sidelined

So I did it. I said no to money. Well, not actually real money that someone would be handing me- for free. It was money that I would have to work for. I wanted to say yes. I had already spent the money 50 ways.

I had to say no.

It all started when a friend, an acquaintance really, who called to tell me about the business she and her husband were starting. They needed a website- could I do one for them? I met with them and their cronies at my home around the kitchen table with my portfolio within an arms reach should they ask to see it.

The baby sat quietly.

For 10 minutes. At the ten minute mark she decides that she is hungry. VERY hungry. The screaming begins. I desperately try and focus on this business of theirs. I talk a little louder, try bouncing her on my knee to quiet down the agony. This may have only served to titillated, pardon the expression, or create even more ire for her. (Did I mention that 3 of the 5 people in the room were men?) At this point I am thanking God for padded bras that might hide any escaping milk. I excused myself to my laundry folding area behind a door (also known as a family room, not one for my clients to see) and tried to give the blessed child just a nip… a little dab’ll do ya kinda thing. No beans. She SCREAMED when I pulled her away from me. I was sweating it now. They were waiting for me in the dining room. Tick, tick, tick. The woman comes in- offers to walk the baby around- outside. I accept, exasperated. I am annoyed that my dear one, my dearest, sweetest, long-awaited and treasured child is daring to act her age.

It was then that I knew. I was crazy. I simply could not be upset with this cherished child of mine. She knew and was trying to tell me what I was: stark-raving-outta-my-mind-mad to try and maintain this business while homeschooling, having a teeny one, supporting my husbands business, and general household duties with 6 kids not to mention leading a weekly church home group. Like, mama didn’t raise no fool…. SO WHY WAS I SITTING HERE WITH THESE PEOPLE?

I returned to the meeting. Do I disengage now? I decided not now. I would call. Offer to do a small amount to set them on their feet. But no full blown month-long project.

I would not be upset at a baby for being a baby when I was the one who needed to swallow my pride, see the writing on the wall and otherwise extract myself from activities that did not directly contribute to the support and running of this large family.

I guess the business, really the lack there of, but even the possibility of accepting business to turn a profit and learn more about things outside of this home was my last bastion of independence. I like design. I love to interface with people, learn what they need, help contribute to the growth of the business, help them realize a dream. It is one part of my life that has remained constant in the upheaval since kids came. I have invested many years in nurturing this “baby.” I am sad to see another part of “me” pushed to the margins for the family’s greater good. I think of St. Paul when he discusses dying to oneself so that God can grow greater in us. Perhaps this is part of that. Losing that prideful bragging right, But there isn’t time for it now. Later? Perhaps. I can’t help but feel like God may be leading me elsewhere, but it is a handy tool to have in my skill set should I need to call on it later.

In the meantime I will be here, blogging about today, tomorrow and yesterday.

To be a bit more approximate

To be a bit more approximate- not so confined to the daily grind/ Not that my day is ever predictable, on the contrary. But, nonetheless, the grind remains, yes?

… I would like to be whisked away somewhere new to me and shiny with possibilites- come with me on fantasyland, to- say gay Paris. There I will be with my true love, nibbling croissants and inhaling espresso, sipping ridiculous amounts of wine, and have passionate… kisses. Bisou, bisou… In this fantasy world where the sun does not set until absurd hours of the night, we will walk the streets, talk to adventurers, indulge in all things art, ride bicycles and experience euphoria. Just a wee tiny escape… thanks for indulging me…

out of the bag

I went through a dead woman’s clothes today. As I reached into the black trash bag, pulling out carefully folded clothes that were then unceremoniously dumped into the crinkly plastic blackness, I thought about who she must have been. I have never met the woman, though evidently we wear the same size. I saw from her clothes that she likes nice things- Talbots, Chicos, but that she was not afraid to purchase clothes from WalMart. She liked casual, unstructured living judging from the amount of shorts and cotton shirts. I imagine her to be a practical woman, in touch with her self as she was not wearing these clothes to impress anyone, though I imagine they suited her.

She died from cancer. Quickly. Within 6 months of diagnosis her body was made ready for the cremator. While I am not personally a fan of such a way to leave my body after my soul has returned home, it does bring the full circle notion of from dust we have come and to dust we shall return.

I think I can learn a little from the contents of this black trash bag.. I will be true to myself- some things I wouldn’t be caught dead in, despite the fact that I might first be found naked, as I do not have the funds to purchase new clothes. But I will keep what I can to wear carefully with my own accessories to make it my own style- and for free- using what I have. I will be practical and return things that are not to my taste to the trash bag’s dark depths for someone else to wear. I wonder whether they too will ponder the whereabouts of the previous owner as I have. Whether she is in her glory, or in her hell? Will the next person to plumb the insides of this bag be grateful or ashamed of its “preowned” status? Or will it simply be a matter of course to them- their pride not a stumbling block as it sometimes can be for me; of little consequence that their style is not reflected in the stitches on their body?

Carefully I place the bag, only half full now, in the back of my car, ready for the next stage of its journey for another soul to explore.

goings on upstairs....

At first I thought it was an extreme case of flatulence. But no, the sound continued- and in some cases louder than the one before- nature wouldn’t allow such things…

Then I thought perhaps someone was moving furniture on the floor above….

Alas- no. It was a trombone. And an aspiring trombonist. Slowly the sounds were less aberrations of nature and became ever so slightly more definite- though I would not go so far as to say musical. My sweet boy came down, imitating in rhythm, if not in tone the song his idol, his father, had demonstrated for him on the instrument. His cheeks puffed out, the trombone glinting on his shoulder dwarfing his frame as his arms extended to their utmost to illicit a sound from the thing. God bless his little self…