just me, myself, and i.

this morning was weird. there was a thread of wire between me and my words that somehow made everything sound hollow and insincere. or righteous. or convoluted. somehow misconstrued. and it must have been me. b's voice was tinged with irritation and i was defensive. and then i realized it must be me because the kids just plain didn't like me this morning. it's hard when you share an 850 sq ft bungalow with three other humans and you feel like your feelings are bumping into every wall when you are in the room. white sheet on the floor, i bowed my head.

yesterday i was desperate for some alone time. no kids, no husband, no reason other than i needed to be alone with my own thoughts and not have to worry about communicating with anyone else for at least two to three hours. first the car died. and i felt as though the universe was trying to tell me something and i had to tell myself over and over to react as though this was not a big deal. because part of my job is to teach my children that sometimes the universe is an asshole and that is not enough of a reason to be one yourself. so i smiled, walked back in the house and made lunch for the kids while b took the car to get fixed. later, i got my two to three hours and they were decidedly less sumptuous than i had hoped. seems that getting away by myself for a bit of time didn't help all that much. because i was still there.
like i said, it must be me.

the seven year itch

on may 20th, our seven year anniversary, we woke up early. i fussed with my hair. he tied a bow tie. our kids got dressed at the last minute so they wouldn't ruin their finery. we packed the car with certificates and rings and pink peonies from trader joes. we stopped at cathryn's for a quick shoot. because she is the kind of friend and photographer who is able to capture perfectly how alive you feel. so that you will see your pictures for the first time and you will start crying all over again.

we drove to a courthouse. inside were our parents and my amazing friend, ben, there to record the day for us. we waited in the lobby with other people dressed exactly like us. some fancier. some not. i was wearing sandals. i felt the most beautiful i have ever felt in my life. the rearview mirror of youth be damned.

we stood under an archway inside a tiny room with walls peppered with sponged on blue paint. i didn't know what side to stand on and all of a sudden i heard words along the lines of 'do you, krista, take bryan...' and i felt like a little girl in dress up clothes so i held his hands tighter. i kept my eyes on his and noticed my children in my peripheral vision, watching us, quiet. i was crying more than i expected. i was hovering over the government carpet and i willed myself back into my body because i did not want to forget what this felt like. i wanted to file it away for later so that when i need it, i can take the paper thin memory of that moment out of hiding and hold it up to the light, rub it between my fingers, inhale. 'i do.'

seven years. and i still get fluttery when catch a glimpse of him across the room, not aware i am watching him. he has taught me through example that there is nothing more appealing and inspiring in another human being than to be comfortable in your own skin. he tells me he loves me every single day. and i do not take it for granted. every time he tells me, i acknowledge it, i hear it, i am grateful for it. and i tell him, too. so that he doesn't ever have to wonder.

seven years and i am still surprised by him. a song he likes or a food he doesn't. and i remind myself that i cannot ever suppose to know every facet of him. that it makes me so happy for the future to know the person i am closest to in the world is still a book waiting to be read. that his chapters are still being written and that i get to see the first draft, always.

seven years, two babies together (and his teenage son who completes our little circle), and our wedding was not the best day of my life. because this is not the peak. things are not downhill from here.
the best day of my life hasn't happened yet.

i do.

(photos by cathryn farnsworth)

running on couches

he runs on the couch and i panic. i see heads on hardwood floors and broken bones. i use my stern voice and he sits down quickly and then gets up and runs to the other side. as if i can't see him. this picture, in fact, was taken reflexively AS i was admonishing him to SITDOWNONYOURBOTTOM. but look at that photo. can you hear the laughter? cause i can.
there is so much i am afraid of. worries i stack up like cards and lay on my ribcage at night, folded. i sleep on my side and my arm falls asleep while my brain pretends. there are moments like this morning where i think i didn't sleep at all and that somehow i exited through the front door at two am and snuck back in hours later. i was everywhere and nowhere and it isn't until my daughter screams out in the middle of the night that i feel myself fall back into bed. the pillow soaked and the covers tangled.

my five year old has always cried out in her sleep. her dreams are vivid and sometimes downright terrifying. last night there was a fly and every time she tried to shoo it away, it bit her. i gave her a drink of water and covered her with blankets. her brother didn't even stir. i crawled back to my bed and thought of my own flies. my own bites. and i tried to will hers into my head. since i don't mind smashing them away. i tried to give her chocolate fountains and princess shoes and i like to convince myself that i have the power to sway her dreams when she doesn't wake again until morning.

last night was opening night for the show. my piece is heavy and pretty personal but it is something i feel very good about sharing. i always try to have a reason for sharing the real stuff, you know? not just a narcissistic need to be heard. i really believe that sharing our stories is something that matters. when it comes down to it, there are days when all that i am holding onto is the idea that i am not alone in this bullshit. and sometimes that means sharing our stories with each other, outside of our normal circles, and listening to each other. witnessing someone speaking their truth. perhaps it is because i grew up with secrets that i have a hard time living with them now. i like to air them out. give them fresh air. so that they don't multiply and decay and ruin the foundation of things.

this is my second round of this show. and i am unexpectedly emotional about the real and true feeling of community that has happened this time around. i can't really describe it just yet. it's scary. and liberating. and validating. and horribly vulnerable. basically, it is all the things that art really is. and it is always worth it. one end of the couch to the other.

*tickets for the show still available, fyi*

moments.

i am constantly on the lookout for the moment.
the laughter that sounds like metal bells, the smile you simply cannot stop.
it is the painting that makes you feel like changing your clothes, the song that sits like a breeze on your wrist.

there are a lot of failings in my day to day it seems. the menu that didn't get cooked, the budget spreadsheet that looks much more like a rainbow than a pasture.

i am always wishing for the pasture, it seems. sitting on top of a mountain of dirt, unsure how to plant.

...

i am having trouble reconciling this space with the words i want to write. see, my children are getting to the point (my daughter especially) where her experiences are not mine to share. and, in part, my reaction to them is not mine to share, either. i, of course, have things to say that don't immediately revolve around my children but those things are increasingly rare, it seems. perhaps this is normal with small children in the home. when my free time basically is taken up with work and tasks and mindless nothing. perhaps i really am one of those women who has nothing to speak of outside my children.

(this is not true, of course. but it feels so at times. and therefore, to me, sometimes it is.)

...

i used to take a lot of pride in things i really had no control over. things like great skin on my legs (no marks, perfectly smooth, even tone.) now, my legs are riddled with years, creased and worn like a well used map. there are roadways and railways and bodies of water hidden just under the surface and they no longer look like a young girl. you see where i'm going here. 
this is one of those moments when you cradle your legs between your shoulders and you thank them for the years they have provided you with vanity. you sit in the ditch on the side of the road between understanding the meaning of beauty and just plain not giving a fuck and you hold out your thumb to strangers thinking that maybe you will either be harmed or saved.

these are the moments i'm talking about.

miscellany.

you know what i don't like? pictures of kids crying or throwing temper tantrums. i don't think they are funny and just can't seem to get behind the idea that watching children under the influence of anesthesia or the after effects is somehow entertaining. and pets drunk or high? don't even get me started.

do you have regrets? or do you let them go? i would like to think that i live my life without worrying about the things i have or have not done and that the present is always what means most. but i would be lying to you. i have moments of regret. i suppose the silver lining is there is something of a lightbulb effect that happens during these moments. and i don't do them again.

we are all capable of ugly. we are all deeply flawed. and we all have the capacity for change.

my children spend a lot of time with their grandparents. and i wonder what they are going to remember about them, these versions of the people i know. i wonder about how my grandpa was my mom's dad and how there is no way we will ever know him in the same way. that we aren't supposed to. i think i am so lucky that the parents bryan and i have in our lives are who they are. that we have the friends we have. that we have each other.