BBB: All Aboard

I can view my recent lack of posting one of two ways: I’m too dull and under the weather these days to do anything fun, let alone write about it, or that my idea of a good time has shifted as I’ve transitioned into family life, and my day-to-day activities just don’t jive with this blog.

I like to think it’s the latter that’s preventing me from writing frequently.

I swore from day one that I wouldn’t turn this into a mommy blog, so I think it’s time to shut this bad boy down before I really cross the line.

Thank you for reading Birdie, Belle, and Black these past two years. It’s been a wild ride, but I’m looking forward to adventures of a different kind.

Please  join me as I share the story of two very sweet and sometimes challenging little boys.

www.birdiesboys.blogspot.com

Adios, friends. See you soon!

Belle: Meet Emmett

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Birdie: Wyatt’s Little Brother

It’s official! We’re having a boy! This just proves that no matter how many times you rub cute, pink, girly clothes all over your belly for good luck, you just can’t mess with the Universe and its decisions.

Wyatt’s going to love having a brother. We’re going to love having another little boy to try and tame. The little dudes will be beating the crap out of each other and hurling one another off of furniture in no time.

Feel free to stop by and see the show at any time, though keep in mind that if your visit falls within the next eight to ten years you might be forced to stay and babysit while we escape to regain sanity.

Belle: 5 Things I Love (3/18)

My grandparents on their wedding day. May 1944

Belle: 5 Things I love (3/11)

Birdie and Black: Slip Slidin’ Away

“I know a woman, became a wife. These are the very words she uses to describe her life: She said a good day ain’t got no rain. She said a bad day’s when I lie in bed and I think of things that might have been…” –PS

Once upon a time I made one of the greatest mistakes of my life: I got married too young and too quicky. I don’t think it’s fair to say that I was completely inexperienced when it came to life– I was born nobody’s fool–except for when it came to this guy. I was his fool for eight of the longest months of my life.

I didn’t know how marriage worked. In my mind, you were crazy about each other. You’d argue every once in a while, work it out within a few days, move on. You supported each other, brought out the best in one another, did your best to please each other and make the other laugh. That’s how my parents did it; It’s what I saw growing up– they were successful when it came to loving each other, and that’s how I would someday experience the commitment of marriage.

I was blindsided when mental illness moved into our “happy home,” and I was frightened when the man I married, the guy with a few harmless personality “quirks,” became full on emotionally abusive. During our best days, we held hands and laughed up and down sunny streets in Paris. Eight months later, I was on my knees on our living floor, begging for him to tell me what I could do to help him deal with his issues. His coldness, mean spirit, and paranoid, psychotic behavior was tearing me apart. Instead of agreeing to counseling, he offered the following: “You remind me of my mother when you act like this [crying and on my knees]. Weak. Do you know what my father did to her last time she talked to him like this? He pushed her down a flight of stairs and broke her leg.”

Regrettably, I stayed for two more months. As a last resort, I booked a flight for us to visit his old friends, hoping that they could help pull him out of whatever he was dealing with, because clearly I couldn’t. He didn’t want to go, made a scene or three once we got there, and pretty much lost what was left of his mind. I was too afraid to get on a plane back home with him, and our friends were kind enough to let me stay a few extra days so I could figure out a plan of action. They were also kind enough to fly me back out a few weeks later and give me a place to stay while I made arrangements for divorce, as they saw first hand that I was in serious trouble.

When people split up, it’s always assumed that the person on the receiving end is the one heartbroken. I am here to say that having to leave the person you had once put all of your faith, hopes, and trust in is a crushing blow. The negotiations of divorce, the relentless fluctuations in emotion, the dividing of things that all of a sudden make no difference–they make you sick.  You mourn the failure of your love like a death, and for a while life becomes completely numb and flavorless.

As a final departing gift, my ex told our friends and family that we divorced because I ran away and had a wild affair with one or both of the friends who took me in. He’s revealing the juicy details of my supposed fling in a new memoir he’s writing. Whatever helps him sleep at night.

I swore I would never tell this story. Mostly, I’m embarrassed about my poor judgement, but I’ve also moved on. I’m happily re-married with a beautiful child and another on the way. This time, my marriage is closer to the idealistic vision I originally had, and the worst insult I’ve received so far was a threat to be sent back to Whore Island, but that was a completely unoriginal ripoff from the movie Anchorman, and there were giggles involved.

There’s a point to this story, I swear.

During those eight months of what I like to call a “learning experience,” I was drawn to a few songs with which I could identify. One of them was Paul Simon’s “Slip Slidin’ Away.” The second verse really struck me, and I’d turn the song on repeat as I’d lie in bed at night, gathering the courage to either leave or do something similarly drastic. I don’t play it much anymore, though it’s one of my favorite songs of all time.

Oddly enough, I heard it today at Starbucks. I was waiting at the counter for my delicious vanilla latte, unintentionally humming along, and it triggered old memories of those restless nights. It also reminded me of the only job available once I got the hell out of bad marriage town and moved to Orlando. I was a Starbucks barista. I made seven bucks an hour, slept in an empty apartment on a futon, and chugged Mylanta like water, because I swear the stress of it all gave me a friggin’ ulcer.

So here’s where it gets weird:

I heard someone else humming along softly with me. I looked up and it was the barista. The barista was me if I had stayed at Starbucks for twenty more years and hated my life. Dyed black hair pulled back, blunt bangs, same glasses, same nose,  tall and slender (yeah, there was I time when I was slender). Older, unfriendly Sara. Slightly wrinkly, but more notably, sad, sad Sara.

Now, I don’t know this woman’s story. For all I know, she could be happy as a lark, married to some Brad Pitt look-alike millionaire, living the paradise life. Somehow I doubt it.

I’m sure this wouldn’t be pleasing to her in the slightest, but to me she was a reminder of what I could have been if I’d gotten really stuck somewhere between divorce and where I am now. I could see in her eyes that she was completely unfulfilled. Those days when I felt unfulfilled were some of the loneliest days of my life.

And I, the occasional asshole,  for some reason rejoiced in this bizarre scene. My spirit lifted for a quick minute, breathed a sigh of relief, and said to me, “You made it, girl! You’re not there anymore!” The realization of how much sweeter my life is now was better than any latte I’ve ever had.

Then I came back down to earth and looked again at the barista, who avoided eye contact all together as she all but shoved the drink into my hand. My heart softened for her, and I actually got a little sad. Again, I’m sure this had nothing to do with her–I don’t know the woman–and some psychologist would tell you I was projecting my own feelings about myself  on to her. That’s fine.

Whatever the reason, it was all I could do to keep from walking around the counter to hug her.

I wanted to hold her in my arms, stroke her hair, and tell her it will all be okay.

Belle: 5 Things I Love

Birdie and Black: Waking Up

Lately I have one goal in life: to not be an asshole.

Sounds easy enough, but honestly, it’s hard. Over the years, my illness has shortened my fuse to a tiny nub, and though I can visualize a peaceful, well-adjusted, non-judgmental self, free of ego, I can’t seem to get there yet.

A few years ago, we adopted a beautiful hound named Sam. He was an old man by the time we got him, but he was the best dog we’d ever had. Super friendly, obedient, and he lived to please. He was a friend. He also had a tumor. And as Sam’s tumor grew, he began to lose that soft, happy, puppy dog personality. He started to get depressed and would lick his paw all day long. He licked it until it was bald and raw. Eventually, he would have days where if you caught him at the wrong moment, he would snarl and nip at you aggressively. This was not our Sam. But he was in pain; I imagine it was relentless. We hadn’t discovered the tumor yet, so he was left to work through the discomfort on his own, and he did it with as much grace as he could. Still, he could be a jerk sometimes.

We forget that we are not much different than dogs, or any other animal for that matter. When we are suffering, even the gentlest people have the ability to bare their teeth and gnash. It’s instinctual.  It doesn’t matter the brand of suffering: chronic pain, cancer, a cold, loss, loneliness, insecurity, jealousy. If we are not mindful, these things can make us ugly.

Lately I find myself getting ugly with some people I love. Some are friends, some even family. Don’t get me started on strangers.  Half of me knows very well I’m tired, sick of this illness, and I’m getting bitter. I know that my ego can get a little out of hand, so when people piss and moan about trivial things on Facebook or over the phone, I think to myself, “What the hell do you really have to complain about?! That’s all you do!” I judge them. It’s not right, but I do it.

At the same time, the other half of me believes this constant spew of negativity about everyday occurrences is getting out of hand. What is everyone griping about? Going to work, a tough project, a long project,  a jerk in front of us at the deli, gas went up x amount again, we hate homework, we hate the Oscars, Republicans, Democrats, we just hate. Have we always been this pathetic? We sit safely behind our computers and blast away at the world around us.

It’s time to wake up. Lighten up. Everyone. Starting with me, the chronically ill person, snapping with no warning like a dog, assuming that everyone’s threshold for discomfort should be the equivalent if not higher than mine. The people who don’t even realize that they complain about things most people would feel fortunate to have. The people who realize they have a hell of a lot, and that’s still not good enough.   Of course we’re miserable. We get so stuck in our heads, focused on what we consider our own misfortune, we don’t even realize our misery is rubbing off on others, nor do we think to end the cycle and be a part of something more positive.

These thoughts came to me after of an act of kindness I witnessed today. It was bittersweet, because it made me see how much I fail sometimes at my life goal.

Duke is a man who has lived in the neighborhood since I was a small kid. I asked him about ten years ago how old he was, and he replied sheepishly, “72,” which may or may not have been true, but I’m guessing he was in the ballpark. Duke is a bit… special, and sometimes it’s hard for him to pick out fact from fiction or date things properly.

There are all sorts of stories about what happened to Duke to make him the way he is (slow, happy as a clam, and mentally stuck around the age of twelve). My money’s on an issue in the womb, but I have heard that he slipped in the bathtub as a kid and he suffered brain damage.

Whatever happened, it gave him a gift: That mofo can talk. And talk. And talk. Sometimes he likes to talk about his two loves: Miley Cyrus and, oddly enough, my younger sister (who is also me at times, depending on how “with it” he is). He talks about skull jewelry, the band KISS, how he is a drummer, how he wants to be a drummer in the band KISS,  how he’s a waterskier, how he’d love a beer, how he’s going to see the new Keanu Reeves movie called, “Speed.”

Honestly, he can go on for hours about the things he loves. It doesn’t matter if you have an arm full of groceries or a twenty-pound screaming baby– Before you can tell him you’re busy and have to run, he’s on to the next topic and you won’t get a word in. And you never know when he’s going to show up. Well, that’s not entirely true– you can hear him coming down the street because he has a big chain holding up his leather pants (in the 80s it was a bicycle chain, though he’s since upgraded), but the thing to note is that Duke walks miles every day around and around the neighborhood looking for people to talk to.

He is harmless, he is kind, and he LOVES everyone in the community, even the cats sunning themselves in windows (yes, I’ve seen him talk to them). The highlight of this man’s day is running into someone as they go to leave their house. Even if you’re whizzing by him in your car, he lights up like a child who sees his parent for the first time after a long work day. If you look in your rearview you can still see him waving at you even though you’re well out of the neighborhood.

He never has a bad thing to say, in fact, he will compliment the hell out of you. Always pleasant (if you disregard his poor hygiene), and yet I avoid him like an STD. I look both ways before entering the street, not because I am afraid of cars. And I’m not the only A-hole. All but a few people get irritated when they’re caught by Duke, even if they are just sitting outside with nothing but time.

I feel guilty– SO guilty each time I do it, but it never fails: I hear those chains jingling and I run like the dickens for the door. I see neighbors do the same. Why? I mean, He smells kind of bad, but he is the kindest person on the planet who just wants to tell you what he loves that day.

For a long time I just assumed our newspaper deliverer had a golden arm that could whip a paper far enough to reach the door. My A-hole status elevated the day I saw Duke pick up my paper from the street, walk up a bunch of steps, and set it down gently on the welcome mat. Eventually I pieced more things together and realized that he was the one who dragged our emptied garbage cans back up to the house for years every Monday morning.

This morning it was raining pretty hard. I was feeding the baby, and I heard the paper hit the mat. Then I heard the garbage cans drag across the driveway. I snuck over to the window to watch him in action, and what he did next made me reconsider a lot of things.

There was a tiny rogue piece of garbage, maybe the size of a candy wrapper, still sitting at the foot of the driveway. He looked at it for a minute, looked up at the house, and then bent down and picked up the  bit of trash. He brought it all the way back up to the can. Mind you, he’s 82 (we think), he’s mostly alone in life, and he’s standing there picking up my garbage and doing my housework in the middle of the pouring rain. Without pausing even a second for reflection on how great he was for doing a good deed, he moved on to the next house to deliver their paper.

Duke is my  hero. Seriously. We avoid him because we don’t have time for him, but he is the person we could stand to be more like. Do you have to be brain damaged to do good things for the sake of doing them? Is it possible to stop so much hating and the pity parties and just be kind, encourage, and help each other out? That would be amazing.

I don’t care how sick I am, I am doing my best to not complain for complaining’s sake. I will deliver your newspaper when I can, and if I don’t have the kindness or strength in me to do so, I will just keep quiet that day.  I’m also not allowing others’ complaints to affect me. Frankly, we don’t have time for it. We have so much–everything we need and more.

Self Awareness 101: I’m enrolled. Feel free to join me in my quest to not be an asshole. (I’ll start by saying thank you to the D man next time he passes by.)

Birdie: A Good Rain

Rain like this only happens a few times a year. Its a confident rain, one that says, I’m big, I’m heavy, and I’m going to be here all day, so hunker down and get cozy.

By 1:30 on Friday afternoons, I am desperate for Wyatt to take a nap so that I can tend to the natural disaster that is our house after a week of day-to-day build-up. Today, the rain told me to relax and let the stuff pile up a little more. I mean really, it spoke to me, in the form of a soothing cascade down the drain pipes and the persistent splatter of drops on the roof. It talked my muscles down to a jello-like state, and my only option was to stare peacefully out the front window, Wyatt dozing in my arms, both of us descending into a trance as easy as drips sliding down a glass pane.

I could have dumped him right off in his crib, but instead I sat for a while, cradling him, watching his little sucky mouth open and close like a guppy. After I had my cuddle fix and put him to bed, I still felt no sense of urgency to do anything except sit and be quiet. I made a cup of tea. In a cabinet I found four Hershey kisses that had spilled out of a long-gone Valentine’s Day candy bag. I turned on some old reggae music, sipped my warm cup, and savored my bits of chocolate as I watched puddles swell in the street.

God speaks to us all in different ways. I’m finally able to understand that after years of shunning religions I feel are based on fear and guilt, an old institution whose mold, for me, was always just too tight a fit. But there are a million little Gods in this world to worship, and we can do it however we want. Today, I give thanks to the hard rain and the momentary stillness it brings to our cluttered minds. Today is a blessing.

Belle: Love