Crumpet Crumbles

What is a crumpet and what does it have to do with me?

I’m not entirely sure.

The only similarity seems to be that they are poured onto a hot surface to be seared from batter into a solid yet holy piece of architecture meant to transport something sweet.

I had a difficult day today. I’ve been struggling with a lot of pain in my lower back, the kind that says my attempts with physical therapy aren’t working. My younger two children made Tom Sawyer’s mischief look like nothing on more than one occasion. One of our dogs threw up in my car at least once during the car rides to/from the vet. And let’s not forget the doctor appointment that was supposed to be simple but wasn’t.

But, you know? It was worth it. The kids need to know that boundaries and rules will be enforced, and, oh my gosh, they had plenty of opportunities where the rules were enforced with discipline. Our pup passed her vet inspection with flying colors and is ready to fly out to her new owner. The surgeon I met with showed a better understanding of how my medications work together and against one another and explained how certain ones could be causing this side effect or that one. While she did give me another medication to take, it is absolutely temporary unlike my pre-existing laundry list of medicines.

After dinner, I excused myself for an errand and went to check out a new beach I was contemplating taking the kids to. It was beautiful, a nice easy slope into the water, shells, I even got to see a crab walking up onto the shore right around sunset. It was a great opportunity to de-stress, plus the sea/salt water is supposed to be good for my fibromyalgia.

Then I came home to a husband who put up with a “me” movie of his own volition and choosing to try and make my day a little better. He hated The Man from U.N.C.L.E., but I thought it was hilarious.

The day had lots of stress, and lots of pain, and lots of messes to clean up. At the end of the day, though, I have an amazing family of… creative… kidlets, and a loving husband. I may feel like it’s all falling apart, but sometimes the pieces need to get rearranged because we’re trying to jam them into places they don’t belong in.

I still feel like there are pieces of my mind just gone, like the holes in a crumpet; sure, the structure is all there for where things should be, but those times are just… empty. The great thing about empty spaces, I guess, is that I can fill them with the sweet little things in life that didn’t have a place before. Like appreciating my kids’ creativity, or my husband’s attempts to be caring even if he won’t actually come right out with it because he has to keep his macho-man image up.

I love my family so very, very much.

Brave Men Try

“Brave is the man who loves a wild woman.”
-Jonny Ox

Why is it men fall in love with wild women only to cage them, to fight with them, to demean them and tighten their grips until she feels like she can’t even breathe?

I suppose, maybe, it’s like hunting in a way; they see something beautiful and they want it to be theirs, but the possessiveness of ownership is faulty and erred leading to the destruction of that which they desire.

So many ideas of “my girl”, “be my Valentine”, “be my wife”. I am not saying that there are boundaries that need to be respected, because there are. And it does go both ways to different extents per couple.

I came upon this quote very unexpectedly and it struck me. There are so many confines in my life right now, and the “love” of a man who sought to trap me, to make me less than what I am, in order to feel like they were good enough to have me by making me, or probably any of “their women”, less. My husband is not one of these men who actively try to ensnare “his woman”, but there have been certain things from our families of origin that have been the habits returned to under duress. He fights these when he catches himself doing them.

My husband is brave and would let me live my life as I wished if we could; if we didn’t have kids who needed me, a desire to be together every limited chance we get, if we didn’t have bills thirsty for our income like a rose transplanted into the desert. If, if, if.

Despite the if’s he does his best to let me have some time here or there to truly be myself. There was a reason I wanted to live like a gypsy or a traveling artist/photographer when I was younger: I have chronic wanderlust. Even the furniture in my room I have to move every few months because I’ve gotten too used to it.

Children are actually therapeutic in a way, there… half the time there’s too much laundry or artwork scattered across our living space to even know what arrangement our items are in. Besides, you know, well loved.

I feel trapped in my life. I do. But, it is not because I regret my life, it is merely the stage and circumstances of our “today”. I want to take my children adventuring around town to experience fairs, museums, other cultures, so very much! There’s not a lot of that here… and not really many extra funds to do that with. My husband and I do our best, though, and I try to keep things here hopping.

My husband, though, amazes me. He works and works, and I don’t even know where he gets the reserves or strength but he just keeps going and making a life for our family. I don’t know what he sees in me, but he tells me he loves me, a habit he had to build, and he holds me when I cry, and he laughs when I overreact, he calls me out of nightmares, and he craves me just as much as I crave him. Yet, with all that love, and with all our mundane stresses and struggles, he has done his best to build me wings with his very own hands so that I may climb my way into the heights of my own dreams.

I may very well be the Icarus of this story but I am also the Juliet.

Despite my character, I will write my own story.

The soul is the only infinite substance in a finite existence, and the soul was born of love.

Brain Babble

It’s been a rough week. I can’t lie about that but I certainly want to.

Multiple issues Sunday and Monday, a couple this morning. Perhaps one of the most disheartening realizations was the fact that, even though I knew I shouldn’t go on rollercoasters, I will never be on another one as long as I’m alive and  “healthy”. I tried swinging next to my daughter. Swinging, you know, on a swing set? My favorite part as a kid was always that arc right before you got too high and the sing started jumping. I didn’t even make it to that part before “something” happened and I almost fell out of the swing. No swings for me. No rollercoasters. That family trip to Six Flags my husband and I have been planning for when the kids got older just got thrown out the window.

But, hey, even just typing about it I started to get upset and get a little dizzy, but that could just be my medication kicking in.

My husband met his daughter, finally, after being denied for so long by her mother! From what my husband relayed to me and from what I saw myself on her social media stuff… my husband was right in that he made quite a positive impression on both his daughter and her soon-to-be-stepdad. He made enough of an impression on the latter that it has caused his ex some second thoughts in regards to whether or not she wants to indeed marry her third child’s baby-daddy. Interesting creatures, people.

I need to go in to my neurologist, the twitches in my hand keep getting worse. I don’t know if it’s related or not but I am forgetting and mixing up words I shouldn’t be. I can’t help but feel like I started going downhill super fast in one way once the medication was started for something else. What if the seizures are an allergic reaction to the medication? What if I’m not as sick as she thinks or it’s not what she thinks? I’m being hopeful, I’m trying not to be naive, I’m trying to ask questions so I don’t end up like a vegetable for the rest of my kids’ childhoods.

There’s so much in my head, but I am so tired. My sleep has not been restful at all the last few weeks. or maybe just two weeks, I’ve lost count. It’s my body, adapting to the medication.

Even now, I can feel the fire in my hands under my skin has returned. It makes me want to take an ice bath, and I hate the cold, normally the cold hurts. Ah, well,  life goes on.

Hopefully, I’ll be sitting down with my son’s principal tomorrow to discuss why the hell she let a child get away with punching my son in the eye. Accident, my ass. An accident wouldn’t have landed a fist in his eye, instinctually your hands are open when you fall. Just freaking common sense.

I have found myself missing my fellow writers as of late, the ones I used to meet with, and the community of bloggers I was with before I was here. Things keep changing, eh?

Can I Give You Family For Christmas?

My husband is back by where his ex and his first daughter are. Originally we had thought he wouldn’t be able to come home for my birthday or Christmas. Turns out, we had been wrong and he had been allotted two weeks of time off for the holidays. He started taking measures to come home, spoke of surprising the kids, spun some fanciful tales of bringing his daughter home with him for Christmas so we could ALL finally meet her, not just him. They were just daydreams we spun out, laughed over, and secretly wished were realistic.

When he emailed his ex… he got the typical “Of course you can see her, oh, wait, no you can’t” song and dance he’s had every time he’s tried to meet her.

We talked. We sat in silence on the phone, each of us heartbroken in our own ways in the silence, weighing it down with all the tears we’ve shaded in the past and should know better than to shed now.

“Stay.”

It’s what broke the silence. It was the word that broke my heart and would break the hearts of my kids if or when I tell them the untold story of Christmas 2015.

“If there’s any chance you can finally meet her, you should stay.” This was a bit stronger, and felt with a sincere passion and stubbornness.

If I could have seen him, I know the way he would have looked at me; his eyes a bit more open, his shoulders tensed in surprise and apprehension as he waits to see if I’m going to break down crying.

“You should stay.” I said again.

“Okay. I’ll cancel my leave.”

One sentence… with years of heartbreak, trepidation, disappointment, hope, fear.

I couldn’t say “You both deserve this chance.” It felt too much like telling him to put one side of his family above the other. He’s made my son such a priority, how could I tell him to do any differently in regards to his own daughter?

I just hope that one day, they can both see this and realize I said what I said out of love for them both and in hopes that it would finally bring all facets of our family together into the beautiful jewel it is meant to be.

Today is One of Those Some Days

Singing Through The Rain Picture Courtesy of WWW.SingingThroughTheRain.Net

 

Some days are hard. Then some are harder.

Today is a hard day; a cry yourself to sleep smelling his pillow, feed the kids fruit and goldfish for dinner, and eat chocolates in front of the television day. Not that I’d let myself do… all… of those things… at once…

I married a military man. To put it simply, I am the contracted mistress and breed mare to a man first and foremost married to his country. I do not mean to minimize the importance of this role. It is, in fact, my honor to hold such a title as Military Spouse.

When he is gone, one of the best parts of our family is missing. There’s something about the way our family works that holds with the idea of a family tree. The underlying strength he supplies us all with, the nourishment and shielding I add to that strength, our children who blossom and grow into fruits that will sooner or later fall away from us to either thrive or whither on their own.

There is something about the good memories that bring my heart, trembling, to it’s shattering point only to pour molten tears down onto it, welding it back together stronger than it was before. I may not feel that strength, and it takes time to heal, but with proper care and loving intentions, I’ll come to see it for what it was and is.

My family is broken, but it is those broken pieces that are spread over land, air, and sea protecting this nation.

Please, keep that in mind. Please, do not dishonor the sacrifice my family, my children, are making for you to be free. Please, strive to behave in a way that says “thank you” instead of “fuck you” this holiday season, or any other season.

Unrealistic

I am unrealistic. I get that. I expect my mate to be loyal. If my mate is not loyal I expect him to come to me and be honest or at least be honest when confronted. This seems to be the cycle the men I choose to be with go through.

“Maybe if I lie really well, it’ll make her happy. Screw tomorrow.”

*shakes head*

I have too much going on to add one more thing to my plate like this.

And he’s a guy. It’s not like if you gave him some time to think about things he’d actually think. Think? No!!!! Screw everything with a skirt, more like it. And that’s certainly not gonna help anybody. But… I… I would think. And I would think myself right back to where I’d started because I’d assumed someone else was thinking too.

An Extension of Conversation

One of the most thoughtful things my husband has ever said to me was that sex was an extension of conversation. It was such an intrinsic view on it and I loved that, despite the many things my husband is not, he proved thoughtful on this subject. I’ve referenced this quote from him more than once. It was a moment I go back to quite often when we’re having marital issues.

After about a week of not really speaking to each other, we finally had an argument. A throw it all out in the open argument. Frankly, he wasn’t getting laid and didn’t like it whereas I was not being spoken to and didn’t like it. If sex was an extension of conversation, like he had said it was, why would he expect to get laid when there was no conversation taking place?

It was a true argument to form, which we haven’t done for a while. Usually, we discuss and not argue, but usually it doesn’t feel like things get resolved as well as they were after this.

When we were done arguing I loaded the kids up and left him to himself for a few hours.

When we came home I focused on the kids and gave him as much space as you can give someone you live with.

He came the next day after work.

“Remember how you said you’d said sex was an extension of conversation?”

“No,” I responded with one of those if looks cold kill glares, “you said that, to me, shortly after I moved in.”

He had thrown it out there like he was testing me, like he was trying to make sure he had indeed been the one to say it. He didn’t remember telling me something I held so dear.

The conversation progressed. I told him how lonely I’d been feeling, how he kept withdrawing farther and farther into a grumpy, mean, insulting version of himself. We talked about how yes, the house has been a mess because I have been unable to keep  up with it. That lead us to the stresses in regards to finances and health we’ve been dealing with. The conversation came to a close on a good note, not an exact plan for resolution but at least an idea of one.

“We still need more time to be together.” He said, hugging me.

“I know.” I nodded.

And things have been better. He makes an effort to say “I love you’s” again, to kiss me when he comes home, to let me know he enjoys being with me and not just… being… with… me.

We’ve lost ourselves amidst all the stresses and we’re just trying to find ourselves and each other again. Our kids have been such an anchor amidst it all. There have been so many days where being a parent was the only thing we seemed to know how to be anymore, and as parents we are a team, and that has been a solidifying factor during all the fractures we’ve been suffering.

It was good to come together and be on the same page again. For us both to realize that we still both wanted to be with the other despite all the seismic emotional activity.