March 26, 2012

a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils

To say I'm a big fan of words is a hyperbolic understatement. Words set the stage for life. Your use of words shapes how others see you, perceive you, respond to you. But for your words to have any worth, they have to come, not just from your mouth or your fingertips, but from inside who you are. Your words have to be real. Genuine.

That being said, I find the dialogue in most chick flicks to be fluff, and outside of a good pillow or a toasted marshmallow, I don't have much use for fluff. But great dialogue? Well, great dialogue has me still holding my eyes open at 1:30 a.m., completely enthralled with a sappy Nora Ephron movie I have seen at least a dozen times because of language like this:

Well, it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, meant we were supposed to be together... and I knew it. I knew it the very first time we touched. It was like coming home... only to no home I'd ever known... It was like... magic.

'What will he say today?', I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects... and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: 'You've got mail'. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets ... just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you.

I would have asked for your number, and I wouldn't have been able to wait twenty-four hours before calling you and saying, "Hey, how about... oh, how about some coffee or, you know, drinks or dinner or a movie... for as long as we both shall live?" And you and I would have never been at war. And the only thing we'd argue about would be which video to rent on Saturday night.

I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell you on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

I've been thinking about you. Last night I went to meet you, and you weren't there. I wish I knew why. I felt so foolish.... Anyway I so wanted to talk to you. I hope you have a good reason for not being there. You don't seem like the kind of person who'd do something like that. The odd thing about this form of communication is that we're more likely to talk about nothing than something. But I just want to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings.

All I'm saying is that somewhere out there is the man you are supposed to marry. And if you don't get him first, somebody else will, and you'll have to spend the rest of your life knowing that somebody else is married to your husband.

People are always saying that change is a good thing. But all they're really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all... has happened. Someday, it'll be just a memory. But the truth is... I'm heartbroken. I feel as if a part of me has died ... and no one can ever make it right.

I'm gonna get out of bed every morning... and breathe in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won't have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breathe in and out... and, then after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while.

Do you ever feel you've become the worst version of yourself? That a Pandora's box of all the secret, hateful parts - your arrogance, your spite, your condescension - has sprung open?

Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So, good night, dear void.

And then the dream breaks into a million tiny pieces. The dream dies. Which leaves you with a choice: you can settle for reality, or you can go off, like a fool, and dream another dream.

March 16, 2012

it's not in my best pinterest

I have a subscription to Teen Vogue, y
es I do. Come on, you know how I love Zac Ephron, and articles on dealing with jealousy from my BFF, and learning how to accessorize an outfit with toe socks and glitter heels. Seriously though, they started sending it to me based on some online purchases for my niece, and despite numerous efforts, I can't get them to stop sending it.

Aside from Teen Vogue, I don't subscribe to magazines. At all. No Newsweek or Cosmo or National Geographic. No Guns N Ammo or Martha Stewart Living. I'm just not a magazine person; seems like a tragic waste of trees. Besides, I have MSN and Google and bookshelves filled with novels.

That being said, Pinterest is the hottest thing going right now. Anybody who's ANYBODY (mostly of the female persuasion) is addicted. I, however, don't get it. I mean, I GET it, I just don't "get" it. According to the Pinterest website, " Pinterest lets you organize and share all the beautiful things you find on the web. People use pinboards to plan their weddings, decorate their homes, and organize their favorite recipes."

Truthfully, this is the kind of stuff I look at on Pinterest:

To me, Pinterest is the equivalent of earmarking magazines, and passing them on to my best friend, who turns down the corners on the pages she likes and then passes them off to her sister, who in turn marks the pictures and articles that appeal to her, then takes them to her doctor's waiting room for the next patient to read, ad infinitum.

My questions for Pinteresting people are: What am I going to do with 3 different recipes for baked oatmeal? For heaven's sake, I don't even own 3 cookbooks. Why do I need a virtual bulletin board filled with pictures of cupcakes? Does EVERYBODY in the world like Nutella? WHY do I want to repost pictures of furry kittens? And DIY projects??? Get real. I do NOT want to melt down my leftover Yankee Candles and turn them into a dissection tray or sand down the cedar chest my granny gave me as a wedding gift to make my own coffin (though there is some metaphorical significance there.)

I have so many better things to do with my time. Now, somebody please start a Scrabble game with me on Facebook.

March 05, 2012

how low can you go?

When my son tells me about his Ultimate Frisbee Tournaments, it sounds like this to my brain:
"So this guy ran down the field and dove and caught it and then he threw it and they scored and then another guy jumped and caught it and then HE threw it and WE scored and then the same guy who made the first throw caught it again and then..."

When my husband tells me about horse stuff, it sounds like this to my brain:
"So the horse ran to the back field and I ran after it and made it run in circles until it got tired and then I went to the barn to get the other horses and I took them out to the back field and then I got the tractor and hauled a round bale out to the back field where the horses were running and..."

So when I tell a birth story, I'm very aware that to some of you it sounds like:
"So then she had a contraction and then we walked and then she had more contractions but she was only dilated to 4 so we walked some more. And then her back hurt but she was only dilated to 5 so we squatted and lunged while she had more contractions. Then she was dilated to 7 and the contractions became really intense and then the contractions were really close together and ..."

But I've got a story to tell and I promise, it won't sound anything like that.

She was only worried about two things:
1. Transporting the 40 miles to the hospital in the dead of winter,
2. Staying calm, relaxed and peaceful. (She, MaryKate, had been very stressed and anxious the last time, and did NOT want that experience again.)

The Call came at 12:40 a.m.. Contractions 10-12 minutes apart, MaryKate is ready for me. Foregoing my usual "I-have-plenty-of-time" shower, I dressed quickly and hit the road, stopping to fill my empty gas tank at 1:00 in the morning. I am 6 blocks from their house when her husband calls (NEVER a good sign), "Steph, we are at 4 minutes apart, we need you now!"

Two minutes later I let myself in the side door. Hubby takes my keys and starts loading things into the van. I find MaryKate laboring in bed, eyes closed, very internally focused. I remind myself: calm, relaxed, peaceful. During contractions I do my "back magic", and in-between I get her some water and put on her shoes.

I hold her hair back away from her face and doing my best Julie Andrews impersonation (who once said about herself, "Sometimes I'm so sweet, even I can't stand it.") I whisper, "We're not going to be laboring at home, MaryKate. You're doing great, but this is happening fast." Inside my head, Gilbert Gottfried is shrieking, "OH MY GOODNESS, THIS IS TOO FREAKIN' FAST!!!"

The next contraction finds us squatting in the driveway. Her mom - who will be following us in her own car- asks, "Are we going to make it to the hospital??" Calmly I smile and hear Julie Andrews say, "Most certainly!" (Internally, Gilbert panics, "We may not make it to the hospital until AFTER the baby comes, but we'll definitely make it!")

Before we hit the road, MaryKate insists I teach her husband how to do "that back thing", so Lance gets a crash course in a technique I've been perfecting for nearly 3 years. Now the 40-minute drive...and though I could drive crazy fast and get us there in 30, there is a laboring woman on her knees in the place of my center console, so safety has to take precedence. Through all of this, I am pretending to be cool as a cucumber. Driving 80 mph, talking over my shoulder in my best Mary Poppins voice, "You are doing such a great job, MaryKate. Practically perfect in every way. Take a deep breath through your nose ... now blow it slowly out through your mouth. Goooooood."

With every mile, contractions are growing closer and more intense, and suddenly she responds to one of them with a screeching dolphin-call. "MaryKate..." I speak in a soft, low tone, and quite possibly with a British accent, "remember what we talked about. Keep your throat relaxed. Bring your voice down low. Moan it out. Remember: LOW."

From the floor behind me I sense the beginning of the next contraction...her throat tightening, her shoulders rising, her voice starting to squeak with the pain...and the next moment I will forever remember as one of my Favorite Things (Sing with me: "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and MaryKate's contractions...") She remembers what we talked about, brings her dolphin screech down to a deep Darth Vader growl, and for the next 45 seconds I hear, "low low low low low low low low low low low low..." as she literally chants the word "low" through the entire contraction. It is ALL I can do to keep from laughing hysterically!

Now I become the living GPS, only with a slow, lilting voice.
"Only 10 more minutes and we'll be there."
"Three more contractions, MaryKate, and we'll be at the door."
"Just a spoonful of sugar and the baby will be out."

Maneuvering the parking lot like Speed Racer, avoiding the bumps, swerving around parked cars and a cigarette-smoking nurse, I zip to the front door, jump out and grab a wheelchair. After some chair-not-working-and-what-do-we-do-about-the-bags confusion, the four of us glide through the deserted hospital corridor, up the elevator and into Labor and Delivery.

It is 2:02 a.m.

"This is MaryKate and she's having a baby," my Julie Andrews voice says. And even though we are pre-registered, the nurses respond with a myriad of questions, asking for insurance cards and social security numbers, and a request for MaryKate to get on the scales so they can weigh her. Clearly, they are not understanding, so Gilbert makes an appearance outside of my brain, "Ladies! This is MaryKate's THIRD baby, it doesn't matter what she weighs as she will weigh 12 pounds less in only a few minutes! We need a room right now!" Sensing the urgency, one of them says, "Room 4!" and in we go. MaryKate stands up out of the wheelchair and grabs the bed as I instinctively take my place behind her. I feel a splash on my foot just as she announces, "My water broke! My water just broke!" Why, yes, yes it did.

She lays down on her side as we get her lower half undressed, feet still dangling off the bed. Dr. M. comes in and says, "Let's get you all the way up in the bed." So with hubby on one side and me on the other, we pull her up in the bed. Before we can even get the bed raised, one nurse is trying to get her shirt off, another is trying to monitor her. I politely ask them to "get real", as MaryKate is hit with one MASSIVE pain - her feet on the bed, her head on the bed, the rest of her body imitating the St. Louis arch. She looks wide-eyed at me and declares, "I'm on my back! I'm on my back! I don't want to be on my back!" I tell her I understand completely, and as SOON as this contraction is over, we'll get into a better position. Before I finish my sentence, Dr. M. announces, "We're crowning...and THERE she is!" And Gilbert Gottfried screams, "WHAT THE...???"

Time of birth 2:09 a.m.