Carousel

I go up.
I go down.
I spin around and around and around.
I need to lay down.

I go up.
I go down.
I want to jump and fly and soar.
I must lay down.

I go up.
I go down.

Stop.

The Attics of My Mind

I've spent the last two days tucked up into the eves of the attic, sanding away at the plaster board, trying to gently scrub off any excess plaster mud that's there. It's not a hard job, but time consuming and the repetitive gestures makes me feel like my left shoulder is going to explode.

I sit there moving my arm back and forth, up and down, and I find myself walking, once again, through the hallways of my mind. Remembering people I haven't seen in years, nights out with friends, what ever happened to so-and-so, and wondering why so much bullshit has happened along the way. Then I'll start humming a tune, connecting the rhythms to memories, as I shift my contorted body into the next space. I can see as I look over my work just where the good memories were and where I remembered the bad.

I'm lucky to not be alone in my attic because Madame Home Depot is with me. She's there sanding too and when I drop my sanding block because I'm miles away, she kindly picks it back up for me, hands it to me, and we sand some more. We sand and think. We sand and talk. Both of us covered in a fine white dust and if I could get my hands on some red, red lipstick, I could easily transform my Irish-American face into that of a beautiful geisha. Someone else entirely, who's memories I don't know.

The dust covers our hair, our eyes, our clothes, the floor, the furniture, the bed. It's snowing in the attic and I'm wistful. I want out of this house, this place, this life. I want to take my man, my children, my dogs, and go. Back to where Madame Home Depot and I lived before I realized just how hard it is to really love. They say you can never go home again, but I'm willing to try.

I climb down from the eves and take a shower. My skin turns bright red from the heat of the water and the dust and dirt wash away down the drain. I step out to see my face in the mirror. My freckled face that has accompanied me forever. I look into my red, tired eyes and stare. I know. I know. 

As I head downstairs, I hear Typhon howling and for some reason, the chords of Canon in D echo through my mind. Everything is off tune, but the melody is true. The Man hands both Madame Home Depot and me a coffee and as I clutch that warmth in my hands, I know. I know. I've gone home again.

About Him

It's been about a year since things started going off the rails for The Man and I. I wasn't really aware of it at the time, but last February, he was starting on that slippery slope into his own personal hell. I was too wrapped up in Rosie and the tribe to really notice just how bad things had gotten for him. Work stress, personal pressure to be someone he wasn't, and his own exigence on perfection was a cocktail for a seriously horrible hangover. Not to mention the fact that I really didn't like him most days didn't help. He was angry, yelling, blaming, distant, so I hid behind our kids. It was safer there for me. I knew who I was and what was needed of me. With him, I didn't.

It's easy with hindsight to see just how messed up our relationship had become and just how insane the two of us were in our own private thoughts. He became convinced I didn't love him (not surprising if you wife acts like she doesn't like you) and I became convinced that everything I did was wrong. We stopped communicating and just went into that lovely "parent-auto-pilot" thing. You know the one, where sure we talked about the kids, the house, what we need to do on Sunday, but never about what was really going on inside of both of us. 

I thought it was just a stage, we'd be fine. Once I got my head above water with the four kids, we'd breathe again. I knew that we'd had bad spots in our relationship before, but I didn't realize what was really happening this time. I didn't realize that The Man was at a point where he was unable to go on as he was. And so he didn't.

A year later and I actually think I know my husband more now than I have these last five years. Things that got swallowed up by us is our separate super-mommy/super-businessman roles are now moving back into focus. Still, every time I hit that "wall" in my head and I remember what happened to our marriage, I feel like I'm looking at a bad Woody Allen film with the two of us in his leading roles. How can I explain how odd it is to be able love him, fall asleep in his arms and then two hours later, I wake up in a cold sweat and want to punch his lights out?

Granted, these moments are less and less frequent because if the truth is told, something had to happen to our marriage. I don't like what did, but the clarity I have now I wouldn't trade for the world. Talk about irony.

In December, I turned 40 and I turned a page. I refuse to hide behind my mommyhood. I love these little people with all my heart and soul but one day, they will have other things to worry about then pestering me when I'm making dinner. I have my own life to live. And I want to do that with The Man.

Today, he turns 42 and I know he's turning a page. He knows now what he's missed, what he almost lost, what he's gained and what is important to him. And boy am I glad that I make that list. 

I only wish a world of happiness for him. That his next 42 years are ones where he can be exactly who he's wanted to be his whole life: someone good, someone honourable, and someone well loved. Anything else doesn't count for shit.

I tell you, my Man, I don't care what you do for a living or what our house looks like. I'm fine with feeding the kids pasta and peanut butter for the rest of their lives if it means you and I are good. I love you, Hubster. Even on the bad days.

Don't ever, ever, ever forget that.

This Thing Still On?

It's been pointed out to me by two very special people in my life that I haven't posted in a while. (You know who you are, you two...) I do apologize. I like being able to blog and share all the bullshit that happens to me so here I am, ready to blog it all....and yet, I haven't a clue where to begin. How about I just start with a couple of things and go from there. Sound ok?

Bubba-Love turned 5 on Feb 1. 

That amazing, cranky, feisty, adorable, little guy finally got his birthday stash of bubble-gum and more of that PlayMobil I love so much. He hates going to school, has been interdit to play with two of his friends during recess because they end up wrestling into walls,and he is always in trouble at the cantine because when he decides he's done eating, he's done and he will not take another bite, no thank you, I said NO. 

But my GOD, when that kid laughs, my heart and soul want to explode with joy. He has his dad's smile and my grandfather's twinkle in his eye. He's a charmer, this Bubba, and he knows it. All he wants to do this summer is go play at Kitty and BaPa's and see his friend, Aine. He hopes she'll play football with him because that's the only sport he likes. 

He turned 5. Amazing.

From Stay-At-Home-Mom to Working-Mom to Stay-At-Home-Mom in just three short months!  

Yes, my adventures of working in France came to a rather quick end last week when it dawned on me that the woman I was working for has this thing for lying. Now, I'll be a little careful here because she was never outright horrible to me personally, but there were other situations during my short stint in her world that have me still going, "HUH?" I will say that overall, the experience was good. I met some lovely people, got two great weeks of training in Paris, and got to work with kids in the most awesome of learning environments. 

One of the highlights of this short job was working with a boy of 5 who had struggled in his normal French school. He had been frequently punished for not writing his letters correctly and therefore had absolutely no confidence in his ability to write or even try to write letters. For the first two weeks with us, he point blank refused to write his name. Finally, he discovered the box of colours and asked me if we could do them in English. We took each colour, I said their English names out loud, then I wrote them on a piece of paper. He then would take the corresponding coloured marker and trace the letters of their English names. And low and behold, guess who started writing those words himself? Guess who realized that it didn't matter if the "y" wasn't perfect or the "e" not between the lines? Guess who got excited about writing? Guess who's so angry at that mythoman that I couldn't continue working with this boy?

As it stands, I've had some good conversations with my old colleagues and with several of the parents and if they all have their way, perhaps I'll get the chance to work with these kids again, albeit in a whole different context. We'll see, we'll see.

"And I Ran, I Ran So Far Away!"

Now, this may not seem like major news, but it is. You see, as all the shit hit the fan in my marriage and my life, I became convinced that I had been running to escape from the things I was too afraid to face and hence, my running abruptly stopped. 

Well, I've finally faced a lot of truths about myself and about those I love and I'm ok with it all. Well, mostly ok with most of it, there are still some big points I'm trying to come to terms with, but that all being said, I can run again knowing that I'm not escaping myself, I'm empowering myself. I run to remind myself that it's me that chooses to make me run up hills and scramble over rocks. No one else is doing that to me. All the other crap that I've had to deal with is other people's shit. My shit is splashing through puddles in the woods... 

There you have it. A little bit of an update of the state of things at the Birth Control Bed & Breakfast. Looks like I'll be around here a bit more once again so perhaps, if y'all are good, I'll try to entertain you with more of the joys of living in village that's like a melange of Mayberry and Green Acres, with an Auvergnat accent thrown in for fun.

So sure, we might be recovering from flu, strep throat, some sort of disgusting throwing up thing, and overall a general malaise this week, but you know what? I think we're going to make it. We've got plans... 

Never Ending Toy Psychosis

So I finally got all the Legos picked up, just in time for Bubba-Love to have his birthday, and what happens? He gets PlayMobil. And here I thought Legos found their way into impossible places. I had no idea that those little PlayMobil people could shimmy their plastic heads into cracks that small.

Not to mention the wonderful CHOKING HAZARD that I now live 24/7 since Rosie thinks the little gold pieces from the pirates chest are bonbons...

I promise to upate in depth about birthday boys, jobs with insane directors, and Mini-Husband's lack of a pain threshold but that'll have to wait until at least tomorrow.


"As the Stomach Churns will be back after these commercial messages from Little Plastic Toys from Hell..."