Ten plus ten . . .

This one's going to be a little different.   I got thinking about something I saw on facebook about tagging and how, when you get tagged, you're supposed to write 25 things about yourself that no one knows.  And then I thought, there are negative things that I think about myself that no one knows and what if I could turn them into positives.   I think they call that therapy.  I chose ten things.

For instance, I have stretch marks.  Ugly looking things that have created a veritable road map of my body. A purple puckered mess where my skin was pulled beyond it's limits.

The positive, badges of honour.  Battles scars of a sort.  A reminder that I gave birth to three amazing children.  Not to be taken lightly.  Each a blessing and a reminder of the incredible gifts I was given.

I cry over Hallmark commercials, songs on the radio, and sad and happy movies.  Pathetic and perhaps a sign that I may need a therapist.  Or maybe, it means I have a heart and feel things differently than those who don't turn into weeping messes over the “based on a true story” films.

Some nameless, faceless person in my past decided the nickname “The Book” or (if one was feeling particularly nasty) “The Answer Book” would suit me.  This was crushing at the time.  Now, though, I laugh out loud.  I work for a library system.   I have access to so many books and not enough time to read them all.  Words are amazing and have power.  Not “take over the world and make someone feel like a lesser person” kind of power – although, I suppose, one could do that if they wanted to.  Power to teach children, to learn and to understand, to make people laugh and smile, to make peace where there is turmoil (if only I was better at this particular skill).

I really like food.  I think about it more than I should and I struggle daily with how much of what should I put into my mouth.  My weight shows me that I have not learned how to stop obsessing about it.  I am learning though.   I feel like I am getting it.  I posted about a doctor visit that had me doing the “Ugly Cry” when I got home.  And then I got mad.  Mad can be a motivating place to be.   I started walking and have lost 30 pounds.  My blood sugars and cholesterol levels have come down into the normal range.  As has my blood pressure.  Positive things to be sure, but I still have some way to go.

I want a pair of “Cowgirl Boots”. . . . You can stop laughing now.  When I was about 12 or 13 my feet were, very briefly, the same size as my mom's.  She had a pair of soft tan, suede, embroidered, cowgirl boots.  I wore them and it was fun.  I felt so grown up and cool . . . . stop laughing.  I want to feel like that again.  Like I could conquer the world in those kick-butt boots.  There was a level of confidence that worked it's way up and out of me.  Nothing and no one was going to get in my way.  Maybe for this one I really do need a therapist . . .

My least favourite chore is dusting.  I have never enjoyed it, but at least when I was doing it for my mom I got paid.  Now, I just have to do it, but I don't like it.  I like when it's clean, though.  And given that I react to anything that gets in my eyes, it's something I have to do regularly.  The positive, my house is mostly clean.

I consider this one to be a bit naughty and a wee bit sick and twisted.  There is certain amount of glee that occurs when I watch someone going into road rage mode.  The guy in the fast car behind me that can't get around because there is a grandpa beside me doing less than the speed limit and I like to stay just at the speed limit.  He starts getting all twitchy.  Then when he gets by he ends up stuck behind a slow moving truck and starts getting really agitated and his arms start flailing.  I just laugh.  And laughter is always good, right?

I have an excess of pillows.  I really like pillows.  Where is the negative and where is the positive?  They cause strife on occasion.  There are a few that are MINE.  Not his.  Mine.  I put certain pillow cases on them to identify them as mine.  I do not share these ones and do not try to take them or you will find yourself rudely awakened with mild case of whiplash – MINE.  I sleep really well and that is always a good thing.

I move things (large pieces of furniture) around with some regularity.  I believe it is called nesting.  My husband calls it insane.  It makes him crazy when he comes home and his house has been rearranged.  Think “I never had to worry about smashing my shin on THAT piece of furniture before.”   I must be somewhat sadistic, because I find it funny that he gets so twisted up about it.  The positive, change is good.

Grey hairs and wrinkles.  They are a happening.  It is strange to look in the mirror and see that this is my fate.  Inside, when I am not looking in a mirror, I feel like I could be sixteen still.  Tack onto that twenty plus years of experiences that I wouldn't change (well maybe a few things) and the physical aches and pains of getting older and I quickly remember that – yes – I am almost forty.  Put me a car with my mom and the music cranked loud and I can still be a crazy twenty year old singing at the top of my lungs and having a great time – until my kids ask us to turn the music down.  So I generously give to the hair dye and face cream companies and feel like I am helping to support someone else on their journey, wherever it may take them.

Truly, in all things, I am blessed.  And so I go, mostly joyfully through my days.  Grateful and thankful.

Sharing . . . !?

I am trying, strike that, teaching, nope, using words to express the importance of sharing with my kids.  As to whether or not those words are sinking in, and having an impact on their behaviour, well, it seems like not.

Back in December the kids were given gifts over the Christmas holidays.  In one instance, the girls both got new jackets and my son was given a game.   The instructions were that he was to share the game with his sisters.  Even I can see where this is going to end up.  He is certainly not, no way, no how, going share his sisters' new pink jackets so why should he share his Christmas present.  Yeah, didn't go over well the first time they played.  I put the game away.

Several weeks later the game came out of hiding.   I was folding laundry and I could hear some of the conversation that was going on down the hall and went along the lines of, “the game is mine.”  “Yeah, but you're supposed to share it, it's for all of us.”  “No, it's mine and I can share if I want to.  And right now I don't want to share.”

Not long after the words are exchanged I hear the thumping of footsteps down the hall and “mom-meeeeee!”  Problem resolution time.

This is where I start to ramble a bit away from the story.  I get a lot of grief from my family members about stories I tell.  I use a lot of words to get to the point.  Sometimes I go around in circuitous manner so that no part gets left out.  I get that it can be annoying for someone trying to listen, and so I do try to go for brevity, but it doesn't always happen.  As much as my family gives me a hard time, I started to wonder if people I meet everyday feel the same way, but are just too polite to say anything.

Back on track, Ella poses to me, “mommy is the game for all of us?”  I respond with, “it is to share.”  She runs down the hall and repeats to Ryan and Ava, “Mommy said it was for us to share!”  I hear frustrated thumping down the hall (I know it is Ryan).  “Mommy, auntie gave the game to me so it is mine.”  Arghhh!  Me, “Yes, Ryan, auntie gave the game to you, but she said you need to share it.  I know you kind of got left out and the girls got jackets and auntie gave the game to you, but she asked you to please share it with your sisters.”  Ryan, “So it's mine?”  Me, “It's for all of you.”  Ryan, “but auntie gave it to me!”  Me, “yes she did, but she wants you to share it.”  Ryan, “okay.”  Running and thumping his way back down the hall I hear, “MOMMY SAID THE GAME IS MINE!”  Noooooo.  You can see now where the rambling around in circles gets me.

All I can hear is Jim laughing in the other room.  Great, just great.  Obviously, “SHARE THE GAME!”  might have worked better.  I felt as though I had an opportunity to impart on my kids the importance of sharing.  I don't think it worked in that moment.

I am grateful for the teaching (and learning) moments in my days – most of them.  Sometimes I just shake my head in exasperation.

No Kissing Allowed

There is something to be said for a really great, toe curling, warmth inducing, happy hormone producing kiss.  That wonderful feeling of being connected to someone you love and who loves you right back.  There are lots of songs about kissing and how wonderful it is and most of the time I would have to agree.  Even a kiss that's not toe curling can still make you feel good.  Connected.

I am sorely – pun intended – missing out on this part of my married relationship right now, and have been since about mid December.  Almost four weeks of no kissing.  And, get this, it's making me really cranky.

I suffer from cold sores.  Huge revelation, right?  It doesn't usually bother me, but after four weeks of PDA-free living and lack of lip contact I am feeling the need to vent.  I hadn't had an outbreak for almost a year and perhaps I got a bit cocky about it.  Bragging internally, “yay me! cold sore free.”  I should have known it wouldn't last.

The second week of December Jim had dental work that required an extraction.  Kissing wasn't really on his mind for the following week.  By the time he had healed up enough I had bronchitis followed by a clockwork pattern of cold sores on and around my mouth and lips.

If you've ever had the displeasure of a cold sore – I feel your pain – right now my bottom lip looks like a moonscape.  If you have been able to live your life without the pain of these insidious sores, allow me a moment to describe how nasty they are.

The virus lives in my body.  It hangs around waiting for an opportune time to make itself known.  It usually starts as a little warm and tingly spot on my lip or on areas around my mouth and or nose.  Within a few hours blisters start to appear.  These are usually preceded by pain.  Hot, searing, prickly pain.  They are small little blisters that you really wouldn't think too much of, but dang it, they really hurt.  Sometimes they are small, about the size of a pin head and I can sort of ignore them.  Other times, more recently, right now, it's a never ending cycle of blisters, scabs, bleeding, and mess.  Anything that touches my lips feels like spiked sandpaper.  And this makes me a no kissing zone.  Because, and yay, really, it's not enough to deal with already, they are really contagious!  One kiss could lead to my husband or kids having to deal with this viral nastiness.  I'd rather not share.

I really miss kissing.  It's not something I ever really thought about.  I didn't need to think about it because kissing in our house is abundant.   I kiss my kids foreheads and hands and lips at various times throughout the day and especially at bedtime.  I kiss my husband before he goes to work and when he gets home and just randomly as opportunities present themselves.  Right now, he looks at my lips and runs the other direction.

Sure we bump into each other accidentally on purpose in the kitchen or bathroom and he smacks my butt every once in a while, but I really miss kissing.  The song lyrics, “you don't know what you've got til it's gone.”  I get it.  It's gone.  For now.  Temporarily – THANK GOODNESS!

I'll be really grateful when my lips heal.  And I'm grateful that I have people in my life that accept my kisses and kiss me back.