Off-kilter.

We live in a wonderful place.  It has its issues, like every place does.   Some of ours are greater.  Some of ours are lesser.  The water, the salt air and the laughter of my family feed my soul.  At times though, it is hard to remember to keep my heart filled with the fortune and the love that is mine, even when it is right in front of me. (perhaps like when your four year old says she hates you and wants a different mommy and you consider agreeing with her instead of appreciating, uhmmm her growth, or when same said four year old keeps you up all night with hives cause she needs you, and in your exhaustion the thought of that alternate mommy enters your mind, or when your fourth grader is acting too much like a junior high kid and she isn't even 10, and you really want to yell that at her, or when you think your husband doesn't realize that you haven't been kissing goodbye or hello or goodnight recently and are totally lonely, till you think in your fog filled brain, wait, was I kiss-available? or was I flying by in an exhausted ranting frenzy for the past three days?). 

Today, for me, my heart was a deflated balloon and my soul was hungry.  A strange exhausted sadness was smothering me, making it too difficult for me to begin the work that was sitting right in front of me.   You know, one of those tasks that you have to do, it isn't exciting, isn't terribly difficult, but is time consuming and needs to be done - today.  Well, I could not seem to get past stacking all the papers that I needed to get started, so, I stopped.

I opened up a photo file and flipped through these:

First, I felt the breeze.

Then,  

I remembered what was important,

I felt the joy,

I heard the laughter,

and I was overcome with their pure love.  

Now, here I sit, my heart swelling, thankful for my life, the memory of the laughter feeding my soul. Knowing that I will hear real laughter later, again and again. The task awaits, patient little task that it is.  I've tucked what was smothering me in a bottom drawer. I've been righted.

When you get thrown off-kilter by lack of sleep or exhaustion or work or obligations or the day-to-day drain, I hope you have some memories handy, so you can get back on track quickly.

Transitioning to Grey: A Colorist Dilemma

When I was 16, we had our family Christmas at my oldest brother's house.  At dinner, over turkey and dressing and salad and monkey bread, my oldest sister reached across the table and with great glee plucked a white wirey hair from my head!  Yes, 16.  Christmas dinner!  I blame her for the daunting numbers of white hairs I now see along my temples, arching above my forehead, and down my part, no matter where I place it.  It is her fault.   As far back as I can remember, my mom had grey hair.  She had always said her hair was grey because she pulled the first one out and so more grew in to replace that one.  Old wives' tale? Perhaps.  Still, she was always grey.  So, I shall stick with the story that my sister, that fateful Christmas afternoon when I was still in my teens, doomed me to an early onslaught of grey hairs feverishly growing in to replace that ONE! 

Just this month, merely a few months short of three decades later, I'm investigating hanging up my rainbow of colors to see what my un-painted locks may look like.  I really don't know.  I've had glimpses during my pregnancies. Of course, I am insane while I am pregnant (in all the good ways one can be insane) and big chunks of memory left with each placenta, I'm convinced.  So I don't remember.  Really.  I know there are photographs, but I had long hair during both pregnancies.  I ponied and french braided a lot.   Plus, my first pregnancy was a decade ago -- although I do remember the first time I left Lia sleeping sweetly on her daddy's chest as he watch football was to steal away for a cut and color (and probably a pedicure).  My last pregnancy was five years ago.  So, even if I could find a photo that didn't have my roots conveniently cropped out of the picture, five years is a long time.  Especially for hair after forty.  

Last weekend I read about the options: transitioning. going cold turkey. chopping it all off.   I called my sister.  Not the evil hair plucking one that caused this problem in the first place but the other one. My younger, older sister.  She still celebrates anniversaries of her 39th, so I've been 'older' for quite a while now.  I told her my thoughts about going grey.  In a very supportive, loving manner, that only a sister could master, she said.  Oh, no. No.  You are kidding, right?   

Well, enough of seeking support with live people.  Back to the internet.  Where all wisdom, support and answers can be found.  When transitioning, all articles concurred that a consultation with a colorist versed in going grey was where to start. 

For the last few years, I've given up salon color and have been doing my own at home with Garnier.  Inexpensive, easy, good color.  I could do it after the girls were in bed at the first sign of roots, or lack luster, or boredom.  I could go up or down a shade or two or golder or asher with the seasons.  But, alas, when you do your own hair, you do not have a colorist to consult.  I tried, though, but the gal in the mirror knew nothing, zip, zilch, zero, about transitioning to grey. In fact, she sounded about as supportive as my sister on the subject.  I looked around, called around, talked around, chatted up a stranger at the grocery.  There was not a colorist to be found, around here, that seemed to think going grey was even an option.  So, I went to someone that worked with the person that colored my hair years ago (she does not live here any more, although I doubt she would think going grey was an option either) -- and told her that I was going to transition to grey.  That it was not up for discussion.  That it was happening and I needed her to give me highlights.  Not color.  And no, I didn't want a typical highlight job.  We discussed, at length, the fact that I did not want heavy highlights, that I only wanted enough to blend so the roots didn't look so obvious right now, to give them a chance to grow out without me losing my willpower.   When I was convinced she would listen to my wishes -- 

Bring on the bleach!  Viola!  

See the really white parts? They do match my roots.  I like it. But, as I go cooler (as they say): Any thoughts? Ideas? Suggestions? Knit hats? Bright lipsticks you no longer need?  The articles suggested brighter makeup and clothes [allegedly to make up for the lack of warmth... Hmmm, does that mean I'll be more of a cold-hearted witch?  Perhaps, if someone mistakes me for a warm-hearted granny.]  My theory is that wearing peacock bright colors on my body and face will disorient people and they will simply be dazed, if not totally bedazzled.  More likely, if that person is like me, it will simply give the observer somthing to make fun of other than, or in addition to, my hair].  Frequent haircuts were also recommended.  Something about cutting off more of the colored hair that doesn't match the grey.  [Because I suppose if you have two inches of roots that are white and four inches of colored hair instead of five or six or seven, it is less obvious?  I don't know about this one.  Maybe it psychologically helps... if you whack it all of, viola, you are 50% grown out instead of 20?  I'll probably get haircuts often, just so I feel like I'm doing something.]  The articles also seemed to all say "grey can be aging" -- Really? I mean, I always automatically think: my look how young that old person looks!  Don't you?  Well, I need you to get prepared.  Start working on your compliments now.  In fact, you can send them now, that way I can grow acustom to them and will have time to work on accepting all of them graciously.

Need to work on keeping my warmth somehow! 

Aging schmadging!  Grey here I come! Or rather, come on grey, I'm waiting!

Special Needs: A Disclaimer

I have been known (i.e. told by therapists and doctors) that I use humor to mask.  In reality, I use every tool in my toolbox to mask.  Masking pain, helps keep my pain at bay, or at least partially hidden.  Masking vulnerability, helps me deny that vulnerability exists, or at least keeps me from breaking down in front of strangers or at work.  Masking weakness --and being weak when I am suppose to be strong, sucks-- is sometimes the only thing I can do to prevent crumbling into chunks on the floor.  Besides, I do look really, really good in masks. 

My life has been touched by what some people in the world call special needs. I do not like the term special needs.  I have heard it too many times.  As terms go: I think it is lame; I think it is a cop out; and, I think it sucks.

What my life has really been touched by are my children.   Do the circumstances that my children live with touch me?  Oh my yes.  Have they change me?  There is no doubt.  Has that change been good?  Would I have preferred my life to have not been so touched, changed?  Well, that would then change who my children are and who they will be -- so I must say no.  On the other hand, if you had a choice to remove any pain, no matter how slight, from your loved one's life, what would you choose?  What would you sometimes, perhaps secretly, choose?

I have felt pain and heartache and hatred and love that I never thought I would have.  I am, however,  lucky beyond all measure, blessed beyond all belief, and fortunate enough to have witnessed, and continued to witness, life's miracles.

Writing about my life and, perhaps, the lives of others that I have been glimpsed, I will talk about things in a way that will offend many.   I will use bad humor, bad language and bad writing to express what is truly inexpressible.

I know there are people in this world that possess, exert and show more strength and love and courage and patience and grace in a flash of a moment as they deal with, or celebrate, what the world might perceive to be the smallest thing -- such as washing hands or an eye blink response -- than I have in a month, a year, a decade, a lifetime.  I, in no way, mean to dishonor them or be disrespectful.  They deserve acceptance, appreciation, and, perhaps, awe.  Mostly, they deserve simply to remain unjudged by those walking on this earth.

So, to any one that has in any way been touched by a child or an adult with a need the world has termed special, I hope that my words do not offend you.  To the rest of you, I really do not give a flying pig's tail hair what you may think about my views on this subject.

Firsts.

I made my first leis earlier this year for Lia's first hula performance. The leis turned out pretty, right? I also made my first ti leaf skirt.  Lia was beautiful and the performance was terrific! The younger girls were adorable. The older girls and women were graceful and talented. The boys and young men were energetic and amazing! The musicians that played were fun and creative!

Waiting to go on for the Aloha Wave

You can make a lei too! I used a long needle, waxed dental floss (stronger than thread and the flowers go on easy) and lots of flowers.  It seems the picking of the flowers can be extremely hazardous, however.  I ended up with a fat lip when I was picking the flowers from the school yards (both of the girls' schools have plumeria trees growing in the play areas).  Gia was helping me pick the flowers for her sister's leis (and yes, I made one for her too).  I was holding on to a branch above my head and picking only the flowers Gia was excitedly pointing to.   Not paying enough attention to the branch whilst trying to figure out which flower was "that one mommy!  The pretty pink one!" [note: it was a pink plumeria tree, so all the blooming flowers were pink] --- cccrrraaaaaccccckkkk.  OUCH!  Fudgesicle and pop tarts! (and maybe another word or two slipped out that I won't admit uttering in front of her). 

Caveat: the branches of plumeria trees (frangipani) are not very strong.  But, if you ever break a branch and end up with a fat lip (or not) be excited because you can now start a brand new tree of your very own in an old bucket on your lanai!

Thank you to Melia for teaching hula to my girl!

Has $1 ever sent you over the edge?

My girls are funny, beautiful, smart, sassy, stubborn and their wills and imaginations are limitless. And, I love them both with all my being. That said, for the love of Pete(r), Paul and Mary they are materialistic and senseless. I know, they are 9 and 4 and they are products of ME. So, whose fault is it? Can I totally blame their father? I can, right? He definitely contributes to it. He loves them unconditionally and really does not have the power to match either one of them. I mean he holds them to safety and social standards that we have agreed on and makes them brush their teeth and go to bed timely and attend (mostly) to their school and other chores. His powerlessness does not mean that he is weak in any way. As I said, they are products of me. The three of us, but especially the girls, are made of whatever kryptonite equivalent it takes to render our superman powerless. When in such a state he will bend to the will and wishes of the power-zapping sweetness of the smaller creatures. I seem to have lost much of my kryptonite-ish makeup somewhere in the last decade ... my theory is it that portions of it came out with each fetus and the rest went with the placentas. Maybe that is why some people save theirs or eat it or make tea from it. [I was in an interesting prenatal class my first go around. Needless to say, we didn't follow all of the midwife suggestions, even though she gave us pages and pages of instructions and alternate ideas and was so keen on us doing any of these things she volunteered her help to dig the holes or preserve the placenta til I was ready to ingest it.]


Blame aside. Lia, the nine year old, asks for things. Some big, some small, some necessary, some some some some some... it never stops, is how it often seems to me. Gia, the four year old does too, but I haven't had her around as long and she isn't nine and a half (which is some magical grown-up age, in case you didn't know, that is somehow equivalent to being 21 or 50), so it isn't quite as agitating. Yesterday Lia wanted me to 'order' lunch for her at the snack bar in the building, because the teachers do and it is only $3.50. They are both in summer school in the building where my office is. I considered it for an entire minute, as I thought how lovely it would be not to have to pack lunch, which seems to always be more effort than one could imagine for some bizarre reason or another. After that little dream of not having to tote lunch boxes, I woke up and saw the pitfalls of the $3.50 lunch order. (always including white rice, some meat substance that might be tasty, but most likely would be something they wouldn't eat or I wouldn't want them to eat, the fact that we couldn't know what the lunch was until we got to the building and ordered it, so it could be something they didn't want, or I didn't want them to have, and I'd have to run back home or to a restaurant and buy them something, defeating the goal of me being able to actually work from 9-2, while they are in class and doing crafts and music and computer and reading and math; that they would each need a lunch, doubling the tempting $3.50 to $7.00 for some white rice and two hungry kids that have my phone number and would have no qualms about going to the school office to call me and tell me they were still hungry, and then all that food being picked on and thrown away and me having to bring them granola bars to satiate their hungry bodies and minds.) Ran it by my husband, just to be sure I wasn't warped and he simply said, no you are right. Lovely. So packed lunches. That was yesterday's topic.



This morning, while I was packing lunches, Lia came into the kitchen [to help] and said:



"The snack bar also has drinks for only a dollar, like lemonade and other stuff, not just sodas."



As I was pulling grapes off the stem and packing them in their containers, I turned and started:



"Only a dollar? Lia, if I bought you one drink a day every week day for a year that is $260. That is like a new bike for you and Gia. [Lia does not have a bike her size and we have been discussing resolving that 'need' soon]. Plus those drinks are all full of sugar that doesn't need to sit on your teeth all day before you come home and brush them."



Before I could continue my rant and talk about the value of the drinks and saving the planet by not buying all the pre-packaged stuff. Okay, I admitted it was a rant, didn't I?

Out of no where, in bounds Gia:

"I want a new bike! That pink princess one at the store!"



Gia just got a bike, last week. A new-to-her red radio flier bike with a bell, which she loves. But alas, it is not pink and does not have a princess anywhere on it. So I stood there, grape stems in hand, rant totally derailed and speechless. Arrrgh.



***In my defense, my conversations with Lia had already included full on sales pitches regarding two new videos that are now available on DVD Bluray, or perhaps we could just rent them; signing in on the computer to the contest on a package to add up points to "earn" a guitar; getting toothpaste that a friend has because it is better for whitening your permanent teeth than the new kind we just bought the last time, which Gia could finish using because she is little, wherein we heard from another room (yes exceptional hearing in that one) "I am NOT little I'm FIVE now!" [she is so not even close to five]; new shoes because feet are growing; particular styles of school clothes necessary for the fall; and yes, this was all well before 8 a.m. and the lunch packing drink discussion! Needless to say, as soon as the elevator door closed and I was safely on the other side of the big steel door after dropping them on their floor for class, I called our superman and blamed him. It is his fault, right?

Viola and Oopsie!

I've read insightful and informative (totally hilarious) posts about starting a blog by Marinka. Perhaps I should have taken notes. In my defense, I read them when I was not even considering starting this blog-o-mine.

My nine year old was able to text on the cell phone I gave her to contact me if there was an emergeny at the sleepover she was headed to about 10.2 seconds after it was first in her anxious little palms. Before she came home from the sleepover (early the next morning, becasue, yes that is the kind of mommy I am) she had accomplished texting, photography, videography and had an address book full of nine year old's numbers. Point being, I'm thinking blogging: old dog, new trick? No problem. I'm sure I can do anything, right? Who says those 30 year olds in the job market now competing against those, um, us "more experienced" folks have an advantage? Oh yeah, just about everyone. But that is opening a new can of worms.

Ah lament. I wish Marinka would have said, "YO, newbie blogger-to-be check the date thingy! and watch out! You can publish something without knowing what you are doing and the world will forever know and will laugh and poke fun at your sorry duggan for eternity! Okay, not really eternity, because you are not worthy!" Okay, she doesn't live here on my lagoon, so she would never say duggan. Pretty sure she would've used the equivalent NYC lingo when warning my sorry duggan though. Actually, she very well may have warned against such inexperienced blog mistakes in her posts. Again, I didn't take notes. (I know, I know, it is still there, I can still go take notes. Perhaps I should. I read her posts whenever they pop up on my reader. Okay does that sound to sin*gle wh*te fem*ale? movie plot-like? That is probably another blog faux pas too. Damn, why didn't I take notes?)

So, when I just published my debut blog post! I was all smiles: Viola!! Oops!

Although I do take great comfort in that my lovely friend Stacey -you may know as AnyMommy - had it happen to her recently (not the date thingy, just an oopsie, there goes a post into the world that wasn't quite ready to be cast out there) and she is smart and is a phenominal writer, person, mom, friend, wife, everything! And, she has been blogging for quite a while and is much younger than me too. So, I guess it can happen to any one. Even the young, pretty, smart, phenominal writer, more experienced blogger ones.

Oh, but look - I fixed it! I contacted my wonderful, talented and sweet friend Deece and she said, "hello, edit it" -- actually, she calmly said, you can edit it and then told me how! Love her! (Yes, she is also much younger than me, but we need to stop dwelling on this age thing.) I also love all of her lovely handmade items and ideas at Ayorata and her Etsy shop too! As for the comma in my title, I can edit that too, I know. It does look funny and should probably be deleted, maybe, but, it does separate everything nicely. So it shall stay, until I obsess about it again and rethink it and, perhaps, change my mind.

To Comma or Not to Comma?

Welcome. I would like to introduce myself to you. I know it is the polite thing to do when I meet someone new. Afterall, I did, mostly, grow up in the South. Before we get to the 'my name is' part of this post, however, I just want you to know that the title of this post pretty much sums things up about me. You see, it is about the comma in the description in my blog title, which I just wrote prior to writing this post: Midlife, Motherhood, Miracles, & Madness. You see the comma in question, right? The third one, (yes 3rd) the one that follows miracles, the one before the '&' -- you see it now? Yes, that ONE. Should it be there? Should it not? Dilemma.

Yep, that is the sum of me at times. Not the comma. Although I often do pause when I shouldn't and proceed too quickly, or forget to pause when I should just pause (and, perhaps breathe). See, I stress about the "shoulds" and "should nots" in life. Incessantly. I can, and often do, stress about nearly anything, large or small. Now should I stress about such things? Who knows. Probably not. See? Stressing about stressing. I know, I know, looney, right? Exactly. That is me. A Loon. A Loon, living on a lovely lagoon. (ah, what is there to stress about again?)

Now, there are enough large things in life to stress about and the small things should just be water off a duck's back (me being the duck in this scenario -- as although I am sure water runs off a loon's back just as well, it just doesn't sound right, does it? Water off a loon's back? No. Anyway. -- the little things, like the commas and whatnot, being the water). I totally agree. Totally. I have had some of those large things in my life, and still do, that demand and deserve my full stress attention at times. Don't we all? But, I wanted to make this disclosure up front and now, so you would not be caught aback by the ramblings over the small things in life that you may see. Okay, you will definitely see them if you come to my lagoon. They constantly come spilling out of me and I'm certain many will land right here. Afterall, small things do make up much of life, right? And, sometimes maybe it is necessary that we give the small things attention, so that the big things aren't able to fully infiltrate our souls and suck the last living breath we have right from our chests and leave us crumpled on the floor. (Oh, I justify too. A lot. Just about anything that I need to justify, especially when it comes to my girls. Or chocolate. Or a good friend.)

So, other than being a bit of a Loon that justifies her actions, thoughts and compensatory behavior, who am I? Hmmm. Well, I am only midway through this life, so I am not sure I have an adequate answer to that question. Although, I am working on figuring that out. Funny, a quarter of a century ago, I was certain who I was. There was not a doubt in my mind.



For now, and until I totally figure out who I am (or you do and let me know), please just call me Nadine, as many dear dear people on this planet already do. Or, if you prefer any other term of endearment (that is truly a commonly accepted term of endearment among adults, i.e. not poopoopeepeeheadyou, which is being voiced, allegedly, as a term of endearment in our home right now).

I am pleased to meet you. Thanks for visiting -- and just ignore the absense of the second comma in that other paragraph up there before the 'and' like I am right now. Seriously, you don't have a red pen in your hand, do you? If so, I hope it is a sharpie!


Y'all come back now, ya hear.

[If you are manuevering midlife too, then you probably know what old tv show that is from. Well, maybe, if you have already had your coffee and all pistons are firing. Tell me, those of you that may be sitting pretty with me in the middle -- you don't feel comfortable in clothes like *she* wore in that sitcom any more, do you? At least not when you are around another fellow, be the fellow male or female, human, right? It is lovely here in the middle of life, watching.]