That Time I Had Questions

*cover photo by Tomas Rodriguez via bet.com

Often times when I am in the midst of a mundane task, I let my brain wander where it will. It alights on a memory for a moment, before flitting in another direction, drawn to whatever firing neuron first memory sparked. It happens so fast — you’re folding towels, then you’re thinking about that time you were folding towels with your grandma, then you’re wondering what happened to the ring that she used to wear on her pinky finger because when you see that memory in your mind’s eye, you remember how the ring flashed its stones when she snapped the towels in the air, her arms going taught for a split second before she would draw the towel back in towards her, now neatly pressed in two, and how despite her age, she didn’t have those bat wing arms that old ladies get, and man, I really need to make sure I hit the triceps when I go to the gym next week, which will be the first week in April, and. . .

Just like that, you’ve bounced from one thing to another in a blink of an eye. Have you ever had a conversation with someone and their comment triggers a similar trajectory? They say something that has your train of thought pin-balling helter-skelter in a matter of nanoseconds, and all you do is snort because when you’re brain settles down, it landed on something funny? It happens finger snap fast, yet trying to explain how you got from A to B is like trying to explain a dream (See, I was at my house, but it wasn’t my house and you were there, but it wasn’t really you).

I had that experience like the first example the other day. I was putting clean sheets on V’s bed, and as I billowed the flat sheet up and over her mattress, my brain leapt forward, neurons firing like bottle rockets in the sky. Suddenly, I was filling up with questions, inconsequential questions if I’m really honest, that I really need answers to.

Will you indulge me?

It all started with the flat sheet. When making the bed, do you place the flat sheet face up with the print is pointing towards the ceiling or face down, with the print against the fitted sheet? Seriously, I need to know. I learned to put the printed side of the sheet pressed against the fitted sheet so that when you fold the sheets back, you can see the print. The Hubs was taught the ~~wrong~~ other way. Guess which we way we do it now?
Speaking of beds, do you make your bed in the morning? This is a point of contention in some households, I know. Blessedly, we’re bed makers in the house of Hilary with One L. I get up, I make the bed, then start my day. I have heard the argument that there’s no point in making the bed if you are just going to get back into it at the end of the day. I disagree. To me, coming home to an unmade bed is like coming home to dirty dishes on the counter or wet towels on the floor. I just can’t. And to those people who say it’s better to leave the bed unmade so it can air out while you’re gone during the day? Watchu doin’ you gotta be airin’ out the bed?
TFW someone talks about airing out their sheets.
Maybe we’re airing out the bed because of our shower habits. AM or PM Showers? I heard this asked on a radio amongst the morning show hosts and it spiraled into a heated debate. The majority of the hosts were in favor of PM showers because they were “washing off the scuzz of the day”. At first I thought the argument was going to revolve around having to get up early for work and that an evening shower would save her a step. Nope. Repeatedly, one host pointed out that if you get in your bed without washing, you’re just putting all that junk in your sheets and on your pillow. Okay, but wouldn’t it stand to reason that if you shower in the evening and then get up in the morning, you should shower again because you’d just be putting all your nighttime germs into clean clothes?
Do I wash now or later?
And speaking of washing bodies and beds, don’t even get me started on the how often do you change your pjs’/sheets/towels conundrum. If we look back at the PM shower people, you’d be putting a clean body in clean (or maybe slightly used pjs’) on clean or slightly used bed sheets. I’ve heard of people who change their pj’s every night, every three days, every week. Some sheets get changed once a week or once every two weeks. Towels? “I take it on a case by case basis,” one friend told me. Oh, and separate wash cloths for hands and body. Can I be real a second? I’d never heard of that before and it got questioning my whole routine!
Moving away from the bedroom and bathroom, I need to know: Is it possible to get all of your groceries in one store? This a question that I’ve asked some friends and the response has always been a resounding “No”. It can’t be done, they tell me. Brand loyalty, quality of products, or cost/savings trump convenience of one stop shopping or quality of products does. Example: we get our meat and produce from one place, pantry items from another, and specialty items from a third. Could I get it all at a big box store like Wal-Mart? Probably. I don’t though, because I like getting my pantry items from Target and saving 5%. I get my specialty items from Trader Joe’s; they always have something that I fall in love with which can’t be found anywhere else (have you had their Mochi Rice Snacks? ) or things that just taste better than in other stores. Meat and produce? I get from The Fresh Market or Whole ~~Paycheck~~ Foods. I guess I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid since I pick up stuff from there. That’s not to say I won’t pop into a Martin’s or Kroger if I need to. I’ve got a favorite grocery store, which is a statement that a) I never thought I’d make and b) reminds me of how deep into this “adulting” thing I really am.
The rest of my questions are things that I’m just curious about. It’s less “Am I doing this right (or wrong)” and more, “Am I the only one?” For instance, How many times do you hand wash a “Hand-wash Only” item before throwing it in the wash with everything else? I think I may be tattling on myself with this one.
Have you stuck with your New Year’s Resolution? Maybe a better question would be do you remember your New Year’s Resolution (no, no I don’t).
Do you do this?
What do you call a Graphics Interchange Format? You know what I’m talking about. One of these:

Is it “giff” with a hard g or “jiff” with a soft one? The developer of GIFs says it one way (hint, like the peanut butter brand), but some dictionaries use both pronunciations.
This is probably the most pressing of all. Over or Under?
Your choice says a lot about you.

Got questions? Got answers? Leave them for me in the comments!

IN: introspection odds and ends writing ON: April 1, 2017 TAGS: honesty, life, random, sharing, thoughts BY: Hilary

introspection writing

That Time I Finished What I Started

Finished.

I’m finally finished.

Nope, I’m not talking about my latest writing project (one would have to actually start in order to be finished).

I’m talking about this blog post. I’ve been working on this post since February 10th. I wish I could say that it has taken me so long because what you are about to read is an astounding chronicle of intrigue and adventure.

Nope. It’s just a blog post that life kept interrupting, preventing me from finishing in a decent time frame.

Real Simple Magazine had an article in it’s March issue entitled, How to Conquer the Martyr Complex. I read the opening lines, “Overdo. Complain. Repeat.” and sat up a little straighter in my chair. It was like the article had just grabbed me by the chin and said, “You will read me and you will learn to be better.” I read further.

“Welcome to how I roll. Biting off more than I can chew is standard procedure for me. (“Sure, I can volunteer for the spring carnival and make a résumé for my niece and cook multiple options for dinner!”) And so is feeling fried and resentful later on. I’ll corner my husband for a thorough debriefing on my saintliness, hoping he’ll be overcome by a powerful mix of gratitude and admiration (gradmiration, anyone?). Instead, he typically says, “Oh, you didn’t have to do all that.”

I put the magazine down for a minute to collect myself. How did this author know me? I don’t remember doing any interviews.

I picked the magazine back up and read every paragraph. Then I read it again. Then I put the magazine down and chewed on my fingernail while I came to a conclusion.

I think I’ve been acting like a martyr.

Lately, I have been wrestling with feeling as though I am doing the most with respect to childcare and household maintenance and doing the least with respect to writing and photography.

When people ask me what’s new and I honestly tell them, in my mind, it comes across as complaining or seeking affirmation. Fact: I’m doing the heavy lifting on the home front. Fact: That leaves little to no time for the true work that I want to pursue. To my ears, though, it sounds like “Waaa, waaa, waaa.”

This was never more evident to me when I sat down to write this post four weeks ago. Yes, I started this rant back in February. I was in the middle of making lunches and just decided, you know what? I’m not doing this right now. I’m going to write. I left the kitchen, jars of peanut butter and jelly open, bags of chips unsealed.

I went to the dining room table because office and started to type this story:

We’re in the bathroom and I’m doing the girls hair. M is on the stool, looking into the mirror. C is facing her, seated on the counter. V is on the floor, playing with some tampons and whatever else she can find under the sink. Somehow the conversation turns to working parents and C decides, “Daddy works harder than you do, Mom.”

**Insert record scratch noise.**

M is furiously making cutting motions across her throat, her eye bulging wide, and willing her sister to shut it up. C, much like V on the floor, is oblivious.

“Really?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest to get a better look at her. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” she begins, ticking out examples on her fingers, “Daddy gets up early. He works in an office. He goes on business trips. He works long hours.”

“Anything else?”

“Um, sometimes he wears a suit.”

I nod, making sure I’ve picked up all of her points. “Gets up early, works in an office, business trips, long hours, and a suit. Okay.” I look at M’s reflection in the mirror and she is slowly shaking her head from side to side.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask C. “Because I’m about to tell you why you’re wrong.”

And from there, I proceed to read her to filth — in a loving, maternal, and educational way — elucidating on how what I do makes it possible for Daddy to do what he does. All that laundry that gets sorted, washed, folded and put away? Daddy can open his dresser and pluck out what he needs for those business trips. All the groceries, school field trip chaperoning, school function attendance, — I do those because Daddy is on a business trip, or has left early to wear his suit — which I picked up from the dry cleaners.

I was baffled then. I’m baffled now as I write this four weeks from when I first started to tell it, which is umpty-ump weeks from when it initially happened. For as much as I try to instill in the girls, I’ve failed them in that they think that working hard entails this particular set up. What I do enables The Hubs to do what he does because he doesn’t have to worry that they are fed, bathed, and clothed, going to their appointments or what have you, because I’m taking care of it. When he’s ready to go on these business trips, the clothes are clean. He can just pack his bag and go. Those early morning wake-ups and late evening returns home? He can do that because I’m spinning all the other plates. Fact.

On top of the spinning I’m doing, I’m also writing and doing photography. Sometimes. Occasionally. When I get the chance.

At the end of the day, when I’m on my own, scrolling through what didn’t get done, the writing and photography are always on the list. Then I get angry because I let happen (again). Then I try to focus on what did get done, like keeping the children alive one more day, the house didn’t burn down, everyone has clothes, full bellies, and was on time for all of their appointments that I made.

Look at what I have created!

The problem with stopping and starting a post like this is that the initial spark that spurned me from the kitchen to the computer is gone. Despite the repeated re-readings of what I’ve written, I’ve lost the thread of what I was trying to say. I’ve even lost the magazine article that started this all. I’m thisclose to losing my temper with three little girls who keep popping out of their beds like Whack-A-Moles asking for water, the bathroom light on, the bathroom light off, the door open, the door closed, and one more tuck-in because (and I quote) “The last one didn’t count because I didn’t know I’d have to go to the bathroom again.”

So, I dole out water, turn lights on and off, open and close doors, and tuck blankets around little arms and legs one more time. I save what I’ve been working on, publish it, and power down my computer. No more Overdo. Complain. Repeat.

More like Do Your Best. Be Satisfied. Repeat.

Do martyr-like tendencies sneak up on you?

How do you combat them?

Tell me about it in the comments!

IN: introspection writing ON: March 29, 2017 TAGS: honesty, introspection, sharing, venting, writing BY: Hilary

writing

Let Me Tell You About My Girls. . .

featured image Sisterly Love by Frank Morrison

When I sat down to write today, I was going to tell you a V Story. A V story is me relaying yet another instance where my youngest child has left the rest of us crying from laughter or shaking our heads in disbelief over the things that come out of her mouth.

My parents live for these stories. They end up telling their neighborhood friends, who have often check in with my folks just to see what V’s up to. If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that V 1) reminds them of Olivia from The Cosby Show 2) reminds them of Rudy from The Cosby Show or 3) needs a show of her own, I could probably sustain my Starbucks habit for the foreseeable future.

olivia, cute kids, cosby show, precocious, funny kids

She reminds you of Olivia? No, I’ve never heard that before.

So, while I do have story to share, as I was organizing it in my head, I started marveling at the mystery of birth order (that is definitely another post for another day). My older two girls are nothing like V — were nothing like V at that age. M has been a line towing, straight shooting, literalist from the beginning. C was the baby of the family for 4 solid years, fully embracing her role as the class clown. Her comedic chops were rivaled only by her sweet, sensitive nature. And then V joined the party. She’s a party unto herself.

I’ve got three incredible daughters each of whom possesses their own super strong personality.

Nowadays, when people ask me to describe the girls, I immediately rely on one of two examples.

Example 1: M is “What have you done for me lately?”, C is “What can I do for you?”, and V is “I’m about to do whatever I want to do whenever I want to do it.”

Traditional sibling roles? Absolutely.

While the first example is pretty succinct, the second example is chock-full of context that really adds some weight and texture to the framework.

Question: How would you describe the girls?

Example 2: So, if the Hubs and I ever left the girls home alone while we went out of town, and they got it in their heads to throw a party where the police are called in, here’s what would happen. M would be standing in the front door, hands on her hips, telling the authorities, “I told them not to do it. I told them it was a bad idea and that I wanted no parts of it. I said [insert Dixon family rules and regulations as stipulated by Mom and Dad]. They wouldn’t listen to me and I told them not to do it.” She’d be singing like a canary as she slowly crossed the threshold from inside the house to just behind the adults who’ve arrived to shut it down, offering directions as to where to find the most egregious offenders and suggestions on what punishments should be meted out and how.

“Firstborns bask in their parents’ presence, which may explain why they sometimes act like mini-adults. . . They excel at winning the hearts of their elders.”

— excerpted from “How Birth Order Affects Your Child’s Personality and Behavior” by Jocelyn Voo, Parents.Com

Reliable, conscientious, cautious, controlling, and achievers — those are words often used to describe firstborn children. M is a first born, through and through.

C, on the other hand, would be in the kitchen, giant trash bag in hand. She’d be furiously shoving red solo cups into the bag, unclogging toilets, wiping down counter tops, pulling clothes off of lampshades and ceiling fans (in my imagination, this is an epic teenage throw down. Like, any John Hughes’ movie plus House Party plus Neighbors). C would be saying over and over, “We can fix it. I can get it cleaned up. It’ll be back to the way it was in no time.” Or, she’d be in tears because: sensitive.

In general, middle children tend to possess the following characteristics:

People-pleasers (yup)
Nurturers (yup)
Thrives on friendships (yup)
Has large social circle (yup)
Peacemaker (yup)

Sweet, sweet, C — classic middle child. My sensitive soul desperate to make it right, shoulder the blame, and keep everyone smiling. I gotta toughen her up.

And then there’s V.

I mean, those of you who know her are probably laughing already. Go ahead. She’s a piece of work, I know.

Rounding out this trio of Bacchanalian celebration would be V, hanging out a second story window in an attempt to flee the scene of the crime, or rolling up in the driveway with a pack of friends, taking about “What’d I miss?” because she’d have snuck out of the house unbeknownst to anyone. Snuck out like two days ago because: V.

“Youngest children tend to be the most free-spirited due to their parents’ increasingly laissez-faire attitude towards parenting the second (or third, or fourth, or fifth…) time around.” — Jocelyn Voo

I can’t even begin to tell you how many times V has done something and I have just shrugged like, “Third kid,” and kept it moving. To say the attitude is laissez-faire? Ce n’est pas une surprise. The year V turns 16, I will be turning 50. Yeah, let’s roll that around for a minute. I’m already tired for my future self with that one. Last born kiddos also have a bag full of characteristics that make them easily identifiable as such.

Fun-loving (yup)
Uncomplicated (ha!)
Outgoing (yup)
Attention-seeker (yup)
Self-centered (yup)

These should have been printed on a notecard and included along with her birth certificate and discharge papers from the hospital. Then maybe we would have stood a chance.

So, back to the my V story.

Yesterday, V was upset when I picked her up from school. Pick up time for her is usually at the end of rest time (where the kids get to watch a video) or the beginning of snack time. Your girl had her knickers in a knot because although she got to stay for the whole video, I was coming to claim her right at snack time. Never mind that she could take her snack to go. She was going to miss out on the post-nap round table snack time discussion. Shame on me, right?

If looks could kill, amirite?

V is giving me grief as we walk to the car. She’s walking slowly. She’s mumbling “It’s not fair” under her breath. She’s really laying it on thick. We get in the car where C is engrossed in a book and M is knitting. In typical Dixon girl fashion if one is bent out of shape, the other two go above and beyond being Pollyanna. M turns to V and sings out, “Hello, V! How was your day?”

Through gritted teeth, V says “I don’t want to talk about it.”

M persists. She tries to engage V in some Q&A until I implore her to stop antagonizing her sister. V is clearly not entertained (although I’m giggling because she’s biting off answers like she’s got gristle in her mouth). M persists. She modulates her voice to what I can only imagine she thinks a therapist sounds like, and says, “Tell me about your day, V.”

V: No.

Me: M, stop it. Leave her alone.

M: What? I’m just asking about her day! (to V) Tell me what you think about when you see my face.

V: I think to destroy it.

conceited, conceited reaction, dang, side eye, disapproval

*welp*

I mean, what’s really left to say after that?

IN: writing ON: March 1, 2017 TAGS: funny stuff, life, motherhood, my girls, sharing BY: Hilary

projects & DIY writing

That Time I Explained Where Babies Come From (Again)

Somehow on the drive to school this morning, the girls got me talking about what their names would have been had they been boys. With M and C, we found out they were girls, so we quickly tabled any male names that had been under consideration. With V, we didn’t find out who she really was until she made her debut, so I was able to share the top three choices that ultimately ended up being knocked with that XY punch.

We dropped M off at the middle school and continued onto the lower school. V — who for the record, is 4 years old — asks me if “any more babies are coming out of your tummy” because she wants “a bunch of sisters”.

(source)

I heartily assured her that was definitely not happening. She goes quiet for a minute before piping up from the back seat again. This time, she wants to know how she “got out of there, anyway”. Now, you all know, this isn’t my first rodeo when it comes to the birthing story, but it was 7:49 in the morning and I hadn’t even had my coffee.

Putting on my “just the facts, ma’am” voice, I said how the doctor gave me some medicine so I wouldn’t feel anything in my belly, made an incisions, parted it, and pulled her out. After a beat, she wanted to know what an incision was.

“A cut,” I said, navigating the traffic while keeping an eye on her in the rearview mirror.

“Oh. My. Gosh!” V exclaimed (four going on forty, seriously). Her eyes were wide in disbelief. She fell silent for a minute as C chattered on about what she recalled from her own birth story.

“Wait, wait, wait,” interrupts V. “How did the baby get in there in the first place?

Of course. Of course she wants to know this. And again, I’ve been down this road, so I was ready. C pipes up from the back seat, saying “I got this, Mom!”

Oh boy.

C takes a deep breath and says, “So, what happens is, a husband and wife pray to God for a baby and when they’re ready, God gives them one.”

Sweet relief, she went with the basic version. I was a little nervous, after all, I’d had the more technical talk with M a few months ago and I’m pretty sure C was pressed up against the door like this. . .

“And then he puts his. . “

We’re still a few minutes from dropping C off at school when V lobs another question at me.

V: But how, Mom? How does the baby get in there when they talk to God.”

Me: Well, they say ‘Dear God, my husband and I. . .”

V: (hands folded) Dear God, my husband and I. . .

Me and C: No! V, no! Stop!

You ain’t gonna tell me I can’t have a bunch of sisters. . .

The brains on that one! She wants a bunch of sisters and she was going to find a way to get them. Straight had me walk her through how babies (in the G rated version) are made. C piped in quickly, too, saving me from having to untangle this particular thread of convo.

“That prayer only works for grown-ups who are married!” C explained. “You can’t say it. It won’t work.”

God bless, that child. She gets two desserts tonight.

My eyes flitted to the rearview mirror and V was fixing me with one of these looks:

(source)

Someone come get her (and her praying hands).

IN: projects & DIY writing ON: November 14, 2016 TAGS: funny stuff, life, motherhood, my girls, sharing BY: Hilary

DIY introspection writing

That Time I Talked About Friends

So, when I sat down a few hours ago, I was working on this post about how I’ve become a de facto food critic of sorts, eating at various Richmond restaurants once a month with a group of friends. When I started to get to the back story of how that all came to be –it all started with some coffee talk and a link to a really good article — I ended up going in a totally different direction. Food and friendships, two things that are too important to be to be crappy. Read on and see what I mean . . .

When I moved back to Richmond five years ago, someone told me two very important things about this town:

Richmond is a foodie’s paradise.
Trying to break into established mom groups is like trying to break into the mafia.

When we had lived in Richmond before, it had been as newlyweds with wide eyes. Now we were coming back with two kids (with a third on the horizon) and sleep deprived eyes. The ins and outs of running the household, taking care of myself, working on my writing and photography left me a little depleted in the adult interaction department. The Hubs and I are great friends, but what I really needed was some great girlfriends. The thing is, I’m pretty introverted. I have a hard time making friends; I always have. Once a friendship takes root, it blossoms into something longstanding. Getting to that point, however, ugh. . .I just want to skip that part and go straight to hanging out.

When we’re kids, we can just roll up on a similarly sized person, say our name, our age, and ask if they want to play. Chances are the response will be favorable and we’re on our way to building sand castles or running rag-tag around the playground and sharing gluten-free, peanut-free, organic, Pinterest-worthy snacks. By the time we’re collected to go home, we’re best friend for-ev-ah.

It doesn’t work like that as an adult. Rolling up on someone at Target and saying, “Hey, I like your shirt! Want to have coffee?” or “Hi, I’m Hilary with One L. I’m 38. You look like someone I want to be friends with. Wanna be friends?” might get you side-eyed at best and firmly escorted from the store at worst. So what’s a girl to do?

I relied heavily on my membership in volunteer and social organizations that I had joined years ago. When there were events at school, I went and sidled my way up to moms I didn’t know. I smiled. I introduced myself. I extended and reciprocated playdates. I said yes to things that left my introverted face-palming in disbelief. I put myself out there, not 52 friend dates like Rachel Bertsche, but close. Over time, with a few false starts mixed into the keepers, I’ve developed a core of friends whose company I really enjoy.

(Illustration by Nicholle Kobi)

Friendships ebb and flow, as do most things and life. When you are in the weeds of childrearing, career development, marriage, and the myriad of responsibilities that come with being an adult, you need a solid support system when times get challenging. Just like someone sends a Facebook status update announcing they’re purging their friend list, sometimes you’ve got to do that in real life.

As Anna Lind Thomas says, Life is to short for crappy friends. If you’ve got five minutes, pop over to Babble and read this article. It’s so important. I’m printing it out to share with M because the specter of Middle School Friendships rolling in this direction like angry storm clouds. Yes, Thomas may have intended her words to resonate with the most fickle and fragile of creatures, tweenage girls, but what she says is significant for any woman.

As women, we take on the most. We are caregivers, chauffeurs, chefs, cheerleaders, and all manner of jane-of-all-trades. We do it all with precision applied make-up, a smile on our faces and a twinkle in our eyes, even when mascara is smudged, our facial muscles are flagging and what’s really in our eye is glitter dusted up from a craft project from Valentine’s Day. We wear the pants and the cape and we never want to show them slipping.

(source)

We don’t want to say no and we don’t want to quit, even when we realize that it might be in our best interest to do so. We power through, activities, requests, even friendships that deplete us because we’re afraid it will reflect badly on us if we stop.

When it comes to crappy friends,Thomas, gives us permission to stop.

“Sometimes you’ll find that some people just aren’t able to be a good friend to you, even if they want to be. Their traumas, insecurities, anxieties, health issues or life circumstances can make it difficult for them to give you much of anything, let alone a friendship you can rely on. It doesn’t mean they’re nasty or they don’t like you (well, sometimes it does) it simply means they can’t give you what you need — a friendship worth investing time in. So stop investing time in it.”

(source)

Life is too short for crappy friends.

I know that I’ve been a crappy friend. I’m sorry for that. Like everyone else, there are times when I have been too caught up in my own life. Despite my desire to be otherwise, I just couldn’t be the friend someone needed at that time. Good friends will be there when the dust settles, me for you and you for me.

Thomas echoes this by saying, “A good friend worth keeping will support you and what you love to do. They’ll celebrate your talents and they may even share them. . .One good friend who loves you unconditionally is far better than 100 superficial friends who really don’t care all that much about you, trust me.”

Those are the types of people who I want to spend time with. Those are the types of people I want to invest in and I’ve made the active choice to do it. And because I’m an adult, I didn’t tweet about it. I didn’t post a status update detailing how I am about to unfriend people. I didn’t post cryptic IG posts or stop liking Snapstories. I just started being a good friend, sometimes a better friend, to someone else and good things followed.

Is there someone out there you could be a good (or better) friend to? Reach out to them!

IN: DIY introspection writing ON: October 18, 2016 TAGS: honesty, life, sharing, writing BY: Hilary

introspection writing

That Time I Expressed Myself

I almost put a disclaimer on here that the following post is just my semi-organized collection of thoughts and feelings that I need to get off my chest and none of it is an invitation to a Hilary With One L Pity Party or a Hilary With One L Put On Your Big Girl Panties And Deal With It Palooza, but I figured that wouldn’t be necessary because I know that you know that I’ve got an outstanding support system no matter what the situation, but that sometimes, you’ve just got to blow off some steam before you can get down to work. So. . .

It’s been a challenging couple of weeks. That right there in an understatement of epic proportions. I feel like that sentence should have been spoken by Captain Obvious, that’s how ridiculous I feel even typing it. But I have to be honest, my dear readers, I’m starting to feel all my feelings at once and I’ve got to let them out.

illustration by Loryn Brantz for Buzzfeed

I’m keeping my chin up. I wake up, work out. I hug my kiddos and drink my water and weigh the options for the day. Do we go to the movies? Museum? Pool? Library? Sit in front of the TV all day?

I look for the silver linings. The 9 fans and two county trash can sized dehumidifiers that have been blowing 24/7 for the past 6 days are now gone. The silence is priceless. The adjuster has come. The contractor has come. Things are getting done, or at least, we’re in the queue to have things done.

In the quiet times, however, when everyone is occupied and I’m sitting in the dining room that is now serving as the triage for all of the broken bits of our living room, bedroom and office, my heart squeezes and my throat gets thick. I want to cry.

I haven’t cried yet.

It sounds so foolish and so selfish. Goodness, it sounds selfish, but I need a good What About Meeeeee?!?! cry. A good, ugly cry would help. I need that scooped out feeling that a full-bodied, snot running, twisted mouth cry can bring. I need to wail like a siren and whimper like a child. I need the shoulder wracking sobs and the chest thumping cries. I need to cry so long that no sound comes out, that my face contorts into a rictus grin of grief. I need to cry unabashedly, privately so that my upset can go unchecked. When I unleash the combined torrent of my grief, I don’t want to have moderate it to make those around me feel better.

The falling of the tree has set off a domino effect of repercussions that have me constantly reaching for positivity when I’d rather climb into the hot, hard embrace of the negative. When I’m asked about how things are going, I pull back a tiny corner of the curtain of these #firstworldproblems. I’m met with a variety of responses ranging from sympathy for me (oh, no!) to relief for themselves (whew!). For every hug or slow shake of the head with a soft sigh, there are some who try assuage sadness with dollops of “Things happen for a reason” and “God only gives you what you can handle at a time”.

Since I still feel as though I am in the eye of the storm, it’s hard to accept those platitudes in particular. My fist is closed in frustration, unable to receive (or ready to cold-cock someone where they stand) and unable to release. Because I am Type A, because I like to be in control, because all of my best laid plans are now slippery shards of what should be happening that are sliding through my fingers, I reach for something solid instead. I reach for the positivity, but sometimes, sometimes, pity pops up. I grab it — huge handfuls of it — and hang on. I bite off chunks and swallow them without chewing until I’m full, full, full. I scrape off pieces into a tiny pile, then bend my face this-close, blowing small puffs of “why me” on the tiny ember of unfairness. It blossoms into gray-tipped black ribbons that lace around my wrists and ankles, binding me to my pity, my anger, my sadness, when I think of cancelled plans, delayed trips, broken beams, splintered desks, unsympathetic adjusters, and water, water, everywhere it shouldn’t be.

I pinch off tiny pieces of pity. Pity pebbles that I lay in front of me and move them around, rank ordering them from bad, worse, and worst. With each move, I chastise myself for being so selfish, for being so childish, for being so caught up in my own shit. But I keep pushing the pity around because I’m in charge, finally. I’m controlling something. Finally.

I’m on the phone with my brother, pity pebbles popping and pulsing in my palm. Rather than hear me arrange and re-arrange pebbles, he asks me to consider something. What if you’re at this point because of one of three things. One of three things you need or need to do:

Strength
Safety
Self-Reflection

Strength

“If God brought you to it, He’ll bring you through it.” — Let me just say that I’m more spiritual than religious. Have you heard that before? What does that even mean? For me, it means that I believe in God. I believe in something bigger than myself. I struggle with the Word and with the ceremony that goes with it. To say that when life sets challenges in your path it is because God is testing you or because God won’t let you fail is hard for me to accept. I want to know why. Why is this happening? Is it because when I prayed for strength and patience and instead of zapping me with virtues, I’ve been given opportunities to demonstrate them? If I believe that, then I should move forward, no questions. Then I think, isn’t that what faith is? Taking the first step without seeing the entire staircase? I could go around and around with myself on this for days. Every experience makes you stronger. Every scar is proof that you lived. There are times when I don’t think I can get any stronger, that there isn’t any more canvas left for scars — the ones you see and the ones you can’t.

Safety

When I was belly-aching about my cancelled plans, a friend suggested that perhaps something bad might have happened to me (or maybe my family) had I gone. My brother danced around this possibility as bit as well, which had me rolling my eyes so hard, my great-great-great grandchildren felt it in their DNA. I have a hard time wrapping my head around the idea of this butterfly effect scenario. Anything could happen at any time, but I still have a family to care for and my own goals to achieve. Not to put too fine a point on it, but me not taking a week-end away would have more likely resulted in something bad happening (#ifmommyainthappyaintnobodyhappy). But guess what? I stayed and we had a nice week-end together as a family.

Self-Reflection

Basically, this is karma. I must have done something that set this chain of events in motion such that I have is to look inward at what that might have been so that I can set it to rights. When my brother dropped this pearl at my feet, I ground my teeth so hard it still tastes like chalk in my mouth. Really? Really. Can I live? Can I just push my pity pebbles around and cry my tears and kick off my big girl panties because I don’t want to deal? I know that we are hardest on ourselves. I am the CEO of my self-doubt and the master composer of my negative self-talk. Turning the mirror on myself? I might implode so spectacularly, there’d be nothing left but a smoking tuft of 3c/4a hair and wrinkle in the space-time continuum. I’m having a good hair day and nobody likes wrinkles.

Shit happens, but we’re alive, we’re okay, it’s just stuff. I will digest that pity, put out that unfairness fire, and pour out the pebbles from my hand. I will grab a new pair of big girl panties and my shirt with an “S” on the chest. There’s work to be done.

IN: introspection writing ON: June 29, 2016 TAGS: honesty, life, sharing BY: Hilary

introspection writing

That Time A Tree Fell On the House

**Author’s note** There are a few expletives laced in this piece. While I’ve read that cursing can detract from the story, I’m relating events as they happened and that includes some colorful language that was used at the time.

It’s been almost a month since I posted last and everything has happened.

The kids have been out of school for three weeks. We’ve done a road trip to see my parents. Day camp has started. We’ve gone to the library. We’ve gone to the pool every.single.day. We’ve had breakfast (and a snack), lunch (and a snack), snack (and a snack), dinner (and a snack), and dessert (and a snack). In the in between times, I’ve been putting the finishing touches on the 50th Wedding Anniversary party I’m throwing for my parents, finalizing plans for my 20th high school reunion (Hi, I’m Hilary with One L, Class of 1996 Class Agent), and packing the girls up for three weeks of sleep away camp. You know, doing nothing but being a stay-at-home mom.

And then a tree fell on the house.

Last week Thursday, there was an EPIC storm that blew through #RVA around 10pm. The Hubs and I were in the bed, faces bathed in that pearlescent glow of our respective iPads. I was watching “The League” (meh), he’s watching ~~Game of Thrones~~ O.J. Made in America: Part 1 The kids were asleep and the house had been shut down for the evening. Despite the chatter from my device, I started hearing some serious wind and rain picking up outside. What started off as a little bit of drizzle has now picked up significantly in intensity over a matter of minutes. I turn to the Hubs and say, “Are you hearing this? ”

“Yup,” he says, pulling an earbud out of his ear. “I’ve been hearing it.” Then he turns his attention back to his show. At this point, I’m still sitting in the bed, marveling at the sounds of nature. The wind is ferocious, its voice loud as it mimics a fleet of 18 wheelers downshifting on our street. My mind digs into its file folder of sound associations and flips open to a memory of my mother telling me, “Tornadoes sound like freight trains.”

That’s my last thought just as the lights blink out. As quickly as they cut off, they turned back on. The wind gave an angry shout, the lights blinked off again, and then a massive cracking sound gave way to a thunderous crash as our house shook like the hand of God slapped it. The Hubs grabbed me by the arm — or maybe it was my ankle, it happened so fast — flipping me off the bed as he yelled, “Get on the floor!”

In the dark, we commando crawled to the children’s rooms to grab M, C, and V, who (mercifully) had slept through it. Slithering downstairs to the first floor, we piled into the lowest point of the house — the laundry room — and proceeded to wait for the storm to subside. Keeping the girls comfortable and calm was our priority as we listened to the wind scream and branches scratch and skitter across the roof and exterior walls.

After a while, we moved everyone into the dining room. Using some blankets from the living room, the girls concocted a nest while the Hubs and I grabbed flashlights to figure out what was going on.

“I hear water,” he said as we made our way back up to our bedroom. Sure enough, a cascade of rain was coming down from the door jamb leading into our bedroom. While he surveyed that damage, I made my way to the third floor. Our third floor is separated from the second floor by 15 steps which are book-ended by doors. I opened the first door and shined the light up the steps, thinking, “This is exactly the point in the slasher movies when the audience yells, ‘Don’t go up the stairs!'”

So, I went up the stairs.

I opened the second door, thinking, “This is exactly the point in the slasher movies when the audience yells, ‘Don’t open the door!'”

So, I opened the door.

Seriously, I’m Black and I’m a female — if this really were a movie, I’d a been a casualty before the opening credits faded to black.

I shined the flashlight around and let the beam pick up the array of scattered toys, Legos, books and so forth. Everything looked pretty much as I remembered it from the other day. I shined the light on the door to my office. I hadn’t been up there to write in a few days (that’s another story), but I was pretty sure that I hadn’t closed the door when I left. And even if I had, I wouldn’t have closed it as tightly as I now found it when I pressed my fingers to it.

This is exactly the point in the slasher movies when the audience yells, “Don’t open the door!”

So, I opened it.

And there was a big ass tree in my office.

Branches. Boughs. Leave. Limbs.

In my office.

Covering my stuff.

Obliterating my desk.

Disrespecting my workspace.

I slowly backed out, closing the door behind me, swallowed the scream that was percolating in my lungs, and eased myself back downstairs. The Hubs met me on the landing, shining his flashlight in my face. “You shouldn’t have gone up there!”

“There’s a tree. In my office. A tree is there. In my office. A big ass tree. In my office.”

What happened after that is pretty much a blur. I know that shortly thereafter the ceiling in the living room started to leak in several different spots. We took all of the art work off of the walls. We moved furniture away from the spouts of water popping up (or would that be down?) from the ceiling. We were collecting water in pots, pans, and plastic party buckets usually reserved for bottles of beer and cans of soda. Some how the kids fell asleep. At some point, I did, too, from some combo of fear, exhaustion and self preservation). The Hubs, God bless him, saved all of my photo albums and pictures. He stayed up, bailing and keeping us safe.

At first light, he and I left the girls safely sleeping to go see what exactly had transpired. Lounging across the top of our house, like La Maja Desnuda, was a giant ~~oak~~ poplar tree.

Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuck.

There was a tree, lounging on my roof like, “I’mma just hang for a minute and catch my breath from fucking up your shit. Thanks!”

The Hubs and I did a slow walk around the house to see the extent of the damage. Extensive would be accurate. The tree landed on the peak, hit the slope, forked the chimney and punctured the two windows of my office. It’s a miracle (and I don’t use that word lightly) that it didn’t collapse into our bedroom, which is right below the office.

It’s a miracle, my mother was quick to remind me, that I wasn’t up there working.

So while that disrespectful oak tree was making a home in my eaves and rafters, I keeping repeating to myself, “We’re alive. We’re okay. It’s just stuff.”