Rated M for So Totally Mature

Have you heard of "Peter Pan Syndrome"?

After extensive online research (which may or may not have included a killer deal on green tights), I've diagnosed myself with it.

Only...

It seems that most of its carriers are volunteers; those with a longing to retain child-like perspective & innocence; to be free of the heavy, mundane responsibilities we bind ourselves with until we're convinced that having fun is just too much work.

I'm not a volunteer in this. Not only do I look younger than my biological age "recommends" I appear, but...

I don't like houndstooth.

There. I said it. May the sweet, iconic Coco Chanel not roll over in her grave upon hearing that declaration.

So not ok.

But it doesn't stop there. There are a plethora of patterns and colors that I don't prefer to wear. And fashionable vegetables that I don't care to subject my palate to. And books that would give off a certain stench of superiority and culture sitting on my coffee table and/or nightstand that I would just as soon use to keep those same pieces from wobbling.

If we're going to wear patterns, can they at least be sparkly?
And if we're going to throw around pretentious words like "palate", can we at least throw something with sprinkles into it?
And if I'm going to have anything sitting on my coffee table, it's going to be a coaster...or used as one. Because if I'm reading something, it's because I love it, I want it around me, and maybe I just want to laugh my ass off all by myself in the quiet foyer of a hotel. (Or in Kiwi Loco because...frozen yogurt.)

I rarely "feel" like an adult. How does one feeeeeeel that, anyway? Does it feel like angry eyebrows, the word "No", and horse-sized multi-vitamins? Because green tights are sounding pretty good right now.

And that's just it. I "feel" like an adult when I get upset with my son. No wonder why I don't like the sound of it...because I don't like the sound of me.

I also feel like an adult when I say no to an alcoholic beverage. That magical 21st birthday has come & gone and, with it, the superficial luster of being able to do what only ADULTS are legally permitted to do.

(The multi-vitamins aren't an issue because I get the gummy, fruit-flavored ones and they. are. awesome.)

I go to work 5 days out of the week, fulfilling my role as a productive member of society. I am living the adult life*. (*Note: not synonymous with the word "dream".) I am making a living to provide for myself and the 3 other little bodies-whom-I-love-more-than-words that live with me. Quite adult-like, if you ask me.

But come see me at work sometime. Or drop by our home. I can usually be found in spectacular jewel tones, maybe even 5 at one time. Or sparkles/glitter/sequins/the like. Or pretty, glistening jewelry of varying colors and facets. Or bedazzled sandals. Or red heels. Or "the best pirate boots ever", to quote my sweet, engineer-minded boss. And I force frumpy, crumpled, very adult-ish contractors and engineers into hilarious, sarcastic conversations - because it's fun. Sure, I've blown a few crabby heads back upon opening the door because that's-a-lot-of-enthusiasm-coming-at-me-at-9:00-in-the-morning-and-you'd-be-dead-if-it-weren't-for-the-promise-of-retirement-and-coffee.

Poor guys. Heh.

I guess I just don't want "growing up" to be so lame. I feel a very mature metaphor coming on...something about a flower or a tree...yes...and how the roots are the sign of its maturity, but the parts we admire, photograph, and make into computer wallpaper are the blooms and leaves.

So, yes, make generally good, healthy decisions (gummy vitamins!), but bloom. And let the green tights hide the "adult" varicose veins roots.

The Best Little Friend Who Ever Lived

"Oh, she did NOT de-friend me. She totally de-friended me. Who does that? It's like breaking up in a text! There's some common decency usually assumed with these kinds of things, isn't there? And, like, WHAT did I ever do to her? You know what? It's fine. Whatever. Her loss. I'm amazing and she's doing me a favor by sparing me her boring, self-absorbed status updates. I win! YA HEAR THAT? I win!!"

Bleh.

This very dignified inner-monologue somewhat, kinda, sorta happened to me a few months ago. And my initial reaction was pretty close to the above. But approximately 1.4 seconds later, I genuinely didn't care. This particular gal, by way of previous actions & personal decisions, made sure that this was not a loss to me. She had excused herself away from my life with a metaphorical "I need to use the restroom" (a.k.a. Yeah...we should do lunch... or something...sometime...) and never came back.

I was a little irked by all the time I had spent seeking her out, forcing her into hugs, inquiring about her life and responding sympathetically when I could. But I never received any of that in return. (In her defense, people don't usually have to force me into a hug. I usually wonder why they don't hug me harder. Seriously, Dead-Body Hug is a bazillion times worse than Dead-Fish Handshake.) But all that left me with a strong peace of mind that if she didn't want to be my friend, it wasn't because I wasn't being one.

Please be a boating babe with me when we're 68.

Lately, say, within the last year or so, I've experienced the ripening of some deep relationships, the forming of new ones, and the conclusions of others. Some are still in grey areas as we speak, both still feeling each other out in the current states of our lives, wondering if this person will bring delight or drama to our worlds, where we connect, where we differ, and if those complement or curse the other. It's all very delicate, you see.

But.

We endure the balancing act, the checks and balances system, because we long to connect. To feel desired. To make memories. To feel important. To contribute to another life. And to be worth contributing to.

And what a risk it is, to put that kind of power into someone else's hands. And, equally as intimidating if we give it a moment's thought, that someone would entrust that power to us.

A brief overview of a small handful of the current relationships in my life:

• A long-time friend; relationship developed quickly after assumptions were proven false; to love her is as easy as breathing; she makes me want to be a better person; my heart is safe in her's; my sunshine.
• One of my longest friendships; cracks beginning to show due to an outside source...a poor decision; so much has been shared that the idea of losing this relationship takes the breath from my lungs; my alter-ego; could make me laugh like no one else on the earth; I miss her and she hasn't gone anywhere.
• A friendship only about a year old; many laughs shared, but I sense tears just below her surface; I wrestle with whether or not to ask; so much drama in such a short amount of time; seems a pattern is rising to the top; destructive; I want to be there for her, but I'm worried it may have to be from a distance; not much return on my investment; it doesn't have to be like this.
• Brand-spankin-new friendships, that are really decades old already; why didn't we find each other sooner; sharing so much; such acceptance; tears of laughter and of pain have been shared already; free to be me; we are contributing to each others' lives; differences complement; so many beautiful qualities that we, ourselves, do not possess, but are now free to enjoy through each other; thankful; is it too soon for the "L" word?

 I'm going to go ahead and assume you have someone in your life that means a lot to you.

Tell them.

Take the fragile power they've placed in your hands and do something amazing with it. Make it huge. Decide to grow it into something they never imagined. A safe place, where hearts & arms are wide open and lips are sealed.

Tell them.

Be the best friend who ever lived.

Love Wii-ns

I had circled, very adamantly, "No". I held the pink form at arm's length and admired the circle. The circle that meant I spared myself another commitment. Look at me! Saying no like a healthy, sane individual who knows how to draw boundaries for herself! You go, me!

And then, the sweet little graphic designer that still survives somewhere down in the more colorful parts of my heart and mind where things are not only spelled correctly but are in beautiful fonts as well, spewed out an idea.

Aw, crap. It's you. I mean, it's really great to hear from you, designer darling, but now's not really a good time. Do you see all this stuff I have going on? I am in a perpetual juggling act...and I can't juggle. I'm going to have to sit this one out. Ya dig?

No, no, I don't think so. This is right up my alley and it would be a wonderful way to spend time with your son. You saw my idea...and you know it's a good one. Fine, my opinion aside, why don't you go ask Eric if he would like to participate?

*shifty eyes* No, thank you.

Now.

Sigh. Fine! But if he says no, I'm drowning you in horrifying clip-art images and grammatical errors.

So, I tucked my son in bed and, after a very pregnant pause, asked, "Baby, do you want to make a Valentine's Day box to enter in the contest at your school?"

"Yes." Plain and simple. Of course. He didn't care what and he didn't care how...just "yes".

So, we did. I scratched out the circle around "No" and placed a new one around "Yes" and even added an arrow to ensure they knew we would be bringing our A-game. And we made a Wii box. Something along the lines of this one:

Photo credit: some other family in InternetLand

And unless some little punk in his class brings oranges instead of candy, we should be good slot-wise.

And it was great. And some days I had time. And other days I had to create time using nothing more than a paperclip, a pair of pantyhose, and some glitter. One evening, after a couple of hours, I left my girlfriends to talk & laugh without me so Eric and I could finish our masterpiece. And the evening felt beautifully balanced. I had grown-up, Janelle-time with other women and ended with time-to-be-Mommy-time. I can't say for sure which conversation was more academic and profound, but both breathed life into my evening.

I did fulfill my strong desire to make something on the computer by creating this little monstrosity (ha!):

Design skillz are better than they appear.

It's a fake Wii game (I printed it and put it on a piece of cardboard shaped like a cd with a hole in the middle & whatnot). And it's done very elementary with mismatched fonts and poor typography. But it's got the cutest little Valentine's monster ever on it! This is for 7-year-olds, after all, and they only quasi-care about typography.

I will try to grab a picture of our complete project when it returns after the hardcore party that's going to happen in the First Grade class tomorrow. My hopes aren't high, though...Eric's got his mom's charm & appeal. He and it may just get loved to death. 

(Which Eric is hoping for, by the way. Then he can be a zommmbbbiiieeeeee.)

Happy Valentine's Day. And don't die.

You Know | Guest Post - Katie Rickert

You know it's love when she's wearing a old Connecticut Fire t-shirt, hair in a mess, clanging around the kitchen making what she hopes to be the best dinner of your life (but in reality will probably be burnt and in need of hot sauce to mask the flavor) and you can't take your eyes off of her. You know it's love when she squeaks in sheer joy at book after book in Barnes and Noble, unable to decide between any of the 14 options in her hand and all you can think is how cute she is when she wrinkles her nose with each new title. It's love when you wouldn't want to experience the bad or the ugly with anyone else no matter how stubborn she is.

It's love when he smiles and laughs, shaking his head, conveying it really will all be ok. And not a word was spoken. 

You know it's love when she kicks off her Coach flats, grabs the nearest light up sword and embarks a war cry on her favorite 3 and 5 year old. It's even deeper love when you realize she's having just as much fun as those little ones are. It's love when she's convinced that ice cream fixes everything and attempts to glare at your over the peace offering bowl but really smiles more with each bite. 

It's love when he leaves you cards just because he knows that your heart is enlarged by words. 

You'll know it's love when you don't remember falling asleep, let alone drooling, but more so that it was the best sleep you've had in weeks. It's love when she prays for those who've done nothing but hurt her, getting stronger rather than remaining broken. It's love when she knows nothing about cars (like the time she told you there was a sailboat light on her dash when the car got hot) but she patiently endures your attempts to explain the importance of oil changes and tire tread. It's love when your weaknesses pale in comparison to your strengths. 

It's love when he calls from a satellite phone in interior Alaska to tell you you're cute. And he misses you. And he could lose his job for using a government phone to convey those simple things. 

You know it's love when it isn't about what the future holds, but rather what this moment holds, knowing if your foundation isn't strong, the future isn't important. You know it's love when the other's simple existence makes your dreams reality, if only in that you aren't alone. It's love because no matter what life holds, you know who's holding you. 

The author and her husband, Ian.

Now Boarding...Passengers with Emotional Baggage

I don't prefer to fly.

Not out of fear. But simply due to boredom. And by "boredom", I obviously mean "loss of control of several elements in my immediate surroundings which includes, but is not limited to, the foreign bodies pressing against my own". Obviously.

It's hard for me to pony up a few hundred bucks to voluntarily sit at a 90-degree angle while I try to avoid the lung-extracting coughs from the sweaty individual next to me. If you look, you will find, in small print on the bottom of your ticket, a legally-binding clause that states you are personally responsible for introducing a rare strain of bacteria to your destination and that failure to do so may result in multiple layovers and/or prostate cancer.

Just so you know.

But there is something else more bizarre and fascinating about my arrival at airports and when I take my assigned seat in the cabin. People find me. Strangers. Sometimes, it's almost as if they've been waiting for me. Of course, this may be due in part to the fact that I try to smile faintly at those I'm surrounded by (mostly in selfish hopes that airport karma will get my luggage from A to B if I promise-promise-promise not to freak out on a flight attendant and I wash & sanitize my own hands.)

A glorious post shared by the beautiful Amy inspired memories of my travels, and how the actual traveling is an adventure in and of itself.

Memory One
I've gotta be honest here and admit that I'm not 100% certain where I was headed on this particular flight. My memory retained only one primary element from that particular trip. And it was the ridiculously handsome & polite helicopter pilot from the Air Force base. Wait! I believe we were traveling from SLC to Boise because I remember mourning how short the flight was. This was many years ago and I was already married, I believe (trivial matter, really.) However, had I not been, I would've had a very intimate ceremony with all our closest people we've never met right there on that plane. B16 would've been my maid of honor because I loved her shoes. He could pick his best man because I'm not a crazy, controlling wife. It should've been meant-to-be. We talked the whole flight and almost every answer ended in "ma'am". Which was short-flight-talk for "I love you." Yes it was.

Memory Two
I think I was headed to Minnesota for one of my best friends' wedding. I found my seat next to the window, turned my phone off, wiped the residual makeup on the screen off on my jeans and went to place it in my purse. And that was it. The businessman seated next to me, who was observing my flight preparation procedure, said, "It's so good to see someone else do that!" After we cleared up the whole "makeup" aspect, we talked for 4 hours straight. No lie. About pretty much everything because, really, it was FOUR HOURS and I can cover a lot of ground preeeeeetty quickly.

Memory Three
I believe it was on the return flight from Minnesota. I was seated next to a beautiful 16 year old girl and her mom. I remember wondering why I couldn't have looked like that at 16. But that's neither here nor there. I was reading a book. And the daughter & mom were absolutely seat-buddy ANGELS. They were quiet and polite and didn't smell funny and let me read. However. I was reading one of the funniest books I have ever read in my entire life. And I was c-r-y-i-n-g from laughing so hard. And it wasn't a pretty, wistful, "princess" cry. It was a nightmarish mash-up of grimacing from the aching abs, liquified makeup making a run for it, snorting through both my nose AND my mouth (can you DO that?). So much for my window-seat view, which was now covered in clear DNA. I finally made such an epileptic scene that the mother leaned over and, after making sure I hadn't swallowed my own tongue, proceeded to ask me what I was reading. I managed to compose myself long enough to gush into their laps about the book and will let you know when my fat commission check arrives.

Memory Four
This memory isn't quite in-line with the above 3, but I'm including it anyway. I only EVER read trashy magazines (Us, People, OK!, Cosmo, TIME, etc.) when I travel. Flights and laying by the pool are the perfect time to indulge in mind-numbing celebrity criticism and word-vomit. So, I had a few magazines tucked into the seat in front of me. The gal who sat next to me didn't have anything. I'm not even sure she had a purse with her(?!). After convincing myself she wasn't a suicide-bomber (she had great hair), I leaned over her direction and I could TELL that for one split second, I was THAT passenger to her. In her eyes was the fear & spite of someone who just KNEW their time/space/entire being was going to be invaded by some needy whacko she was trapped next to. Granted, I might still have been a needy whacko, but all I did was offer her a magazine. And she said an alarmed/relieved, "Sure...thanks." And we read together, in mutual quiet and cleanliness.

Last Memory, I Promise
I was waiting for my departure, to another destination that escapes me. The airport was packed and many people were seated on the floor. I was fortunate to find a seat, but whether I sat down first or the elderly woman next to me did, I don't remember. She was knitting...a scarf, I believe. And, like most conversations that end up where you never dreamed, I have no idea how it started. But I know she lost a son and her husband within a year of each other...and that it sucked. It was the son that had a mental disability, who she cared for even as he entered adulthood. The son she would watch fly paper airplanes with with a young neighbor boy on their quiet street. He loved flying paper airplanes. His death had come only 4 months prior to our meeting. And she was knitting and sharing her story and knitting some more. I remember waiting for her to cry. But she didn't. I think she had lived a good life, knew her husband had been a good man, and knew her son didn't have to struggle anymore. She was at peace and she felt like sharing it with me. And she didn't even smell funny.