No News Was Better Than The News

I didn't get the class scholarship. Rats. And despite what I wrote yesterday I do care mightily that I lost out. I thought the instructor would visit my blog, yes this very blog, and be blown away. Fact is, I don't think she even stopped by for a peak. Guess my wish for a fairygodmother/writing coach to appear and sweep me into publication heaven is a bit unrealistic.

Once I scoop my feelings up off the blogosphere I'm going to hunt up another class.

Waiting for an Announcement

Waiting isn't something we choose to do. We wait because we can't get in to see a doctor, or we wait for a friend who is frequently late. I suppose if we continue to see someone we know is going to be late than you could say we choose to wait, but for the most part we are forced into waiting. How we handle it is totally up to us.

Today I've been waiting to hear if I won a scholarship to an online writing course. Thought it would be announced first thing in the morning. Nope. Waited until 10:00 before emailing the instructor for an estimation of when the announcement would occur; a girl needs to take a shower after all. "Sometime before the end of the day" was all I learned. When does the day end for you? Are we talking close-of-business day, early evening put-the-kids-to-bed day, or middle-of-the-night day? No clues were given. Right now it's 6:32 and there's no announcement. I know this because I check every few minutes.

I'm driving myself nuts. It's okay if I didn't win the scholarship.  I just want the waiting to be over.

I'd better sign off. I have to go check that website again.

Come To Our House, We'll Bake You a Cake

Three of us are sitting at the kitchen table, doing our homework while the dog is chewing contentedly on a rawhide. One of us is in her 40s and blogging but hey, I feel youthful today and writing is what I consider homework. The peace of being together while engaged in separate activities defines family for me. As we grow in different directions we may find our only common bonds are family ones. If I work hard enough, these bonds may be enough to keep us tethered tight.

When I was a child, the bonds with my brother and sister were loose, and now I see how rapidly they unfurled once we reached the freedom of adulthood. Maybe I'm ready to step away at last from the remnants of my family of origin. A few nasty shoves from the nest have helped me reach this conclusion. But mostly it has been the creation of my own family that has shown me how to love and receive love, and to recognize when love is not present. We are a wise family.

At dinner tonight we resolved to throw open our doors and be welcoming to those who wish to visit us, no matter how chaotic our lives, messy our rooms or nutty our dog. Amen.

Shredding the Bowl (Or, Do You 'board?)

Wearing clothes I did not sleep in today. What a refreshing change! Think I dipped a little too deeply into the blues last week. The sun is out today and I'm fueled by coffee, children and hope.

I drew the lucky straw today and brought Danny to his skateboard class. I once owned a skateboard myself, and without benefit of lessons lost interest after nearly knocking myself out. These days Park & Rec departments are offering classes taught by awesome guys barely out of their teens. Danny's teacher is Mike Manidis, owner of Atlas Skateboarding in San Mateo. Mike is a natural teacher, the kind of guy you want teaching your kid any and everything. After the first lesson Danny was relaxed, moving and ready for  more. Now, after six lessons, he is begging to practice everyday and wants to bring his board on the trip to Chicago! Love to see that kind of confidence building in him.

We await with trepidation news from the University of California regarding a new round of layoffs. Joe would like to retire in a few years and being forced into an "early retirement" would be a disaster for us. Perhaps it would be wise to postpone travel; I know better than to put off the trip back home, though. Time skips along, and while the kids are still willing to be seen in our company we want them to experience a major city, revisit dear friends and see old haunts. I want to show them my old town, and see it through their eyes. Memories created at 8 and 10 last beyond childhood, I believe. Sometimes money is meant to be spent despite the caution of the times.

Having being so confident about spending this "money" I'd like to go on record as saying I'd really, really like a great job or book advance to drop into my lap about now!

Just Wondering

Are they pajamas if you wear your clothes to bed? And then wear them the next day?

There's a Frisbee on the Roof

Unexpected visits send me into panic mode. If you've ever seen a mobile home park after a twister sets down you get the general idea of what our house looks like on a day-to-day basis. It's not that I don't try to contain the clutter. I do. It really is more powerful than I am. By the time I work my way down from the kitchen through the living room, past the 8-year-old's LegoLand/chemistry lab/lockerroom, into the hall bath, through the 10-year-old's fashion mall/distressed bedding room, there is nothing left. No energy, no time, no oomph.

Last week the new neighbors came over to say hello. I turned and looked at the living room with fresh eyes and saw a hip-high vinyl blue therapy ball abandoned in one corner, toss pillows tossed everywhere but on the sofa, three pairs of shoes staggering in odd directions, partially gnawed rawhide chews nestled in the unfolded laundry, and at least three days worth of unread newspapers scattered on the coffee table. The bright afternoon sunlight did its best to illuminate the shockingly thick layers of dust on the entertainment center and the fingerprints dotting the TV screen. Inviting it was not. The kitchen contained a bouncing fur-coated creature we affectionately consider a dog but secretly believe is an atomic-powered hybrid since surely no living being can jump so high for so long. The foyer was a safety zone, baby-gated from the dog/robot creature on the left but in full-on view of the living room and the boy's disaster area to the right. The only real choice for these unexpected guests was a prolonged and painful chat in the foyer or a hasty retreat to the front yard, my personal favorite but an as yet to be tried option. Wouldn't anyone rather sit outdoors on a glider? It wasn't even raining.

Part of the agony for me is the endless, thankless nature of the work. One more load of dishes, one more bundle of clothes and I know I'll retch. If the clothes or dishes remain unclean, no one who inhabits the house with the exception of myself ever really notices the difference. I know this because I've conducted painful experiments. Painful because I'm the only one who suffers, and when I can't take it anymore I'm the one who caves in and cleans like a banshee. There's the Dirty Sock in the Middle of the Hallway experiment (3 days, no one noticed); Book Left on the Sofa (okay, I could see how it might have looked like someone was returning but really, 4 days?); Cup of Cocoa in the Living Room (you don't want to know); and Pots in the Sink (still waiting). Or No Clean Clothes for a Week. Bathrooms Unscrubbed for Ten Disgusting Days. Just imagine the lack of response to a Really Clean House, and further imagine how quickly it disintegrates back into clutter.

Yesterday I found a frisbee in the garden and tossed it carelessly towards the front door. It landed on the roof. On the roof is where it now resides. No one has noticed it and I'm betting no one will until I point it out. We will soon be known as The Frisbee House.

Some things are normal, like the goldfish in the bathroom (what better place?) and the skateboard in the van (we're ever-ready for the skate park). You might question the portable massage table tucked away in the bedroom, the sewing machine in the living room, the laptop in the kitchen. Are we just confused about room function or seriously stressed for space? Am I a lazy homemaker or too busy to clean? Lazy and busy, I think.

Today I'm torn between putting all the rooms to rights and curling up in bed for a cozy nap. Instead, I'm drinking Peet's next to a dog who is napping while the laundry is chugging along. And I'm writing. Every day I'm writing. Let the house take care of itself, I say, I'm going to take care of the internal clutter.

Testing, Testing, Do You Love Me?

The old familiar letdown is there all over again. It doesn't matter that I'm no longer the little sister who tagged along, unwelcome,  in our shared childhood, or the young adult excluded from their conversations. Now a mature women, I am ensconced with a family of my own, and the rejection is as sharp and deep.

I am Charlie Brown, ever eager to place-kick the football that Lucy pulls away at the last moment. Up to the T I march, hopeful and confident of my ability to punt the ball to my teammates, little guessing that those who should be most trusted are the ones least worthy of my faith. Who am I kidding?  I know that it will happen, the ball will elude me, because it always has.  That family team was never mine to claim, I never belonged. The last to join I was "one too many"  for the brother and sister who wished I would not have intruded.

Our kids had wanted to visit Chicago this summer, see their younger cousins a second time and perhaps meet the uncle, aunt and older cousins they had never seen. There were the other draws, too — of seeing a city bigger than San Francisco, reconnecting with their mom's best friends, who are more real to them than most blood relatives, and seeing places they've only heard about through a homesick mother — but they were really excited about the family ties. Who were these older cousins, and what about that Uncle Mike? They are just starting to piece together the jigsaw of their family and these were curiously missing pieces.

The sister/aunt and brother/uncle are very busy, of course. Both have job concerns, time constraints, and the youngest cousins are engaged in non-stop camp activities through the summer. There might be a moment here or there for a face-to-face encounter, a concession of "making ourselves available" but neither was willing, or enthusiastic, about coordinating or committing to it.  The message was unstated but heard very clearly.

"We cannot be bothered to care enough about you to see you, meet your children and spend time with your husband. You don't matter to us, never have;  certainly the family you have created does not matter." I feel this rejection as a profound sorrow and know that it is something I cannot undo. It exists. It is a shadow in my heart.

The people I love the most have always been happy to see me. They are the ones who called every week  during cancer treatment, who still call just to talk. They have seen me through the great times, the dark times, the mundane times without judgement. They love me back. That's it, isn't? They love me back.

A cancer survivor is always looking to the future with a cautious eye. Will there be uninterrupted health for another vacation, another reunion, another celebration? This is precious time and I promise myself I will spend it with the people who want to be with me and my family. No apologies, no regrets. At least, none from me.

More Than Survival

Let me lay it out for you. In the back of my mind (front and sides, too) I've been planning to write a book. Something about life as I know it as a forty-something mom trying for more than mere survival after the mack truck experience of cancer. Yeah, says the editor in me, it's already been done. And done again.  I don't want to write the Hallmark version. I'm thinking more about writing from the irreverent and somewhat agonized perspective of someone who questions the motivations of her doctors while praying they'll tell her what to do. A person who gathers her will in spurts and stops, musters her dreams amidst the cold frustration that the future may have passed her by, defeats her challenges as often as she is defeated by them.

Would someone want to read the ups and downs of hope and dread after initial treatment and "before" possible recurrence? Because that's the reality of the much-heralded survivor existence. Any publisher would cringe at the proposal. "What a downer," she'd say. There'd be no promise of a happy ending, or even a tragic resolution. Just limbo. And the daily goings on, pushing forward, dragging back, moving in the unknown. Every move is weighed in relation to the likelihood of a recurrence. Remodel the house? Maybe the money will be needed for treatment or childcare. Find a part-time job to pay the bills? Not if I can't get the stamina. Attempt a new career? Will I have the time? So much of this "new normal" as they call it is lived in the head. My head. Should I invite strangers in for a visit, allow them to witness the demise of my previous sanity and model the new? Would anyone pay for the privilege?

Until then, I blog.