Friday, August 12, 2016


I'm still trying to figure all of this out.

It used to be so easy to write. 
When I was in middle school and high school, I got in trouble for writing my stories when I should have been doing homework. I had written and edited a novel by age sixteen and was working on its sequel.  I was given professional advice to get some experience and rewrite.

So I gained experience: I graduated high school after dual-enrolling, traveled a bit, graduated college with all of the usual and unusual (for me, anyways) misadventures, fell in love, got a job, got married, moved around, had more adventures, felt true heartache, faced uncertainties and fears, even had a couple close brushes with death.

And I have no words.
No brainpower.

I spend my days balancing dishes, laundry, meals, and a toddler.
I count down until the day I meet with my cardiologist to hear the verdict: do I still need heart surgery? How soon?
I find out in a week. Just one more week.
I worry about my husband, with his tinnitus out of control, with his specific environment and dietary needs. I want him to be okay. When he's okay, all of us are okay.  When he's not . . .
One night, Chris and Ronan were playing.  They love to play together. It warms my heart in that bizarre, precious way when you see someone loving your child way, especially when that person is your spouse. Yes, this is how it should be. This is good.
Then Ronan released a shriek of glee.
Chris came running out of the room, fingers in his ears, his face in pain, shoulders hunched defensively.
The air changed, tensed.
And Ronan followed him out, standing still, confused, in his bedroom doorway. "Dada?" Quiet, confused. "Dada?"
And I swept him up and wept.
Chris was in every kind of pain on one end of the house.
My heart twisted and ached on the other end, trying to read a book and distract our toddler who worships the ground Chris walks on.
This isn't how it's supposed to be. And it breaks my heart. I don't ever thing I'll forget that picture. "Dada?"
Chris came back. He mustered his strength and his love for that precocious man cub, and he came back and loved him.
Still, it shouldn't be like this.
We are trying to fix it. We don't know how.  But, my gosh and golly, we are trying.

So I wait for naptime where I can zone out on social media or watch Doctor Who through for this fifth time.
So I wait for bedtime where I can be by myself on the couch and rewatch the adventures of Sam and Dean Winchester or something Whedon-ish and just not think any more. I don't even have to think about what's happening in the episode. I've seen it all before. Like three times. Maybe more. Good TV seems hard to come by, sometimes.

I don't know if I ever knew what I was after high school.
In high school, I had goals and dreams.

Now, it's just kind of about survival.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this.
My life isn't really all that bad. It's just a weird, hard place that we are both stumbling around in. Ronan runs through with joyous, determined abandon. Say what you will about toddlers, but they live passionately. It's a bright light.

I don't really want this to be a "mommy blog."
I don't really feel like a mom.
I feel like me.
But with a kid running around that I'm constantly feeding, entertaining, corralling, and talking to. I schedule my days around naptimes and whether they have a toddler-friendly environment (be that toys or chicken nuggets or whatever).
I'm a mom, and, even with two years of it under my belt, I'm still swallowing that identity.

I want this blog to be funny.
I'm told I'm a funny person. Dry as Nevada and a bit loony, but funny. And young, in a way. I still play video games and get excited about super heroes. I wear tee shirts with TV characters faces on them and prefer Chuck Taylors to high heels.
So I figured I'd do a funny blog about life and fandoms and our little adventures.

But I'm not quite sure I can muster funny right now.
I'm trying.
But I'm tired, and I'm not sure coffee can fix this one.

It's not that life is bad.
It's not, really, in the things that matter. I love my kid and my husband; they love me. It's juggling all of the stresses and unknowns. I don't like unknowns. I like to feel in control--have a plan. I like to feel I've done a lot on my own merit. But this? What exactly can I do? I can't fix my heart or my clotting disorder on my own. I can't control what happens or when it happens. I can't fix Chris's ears. I can't exactly go looking for a job. "Yes, please, hire me. BTDubs, I'm getting open heart surgery at some undetermined date, and I'll need 4-6 weeks off to recover. So shall we discuss salary?"
Yeah, that would go over REAL well.

So I sit.
I mom.
I wife.
I do.
I don't.
I wait.

I pray.
I pray a lot.
God has provided, God has been good. Just when we think we've reached the last shredded stand of rope, we find one more inch. We find a little breathing room. But we aren't healed. We don't have answers. That's okay, really. I wish Chris could get better with all of my heart, but that's not an answer we have right now. So we wait. We trudge on.

And I stare at the blank computer screen and wish I had something more interesting or witty to say.