Jumping Ship

This Blogger, she's a bitch. After adventures over the past few days that I don't really care to elaborate on, but I surely will anyway...I'm moving on. Please update your bookmarks: http://www.wickerchickens.com

Not everything is set up -- the archives aren't imported yet, and links still point back to blogger. In time, these things will be fixed. But -- right now -- the wicker chickens are cluckin' on their new domain, and I invite you to join the coop.

Happenstance and Insomnia

I never suffered from insomnia until I got pregnant. Each time I was pregnant, I would, for days on end, wake up at two in the morning and struggle to get back to sleep by five or six. I suppose it was my body's way of preparing me for the upcoming days with a newborn. Funny thing, though, my babies treated me far better than I treated myself; I got far more sleep with a newborn than I ever did while pregnant.

I'm not pregnant these days, but the insomnia creeps up on me every once in a while, still. Most of the time, I'm really annoyed with it. Sometimes, when I while away the hours in a breathtakingly quiet house with a good book, I grudgingly accept its acquaintence. And then there are other times, like today, when I wish I could spend all my night-time hours in such bliss.

It's 5:30 in the morning, and I've been awake since two. After my son woke me up to use the bathroom (Yeah! Evan!) I tossed and turned for an hour until I decided sleep was not to be reclaimed. I headed upstairs, and proceeded to spend the next hours reading and reminiscing. Coffee mugs, mathematics, good books, good food -- they all were my companions in the wee hours this morning, along with a warm smile. Through an incalculable web of coincidence and interrelation, my wee morning hours have been the inspiration for several forth-coming entries and a confirmed urge to start a new knitting project.

There was a time in my life when I thought I was getting "dumber". Growing up, each day was filled with new experiences, new knowlege; by the time I'd reached a certain age, I feared that my intellectual potential had been capped. Bills, commutes, grocery lists and the stuff of every day adult life were far less invigorating than the adventure that was each day of my youth. But lately, I've come to re-think my position. I think, more than ever, that my potential is far from capped. I'm reminded that its very definition -- far more than a discrete capacity -- implies boundlessness and inexhaustibility. And it's mornings like this, where the day breaks and I'm straining at my reins, anxious to leap into the day and plunge into work, that I'm a little sad that I don't always have these wee morning hours at my fingertips. So much to do, so little time. And that's not at all a lament.

Finnegan, Begin Again

For years, it was the only calendar I knew. It didn't begin in January and end in December. Instead, the calendar I knew began in September, at the start of school, and ended in August, at the close of summer holiday. New Year's day was not a new beginning, it was merely a mid-year holiday. The real beginnings were those first days of school, those post-Labor day rituals of new clothes, new notebooks and new friends. And the ends were sun-drenched and water-logged days of frantic activity, desperate attempts to soak up the remaining freedom of summer.

It's been years since I've felt connected to that calendar. The reluctant capitulation at each summer's end paled in comparison to the utter defeat felt upon that final graduation. In one brief day, my entire calendar was rearranged, my circadian rhythms re-set. No more summers in the sun. Suited and stuffy, their new destiny.

And so I toiled, for the better part of fifteen years. My internal sense of time reflecting the more practical and adult-like ticks and tocks of a January-to-December-and-then-all-over-again world. The memories of those summers, faded. The recollections of those first days of school seemingly alien and distant. My new life was a new calendar, each January, filled with appointments and errands and bills and other sordid details of adulthood. New beginnings only meant a frustrating disinclination to remember the new year when writing checks. And ends weren't a right of passage, a step toward something bigger. They were merely...another step.

This September has taken me by surprise. For the first time, in so very, very long, I'm seeing an end and a beginning in this ninth month of the year. The pool has closed. My garden has petered out, and the CSA has had to surrender as well. Shoes are on my shopping list, and tomorrow, I will pack lunches into sacks and watch my children begin a year anew. The smell of erasers doesn't seem so far away, and I feel a few of my old rhythms beating back to life. I've no doubt that those drums will beat louder and louder in the years to come, as my children find themselves defined by a calendar uniquely innocent and child-like.

I don't believe in living life vicariously through my children. I don't believe in putting my children in a particular place so that I may return to those same places from my past. But, if living their own lives happens to impart a change upon my own -- particularly this change -- I'll gladly accept it. Happy New Year.

My Life in 100 Words or Less: I Am The Cheese

Rituals can define a family better than any surname or genealogical tree.

Affectionately termed a smammich, our family ritual began years ago between two young people -- two slices of bread -- lying one on top of the other, hopelessly in love. Soon, there was a slice of Zoe. And then a smear of Evan. A Dagwood of love.

Yesterday, my son plopped himself on the pile that was his mother and his sister, shouting, triumphantly, "I am the cheese!" Clearly, indoctrinated.

I had to hold my heart to keep it from bursting with familial pride. My own ritual. My own family.

Things I'm Thankful For

A babysitter, twice a week, throughout the summer.

Although it required pivoting on a dime in order to respond to being unceremoniously dumped by the first sitter, and still more finagling when the second sitter returned to her full time job in mid-August, it has still made all the difference in the world.

Last year at this time? You could have put me in a straight-jacket. This year? I'm a little sad to see it coming to an end.

I took the road with the babysitter, and it has made all the difference.

Ink

I've always been captivated by tattoos. Mom and apple pie, a sweetheart, or a favorite animal -- these things don't capture me. I'm captivated by the idea of marking your body -- on the outside -- to reflect something on the inside. But, I've never felt a personal need to do so.

Until recently.

I've been doing a lot of work, chez Kristy, of late. There's more to come on that front, and so much more to say, but, at its simplest, there's been a little remodeling going on. Tearing down some walls, opening up some windows, letting the light shine in -- that kind of work. Lots of sweat and still more tears. But the result? Coming along nicely, I must admit. Coming along nicely.

It dawned on me over the last few months that a tattoo makes sense for me now. I wanted -- needed -- to mark my body in a way that reflected what I've been doing, what I am doing, what I will have done. I wanted to take back a part of my body that had been taken from me. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to smile. And so, a dogwood, for spring, natural beauty, and so much more, and characters meaning to heal, have been placed upon my body.

Ink. Permanent. Indelible. Mine.

Pushing a Miracle

All afternoon and into early evening. A nap. A stroll around the block. Dinner preparations. On an ordinary day, this might be how those hours of the day pass, slipping by almost unnoticed in their conventionality. But it was not an ordinary day. It was a birthday.

For this woman, those hours were spent in a time warp. The beginning, the end -- really, there was no difference. For hours, the only clock that mattered was the rhythmic ebb and flow of the forces pushing her baby down, down, down.

It was a remarkable sight. Watching her work -- so very, very hard -- was awe inspiring. She was near delirium with exhaustion, having spent every ounce of her energy hours and hours before. And now she was being asked -- required, really -- to exert her muscles and her mind in ways that she'd never known she was capable of. What, for many people, is the welcome relief, the end in sight, was, for this mom, the steepest part of the hill. Asked to give more when she had nothing left, I saw her tap into something I only hope I have in myself.

She continued on, hour after hour, her facial expression a combination of present and gone, and her words having long ago left her. She had no hope and no expectations, no direction, no proof. And, on this shaky, uncertain ground, she stepped forward, again and again. With an inspired combination of letting go, surrendering to the forces at work within her, and holding tight to her own power and determination, I watched as mom was transformed by all her toil. Her uncertainty turned into commitment. Her anxiety dissolved into resolve. During the hours when so many others were napping, this woman was unfolding. When others were strolling, this woman was bending and breaking. And while others made dinner, this woman became a mom.

This will not be the hardest thing she will ever do for her baby. This will not be the most difficult task, the most exhausting moment. But when those times do come upon her, I hope she will remember this day, and confidently know what she has inside her. She should. That is the real miracle of those afternoon hours.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

Riddle me this.

My daughter is in the process of dropping her nap. Yes, she's almost five. Anyway. On the days she doesn't nap? She's hyper, manic, and all sorts of crazy. No fussiness. No grumpiness. No meltdowns. Just a whole lot of peelin' her off the ceiling. I'm the one who ends up exhausted.

Do you care to explain that one?

Hmmm.

In Which I'm Unusually Chatty and ... Well, You Be The Judge

I have sunk to a new low. I am currently -- as in, concurrent to my writing this post -- viewing via web cast last night's performances from Rock Star Supernova. People, this is bad. Worse? That my dejection upon learning that I'd actually missed last night's episode was entirely turned around upon the revelation that I could see all that I missed online. Rock Star Supernova -- without commercials -- and my blog. I love me the Internets. Every day.

And, on an completely unrelated note, am I the only one who finds the words warrior and rural entirely impossible to pronounce? And the words recommend and vacuum -- am I the only one who has to look them up every time? Me and Merriam-Webster, we're likethis.

I have thrown away exactly six meals, out of a total of six that I've personally been responsible for serving to my children this week. Everything that they've actually consumed this week? The product of someone else's kitchen. Worthy of a hmmm, huh?

Tim's out of town, the nights are long, and showers are particularly scarce around here. On an up note, I have an appointment for some serious body modification later in the week. I'll leave the details to your imagination.