during spring break. He's a little nervous, but I think it will ultimately be a confidence builder. I hate that you aren't here to play with him. I played soccer in the backyard this weekend (penalty kicks). He put up with me; we both know there is no replacement, but we don't say anything.
Reese is, as always, equally amazing and exhausting. She sounds like Kathleen Turner because of a cold and her eyes are all watery. But, it doesn't stop her from running away and laughing when I try to get her dressed in the morning. She's incredibly smart and picks up on everything. She's talking so much, you'd be amazed.
I'm falling apart at the seams everyday, but faking it quite well. I got a massage yesterday after work; it was brutal. As the guy was working through a particular knotty knot in my shoulder, and I was trying to breath through the pain, I couldn't help but see the metaphor for grief. He would repeat, "breath through" and "let it go." Yeah, right. I never thought breathing and letting go would be So. Hard. But, I tried. And, I try everyday, every moment.
As I keep looking at houses, I'm channeling your good sense. Keep the vibes coming.
Love you,
Laura
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Nothing Yet
The realtor called earlier this week. As expected, there are little to no homes to look at. In short: nothing yet. Apparently, houses should be on the market in the next few weeks. Nothing yet.
The mind is compassionate. It must be. Mine allows me to feel nothing when I picture happy places. Sometimes I will sit still and force myself to imagine last summer, in the backyard that week after school started. We bought a 500 water balloon pack; blue and green to represent the Sounders and the Seahawks. The weather was 90+ degrees and I can see Ed going into some Zen state while he filled 20, 30, 40 balloons, tossing them into the kiddie pool for Reese and Jack who would destroy them in five minutes.
I can see the scene. But, I don’t feel it. I feel nothing. It’s why I don’t feel much when I’m in the most pitiful places, the places that I used to avoid at all costs, even picked careers around. Like being the last person at school on a Friday. Since I was in middle school nothing brought on instant depression more quickly than still being on school grounds when no one else was. Same was true for high school, for college, and then for my teaching career. So, I hardly noticed that I was one of the last people in the building Friday afternoon. They shut the big front doors of the building so I had to go out the back. I didn’t pass a single person on the way to the parking lot.
Here’s the thing, I know I’m still processing. I know that the worst of the reality check will come in a few months and then maybe again next year. I know my mind has me on the slowest of I.V. drips of emotion so I can survive. It’s why I question those hopeful feelings – because I know they are based in something else—something not fully truthful—something that isn’t this new life. I know my mind hasn’t let me feel the fullness of the nothingness left behind when Ed died.
But I know hope resides in this fact: the flipside of nothing is a blank slate. I think that’s why I’m okay moving forward with the home hunt. While finding a home represents so much of what our family was and who I was, it also represents a new life, a blank slate, a richness of life waiting to be fully realized.
The mind is compassionate. It must be. Mine allows me to feel nothing when I picture happy places. Sometimes I will sit still and force myself to imagine last summer, in the backyard that week after school started. We bought a 500 water balloon pack; blue and green to represent the Sounders and the Seahawks. The weather was 90+ degrees and I can see Ed going into some Zen state while he filled 20, 30, 40 balloons, tossing them into the kiddie pool for Reese and Jack who would destroy them in five minutes.
I can see the scene. But, I don’t feel it. I feel nothing. It’s why I don’t feel much when I’m in the most pitiful places, the places that I used to avoid at all costs, even picked careers around. Like being the last person at school on a Friday. Since I was in middle school nothing brought on instant depression more quickly than still being on school grounds when no one else was. Same was true for high school, for college, and then for my teaching career. So, I hardly noticed that I was one of the last people in the building Friday afternoon. They shut the big front doors of the building so I had to go out the back. I didn’t pass a single person on the way to the parking lot.
Here’s the thing, I know I’m still processing. I know that the worst of the reality check will come in a few months and then maybe again next year. I know my mind has me on the slowest of I.V. drips of emotion so I can survive. It’s why I question those hopeful feelings – because I know they are based in something else—something not fully truthful—something that isn’t this new life. I know my mind hasn’t let me feel the fullness of the nothingness left behind when Ed died.
But I know hope resides in this fact: the flipside of nothing is a blank slate. I think that’s why I’m okay moving forward with the home hunt. While finding a home represents so much of what our family was and who I was, it also represents a new life, a blank slate, a richness of life waiting to be fully realized.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
One Place: The New Reality
I met with a realtor on Saturday. I gave him our basic requests: a house close to the kids' school, three bedrooms, two baths, a backyard. What I didn't tell him was that I can vividly remember the vision board Ed & I created in 2008. The one that sat next to the desk in our two bedroom apartment in Admiral (hidden a bit because we felt a little silly). The vision board that had us paying off enough debt to work towards a downpayment on a house.
Honestly, the dream of owning a home was nearly a joke. There was no logical reason to believe it could happen anytime soon considering the amount of debt we had accrued while also collecting substantial college loans. If we were smart, we would have expected to buy a home in ten or fifteen years. But that was too long. So, I found a picture in a magazine of a house that looked nice to us, cut it out and put it on the bulletin board. Somewhat randomly, we picked FALL 2012 as our target and wrote it in big letters, cut it out and put it beneath the picture.
By August 2011 we could -amazingly- see possibility in our fall 2012 goal. We couldn't see exactly how the downpayment would happen, but we had worked and planned toward 5% down. We knew it wasn't exactly prudent, but we had good jobs, good credit, and a dream, dammit. We set a date with our good friend, a banker, to discuss turning our goal into reality. We were going to meet on November 5th.
Plans change. Ed crashed to the ground while coaching Jack's soccer team. He died before noon on Saturday, October 8th, four days before our fifteenth wedding anniversary. And. Everything. Stopped. Then, it was all different.
"They" say not do make any major changes the first year. I would argue that NOT continuing the momentum towards finding a home by this fall would actually count as a major change, at least that is what my gut tells me. So, I'm looking. I'm looking for that one place that alluded us for fourteen years while we established a family identity, pursued academic and professional goals, learned how to be an amazing team, and scratch the surface of moving beyond surviving to thriving.
I plan to log the search. I realize there will be a tension related to finding a home that logistically and emotionally suits this new family of three as I'm working toward a goal represented by our old family of four. In many ways, the search will mirror the grief process. It's hard enough, so why not include kitchen layouts in the process?
Honestly, the dream of owning a home was nearly a joke. There was no logical reason to believe it could happen anytime soon considering the amount of debt we had accrued while also collecting substantial college loans. If we were smart, we would have expected to buy a home in ten or fifteen years. But that was too long. So, I found a picture in a magazine of a house that looked nice to us, cut it out and put it on the bulletin board. Somewhat randomly, we picked FALL 2012 as our target and wrote it in big letters, cut it out and put it beneath the picture.
By August 2011 we could -amazingly- see possibility in our fall 2012 goal. We couldn't see exactly how the downpayment would happen, but we had worked and planned toward 5% down. We knew it wasn't exactly prudent, but we had good jobs, good credit, and a dream, dammit. We set a date with our good friend, a banker, to discuss turning our goal into reality. We were going to meet on November 5th.
Plans change. Ed crashed to the ground while coaching Jack's soccer team. He died before noon on Saturday, October 8th, four days before our fifteenth wedding anniversary. And. Everything. Stopped. Then, it was all different.
"They" say not do make any major changes the first year. I would argue that NOT continuing the momentum towards finding a home by this fall would actually count as a major change, at least that is what my gut tells me. So, I'm looking. I'm looking for that one place that alluded us for fourteen years while we established a family identity, pursued academic and professional goals, learned how to be an amazing team, and scratch the surface of moving beyond surviving to thriving.
I plan to log the search. I realize there will be a tension related to finding a home that logistically and emotionally suits this new family of three as I'm working toward a goal represented by our old family of four. In many ways, the search will mirror the grief process. It's hard enough, so why not include kitchen layouts in the process?
Monday, February 15, 2010
Mindfulness
The word that has become the theme for Lent is mindfulness. Duh. Lent is all about sacrifice, about being uberconscious of what we have because of what we don't have.
I began thinking about what I'm unconscious of, or what I am "mindless" of. Not to play the consumer trump card, but there's a root of consumerism at the heart of much of my mindless habits. They include, but are not limited to, food and purchases.
I started with food; that seems to be one of the most common things given up at Lent- chocolate, desserts, dairy, the list goes on. Also, I still have 10 baby weight pounds that I would really like to lose. So, to avoid creating what is essentially a Lenten diet (which somehow detracts from the more meditative mood of Lent), I thought that my Lenten focus would be on eating only foods that have ingredients that I could visualize. In other words, if I couldn't easily and clearly picture everything thing in the food, I couldn't eat it. My first thought was that my Lean Cuisine microwaveable lunch would be gone -- and my schedule just doesn't allow for making lunch when I go to work.
So, I thought of the next mindlessness habit- using the debit card. I'm amazed at how much money I can blow through with the debit: Twenty bucks here (grocery store), fifty bucks there (Target). So, after talking with Ed, we've decided to go CASH only, other than paying bills online and with checks. We use Amazon fresh for our groceries, but we're aware of what we spend there.
Each week during Lent, we're going to look at our budget, what we need to purchase during the week (gas, haircuts, diapers, oil changes, etc.) and get the cash out. The convenience of the debit will be gone, forcing us to count our cash and budget within it.
This should be interesting....
I began thinking about what I'm unconscious of, or what I am "mindless" of. Not to play the consumer trump card, but there's a root of consumerism at the heart of much of my mindless habits. They include, but are not limited to, food and purchases.
I started with food; that seems to be one of the most common things given up at Lent- chocolate, desserts, dairy, the list goes on. Also, I still have 10 baby weight pounds that I would really like to lose. So, to avoid creating what is essentially a Lenten diet (which somehow detracts from the more meditative mood of Lent), I thought that my Lenten focus would be on eating only foods that have ingredients that I could visualize. In other words, if I couldn't easily and clearly picture everything thing in the food, I couldn't eat it. My first thought was that my Lean Cuisine microwaveable lunch would be gone -- and my schedule just doesn't allow for making lunch when I go to work.
So, I thought of the next mindlessness habit- using the debit card. I'm amazed at how much money I can blow through with the debit: Twenty bucks here (grocery store), fifty bucks there (Target). So, after talking with Ed, we've decided to go CASH only, other than paying bills online and with checks. We use Amazon fresh for our groceries, but we're aware of what we spend there.
Each week during Lent, we're going to look at our budget, what we need to purchase during the week (gas, haircuts, diapers, oil changes, etc.) and get the cash out. The convenience of the debit will be gone, forcing us to count our cash and budget within it.
This should be interesting....
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Preparing
Lent starts next week. It's all about undoing habits that don't let us closer to a genuine life. Many people give something up. I think I could give up SO much: scraping the skin around my fingernails, eating after 7:00 PM, desserts in general. But, I'm trying to figure out the one thing I can change that will upset all the other habits I want to change.
I'm curious to see what I come up with.
(BTW, I'm trying to figure a way to balance the habit-upset period of Lent with a desire to fully live in the moment, knowning that whatever is happening in THIS moment should be happening).
I'm curious to see what I come up with.
(BTW, I'm trying to figure a way to balance the habit-upset period of Lent with a desire to fully live in the moment, knowning that whatever is happening in THIS moment should be happening).
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Four Months
A good friend of ours, Sara, came up to take some pictures of the family. She is a nurse, but does photography on the side; you can check out her photos on her website.
This is one of our favorites of Reese. Just the other day, I was explaining to my mother-in-law that Reese didn't wear certain clothes anymore-- that "she hasn't worn those since she was a baby." I got a laugh. I meant "since she was a newborn." Reese is clearly in the magical four month stage- all smiles and coos, not quite mobile (she just started to roll over).
We're drinking up everyday.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Resemblences
For the first three weeks of Reese's life, we couldn't figure out who she looked like. She has the most perfect round face and head that looks nothing like anyone in our immediate family. She also makes faces that don't look like anyone. She has a particular face that means she is peeing which is hysterical; she'll purse her lips into a perfect O and bug her eyes; we know that fter her lips go back to normal, it is time to change her diaper. The second picture reveals this tell-tale peeing expression.
At first, I thought Reese resembled the shrunken head guy from the end of Beetlejuice (where Michael Keaton is in the waiting room of the afterlife), especially when she is filling her Pampers. But, I just looked up still images from the movie and let's just say that Reese is much cuter.
But, last week, she made a few faces that - ever so briefly -- reminded me of my mother. Yesterday, Jack, Reese and I went down to my sister's and mom's to play in their yard and swim in their pools (a kind of last hurrah to summer) and I asked my mom if she had any baby pictures. She has one (!). Lo and behold, it was like looking at my daughter. So, I feel like I gave birth to my husband with Jack and now my mom with Reese. Genetics are amazing. My mother's head is, like Reese's, perfectly round, as is her face. While I haven't been able to capture a photo yet that looks like my mom, I have no doubt I will soon enough.
Monday, August 03, 2009
And Baby Makes 4
Reese Emily Kingston was born at 2:10 PM (after a glorious three pushes and 10 minutes) on Friday, July 24. She has the honor of sharing her birthday with my older brother, Chris, and has the names of both great and great-great grandmothers. She also came into the world not five days before the hottest ever recorded day in Seattle and hottest week ever in Seattle.
These pictures reflect her most common activity; the hat photo (taken before the heat wave)
is her first day in the world (when it was a mere 80 degrees); the one with the bear (and my baby blanket) is around day three; the last with the blue shirt is two days after the 103 record-breaking day. Note the need for less and less covering. So much for swaddling.
is her first day in the world (when it was a mere 80 degrees); the one with the bear (and my baby blanket) is around day three; the last with the blue shirt is two days after the 103 record-breaking day. Note the need for less and less covering. So much for swaddling.She doesn't look like anyone quite yet, though she does make some remarkable Ed-like faces, including an amazing sneer that would rival Elvis. When she sleeps, she makes a sound that isn't quite human. When I heard it in the car, I thought it was the car, but Jack noted that "Reese sounds like a creaking door." And she does. If and when I can, I will record it to play back in a future haunted house similiation.
All is going well. We're feeling blessed and lucky and in love.
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