Painting...

It's after 1:00 a.m., and I'm still up. In most cases, people who are up at this hour are either:

• Just getting back from a night of partying
• Sick
• Sick from a night of partying
• Addicted to Spider Solitaire

 Thankfully, I am not sick, and I gave up Spider Solitaire a few months ago when it started interfering with my Fecebook time. However, I am also not up late because I've been boozing, carousing, and painting the town red. I'm up late because I have been painting my bathroom.

Painting holds a strange fascination for me. It is Home Improvement 101 - a task easily doable by anyone with opposable thumbs and a tolerance for fumes. It is cheap, fast, and effective. (Those are the same qualities that I look for in diet plans, small kitchen appliances, and laxatives, by the way.) Anyway, I never cease to be amazed at what a profound difference a coat of paint can make in a room, though I must clarify that I mean that in both its best and worst possible ways.

I am not good with color. I once decided to paint my daughters' room a nice, cheerful yellow. So, I went to the paint section of my local hardware store. After staring at 14,768 different colors of yellow, I pulled the last one that was visible before temporary blindness set in. (Apparently, staring at a wall full of different shades of yellow has the same effect as starting at the sun. That, or my brain did its best to protect me from the sensory overload I was experience by tuning out my vision for a moment so I could escape. Either way - I wouldn't recommend this as a way to fill your Saturday afternoon.)

Once I got home, I immediately set in covering the deep blue walls of their room (which had been my dreadful attempt at creating an 'under sea' feeling) with the cheerful yellow. Big mistake. The blue had at least been sleep inducing, as it was depressing and dark. I swear to you, my daughters didn't sleep more than 20 minutes at a stretch for the first three months after the yellow went up. I don't know if it was the incandescent brightness of the paint, or the hum it seemed to emit that caused the problem. I had never before really understood what people meant when they said some colors are, "loud" until I put what can only be described as Screaming Yellow paint on the wall. Paint - 2. Annie - 0.

My problem, I guess, is that I don't get color. I have a friend who can go on for several full minutes about a particular shade (or hue, or tone - or whatever color people refer to color as) that she saw months ago on the sole of a homeless man's shoe. I always hear people talk about things like, "a slightly lighter shade of green, with a touch of mauve" or "a deep orange, only without so much brown." What!? Look - I learned everything I need to know about color (and much else) in Kindergarten. Green is a combination of blue and yellow. Orange is a combination of red and yellow. Unless my teacher was lying to me, there ain't no mauve or brown in either of them, right? This is almost assuredly why I almost failed art in high school.

So, this time I'm determined to make my painting transformation a dramatic positive experience, in an attempt at both improving my bathroom and redeeming myself from the last go around. (Heaven only knows what health problems a bad color could make when applied to a bathroom, after all!)  So, after much deliberation, I went with white. I even called my friend to let her know that I had made a sensible, fool-proof decision. Her only reply was - and I'm still pondering this in my every spare moment - "what color white?" Seriously?

I'm glad to say that, despite having had to stay up til the wee hours of the morning, I'm pleased with the results. The white made the room look bigger, neater, cleaner, fresher, brighter - everything a person wants out of a new coat of paint. (Paint - 2. Annie - 1. Take THAT, Screaming Yellow!!)

As I was wearily rinsing out my brush and tidying up a few minutes ago, I wondered if I had made the right choice in staying in and doing home improvement projects instead of going out and partying. In the end - I think I chose wisely. I bet my can of paint was cheaper than a round of drinks. Plus, I actually burned calories this evening, instead of consuming them. And, most importantly, I'm not sure I can be trusted to paint the town red anymore. After all - I might pick the wrong shade...

Oh, The Humanity!

I took my girls to the pool to go swimming last week. That, my friends, is a very loaded statement. Lurking within those 38 innocent little letters you'll find such thorny challenges as unflattering swimsuits, pre-teen hormonal power struggles, and the endless quest to convince everyone that we're something we're not. Just think - all that on a Thursday afternoon!

I have a love/hate relationship with swimming. It's one of the few 'exercises' that I truly enjoy. I love the feeling of being weightless and the muffled silence that washes over me when I'm floating on my back. I love the fact that I can be just as competent and capable in the pool as a skinny little fitness trainer, and that my children are impressed with my aquatic prowess. I love the smell. I love the sounds. I even love the biting taste of Chlorine. What I don't love, however, is the uniform.

I admit it - I hate going out in a swimsuit. My body and I, surprisingly, get along well. It's done a lot for me - more than I deserve, actually, especially in light of how I sometimes treat it. When we're at home together, watching TV and eating popcorn, I get along famously with my body. We're happy together working outside, relaxing on a lazy Saturday afternoon, and even dressing up and going out for a nice dinner.  However, despite how much it deserves my respect and admiration, I still have a hard time taking it out and showing it off.

Usually, I find myself in the locker room of the pool staring in the mirror at glaringly white legs, save for the scattered bruises and stubborn hairs that refused to relent to the onslaught of the razor. My suit (like most of the rest of my clothing) was purchased several years ago at a Goodwill store. It is a marvel of engineering, and contains more spandex than most whole aerobics classes. However, even with all of its wrapping and cupping and contouring, I still take the long walk to the water's edge painfully aware of the incongruity between how I look and how I am "supposed to" look.

Funny thing, that - "supposed to". As I helped my children into their swimming gear, I noted with a wince how quickly they were growing up. My oldest is getting leggy - not quite graceful and full-grown yet, but her awkwardness has its own sense of purpose, and therefore sense of beauty as well. The same is true for my six-year-old, who possesses the sturdy and utilitarian frame that goes along with the constant growth and activity of children her age. And, my baby! She is still young enough to have the delightful rounded belly and dimpled knees of toddlerhood, though they are now coupled with slender legs and graceful fingers. As she finishes her transition from baby to child, she appears to be all spare parts and mismatched pieces, but the overall effect is glorious. It is all with all of them, really.

As I hurriedly walked the few yards from the locker room to the pool (never running, mind you!) with my face down and eyes averted, I almost ran smack-dab into another middle-aged mom with the same posture. In our passing glance we shared a story as old as time itself. There we were - enormously blessed with healthy children and the time and energy to be able to spend with them, and all we could think about was our own perceived failings. But - and here's the key - our floppy arms and stretch marks are every bit as indicative of the wonder and power of our bodies at this stage of our lives as the characteristics I marveled at in my children are at their stages of life.

I took the opportunity during the rest of our pool visit to glance around. (Furtively, of course, with the adage, "stare not lest ye be stared at" in the forefront of my mind.) What I found was not rolls and wrinkles, sags and cellulite. Instead, I discovered humanity - those distinct qualities that mark our very humanness . We are all incredibly and wonderfully flawed, and that is what unites us - from the chubbiest newborn baby to the frailest senior citizen. There isn't a single body in the world just like mine. It had its own separate destiny and need to be unique from the very first second it was created, and still tells my story in its every curve and nuance.

I wouldn't wish away a single moment of any of my pregnancies, despite the battle scars they left me with. I may regret, for the sake of my waistline, that I indulged in a shared dessert last time my husband I went out on a date, but I'm glad I did it nonetheless. Does this mean I will trade my downcast, shamed shuffle for a swinging strut next time I'm at the pool? Probably not. But, perhaps I'll take the step of at least looking up when I walk from the locker room to the water's edge in order to see, acknowledge, and appreciate the humanity showcased in each and every shape and size of body around me. Who knows - someday I might even come to do the same for my own.

(Painting entitled 'Hesitant Swimmers' by Shanti Marie.)

An Open Letter to My Parents

Dear Mom and Dad:

This apology letter is long overdue, but I didn't realize it until now. You see, having been a parent for almost eleven years, I think I've finally come to realize that there are some things I need to say to you.

1. I'm sorry I hung on you. As a kid I used to wonder how much difference it could possibly make when I 'rested my hand' on your purse or in your pocket while we were shopping. Apparently the hand of a six year old really can weigh upwards of 100 pounds. Who knew? Must have something to do with increased gravity at malls and grocery stores. I get it now. Sorry. 
2. Please forgive me for kicking the back of your seat while on long car trips. Ditto for putting my feet under your seat. Ditto for anything else in any way associated with your seat. I used to think you had magic powers because you could tell when I was pushing my toes into the springs in the bottom of your seat. Now I know that it doesn't take magical powers to detect such a major annoyance, just to keep from slapping the person causing it. I get it now. Sorry.
3. I offer my deepest apologies for having let well-intentioned, but undermining, guest speakers at school make me doubt your parenting skills. I don't know why I thought that a dental technician student or a burned out ex-Cop would care more about my oral hygiene and overall health than you would, but I guess sometimes I did. Thanks for being sure that we always had access to quality toothpaste and never had access to meth while we were growing up. Above all, thanks for not being the kind of parents that cause the schools to have to bring in those guest speakers. I get it now. Sorry. 
4. Wow - what was I thinking when I wore some of those outfits? Though I swore I would never, ever say this at the time - you were right. They looked ridiculous. Yes, they looked like everyone else's clothes, but that makes it even more sad. So, I'd like to offer my apologies to not only you, but also to all of my friends' parents as well. I'm sorry for the attitude we gave and the shameless begging we engaged in just so that we could look like total idiots. I get it now. Sorry.
5. If I could, I would go back in time and un-say the words, "When are we having dinner" about ten thousand times. I don't know why I couldn't keep straight in my head that dinner time always came sometime between when the after school cartoons ended and it was time to go to bed, but apparently I couldn't. Despite the fact that you never failed to feed me once, I tested you every single night of my young life with that annoying and pointless question - often multiple times in one evening. Wow. I get it now. So sorry.
6. Words cannot express how badly I feel about having dropped clothes into the hamper that were not really dirty just because I didn't want to take the time to fold them and put them away. Sometimes I feel guilty when I hear that we are on the verge of a world-wide water shortage, since I know it's my fault in large part because of all the extra laundry I created. Worse yet - the problem I started is only going to get bigger because of my three children. Just fair warning. I get it now. Sorry world. I advise you to enjoy the cool, refreshing taste of drinking water while you still can.
7. Sorry for breaking stuff. I know that you know that I didn't mean to do it. But, I also now understand how heartbreaking it is to come in and see a beloved family heirloom scattered in a hundred pieces all over the floor. Or, have to pay to repair or replace an appliance due to gross misconduct on the part of the young user. (That goes double for the time I ruined the VCR by over zealous application of Pledge while dusting.) I get it now. Sorry.
8. I'm sorry for being surly. Seriously. I don't know what else to say except that sometimes it is your patient example - and ONLY your patient example - that is keeping me from sending my own pre-teen to go live in the yard. I get it now. Sorry.
9. I should never, ever have begged for toys. I had more toys than I needed - certainly more than I deserved, especially in light of the fact that I usually left them out where they would get broken, lost, or stepped on late at night by a weary parent just stumbling to bed to get a few hours of sleep before the chaos erupted again. I am so sorry for begging for new toys, for crying over broken toys, and especially for not picking up my toys. I sooooo get it now. Sorry.
10. Finally, let me apologize right here and now for all the tiny things I did to strip away the dignity you worked so hard to build when you were an adolescent and young adult. For loudly blaming that farting sound my little bare legs made on the wooden pew at church on you, Dad. For falsely claiming that Uncle Mark was pulling in the driveway as you hurtled across the living room, clad only in a towel and a deeply worried expression, Mom. For interrupting every kiss and romantic overture with a hearty, "Ewwwww..." For all of the compromising photographs I took, the embarrassing things I inadvertently said in public, and for requiring you to be at my beck and call for bottom wiping for all those years. I get it now. Sorry, and thank you.

Above all, Mom and Dad - thank you for allowing me to live to adulthood.

I only hope that these apologies (and the future apology letters I know I will end up writing - especially once my children reach the teenage years) will somehow make your golden years a bit easier. I'm sorry I haven't said sorry earlier, or more often.

I want you to know that you have my full support if you choose to fall asleep at family events, nap in the middle of the day, and insist that you be home and in bed by 8:30 every evening. After all, there is not enough time to make up for all the sleep I caused you to lose, even if you do live to 120. (Which, of course, you won't, since all that sleep deprivation took a toll on your health.) Sorry.

Rest assured, I can promise you this - I will gladly let you embarrass me in front of my friends, wear whatever clothing you think looks best (even once your eyesight goes and you're pulling items randomly from the closet), turn the TV up as loud as you want, take up tedious hobbies, wear ridiculous glasses and forget to put in your teeth, and even spend all of my inheritance on ceramic knick-knacks and commemorative plates with obscure politicians on them.


The only thing I ask is that you please, please, please don't ever tell my children how much like them I was at their age...

Derailed

Well, well, welllllll - looks like my day just went awry. I was planning on going to Des Moines for another round of heckling legislators and keeping the world safe for democracy, but find myself at home instead with a sick kiddo. Sheesh... I hate it when that happens. I had plans. I had a schedule. I had a meeting! Instead, I'm forced to stay in my jammies, snuggle down, and watch movies with three of my all-time favorite people. Don't you just hate it when your day gets derailed?

I mean, think about it - there is order in the rails. They're safe. They always stay the same distance apart. Always go in the same direction. Always have a smooth path and plenty of room on each side. They are the original superhighway - blazing fast and capable of getting you where you say you want to go. Just be careful - purchasing a ticket on the railroad of life does have its price.

Oh, sure - the rails are an easy, reliable way to get from point A to point B, but what if you want to get to point C? Or, worse yet, what if you think you want to get to point B, but really need to get to point X? You know - point X. The place where the grass grows tall and tangled and the hum of the cicadas is deafening. The kind of place where you lose your sense of past priorities and gain your sense of self. Point X is usually messy and fragrant and muddy and giggly and all sorts of other un-rail-like things. I'm pretty sure the only the way to get to those vibrant, life-changing Point Xes is by plunging headlong off the smooth and graveled path and into the unplanned, unchartered, unrailed goodness of life.

Sure, lobbying is important, and I'm grateful for the chance to do it. Eventually, I will wander through the deep grass, skip across the meandering crick, scramble up the steep bank, and hop aboard the next train leading me back to plans and schedules and meetings, and the safe clickety-clack, clickety-clack of my life on the rails. However, today I'm going to revel in these de-railed moments and make the most of my time in Point X.