Christmas In A Nutshell

 She May be sick

 She may be so congested she had to choose between breathing and eating

 But she quite obviously had a fantastic Christmas Despite ❤

The Season of Expectation

I love the holidays, Christmas, and all the merry colors, music, and special traditions saved for this time of year.

However the feeling of tug-of-war between family obligation, illness, and ever mounting debt has cinched it this year, and left me feeling a little less then excited.  It was my daughters first Christmas.

If Pinterest is anything to base life off of, I should have a million and twelve craft projects and picture collages to mark this momentous occasion.  Instead I feel like a horrible parent, and simply take pictures, play with her, and am present.  I should have a wondrous Christmas Tree, instead of this 3 foot only garland decorated iridescent tree.   I should have draped the ceilings in garland to create this wonderful Christmas-land her first memory might contain.  Instead I let her “help” wrap presents, give her her first taste of home made Christmas baking, put on calm Christmas on the TuneIn.  It was far more subdued then I or the internet declarations intended.

What can you give an 11 month old to provide them the feeling of the season?  She still wants to read her favorite peek-a-boo book, she still would rather crawl then walk to her destinations, and she only sees the presents as shiny boxes that she can tap a good beat with her little hands.

Of course, as Murphy’s law would have it, she is sick for Christmas, picking up a nasty cold that is making the rounds in the city, and for a week and a half is a congested, sniffly, snotty, sad little munchkin.  Teething intermittently, and cranky in between bouts of Tylenol, and naps longer then the time she is awake.  Then I get sick.  Just in time for Christmas Eve, just in time to feel rotten and nearly impossible to raise my level of “cheer” as is expected when visiting and having late nights for 4 consecutive days.  With a sick baby.  And a whiny introvert husband.

But I reflect now as my living room is full of new baby toys that has her more then entertained.  Her favorite is the new shoes Grandma got her.  I have things I needed, things I didn’t, things I only would have ever dreamed of having.

I got to see smiles and laughter at the modest gifts I gave, and the elaborate wrapping I did (majority in diaper boxes or the like).

The manic depressive season that this is, with so many highs, and the inevitable low when its over, when expectation is bereft.  The cold quiet that ends the day.  The extra garbage bags.  The winter settling like an uncomfortable chill that it provides.

For me it is the end of the only good thing of winter, and the beginning of cold, cold days ahead, and the hope of Spring.  Likely not for another 4 or 5 months.

I wish I could feel happier.  I wish I could be those moms on Pinterest.

Instead, I keep calling babygirl on the “telephone”, make her sweet potatoes, and continue to rock her to sleep during her naps knowing my time is ticking down.  Less then 2 weeks of the “just us” club we’ve been for nearly a year.

So many tasks, diapers, feedings… I didn’t see the time disappear.  This time last year you were just a kicking, hiccuping, stretching miracle inside me.

Now you’ve just finished all the cheerios and cheese I’ve given you.  Time for veggies.

Restless tonight

I contemplate the bottle of whiskey on the counter.

I’m edgy, I’m restless, my skin crawls, and I can’t sit or stand.

The walls are closing in.

Why can’t I breathe?

The baby cried tonight, woke up with cries that made my heart leap to my throat.

It was a nightmare?

An 8 month old with a nightmare?

My fault?

I reassure her, and hold her to me.

Rocking her, she’s restless too.

As I rock her my mind drifts, I imagine a white light of love surrounding her.

I imagine it surrounding her room.

The floor… the walls… the basement… the yard.

“It’s okay”

I say it for her

For me

She’s asleep now, briefly stirs as I place her back in her crib.

Not wanting to leave her.

I’m careful on those creaky spots in the hall.

Suddenly my vanity and envy seem so small

when a simple touch

and 2 words

can give the most important person to me

Peace.

 

Nap time

She spits out the bottle, dribble on her chin.  I catch with a cloth, an expert in my field now with many months of training.

She’s sitting up on my lap, her defiance, and independence in contrast to the wonder she still holds in the world around her.  The register blows, causing the blind to move slightly, bands of sunlight dance on the wall, lighting up the room intermittently.

She stares, mesmerized, it is all magic and awe.

Her tired eyes give her away, as she distractedly rubs them with a cherub fist, roughly and without thought.

She turns those same blue eyes, familiar blue eyes that I see when I look in the mirror, and looks up at me, a yawn catching her mid turn, revealing two stubby white bottom teeth.

I offer her the soother, she eagerly accepts, almost immediately calm, eyes drifting closed.

I turn her carefully, as she turns into me, seeking warmth, cuddles, my security and comfort.

She gives a sigh, there are no lies with her.  She is pure innocence, honesty, and love.

She catches herself though, now older, knowing the curiosities of the world still await, sleep cannot claim her yet!

She pushes up on my chest, strong arms now from so many months before when she was more then half her size.  When she was in need of me in so many more ways.  Her blue eyes look into mine the same way.  Trusting, loving, happy.

I smile, careful not to grin and energize her from her milk induced haze.  I want to snuggle her, kiss her to make her giggle, tickle all the tickle spots she’ll hate that I know when she’s older.

How will I treat her terrible teens?  How do I make sure I teach her everything she needs to know to make the right decisions in life?  How will I inspire her passion to strive for what she wants, whatever she wants, and know that I’ll support her 100%? How do I make sure she doesn’t succumb to vices, to drugs, to alcohol?  Will she be happy?  Will I make her happy?  Will she be healthy?  Will she always know I love her?  How do I make sure I’m different from my own mom?  How do I know I’m not going to smother her?  How do I not spoil her? Am I spoiling her?  Am I doing the right things?

She carefully turns her head sideways, onto a curled arm, fitting just above my breast, the other drapped across my chest.  She draws her knees up slightly, I gently lift them into the position I know she prefers.  The stray hands reaches up, gently flicking her soother, eyes opening and closing slowly.  Opening, closing.  Opening.  Closing.  The hand stops moving.

I keep rocking.  Careful, quiet lift and drop of my foot, knowing where the creaks are in the old antique recliner.  Knowing not to rush her.  In the precarious moment between sleep and wake.

She opens her eyes again, seeking my face, seeking my assurance.

She turns her head once more.  Turns back.  Her small body sighs into mine, everything stills.  Minutes pass.

A smile flits across her face, interrupted by the soother. Her eyes stay closed seeing only dreams

Carefully I stand from the creaky chair.  Noises she is well accustomed to now, but still cause a tiny frown on her face, she easily pacifies herself with her soother.  All is well again.

I make sure my arm is tucked under her bum, one behind her head.  My back aches, is she too big for this now?  I feel bereft in thinking of future naps where I don’t get our quiet moments of cuddles and sleep rebellion.

I lean her over her crib, mindful of her long legs, remember how she was just an easy handful near 8 months before.

I lower her, she feels the disconnect and turns into her bed, on her side, eyes remained closed as I gently remove my arms.

Another little sigh.  I drape a fuzzy blanket over her, contemplating turning on the heat with the early fall chill dropping the temperature to a mere 69 degrees in the house.  She’s fine, I assure myself, knowing full well she wears longs sleeves, pants and socks, while I’m barefoot in bike shorts and a t shirt.

I pause a moment, watching the rise and fall of her small chest.

I open and close the door.

Freedom awaits in my cup of coffee, and my laptop.  Soon I will miss this routine.  Too soon.

The lump is washed down with caffeinated nectar.

I await until she wakes.  A precious voice calling “momma” not yet knowing its distinction, or the way it makes my heart trip, and my eyes tear.

I could never dream of such a wonderful life.  I thank the Universe, God, and divine intervention once more for the gift of my daughter.

My miracle.

It starts with a dream

I don’t know if it’s the same for some writers, but for me most stories start with a dream.

I’ll wake up in the morning from a really vivid dream and think ‘that… would make an amazing story!’

I’ll think out the details through my head, maybe even get a chance to write them down, but as I draw the final connection, the short hand of my very brisk notes, the purge has been complete, the story finishes so to speak, but yet not created.  This is a best case scenario for me, to actually get the point form for chapters, timeline, character sheets.  Once I wrote 3 entire books of point form, sequels to each other, but lost the passion to fill in the missing blanks.

I had my what happens, but I didn’t have the drive to write out the how.

Once I was drinking tea from a china cup, the delicate brush strokes of the painted pattern made me think of such a careful hand holding a paint brush. Suddenly the tea cup made me think of a period book, back when drinking from china cups wasn’t happenstance at a non-chain cafe, but a late afternoon visit with friends.

My type of book range like my tastes.  I like everything from a serious novel, to a romping romance, to a thought provoking science fiction, and my writing reflects this.  I could be writing about a lonely girl working at a resort in the back woods, suddenly I’m inspired to write about space ships and intergalactic espionage, then I’m writing about a vampire with the stalking capabilities of a panther, then suddenly a period piece where a peasant is working in a hot late summer field.

Do you need to commit to genre as a writer, to ensure a solid fan base?  I can’t promise I could ever do that.  But I look to my authors like I would look to a type of novel.  I expect them to tell me a certain kind of story.  At the same time, I’ll always remember how I was impressed Nora Roberts (yes, don’t judge me, I read EVERYTHING, call it research, call it pastime.  Some people have reality shows, I have myself some Nora Roberts) ventured into the realm of supernatural with a series on witches, and goddesses.

At the moment I’m writing a piece that was inspired by a dream, about a pretty fantastic galactic monarchy.  I wont go into much more detail, but it’s possessed me for the time being.  Its something new for me not to write from one perspective as well but 5, and I like where it’s going.  So far its organic, and I haven’t need inspiration or to push myself past what flows naturally.

 

I write better in notebooks… something about pen to paper.  It just doesn’t translate the same on a computer when you get distracted by spelling or grammatical errors, underlined in red, glaring at you, pulling you from the story to back track, back track and back track some more.

Anne Rice would agree with me.  I follow her on twitter.

I leave this post with a smile on my face, and my hand itching for my pen and notebook while my baby girl still sleeps a fitful teething nap.

 

Problems since I was 12

When I was 12 I had a friend with I’m sure well intentions, tell me that playing with dolls and barbies was for kids and I wasn’t a kid anymore.

I was heartbroken, as I attempted to resist the urge to find my toys, and act out all the wonderful fantastic stories my imaginative head could hold.  I found myself playing with chess pieces as though they were people in a ballroom.  I would lay and stare of into space trying to rid my head of the stories that needed an outlet.  Secretly I would now and then play with the dolls I told my mom I was too old for, and had boxed carefully in a large Rubbermaid container, shoved in my closet.  I’m sure she knew, but as a child who had grown up with no toys, and pushed into adult responsibility at a young age, she would rather my youthful attitude reign.

I remember a turning point.  It was after watching Interview with the Vampire at a sleepover where my then friends decided to raid their dads bar (yes… I was still 12).  Rum, sprite and copious amounts of grenadine had me sick and going home early.  I didn’t like where the night had gone, I didn’t like how ill I felt, and I really didn’t like the taste of alcohol.  I didn’t grow up coddled, I’ve seen adults drink, and I knew what in part booze did and was.  I didn’t really drink again until I was 16 or 17 and it was only with a drink my parents approved and provided.  Don’t worry, that’s not where this tale is going.  Kids will be kids, bad decisions will be made, and luckily I was smart enough to learn from them.

Back to my 12 year old hangover.  While waiting for my friends to call as I always did, I found an old notebook from the prior school year, and taking a pen, I began to write.  Later I kept duo-tangs, and clipboards of my writings.  My parents always wanted to read them, but I couldn’t show them.  Briefly when I had gone into great detail and chapters, I allowed my dad to read it, and although impressed he offered criticism in a gentle way that I wasn’t prepared for.

How could he tell me this was right or wrong when this was how it lived in my mind?  Holding my pages to me tightly, I shed a few tears alone.  That story had died there.  I don’t like to think that it had shaken what confidence I had, but it made me start to think about the audience and less the story.  It became an obsession later when I was older, and had great writing (I compare to the mainstream and the top sellers, I’m not that vain, trust me… I mean… 50 Shades of Grey anyone?).

Suddenly once the initial passion, obsession, and absolute need to get the story out happened and I needed to cruise through a writers block, I would be focusing on what someone would think if they were reading this, and less on what I wanted to relay, what I felt, what the characters felt.

Every story, every character, every setting, every narcissistic tendency was a part even in its slightest, me.

Being a self esteem challenged individual even the thought of someones critique of any of it, made me panic, and anxiety won.

That’s been the habit for 16 years.

Until this past year, a friend of mine wrote his own book.  He paraded it to many publishing companies to only have it turned down at every turn.  Knowing it was good work, and it was different, he self published.  He is by no means a best seller, but he’s out there.  He’s an author.  He’s selling on amazon!

He is holding his work, bound, printed, and out for the public consumption.

I applauded his efforts and soon my own hunger took over.

I don’t know if it is since having a child, my view on the world has altered significantly.  My confidence has skyrocketed despite my negative self image, I am no longer afraid of things that I used to be.  She had centered my fears, made me see what life was about, made me feel able, strong, and patient.

Suddenly I saw the future, I held her, I loved her, and I knew, I wanted to give something to her, to myself, and to the world.

I want to share my stories, I want to get them out there with as much abandon as I have in inspiration and backlogged story after story.

I want to inspire imagination, make hearts soar, tears fall, mouths water.

I want to get out there.

And thus, my problem since I was 12, no longer seems to be a problem.

Its a mission.

That I wholeheartedly accept.

A long and winding road of prose

Well there, I’ve done it.  I’ve created a wordpress blog.

Not to say I haven’t blogged before… but lets leave those dark, angry, self hating poetry days behind us now.

This is going to be my procrastination blog, I hope it proves interesting to garner me a follower or 3 because I seriously delight in seeing a comment, or that my page has been viewed upwards of 2 times not from myself.

I guess I should introduce myself.

My name for this blog is Nessavanator.  A nickname given to me by a pretty awesome cousin of mine who is part super hero with a weakness for lemon tarts and a biography I would love to write one day.

I am a writer.  Loosely based.  A writer as in I write, I’m addicted to writing, I have dozens of notebooks filled with stories, essays, ramblings.  But I am an unfocused, and uneducated writer.  I had a poem published once (see “dark, angry, self hating poetry”) but that’s as far as my resume regarding writing feats goes that is the one pinpoint of authorship that I cling to and am unabashedly proud of.  I have stories I want to publish, but haven’t the heart to kill/end them.  I know I have to, everyone’s advice is “well just… end it” but its like saying end a dream, or end a life.  No story goes from birth to death unless you are a big David Copperfield/Charles Dickens fan.

I am also a new mom.  I have a 7 and a half month old, who while I write this (and likely anytime in the future that I write) is napping.  I have to type this on the comfort of my bed (oh woe is me) in the furthest room of our tiny trailer home that we will thankfully be vacating as of next week (story for another time).  Our trailer albeit nice and modern, is tiny and typing on this laptop manages to carry through her door, and even a midst a cheap white noise machine alternative fan.

I may blog about many a TMI related moments regarding her, her bowel movements, or my sleep deprivation.  I’m sorry.

The baby monitor is paging me, she’s started her waking up songs, which will soon turn to “momma mom mamama” babble, and the end result being a diaper change, lots of kisses and smiles, and a reflection on a fulfilling life.

Shes banging her soother against her crib.  Its mommy time.

<puts on super hero cape>