Not Much Longer

Intermission

My little snowglobe life has been shook up - taking a brief pause from blogging to get things sorted and settled. Will be back by Thursday or Friday, but no prompts until then probably.

The Line.

There's always a fine line. Between trusting and just saying you are trusting. Between opening up and between holding back. Between not caring what others think and secretly hoping you still have a few friends left at the end of the day.

Making the choice to leave the house, two cars, and husband was a defining moment for that fine line. It made that line present in every action, inaction, and reaction. Some days, I dance near the line, toeing it and seeing if it gives when I push it. I have spent plenty of time imagining it is not there, pretending it is simply a crack in the sidewalk or some little smudge that I haven't been able to clean out of the carpet. Other days, it strangles me. I wake up with it around my neck, feel it choking me as I try to swallow my breakfast. Or it wraps it self around my face, covering my mouth so tightly that I can barely breathe. But, I have sharp teeth and scissors. And I know people who can undo coils and knots when my mouth is numb and my scissors have dulled.

More and more lately, I am putting on a brave face and telling that line that it must be the one to put the trust in me, let me decide where it sits, where it will sleep. I am learning to jump over the line and instead of fearing the stinging bite of it's surprise, I am forcing it to move for me, to contort to my needs. It is not going to go away anytime soon, but that does not mean that I need to continue to allow it to control me. I will tame the line, and learn to live with it comfortably.

Juggling and Spinning

It has been seeming for weeks that instead of me plowing through things and completing projects one-by-one, I am instead finding myself getting tangling more and more tightly in a figurative pile of shoe strings mess. Every project leads to another, every little accomplishment leads to some bigger piece in the puzzle, and nothing is ever "Done". I have had plenty of time to myself, but I still feel exhausted and like I'm constantly juggling three or five things that need to get my full attention RIGHT NOW. Even as I type this, I have Agent M's calendar out in my lap so I can write on it which house he is at, week-by-week for the rest of the year, my cat is shooting daggers at me for not giving her breakfast yet, and I have a bright green clay face mask on that has been more than dry enough to wash off for some time now.

But first I have to find the custody papers so I can finish filling in the calendar, since holidays don't always follow the weekly visitation song-and-dance routine, and once I get the calendar done I actually will have one thing to check off the perpetual To-Do List in my head. Then, I can focus on the laundry, the crocheted projects I am behind on, the research for articles, the studying, the painting projects that are waiting on my dining room table, and all the other little things that make up each day. Nothing is too big or over whelming to finish, I just feel like each time I get done with one bit, there's something else filling it's space. To use my spinning plate analogy that I love so much - it's as if I get all the plates spinning, but instead of having the moment to pause and catch my breath, someone runs up and starts another plate going, but doesn't necessarily take a different plate away.

Now, I know this is the plight of many a parent - there's always SOMETHING to be done. Maybe the only reason it is weighing on me so much right now is from listening to single and/or unkidded friends tell me I have so much going on. Maybe it is because I feel I finally have a bit of a life plan in place again, and it's the process of getting through each step that is making my impatient self antsy. Maybe it is all the build up going on right now - the waiting to see if I get into Fall Classes, the waiting to see when I will be off of "light-duty" at work, the waiting for my divorce to ever get done with, the waiting to see if future plans actually come to be. I really don't know.

I do know that the only way I can find myself getting through each day, is by forcing myself to focus on the small bits. Untangle one bit at a time, put it down when it gets to be too much, and force myself to not stay wrapped up too long. Day trips to the beach, hours spent playing video games with Agent M, hours spent at the pool with Agent M, going out for the night with friends when Agent M is not home. The plates are always still spinning when I get back to them, the shoestrings are always still tangled and in knots. But I am done with stressing over them and not enjoying my life. I want to shift the balance and make the To-Do list fit around my schedule, not let the To-Do list be the schedule. The day trip to the beach on Saturday made that clear to me. We left four hours late, got lost twice, and I had to take a stop in a hotel parking lot to take a catnap since I was driving home so late. But it was fun and we did it. The day was not a matter of bullet points to check off as we did each thing. We had a general idea of what we wanted to do that day and then winged it, adjustments made as needed. I want more of that. I want to feel that flexible and have that much happiness each day.  Maybe that is why the little stuff is weighing on me - the need for adjustments. The room to grow, refocus, and make changes are there, and I just need to see them and follow through. Stick to the plans and allow for adjustments. Let my lists be the guides but not the plans for the days.

But first, I need to wash off this face mask.

The Middle Child.

Poor, little neglected blog.

I make no excuses. I found time to type and write while pulling through four college classes, you would think working part-time would be a cake walk for me.

But it hasn't been.

I have been exhausted, drained, and completely focused on everything except for sitting my bum down and plunking out words.

Oh, wait - what happened to no excuses?

Anyways, I am committing myself to this blog again. Agent M is my first priority, and the "9-to-5 (actually, 6)" job is important since I do have bills to pay and a quality of living I would like to support. But my writing is my baby, and this blog is my "middle child", not to be overlooked by the needs of my other metaphoric babies.

There is so much keeping me busy, which is truly all the more reason to plunk it out. Evenings spent eating ice cream bars and watching cartoons, funny conversations, sick day realizations, lazy summer days spent playing catch, striking that balance between being a work-outside-the-home mum and all the things I strive for while raising Agent M, and the pure, simple excitement when I finally got my hands on a copy of the local magazine that has my first, real, printed article in it.

Truth be told, I have started a number of posts, but never got back to finish them and post them before the moment is gone. Like a middle child, this blog has had to share my time with so many other things, and I feel like a horrible mother for not spending as much time with it.

But, that's going to change. I'm going to work on the half-done posts tonight, and get myself on a routine to be back into the feel for posting often.

Just bear with me through all these growing pains :) 

Holy Smokies

Talk about a whirlwind.

After that last post - I ended up being up for 25 hours straight. I made it through work reasonably well, and at the end of my shift I was chatting with a co-worker and told him how bizarre it was that I still just did not feel tired. It actually was worrying me a bit. That night, still just could not sleep. I tired every trick I knew of for myself - crocheting in bed, eating a little chocolate, watching shows on the laptop while laying down. Nothing was working. I finally got four hours of sleep, from 3:30am to almost, 7:30am, and it was blissful. Thursday night, same type of thing. About five hours of sleep. Barely eleven hours in three days. I felt like crap, I was starting to walking into things and get klutzy. Friday morning, a friend woke me up to video chat online, and he told me how rested I looked. From barely five hours of sleep. Which should tell you how bad I looked before that.

Then, something finally clicked into place.

That afternoon, I picked Agent M up from school. Fridays are our "switch" days, and the start of his week with me. We dropped a friend of his off at their house, and I suggested going and getting a take-and-bake pizza for lunch/dinner. Agent M suggested that he was hungry and din't want to wait for take-and-bake. So, we went to a little pizza place and just ate there. For me, that was the first time all week I had eaten a real lunch. I'd been living off of tea and cottage cheese for the most part - trying to lose some weight and besides, I figured with Agent M not home, why cook? We ran a few errands after that (totally got some amazing thrift scores, but that is for another post) and went home. Again, for the first time all week, I actually cooked, and ate, dinner.

After dinner and showers, there was enough time to play a little of Agent M's zombie game on my laptop. Snuggled under the blanket, propped up with pillows, we sat there chatting as he played the game and I crocheted. And...I started to fall asleep. It was barely 8:30pm.

So, Agent M wrapped up his game, I put away the crocheting. I got him settled into bed and felt so tired that I just went to my room and laid down. I was asleep by 9:45pm, woke up the next morning at 6am. Eight hours of bliss. Pure heaven. The icing on the cake? A little after waking up, Agent M woke up also, climbed into bed with me and helped me look for my Halloween costume online while we snuggled more. Insomnia curse broken and a great start to the day.

No idea what was the real cause of the problem - I don't think it was just one thing, such as missing Agent M or stress about going back to work. I also had not been exercising or eating right for a couple weeks. I had been staying up late each night and painting for hours, and when I would get caught up in the painting and cleaning during the day, I was forgetting to eat then too. I think I might have just gotten myself out of routine, and having Agent M home again pushed me back into it. Maybe having to keep a routine for him reminds me to take better care of myself also, and not just push and push myself until I collapse. Or, rather in this case, not collapse. No matter the reason though - this mama is darn happy to be able to sleep again.

Today is Going to be Interesting.

May first mistake was not drinking enough water yesterday. Mistake two was not eating much during the day - if it had not been for the half of a frozen panini that a coworker gave me and snack bag of cheddar and sour cream chips, it would have been the mistake of not eating at all during the day. Number three was requesting a Whopper and friend who was on their way over to my house. And we all know, third time is the charm. After dropping the friend off at her house and getting back home, I felt sick and woozy. When I checked my blood sugar level and it was high (for me), so I drank a big glass of water and made the decision that going to bed early was probably going to be my best course of action.

I have been awake since 2.30am. Hot, clammy mouth, pounding headache. Backache and cramps in my lower back. I felt like roadkill. I tried turning on the laptop to try mindlessly 'net surfing back to sleep. No luck. Eventually, I settled on watching a hulu'd episode of "So, You Think You Can Dance?". My cat did her best to be medicine pet in-between my trips to the bathroom and downstairs for water and crackers. Finally, I gave up around 4.30am and turned on the lamp on my bedside table. I figured if I was going to be up, I might as well work on the scarf I am crocheting.

Now, it's 7am and I have to be at work in a little under two hours. An eight hour shift spent cashing unemployment checks, selling money orders, and checking lotto scratchers for people. I have to be on top of my game when it comes to the type of money-handling I do. Part of me thinks getting some decaf tea will help perk me up, but the other part of me is nervous about what effect that will have on my already recovering stomach and pounding head. I've known for years the effects eating erratically has on me, how I will feel sick and dizzy to the point of my body becoming uncoordinated. At best, a short nap gets me feeling back on track, followed by a light but high-protein meal with lots of water. At worse, I end up waking up in the middle of the night, sick as anything and exhausted for the next day as I try to right my self through sleep, water, and carefully planned out small meals through the day. Basically, I should have known better. 

There are a few saving graces to this mess though. Agent M is with his dad this week so I get a little break in that sense (even though I would love to just snuggle with him and watch cartoons, which is always a great way to spend a sick day). The play Agent M was supposed to be in tonight has been rescheduled for next week, so after work I can come home and go right to bed. And, as I laid in my bed crocheting, listening to Florence + the Machine on my laptop, and snuggling with my cat, I got to see a beautiful sunrise from my bedroom window. It actually is a decent start to the day, once I push past the feelings of persistent ick. Now, just to hold on to this bit of sunshine and make it through the work day.

Where I Usually End Up.

I am so far behind on school work.

Spring Break, even though I hardly had Agent M, was not much help, much less than I had planned for it to be. I was sick for a couple days, but plowed through and cleaned house like a woman possessed. I unpacked boxes by the dozen, hung paper lanterns in my bedroom, wrapped cloth cherry blossoms around the iron scrolls of my headboard, vacuumed the entire house twice, sorted and moved bin after bin of just stuff, and dusted everything. I was so sick from allergies that I actually took medicine and spent part of Tuesday in a fog. Homework was completely forgotten at that point.

Wednesday, I got to meet family that was in town from Sweden. Amazing people, and so full of love that just being around them made me happy. Between Wednesday and Thursday, I stayed at my parent's house for hours longer than I had planned. I tried to work on an article I was writing at one point, but got distracted and could not focus enough to string a full sentence together. It hurt to see them leave, and I unexpectedly had to fight off tears as I hugged each of them good-bye. To be honest, I am still sad from it, in the way that you feel sad when you go to a party that you don't want to attend, only to have a great time right at the end and feel as if you haven't had enough time to enjoy yourself.

Friday, I finished the article and sent it in. I looked over my homework, but being sick still had me wiped. Plus, Agent M was home and keeping me busy. The weekend was the same. Monday came, I was still sick and my shoulder hurt too much to go to class - so I told myself I would catch up then. Instead, I slept in and ran an errand. Tuesday, I felt better but had more errands come up, and found myself working on homework at 1:47am, crouched near my laptop, with a notepad in my lap as I struggled to practice my Swedish, write answers to questions on a homework sheet, and stay awake.

So, now it is Wednesday. I am tired. I had a great night at my parent's house, celebrating "Easter Wednesday" and then left Agent M there for a sleep over. Plenty of time to work on a paper or two. I briefly worked on the mountain of art supplies that has been taking over my living room, and sat down to type this up - but I can barely keep my eyes open. If I wasn't chatting with a friend, I would already be in bed.

I need to get over this sense of blah. I know my mind is else where, I know it is partially because my grades, which were all A's three weeks ago, are beginning to slip. I am disappointed in a lot of things right now and feel uncertain about what will be happening in the next few weeks. My last day of physical therapy is tomorrow, and Friday I find out if I am going back to work or waiting six more weeks. I'm stressed and tired. I want all the puzzle pieces to come together, but just feel so unmotivated to put them in order. I hope this feeling passes soon.

Silly, Silly Girlface.

I am an unpartnered mum, a college student, a 28-year-old woman, a soon-to-be-divorced former housewife, a daughter, an aunt, a cousin, and a friend. I have plates to keep spinning and a full life to keep maintained.

I am also a very, very silly girl. 

When I am thinking - no more want for something, no more hopes for something, focus on school, focus on work, focus on your health, focus on yourself...

Something unexpected comes up and says - are you sure? Is that all you really want? Because, there is this...

And even though I know the reality of things, the logistics, and there is a part of me saying "No, it could never, ever be true. It never turns out true, it is not what you think." there is a bigger part of me saying "Please let it be true, even in all it's foolishness. Please, let it be. I want this, please let this be for me too."

I deny it, even though it is plain as sunshine and can be seen by anyone. No, it is ridiculous. No, there's no logic to it.

Then something echoes back, says it is true. Says it is the same as what my inner most self  is hoping. Says the same hopes are out there, the same hopes about me. 

And I feel like a silly, silly girl. For blushing, and grinning, and wanting so badly just to be near that something. 

It's foolish, it's ridiculous, there is no logic to it. But it is sweet as blood oranges, and quiet, and very much there.

This is something I didn't think I had in me and thought I did not want in me. It scares me, because feeling like this is an opening to get hurt. And that fear, that hope, all mixed together, makes me feel all the more silly. 

Miles and miles of feeling silly. 

And I will keep feeling silly, even when I am told that it is cute. I will keep spinning my plates, more focused, more determined. With this little something, tucked quietly away, all my own to quietly smile at. 

Because even if it is silly, it makes me smile and shows me there is more. More hope than hurt, more gentleness than tears. And life is never, ever as expected.

Pink is Not the Color of Confusion

I'll admit - I get a lot of my news bites from the Yahoo! front page. News blurbs at the click of a visually pleasing thumbnail. Though it wasn't on the top page at the time, one in particular caught my eye like a flashing hot pink strobe light.

Hot pink-toenailed boy in J. Crew ad sparks controversy

Wait...what?!?! 

That's right - in a world where Japan is one month out from the worst tsunami of our time, our country's budget is barely determined and most of the nation is holding it's breathe while waiting to hear what cuts and hikes will take place....and people are getting unhinged because J. Crew's latest catalog includes a page showing president and creative director Jenna Lyons smiling with her son Beckett "off duty in style", which included painting his toe nails hot pink, which she says is his favorite color. 

On the forefront of the out cry is Erin Brown of the Media Research Center, who went so far as to say that this is a exploitation of a child by J. Crew to push "liberal, transgendered identity politics.", while also making mention that J. Crew is a favorite of Michelle Obama, which anyone can see is an attempt to connect the Obamas to this made-up conspiracy as well.  

But more than the conspiracy theories, the idea of the a "girly" pink nail polish effecting a male child's sexual identity is the real issue here. Dr. Keith Ablow from Fox News goes so far as to say that psychotherapy will be needed down the road for the boy, and this is an "example of the way our culture is being encouraged to abandon all trappings of gender identity." Erin Brown also says "Jenna's indulgence...could make like hard for the boy in the future" and claims that J. Crew is now targeting the demographic of mothers of gender-confused young boys. What I want to know is how one photo and caption could cause an entire culture to feel encouraged to abandon it's stereotypes of gender identity, and who in the world has decided that Beckett is a "gender-confused" young boy? The photo looks to me like a boy and his mom, genuinely smiling at each other and having fun. No confusion there and certainly nothing that looks suggestive of a difficult life ahead. 

On an segment for ABC News, Dr. Edward Hallowell, a child psychologist who urges parents "first and foremost to enjoy" their kids on his personal web site, explains that it is normal and common for little kids to cross-dress and play make-believe in other people's clothes. Children are naturally curious and don't assign gender to things until they are told so - trucks are not "boy's trucks" and pink is not a "girl's color" until someone has told them that they have to think that way. Obviously, Beckett is lucky enough to be being raised where he can express himself and his interests with out shame or being pushed into an expected role by his parents.

It makes you wonder if there would be the same type of out roar if the nail polish had been blue. From personal experience, I know how reactive people can become over boys in nail polish. One of Agent M's favorite things was once for me to paint his toe nails after I painted mine. I'd pull out the cigar-box sized basket of every color under the sun and just let him pick. Sometimes it was pink, sometimes black, sometimes it was two or three colors per foot, though mostly he favored the bottle of navy blue polish with silver glitter. He'd seriously hold as still as possible while I applied the tiniest of brush strokes, then would sit stiff as a post while we waited for our nails to dry. Those memories are more about the time we spent together though - not what color choice he was making. Never once did it cross my mind that I was endangering his gender identity, just in the same way that I don't worry that he'll grow up to be any less masculine just because he is primarily raised by his mother. To the people who would comment on it, most thought it was cute but a couple did remark that at least he was wearing "boy" colors (these were not the people who saw his toes in their red and pink phase). Agent M and his dad even sported matching colors for a while. It just was never a big deal. He asks every now and then for me to paint his nails, but mostly isn't as into it anymore. Does he seem confused over his gender? Not at all. Am I saving up money for future psychotherapy sessions? Nope. He's a happy, well-loved, healthy kid. Just like I am sure Beckett is. 

I do agree with Erin Brown on one point though - she states in her article "Not only is Beckett likely to change his favorite color as early as tomorrow...", which is completely true. And with that acknowledgement that he could change his own mind at anytime, no matter what color toe nail polish he wore that day, it also makes the issue that much more ridiculous. 

Gatekeeping

It's been gone over briefly in my Writing for Publication class, but it's the one thing that has stuck with me the most. 

We are all our own Gatekeepers. 

Gatekeepers control the flow of information - to the public, to reporters, to blogs, to companies. A Gatekeeper can be a PR person that sends out a bulletin to raise awareness, it can be an editor that slices an article, it can be a secretary that screens calls for an interview, the list goes on and on.

But what is hardest for me, is that I am my own worst Gatekeeper. Which is why I cut the last post I had written.

I had my hesitations about posting it, and then those hesitations were echoed back to me by a couple people, out of love and concern. Taken out of context, my words of concern as a mother could be seen as something else - neglect maybe? Inability perhaps? I don't like to put a concrete term to it honestly, because to me the post was meant as a confession that I always want to do the best for my son and feel "less than" when I am slapped with the reality that sometimes my best stumbles. It's sad to think that someone could try to use that against me, but it's an honest fact.

And that, my loyal readers (all 6 of you!), is what I consider the hardest part of my being a single parent. The threat and fear that someone is waiting for me to slip up so they can strike. I love that my son's dad, The Ex, wants to be involved in his son's life. I am happy that my son has a father who loves him. But there are reasons why The Ex is the ex, and it's those differences and disagreements that cause me to worry, edit myself, and silence myself. 

I can not write freely at times, because freely could be taken out of context and I would have to defend myself. Much like years ago, when not vaccinating was cause for an uproar and the debate was on the tip of every parent and health professional's tongue. The Ex and I stood by our decisions on the matter, but self-edited our reactions and responses whenever the subject came up with other people. Not because we felt we were doing something wrong, but because we knew that taken out of context our actions and beliefs could be used against us. So we stood solid and kept our opinions within each other, occasionally letting them surface when we felt we were in like-minded company. 

Unfortunately, that is how a lot of life becomes, not just as a single parent, but as we grow up. It's not just the single parents who are trying their hardest with little means. It's the same for anyone who has a voice against the "norm" or against someone else who could holds leverage over them. It's the same for the little girls who are told to quiet down and the little boys who are told to act tough. We all become personal gatekeepers to some extent. I hope though, that my son does not one day feel this same pressure to be his own biggest gatekeeper too.

OT: Post-Op Story and Milestones

First, some history. I had surgery on December 8th to repair what was figured to be a torn rotator cuff muscle, figure out why it tore, and make my left arm able to be lifted pain-free over my head eventually. I had never had a surgery before, save for when my wisdom teeth were taken out. Not having a clue what to expect, I made small plans for the worse (letters typed up to be passed out to loved ones in I didn't make it through the surgery), but generally felt like the two months on Temporary Disability would be like a lovely vacation, spent typing, crocheting, visits and daycations with family, and packing for my upcoming move.

I was, literally, to be sorely mistaken.

Wanting the surgery to be well worth it, my surgeon actually found two tears, one on muscle and one on cartilage, plus the bone spur culprit. We were fortunate, he told me at my post-op check up a week later, the tears had been small enough for one stitch each and were in the best areas possible to have tears. I felt fortunate that aside from two days of massive nausea, mild pain meds and cold pack treatments had been keeping my pain to a relative zero. I was instructed to wear my arm sling/wedge contraption for 6 weeks total. Always when going out to protect my shoulder from sudden movements or bumps, but less when at home. While six weeks sounded far longer than I felt I would need it, I nodded and told him I would follow all orders and see him again in 6 weeks.

The first couple of weeks, were decently medicated. It's all a blur of comfy pillows, my mum making me grilled cheese sandwiches whenever I asked, and lots of television. Lots and lots of television. My sling was comfortable usually and I wore it at all times, no problem. As week 3 hit, I was getting antsy. Life was less medicated and being mobile was easier than in week 2, but having my arm out of the sling was uncomfortable usually, my sleep pattern was all over the place, and when I did take my arm out of the sling, I had to still be careful to either support it in some way or let it hang like dead weight. On top of all that, I was still not to use it at all. This usually left me having to support it with my right arm - meaning whenever I had been attempting to do was then moot since that brought me to having no free hands. I began to daily thank all the deities and saints I could think of that this was temporary, and marvel at the competency of people who have lost an arm completely.

The end of week 3/start of week 4 has hit me the worst. The weather has been fridge and the week started in storms. I have been increasingly frustrated with how slowly my progress towards full use has been. Still on physical therapists orders to only use my arm passively, I've had to mentally erase every single thing I thought I would be able to do with my left arm at this point and instead have been making a mental list of the things I've discovered I can do with my right arm. (My handwriting with my right hand is pretty legible at this point and I can easily make pancakes again.) Monday night my arm hurt deep inside, as if something was kinked and could not flatten itself back out. I began to take the pain meds again. Yesterday was worse. I woke up aching, and felt like my shoulder ball joint was sliding on the edge of the socket. This had happened here and there in the last few weeks, but only for a hair of a second and all was fine. Not yesterday. All was not feeling fine, and I had a physical therapy appointment that day too. Therapy was uncomfortable to the point of my eyes tearing up. My physical therapist (John) kept me as distracted as possible, discussing various cartoons of our youth versus what our kids watch now as he pulled and rotated my rm into positions I can not achieve on my own. Most of the rest of the day was spent gasping for air when my arm would suddenly tense into shooting blasts of pain, then trying to move it in to an angle that didn't feel like my arm was about to rip out of socket. The sling was not a help, having it out of the sling was not a help. Painkillers barely took the edge off. I wanted to just cry, admit defeat, not do anything, and give up for a while.

But this is a new year. I have vowed to be a new Ashley.

Sure, I went easy on myself the second half of the day. I let others do more for me. But I also sat up with better posture and stood up with my shoulders back, forcing my left arm to consciously relax. I did the at-home exercises the best I could instead of skipping them. By evening, the pain wasn't as awful and I even slept without the sling. That might have simply been possible because of exhaustion, but it still was a relief. Waking up this morning, my arm was aching like usual. But, it wasn't the sharp, bite-down-on-something pain of the last two days. I kept the sling off as I made breakfast. I sat my arm against the counter and was able to whisk eggs for an omelette. Then I sat down at my desk to read emails.

Inspired by the slack in pain, I let my fingers walk up the desk drawers as high as I could - an at home exercise that I usual fail. Usually I make it from the middle of the second drawer (waist level) to the handle on the top drawer. It felt fine. But again, today something felt different too and I kept my fingers creeping up the desk, pushing myself to be better than fine. My finger tips got to the top of my desk, curled them over the edge and I paused at the slight ache that was developing. I sat my shoulders back, breathed. Focused on relaxing every single muscle in my left arm, except for my fingers, and used them to pull my arm onto my desk. Tears came to my eyes as I crept my fingers to a point where my arm was resting up to my elbow on my desk. They were not tears of pain - this was accomplishment. For the first time since surgery, I was resting my arm on my desk. I sat and just looked at it, watching it unfeeling, as if it was led there by Thing, the famous Addams family relative, not part of my own body. I wanted to call people, send them cell phone photos of my arm on my desk, and would probably would have if my phone had not been sitting on a table on the other side of the room. At that point, I didn't want to get up, for fear that I would not be able to do it again. Then that thought repeated.

Do it again.

Because I did it. I pushed myself and did it. It ached, but I did it.

And I feel renewed. Inspired.

Welcome to the new Ashley. The Ashley who can do it. The self who pushes even when uncomfortable, and celebrates even minor victories.

I did it.

New place for the new year

I signed the papers and received my jingling ring of keys for my new (rental) townhouse today. As I did the walk through with my new landlady, I couldn't help but grin and it took every ounce of self-restraint to keep from giggling and squealing in excitement.

The anticipation for this place has been huge - at 1300 square feet, it not only is more than double the size of my current apartment, but it also is two-story and unmodified from it's original 1970's style furnishings. Which means Agent M can thump and stomp in his room, without worry of annoyed neighbors thumping back from below, and it has a a subtle kitsch vibe that is making me nutso with decorating ideas.

Olive green was a prominent color at the time, and lives on in my kitchen (floor tiles, oven) and bathroom (shower tiles). Gold pseudo-ornate frames wrap themselves around the mirror medicine cabinets in both bathrooms, glitzy compliments to the embossed patterns on the walls. The dining area is made to feel larger thanks to floor to ceiling mirroring, which I've already made a mental note that now I really will be watching what I eat. Under the half floating staircase is a rock garden, and as you walk up the stairs you can check yourself out in the giant wall mirror that faces the stairs. Bonus is the patio with built in barbecue and storage shed. And the numerous cabinets. And the larger rooms. And the powder-blue eagle sculpture on the front door. (Ok, so the whole place feels like a bonus to me!) 

Of course, having had surgery on my left shoulder barely a month ago has not helping in the packing and moving process. I can't use my left arm for much still, so needless to say I have spent many moments in pure frustration at not being able to lift a box from one location to another. Or not being able to pack certain things at all because of their size. The worst though was the feeling of being an absolute jackass today as I watched my Dad and sister-in-law carry boxes down the stairs of my current apartment, load them unto my mum's van, then unload the boxes into my new place. I simply could not carry 99% of what was being moved and felt awkward and in the way when I did manage to get a box tucked under my right arm.

This same frustration is taunting me on the horizon - when I begin to unpack. Packing has been a slow process, but at it's core packing is simply a matter of picking up and placing objects into a box. Unpacking requires planning, finding a place, tucking into drawers, lifting into cabinets. All things that would be simpler with two hands. I fear for how long it is going to take to unpack. Then there's the matter of furniture placement. I've always been the type of person to put all the furniture out, then move it piece by piece into different locations until it all feels right. Much like a giant version of the 9-tiled sliding puzzle games I used to get in birthday party goody bags as a kid. But you can't move a vintage stereo console with one hand. This is troubling to me, but still distant enough in my thoughts that I have not brought out my graph paper and measuring tape to make detailed floor plans and scale representations of my furniture, to be slid around and contemplated in various angles. (As I type this, I did do a mental check of if I had packed the graph paper yet though, so not sure if these thoughts are as distant as I believed they were.)

But the excitement over shadows all else. More room finally! Only 125 square feet less than the house I owned with my husband! As much as I have loved our little apartment, it's just so little! Agent M's room-to-be is double the size of what he is in now. As a child who loves to have every single toy out as often as I will allow, this will be bliss. A real pantry with shelves means I won't have to climb up on a foot stool just to figure out if we have canned green beans or not. The patio means I won't resort to storing unused planters under our dining room table, and the shed means I can sleep a little better at night, knowing our bikes are slightly more secure behind a locked door.

Excitement, anticipation, and a clean, uncluttered space that's only filled with possibility? Indeed, this sounds like a great way to start off a new year.