Exhaustion

Here's the thing: I am tired. I think perhaps more tired then I have ever been in my entire life. Even more so then in those first months with Isabelle when she was doing the non-stop crying/screaming bit. More tired then during those two years of graduate school when I had insomnia so bad that I would find myself scrubbing my apartment toilet at three o'clock in the morning to kill time or downing something like nine cans of caffeine-laden soda a day to maintain some level of consciousness through my evening class. Today, I am the kind of tired where I would like to curl up on the couch and cry for no obvious reason.


Why, you ask? I have been asking myself the same question. I guess it would all come down to this year, 2009. This has been a year of work. Not that all years are not in some form, but this year it is a main theme .....working on camp is the big one which overshadows everything, and at this point I can safely say it is catching up. I know Clay would say, if it is catching up with anyone it should be him, as he is the one who is putting in all the hours out there. And he is right.... he puts in long hours at the office and then has been going out to camp in the evenings or on the weekends to work on projects. I help when I can but, naturally, having Isabelle a lot of the wiring, plumbing etc. falls to him. Plus, the days are so short right now that it is practically dark when he gets home from work.


But inevitably if he is at camp then I am here, "holding down the fort," not just sitting around getting a manicure (which I have never had done by the way..... I have had one professional pedicure in my life). This means a lot of evenings flying solo with Isabelle (after some long days with Isabelle! some great and some..... not so much). Suffice it so say this fourth year of her life has been a rather challenging one in the behavior department, definitely putting in my work there. Also, with Clay at camp so much, it has meant me picking up a lot (okay, all) of the yard work this fall. While this might not seem like a huge undertaking to some, let me remind you I have a rather large yard surrounded and filled by massive oak trees which involves enough raking to keep a small prison crew busy for an extended period of time. So the yard, in addition to the regular cleaning of the interior of the house, plus the errands, and, of course, Isabelle and all the other billions of little things one must accomplish everyday, like all the impending Christmas shopping..... you get the idea.


And now my daughter is going through an especially bad phase of behavior at nighttime. It seems she just would rather not sleep, and if she is awake she feels I should be too, so she devises various excuses (also include yelling, tantrums, and faking illness) to get me out of bed, none of which are any good, all of which make me mad, crabby and, in general, not pleasant. This is simply multiplied by the fact that Isabelle is then tired during the day (from not sleeping!!!) and is whining and clingy and I am suddenly finding myself understanding why some species eat their young. Sigh.


SO........ here I am in my seemingly never-ending cycle of exhaustion, clinging to these few thoughts. One, I am fairly certain I am done raking for the year as the oaks have finally dropped their last round of leaves and after more hours of work then I would care to calculate I think all that remains is for me to winterize (protect for you people who do not get buried in snow) several bushes. This means my aching hands can finally put that damn rake down. Two, after last night, Isabelle's game playing is at an end as this Momma Bear has more then reached her limit, and three, 2009 is almost over with and perhaps if I can just get to 2010 maybe I can find some time to get a little rest. Either that or I will just invest in a good pair of ear plugs.

Meant To Be

It occurred to me last night how different our lives might look if some other choices had been made or perhaps if our path had led us somewhere else. I was putting Isabelle's Halloween pictures into an already bulging photo album, surrounded on the couch by three other albums, all full of Isabelle (it took me a bit to find which one I was currently filling. Hey, don't pick on me too bad.... at least I am keeping up with filling albums). There were even more albums of her still put away, and I had to laugh to myself since the kid is not even five, and she has more photo albums at this point then Clay and I do as a couple, and we've been married almost ten years and together for nearly thirteen. If I got into the countless photos of her left unprinted on "Shutterfly" the number would be staggering.

But my thoughts weren't about pictures. They were about how this one little person, who was then currently playing the billionth round of "Pretty, Pretty Princess" with her father, had so thoroughly and completely taken over our lives...and not in a bad way. I watched Clay spin the pink, plastic spinner, move his princess playing piece and dutifully pick up his blue earring and clip it on his lobe to which Isabelle cried, "Mommy, look at Daddy!" Clay didn't even flinch, just gave me a slight lopsided grin. Who else would my tough guy husband do this for? Simply put: No one but his daughter. What did we used to do on Halloween before we had Isabelle? What did we do on an evening like this? It must have seemed empty, and looking back and recalling how badly we wanted a baby, how much it hurt when we lost them, I know it was.

As is typically the case, my child has a way of summing it all up like no one else. I give you the following anecdote:

Last weekend I was driving to my parents. Isabelle was in the back keeping up her running dialogue, telling me about school, her friends, songs, making up stories for me, and asking me how to spell.... well..... everything. But I loved it. So I told her so and that I was so glad she was my daughter because I would be lonely without her. Her vivacious eyes met mine in the rear view mirror and Isabelle stated very matter-of-factly, "Yup, God thought you'd like me." Blinking back the sudden tears that pricked my eyes and smiling a huge grin at her, I could not help but think, Wow, did he ever get that one right.

Pausing

Having finished my errands around town, I had a few extra minutes to kill before picking up Isabelle from preschool today, so I drove down to Ludington park in Escanaba and pulled into one of the parking spots overlooking the bay. Lake Michigan was doing its best impression of one of its sisters, Lake Superior, spitting forth large, angry slate-colored waves that rocked and pitched in no real discernible pattern, tossing white spray into the air. The rain continued to beat down upon my windshield obscuring the view and a low cloud bank and mist made it difficult to even see the smoke stacks of the paper mill across the water, let alone the other side of the bay. The wind tore at the trees and shrubs along the shore, ripping the colored leaves off soaked branches and plastering them to the pavement of the sidewalk.

Inside the cocoon of my car I listened to the wind and the crash of the waves, watching the force of nature around me, feeling the dark sky pressing down above me, as if it did not realize it was the middle of the afternoon. I found myself wondering how many others sat looking out on this lake at this moment scattered around the shoreline. It certainly was not a typical day to admire the scenery, for on days when the sun was shining one could drive down to this spot and be met with a dozen cars. Now, glancing on either side of me I noticed two other drivers parked in my vicinity, keeping watch. Were their others like us in Traverse City perhaps? St. Ignace? Or at countless other roadside turnouts?

A lone seagull stood defiantly on the sidewalk outside my car, facing into the wind towards the lake, head hunched down into his body like a football player in full pads. Like us, he seemed to be watching. Did he find it beautiful, this ever changing lake, as I do, even on a day like today? I don't know, but I think all of us (seagulls or humans) would benefit by just stopping for ten minutes every now and again. To take a pause in our action to watch the action of the lake.

Balancing Act

I have this mental picture of myself sometimes, standing with my feet hip-width apart, wearing some kind of sturdy, comfortable shoe (maybe my Merrells, something I can wear a long time without my feet getting tired), my arms out either side of me, palms raised and holding ..... everything. And by everything I mean all the stuff in life that comes our way as women, that as women, we are expected to juggle, handle, deal with, manage, accomplish, complete, and most importantly of all, BALANCE. And I am not just talking the mundane tasks we are faced with, but the more important balancing act of trying to keep family time, couple time, personal time and even certain social obligations all on a level playing field. (You ladies know what I am talking about).


Above all else, it is the balance part in my life with which I struggle the most, and I am sure I am not alone. I think my foundation is solid; I have good intentions (back to my Merrells, love both pairs) but inevitably I always feel like I am not quite getting it right, my balance is off, one arm, one hand, is always holding more than the other. I think I am always letting someone down whether it is myself, my husband, my extended family, or even worse my daughter. For instance, I know Clay and I do not devote enough time to our relationship as a couple, but then again I would love you to introduce me to any parents of a four year old who does.


And finding some kind of balance with time for myself? As any mother knows you forgo the right to have time for yourself until at least, what? The child's eighteenth birthday? I thought of that last Friday night at about 9:30 in the evening as I found myself crouched behind my downstairs toilet finishing the last bit of painting around the plumbing in the back. Did painting my bathroom by myself qualify as "me" time? Or how about actually getting to use the bathroom by myself without a kid or a cat barging in? Is that finding time for myself? I suppose this time writing is the one thing I can say I do totally for my own sake (never mind the fact that I am also folding a load of laundry in between sentences).


Then there is my time with Isabelle. So much of my day with her is spent cleaning the house or running errands, making dinner, and I catch myself asking am I "balancing" this out with enough so-called quality time reading books or doing an activity which focuses solely on her? Has she watched too much television? Should I have taken her outside more today? Has she seen her grandparents enough? Come to think of it, have we seen enough of our extended families lately or are they feeling neglected because we have been so busy with our camp project? All of these little items course through my brain, me mentally attempting to weight them. I tie myself in knots and my arms in my little mental picture start to feel like they are holding two fifty pound cinderblocks.


Of course, the truly insane part in all of this is to think I can balance it all anyways because ultimately it isn't up to me. As much as I always try and want to make everyone content, I am not personally responsible for each individual family member's happiness... they are. As for the balancing act? All I can do is the best I can do. Today that meant staying home and reading books to Isabelle, doing a load of laundry, carving out thirty minutes of time (for myself) on the treadmill, digging up crock pot meatball recipes on the Internet, and even starting my Christmas shopping. And now I think I might just head downstairs to watch Monday night football with my husband. Maybe we can just find a few minutes of couple time after all.

Sweet Home Alabama

Isabelle and I drove out to camp on Sunday afternoon to bring the guys lunch. Clay and our good friends, Len and Mark were having a "plumbing party" and installing the necessary pipes that will go into camp for the bathroom, kitchen and sewer. Eventually even a stackable washer and dryer for yours truly (yes, this will not be your basic, rustic yooper camp, boys and girls).

It was one of those fall days where the weather could not decide what to do with itself. Giant blue/black clouds stacked on top of one another would occassionally mist down rain, only to allow sunshine to break through mere seconds later, but then a very cold wind would blow red, brown leaves across the hood of the Commander. Only days since the loss of our beloved cat it was no surprise to me when Isabelle told me she could see Nib up in heaven as she gazed up at those same enormous clouds. I once more had to reassure her that God would not let her beloved kitty fall from up above and that if he was busy then I was sure great grandma or great grandpa would be only too happy to look after him for us. It was with some relief that I pulled into sight of the beautiful distraction of our camp.

I was pleased to find the men nearly finished with their project after a steady mornings work and in no time we were grilling hot dogs and brats, munching on chips, and having a few beers to celebrate yet another phase in the Peterson project. It was as the guys were standing on the front porch (doing their male-bonding as men do) while the meat sizzled on the grill and I was sweeping up some of the mess (and happy to do so after their hard work) that I finally started to breathe. I know you are wondering what I mean, but for the last few days it had been a bit of a struggle to just be normal and not let Isabelle see how truly upset I was about Nib and I was just tense and tired and .... sad.

Then a funny thing happened. Life went on. I remember looking out our window at the beautiful expanse of field starting to turn gold, Clay, Len, and Mark leaning against the porch, casually holding their drinks and sharing a laugh and then Isabelle running in the door to me as Lynyrd Skynyrd's 1974 classic, "Sweet Home Alabama" started to play on the radio. As its unmistakable sound filled the cabin, I spontaneously told her to turn it up and I dropped my broom. We danced around the scraps of pipe and in the sawdust on the floor. I told Isabelle to show me her moves, watching my four year old swivel her hips and shake her "booty" and could not help but laugh. I put my arms in the air and spun around, shaking my own hips, grabbing my daughter's hand and twirling her around me, finding the lyrics of the song on my tongue. I felt myself smile, my heart beat, my lungs breathe in air, and it was good to be alive, in this place, in this moment, with these people.

Do I still feel sad? Sure, and I will probably grieve the loss of my cat like some people do the loss of a family member because for me he was. But life goes on and sometimes all you really need to get you moving again, get you out of your funk and remind you that you are okay, is a really good song.

My Lost Boy Goes Home

I said my final good-bye today to my lost boy, my Nib. I named him Nib after one of the lost boys in Peter Pan .... after all, it seemed appropriate, as he came to us all those years ago when I still worked in the vet clinic, and he was found with no mother. A former client had come upon him and his two kitten siblings at the town dump, abandoned, and that was it. I fell in love.

He was dubbed "Twinkie" as a kitten, and considering how incredibly fat he became we probably should have stuck with that name. With his orange tabby coat he was the classic Garfield and as an adult we called him "Fat Boy" as often as Nib. Over his seven all to brief years with us he brought so much joy, love, stupidity, and laughter to this house that I could write twenty pages and not even scratch the surface. As a kitten he had a fondness for sleeping on my head at night (as his weight increased this became an obvious problem), he would greet you at the door like a dog, let you hold him like a baby, lay flat on his back so you could rub his very large belly, tuck his head under your chin in the evening when reclining on the couch, purring his loudest purr just so you could be absolutely sure you knew how content he really was, wrestle with his fellow cat friend, Mindy, attempt to trip Clay when lifting weights, and could always be counted on to keep you company in the bathroom.

Nib was also one of Isabelle's best friends. In the morning when she comes and lays in bed with me while Clay gets ready for work, Nib would join us in bed, but cuddle up and lay on Isabelle, her giggling and pushing her face into his. She would frequently lay with him on the living room floor using him as her pillow or brush him with his cat brush and they had a fondness for sitting together on Clay's chair, Nib in her lap while she watched her Saturday morning cartoons.

With his beautiful, loving heart it was so difficult to say farewell, but even more difficult to watch his steady decline over the last few days. Nib's sad start in life coupled with some poor genetics (he already outlived both his siblings) more then likely contributed to his on-going problems and the only outcome we could ultimately have.

Put simply I could not watch him suffer anymore, not when I could stop it, and not when he had loved me so much and so well. So, I stayed with him at the end and stroked and kissed his head and told him what a great boy he was and how much I loved him. And I said good-bye.

There are people who will not understand this grief, this heart-wrenching, sobbing grief, for what they see as a small, insignificant animal. For them I say, I am sorry. I am sorry, you have never known what it is like to be loved so fully by such an innocent creature or to make that connection, that bond with something not of your ilk. The truth is, you do not have to understand. My darling cat was a loving, beautiful soul and I will miss him terribly. Good-bye, my Nib.

Ding Dong, The Snakes are Gone

Or should I say dead? Yeah. For those of you not up to date on our snaky soap opera at camp feel free to read up on the two older posts on the subject. For everyone else:

Clay and our excavator, Jeff headed out to camp yesterday and proceeded to dig up the existing well and install the new culvert. My father-in-law stood by with camera and (yes) a weapon of his choosing. What followed was scoop upon scoop of dirt, stone, and you guessed it, snakes. Clay said at times the bucket was full of writhing bodies. (Ugh.) There were easily twenty plus snakes inside the well not counting the ones that have already been killed in the weeks leading up to us ultimately destroying their home. The largest were measuring around five feet with the average being about three, and they were literally everywhere, in the dirt, in the stone, falling out of the bucket, and swimming in the water at the bottom where it had not been drained.

When all was said and done a beautiful, clean concrete culvert, complete with a ladder on the inside was buried vertically in the ground, and already filled back up with water and, most importantly no snakes. A sealed cap will rest on top. Sadly, the stones from the old well were too badly damaged in the digging and could not be salvaged amongst all the debris and dirt and snakes. I was hoping to use them for something since they date back to Clay's great-great grandfather (at least). The pictures told the tale, and as I perused them last night on our digital camera, my first thought was that we can never show them to Clay's mom, as she will have nightmares for the rest of her life.

But my second thought is here is yet another story to add to the list of memories we are already accruing for our camp. And believe it or not I will add some of these pictures to the scrap book of building shots because they are part of it too. Besides years from now when we are all sitting around the gas stove in camp after a little too much alcohol, someone will start referencing snakes and no one is going to have to ask why. In fact, if I know this crew there is a long line of rubber snakes, snake stuffed animals, and snake jokes coming our way. Indiana Jones has got nothing on us.