May 2008 Archives

Anyone that knows me knows that I like to think I have a green thumb. I have one houseplant (a ficus tree) that I have kept alive and moved over 800 miles over the past 20+ years. I love the softness and breath that living plants bring into a house and I've always wanted a greenhouse of my own. Something magical about the smell of wet earth and growing green, not to mention how good the warm humidity feels on bare skin. I like growing plants outdoors, too, but their dying in the fall makes me sad ... indoor plants give me hope through the winter.

I've got several nice specimens now. A 4' tall corn plant, an 8' and a 2' ficus tree, several Mother-In-Law's Tongues, some adorable oxalis, a Halloween Cactus, lucky bamboo and endless bits of pothos that I keep rooting and potting up. One thing I have always had trouble with, though is African Violets. I bought myself a cute little  purple one on Mother's Day and I have managed to keep it alive all this time! Here's photographic evidence:


Isn't it cute?

My Lucky Bamboo was a post Valentine's Day clearance rescue mission. I scrounged it out of the clearance section at Walgreens about a week after it was last watered and have nursed it back to health. It's grown a good 6"-8" since coming here. Here is where it usually sits:


And here's a pic showing how well it matches my kitchen *Mom would be proud!*


I have a NEW challenge now, though. For my birthday last week, my wonderful volunteer Gloria bought me a new plant, something I have never owned but always wanted to. A Phalaenopsis Orchid.


and a closeup of the "faces":


Looks like I have a new hobby! :)

I will also be getting some berry plants, a rose bush and a dogwood tree in the mail soon. I'll be documenting their growth here, also. Doncha feel lucky? 

MARS!


Shit like this makes me giddy.

So tomorrow I turn 44. Always looking for signs of hope (or doom), this should be a good year for me. My lucky number is 8, 4+4=8, its 2008 ... get it? Of course, something miraculous was supposed to happen on April 4th (04/04/08) but as luck would have it, the closest that I could come to that was watching my daughter sing in a concert on April 5, so ... I guess the REAL luck doesn't start until tomorrow. When I turn 44.

44.

w o w.

I don't feel 44. I don't think I look 44. I certainly don't think I act 44. What if I'm wrong and I'm really only 34? Maybe there was a mistake made somewhere along the way, maybe numbers were transposed, maybe I fell through a wormhole, maybe ... not. I look at my mother and I see a 75 year old lady (who, by the way, doesn't act 75). I look at my brothers and see guys in their mid-50s trying to pretend they aren't. I look at my sister and I see her heart on her sleeve and how she fights to keep everyone, and herself, together ... age is catching up to everyone.

I look at myself, though, and, for the most part, I don't see a 44 year old.

I still see the little 4 year old who stood on a stepstool next to her father to watch him shave on Sunday morning, knowing that this was the closest she would ever get to him.

I see the 14 year old sitting by the window, watching her neighborhood friends walk toward St. Anne's church for the funeral of the boy she had a crush on, unable to bring herself to join them.

I see the 24 year old in her cap and gown, graduating while planning a wedding in her head,  fingers calloused from sewing glass beads on her handmade dress nervously drumming on her knee as she scans the crowd for a glimpse of her family.

I see the 34 year old sitting on the back steps of her rented house long after the kids were asleep, smoking a cigarette by the light of the full moon and drowning alone in a glass of Merlot, wondering how she would be able to keep a roof over their heads if she left him.

I don't see a 44 year old. I see that same fear of rejection, that same solitary mourning, that same overwhelmed distraction, that same resolute responsibility that I have always seen. I haven't changed. Just the calendar has.

Happy birthday to me.

I know I complain a lot about my kids. I know sometimes I focus on the worst of them, not the best. And sometimes I resent the fact that I am the sole parent and provider for our family of three, especially when I am not allowed to have a moment to myself while the sperm donor can go a month without even thinking about them.

I have to say, though, that most of my complaining comes from guilt. Guilt that I am not a better mom. Guilt that I want a moment to myself. Guilt that as a sole parent and provider, I am not able to provide everything they need ... time, money, clothes, toys, indulgences that their friends all have. Guilt that I, by choosing this life of single parenthood, have cheated them out of a normal childhood. And now I'm facing guilt that by putting myself through school for my second licensure so that I could get a better job (and being "insufferable" in the process ... my daughter's word for me) and then NOT getting it ... well, I have screwed up, big time.

Go ahead, say it. Suck it up. Cry a river, build a bridge and GET OVER IT. Keep your eyes on the prize.

Yeah. I'm trying. I really am. I've been trying since December. It's not getting better. Or at least it keeps coming back.

I find myself now with only 3 weeks left of the school year in front of me, a week of work after that, and a full summer to recuperate because I didn't ask to be a part of Summer Academy and I'm not taking any classes and I'm not spending the entire summer working for once.

So what am I going to do? Can I make up all my parenting deficiencies in 10 short weeks?

I don't know. T won't be coming down until sometime in July ... and I shouldn't complain because he was here all last summer helping me move and get settled and then recover from surgery but it still hurts, this distance growing larger every day. Sure, I am going up there for a wedding at the end of this month and for a race next month but those will be one day events, with me rushing to get back home because of the kids. Because I can't leave them with anyone. Because of the guilt.


It all comes down to being brought up Catholic, I'm sure of it.

You have got to try this  ... PaintThatShitGold.com

My creation below. I'm unimaginative but hey. Clickety to embiggen.

I don't remember when I have ever felt so tired. I know after the surgery I was having a hard time getting my muscles going again and I got tired very easily. But now I feel more than tired. I'm growing more and more apathetic.

Maybe its a reaction to being unable to change anything that I stop trying, sort of a survival mechanism when situations get toxic and my anxiety level reaches dangerous levels. It might sound like a lot of psychobabble but I've felt this before (and even got the diagnosis to prove it!) and I have an uphill climb ahead of me.

First things first, though. I need to get out of that school and get AWAY for the summer.