One day more!

I can't help it. I'm sitting here in Eric's basement office, and suddenly I hear... i hear the swell of the orchestra. I hear the chorus begin. It's soft at first, but slowly builds to a rousing crecendo... "ONE MORE DAWN... ONE MORE DAY... ONE DAY MORE!" (I admit. I've always been a bit of a theatre geek, and Les Miserables has a special place in my little musical-loving heart).

So... does it make me a bad mom that I'm almost dancing that school starts back tomorow?

I can't help it! I love my boys more than life itself, but really... two weeks of arguments, fights, whining, and excessive video game playing have taken their toll. Mama needs for them to either go back to school, or for them to be okay with a Mom who drinks a little Cruzan in her morning java.

Mmmm. Coconut coffee...
*cough* Anyway....

Seriously though, I have grown rather spoiled by my mornings. Now that Zack goes to preschool Mondays through Thursdays, I just have this glorious pocket of time that is ALL MINE. From 9am to 1pm, I'm childless, free to do as I please. It's even more liberating than when Chris was in preschool... with him I had to drop him off at one and be back to pick him up at 3:15. God bless the school system here with it's penchant for bussing every last kid in the district. it gives me two extra hours of happy time every day.

My kids aren't demon spawn. I mean, no one has sacrificed the cat, everyone still has their eyes, ears, and all appendages. But once you've had a taste of that freedom, sweet, sweet freedom....

So one more day. I know that one day, when my boys are grown and gone, I'll look back on this time period with wistful fondness (presumably from my hammock on the beach in Tortolla). But for now, it's sweet reality, and it sounds like Zack is riding the dog. Gotta fly.

Rock me like a hurricane

My "sister" and I have spoken more in the past week than we have probably in five years. My grandmother passed last Saturday, and J and I were in constant communication regarding services, times, places, clothes, and the other mundane trappings of the rite of death. But as always, our conversations seldom stayed on the intended track, instead running in fifty different directions, each making no sense whatsoever yet being completely logical. That is what over 20 years of friendship can do to people, you see. I can say "The thing in the place? Sophomore year? Sara?" and J will come right back with "Oh, 502. Yeah, T ended up with that." Our own shorthand for the ages.

One of those conversations centered around a project J is doing for a friend at work. The question arose-- what is the soundtrack of your life? J took the question to heart, and with much research is slowly putting together her coworker's own personal soundtrack. I love it. I've seen similar tracks-- Kevin Smith has a similar bit in his book My Boring Ass Life -- but nothing quite like this. It isn't a list of ipod tracks, or that "your movie soundtrack" when you put your mp3 on shuffle. It's actually sitting and THINKING... what songs make up your life's story? When you were born, what was the song your parents loved to listen to? What was the first tape you bought? The song you loved to sing along to on the radio? the song you danced to with your husband/wife? What was the music that earmarked those touchpoints?

So, with J leading the way, I'm doing this. Compiling the soundtrack of my life. And I'm challenging others to do the same. If you're reading this on blogger, post your soundtrack in my comments, or on your blog and let me know. If you're on LJ, make your own post. What songs pave the way for you? Don't take your soundtrack to the end of your life... just to where you are right now.

I'll be waiting... and in the meantime, I'll work on mine and post it :)

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

New year, new you! new me!

Well, not quite :)

The old year went out more with a whimper than a bang, in true T.S. Eliot style. Toasted with Cruzan and Oregon Trail, I didn't even bother with Dick Clark or Ryan Seacrest or any other number of celebrities enticing me to count and cheer and frolic. Not even a New Years kiss for this old girl! But never the less, it's a new year, a new beginning, a new start! Isn't that so enticing? I think that's half the reason people get their panties in such a bunch over New Years... the concept of second chances, a fresh start, is so intoxicating.

I won't make any resolutions this year.. they're an invitation to personal failure :) But I do have ideas about how I want to live my life, what I am and am not willing to compromise on. Call it a resolution if you want, I call it a life direction. I plan to write here more, it's like inexpensive therapy. I also intend to get another massage. I know , I know, that really has nothing to do with anything else, but I slept on the sofa last night and my neck could use a good rubdown. It just SOUNDS good.

So happy new year :) May it be better than the last, no matter how good your 08 was.

Spirit of a Storm

Sometimes I'll hear a song that particularly resonates with me... a song that makes me pause and think or smile.

This song actually made me pull over.

I'm not a "ZOMG LYRICS EMOPOST!" person, but I think these lyrics warrant it.

"Spirit of a Storm", by Kenny Chesney, from the album Lucky Old Sun

There's a spirit of a storm in my soul
A restlessness that I can't seem to tame
A thunder and lightning follow everywhere I go
There's a spirit of a storm in my soul

Ther's a hurricane that's ragin through my blood
And i can't find a way to calm the seas.
Maybe I'll find someday the waters aren't so rough
But right now they've got the best of me.

And oh... it's been a long long time
Since I had real peace of mind
So I'm just going to sit right here
In this old chair
Til this storm rolls by

And oh maybe it's just the way I am
Maybe I won't ever change.
So I'm just going to sit right here
In this old chair
And just soak up the rain.....

There's a spirit of a storm in my soul.
And every time I think it's gone away
The dark clouds gather, that old wind begins to blow.
The sun is gonna shine someday, I hope.
But there's a spirit of a storm in my soul....
In my soul.

Peek A Boo, I see you.... but you don't see me, do you?

I swear, this is how my children will remember me when they are old and grey.

"My mother? What did she look like? Brown hair. Well, sometimes it was brown. Others it was red. And once, there was this experiment with pink... but it was long. I think. Sometimes it may have been short. Her eyes? Well, one was always closed, or at least kinda squinty like. The other was REALLY BIG and made these wierd mechanical noises. I'm not sure about the rest of her face, I just remember this big black box... and a bright light. What? My time is up? Thanks Doc, I'll see you next week."

It's convenient to be the only one in the family who really knows how to use the big, scary camera. It means that, invariably, I'll be the one directing the sweet family photoshoot, rather than being subjected to being IN it. When my boys are grown, they'll undoubtedly have a treasure trove of memories of their father- Eric and the boys fishing, riding carnival rides, at a baseball game, helping them unwrap presents on the holidays. But Mom.. mom will be a shadow on the wall.

What's the deal with women and hiding behind the camera? When I teach my 101 photography class that is one of the top things women mention-- "If I learn to use the camera, I don't have to be in the picture!" We hate the way we look- our hair, our chins, our eyes, our thighs. So we take ourselves out of the equasion entirely, sentencing our children to an incomplete memory book.

Some women take another tack altogether- I had to choke back the laughter when a woman told me that she'd taught herself how to airbrush her own pictures, going so far as to pay over $500 for a photoshop class. "I remove all of my wrinkles, my jowls, and take some out of my waist and off my thighs," she said. "Of course, that's if I'm even IN the picture. Most of the time I take it so I don't have to be."

So, I'm making a commitment. No more hiding behind the camera. Now, I"ll take those pictures with my kids. I'll hand the camera over to Flake. I'll grin and bear it, chubby cheeks and all. Because in 30 years, will my boys really give a damn that my butt needed it's own zip code?

Highly doubtful.