Restless Spirit Syndrome

     My skin tingles and itches but there is no ointment or essential oil for this malady. Because it stems from deep within my restless soil - an aching pressure mounting to unseen volcanic magnitude. An intense need to do something, see something, make something. First world problems, I know. If I had a job or bigger issues to worry about like food, shelter, and safety; I wouldn't have time to feel this way.

     But I do. And it's making me into an irritable shrew. I snap faster than a spring trap at people and things that irritate me. Then I feel like shit for being this waspish wench that I don't recognize somedays. This isn't me. Or not the me that I want to be.

     Yet, I can suppress the quick-step a the back of my brain shouting at me to just go. Just get in the car, point it in a direction, and drive without purpose of destination in mind. I'm a gypsy at heart, not meant to be tied down to mortgages and school schedules. 

     I'm my father's daughter. A willing companion to his Doctor Who eager for adventure wherever it may lead. We'd jump on the next bus, train, trolley, or flying carpet that came our way. The destination was not the point, the journey was. It meant being free and unencumbered by schedules and expectations. Just a desire to explore and see something different. Even if it only took us as far as the shopping center at Wolverhampton. 

     But I'm a grown up now with two kids and a homebody husband content to watch T.V. and play with his iPad. The one hundred and ten plus temperatures of my desert home further squelching any outside exploration until late Fall. I'd have to abandon children and drive two or more hours to find a temperate climate to play in. I'd willingly take them with me. Except, my oldest is a cyber clone of his father content to explore world in Minecraft before his own. And my youngest likes travel in theory but despises the car. (He was the only baby who never, I repeat never slept in the car but screamed like he had irate red ants in his diaper anytime we took him anywhere.) He also despises walking, waiting, or standing still. 

     When theses moods come upon me, and I can't channel my angst into my writing, I am known to paint the walls instead of walking them. Except, I've been recently been forbidden to do this as well. Probably because I can't be bothered to prep well and tape off the baseboards like a cross-eyed drunk. Then there's the time I got obsessed with chalkboard paint.

     But I can't be the only one to feel this pent-up energy. It's like being in one of those sci-fi movies where the alien or ill-fated scientist accidentally becomes an unwilling container for some building cosmic energy. I can almost see it flickering blue and pulsing around my skin. I can definitely feel it pressing the back of my skull, lifting my shoulders, winding my stomach muscles, and shortening my nerve endings. 

     Hopefully, I can find an outlet soon. I don't want to fry anyone in my vicinity. I wonder somedays if I can make it to Ikea in Orange County and be back in time for school pick up. My mind makes mental maps of places nearby planning but not yet executing my plan of mental escape. 

     I love my life. Just sometimes, I need to be true to my nature and just go. 

Snorkel for Serenity

     I have discovered the key to peace in the pool, and it's only $16.99 at Target. Yes, for this measly sum, you too can muffle those cries of "look at me" or "Mom, watch this". Just strap on the ultra-sexy plastic mask and wrap your mouth over the large plastic snorkel. Not only will it make you look like one of the taller Minions, you get to sound like Darth Vader.
     Let me tell you from personal experience, it is so totally worth the strapped down hair and mask rings. Just stick your head under the water leaving all your stress above the surface. Down below where the water kindly silences all sounds except the gentle swish of the water, you will discover serenity.
     There is magic in watching your hands glide in front of you caressing the water. Like being a mermaid, a childhood fantasy, of being carefree, daughter of the waves. I always thought Ariel was a little crazy and her world looked more fun.
     Maybe its a memory of the womb, a safeness in being encompassed by the water, it's velvety liquid surrounding you. It makes me feel free, flowing with the water.
     I watch the bubbles the kids make as they dive under to wave and mouth words at me, my own mute button. But they are more playful like benign seals when I'm underwater. The sun plays around their legs making their skin look smoother. The light draws circles in the cerulean blue shades thrown on the bottom of my pool.
     All I need are some plastic fish and kelp, and I can imagine myself in Hawaii, lazy with vacationing, enjoying the beauty of nature. It's amazing how just swimming in circles around my backyard pool with my head under water can transform me into a tense, nagging shrew of a mother to a calm, quiet goddess of the sea.
    My kids don't even bother me much except to dive under themselves. They seem to know that this makes mom happy to swim in circles like a lycra'd goldfish. We are all transformed. The world itself becomes hushed and beautiful, a different perspective, looking at the sky from underneath the water. It's like the water itself cleans the air, the trees, even your children. Complete bliss!
     I highly encourage any mom with a backyard pool or access to a friend's to try it. Snorkel your cares away. Find your zen under the water. And maybe even get a nice tan on your back. Happy swimming!

To Be or Not to Be with My Kids - That is A Mother's Question

     I used to call my father the eternal see-saw, his bi-polar personality rising and falling within minutes. Now, I find my heart's the eternal see-saw, an indecisive organ, constantly changing heights on whether it wants to be with my children or not. When they are gone, I need them. The prickling feeling growing under my skin that part of me is missing. Worrying and wondering what their time apart from me is like.
     But when they are near me, I prickle up another way, my temper rising like a cat's arched back warning them to back off and give me space. I feel hunted, my every thought winnowed out of me like the director's cut of my life, as they interrogate my every look, word, and silence. "Why are you smiling? What are you looking at? What are you doing on the computer?"
     I feel defensive. Why should I explain myself to a six-year-old? He shadows me from room to room imitating my every move, crawling into my every space, watching me like a nervous stalker. Sometimes, I find it adorable. The way he mimics me. Or crawls into my lap petting the skin on my arm and telling me I the best mommy ever. My heart bursts with a love I never knew till motherhood.  I cuddle him closer smelling his warm hair and marveling that he is mine. But I'm his too.
     That's the part that prickles my nerves. The ownership. The never having space or time that is fully mine anymore. The invasion of the body snatchers mentality that comes with once sharing your body with your child. They feel entitled to have everything that is yours. Not that I'm selfish. I'll gladly share with my sons. I'll happily give them what I'm eating. Just not directly off my plate or out of my hands. I love sharing stories and experiences with them. Just not when I'm in the middle of peeing or chewing or lugging six bags of groceries into the house. That's when I want to run away and lock the door ignoring small begging voices of "mommy, let me in," and crayon-colored heart love notes slipped under the door.
     That's when I call 911 grandma or ship them to camp or a friend's house. So I can breathe, sit in glorious silence, watch a grown-up show with no animation or smart-ass precocious kids, eat a whole bar of chocolate by myself, and remember who I am as an individual. I can finish a thought in my head without it derailing to police a sibling squabble or find a lost shoe. I can read a book, take a long shower, and find time to write. All things that make me happy and are necessary for sanity.
     But there's still that small pull at the back of my heart wondering what I'm missing out on. Opening the photo app on my phone, so I can gaze lovingly at my boys. They always look so much sweeter and peaceful in pictures. And suddenly I want to hold them and kiss their squishy faces and dance them around the living room like maniacs to Taylor Swift and Pharrell. So I finish my work, a smile imbedded wide across my face as I collect them from wherever I shipped them off to. A warm hug and a squealed "Mommy" melts my heart. Then five minutes and a full-on backseat war later, over the "good" headphones, and I'm wondering if I can take them back.
     Don't get me wrong. We have many wonderful, magical times together with minimal whining and fighting. They have enriched my experiences of the world. And I love them dearly.
     But they have also dispelled my heightened expectations of outings making me break down in silent expletives and rue ever taking them out of the house ever again.
     I think most mothers, especially those with more than one child have experienced this mixed bag of emotions that come with child-rearing. The insatiable need to be with them and the desire to tape their mouths shut with duct tape and run away to the beach or a bar or anywhere.
    

It's like the daily struggle for identity. Am I mom or am I me? Is motherhood my identity or just one facet of my personality? I teeter up and down with my need to be with and away from my children usually in the same minute.

Crazy - But Not Because I'm a Christian

     I really hate those judgmental, belittling people who publically humiliate you and make you feel ashamed of who you are and what you believe in. Those people who make you hide your true self so that you can be socially acceptable. And no, I am not talking about Christians.
     But take a look at any social media site, movie, television show, or news article, and you'll see someone taking potshots at the Crazy Christians. Because it's not cool to believe in anything nowadays, except money and fame.
     Now I am not denying that there are a lot of messed up folks out there spouting hate and their own crazy judgments under the guise of Christianity. But those people would have been crazy without this particular pulpit to preach from. Those people in Westboro are just small, angry-minded individuals who don't represent the majority of believers. In fact, there are only forty members in that church mostly from the same loony family. And there are roughly 2.1 billion Christians world-wide. But the loud-mouths get all the attention, just like that annoying kid who always acted out in class and earned your class the reputation of being the bad one that no one wanted to sub for. That kid probably had a crappy home life and wanted whatever attention good or bad he or she could get. Same with these loud-mouth idiots spewing hate, because it's what the media loves to lap up.
     No one wants to hear about my friend, a devout Christian who would literally give you the shirt off her back and makes a mean batch of rummy gummies (remember they drank alcohol in the Bible), and her adventures mentoring children of inmates at a free camp. Because it doesn't sell ads to hear about a normal, kind-hearted woman who picked the lice out of children's hair so they wouldn't have to go home and miss out on their only camp experience.
     It's ironic that I read about or have people tell me to my face that Christians are so bloody judgmental and hate gays, atheists, and people of other religions. I don't hate anyone other than the bugger who nearly hit my car while I was driving my kids to camp. And I got over that two hours later.
     Yet, these people seem to hate me. They are certainly judging me without knowing me. They automatically assume that as a Christian I am a judgmental, holier-than-though, hypocrite. I've been told by a friend, not to openly wear my Celtic cross necklace, the open I bought for my deceased mother. I was told it made people uncomfortable and gave them a quick judgement of my character. I'm sorry how is this fair? I have gay friends, Hindu friends, Jewish friends, and wiccan friends, and I would never think to tell them to put away a symbol of their faith. That would be rude and small-minded of me. And I have never once shoved my beliefs down their throats or hit them with a Bible. I live my faith, by example.
      I was raised by open-minded, worldly parents who taught me to respect other cultures and faiths. My father's funeral was attended by Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Atheists, Agnostics, Jews, and several denominations of Christians, all close friends and colleagues. He even joked when he was about to undergo surgery that everyone was praying for him, so he had all the gods covered. He even taught me the Muslim greeting of saluum alaikum to say to his friend who ran the local News Agent.
     So it hurts that I am told to hide and be ashamed of my religion because some vocal idiots makes the rest of us look bad. Is it ok to make me cry and feel belittled for what I believe? I thought only ignorant, self-righteous people did that?
     Yes, I know there are the bible-thumpers and the preachers. The people who are all too quick to quote Scripture instead of listening. But they are not me. And they are not my experience. I am sorry if someone rubbed you the wrong way or you had a bad religious experience. I had a German shepherd bite me on the way to school. Should I hate all dogs and think they are all vicious? I had two blonde friends growing up psychologically fuck with my head. (Yes, Christians swear. I swear like a drunk sailor.) So all blondes are bitches, right? Except two of my best friends are blondes.
     I am not excusing the yokels and wrong-doers who hide under the banner of Christianity. I can tell you for historical fact that most of those religious wars had more to do with land and power and greed than religion. It just sounded more persuasive to tell the uneducated populace that it was for God than the king's coffers.
     To wrap up my tirade, I am sure I have rubbed some people the wrong way. I am sorry. And then again I'm not. Why is everyone else allowed an opinion? That seems unfair.
      I had three hugs today at church from kind, quiet people doing good-work without seeking reward. In fact our church motto is we'd rather love you than judge you. So do me a favor and don't judge me unless it's on my brilliant wit and awesome dance moves.
     If I'm not suppose to fill Facebook with angry memes condemning other religions and atheists, do me the same courtesy. Otherwise you are guilty of doing the thing you think I do - judging others.

I Always Love You

I Always Love You

“I always love you”, the mommy said, “even when you are stubborn & won’t go to bed.”

"I always love you, my darling, Honey Bear, even when you put gum in your little brother’s hair."

"I always love you, my dear baby boy, even when you break your expensive new toy."

"I always love you, my sweet little Boo, even when on my new painted walls you drew."

"I always love you, my cuddly bug, even when you spilled juice all over the rug."

"I always love you, my cute kissy face, even when you throw water all over the place."

"I always love you,  you are my dearest heart, even when you took my new book apart."

"I always love you, no matter what you do, even if it seems I lose patience with you."

"You are my little boy & I love you so dear, your place in my heart will always be here."

Kat Aragon

While cleaning out my word documents, I discovered this little poem I wrote for my oldest son, Xander when he was three. It's saccharine and a little cheesy but completely true. And I still love my cuddle bugs even when I am screaming silently in my head while cleaning the fourth spill of the day or sweeping the remnants of my favorite mug off the kitchen floor. It's a mother's love.