Sigh. Heavy sigh.

My heart is heavy. My dad is gone. My mother is dying. My daughter, Elizabeth, has left. We kicked her out. Well. Not really "We," rather, her dad. When I was out visiting my mom on the Fourth (a trip that requires I take half a Xanax ... ), he and Elizabeth were arguing.
She'd been ill; just that morning, her dad had taken her to a minute clinic, an urgent care facility, so a physician could troubleshoot her sore throat and her headache and her lethargy, and after two hours of waiting, the visit and diagnosis came: tonsillitis and sinus infection. Antibiotics were ordered, and bed rest, and the fluids we always hear about. And then, after she lay on the couch, she suddenly felt better, what with 3 p.m. rolling around and fireworks stands beckoning.
"I'm going out to buy fireworks, Dad," is how their conversation started.
"No. No. You're not," is what her father said. "Remember, you're sick."
"I suddenly feel better."
"You're not going. Besides, you're still in trouble for the other night." (The "other night" is a separate posting.)
"You can't make me stay home," she taunted.
"Oh, really? Watch me."
And then she was off, a renewed agility in climbing the stairs to her second-story bedroom, to the place that housed her make-up and straightening iron, the room that would prepare her for the night.
That's when things turned ugly. At some point my husband told our mouthy, entitled daughter that she was going to follow house rules, that she was going to show respect to her parents, at which point she complained of living in a prison (our home), and how horrible we were as parents, and how it wasn't fair that if we "made so much money" why wasn't she getting to go to school in Chicago and assorted other complaints, culminating in "I HATE IT HERE AND YOU CAN'T KEEP ME LOCKED UP HERE WITH YOUR RETARDED RULES ... ."
You know, I wasn't there to note who said what at what time and if there were, in fact, any expletives exchanged. All I know is when I returned to the house, my hubby had gone to a concert (which, later, he said was ruined on account of the conflict earlier in the day) and my previously ill daughter was out on the town.
Ignoring our house rules.
When she returned at 11:30 p.m., a half hour before her newly curtailed curfew, she figured her life would soon be back to normal, but OHNO, Daddy was mad.
"Get out of my house," is what he said. "Give me your house key. Take the clothes on your back and get out."
Which she did. No tears or anything, just a narrowing of the eyes and hatred spewing from her cold, dark pupils.
The next day she phoned. Wanted to come by to pick up the rest of her stuff.
"You have sixty minutes to clear out your possessions," we told her. (We have to be on the same page, my husband and I ... .)
She came, delivery made possible by a friend driving a four-door red car. She packed her stuff in humongous yellow garbage bags. Her friend sat out in the car, waiting. Fifty minutes came and went. She hauled out her belongings.
And then she was gone.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy ....

Catfish are jumpin' and the river is high (or something like that) ... .
Well.
School is out and that means one thing: I have time to write and read now; I have time to talk to other people about writing and reading; I have time to plompf my butt down on a worn leather chair at my fave bookstore and turn pages in a beloved dreamlike trance. In short: I am free of grading and lesson planning and 5:30 alarms. Free of mothering 110 eighth graders (which is mostly great, but, hey, a gal needs a break).
Free to blog. Which makes me happy.

Needin' a new profile pic ...

Not only am I now the beholder of rather long hair (or, long-ish), I really need to have an updated pic posted. Also, I am now a brunette. Too much peroxide (read: highlighting/low lighting/midlighting) had left my hair brittle and frizzled.
***
On a bright note, I'm down to about 40 instructional days at the middle school. I can do it. Forty I can do.
I survived turning 40, even when I thought I would stay in bed for the rest of my life, curled in a fetal position.

It's been a long time ...

Since I've posted, that is.
School makes me so stupidly busy that I've come to resent my career. When I'm not teaching, I'm thinking about teaching, or grading papers.
Ick.
I am desperate to be a stay-at-home mom. I know, I know, my kids are growing up, and pretty soon I won't have any at home at all. When Elizabeth graduates this year and heads off to college it's going to be me and the dog.
The prairie-spawn spousal unit usually heads to bed around 8 p.m. ~ seriously ~ and so here I will sit come September, sans conversation ... part of me thinks I might end up liking it, supposing I take up quilting, or another time-intensive project.
Only time will tell!

Field of Dreams ...

Everyone who knows me knows how much I love baseball. And the Midwest. Some people crave coastal living ... not Kathleen Stander. I've been to California; I've been to New York; my heart belongs in Missouri. Maybe Minnesota (I do so love winter). Perhaps Iowa. Kansas, not so much. Ditto for Nebraska.
So the spouse and I are heading to Dubuque. Has (his name, for the uninitiated) says that Dubuque, Iowa is, in his estimation, the most beautiful city in this great nation. No homebody is he, either. His employment takes him around the country in both clockwise and counter-clockwise direction. He's pretty much been everywhere. And he still maintains that Dubuque is "where the living is at."
I'll soon found out. Dyersville, Iowa, is the location where my favorite baseball movie, Field of Dreams, was filmed. The field is there, and the farmhouse that cutie-pie Kevin Costner called home in his role as the baseball-loving farmer. So we'll be visiting Dyersville, which is about ten miles outside of Dubuque.
I'm excited to visit some of the painted ladies that decorate this river town, set high upon a bluff.
Lots of pictures I'll take, and then will post.

Why I write ...

I recently sat down to think about why it is, exactly, that I write. The way I figure it, if I didn't feel compelled to write, and spend anywhere from ten minutes a day to ten hours a day (no kidding, yeah, I've done that ... .) I'd have more time in my day. To clean house. To watch The West Wing with my politically-oriented son. To make my husband a homemade pie. You get the picture. I've had dry periods, where no writing came forth, but then I got cranky and had to pick up a pen to right/write my way out of the funk.
Why is it, exactly, that I write?
This is what I've come up with: I can't seem to NOT write. (So what I've split an infinitive.)
I started writing even before I knew how to write. What was I ... three or four years old? I distinctly remember "writing" stories under Mom's scalloped-trimmed coffee table ... using a skinny felt-tipped marker, or one of Mom's fountain pens. (She always called them "fountain pens," which to this day makes me feel tender about her.)
In second grade I wrote a story about a dog with a 100-foot tail. Won the teacher's seal of approval. My mom saved the story for years, and then it just up and disappeared. I'd really like to see it again. I remember the illustrations, but the words are out of my head.
In seventh grade I joined the school newspaper. Wrote a "Dear Somebody" column, offering advice. "My boyfriend skated with another girl. What do I do?" sort of stuff.
In tenth grade I was named Features Editor of my high school newspaper, which meant something because The Criterion won numerous state awards. Senior year? I was Editor in Chief. I wore business suits to school, high-heeled pumps. Aspired to be the next Jessica Savitch.
In college, I got distracted (Read: pregnant) and then, because I was a mother, left journalism to pursue a career I thought would be family friendly: teaching!
Taught high school English for five years, got burned out, left the field. While teaching, I dabbled in poetry and playwrighting. Wrote, produced and directed a two-act comedy, Trail Mix. Aspired to be the female Neil Simon.
Too much month at the end of the money. Had to get a job. A local newspaper was hiring a receptionist/typist (this dates me, doesn't it?). I typed up press releases and obituaries. Got brave one day and asked the editor if I could write a story. He said yes. Pretty soon I was writing more and more.
Missed teaching. Went back. Went for one year only.
Missed writing for publication. Got hired at a different newspaper. Did obits, press releases, feature stories, covered three local school districts. The paper hired a new managing editor: he gave me a column. Tales from the (mother)hood was born. It ran weekly, was my pride and joy.
Feeling civic duty, I ran for a school board seat and was elected. Could no longer work for the local paper. Missed teaching. Went back to it.
Two years in, I missed writing. Put myself on a deadline to write a novel, the summer of 2006. Wrote from 8 a.m. until 5 p.m. six days a week; took an hour for lunch and to stretch out my neck and shoulders. Ever typed nine hours a day? I lost 28 pounds that summer and by the time mid-August rolled around I'd done it: written a 130,000 word literary novel called The Hour of Lead. Solicited two agents. Struck down twice. School started. Teaching sucks my energy; I quit marketing my book.
Winter of 2006-07, my dad was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. I took six weeks off from school to take care of him while my mom was doing her own dying in a local hospital.
He died in front of me on a muggy, rainy Saturday night. June 30, 2007.
I didn't write for nine months. A pregnancy of drought.
And I missed it.
So I started this blog.
Why is it you write, dear reader?

Figuring things out ...

I haven't been blogging: 1) My best gal pal's 18-year-old son was killed on the Fourth of July (motorcycle accident: NOT HIS FAULT); 2) I've been distracted by Facebook, what with getting an account and all; 3) I've been reading and reading (trying to get through YA titles); 4) Summer school's kicking my butt (a language acquisition course); 5) My children continue to be needy, which I love, as being needed fills me with contentment.
So I've been busy.
But Alex's death has really made me reprioritize what's important on this earth. My new fat roll should not be giving me stress; the abundance of animal hair in the house should not be making me crazy; the kid clutter and dirty dishes in the sink (perpetual, it seems) should not be cause for whining.
Because my children are all alive, and there are wonderful animals (two cats, one dog) to offer creature comfort, and my husband and I still really, truly love each other, and our house protects us and I have my library and a closet full of clothes and a pantry stocked with food.
My life is so, so good.
I am a blessed woman.