Words of a Heather

“Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.”

- Ernest Hemingway

Just an update of sorts.

Photo credit: Jesse Sparks

First and foremost, earlier this week, on a warm and sunny June afternoon, Maxwell Rhys Butler was born. And he is perfect. Congratulations to my favorite no0b parents. Let the fun begin

Summer school is up and running. Eleven boys, one girl, and me in a too-quiet classroom.

Even though I’m not on a full summer break, there’s something about the season that makes everything just a little bit more exciting and humid and tangible and alive. Carter and I are busy adventuring – swimming, movie-going, library-ing, splash pad-ing, and otherwise gallivanting about town on our hind wheels.

My sophisticated 2.5-year old noshing at the sushi bar. #miniboss

Found a bunny outside the library window. And yes, that’s a plastic cauliflower.

Carter and Cole “Cold” Petrucci.

Once upon a time, there were two little 7-year old best friends. They grew up and had first babies four months apart. Carter and Alexa have no choice but to get married. The end.

Carter and his wingman Van at the railroad park.

Peach pickin’.

Aaaand as soon as the carousel started, he jumped off into my arms.

My little hobo.

Bird perch.

Aunt Mimi’s backyard.

Some light reading.

Cousin time, minus “Seany”.

Arts and crafts. And foreheads.

It’s not cheating. It’s modifying.

I guess the point is that I don’t take enough pictures of my child. I’ll work on that.

In H-Lynne news, things are far less exciting. I’m redoing the downstairs of my house, and it’s almost done, and it looks like an old British lady’s cottage, which is exactly what I was going for. My writer’s circles are increasingly helpful, and even though it’s a slow process, I’m making headway on writing a novel, which feels overwhelming and awesome. Bucket list milestone. Oh, and I daydream about the beach. A lot.

Miley’s got a dance recital coming up, Landry’s starting to talk, Sean can almost crawl, and new baby girl will be here in less than a blink. All of the adults in my family need more sleep.

And if you’ve gotten this far, you’re probably procrastinating on the internet like a true American. So here are some of my recent intrigues:

A reminder on how to feel ok.

For when I feel like complaining: This place has not seen rain in 2 million years.

Tech Noir: So cool. I love cinemagraphs.

Your Mom: A thought-provoking article for parents on body image. 

Selfless Portraits: People around the world drawing each other’s Facebook portfolio pictures.

Destruction I’m fine with: Sculptures made out of/inside books.

Dr. Seuss: From now on, this is how I’m solving life problems.

This is one hundred and ten percent accurate: What really happens on a teen girl’s iPhone.

Coming out on top: These teachers are geniuses.

Hermit Crab Migration: Can’t look away; part of me is dead now.

Erin Stockwell: A best friend’s culinary blog is up and at it again.

What’s wrong? Oh nothing. It’s just my face.

For the dog days of motherhood “when you want your money back”.

An exerpt from a favorite author:

“What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are–underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.”

- Sandra Cisneros

I’ve thought the same thing so many times. Except, what about the days like today, when you feel five years older? What then? Yesterday: seventeen. Last week: twenty-one. But today? Thirty-three. At least.

I’m going to be incredibly blunt in this post.

I do not like to date. Well, I guess I mean first-date, or date around. I know that I’m not the most experienced at this, but I’m telling you: it’s for the birds.

I do not like walking towards someone for the first time and having them wait awkwardly for me to approach. I don’t like wondering if I should hug them or shake their hand. I do not like realizing 10 minutes in that he sort of reminds me of my second uncle. The one with the bad teeth. I do not like to guess at whether or not I’m talking too much or too little. I do not like trying to get to know someone over food – first of all, nerves and hunger do not harmoniously exist within me, and secondly, I’m a messy eater to begin with. So, one might then ponder, WHY do all men pick Italian joints for a first date?? Anything with sauce is going to wind up in my hair. I promise. Anyway, whatever, it’s just not my favorite.

And then there’s the whole issue of meeting people to begin with. Bars (ew). Friends of single friends. Friends of your married friends (all two that are single).  Online dating. Home Depot. The frozen food section of the grocery store.

What I’m quickly picking up on is that I’m not the only one who is rather maladroit at the whole gig. And maybe, just maybe, I’m not even bad at all — at least not by comparison.

Let’s take the online dating realm. Since joining, I’ve been inundated with some fabulously derpish/creepy messages. After just shy of a month on the site, I’ve decided it’s time to pack it in. Why? Because however entertaining the content of these messages may be, they beg the eternal question: WTF is wrong with the male population?

You just can’t take common sense for granted.  Nah. Nope. Nada. Recently, I have died many a gnarly death from the secondhand embarrassment brought forth from digital attempts at socialization. Case in point, here are this last week’s top 10 examples of ways NOT to start an initial correspondence:

1. “I think I’m in love…”

2. “I was wondering if there is any chance you might like to have a romantic relationship. It can be a friends with benefits type to begin with, then once my work schedule clears up in a few months, I will actually have free time to fully date and progress things from there. At this time, it is better if I do not have the drama or stress of a typical relationship. I just want to have a lot of fun hanging out and fulfilling our desires, while we get to know each other.”

3. “I enjoyed reading your profile, especially the part about your spare time activity – writing. I do that quite a lot in the late hours of the evening, mostly as an antidote to the depression.”

4.”Hi, I’m Brian. I read your profile and wanted to say hello. Since you love the written word so much I thought I would share with you. I’m a hopeless romantic. I started to dabble in writing poetry. Here is something I wrote you might like:

I touch you with my words
As they wash across your body
Over your breasts, through your torso
Down your legs to the tips of your toes

They wrap around you to make your heart race
To keep your warm and make you feel safe
To give you hope
To make you dream
Of beautiful love and the most romantic things

Then one day it will be
And one day soon
It will be the most incredible thing
When you know someone truly loves you…….”

5. “Are you part banana? Because you’re a-peeling!” — tied with — “You’d better direct that beauty somewhere else, you’ll set the carpet on fire.”

6. “So, hypothetical question…if you were to be, let’s say, attracted to me…AND, let’s say attracted to my female friend…would you wanna make out with us? I promise we are not ugly and I have pictures.”

7. “Hey, i just wanted to tell you that you look straight gorgie <3″

8. “You could honestly have my heart without even trying. Your beauty dominates me.”

9. “Hello, I’m Chris. I’m 31 and I’m new to Arizona. I’m traveling to San Diego tomorrow and would love some company. Care to join me?”

10. “Why do all the charming women have a thing for Christ?”

I mean, I signed up for this, so I was ready for a bit of internettish creep, just not the heft of this dose. Even browsing on my own, I find myself more than slightly appalled. Let’s just briefly chat about some miscellaneous tips and points to ponder for men attempting to win over the opposite sex via the world wide web:

Do not refer to your canine as your “doggie”. Baby talk is not attractive.

Your webcam did not “give [you] a confused look”. That’s just your face.

No one cares that you can “bench press 290 pounds”. Cool story, bro. That’s, like, the weight of a newborn elephant.

I see that you all like to describe yourselves as “laid back” guys. What does that even mean?

Shirtless photographs are tacky. So are Droid selfies of your flexed biceps or your not-very-good tattoos. You might also double check that the photo doesn’t show your wedding ring. Just a thought.

If it says that I’m interested in a 28-38 age bracket, I could see you being 27 or 39 and messaging me anyway. But no, no, quite the contrary. You’re 53. Or 21. We have nothing in common, I promise.

If I list myself as Christian, and you list your favorite book as The God Delusion, I’m not sure why you’re messaging me and checking my profile 8 times a day.

Referring to me as “you gorgeous little girl” makes me want to vomit. Profusely. Please die.

Dear BigRob: Your message — “I take the visit with the lack of reply as an ‘I’m not interested’. Sorry to have bothered you, take care” — was really sweet. Despite your lol-able screen name, I hadn’t deleted your initial message (which you sent less than an hour ago). Thank you for the complimentary red flag. You represent the passive aggressive, repeat-message sending folks in all their charm. I tend to particularly want to reply to the repeat messages that begin with “Not to seem desperate, but…”

In short folks, the internet is the Louisiana swamp of dating:  just as scummy as your local watering hole, only larger. And with more crocs crocks.

I had initially intended to comment on all arenas of meeting new people — and the difficulties that arise for each — but frankly, I’m a little exhausted now, and if you’re still reading, you probably feel the same. So let’s just assume that you did in fact meet someone at the farmer’s market. Or you agreed to go out with your friend’s boss’s son. This is all hypothetical, of course, with no basis in my reality.

Anyhow, you go out and you have a nice time. Nothing earth shattering. You know before you sit down with him that this is not going anywhere – and it’s taking it’s sweet time. You are, at best, slightly resentful that the polite action is to sit through the planned activity. You listen to them tell you all about their sales department and the time they got food poisoning in Tiajuana (you don’t say…). You try to be a good listener, but you’re distracted by your self-induced restless leg syndrome and the (hypothetical, of course) regret that you’re not at home in your pajamas blogging and listening to your toddler boss his blankie around. You’re mostly paying attention, but you’re also mentally grading sophomore Sydney Aguilar’s metafictional narrative essay – it pays to have a photographic memory on dates like these. And then the check arrives and you insist on going Dutch, and he puts on his best wounded soldier face and pouts until you put your Visa away, and suddenly you’re ok with your beverage choice of water-with-lemon. He walks you to your car, you awkwardly side hug, drive away, and then, he goes and does it.  The day-after text: “I really had an amazing/incredible/awesome time last night. Can I take you out again?”

It’s not him, it’s you. Clearly it’s not normal that you’d rather have spent the evening knitting beanies for next winter, drinking hot chamomile tea in June, and watching So You Think You Can Dance whilst racing to change loads of laundry during commercial breaks. He’s nice. He’s a gentleman.  He wears Express polos and khakis like it’s his job. He’s successful. Hygienic. Smart. He’s great. It’s you. You suck.

At any rate, the right thing to do is to be up front, right? Just be straightforward?

No. No, that’s not what you should do. You should not be direct. Not unless you want a barrage of scorned backlash thrown in your face. Clearly, you should just ignore men until they get the hint, or play other fun games that I don’t know yet, but should probably learn. Because, you know, you don’t value your time, and you care that much.

Ugh.

Back to the gist: I hate dating. I was not built to be on the lookout. If this were the Hunger Games of dating, my picture would be up in the sky first. I’m just not a capable predator. We can safely assume that thirty years from now, I will not be a very good cougar.

I’m getting around to facing the obvious-to-everyone-else: this isn’t me, and I don’t need it. What’s meant to happen will happen, and in the mean time, my life of Dutch Bros. coffee, Sprouts shopping, and Carter-cuddling is more than enough to keep me a happy lady for, well, ever.

Look here. It’s time to run away. If you want to come with me, you can.

No, not them. You.

There’s a beach calling our name. Or a mountain. Doesn’t matter. This place, it got tired. Wherever we’re going, we’re going right now, together, and we’re not looking back.

We’ll take turns driving. I’ll start, and you’ll oversee the radio. We’ll stop at the gas station and get snacks and bottled drinks with straws. We’ll forget to steal extra napkins, but regret it later when I spill mine on my lap. Typical.

It’s best that we go pretty fast at first. There’s a sense of urgency when it comes to crossing borders. We’ll drive out the disappointment. You and I, we’ll melt the highway beneath us.

We’ll probably roll the windows down, even though it’s a little too hot. You’ll sing all the words to our favorite songs (with 92% accuracy), and I’ll just listen, because I’m a little shy, even around myself.

We’ll need to take a break or two and pull over. Walk the road or hug the curb. At the rest stop, we’ll buy umbrellas or balloons — whichever’s necessary for the trip. Then we’ll swap places.

When I’m in the passenger seat, I won’t get bored at all. I’ll watch the colors of the landscape race each other until they’re diluted by the setting sun. I’ll point out funny landmarks. I’ll fall asleep with my sunglasses on.

At night, we’ll have the moon for dinner and save the leftover stars. Maybe we’ll stop, but it’s more likely we’ll keep going. We’ll brave the blind turns and count the mile markers. You will protect me; I’ll be your champion.

It’s almost summer, but it won’t be summer without you. You’ve got to go with me. We’ll hold hands across the center console and fall in dashboard love. So what if we’re running away, so long as we’re headed in the right direction.

It’s easy to forget how big the world is and how small we are. But there are these moments, incredible moments, when I realize that everything is so big that I could lead the most fulfilled life and never, no matter how hard I tried, really know it all. In my tiny, limited knowledge, I pretend that I understand some small part of existence. I pretend that any of it makes sense. On my best days, I drink chai in the morning and reisling before six o’clock, and I remember that there are still castles I haven’t visited.

How quaint.

Here’s how I know I love you (any of you):
When I see something especially wonderful, I immediately want to share it.

Here’s some stuff I’ve been into:

The great and powerful Ashley Butler introduced me to my new favorite internet place, Dooce.com. For this and many, many other reasons, I am eternally indebted.

I Wrote This For You – This site got me through some bad days. And the writers stopped updating when they knew I was just fine, so I know it was actually written for me. Sorry guys. That solves that mystery.

All of the variations on the HRC marriage equality badge had me laughing. So hard.

Hard to choose a favorite, but I think it might be Rafiki.

Ok, Jesse. You can take my picture more often. I guess.

Jesse and I took a trip to a convention in New Mexico. An anime convention. I know, I know. (It’s ok guys — I’ve done my research. I know how to settle the score.)

Anime is not my scene. Not my brand of weirdness. There were things seen that cannot be unseen. At any rate, I absolutely didn’t need to know about tentacle porn. Also, Albuquerque in general may be questionable in nature. It’s a good thing the people were awesome. Here were the highlights:

1. Despite being warned (oh, please) that we would be listening to nonstop trance, I got to control Pandora. Band of Horses, Blood Orange, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Neko Case, a little Florence…

2. I got a big chunk of Sense and Sensibility digested. Thoughts so far: I might be an Elinor, and that might suck.

3. Mimosas and french toast? Don’t mind if I do.

4. I got a quick lesson on aperture and shutter speed, and I’d like more photo knowledge, thanks.

Bird is really, really into a few quality things this month. Star Wars. Counting. Cuddling. Little Einsteins. Pancakes. All things that I wildly approve of.

Hitchhiker’s thumbs and relief that nothing burned down.

Guess what’s wrapped up for the year? NHS.

Summer is coming, and that means lots of party time with these two, plus Landry and Baby Sean and even…

…niece #3. (!!!!!)

Remember Dove’s “Real Beauty Sketches” video that was being Facebook-plastered last week? I didn’t like it. But it was a busy week, and I couldn’t dwell on it and try to pin down why. But this, guys. This.

In other news, I actually cooked adult dinners last week, and I’m craving Annie Dillard. And Joan Didion. And Sylvia Plath. So it must be spring.

You know what makes life considerably more worth living these days? The sun is up when my alarm goes off at Godawful-thirty. And some other things. Like pineapple pizza. And people who smile with their eyes. Morning text messages. Italian sodas. Parking lot epiphanies. Sassy work emails. Solving life problems with naps. Tyrion Lannister. Excessively strong attachments. But the winner is: How Carter does what the cartoons tell the audience to do.

We’ll end this with my favorite topic.

It’s ok. I know. He’s cooler than me, too.

I play the “What If?” game. I’m really good at it. You can’t win, so that’s not why I’m good at it. I just practice a lot. I’ve vested many a collective hour playing “What If?”.

It is not awesome.

Something like ten months ago, I laid in bed staring at a ceiling fan. In retrospect, I’m fairly certain the blades were spinning counterclockwise, even though it was June. Did you know that you should reverse your ceiling fan’s spin in the summer to draw the warm air up? I didn’t. Now I do.

It was too warm. I laid there, half nervous, half sleepy. (That, dear friends, sums me up quite nicely.) I wasn’t alone, but he wasn’t staring at the ceiling fan like a savant.

“My side of the bed is always the one closest to the door.”

“The window is faster.”

“Yeah, if I’m alone. But the fastest way is actually –”

“– out the door, through Carter’s window.”

“Yeah.”

Ahh — kindred spirits. In some polluted, withered, parallel universe, my eyes squinted and my lips pursed and my head bobbed, all with the recognition that I’d bonded over something completely inappropriate, unromantic, and, in the light of first dates, rather ironic.

I’ve spent the better part of two years preoccupied with planning escape routes.

If I had car trouble on the way to work, I’d call Annette first and AAA second.

If a shooter came on campus before I could get us out of the classroom, I’d cover my windows with dark paper. I’d use the students’ desks to barricade the middle of the classroom: trapezoid-shaped shields. I know what I can use as a weapon. I know where to aim. There’s more to this one, but it’ll get morbid.

If I’m diagnosed with a terminal illness, I know how I’m going to pose my face in the doctor’s office. I know how I’ll tell my loved ones, and I know how I’ll spend my last days.

I have extensive fire escape routes for my house, my classroom, my mom’s, my church, and most SuperTargets.

While I’ve considered floods, hurricanes, and earthquakes, I’ll be honest — my designs have been a bit more shallow seeing as I live in, you know, Phoenix.

I bought a gas lamp to decorate the table for a fancy dinner, but I also thought to myself, “This would be handy in a blackout.”

I don’t know if it would work, but I’ve figured out a way to not lose my voice when I’m scared and need to yell. I’m not sure how to test it though. That only happens in my dreams.

God laughs at all my plans. And I know they’ll never happen, because I’ve planned for them. That’s how the world works. I laugh and think, “If I plan it through, then at least I can guarantee it won’t happen.”

God says, “Heather, you walk through life with your palms facing up and and your eyes and face round, and you can’t help it.” God, he enjoys my naivety.  Not in a condescending way, either. He knows what to do to test a person like me.

In an emergency, it’s always the one thing you never thought of.

–

If I’m not careful, I think like this:

Me and you, and him and her, we work our fingers to the bones, waiting for payday. But the worst parts of life are free of charge, and they hit hard and in the face.

In a hiding place, the safest place is with my back against a wall. When you’ve got nowhere else to go but down, you’re safest with a wall behind you. When the door slams, the house shakes. But if you’ve got a wall, you can feel it. I felt it. Your back, flattened spine, scraping the wall, each vertebrae another inch down. You can’t find your feet, and the tile is a tidal wave. Your palms are at the top of a heap that begins with the nape of your neck and ends with  a puddle of shins.

You don’t even cry, because it’s the same place that always seems to get hurt, and if you break the same spot over and over again, the nerve endings die and it goes numb. It doesn’t hurt anymore, and you’re not proud of it.

You don’t have to make a move to set off a land mine. You can play by all the rules and still lose. You can build walls, but they’ll end up pock-marked from stones hurled in an effort to get in and covered in graffiti sprayed in defiance. At any rate, you won’t be able to see over the wall without a ladder, and you can’t put your back against a wall while standing on a ladder trying to look over it.

My head, it can be an exhausting place.

–

But when the debris settles from tornadoes and dust devils alike, I think like this:

I need my ladder, stat.

I am: round eyes, long neck, palms open to catch the sky.

Me and you, we’re not capable of living life like soldiers back from war. I’ve watched other people do it. I’ve coveted their walls. But their eyes are hard and their smiles are sarcastic, and that’s just no life for us.

We are all carved out of the same mud. We are not the soldiers that we had to be yesterday, and we are not merely survivors. Me and you, we still cry, and that’s a good thing. It means the dead parts fell off. It means there’s growth.

–

Lately, I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants on purpose. I’m working on worrying less — it really never did me a bit of good.

Sometimes, all you need is a burrito and an attitude adjustment.

I have the look. Not the look that gets the touch. I have the look of a person that incites the quirkiest of odd ducks to make beelines right to me. I pretty much have a figurative neon sign on my forehead that reads: “Are you a social outcast? Down on your luck? Just plain weird? Sign up over here.”

Most days, I love this sign. It’s inherited — it belongs to my mother, and to my mother’s mother. The lessons I’ve learned from it, namely that outsiders are the ones worth getting to know, have served me well. I’m a profound believer in rooting for the underdog. Dream big.

That said, I’m taking a break.

Dear Carter,

You wake up in the morning with cartoonish yawns and a crookedy smile, stretching your skinny smidges of arms and knobby little legs out in your fleece firefighter footed jammies. You laugh at me for waking you up on school days, a caustic social commentary on how silly the six o’clock hour is.

When you’re especially sleepy, or especially happy, or especially impish, your Precious Moment teardrop-eyes slide right down the sides of your face — an adorable abstract masterpiece. Your dome makes you a tad top heavy, and you’ve got a pretty wild cowlick to boot, but I’d be lying if I didn’t declare you the cutest human being I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Who loves you?

“Mommy.”

What do you want to drink?

“Hot chocklit milk.” Which is not chocolate at all, but just warm milk in a sippy.

What do you like to eat?

“Fruit Nacks. Ananas. Pickuld oakrah. Pepperownees. Raisins. PIZZA. Appulls. Blooburries. Cheese stick.”

You know shapes and colors and all the letters of the alphabet (though refuse to entertain the song). Your favorite color is “geen” and your “faborate” food is French fries. You can kick a ball with more accuracy and ferocity than kids twice your age, but walking isn’t exactly a strength. My genes, sorry. You pinch my cheeks, honk my nose, and hold my hand to cross the street. You yell “Rock nnnn Roooowl” as you run down the sidewalk, and you shout random numbers — “Two…Seb’m…Eight…Eleb’m” – when you count the pages of books. You know all the trucks on the road, and list them to me as we begin our day: “Cement ‘Ixer. Scoobus. Police car…WOO WOO.”

You talk all the time.

Because you’re so social and demanding of everyone’s attention, I was shocked when I spied on you last Sunday in the church nursery. You moseyed on over, solo, to an empty table filled with puzzles, and slid into one of the miniature red plastic chairs. Swinging your feet (they don’t quite touch the floor yet), you set to work. The room was full of kids to play with, but you were most content playing on your own. Fast forward an hour when I came to pick you up — you were still seated by your puzzles, but now half of the nursery was crowded around you, watching you plug the pieces into their rightful niches.

We’ve started to say our prayers together every night. Mostly, I say them, and you repeat (with your own twist). We end each prayer thanking God for all of the people who love you so.

God bless Carter and Mommy and Papa and Grammy…

“Gawd bluss (gigglegiggle) Papa and Grammy.”

God bless Mimi and Uncle Taylor…

“Bluss Mimi and Uncle Taylur.”

Who else?

“Myee.”

Yep. Who else?

“Landee.”

God bless Uncle Patrick and Aunt Megan…

“Bluss Uncle Pachick and Uncle Magan.”

God bless Baby Sean and Baby Kami.

“Bebe Jean and Bebe Kami.”

God bless Jesse and Niecey and Lou…

“Jenieceyou.”

God bless Lyndsay and John…

“Gawd bluss Lenny and Jawn.”

Who else?

(Gigglegiggle) Gawd bluss…hellacopper?

(Sidenote: this goes on for a while, until the blocks, Doc McStuffins, books, cars, trains, trucks, Mickeys, and balls far outnumber the people.)

Amen?

“Amen.”