Uncategorized

the feeling that I’m feeling is overwhelming…

Eight days ago I pulled an all-nighter in a desperate attempt to wrap volume 2, issue 1 of Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue in time to get copies up here in time for the intended release party. I managed, but in the fog of sleep deprivation.

In the days that followed, I pushed to get confirmed RSVPs for the Makepeace Brothers backyard concert that I had planned for last night.

Two days ago I shot off an overwhelmed email off to the guys to relay the sad condition of the “confirmed” list. I knew there was no way we could make it work as originally planned. Fortunately, the band reassured me that it’d work out.

And it did.

Though not quite what any of us had planned, the concert last night was excellent and SO much fun. Because of the threat of rain, we moved inside; turned out we could have stayed outside — the rain hit hard all around us, but none hit our house. Still, inside worked out well, though it was hot. More than half of the guests were people I had never met before, which was cool, but disappointing that more of my friends couldn’t make it. Overall, any “issues” (including my social awkwardness and naivete) were few and surmountable. For me, it was definitely worth the stress, exhaustion and general sense of being overwhelmed beforehand. I would be happy to do it again.

The Makepeace Brothers LRC 8/7/08

And yet…

Even with “Lovely” and “Things Gonna Wait” still playing in my head, I still — or rather, again — feel overwhelmed. This time with poison, with anger, with the question of a cliche: why do we hurt the ones we love?

Despite the fair number of people who attended (including a handful who went out of their reasonable way to come), several others who said they would try to did not show. And one person who gave a definite “yes” did not follow through. That person is like family; maybe that’s why I was so easily blown off. Regardless, it hurt. And though I know I should drop it and move on, I am not ready to let go of this anger. I would not and have not ever done this to this person. But this is not the first time I have been disappointed by this “best friend.” So I’m wondering why I keep putting myself in the vulnerable position where I allow this to happen again and again. All I can come up with is that I love this person with whom I have shared some of my happiest moments. I guess the joy is worth the hurt.

Still, my expectations remain (apparently) high, though part of me is resigned to the expectation of disappointment. I have learned I cannot count on this person — unless it’s a life or death situation. I have learned expect to be the last to know and to expect her to be the last to show. I don’t expect my calls to be returned, not the first or fifth.

But I believe in soulmates, and that we may have more than one. I believe she is one of mine.

One thing I don’t know is if she feels the same about that.

Regardless, to quote Jason out of context, “the way it unfolds is yet to be told.”

I’m searching for peace in this…

Uncategorized

and just as easily carried away…

When a child is born, parents are as well. The parents — no matter how many books they’ve read or how many classes they’ve attended — are still just as new as the baby. Daddy may be awkward about holding his little girl, supporting her head; mommy might not be quick enough with her little automatic sprinkler’s diaper changes. Still, there are some things that come instinctively. Some things are simply given. The job of “parent” is really quite straightforward: protect the child.

That is where we start.

But as time goes by and the child grows up, the parent realizes there’s not enough bubble wrap in the world…

And then, one day, as quietly as a feather, the plain truth slips in: bubble wrap, an infinite supply, will do nothing to soften a blow to the heart.

Especially when you, the parent, let the strike slip.

* * *

Two days ago, as I was preparing dinner, our 4-year-old pulled a grimy feather from his pocket.

“Mommy, look what I got!”

“Oh, Sweetie, that’s dirty. Put it in the trash and go wash your hands for dinner.”

Whoa. Who said that? Me? The woman-once-girl who collected robins’ egg shells, nests, feathers, who played with toads and tried to nurse abandoned baby birds back to health, who once carried a tiny iridescent lonely dragonfly wing back to camp for bonus points in a scavenger hunt? How could that same person tell her son to throw out a feather because it was dirty?

Still. It was, and it was dinner time. I’d flinched but given it little more thought. That is, until I noticed my son curled up on the couch, lip quivering, eyes welling.

I knew immediately that I had played the hand wrong. I put down my dish rag from wiping off the table and ran over to give him a hug and apologize.

“Oh, Sweetie, I’m sorry. I know that feather was a treasure and that it was special. But, really, they need to stay outside. They can have a lot of germs on them, and I don’t want you to get sick from playing with them.” (What I didn’t say was, “I’m sorry, sweetie, your mother’s a borderline hypochondriac and doesn’t want you to catch some kind of avian flu…”)

He looked at me with his big eyes, still welling.

“But Mommy, I was going to give it to you. What am I going to give you now?”

Oh! Rip my heart out and stomp on it a few times!

I don’t remember exactly what came next besides tighter hugs and more apologies on my part. I physically ached and felt sick to my stomach. I had never seen my son so emotionally hurt.

And I had been the one to cause it.

I know this may have been the first time, but it definitely won’t be the last. Knowing this heartbreak is only one of many within his lifetime doesn’t make the incident any less painful. Even if he’s moved on– he’s on the quest for the perfect “special stone” to give me — I still feel that ache.

Bubble wrap can’t protect either of us from these growing pains; no band-aid will hide these bumps and bruises.

Here’s hoping the scars give him — and me — character.