Small delights ...

Although French poet and essayist Charles Baudelaire was a bit of a man-whore and died of syphilis at the age of 46 (my current year), I am impressed with this quote, circa 18-something: "A multitude of small delights constitutes happiness."
Because I agree with the statement. Because I appreciate its simplicity.
Look: Short of winning PowerBall, I am never going to be fabulously wealthy and have the financial wherewithal to order scads of fresh flowers daily (i.e. Sir Elton John). I am not going to employ a live-in domestic helper (no space for her in the house; no space for her in the banking account), which means all my life I will battle the dusting ritual (detested), the toilet scrubbing routine (ick), the daily vaccuming (moderately soothing). And then consider the countless dishwasher loadings and unloadings, the endless trips to the grocery, the cleaning of the refrigerator, the cooking of the food, the cleaning of the stovetop, the constantCONstantCONSTANT housekeeping involved in living and breathing and eating and bathing.
But I can and will and MUST find happiness in a multitude of small delights: fresh sheets on the bed, a steaming cup of morning coffee, the metronomic heartbeat of ticking clocks in an otherwise silent household.
You know what little experiences bring you happiness: a sharpened pencil (J.B.), breakfast at midnight (B.B.), falling leaves (C.W.), old phones (J.J.S.), Dunkin Donut coffee (K.M.D.), the sound of children laughing (J.M.-H.)
You know, the little things that help us get through the big things.

Rainy Day Cold

Home today. Sick. Cough with cold, as Forrest Gump would say. Also, it's Columbus Day, and school is out for the kids. Hubby is home, too, only he's been tinkering in the garage for the better part of the day.

I've been in the chair, alternately checking FB and reading through the Sunday paper and several periodicals ("St. Anthony Messenger" and "Instructor" ~ two pubs that represent who I am, I suppose: A Catholic and an Educator.)

I've been subbing this year. Nineteen days, I believe. Don't have any pre-arranged dates this week, but I know the phone will ring incessantly starting at 5:30 a.m.

Still not writing. Outlining a tentative piece: "One Hundred Dollars, One Hundred Days" ~

detailing the life of a sub. I had a strong start, but like most things in my life, I start wholeheartedly and then ... stop, suddenly or with dramatic cessation.

Recently I was diagnosed with ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). Makes sense to me. Explains my starts and stops, my inattention to Things Around Me, my indecisiveness, my inability to sit anywhere without shaking my leg.

It's a start, the knowing. As Oprah says, "Once we know better, we do better."

Yesterday I signed up for Dr. Oz's "Transformation Nation." Goal: Lose 50 pounds by my August birthday.

Done that before, the goal setting. How to finish what I start?

Productive day ...

I finally got my laptop, which should lead to writing. On this blog, on the new nonfiction project I have brewing. Should I find the novel I wrote in 2006 (how does a novel go missing?), this laptop will lead to its edit and completion and solicitation.

I have not been writing.

I have not been writing.

I have not been writing.

I will begin writing. One hour a day is my plan.

Also, I want to write a blog post a day, just to check in. Unless I have more important things to say.

Going gently into that pecan-pumpkin good night ...

My mom is still hanging on.
Here in my dining room, she lies in the hospital bed, sleeping 20 hours of every day, waking to try to toilet herself ("Mom, you have to let me know before you try to use the commode!") or to ask for a piece of pie. Since coming here, she's consumed an entire pecan pie ~ one tiny slice at a time. She's now eaten half a cherry and pumpkin pie.
In thirteen days she's eaten two turkey sandwiches, some French toast, three slices of bacon, and twelve pieces of pie.
I am reminded of what my diabetic grandmother said in the weeks preceding her death: "If I can't have pie, then I don't want to live." She meant those words.
And so history repeats itself. At times I want to withhold the pie, say No, Mom, you need to eat something more nutritious, but then I remember what her hospice nurses have said: "It's about quality, not quantity."
It's no easy feat watching your mother waste away; it's hard to hear her talk nonsense as her cognition fades; it really sucks to have to empty one, two, three ... eighteen ... thirty-six commode buckets.

Death is not pretty here in this house. It smells bad and there's lots of moaning. Yesterday Mom cried, but I cannot remember why. She had a very good reason, but I am so tired from the caregiving that my own cognition is fuzzy. Lack of sleep. Tending to a dying parent is like having a newborn in the house again, only far more depressing.

It is not easy as pie.

The best-laid plans of mice and women ...

"We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us." ~ E. M. Forster, British writer (1879-1970)

Is that right, Mr. Forster? Is your sensibility here due to personal experience?

My personal experience: Life is what has happened to me while I've been waiting for other things to happen to me. Like being a size 6. Like having a career that pays enough to shop at Ann Taylor Loft. Or a career that allows for travel and exciting locales.

How is it, exactly, that I am living this particular life? Is it by accident, or some
Great Plan or just a sequence of decisions ? that has led to my being a middle-aged, overweight, middle school teacher. I mean, I hadn't planned on being a teacher. I hadn't planned on having an empty nest at the age of 45. I hadn't planned on marrying a man seven years my senior who doesn't believe in spending money on vacations (and is prematurely bald, bless his heart). And I sure in heck hadn't planned on having a six-month pregnancy belly when I am certainly nowhere near being pregnant.

I really, truly thought my life would be far different than it is. If you'd asked me twenty-five years ago where I'd be in 2010, I never would have guessed at the helm of a middle school classroom, teaching eleven and twelve year olds the difference between simple and compound sentences.

I had PLANNED on an exciting world in broadcast journalism (I was going to be the next Jessica Savitch). I had PLANNED on marrying a thick-haired attorney/doctor; I had PLANNED on postponing motherhood until the age of 35. I had PLANNED to vacation in Vail with my well-dressed preppy offspring.

Of course none of this happened. None.

Not complaining. Really. That would be rude and horrible and disrespectful to the life I am leading. I'm just contemplating how it is that I got here. Mostly, though, I'm wanting to figure out where I'm going next ~ and if I really have any say at all as to what happens to me in the next twenty-five years.

The air, crisp like a potato chip ...

"Just before the death of flowers,
And before they are buried in snow,
There comes a festival season
When nature is all aglow."
- Author Unknown

Feeling restless. Again.

So I'm sitting here in my dining room noticing there's dried dog snot on the window, but instead of cleaning it I want to go on a shopping spree, or book a vacation, or just get into the car and drive around, looking for Sunday Open Houses. I LOVE walking through other people's homes. I get great ideas for decorating, or decluttering.
Perhaps I'll go get some frozen custard, or stop by Lowe's and look through wallpaper books. Going to a pumpkin patch sounds appealing, only I don't have a small child to go with me; I would feel a bit like a creepster wandering around without a kid.
Fostering a child would be enormously satisfying; however, my spousal unit won't go for it. "We've already raised three children," he says.
There's a "BARK/BAKE" sale at the local animal shelter, until 5 p.m., only I think it would be VERY difficult to see an adorable animal and not be able to adopt it. "We already have a dog and a cat," my husband says.
Restless I am. Like I said.