April 3, 2011 – Bills, Baseball and Standardized Testing

The lines between “real job,” “day job,” and “career” seem to get blurred over the weekend. Instead of spending my Saturday and Sunday relaxing from my 9-5/M-F day-job, I spend it completing a myriad of activities or chores to take care of my real job as a parent, marriage partner and homeowner. The stress of making sure I succeed in my weekday position and ensure it is a career that helps pay for our life as parents and partners carries over into my level of ability to motivate myself to get all of this other stuff done at home and be a Zen-Mom, Out-of-this-World-Wife and Happy Homemaker. And vice versa – the stress of not being able to keep our house in order, our kids healthy/clean/argue-free 100% of the time, our marriage as sturdy as the Cleavers but with lots of extra spice, and our budget on track effects my competence as an employee for someone else.

Then add on top of that, my deepest heart’s desire to be a published writer in my own right who frequently participates in spoken-word performances.

I know I’ve written out before the mathematical equivalence of how many hours each of these responsibilities to myself, my family and my employer takes and it does not compute into anything near reality based on the current theories of the space-time continuum.

Please note: I understand I am not alone in these struggles. I recognize there are millions of working moms out there who go through this. I write about it here in wonderment of how many other women out there let these daily situations of necessity get them down so low that they want to hide away in a distant land under a different name, new hair color and much cooler outfits.

We should start some sort of group together where our anthem is “Hey, I hear ya and I totally get it. I’ve already packed my bags, picked out my new name, and have my appointment at the hairdresser for my move to Shangri-La.”

Of course, starting a group like that would require some time to organize and coordinate. Then there would be the time spent getting together to recite our anthem and come up with ways to accomplish everything we want to get done more efficiently. Let’s not forget the time it would take to implement these awesome plans, learning curves for those they will affect and general maintenance.

Maybe it would be easier to master Einstein’s theory of relativity and build my own time machine making it possible to be in multiple places at once.

Or, I could believe “enough is enough” for today, celebrate whatever victories I did achieve, mourn the losses and chill the fuck out.

🙂 Peace.

April 2, 2011 – Nesting Eagles

I’ve been obsessed over the last few days watching the Decorah Eagles and their hatching family. It is so very Zen to watch how they protect, nurture, and calmly adjust the nest surrounding their family.

If only my nest were 80 feet in the air, away from pollution, video games, and drama, and I could corral my tiny babies under my wings for safekeeping at all times.

Of course, I think they’d still complain about what I’m making for dinner by the looks of the rabbit that’s been sitting by the nest for days…

🙂

April 1, 2011 – Air Pockets Beneath My Wings

Vivian sat for a long time staring in the direction the cat ran. She was afraid to blink for fear of missing its return. Her eyes began to get very dry from being held open by force for so long. Her corneas became brittle and tiny fissures were snaking their way across the breadth of her eyeballs.

The skies opened up a torrent of rain clouds propelling a sticky adhesive everywhere. It took a Herculean effort from deep inside Vivian’s soul to get up from her familiar guarding post and move. She had to get out of there quickly or she would end up being literally glued to that spot.

The searing pain she experienced as she involuntarily allowed herself to blink again nearly knocked her back down. It was like rubbing course grade sandpaper over a blackened roasted marshmallow, in both directions. She could feel the burnt layer peel forward as her lid closed and then rip back upon itself as her eyes opened again. And even though the entire action was complete within a millisecond, her brain waves slowed the transfer of the electrical signal for pain down to where it felt as though the scalping of her eyes had lasted for hours.

The second time was still excruciating, as well as the third but less so with each blink. Her legs were carrying her faster and faster without benefit of knowing where they were going. Vivian simply ran for cover from the gooey rain. Before she could decide on whether to duck under a stack of partially crushed Pontiacs or inside a cave carved out of the center of James’ rotted peach pit, the ground gave way and Vivian slipped beneath the surface.

The free fall to somewhere other than there was exhilarating. The air coolly rushed around her limbs and smelled of honeysuckle on a damp Sunday morning. The world above faded into a weak buzzing she could barely hear anymore. The action of falling cleared away any debris remaining on her body and clothing.

Vivian stretched out her arms in front of her, put her head down and aimed for the pin light.