Saturday, April 26, 2008
Hat Tricks
Oh, how I love hat tricks! There is something especially beautiful about it when it is done in the playoffs, and today Johan Franzen went and scored a hat trick on the way to the 2nd Red Wings victory over Colorado. Final score 5-1. Ha, Ha! Currently the Avalanche are mostly looking like a team that thinks they need to get to the golf course soon, and if they keep up their current level of play that wish will soon be granted. However, anyone who watches hockey knows how quickly the tide can turn, so I for one will not get too cocky. After all, playing in Colorado is always tough, and I am guessing Mr. Forsberg will be back for game three after two more days rest, and he might give their team a boost just by being on the ice. I am also guessing they may not start Theodore the next game after two abysmal games on his part. But in the mean time I am going to sit here happily with my Red Wings another victory closer to the Cup and marveling at Franzen who has now scored an amazing 22 goals in his last 25 games. Yay!!!!!!!
Insomnia
So, here it is almost 12:30 at night, and I am in the middle of one of my little no sleep trips. I got sick of laying in bed for over the last hour and thought I might as well get up and do ..... something. The rain is falling on the roof, and we are currently blanketed in a fog so thick that combined with the dark it feels like our house is the only one in the world.
At the same time I take comfort in the fact that I am certainly not the only one who is suffering from a bout of insomnia and perhaps also typing away on their computer or surfing the Internet in a vain attempt to bring their mind into a more restful mode. I remember thinking something similar when I was nursing Isabelle as a baby. Sitting in her room, rocking her against me with the night light giving off its soft glow, I would imagine other mothers, rocking in a chair, bleary-eyed, stroking their babies' heads as they nursed. It is a nice thought, don't you think?
I have never slept well. Even when I was young. My mother never realized that I got up and used the bathroom at least once every night until she went camping with me for Girl Scouts. There we were, tromping out of the platform tent to take a walk in the dark down to the outhouse, flashlights bobbing on the trail. Of course, my small bladder is only a part of the problem. I hear everything it seems and as previously mentioned I frequently cannot shut off my mind. I am sure I could be a candidate for a sleep clinic, but of course, I think those are strange. I mean, don't they hook you up to a bunch of electrodes, lay you flat on your back and watch you rest in a bed you have never slept in before? Given the environment what are the odds of you sleeping well?!
YAWN. I suppose I should go and try again. I am tired, and I do want to sleep. (of course, I was chronically tired for two years during my Masters' program, and I still did not sleep, so I guess it doesn't matter). I am sure I will look at this post tomorrow and determine it makes no sense and possesses nothing of quality (as opposed to my other posts. Ha, ha) but I can at least offer up the excuse that I am sleep deprived.
Besides I am not so tired that I cannot write GO RED WINGS!
At the same time I take comfort in the fact that I am certainly not the only one who is suffering from a bout of insomnia and perhaps also typing away on their computer or surfing the Internet in a vain attempt to bring their mind into a more restful mode. I remember thinking something similar when I was nursing Isabelle as a baby. Sitting in her room, rocking her against me with the night light giving off its soft glow, I would imagine other mothers, rocking in a chair, bleary-eyed, stroking their babies' heads as they nursed. It is a nice thought, don't you think?
I have never slept well. Even when I was young. My mother never realized that I got up and used the bathroom at least once every night until she went camping with me for Girl Scouts. There we were, tromping out of the platform tent to take a walk in the dark down to the outhouse, flashlights bobbing on the trail. Of course, my small bladder is only a part of the problem. I hear everything it seems and as previously mentioned I frequently cannot shut off my mind. I am sure I could be a candidate for a sleep clinic, but of course, I think those are strange. I mean, don't they hook you up to a bunch of electrodes, lay you flat on your back and watch you rest in a bed you have never slept in before? Given the environment what are the odds of you sleeping well?!
YAWN. I suppose I should go and try again. I am tired, and I do want to sleep. (of course, I was chronically tired for two years during my Masters' program, and I still did not sleep, so I guess it doesn't matter). I am sure I will look at this post tomorrow and determine it makes no sense and possesses nothing of quality (as opposed to my other posts. Ha, ha) but I can at least offer up the excuse that I am sleep deprived.
Besides I am not so tired that I cannot write GO RED WINGS!
Saturday, April 19, 2008
What Else? Red Wings
Sorry, this is all about Red Wings and sports and hockey, so if you were looking for anything else, just skip this entry and, in fact, you might just want to skip visiting my blog until the playoffs are over because the Red Wings most likely will be a frequent topic for me!
Okay, I admit it. After those damn Nashville Predators went and scored with like 47 seconds left in the third period of Game five to tie the game, I was a little freaked. I truly believed that the hockey Gods were against us. I mean, there the Wings were having played a very solid game and having something like fifty-two shots on goal and yet..... tie game. I was already dreading going back to Nashville down a game and having to win there and then come home and finish it off in game seven. (Notice I did not say they were done..... true fans always hope, pray, believe, beg, that by some miracle their team will prevail. Besides how can any hockey God choose Nashville over the Red Wings, one of the original six? Duh!)
Then Franzen went and did a little magic (with some help from Filppula) 1:48 seconds into overtime and just like that I feel so much better. So, maybe the hockey Gods are not against us, but then why the torture? I mean anyone with half a brain can see the Red Wings are clearly the superior team, but here they are in a very close series. Just like the rest of the Western conference, I might add. I guess it all comes down to the idea (like in football) that on any given day each team has a chance to do something amazing. I mean, did anyone other then maybe the Giants, really expect them to win the Superbowl over the Patriots? I know, I am mixing my sports but it does prove my point. For me, though I like to think a team is also WORTHY of winning the whole enchilada, and frankly, the Patriots weren't. The Red Wings, however? Oh yeah, they are WORTHY.
In fact, the NHL in general has very little of the "hoopla" that the NFL and NBA have, and I for one, prefer it. You rarely here about any professional hockey player, in a brawl at some night club or arrested for some type of spousal abuse, where as, it is (sad to say) almost commonplace in other professional sports. For the most part hockey players are just regular guys skating in the most grueling playoff schedule in the history of sports, busting their butts for a chance to win Lord Stanley. I watch because it is a true team sport and while you have your individual stars, none of them can do it by themselves. I watch for the amazing break aways and short-handed goals. I watch for a goalie who stops a puck that was certain to go in the net. I watch for a tough check or a good fight and for the fact, that at the end of the series regardless of who was pummeled, fouled or beat up, all players shake hands and say "good game." Ya gotta love it; I do not know how you can't. So, ya all know where I will be on Sunday at 3:00. Watching the Red Wings finish off the series in Nashville.
Okay, I admit it. After those damn Nashville Predators went and scored with like 47 seconds left in the third period of Game five to tie the game, I was a little freaked. I truly believed that the hockey Gods were against us. I mean, there the Wings were having played a very solid game and having something like fifty-two shots on goal and yet..... tie game. I was already dreading going back to Nashville down a game and having to win there and then come home and finish it off in game seven. (Notice I did not say they were done..... true fans always hope, pray, believe, beg, that by some miracle their team will prevail. Besides how can any hockey God choose Nashville over the Red Wings, one of the original six? Duh!)
Then Franzen went and did a little magic (with some help from Filppula) 1:48 seconds into overtime and just like that I feel so much better. So, maybe the hockey Gods are not against us, but then why the torture? I mean anyone with half a brain can see the Red Wings are clearly the superior team, but here they are in a very close series. Just like the rest of the Western conference, I might add. I guess it all comes down to the idea (like in football) that on any given day each team has a chance to do something amazing. I mean, did anyone other then maybe the Giants, really expect them to win the Superbowl over the Patriots? I know, I am mixing my sports but it does prove my point. For me, though I like to think a team is also WORTHY of winning the whole enchilada, and frankly, the Patriots weren't. The Red Wings, however? Oh yeah, they are WORTHY.
In fact, the NHL in general has very little of the "hoopla" that the NFL and NBA have, and I for one, prefer it. You rarely here about any professional hockey player, in a brawl at some night club or arrested for some type of spousal abuse, where as, it is (sad to say) almost commonplace in other professional sports. For the most part hockey players are just regular guys skating in the most grueling playoff schedule in the history of sports, busting their butts for a chance to win Lord Stanley. I watch because it is a true team sport and while you have your individual stars, none of them can do it by themselves. I watch for the amazing break aways and short-handed goals. I watch for a goalie who stops a puck that was certain to go in the net. I watch for a tough check or a good fight and for the fact, that at the end of the series regardless of who was pummeled, fouled or beat up, all players shake hands and say "good game." Ya gotta love it; I do not know how you can't. So, ya all know where I will be on Sunday at 3:00. Watching the Red Wings finish off the series in Nashville.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
This and That
Ugh, some days I just do not know what to write. I typically write whatever happens to be occupying my brain matter at the time, but the truth is I am all over the board this week, so I think I will just list (in no particular order) all the various themes currently taking up space:
* What is it with road rage? Actually, not even road rage. Clay got incredibly (shall we say "annoyed") this weekend when he was unable to locate a store that carried the golf putter he is thinking of buying. All of us have had times when we could not find what we are looking for. I am still searching for a pair of jeans that truly fits correctly.... and it has been thirty-two years! But I have never gone postal when, after trying on thirty thousand pairs of jeans, I still have yet to find the right one. Clay, well, I knew we were in trouble when the address for the first golf store resulted in nothing more than a residential neighborhood. This was followed by rather jerky driving and higher rates of speed to the second location, which was closed. This was followed by nearly being run off the road when he pulled out into traffic with very little time to spare, which resulted in a lot of horn-honking on Clay's part and me wishing I could disappear into the leather passenger seat. Now, I should back track and say Clay has looked at other golf stores in lower Michigan and has not found the putter in any of these locations either. However, it is a rather high end putter, plus very new, so frankly, I am not surprised. My husband, on the other hand, takes it as the golf gods being personally out to get him and trying to thwart his chances of acquiring the latest and the greatest. While I understand the frustration, I just do not get the extreme reaction. Must be the testosterone.
* I cannot get this book "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" by Jonathan Safran Foer out of my head. I read it about a week ago in less than two days, and while I have since read another book and, in fact started a third, I am still mentally chewing on it. Mom recommended it to me (mostly because she wanted to discuss it) and it is powerful. I keep finding more themes to it..... loss, and love, and communication. The communication of a grandfather, who doesn't speak except by writing or with his two hands, one tattooed with the word "yes" the other with the word "no" and to write letters he never sends to a son he never meets, a grandmother who types for hours and hours but produces only blank pages, a neighbor who lives as a recluse in his apartment and talks to no one and yet labels everyone he has ever met with a single word, which he then files in a card catalog, and a little boy genius wise beyond his years, who has the ability to communicate with everyone, but does not pick up the phone when the man he most wants to talk to (his Dad) comes over the answering machine, calling from the Twin Towers on September 11th. And that doesn't even get into the structure of the book and how the author uses the text to help convey the story in a way that reminded me of "The Death of Artemio Cruz" by Carlos Fuentes. I almost wish to be back in a college course just so I could talk about it in a classroom setting. Almost.
* A list in the form of projects/repairs on the house, which need to be done if we are, in fact, serious about trying to sell it. We have cleaned the garage and I have repainted a couple of walls, and the pantry, and the kitchen door, but we still need to power wash the exterior, do some caulking, finish some trim and clean, clean, clean.....
* My very nice weekend away for my birthday, which involved a lovely hotel, leisurely meals with no toddler to entertain (no offense, Isabelle), sleeping late, and a gorgeous pair of diamond earrings. Did I mention I love my husband? (road rage and all)
* The Red Wings, blowing game three last night against Nashville. After playing the better game and being the better team, they sat back and played "not to lose" rather then "to win" for the last 15 minutes of the third period. Basically they handed the Predators a chance to get back in the game and then seemed somewhat surprised when they did. I love the Wings, LOVE them, and was so thoroughly disgusted after this loss which puts the series at 2-1 instead of 3-0 (which is a HUGE difference when playing a best of 7 series in the first round of the playoffs) I just could not even look at the television. I must stop as I can feel the blood pressure rising.
* Laughing silently to myself as Clinton and Obama continue to pummel each other into oblivion, hoping to secure the Democratic nomination. "Clinging to guns and religion?" Could we be any more condescending? The man better not come to the U.P with those beliefs! Ah well, maybe it will help McCain.
* Will my daughter ever potty train?
* What should I make for dinner?
* Is it actually possible for me to lose the last few pounds (the ones I have been trying to erase for quite some time now) without resorting to anorexia, bulimia, plastic surgery, or hiring a personal trainer?
* Could our friend Toad (Todd, actually but he goes by Toad) be any nicer? I asked him to check the cats once this weekend while we were gone and he proceeded to check on them both days, bring in the mail and snow blow the driveway when we got six inches of snow. (yes, in April; it is the U.P. some places got over a foot so I consider us lucky.)
And, I guess, that is about it. Until next time.
* What is it with road rage? Actually, not even road rage. Clay got incredibly (shall we say "annoyed") this weekend when he was unable to locate a store that carried the golf putter he is thinking of buying. All of us have had times when we could not find what we are looking for. I am still searching for a pair of jeans that truly fits correctly.... and it has been thirty-two years! But I have never gone postal when, after trying on thirty thousand pairs of jeans, I still have yet to find the right one. Clay, well, I knew we were in trouble when the address for the first golf store resulted in nothing more than a residential neighborhood. This was followed by rather jerky driving and higher rates of speed to the second location, which was closed. This was followed by nearly being run off the road when he pulled out into traffic with very little time to spare, which resulted in a lot of horn-honking on Clay's part and me wishing I could disappear into the leather passenger seat. Now, I should back track and say Clay has looked at other golf stores in lower Michigan and has not found the putter in any of these locations either. However, it is a rather high end putter, plus very new, so frankly, I am not surprised. My husband, on the other hand, takes it as the golf gods being personally out to get him and trying to thwart his chances of acquiring the latest and the greatest. While I understand the frustration, I just do not get the extreme reaction. Must be the testosterone.
* I cannot get this book "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" by Jonathan Safran Foer out of my head. I read it about a week ago in less than two days, and while I have since read another book and, in fact started a third, I am still mentally chewing on it. Mom recommended it to me (mostly because she wanted to discuss it) and it is powerful. I keep finding more themes to it..... loss, and love, and communication. The communication of a grandfather, who doesn't speak except by writing or with his two hands, one tattooed with the word "yes" the other with the word "no" and to write letters he never sends to a son he never meets, a grandmother who types for hours and hours but produces only blank pages, a neighbor who lives as a recluse in his apartment and talks to no one and yet labels everyone he has ever met with a single word, which he then files in a card catalog, and a little boy genius wise beyond his years, who has the ability to communicate with everyone, but does not pick up the phone when the man he most wants to talk to (his Dad) comes over the answering machine, calling from the Twin Towers on September 11th. And that doesn't even get into the structure of the book and how the author uses the text to help convey the story in a way that reminded me of "The Death of Artemio Cruz" by Carlos Fuentes. I almost wish to be back in a college course just so I could talk about it in a classroom setting. Almost.
* A list in the form of projects/repairs on the house, which need to be done if we are, in fact, serious about trying to sell it. We have cleaned the garage and I have repainted a couple of walls, and the pantry, and the kitchen door, but we still need to power wash the exterior, do some caulking, finish some trim and clean, clean, clean.....
* My very nice weekend away for my birthday, which involved a lovely hotel, leisurely meals with no toddler to entertain (no offense, Isabelle), sleeping late, and a gorgeous pair of diamond earrings. Did I mention I love my husband? (road rage and all)
* The Red Wings, blowing game three last night against Nashville. After playing the better game and being the better team, they sat back and played "not to lose" rather then "to win" for the last 15 minutes of the third period. Basically they handed the Predators a chance to get back in the game and then seemed somewhat surprised when they did. I love the Wings, LOVE them, and was so thoroughly disgusted after this loss which puts the series at 2-1 instead of 3-0 (which is a HUGE difference when playing a best of 7 series in the first round of the playoffs) I just could not even look at the television. I must stop as I can feel the blood pressure rising.
* Laughing silently to myself as Clinton and Obama continue to pummel each other into oblivion, hoping to secure the Democratic nomination. "Clinging to guns and religion?" Could we be any more condescending? The man better not come to the U.P with those beliefs! Ah well, maybe it will help McCain.
* Will my daughter ever potty train?
* What should I make for dinner?
* Is it actually possible for me to lose the last few pounds (the ones I have been trying to erase for quite some time now) without resorting to anorexia, bulimia, plastic surgery, or hiring a personal trainer?
* Could our friend Toad (Todd, actually but he goes by Toad) be any nicer? I asked him to check the cats once this weekend while we were gone and he proceeded to check on them both days, bring in the mail and snow blow the driveway when we got six inches of snow. (yes, in April; it is the U.P. some places got over a foot so I consider us lucky.)
And, I guess, that is about it. Until next time.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
To the Two I Lost
I am not one to hang on to the past, and for the most part I think it does not help us to do so. However, some experiences (good or bad) have a way of sticking with you. This month has a tendency to bring a difficult time in my life back to mind, and I have learned it is easier to acknowledge it and move on rather then pretend I don't remember. The truth is I still do even after four years. In this case, though I believe it is good for me to recall how sad I was then because it only serves to remind me how incredibly blessed and happy I am now with my beautiful daughter and family. What follows is a poem I wrote after suffering my second miscarriage in April of 2004.
I never got to know you, I never knew your name.
In fact, you were more of a dream, one whose truth never came.
I will think of you forever, for reminders never cease.
You were one possible future from which I did not want release.
But some choices are not our own, nor for us to understand.
So, I will continue to trust in God, and strive to touch his hand.
A part of me will always miss you, as something I cannot erase,
Because I will always see the possibility of your smile in every child's face.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Washing My Mouth out with Soap
I have no one to blame but myself. It is amazing to me how our children can so easily latch onto the least favorable qualities within ourselves and adopt them as their own. Some of these "qualities" must be ingrained in their DNA. For example, I think Isabelle must have come out of the womb possessing no patience. (Of course, after going through a forty-plus hour labor, one can hardly blame her for being tired of waiting!) She gets this impatient streak from her father who has been known to quickly lose it when things do not go perfect the first time.
However, the latest not-so-lovely "habit" is most definitely my fault. You see, despite my efforts in the last several years to, shall we say "tame my tongue" I, nonetheless, still maintain a tendency to swear. Especially when watching sports, specifically hockey. Watching a ref make a bad call against the Red Wings, can launch me into a tirade of language that could most likely make a sailor blush. I am also known to get a little irritated at what passes for journalism these days when I watch almost any evening news program. Unbiased? Please! My colorful vocabulary stems largely from a beloved friend of mine who in high school dropped f-bombs like a thunderstorm drops rain. She was as unconscious of it as one is of breathing, and I soon became the same way. In college, the swearing diminished considerably, but I confess I did not work very hard to eradicate it completely. Now, as a mother, I am once more painfully aware of what words I say, and I try very hard to clamp down on the trailer trash side of my vocabulary.
Although, it would seem not completely. Last week, Clay and I set up an Easter egg hunt in our house for Isabelle. The eggs were scattered in our downstairs family room, and Isabelle quickly got into it, racing around with her basket and piling the colored eggs inside. At one point she momentarily stopped and surveying the room stated excitedly, "They are "friggin' everywhere!" Clay and I, sitting on the couch observing, turned simultaneously to one another and he mouthed, "friggin?!?" I shook it off, determined to believe we had misheard until a few minutes later she said the offending word once more. Despite being rather alarmed by my beautiful daughter's utterance, I found myself not quite capable of keeping a straight face. There was something completely hysterical about watching this small, angelic picture of innocence say something that should be coming out of the mouth of a character like Rizzo in "Grease." Now, though I am rather chagrined and determined to do better in curbing my wayward tongue. In my defense, "friggin" is a much better substitute then the other "f-word!"
However, the latest not-so-lovely "habit" is most definitely my fault. You see, despite my efforts in the last several years to, shall we say "tame my tongue" I, nonetheless, still maintain a tendency to swear. Especially when watching sports, specifically hockey. Watching a ref make a bad call against the Red Wings, can launch me into a tirade of language that could most likely make a sailor blush. I am also known to get a little irritated at what passes for journalism these days when I watch almost any evening news program. Unbiased? Please! My colorful vocabulary stems largely from a beloved friend of mine who in high school dropped f-bombs like a thunderstorm drops rain. She was as unconscious of it as one is of breathing, and I soon became the same way. In college, the swearing diminished considerably, but I confess I did not work very hard to eradicate it completely. Now, as a mother, I am once more painfully aware of what words I say, and I try very hard to clamp down on the trailer trash side of my vocabulary.
Although, it would seem not completely. Last week, Clay and I set up an Easter egg hunt in our house for Isabelle. The eggs were scattered in our downstairs family room, and Isabelle quickly got into it, racing around with her basket and piling the colored eggs inside. At one point she momentarily stopped and surveying the room stated excitedly, "They are "friggin' everywhere!" Clay and I, sitting on the couch observing, turned simultaneously to one another and he mouthed, "friggin?!?" I shook it off, determined to believe we had misheard until a few minutes later she said the offending word once more. Despite being rather alarmed by my beautiful daughter's utterance, I found myself not quite capable of keeping a straight face. There was something completely hysterical about watching this small, angelic picture of innocence say something that should be coming out of the mouth of a character like Rizzo in "Grease." Now, though I am rather chagrined and determined to do better in curbing my wayward tongue. In my defense, "friggin" is a much better substitute then the other "f-word!"
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Hamster Wheel
Some days I would like to just keep moving, keep running and never stop. I pound that treadmill track, lungs sucking in oxygen, heart thumping, blood flowing through my body, my muscles moving in perfect coordination totally without conscious thought. It feels good. It is simple. It is living at its basic, stripped of all the complexities, big and small, that make up a person's life.
This morning I thought I didn't want to get on the treadmill. I felt tired. The kind of tired that goes beyond the physical to the point where your soul and mind are just craving for... quiet. But I stood on the scale and saw the number and stretched my muscles with Isabelle mimicking my movements beside me. The first few minutes on the treadmill feel sluggish and I keep glancing at the time I have left and thinking, "I feel like crap."
But ten minutes in I am running, ignoring the slight stitch in my side as I cross the point where I am no longer thinking about running. The music playing on the TV fades away as does Isabelle babbling as she plays with her toys. My heart thuds in my chest as I run, run away from my fat thighs, run away from whiny kids, run away from meowing cats, run away from dirty laundry, dirty toilets, dirty dishes. I do my best to pound out the stress that has been tying my neck into a steady knot for the last three weeks, to release the worry, the ceaseless, gut-wrenching worry about things I cannot control, to rest my brain from trying over and over to come up with some way to truly help Clay. I run away from my insecurities about my looks, my inadequacies as a mother, my tendency to try and always meet everyones needs and wants even at the expense of my own. I keep going on my own version of the hamster wheel until the time winds down and the treadmill slows, and then I am walking and the room is slowly coming back into focus and my life still surrounds me - both the beautiful and not so beautiful parts. And I know I have not solved anything and a small part of me wants to just keep going.
The responsible part of me thinks about what I need to do for the day and reminds me that I do, in fact, feel better. And I do. While nothing is solved the body is strong and energized, and for the moment my head is not quite so clouded. My optimistic side comes to the surface, as it always inevitably does, and tells me that while I may stress and worry and feel down, life has a way of working out the way it is supposed to. I pound that thought into my stair treads as I head upstairs to get my shower.
This morning I thought I didn't want to get on the treadmill. I felt tired. The kind of tired that goes beyond the physical to the point where your soul and mind are just craving for... quiet. But I stood on the scale and saw the number and stretched my muscles with Isabelle mimicking my movements beside me. The first few minutes on the treadmill feel sluggish and I keep glancing at the time I have left and thinking, "I feel like crap."
But ten minutes in I am running, ignoring the slight stitch in my side as I cross the point where I am no longer thinking about running. The music playing on the TV fades away as does Isabelle babbling as she plays with her toys. My heart thuds in my chest as I run, run away from my fat thighs, run away from whiny kids, run away from meowing cats, run away from dirty laundry, dirty toilets, dirty dishes. I do my best to pound out the stress that has been tying my neck into a steady knot for the last three weeks, to release the worry, the ceaseless, gut-wrenching worry about things I cannot control, to rest my brain from trying over and over to come up with some way to truly help Clay. I run away from my insecurities about my looks, my inadequacies as a mother, my tendency to try and always meet everyones needs and wants even at the expense of my own. I keep going on my own version of the hamster wheel until the time winds down and the treadmill slows, and then I am walking and the room is slowly coming back into focus and my life still surrounds me - both the beautiful and not so beautiful parts. And I know I have not solved anything and a small part of me wants to just keep going.
The responsible part of me thinks about what I need to do for the day and reminds me that I do, in fact, feel better. And I do. While nothing is solved the body is strong and energized, and for the moment my head is not quite so clouded. My optimistic side comes to the surface, as it always inevitably does, and tells me that while I may stress and worry and feel down, life has a way of working out the way it is supposed to. I pound that thought into my stair treads as I head upstairs to get my shower.
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