The English Geek

on a Rant

Ok, yeah, I know: It is shocking. Surprising. Utterly unheard of. But: I am in a funk.

Funk as in grumpy. Funk as in: the thought of putting up my Christmas decorations makes me want to scream, slit my wrists, and then take a nap. Funk as in: ZERO ideas or enthusiasm over shopping. Funk as in: I don't want to go running, I don't want to go to the gym, I don't want to do anything except eat Hershey's kisses.

Funk as in not at all fun to be with.

I mean, hello? I didn't even write about what I'm grateful for, which I usually do in November. We ran out of mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving (I think I had one tablespoon of them) and I am still annoyed about it. Thanksgiving is usually my favorite holiday (because it isn't about "what did YOU get" but just "what did you bring to put on the table?") but this one ended with me feeling out-of-sorts and superfluous and old. I finally, a few days after Thanksgiving, finished the Thanksgiving quilt I started six weeks before last Thanksgiving, but I don't even care (in fact, I am annoyed by how I arranged the squares and am thinking about dumping the entire thing into the D.I. box).

In the immortal words of Nathan: what the?

I feel like everything has already been done. Like I am remembering my life instead of living it. Books haven't made me happy, and poems have failed me, and even writing itself hasn't snapped me out of my funk. The occasional long walk I've taken with Kendell gives me a bit of reprieve---for about three minutes. Partly it's the weather: the nothing weather. The fall colors are gone, but it's cold. There's no snow. It's just brown and chilly and grey and dry and indefinable: nothing weather. I hate it. It makes me feel like the world is coming to an end.

Coming to an end tomorrow.

And the dumb thing is, my life is just fine. Kendell has a job (for now!) and I have a job. Our kids are healthy. We are all OK. Don't get me wrong: I could catalog my woes. But in general, in comparison, I have nothing to complain about. And it's not even complaining, really. It is just persistent, stubborn funk. Funk that won't lift.

Anyone want to come and slap me?

How Good it Feels

I didn't want to stay at church today. I taught my Sunday school lesson to my 14- and 15-year-old kids (who I have a great affection for), but then I wanted to go home. Putter around my quiet house, maybe start some dinner, or read my novel.

Except, Kendell's still not going to church yet (too many germs), and Nathan was at home being his helper, so the house wouldn't have been quiet anyway. Instead of going home, I just felt trapped. Trapped and frustrated and annoyed.

I've been trying to put my finger on why it is I am feeling so closed-off and crusty lately. Frustrated all the time. I realized that a big part of it is having Kendell at home all the time. That probably sounds awful, and I don't mean it as a criticism of him. This recuperation has been 1000 times easier than his hip surgery was. He's been mostly patient. But he has different ideas about what to do during the day, and suddenly the time that was mine has become ours.

I am ready to have my time back.

I talked myself into staying for the last hour of church, though. I had a feeling: stay. I sat by a good friend, and you know: I think we might have listened to five sentences of the lesson. For the rest of the time, we whispered to each other, stories and troubles and triumphs. We got teary eyed and caught up in giggles. We discussed Big Questions and tossed off sarcasms. (Well, mostly me with the sarcasms. She's much nicer.)

I'm certain that, had I listened to the lesson, I would have learned something worthwhile. But I also know this: I needed that hour of conversation with a friend. It's hard to explain, because all we did was talk. Just conversation. None of my frustrations went away. But I left church feeling better: less shuttered, more able to deal.

Aren't friends wonderful?

15 Minutes

I'm not sure what this says about me, but one of my favorite things about life right now is taking a break at work. It's this little pocket of time that's deliciously and entirely mine. My kids are at school or at home, my desk at work is covered, but I'm not at a computer, I'm not by a phone, I'm not reachable unless you know the secret library break room location. I get some fresh water (there's pebble ice!) and a little snack (a handful of cashews, or maybe a cookie, or right now I have some fresh pomegranate in the fridge), and I do what I can't do anywhere else: I read without an ounce of guilt. Guiltfree because for ten or twelve minutes (depending on how long it took to get my water), I'm not beholden to anyone. It's lovely and peaceful and quiet.

 

Sometimes I don't even go to the break room. The city center, where our library is located, is beautifully landscaped, with lots of old trees, and plenty of small, square tables in the shade. In the median seasons (fall and spring) it's a little green oasis, with hints of appropriate seasonal color. Even in the hottest summer, the shade makes it perfect.

 

Last night, I took a quick walk outside for my break. They've turned on the Christmas lights; the air was cold and still, with that crackling, starry energy that comes on clear winter nights. I just walked, my headache slowly drifting away, across the crisped-with-frost grass. Let my thoughts drift, too, my worrisome thoughts: Kendell healing, and the ever-present "what if he gets laid off," and what if my kids have inherited his heart problem, and Christmas, and my usual rounds of self doubt and self criticism: all away. I stood under a twinkling pine and thought about how light does this double thing, makes the landscape feel both more elegant and cozier, all at once.

 

I stayed out until I couldn't stand the cold anymore, and then I went back in to my library desk, refreshed in the exact sense of the word: made fresh again. No matter what I do during my break, I feel that sense of rejuvination, and it carries me through more than just one day. I wish every mother could have 15 minutes, guilt-free, every day. It's amazing what 900 seconds can do for you.

I Don't Know, Maybe I COULD be Stupider*

January, May, September: These are the months when the librarians' schedules are changed. During the first month or so of a new schedule, I'm a little bit on edge. I double- and triple-check the schedule before I leave work so that I know exactly when I'm supposed to come in next.

But holiday months are also a little bit crazy. People want to get away for the holiday, or they've got birthdays mixed in with the holiday (me!), or they just want some time off. So we all help each other by swapping shifts as much as we can (thus avoiding the need to use a whole bunch of precious vacation time). I love that everyone is willing to help, but it does make me a little bit edgy again. I don't sleep as well when I'm not exactly sure when I work.

Take this week: I'm covering part of someone else's shift so that she can cover part of my shift so that I don't have to work all day on Nathan's birthday. With me still? So last week, when I left, I triple-checked the schedule. I wrote down all my shifts.

And I wrote down the wrong date.

GAH! I thought I was supposed to work at 8:00 this morning. To make things easier for Kendell to be on his own without me, I got everyone up early so that the house could be uber-clean before we left. I swapped around the carpool schedule. I even managed a shower, and straight hair, and make-up. I even managed perfume.

I remembered that I am still not a morning person.

And then I got to work, and I looked at the schedule to see which desk I was at, and, yeah: not at a desk. Not at any desk. Not until tomorrow. And even though I got to come home to a clean house, the whole day before me, I'm still thoroughly annoyed with myself.

All that stressed-out sleeping and I still got it wrong.

Is there such a thing as sympathetic Alzheimer's?

Or could I be any stupider?

*Please be aware that I am using the word "stupider" with irony. I am aware that it is not a word, but it really works in that context, yes?

I'm Out.

A memory card (well, two) full of photos from my weekend adventure.

A mind full of images I'd like to get down in words.

Hamstrings that hurt more than any muscle soreness I've experienced since my extra-tough gymnastics conditioning days.

This wrangling argument going on in my heart: should so close make me feel encouraged or disappointed?

Books to write about.

Entire trains of thought that could be developed into blog entries.

But I don't have a spark. The pictures are on the memory cards, the images in my mind, the hamstrings throbbing. The argument unresolved.

My mojo is as depleted as my glycogen levels.

More later, I guess.

After I eat the pomegranate chocolates I've been hiding, and take a long hot bath involving bubbles and self pity and questioning everything.

Or maybe just a bath with a book.

'Till the Usual Amy finds her way back from wherever it is she's lost...I'm out.

You Know What's Embarrassing?

No, it's not the fact that my 4-year-old somehow managed to break the entire door handle off of my van yesterday afternoon, in the time between when I said "I'll get your white blankie for you, it's in the van, I'm just going to grab this garbage" and when I actually grabbed the garbage and walked to the kitchen door. In the space, that is, of less than 15 seconds. I walked out and there he was, sprawled across the garage floor (unbruised and unscraped, by the way) holding the door handle in his hand. No, that's not embarrassing.

That's frustrating.

And it's not embarrassing that Kendell insisted I come with him when the mechanic called to say "I have time now, bring the van over." Even though I was in the middle of cooking dinner, and had to leave the boiling of the potatoes to my daughter, who couldn't drain the potatoes when they were finished (and let them cook a little bit too long) because the pan was too heavy (not blaming her here!), so they sat there absorbing all the cooking water and when I got home the chicken was burned and the potatoes were this gooey, moist, disgusting mess. I don't know why he couldn't go without me, but: he couldn't go without me. That's not embarrassing (although it is, oddly, the tiniest bit endearing).

That's maddening.

No, what's embarrassing is that somehow I ended up sitting in the middle of of the Toyota dealership---the posh-ish, new, filled-with-leather-couches Toyota dealership---surrounded by shopping bags full of stuff from Walmart. Because, what better way to kill time, waiting for the van door handle to be repaired, than to walk across the street and do some grocery shopping? Only, I spaced the fact that yeah: the van was being repaired. So we had to walk back across the street carrying six sacks each, and then, where else do you put all your purchases but right next to you?

That's embarrassing.

Ever have...

one of those days when you think: wait a second, all sarcasm aside, maybe I really AM the worst mom in the world?

And then you think: ok, I'm going to try extra hard today to make things right and good. I'm going to be a super mom: make dinner and dessert.  Get the kids to church almost on time. Not lose my patience, not even once.

And then despite all the resolutions and the squaring of shoulders, the renewal in your spirit to try harder and be better: everyone still complains at dinner, and one kid even pukes he thinks it's so disgusting. The husband yells, the kids remind you that if you'd just made mashed potatoes no one would have thrown up, and even someone offering a tentative "I liked the dinner, Mom" doesn't make things feel any better?

And suddenly you start to realize that maybe, despite all the crazy in your house, it wasn't ever the crazy, it was always you, you were the problem all along? Walking around, thinking you were doing OK, thinking you were a good cook, a good wife, a good mother, and yet look at how it's all messed up, despite all your best efforts.

Feeling like someone should have told you, only: someone did tell you, only you didn't believe them, you tried to argue your innocense.

And all you'd like to do, really, is crawl into bed and sleep for, like, forever?

Yeah.

Having one of those.

Before.

I was thumbing through some photos this morning—older, pre-digital photos—looking for a picture I haven't found yet. I came across this one, though:

That's Nathan, barely six months old, with my dad, in Hobble Creek canyon. Kelly's Grove to be exact. I've forgotten the family function we had that picnic in the canyon for. Father's Day? My mom's birthday? Just because? I don't remember.

What I do remember is being the woman who took that photo. Twenty something. Surrounded with little kids. A baby in my home who I could scoop up and kiss, rock and nurse and snuggle and smell, whenever I wanted. Having my dad around to talk to, even when his hour-long phone calls secretly made me a little bit crazy. Secure—absolutely, stupidly secure—in my faith in the future. Not even hopeful, really, but certain that life would give me exactly what I wanted. I thought that because the desires of my heart were righteous ones, I would be able to achieve them.

I know we're supposed to feel grateful for the knowledge life brings us. I know that the struggles we experience make us wiser, and that that wisdom is supposed to be good. Wisdom is supposed to make up for the anxiety, disappointment, and heartache. The struggles are supposed to be valuable because somehow they transform us into better people.

And yes: I do know much more than I did the summer day I took that photo of my dad and my Nathan. I've had experiences I never imagined I would have, and joyful, unexpected surprises along the way. I have also struggled, and I have come out of the dark times with more wisdom. But I don't know if the wisdom has made me a better person. It has hollowed me out. I have become jaded and brittle along the edges, quick to answer any real question with sarcasm. Quicker to push life away, to pull into myself, to not reach out.

What I know now that I didn't before is that trying to do the right things, to have faith and hope, to make sacrifices, isn't a pathway to what you desire from your life. Sometimes you can do everything as right as you possibly can but you still are going to be left wanting what you wanted in the beginning—and you'll keep wanting it even when you can't have it anymore. And I didn't know that my great struggle would be balancing all those hopes I had—the things I didn't even question I would be able to have—with the reality of what I would be given instead.

Part of me wants to think that I was stupid for ever being as hopeful as I was, before. But what I sometimes wish is that life would have taught me something different. That I could have learned that hope was enough. Or that I would have hoped for the right things. Or that I had known how to make the transformation—better person by way of struggles—work for me. More than anything, right at this moment, I wish I could be the person I was that day, behind the lens. I wish I could set my camera down on the picnic table, sit down next to my dad—my rotund, never-afraid-of-an-off-color-joke, talkative dad—and laugh over Nathan's chubby body together. Tell him I love him and know that he understood instead of flinging the words down a dark well, hoping he catches them.

I wish I could put my knowledge down and not have to pick it up again. Just for today. I wish I could feel like I used to: certain that life would fulfill my hopes, simply because they were good, honest ones. I wish I knew how to return to that feeling I had, before my life turned itself upside down and shook me out here, where I have landed with experiences I had no idea I would need to have. Even though, as I write that, I am filled with knowing that, even if I couldforget what I have learned, I couldn't, because along with it came those unexpected joys—even though I know that, I still find myself weeping, full of longing. Wishing I could go back to my before self, shallow and clueless, if only to keep part of that hopeful surety to bring back with me, a bright feather to keep with my dark stones.

Just to return to myself a little bit of the hope I used to fly with. Before.

Old Friend

Yesterday, along with 99% of Utah County, I took my boys to the Thanksgiving Point dinosaur museum. (Haley was swimming with her friends.) Apparently I wasn't the only one who couldn't resist the lure of $2 Tuesdays. Despite the crowds, a good time was had by everyone. Kaleb, who'd been there once before with his friend Mason, kept talking excitedly about the sand and the water and the digging in the sand and was thoroughly bored until we finally made it to where the sand is. Jacob, who used to be passionately in love with dinosaurs---when he was barely two, he'd answer "paleontologist" when you asked him what he wanted to be when he grows up---was annoyed at how slowly we worked our way through the museum, not appeased at all by seeing skeletons of stegos and T-rexes.

Maybe only Nathan had a good time.

At least I tried, I suppose. *I*, however, happened to enjoy myself immensely. I love museums of any kind, and once we made it to the sandy, hands-on section where everyone could happily dig, something fortuitous happened: I bumped into an old friend. Hayley and I met in our secondary ed classes; we were the Old Ladies, the only students not in our twenties. We were instant friends. Compadres in arms against grumpy husbands, difficult exes, stupid teachers, and way-too-cheery-and-optimistic (not to mention thin and unwrinkled and non-jaded) fellow students.

That time in my life felt like God was asking me to do something I didn't want to do, for reasons I still don't completely understand (although I know a few of them now), and He was like "OK, I know you'd rather be staying at home with your babies, but you need to do this even though it feels like your heart is being ripped out of your nose, and I'll give you people along the way who will help you." Hayley was one of those people. I'm not sure if I helped her much, but she was an immense blessing to me; she listened to my rants and had a way of calming me down with her practical approach when I got too frantic. After classes we'd stand in the parking lot by our mini vans, talking. She made me feel like I would be OK.

Plus we could laugh together. We could both be snarky as we wanted with each other, or bitter, or frustrated, but one of us would manage to make it into something funny. She taught me exactly how curative laughter is.

The thing with old friends, with old real friends, is that no matter how long it's been since you've seen them last, you can pick up the string of conversation in a second. Hayley and I sat together while her grandkids and my boys dug up fossils, talking just as fast and hard as we had seven years ago in the parking lot. Laughing. And just as she was a timely gift during those school and teaching years, she carried a bit of advice with her that I needed to hear right now.

She's still teaching, and the school year starts for her on Monday. We might not talk again for another year or so. But what a comfort it is to me to know that when I do see her again, we'll pick up where we left off yesterday. Talking and laughing and maybe even swearing just the tiniest bit. Still friends.

Off...

to finally see Harry Potter today. I'm not really sure what's wrong with me, as every single other HP movie I've seen on opening day, but this one...I'm totally excited to see, and to be re-immersed in the Hogwarts world, but actually gathering everyone together and, you know, goingto the theater has felt like too much work. And maybe the reviews have tempered my enthusiasm a bit. The most disheartening review was the one that said the movie fails to focus on Harry's relationship with Dumbledore and instead looks at everything through the romance angle. I have this theory that the Harry Potter people are afraid of the Twilight people being more successful so they're trying to appeal to the Twilight crowd. Forgetting that A---Harry Potter is way better than Twilight and B---most Twilight fans are also Harry Potter fans. At least, if the conversations I've had with library patrons are indicative of the rest of the world.

At any rate...we're seeing it today. And hoping we won't be disappointed!