Forever and Ever, Amen

Marriage in America has a pretty ugly reputation. It's like the kid in school that all the teachers know has potential, but he's too busy skipping class and chasing skirts to notice. We are all so addicted to Hollywood, we look to movies and those who star in them to tell us what romance looks like. I heard a line from a movie today that informed audiences that marriage was nothing more than a piece of paper, an archaic institution. So "enlightened" people have nixed it, opting for a no strings attached relationship intended to help love grow without the chains of marriage.

Hollywood, you can take you bondless booty calls, I love my chains. Chains get a bad rap. They don't just hold things down, they can also hold things together. My husband should be awarded sainthood for his patience with me this past year (or five). His typically outgoing, athletic, mostly normal wife morphed into a woman who is fearful of just about everything. He has to keep his phone by him 24 hours a day in case I need him to calm me down, or pick me up from the ER. This isn't said out of self-pity, I know I'm making progress, but I mention it because we are currently experiencing the "sickness" part of "in sickness and health". My husband took that vow with me and he hasn't moved an inch.

When I get too tired to move, he carries me. When I get so far down I can't see the light, he opens the window so the sun pours through me. When I can't find it in me to love myself, he loves me enough for us both. He has had to play the role of lover, friend, therapist, dad, tissue, homemaker and cheerleader. He hasn't complained once. Those are chains that bind, those are chains that bond. I wrote the following for our anniversary a few years ago. It was the story of the day I knew. Those who've been there know what I mean by that. I just knew.

It's strange that my wedding day has a hazy edge to it, but I remember the exact instant I fell. Funny they call it falling, because that's precisely what it felt like. Anyone who knew me pre-Duke(aka John) knows "love" was just another four letter word to me at the time. Something that people threw around like silly string. Just aim, fire, and hope it sticks, then just peel it off when you're done.

I was a lifeguard at the camp where we worked and he was a counselor. We had forged a friendship by this day, but at camp back then you pretty much became BFF with everyone you worked with within about five minutes (the reason for this is another note for another time but for right now, those of you who still remember what TWFS stands for, Holla!).

I was attempting to stay awake during my 4th hour straight of watching kids splash in cold water under the broiler that is Tennessee July, and I spotted a 40 something man climbing up the outside of the pool playground...a rather big no-no and I was a no nonsense type of lifeguard. I was ready to blow my whistle at the offender, but I knew I'd only be wasting my breath. The camper was a sweet 40 year old man with the mind of a, rather athletic, 8 year old boy, and camp was his refuge (and currently the pool playground his strong tower). I watched his counselor deftly round up the rest of his troops on the side of the pool as he took his shoes off walked toward the Godzilla wanna be. He asked twice if he would come down and the answer both times was a feisty grin and head shake. So, what else can you do, you scale the tower as well and bring Godzilla to booking.

Now I have two grown men on my play structure and I want to blow my whistle so badly my lips were twitching, but I knew all I could do was watch. As I'm watching I looked at the hero of the story. The man who was trying to save Godzilla from himself was balancing with one foot in a cargo net and another braced on a landing trying to convince his camper it was time to go to play elsewhere. He was incredibly patient and never once raised his voice even though you could see he was embarrassed by the situation (his ears turn red when he blushes..about the same color they are right now I'd wager). He finally convinced Godzilla to become a land lover and got him down safely. His 40 year old camper hugged him when he got down and ran back to get ready for his next adventure.

At that moment gravity shifted for me. The pull was no longer straight to the
ground. I knew if I jumped off my chair I would land two inches closer to him
than I would have a half hour earlier. It took me a full year to realize it, but
I was always drawn a little closer to Duke after that moment than I ever would
be again to the rest of the world.

Who wouldn't want to draw near to a hero? He has always been ready to rescue me from me, and much like his 40 year old camper, sometimes I climb the tower on purpose just to watch him try.

Thanks for being my center Duke, you'll always be my hero.

Marriage isn't about chains, it shouldn't be about restriction, and it's not all about romance. It's about two people making a decision to do life together as one person. When he can't walk, I become his feet. When I can't hear, he'll listen for me. When he can't speak, well we all know I'm all over that. Let the rest of the world enjoy their paperback romances. Paper burns up and turns to ash..chains endure.

Castles in Trees

A love letter for my son..

To Wilson

You should know I dreamed about you when I was seven. I tucked my dolls into bed every night before I turned out the lights. I named them, dressed them, fed them. All my dolls were girls. There was Courtney, the oldest. Brittney, the biggest. Blue, the smallest. Kim, the Christmas surprise. One night I had a dream about a boy, a baby, my baby. After that, I wanted all my dolls to be boys. It's not easy to find boy baby dolls, but I found one. I was 10, too old for baby dolls, but I named him Madison and he became my favorite. When we were preparing car seats and cribs for your arrival, Madison was our Guinea pig. It was his plastic head we repeatedly smacked on the handle of the car seat, practicing, instead of yours. I'd kept him, heaven only knows why. The remnants of an old dream, I suppose.

The moment you came into this world, I cried when you did. I'd never seen anything so beautiful. I asked if they could make sure you were really mine. You were just so pretty (your dad assures me boys can be pretty until they are two, then they become handsome). You had a button nose, dark eyelashes that went forever, and your finger rested just below your lips as if you were contemplating the wonders of the universe you'd just arrived in.

From your first smile, to your toddler pantomimes, you've always expressed with your eyes what you can't always say. Silent poems in blinks, winks and wide-eyed surprise. Your mommy is a talker, Wilson. My mommy says I've been that way forever. I don't know how to change. The only way I know how to express emotion is to speak. The only way I can receive emotion is to hear. I hang on your every word, and push you to the point of frustration for more. I assumed you'd be just like me...forgetting you have a father too....forgetting that you are your own person. Crafted by God, sent by angels, received by a girl who dreamed of you when she slept at night.

You live in a world you've created. You live in a place where every object, not just people, has emotion. Every blade of grass has a name. Every crash of thunder tells a story. There are monsters in your closet and robots under your bed. You sing songs I've never heard, and see castles that I've never seen. I talk, but Wilson, you LISTEN. You notice everything and you bring it inside to a world I don't always understand. You touch to be touched, you scream to be heard, but you find peace in silence and simplicity. You understand what it means to live in a moment in a way I'm not convinced I'll ever know.

Your mommy is a talker, but baby, please know I want to listen. I want to hear every word you can't always say. I want to know why the fire truck is sad. I want to sing the song about the castle in the trees. I want to know what happens inside you when I don't understand what you try to tell me. Teach me to listen. Teach me to live without my voice. Teach me to love without "I love you".

Everything I've ever wanted is encased in your tiny body. Every dream I've every had, every story I've ever told, every tear I've ever shed. I know it doesn't always seem like it, but I don't want anything in return but that you know that. In whatever way it needs to be expressed, mommy loves you. You are my perfect.

From my dreams to yours,

Mommy

Pythagorus and me

I have NEVER been good at math. In my world 2 plus 2 equals whatever it feels like equaling. It's not that I don't appreciate math's place in the universe, I simply fail to see how it can be exciting or worthy of intense study.

In high school, I had a teacher we called Oatmeal. She had a perm that resembled a dirty shag carpet. If shag carpets could be formed into mullets. Her skin was wrinkled like she'd slept on it wrong for 50 years and she always wore beige skirts and big shirts. Oatmeal also had a permanent blue mark on her lip from where she would inevitably lick the tip of the marker she used on the overhead projector like someone would if they were using a quill pen (we don't think she was quite that old). She never looked up from her projector. She just wrote down formula after formula and we copied onto our papers hoping the equations would magically begin to make sense as they stared up at us from our college-rule paper. I had her class right after lunch and it took herculean effort to stay awake, much less pay attention.

I have some regret now that I didn't pay attention to Oatmeal, and a little shame because I have no idea what her actual name was. In 11th grade I had no idea how math was going to do me any good in the future. I was going to be a famous screenwriter, and since I had no intention of writing a script on the Pythagorean Theorem, I figured the point was moot.

The other reason I didn't exactly jump for joy over numbers was that math didn't compute in my brain, and I lived under the same roof as a human calculator. My mother went a married a math teacher. I adore my stepdad and would not have done even half as well as I did in school if it hadn't been for him (I have several friends who can claim the same of Gary). The first day I DIDN'T cry while being tutored was a milestone in the Alexander/Compton house. (Love you, Dad!)

Math has show up in my life in ways I never expected. Turns out, when your mom and dad stop buying things for you, you have to figure out how much things cost vs. how much you have. You wish you knew more about percentages when you are hit by a credit card bill with a 24% interest rate. You wish you had paid attention during personal finance when you buy a house and you wonder if the mortgage lender is speaking in English as he describes how he's arrived at your monthly payments--which somehow manage to be about 150 dollars more than what you calculated, but you figure he paid attention in math class, so you take him at his word.

In recent months math has taken on a new role in my life. It's my anchor. That's right, I said anchor. It helps hold me down when I begin to spiral and anxiety starts to get the upper hand. When my heart starts to pound and my breath starts to pick up like I'm running wind sprints, and my brain starts to lean toward to highly dramatic, I imagine Gary. I imagine him running through the times tables with me at my living room table. I think of him explaining how to find X in an equation that had so many variables it looked like a eye chart. I go through equations in my head, and remarkably, I calm down. The same subject that caused ridiculous amounts of stress in my youth has turned into a saving grace as an adult.

My theory is when you are a person who tends to use their creative side almost exclusively AND you deal with anxiety, your imagination turns from your money maker into your worst enemy. The only way to combat dramatic thoughts is with the undramatic. The simple, never-changing, rhythmic composition that is math. It's the same in every language and no matter what catastrophes I have encountered on any given day, 5 x 7 is still 35.

Now, don't misunderstand, I have no intention of suddenly digging out old math books or going into accounting (the thought gives me hives), but I have a better appreciation of the logical. So, the next time you find yourself getting too dramatic, divide 468 by 12 and let your brain jump tracks for a moment.

PS. It's okay if you have to use a calculator...

Unpacked

I loathe unpacking. It's the reason why, much to my parent's dismay, that both my house and my car are often in cluttered disarray. It's not that I'm a hoarder. Speaking of, have you SEEN that show on TLC about hoarders? It's truly frightening. People with so much stuff they couldn't tell you what color their floor is. I'm not there. If fact, I'm more likely to throw out absolutely everything I can grab as I am to keep it, and the reason has already been stated. I HATE UNPACKING.

I spent most of my childhood and young adult years moving. When you move, you realize that your entire life is contained in few boxes and can be moved in a 15 foot truck accross the country only to be reassembled in a completely different house. As if the stuff would make it look like you never left at all. My room was always the first thing completely unpacked. It's not that I liked doing it so much as I needed the peace of mind that came with knowing my favorite stuffed animal and framed picture of Leonardo DiCaprio were in their proper positons so I could sleep.

Not only did I move pretty frequently, but my parents are divorced, so a few times a year I'd pack up and go live with my dad for a few weeks. In college, I was constantly traveling between school and home (4 hour trip) on weekends, so for a good chunk of my life I've lived out of suitcases. (Mom, Dad, if you're reading this, please know that I always felt I had stability even if the scenery changed)

For whatever reason I hate unpacking to the point I have stuck suitcases, fully packed, into closets and forgotten about them until my next trip (where handly, they are already packed). I hate unpacking because you have to find a logical home for everything that comes out of a shopping bag, suitcase, moving box, Christmas package. You have to rearrange things. Take out the old to make room for the new. You have to clean things. You may even have to buy a new piece of furniture to hold said things.

I wonder if one of the reasons anxiety is so difficult to let go of, is that it is a lot like unpacking. I can't tell you how many well-intentioned people have asked me why I can't just stop worrying? First, it's not just a matter of worry, it's clinical anxiety, so ease off your trigger a bit. Second, my brain doesn't want to unpack. Anxiety is a suitcase full of old memories, habits and hang-ups that I had shoved in a closet and forgotten about. Then the panic attack happened and suddenly I had to bust out the suitcase; like I was off on a trip to find my sanity. Unfortunately, what's in there has no place in my adult brain. I am going to have to get rid of things, move things around, wash things, and find a home for everything else.

I don't know why unpacking is so tough for me, but ironically enough, clutter makes me-you guessed it- anxious. So it looks like I'd better hit up HGTV for some better tips on how to get organized, because it is long past time that I unpacked.

Faith Like a Child

I spent my childhood years in Colorado. To say that I miss it would be a gross understatement. I've lived in 14 cities in my 27 years and I miss each for one reason or another. Usually I miss people or restaurants (currently I have a serious yen for Dagwood's in Bloomington, IN and I miss Maxx's face). I miss Colorado because all I can remember beauty. In the winter there were gorgeous mounds of pristine snow that made everything in sight look as though a cosmic baker had covered it in powdered sugar. In the fall the Aspens turned everything to golden. In the spring the volatile weather made it seem like summer might play hide-n-seek forever, but then summer would show up it all it's glory and sky would be so blue that no matter what you were doing you'd have to turn your face heavenward and admit that Crayola could never make color to match God's handiwork.

I felt beautiful in Colorado. Maybe it was my age (I left at age 12) or maybe it was just being surrounded by that much beauty, but I felt it..beauty. I was also fearless. I remember jumping on my trampoline in the back yard and looking up at the sky and wishing I could just die and go to heaven so I could jump in the clouds. Death seemed like an adventure.

I spoke to God at night. I asked him how his day was. I asked if my Grandpa was behaving himself up there and, if he wouldn't mind, could I talk to him every once in a while. I asked God not to watch while I showered. He was cool with that and respected my privacy. Everything was very real to me. Every emotion was exaggerated, every feeling was deep. I wondered if my heart would ever survive my first crush. To this day I remember everything about him and hope he's wonderfully happy.

Childhood isn't so sweet for many, and my heart aches when I think of all the kids out there that miss out on that kind of innocence, but for me being a kid was full of beauty and magic and awe.

Then we grow up. We are taught how to put away childish things. We are instructed to control our emotions and tame our passions. We are taught the "reason" behind beauty. We learn why the sky is blue and the Aspen's gold. Adulthood is a blanket that covers all our childish notions with black and white strips. Imaginary or real. Good or bad. Proper or improper. Scientific reason or hypothetical science. Childhood is gray. Everything meshes. Imaginary friends are quite real. Science easily blends with a child's perception of supernatural and bad is only bad if it gets you put in time-out.

I think the problem with the way I've grown up is that I have given up ALL of my "inner-child" in an attempt to be an adult. But then I read this "I tell you the truth, anyone who will not accept the kingdom of God like a little child will not enter it"Mark 10:15. Well crap.

As a child I just believed. I had faith. True faith. Today I have reason. I miss my faith. I miss my gray. I miss my 10-year-old self (and her metabolism).

I can try to reclaim it, but I think in my case, I am going to have be willing to give up some of my "book smarts" for "kid smarts". I can do something about my kids though. I can try to teach them how mature without giving up their dreams and their imagination. Reason is overrated, and knowledge isn't power, it's just an anti-inflammatory for fear of the unknown. My prayer now for myself and my kids is for the wisdom to recognize reason, accept knowledge, but live by faith.