When Only the Right Word Will Do

   I’m a writer.  Which means words are important.  They are the only tools at my disposal to convey a message to my audience.  I can’t rely on facial expressions or tone of voice.  My message has to come through via the words I have selected to appear on the page.

   Which leads me to this blog, a bit of a rant if you will.  It seems to me, that more and more, words are being grossly misused.  Here’s a list of six words I’ve been hearing more frequently, all of which aren’t being used as their original intended dictionary definition.

1. Wicked.  A word meaning evil, harmful, or morally wrong.  Yet, “wicked” is often used to convey a sense of awe or amazement.  For example, John Travolta introduced a performer at this year’s Oscars as “wickedly talented.” 
2. Bad.  Young children are taught that bad is the opposite of good.  I suppose it was Michael Jackson who changed the way “bad” is used and instead of it being a condemnation, it is now used as a compliment.  Being “bad” implies you are one of the best.  Rather than a negative, “bad” is used to brag and boast.
3. Fresh.  I go grocery shopping for fresh food; food that is not expired or stale.  Others, however, use “fresh” to describe non-food items as in “Those shoes are fresh.”
4. Tight.  Tight is used in many instances, but most often conveying a close-fit or describing something that is hard to open.  Nowadays, though, it is common to hear someone complimenting another’s performance, such as “That beat was tight” or “Jordan’s dunk was tight.”
5. Dope.  Often, it’s a word used to describe an illegal drug.  Sometimes, it’s used to define a person who isn’t too bright.  But, then there are the instances when someone uses dope to mean “really good” or “amazing” as in “That song was dope.”
6. Sweet.  Generally, sweet means “sugary in taste.”  It can also mean “pleasing, delightful.”  However, there are those that use “sweet” as the answer to someone else’s statement.  

“I finished my homework.”  

“Sweet.”  

or

“My package arrived in the mail.”  

“Sweet.”

Readers, if you have any words you think should be added to my list, please let me know!

Needing a Break from Spring Break

   My kindergarten son just finished up his first spring break.  Which means I just finished up my first spring break as a stay-at-home mom.  Up until this year, my spring breaks were always experienced more from a teacher’s point of view.  And, I can now say, there is a difference between experiencing the week as a teacher/parent and a parent.

   As a teacher, spring break was like the long-anticipated intermission.  You know, when you’ve been holding your pee, and you are about to burst but you have to wait for the intermission before you can get up and relieve yourself.  That’s how spring break felt for me.  Each spring break would arrive with me on the brink of exhaustion, needing a rest from the daily toil of teaching:  completing paperwork, attending meetings, sharpening pencils, hanging up bulletin boards, grading papers, and of course, teaching.

   Spring break would arrive, and I would be granted a reprieve.  The alarm was turned off, my daily to-do-list was drastically reduced, and I had time to spend with my son.  It was a treat.  

   Now, though, as a stay-at-home parent, spring break took on a different meaning.  The week still provided me with alarm-free mornings and a shorter to-do-list:  no lunches to pack, no backpack to check each day, and no homework to complete.  But, because I am a stay-at-home parent, I am fortunate to have a lot of time with my son each day, every day.  So spring break just meant even more time with my son.  Which translates into a more-tired Mommy.

   I love my son.  But, let’s face it, he’s six.  I’m thirty-eight.  And to complicate matters, I go through each day dealing with the unpredictability (in terms of fatigue and pain) of an autoimmune disease.  So even on my “good days” my son has more energy than I do.  On may bad days, it’s a struggle to remain upright.

   The conclusion of this year’s spring break actually left me more tired than I started out.  We filled our days with fun, and fun is tiring.  Walks and trips and games and projects and inside time and outside time and dancing and singing and reading and building and tickling and playing.

   When I was teaching, spring break also provided the desperately-needed light at the end of the tunnel.  I had made it this far; I could hold on until summer.  Now, as a stay-at-home parent, spring break provided me with a sneak peek of what our summer break will look like.  I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

  

Smell that Salty Air

   “Smelly that salty air.” 

   That’s what my six-year-old son said over and over during our recent stay in Cambria.  Cambria, half-way between Los Angeles and San Francisco, has been one of my favorite vacation spots for several years now.

   Sharing Cambria with Ryan brings me back in time to when I was pregnant and we enjoyed two trips to Cambria.  The first was in August 2007, newly pregnant (meaning, beyond family, most people didn’t know I was expecting).  My husband and I arrived shortly after midnight.  I had just completed serving jury duty; the case had gone to trial and it took longer than expected for the jury to reach a verdict.  The second time was in February 2008, a month before Ryan was born.  At that time, my large stomach prohibited me from zipping up my non-maternity jacket.  

   Now, April 2014, was the second time our son joined us on a trip to Cambria.  And anyone who has ever traveled with children knows that a vacation with a child is not exactly the same thing as a vacation without a child.  With Ryan, I am listening to the soothing sounds of the ocean while hearing “Curious George” on the television.  Instead of a purse, I am walking around town with a small backpack filled with the essentials:  baby wipes, juice boxes, Kleenex, and Cheerios (the quintessential kid-friendly snack).

   And while reminding Ryan to use the restroom, I am trying to remind myself the reason why I need to visit Cambria.  Yes, need.  Because I don’t think a trip to Cambria is just a want.  Something happens to my soul here.  First off, I slow down.  There’s little housekeeping and cooking required of me.  There are no phone calls or mail or chores to take care of.  In Cambria, I am humbled and inspired by the power and force and beauty of the ocean.  

   In Cambria, I slow down and remind myself to breathe deeply and “smell that salty air.”

A Beautiful Reminder

“You are braver you believe Stronger than you seem and Smarter than you think”

   Those are the words engraved on a silver bracelet, a gift I received for my birthday.  It’s a reminder I need.

   Like everything else in life, living with a chronic medical condition involves a balancing act between two different situations:  giving in to the pain/surrendering to it/resting and fighting the pain/powering through it/trying to ignore it at all costs.

   Throughout my student years, I was always described as smart.  I could accept that compliment at face value; after all, I had the grades to prove it.  Other comments about more objective qualities, such as beauty and bravery, were more subjective.  I didn’t always trust a compliment that came my way; but a criticism, I most often believed whole-heartedly.

   This disease of mine gives me one more way to doubt myself, one more way to look at myself as inadequate and incapable.  And yet, when I’m logical and objective I can acknowledge my efforts and recognize that I’m doing a pretty damn good job living my life.  Problem is, it’s always easier to find fault with something I did or didn’t do.  Hence, the need for the bracelet and its positive affirmation.  

   There’s a scene in the film Under the Tuscan Sun when Diane Lane’s character, Frances, is reminded that all her dreams have come true -- the wedding at her villa, the family living in her newly renovated home.  Her dreams, however, had taken on a slightly different version, and thus were not immediately noticeable to her.  The same has happened to me.  In all honesty, the last few years of my teaching career, I’d dread the start of the new school year.  I’d joke that I was waiting for someone I know to win the lottery and share the prize money with me so that I wouldn’t have to work and could stay home with my son.  I fantasized that someday a magazine would recognize my writing talents and pay me to write for them.

   My dreams have come true.  I am a stay-at-home mom, actively participating in my son’s daily activities.  A website has recognized my writing talents and does compensate me for the two posts I write each week.  Those hopes and dreams have just taken a different form, come at a different price.  

   Without the pain, without the disease that is a part of who I am and what I do each day, I wouldn’t have achieved my dreams.  It’s a “no pain, no gain” type of situation for me. 

   And through the lows and the tears, I must remember that I remain a strong, brave, smart woman.  The disease hasn’t changed that; in fact, it probably has only made me realize just how strong and brave and smart I am.

Awestruck

   The first time we went to see space shuttle Endeavour was Mother’s Day 2013.  It was exactly what I wanted to do on my special day.  It was awe-inspiring to see, close-up, a piece of machinery that had safely traveled into space twenty-five times.

   The second time we saw the space shuttle was just a few days ago on my son’s sixth birthday.  This time it was his choice to celebrate his birthday exploring the California Science Center. 

   Standing there with my family, all I could do was marvel.  Looking from the space shuttle to my son’s face full of wonder, I just kept recognizing the parallels between the two.

   Both my son and the space shuttle are miraculous creations.  The space shuttle began as a vision and through science and engineering became a reality.  Likewise, my son began as a dream.  Through the miracle of the human body, he is a reality.

   Both my son and the space shuttle are vessels capable of pushing the limits.  For the space shuttle, it was pushing the boundaries of the Earth’s atmosphere and navigating the streets of Los Angeles as it crawled its way to its current home at the California Science Center.  For my son, it’s his limitless future.  My son is living in a different world than the world I grew up in -- a world that now includes an African-American United States President and a world where computers fit in your pocket.   

   Being an astronaut was once my long-held childhood dream.  I was fascinated by space exploration and believed I would travel into space.  Strangely enough, being a mother was never a preoccupation of mine.  Some little girls grow up playing with baby dolls, fantasizing about changing diapers and pushing strollers, but I wasn’t one of them.  I knew I wanted to someday be a mother, but someday was far off and would come after I had lived my life a bit and achieved some other goals.

   Now, both the space shuttle and my son are passions of mine.  While I never did become an astronaut, I retained my interest and zeal for manned space flight and loved sharing my knowledge and enthusiasm with my students (and now with my son).  Being a mother to my son is my greatest honor and greatest joy; consequently, parenting is something I feel strongly about.  I read about it, I write about it, and I live it -- I tell my son that I will never run out of hugs, kisses, or “I love you’s.”

   On my son’s sixth birthday, I looked up at the space shuttle and felt my eyes water.  On my son’s sixth birthday, my eyes watered throughout the day.  I became teary eyed thinking about the evening of his birth, looking at baby pictures, and looking at this big boy who is my son.  A space shuttle in California.  A six-year-old son.  They may be facts of life now, but it doesn’t make them any less extraordinary.

If The Clogs Fit

   I know exactly how long I’ve owned my burgundy clogs.  I know because for several weeks they remained in their shipping box because I couldn’t wear them.  My feet were too swollen to fit into them.  

   But the swollen-ness was just a side note.  I wasn’t able to walk when those clogs arrived at my doorstep so I didn’t really need shoes at the time. 

   It was July 2010; the period of time I was hospitalized with a swollen left calf.  For the month of July, I relied on a walker and wheelchair to get around so when I did wear anything on my feet it was usually house slippers.

   The last time my feet were swollen was after the birth of my son.  No one had prepared me for the swollen ankles and swollen feet I would experience in those first few days after Ryan’s birth.  I remember taking Ryan to the pediatrician for his first check-up and struggling to find shoes that would fit.  At that time, I knew it was temporary; yet it blindsided me.  With all my planning for the early days of motherhood, I knew I might experience difficulty with clothes, but shoes were a surprise.

   With the clogs, I felt broad-sided.  This mystery illness and subsequent hospitalization was a complete shock.  The clogs sat in their box, near my desk downstairs, taunting me. 

   I spent most of my days downstairs that month.  Once I awoke, I dressed, and slid on my tush, one stair at a time, until my husband could help me up.  From there, I took up residence on our couch.  I didn’t go back upstairs until evening, and when I did, that’s where I stayed.  I had no freedom to move about our own home.  I couldn’t play with our son.  I couldn’t fix meals.  I couldn’t do much of anything except cry and wonder and feel guilty that somehow I had brought this misery on myself.

   Leading up until those fateful July days, I felt that I was being pushed to my limits.  The school year had recently ended.  I was a full-time working mother.  My husband and I were going through a very difficult time in our marriage.  And I knew that I was on the verge of boiling over and collapsing.  Except, I didn’t do anything about it.  I didn’t try to right any of the wrongs in my life; I just kept plowing ahead.  Until I finally woke up one morning, unable to walk.  I didn’t stop until my body stopped.

   Those clogs were supposed to be my “fun” clogs.  Their color wasn’t the practical black I already owned.  They were more distinctive and unique -- traits I like to think I possess as well.  I couldn’t wear them, and looking back, I admit that I wasn’t having much fun in my life at that time.  Everything was work -- teaching, mothering, even being married.  Everything felt like work.  Perhaps I wasn’t able to fit into my fun clogs until my body, and my mind, made some changes and I could start seeing fun, making fun, having fun, and wearing fun.

   Life certainly isn’t always fun, but the clogs fit, and I am determined to keep wearing them as long as I can.

Publication News

Dear Readers:

I'd like to let you know about a recently published book titled How Writing Can Get You Through Tough Times ... No Experience Necessary.  The book includes a collection of mini-essays all about the importance of journal-writing.  I am pleased to be included in this anthology.  Journal writing is a valuable tool, and the book includes spaces and prompts to help you begin your own journal writing.  The anthology is available at Balboa Press and Amazon.  Here are the links:

http://bookstore.balboapress.com/Products/SKU-000680137/How-Writing-Can-Get-You-through-Tough-Times-No-Experience-Necessary.aspx

http://www.amazon.com/How-Writing-through-Tough-Times/dp/1452591806/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1395549057&sr=1-1&keywords=how+writing+can+get+you+through