Tae-draucht

Look out my window at work today....and what do I see?

Real man in real kilt, looking back at me.

Wide Open

The most difficult thing that I've ever experienced in this life is watching helplessly as one of my children suffer and struggle.

It is really like no other difficulty I've ever known.

Nothing makes me feel smaller and more helpless.

I become so acutely and painfully aware of my short-comings and my infuriating lack of super powers. And how I never had any business doing this parenting thing. How utterly unworthy and incapable I am.

I have to remind myself to breathe. Deliberately. Consciously.
"Okay, it's been a while since you've exhaled. How 'bout it?"

And I may be losing my perspective but I think the older they grow, my children, the more devastating this becomes. I'm not positive it is possible to accurately convey the grip upon my heart when one of my grown children cries out to me. The sound of their terror. Their grief. Whether on the phone or in my arms, my child thinking there is some way for me to magically fix what has brought them to their knees. I'm the mom, I should be able to fix it, right?

You know that dream when you are in some form of grave danger and you need to cry out. Want frantically to scream at the top of your lungs. You gulp a desperate breath and open your mouth but not a sound comes out?

Big Smile!!

I have been writing in my head about these flowers since they were delivered to me Wednesday. It was such a bright spot that I just couldn’t help it.

I had a really bad day this week. Tuesday.

And near the end of the work day for most people in my building, I stopped by a friend's desk, a diversion or release, I’d hoped. And she could see that I was a mess. She very kindly proceeded to just let me be a mess. A good friend will do that for you.

When I'd released some of the breath I'd been holding for most of the day and really had little left to vent, she asked me what I could do for myself in the form of comfort. Self-care.

“Is there anything you can think of that sounds calming and peaceful?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t really rely on ‘Retail Therapy’ for comfort but I sure wish I had just a bit of money, cash unspoken for, that I could use for a thrift store splurge. Or to buy myself tulips for my desk. For my home.” She nodded her understanding. And I went back to work. 

The next day when someone from the front desk opened the door to my department, I turned to see her carrying flowers. “They’re for you,” she said. They were the most cheerful thing I could imagine appearing spontaneously before me. Tulips, daisies, and card that read: Big Smile!!

The card was unsigned.

Of course, I was sure I knew who they were from. So I went to her desk. The same one as the evening before.

“I thought about it, but it wasn’t me,” she said, when I asked. I looked at her with doubt. “Swear to God,” she said.

I asked a couple more people.

“I wish it had been me, but it wasn’t.”

“Not me, but I’m happy to take the credit.”

But then before I ran out of people to check with, I decided that it was better not knowing. At first I couldn’t stand the thought of not getting to say Thank You, to whom ever sent them. But that was about me, wasn’t it? It was a much better idea to not know. To just let it be an unsigned gift. To let it be.

The flowers.

At my desk while I worked. To remind me of the angels in my life.

And now, the flowers, sitting here near my foot stool, in front of the drum set. Speaking to me.
An absolutely deliberate act of kindness.

I love not knowing.

I adore not knowing. 

As long as I don't know, then these flowers could be from ANYONE. And I mean anyone. My imagination runs wild, near and far. Like Schroedinger’s Cat, all options are possible.

(But don’t get me wrong, I’m not kidding myself about who they are not from.)

It really could be anyone. It could be you! Hey YOU, thanks for the flowers. They absolutely made my day. My week. Well done, You!!

I've said it before just recently and I'll say it again, "So shines a good deed in a weary world."

April 10, 1987

Where were you April 10, 1987? My first child was born that day.

He turned 25 years old today.

I have been a bit lost as to what to do for his birthday.

I count on the universe revealing to me the perfect gift idea as long as I'm open to see.

I headed into work this morning without a clue.

He likes pie.

He likes Red Robin.

He likes many TV series.

He likes anything made of Kevlar.

This is a start but nothing is really clicking with me. I figure I'll just keep driving toward his work to wish him Happy Happy trusting that something will come to me.

Key Peninsula Hwy

Purdy Spit

Hwy 16

I - 5

Still nothing. Balloons? Big Mac? (You'd have to know Colin to know just how funny that was.) I know I can't go wrong with bullets but in my world, the gift needs to fit the 'giver' as much as the 'givee.' Bullets are not my idea of the perfect gift. Okay, well maybe in some unique and specific situations. But generally speaking, no.

Driving past the Tacoma Mall, watching all the idiots realizing at the last second that they need to take the 56th street exit and cutting across the lanes.

Thinking "gift, gift, gift. Need the perfect gift."

Thinking "There's a K-Mart between me and his work, maybe there will be something..." (kidding)

Then I catch a glimpse of the Ted Brown music store in the corner of my eye. I cut across the lanes between me and the 72nd street exit and next thing I know I'm driving past Hooters and on to Ted Brown.

My son is a drummer. And he'd never tell you how much he loves it or how talented he is, but I will. Another time.

I know he needs a new snare for his kit but I don't know the first thing about what kind, what brand, what color. No, that's not true, I'd be pretty good at finding the best color. Then it hit me. Since he first got his drum kit in junior high school he's wanted a double base pedal. And the sweet relief of knowing, I've just hit the perfect gift idea. *sigh*

I got the best one I could afford. Packed it into my trunk and headed to his work. It's a bit of a drive. He is not expecting me.

"What are you doing here?" He's not unhappy but surprised.

"Wishing you Happy Birthday," I say. "Come out to the car. I have something for you."

"What?" he asks as we walk to where I've parked.

"Birthday cake. A big, sugary thing with inch thick frosting and sprinkles all over."

"I hate birthday cake. I'd rather have pie."

"Sorry, I got you a cake."

I popped the trunk. I watch his face. He gingerly lifts the flap on the plain cardboard box. (He's always on alert for booby traps.)

"What did you do?" he asks. Unable to keep the glee out of his voice, which is very unusual for this kid.

I'm giddy. "I know, right!"

My eyes water. "Oh I wish I'd taken the day off," he says. "Then I'd be able to go set it up and play right now." He could not have said Thank You more clearly.

I was so happy.

He was so happy.

Considering our beginnings together, this is a miracle. These few minutes before I head to my job for the day.

My son. 25 years old today. He's an amazing kid. I am blessed beyond measure.

Seen any bad movies lately?

Oh my gosh. What would I do with the money spent to make this movie? The score, the cast, the crew, the location, the craft services? What would I do with that money?

I've written before about how, in general, I am not a big techie. I mock and I shun. I make fun. I love this about me. But I've also written before about how every once in a great while, I notice an exception. The gadget, the website, the software that indeed makes this world a better place. At least my world.

The little slice of 'technology' I'm so appreciating especially today is the x2, x4, x8 Play feature on my DVD player. You know the one, the button you push and people start killing each other much faster and without the suspenseful music?

Of course you may argue (this is me anticipating you arguing with me) that if a movie needs to be x2'd to get through, then maybe I should not be watching it at all.

But I say right back to you (in this conversation that really lives only in my head and on this blog) that if x2 helps me get through the stupid boy parts of Braveheart in order for me to enjoy the long hair and kilts of the movie, then more power to me, right?

I started a movie just recently. It's not unusual for a movie to start a little slow, right?

And a little weird, right?

And this movie is something called 'acclaimed.' It says so right on the case.
Sundance Blah Blah Blah.
Blah Blah this film festival and that film festival.
Nominations for the something something award...
...with the names of previously interesting actor types across the top of the case.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Honestly.

However.... I learned something important as this movie played in my DVD player.
Turns out that x8 is my limit. When a movie is moving so slowly that it is still boring at x8?

Here's what you do...

• Stop the DVD player.
• Remove the DVD disk.
• Put said disk back into the flimsy library case.
• Do not look back.
• Then call and thank me.

Do you want to know the title of this movie? I'm not telling. But if I had the money spent to make this impossible-to-justify film, I would be set. Oh my goodness, SERIOUSLY? Was this absolutely necessary?

Someone should be brought up on charges for wasting my time, as far as I'm concerned.

And tell me who I speak to about the popcorn and M & Ms that I'm out. Somebody owes me.

Care to guess the title? I'll tell you it was released in the last year.

The Consolation Prize

You know February whizzed right by me. No blog post since January 1st.

It's not that I haven't been blogging, it's just that I haven't been doing it out loud. I blog quite regularly in my head. I may have mentioned this before.

When I start working on a blog topic in my head, the future post is short and crisp. It's clever and quick. It's funny and it's profound.

But then this thing happens.... in my head: I hear voices.

Not the kind of voices manageable by medication. Slightly less menacing than that. I hear the voices of my readers. Your voice. Specifically, the voice in your head.

You know the one, the voice that argues with the guy who just cut you off in traffic.
The one that practices the talk you need to have with your boss.
The voice that rationalizes that questionable decision you just made.
The one that travels into the past and speaks the perfect words, instead of the words that haunt you at night when you can't sleep.

Is it a super power, that the inside of my head can hear the inside of your head?

I will be simply minding my own blog business, composing my post internally when your voice starts arguing against my point. Trying to find the flaws. Eager to prove me wrong. The voice in your head will roll its eyes at the words being written in my head. It scoffs at my grammar. Mocks my presumption and arrogance. "Who are you to write these ridiculous words? These posts? Who do you think you are? And who do you think wants to read your opinion and observation?"

"HA!" You point and laugh, in your head. But I can hear you, you know!

Now you'd think, being able to hear all this negativity and criticism from within your head would discourage me. Make me less likely to continue the writing that I'm doing in my head. But instead I just start mentally writing more. I start defending my point. Justifying myself and my opinion. My right to observation. I hear your arguments before they escape your lips and I'm ready. I think of all the possible rebuttals you might have but I'm ready with my pre-buttal! Take that.

So really a good deal of my blog posts are preemptive arguments. I am so completely sure that you're going to disagree with me and call me foolish, crazy even, that the voice in my head jumps on her horse and runs like crazy to head the voice in your head off at the pass.

Unfortunately this often makes for a long and messy post. Full of rationalizations and double talk. Working both ends of the conversation.

It's exhausting trying to cover every argument eventuality. Especially those that exist in the far reaches of your head. It's like a game show that is impossible to win. Can't you just hear the Sorry, you're a loser music now? Wuh, wuh, waaaa.

So the post never gets written. Because it's just too much. I have dozens of unwritten posts. Three in the last week. One on the truth of our dreams. One on chivalry. And one that begs the question: Why does my car run so much better when my gas tank is full and my favorite song is playing on the stereo?

But no. And it's all your fault. Or the fault of that voice in your head. That I can totally hear right now, by the way.

Take that BACK!

New Years Revolution