Full Disclosure

A few updates and then no more whining.

No, I do not have a plastic surgeon. That was sarcasm.

No, in spite of all experience indicating the contrary, I did NOT have the flu OR pneumonia. An invasive nasal swab and an assay of blood and urine tests confirmed against the flu, favoring instead “Pyrexia of unknown origin” and “Viral Infection NOS (not otherwise specified).” I am a conundrum. Doctor called it ‘ILI’ or Influenza-like Illness. Bastard virus.

Besides a persistent stuffy head and phlegmy cough, my cesarean scar feels like it has been ripped apart on the left side, sending shooting pains up under the mama-belly fat on the left side. No, it has not actually been ripped apart. The coughing has just yanked on the abdominal muscle incessantly and pulled at the tight bit of scarry tissue there. But heed this, oh ye who might consider ELECTIVE cesarean: It’s not a teeny little scar. It’s a big, honking, baby-sized scar. Mine is a big sweet smile that stretches almost from hip to hip across the top of my pubes. I wouldn’t give it up in a heartbeat, representing as it does the gateway into the world for those three awesome Sonars. And scars heal, but they don’t always heal in predictable ways, and I have to think that doing your best to push that kiddo out au naturale has less of a chance of leaving you feeling like your stomach is being split in two every time you catch a bad cough.

On the up-side… I wrote 63 pages on a script that was a lot of fun until it ground to a screeching halt with the onset of ILI. ScriptFrenzy ends tonight with the page count thus. I am really proud of what I wrote, and proud of my ability to crank out ideas and words when the universe conspires to grant me healthy working conditions. The story is one that I think I will work into novelly form rather than trying to finish the script on my own time. I really encourage any of you who started a script (ILEANA!), even if you only wrote one page, to head over to the ScriptFrenzy site before midnight local time and enter a page count. Do not discount the warm fuzzy power of the page-count widget, even if you only enter the number 1. Okay, full disclosure, the page-count widget for NaNoWriMo is more warm and fuzzy, but ScriptFrenzy is on a budget. Still!! Your page-count is awesome and it is yours! A year ago, could you have imagined that you’d even try a script? It’s so cool.

*sigh*

Ok, back to disclosures.

April (hereafter known as the Month of the Endless Demon Virus) was a bitch. I am having a seriously hard time feeling good right now. It would be easy to blame it on the bad bout of viruses, the long slog between getting myself and the rest of the family nominally healthy over the past few weeks. Spiced with the disappointment about falling short of the writing goal. But the truth is, I think I was struggling with enthusiasm and satisfaction even before The Month of Endless Demon Virus went awry.

I am trying to remain hopeful. My family is awesome. I have good people and good things in my life. (count yourselves among them) I know this. I am trying to remember to be patient. To let myself heal. To get through all of the sick drugs and start eating normally again. To not get frustrated when I can’t do all of the things that I normally do.

The patience is a struggle for me.

While I wait around trying to be patient, I’m trying to do a few things that might help things along. I’m taking all of my medicine (which is thankfully almost finished). I’m trying to eat good food and drink gallons of water, and a lot of chocolate. On the theory that my body might be missing something, but I can’t figure it out because I can’t smell or taste anything yet, I am planning to bring home a variety of flavorful foods from the grocery store tomorrow, including some spicy nori rolls with wasabe, the fixings for lasagna with Italian sausage, the fixings for a key lime pie, a jar of hot salsa and some good tortilla chips, and a bag of doritos. Yeah, ok, the doritos might be a bit redundant with the tortilla chips. I’ll get a coke instead. Right now, I am enjoying my first beer for three weeks. It is good. Heck, maybe I’ll even get the ingredients to take up the Yummy Mummy’s hot dog challenge. If I can manage to breathe, I might even run.

Sonar X5 has counseled (sweet child) that I should try doing something crazy. With a wrinkled-nose-smile and a giggle he shrugged off specific suggestions though, so I’ll have to get back to you on that one. Sonar X3 suggested that it would help if everyone tried to be nice. Hear hear. Sonar X7 suggested the lasagna. Partner suggested a strategic application of hot oil, though the language he whispered in my ear was much more colorful.

Bring it on. I’ll try it all. It would just be so nice to feel a little bit good for a change.

So spill it. What do you do when you feel a little blue? What strategies and rituals and tips do you employ for a little warm fuzzy, for a little bit of good when everything else gets you down? I’m only asking because I suspect the next step might involve velcroing the children to the wall and throwing plates, and nobody really wants me to be THAT person. Not even me.

Love, Thank Yous and Vacation

Hey, for those of you who have sent messages of outrage and support and cheering and comfort and silliness, both publicly and privately….

Thank you so much. Seriously. Together with the love of other family and friends, I feel surrounded (in a good way), soothed, buoyed, strong, and positive. The anger and despair I felt when I posted about the dismissive and painful remarks directed toward me recently has softened into something that feels much less overwhelming. I no longer feel buried. No longer feel that this one conflict has undone my progress toward healing, merely that it was an upswelling of emotion, and a brief side trip that has reminded me that the love in my life is so much bigger and more powerful than than the negative emotions that remain.

So I’m ok. And I’m on Spring Break, visiting family, knitting, reading, playing with puppies and looking at wildflowers, dying Easter eggs and knitting, making long lists, reading magazines, and knitting.

Good stuff.

The best therapy.

And yes, my house is very very clean right now. ;)

Stashtastic

Sharpsticks has been talking about my yarn stash. Apparently it’s meager relative to many knitters, and it’s true, I don’t tend to hoard yarn excessively. I find it very difficult to purchase yarn without a project in mind. Oh, sock yarn, sure, now and then. But that’s easy. 100 grams of sock yarn will make a pair of average socks for most people with enough left for a couple of pairs of baby socks, or perhaps a few pairs for little kids. Lace weight is pretty easy too. The average shawl takes a couple of average hanks of lace yarn.

Then things get more grey. If I see a yarn I like, how much should I buy? A skein or two might only make a hat or scarf. If it’s sweater-worthy, should I get ten balls? Fifteen? Will the imaginary sweater be long-sleeved or short? It really flummoxes me, decisions like that, so in general, I only shop for yarn when I have a specific project, or even a select pattern in mind.

That said, I made the claim to Sharpsticks that all of my yarn fit into a single filebox, which used to be true. A recent purchase of a huge bag of discount yarn, and the gathering together of all of my WIPs (works in progress) proves that the collection has expanded a bit.

I’ve spread it out a little bit in this photo to aid in description.

The pink fluffy sweater is hanging from the doorknob. The plastic filebox in question is at the left, currently filled with sock yarn: an undetermined number of pairs, plus a gallon-sized bag full of ends, a cone of cotton yarn with one knee sock, two hanks of crochet thread for snowflakes, some lace-weight remnants from the Mystery Stole 2007, and five skeins of pink alpaca leftover from the sweater that would make a nice small lacy something.

The dark green flower pot to the left of the sweater in my Current Project Bucket, and usually sits under my computer desk. The two OIP (owls in progress) are here on the desk and were forgotten for this picture, but there is yarn in there for future OIPs. The bucket also contains a plastic bag filled with bamboo yarn and its partially completed moebius wrap, as well as most of my knitting needles and tools and a few random patterns.

The three blanket bags to the right and below the pink sweater contain (clockwise) 1. Katia Mexico, 20 skeins destined to be sweaters for partner and at least one Sonar, 2. and 3. Random bits of mainly acrylic yarn that I used to craft various things (like owls and storytellers and marble bags), plus some fifteen-year-old granny squares, a doll blanket in progress (at least ten-years-old), and a Loomette. The white grocery bag at center right is usually in bag 3.

The white plastic bag at the front contains wool yarn used in various felting projects. The clear gallon bag all the way on the right is probably going to end up as a pot hanger. It’s a bag of yarn and twine I found for a quarter at an estate sale last fall. The bag against the wall with the bright red yarn isn’t actually mine (ahem). That is a bag of red and blue yarn belonging to two of the Sonars.

Not pictured is a missing skein of white acrylic yarn and a skein of black yarn that belongs to the other Sonar, and a wee bag with SIP (socks in progress) that is out in the car.

So, ok, I fess up, one bin, three blanket bags, and a bucket. And No, I don’t usually keep it on the floor in the hall by the front door. But I am very unlikely to buy any more yarn until I use a good deal of this. And at the rate I’m going here in Phase One, that should take about four days. ;)

So fess up, what’s hiding in your closet? Yarn? Fabric (I’m guilty there too)? Salt and pepper shakers? Empty candy wrappers? Eels? The parts for your latest evil-genius machine?

Therapy, Phase One

In times of acute emotional distress, I tend to follow a fairly predictable recovery pattern. Phase One begins when the crying and plate-throwing has (mostly) stopped.* This is the phase in which I Make things.

Ok, I make things all the time, but Phase One usually involves a slightly maniacal construction of something new. (On rare occasions, the recovery of a long abandoned project occurs in cases when Phase One is prolongued).

So today, I made bandanas. And a cape. And I knit on Owl 2 (the colors of which were selected by Sonar X5 and which has been named Hedwig—go read the books). And I pondered buttons for Owl 1 (which is purple and grey, a birthday gift for a wee friend, and which has been named Errol by the Sonars, probably because he’s a bit squashy looking—again, go read the books). And there is a very good chance I will work on the abandoned socks for Partner.

I rationalize, of course, that the preponderance of birthdays we have among our family and friends here in the middle of March is justification enough of such a craft frenzy. Some of the bandanas are for pure whimsy, to be used locally by the Sonars for whatever a bandana can do (cape, mask, pirate scarf, apron, wee blanket, handkerchief, mini-toga, halter top, insert your own bandana use here). Two others are destined for a six-year-old friend, to be accompanied by a compass, flashlight, string, and bandaids for a gift inspired by The Dangerous Book for Boys and The Daring Book for Girls. Call it an adventure pack. The cape will be wrapped around Errol for environmentally friendly wrapping and surprise super-hero garb for a three-year-old friend.

Side note: When I mentioned last night that I was thinking of making bandanas, Sonar X7 said, “Hey, we can tie one around the end of a stick and run away from home now!!” Nearly killing the bandana project before it got off the ground.

Normally, I just think making things is fun. There is something very satisfying about knowing that I have used my hands to craft something fun or useful or interesting.

In times of stress, I find comfort in being a creator as opposed to a consumer or a destroyer. The practice of craft is a good analogy for the way I want to function socially and emotionally. And by taking fabric, or yarn or paper or glue and making something and pondering the idea of creating healthy connections and emotions among people, I find that I am able to calm myself from the inside out, to feel stronger and more stable and more able to fulfill my roles and responsibilities in a healthy, sane and satisfying way.

The craft doesn’t take me all the way though. At some point, when I am sitting in a puddle of fabric clippings and bits of thread and yarn, with glue in my hair, I will decide that I can no longer tolerate the mess.

Thus begins Phase Two, in which I clean with a slightly maniacal vengeance, thus exerting a sense of control and organization. Stressful experiences often feel outside the realm of our control. Another good analogy here. Cleaning and organizing the tangible objects that are around me gives me a sense of control over at least one part of my life. It has the added benefit of creating a serene space in which to contemplate my emotions. I often find that as I organize the stuff and sweep away the debris, that feelings start making sense, that ideas fall into line, and that I feel more calm. A clean house does not necessarily change the stressful issues themselves, but it does create a reserve inside me that feels healthy and strong. Plus, it’s one of the rare occasions in which our house is really and truly and fastidiously clean.

People are sometimes freaked out by both phases. Not the actions themselves, but the, uh, shall we say Enthusiasm (aka Single Minded Vengeance) with which I take on the creation and the cleaning. The Sonars seem to enjoy Phase One. No one likes Phase Two. But I reassure them, that the mama who doesn’t care whether the living room table is covered with ten gallons of K’Nex as long as none of them is on the floor to hurt her feet will return soon.

*No, I have not actually ever thrown plates, but I’ve wanted to. I’m really more of a slammer, which has, of occasion, resulted in broken things. Just this morning I happened to close the dishwasher in a particularly enthusiastic manner and managed to smash a glass.

Frigorific

Today is my mother’s 54th birthday. I might wish her a happy birthday, but I don’t think she has internet access. And I can’t call her on the phone.

Eight years ago, my mother was convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to life in prison without opportunity for parole for the shooting death of my step-father. I’d really like to say that I’m making that up, but I’m not.

I don’t know what other people do in situations like this, but I’ve had a really hard time maintaining communication with my mother since her conviction.

There are pragmatic challenges. She is more than a thousand miles away from me. Prisons in the U.S. are controlled places, with all communication in and out observed and sometimes filtered. That has a chilling effect on communication all by itself.

More important though, are the emotional challenges. Like the fact that my mother—an important person in my life—was convincted of killing my step-father—another important person in my life—with a really rather pathetic tale of theft and deception as the explanation. That pretty much makes effective communication something like swimming in frozen molasses.

Open and honest communication with my mother has always been a challenge. She grew up in difficult and confused circumstances. Spending a childhood guessing and speculating about the feelings of those around her, I’m sure she found it difficult as an adult to function any other way. It’s one thing to speculate about feelings and motives; it’s another thing to take those guesses, choose the most sensational (even if it’s the least likely), and believe it as truth. To function ever after with that guess-cum-truth (truth-cum-guess?) locked in her thinking as if she had witnessed it first-hand. Such is one facet of my mother’s mental state.

If I could condemn my mother, my feelings and therefore my actions could be so much simpler. But my mother, the one I loved, is hard to condemn.

There was a time that I thought she was beautiful. I can remember her long brown hair with the silver streak that plagued her in childhood. When I was small, it was long enough for her to sit on it, and thick and silky. Most people remember her for her wicked sense of humor. She was sharp and archly funny in even the challenging situations. I’m sure it was her best coping mechanism. And she was my Mother. She cared for me when I was sick. She encouraged me and made me feel smart and pretty even when I was an awkward, spindly, little, four-eyed geek. I loved that mom.

For just today, in honor of her birthday, I wish I could set aside the death, and the lies, and the imperfections, the fickleness, the fear, the mistrust, the sadness, and the very deep pain. Today, I wish I could send a bit of love to my mom on her birthday.

As hard as she is to condemn, she is equally hard to forgive. I thought, perhaps, that as a mother myself, I might find forgiveness easier. Thought perhaps I could find some kind of empathy for her. But just the opposite is true. I find it that much harder to empathize with someone who treated her children so disproportionately. Who put her children at such risk, took so much from us, at such a tender point in some of our lives, and then raged when we all turned away in dazed confusion and grief and anger.

I’ve coped, in my own way, with the loss of my step-father. But she took away my Mother too. And that, as you can see, is still a struggle sometimes.