The Thread

Posted on April 17, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

I have a strange confession to make. I follow Michael Phelps on Instgram.

I do not follow any other famous people. Not on Twitter. Not on Facebook. Not on any book.

I am not a sports fan. I rarely catch parts of the Olympics. I am not in love with Michael Phelps. I am not a stalker of Michael Phelps.

I am, however, fascinated. In his feed, he posts pictures of golfing, of his girlfriend, of nights out with friends, of private planes, and of his mother (which is why I am sure he is a good guy).

I also followed something else this week. I followed the story of Kate Leong, as she held her dying young song, holding him long after he died, limp and young in her arms, so that his heart could beat long enough to save a toddler she had never met.

I subscribe to the Daily Post and this week, I was asked to answer two prompts:

1. Make a list.

2. Why do you blog?

I will answer these simultaneously.

I blog because Michael Phelps and Kate Leong exist in the same country at the same moment in time, experiencing life at rapidly different pace, experiencing love in vastly different forms. As a writer, as an artist, I am trying to figure out how I fit amongst them, how it is evenly humanely possible to weep for Kate until I choke and literally seconds later, pull out my phone to see Phelps with his golf club propped up against his groin?

I blog because this week, a man in Boston lost his son and is grieving the injuries to his wife and daughter. And in the very moment that this happened I was Googling “Bleeding Eyes” and “When to see a doctor,” and “Perfect gifts for mother-in-laws.” I write, I create, because somehow the mundane and the tragic are so finely and fiercely woven together.

I blog because today I was informed that in addition to the five classes I already teach each day, I will likely be assigned to monitor a ninth grade study hall next year (for no extra pay or benefits) and oh, yes, by the way, lead this meeting, hang this art show, save this kid from suicide, and rewrite your benchmarks. If it were not for writing and creating, I would lose myself in this madness. When I say myself, I really do mean me. The heart of who I am would simply be swamped in pink hall passes and emails about tornado drills.

I blog because when Quinn got in the car today, he said, happily, “Hello, Friends. Where is William? Goodbye my Aunt Shirley.” He expressed more genuine joy and delight in those nine words than I have experienced in months. He is my constant teacher.

I blog because I hate the word blog, because I am getting older, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and because I love my children more than I love myself. I blog because it allows me to temper my love of anticipation. I blog because of the pussy willow branches that grew behind my Grandma Jean’s dirty house, the apple tree in Lolo’s yard, the way gum smells in chewing mouths, because of the way hand sanitizer gives me a headache and because of the way pies smell, baking. All of it is relevant and none of it means anything.

Except for this:

When I saw the photos of young Gavin, dying in Kate’s arms, I could feel a string, a thread, connecting the roots of my heart to hers and I wanted to pull her in, pull that string, hand over hand, until I could flood her with love. I think, in that feeling, is God. And that is why I blog, because I am part of all of that. Somehow, I was let in, given the green light, and someday, I will need you to catch me too.

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Rumor Has it, It’s Siblings Day

Posted on April 13, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

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I guess there is something called “Siblings Day?” Fine, here are three of mine. 75% is the best I can do on a Friday night, and if you, like me, have a daughter on the edge of thirteen, you will understand that she was unavailable for this photo op. In fact, if you are reading this on a Friday night, you are either old or you have a newborn.

I took a few hours off of work today to take Lizzie to the orthopedic. She had her cast/boot removed and was given the thumbs up to return to volleyball next week. Queue soundtrack of screaming girls here.

I also took Quinn to the pediatrician because his ears hurt and he had a fever. However, the pediatrician had a Blues Clues mailbox toy in the waiting room, which delighted Quinn to no end, so by the time he finally saw her (clad in his Spiderman jammies and blue crocs), he was happier than a Gerber baby. He showed her his stuffed dog, Bubbles, and pointed out that the heart imprinted on her tag was “upside down.” He chatted like a happy, drunk sailor until the doctor declared that “this kid is fine.” There is $200 well spent.

Who I should have taken to the doctor was Greta dog, but I am hoping the foul smelling urine she has goin’ on right now has more to do with the fact that she ate a box of graham crackers, an entire coffee cake, chocolates, and Trader Joe’s Rocket Baby Cheese bites, more than it does something serious. Don’t die now, Greta. That would be the nail in my coffin.

I asked my sophomore drawing students to create a drawing about someone who had greatly influenced them. One student, new to me this year, decided to draw her mother. Her mom, I learned, died two years ago of brain cancer. My student’s father asked her mother, as she lay in her final hospital bed, “where are you, Dear?” and her mom answered, “I am on a boat.”

This story landed in the space between my throat and my sternum. It landed with a thump. I did not cry. I told my student, who could not decide how to pursue the portrait, “Close your eyes and listen to her now. She will tell you. Just trust it.”

This made me think about another former student who resents the fact that my work is about me. His work is about war and injustice and poverty. His work is amazing and powerful. I know, even now, that he thinks my work is silly. He stopped following me on Twitter. Here is why I do not make work about the world at large, about war, about politics, about injustice:

I do not draw or paint about these things because even knowing they exist is a form or torture for me. If I turn on the news and see that a toddler shot himself with his mother’s gun, an accident. . . I will not let that story go. Ever. It will brew in me, a virus, until my heart has so many holes in it, It resembles a paper doily. Some folks can read the news, read about a classroom full of kindergartners being gunned down by a madman, and they will shake their heads and say aloud, “It’s a shame,” but for me, that shame will weave itself into by bones for so long that I cannot  breathe without recalling it.

This same student, the one who thinks my work is silly, he posted the most amazing photograph of two boys who lost everything to war. For days, I stared at that photo in a panic. I worried for them, I prayed for them, I imagined packing up boxes of care packages with winter coats and silly putty enclosed in them. Their faces, their brown eyes, are nested in my heart, and if I was an actor and I was directed to cry on demand, all I would have to do is flutter my lashes and imagine the curve of their lips.

They, too, were siblings. That, then, is why I work the way I do. There is something among all of us that connects us despite it all. That is what I am trying to do here. That is why Kermit singing “Rainbow Connection” makes me cry every damn time. War or no war, there is a thread that binds us all. I am in search of it.
Happy siblings day, especially to you, Christopher Frederick, who I love more than anything.

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Pay Attention, Leap

Posted on April 12, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

I have been telling Haley to pay attention to every single thing in her day. “Walk from your math class to the bathroom and pay attention to every little thing you notice because it’s the details that will make you a good writer because they are YOUR details and no one else can take that same short walk and have the same experience.”

Yet, I have had a writers block for two days (quite possibly because everything around me seems to be falling apart) so I am going to take my own advice, pay attention, and start here.

I started the week by wearing a sweater that I bought from TJ Maxx. The pattern looked like this:

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Sean said it looked like I had been raped by a seagull.

I packed school lunches, again and again:

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and on a terrible night of a terrible Tuesday, I made these:

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Which all the kids loved and made me wonder why I ever bother with fancy recipes when they are happiest with hamburger meat under the broiler.

Tuesday was terrible for a million reasons, none of which I remotely feel like getting into here, but I will say that the day tugged at my heart a lot and I knew I did not want to talk or write about any of it, so I just texted Susie, who is the only person in the whole world that I can just complain to and she does not try to fix it or change me or tell me all of the reasons I shouldn’t choose x, y, or z. She just agrees that some days are like that and jokes  about my new “rock bottom”. If you don’t have a best friend, you should get one. Find one, make one somewhere, and no, of course it cannot be your husband or your mother. Get a girlfriend. A GIRL FRIEND.

On Monday, the theater director rushed up to Luke and was freaking out that one of his characters had laryngitis and might Luke be able to quickly learn the lines and show up for an all night dress rehearsal and possibly opening night. Luke was elated. He has not been in a play for almost a year now and when he got into costume and make up and the lights hit him he told me, “Mom, it was like, “I am home.” But on Tuesday, the laryngitis went away and the other kid was back (a kid,  who I am sure is a perfectly wonderful boy, but from now on I will decide to secretly scrunch my nose at). I had totally prepared Luke for the laryngitis magically disappearing, but I did forget to prep myself and so my heart dropped and flipped and I got teary at a faculty meeting thinking about how Luke would not be in this production. My dad reminded me that Luke is “loved and healthy and growing,” and so I tried to push it out of my mind, but I still cried when I thought about the chicken sandwich that I made him for the second long rehearsal that he never got to go to.

Here is Luke, performing as Hal (the lead, the lead, the lead) in Picnic last year:

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Last year, when we went to this play, tulips were already in bloom and it was sunny. It has been raining here for over a week and I love the rain (except for the part where the bottoms of my jeans stay wet all day, after stepping in the many parking lot puddles). I love waking up and it is dark and stormy and to the noise of wet tires. I like driving at the end of the day and watching children trace window drops with their fingers, pink raincoats, peeking out of back seats. The rain, does however, make a heavy heart even heavier, and I am just finding myself, I think, in what might be a midlife crisis. Life is in speed mode and I am panicking about never really accomplishing anything big, panicking about never having traveled, panicked about our old, crumbling, messy house.

I am torn about what to do with my life next and I cannot sleep or sit still or focus long enough to make a move. A cliche, but it is like the song Landslide, and if I close my eyes, I just picture myself as Stevie Nicks in a shawl, spinning in circles, singing about faces in mountains. I almost applied for a job in Kenosha, a job I would likely get, because it paid a shit load of money, and then I thought about driving to Kenosha everyday and just got sick to my stomach. I don’t want Kenosha. I want a well lit, sunny studio over a garage. It has fresh flowers in it, new ones everyday and when I walk in I hear faint wind chimes and percolating coffee. I want a studio dog and fancy soap, a place to write and draw, and greet friends. And I want, in that space, to earn a lot of money. A lot of money.

In between all of my hemming and hawing, Lizzie decided to tryout for a musical. Awhile back, she was humiliated in a music class and since then, has not sang in public. She sings and hums every two seconds at home, but if I go to see her at a school concert, she stands like stone cold medusa and mumbles now and again. I could tell, though, that she really wanted to sing for her teacher. She spent nights youtubing clips of the song, watching others perform it. I heard her singing it in the bathtub, in the back of the car, in front of the mirror. When I picked her up from school today, she jumped in the car and was beaming and said, “Mom, MOM! I did it! I faced my biggest fear and I did it and guess what? She clapped and clapped and was so excited and even called me back later in the day to do it again and she said ‘Where did that come from?! You are amazing,” and Mom, MOM, do you know what that means? It means that maybe I really can do this. It means it is in me.”

My twelve year old daughter took the leap. She jumped out of the plane first. She is leading my way. Tonight, I picked up Chinese food and my fortune read this: IMG_9124

Even my food is talking to me. Pay attention, pay attention, pay ATTENTION Kelly.

And leap.

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Just Another Monday

Posted on April 9, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

I ate too many Swedish meatballs.

My aunt Shirley watches Quinn while I am teaching and though there are lots of wonderful things I can tell you about her, the main thing that you need to understand is that she has a bumper sticker on her refrigerator that reads, “Love People. Cook them good food.”

She does both of those things for us. She loves Quinn (LOVES Quinn) and makes him amazing food (seriously, this kid was eating thai duck and spicy bbq at a year) and every week or so, she cooks for us. The food is neatly packaged, hot and ready to go, when I pick  up Quinn. This is lucky, I know.

So today, she made Swedish meatballs in noodles and fresh green beans and gave us a jar of lingonberries. Lizzie decided that she was happy just to eat this sweet jam, which she did, by the spoonfuls.

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I ate so many of these delicious things that I am sick. I imagine them on my insides, beginning to pop like corn kernels, getting bigger and bigger, until they reach my throat. I will have to fast tomorrow, I think, but it was so worth it.

I started my first day back to work with a double Nespresso, a machine I thank God for every single morning. William came downstairs and noted the various colors of my drink and said, “Mom, you should call that A Coffee With Values.” Clearly, this kids parents are artists. It was, indeed, a valuable cup of coffee.

coffee

I was surprised to wake up with any energy at all, but in hearing from so many of you with positive reinforcement about this new blog, I was kind of buzzed even without the coffee, but within a few hours, when I found myself knee deep and drained into the school day, I was happy to have had it. Nothing like the words “benchmarks and standards,” to kill the joy in anyone.

The day was relatively stressful and overwhelming and ended with a car full of crabby, sleep deprived kids, who bickered for our entire ride home:

“William called me a prostitute!”
“No, I did not! I called you a prostate!”
“You don’t even know what a prostate is!”
“Yes, I do. It’s a vein in your asshole.”

I tried my best to kill the conversation, as I navigated my way through a rush hour filled with major construction projects (in Milwaukee, if it is not snowing, there is construction). I looked up in the rearview mirror and saw that Lizzie had sloppily applied a thick coat of bright red lipstick. She did pretty much look like a prostitute and I told her that she had a mustache. I did not mean a HAIR mustache. I meant, the pink bled on her upper lip, giving her a “milk” mustache. She misinterpreted my comment, was horrified, and then devastated when Quinn began to chant “mustache, mustache, mustache,” and her other two brothers roared with laughter at Quinn’s innocence (also misinterpreted by my daughter).

So if ever I was to be grateful for a home cooked meal that I did not have to cook, it was today. Though Sean was crabby at dinner because the middles kept begging for new additions to their bedrooms because “Luke got a new room,” until Sean finally yelled, “Listen in a few years you are all gonna move out anyway and not give us a second thought and then we are just gonna live here all by ourselves and have old people sex.” This grossed William out to the point where he could not eat a meatball because “sex made him think of balls.”

I thought it might be wise to relay my day to you so that throughout the life of this blog, you are not under the false impression that I understand how to flawlessly parent. Do not look to me for parenting advice. I do not know what I am doing, but I can be the meatball at the end of your day. I am good for that.

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Heavy Decisions

Posted on April 8, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

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I have been debating whether or not to finally go ahead and cut off these precious cherub curls.
Ironically enough, I came across this poem that I wrote for Luke in December, 1998:

First Haircut

A white bank envelope full of your red curls
Sits inside
My new suede purse

I did not cry when the barber cut them
The way I did when you outgrew your baby shoes,
But

Tonight when I rocked your
Small body to sleep
I imagined how small you were a year ago,
Barely any curls at all

Soon your body,
Which fits so perfectly in my lap
(neck and knees cradled between my elbows)
Will be too big to cradle.

Short, wet hair,
Baby Powder,
Fleece
Warm milk in a bottle
Dreaming

Luke, my two pound angel baby,
I want to fold myself into you,
And like hair in an envelope,
Keep you forever.

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When We Sat, Not on Rocks . . .

Posted on April 8, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

When We Sat, Not on Rocks . . .

I have recently stumbled across poems that I wrote for Lizzie and Luke when they were just tadpoles. It made me think of a beautiful poem by dad wrote for me when I was wee. The opening line reads, We Sat Not on Rocks, but on Concrete Blocks . . .
This piece is about the day I went canoeing with Sean in New Jersey. It was 1994 and it was the day I decided I could marry him. I decided this for two reasons:
1. He paid for parking.
2. He was irritated with his friend Matt for buying generic soda.

As I looked at the drawing, I thought about my dad and I wondered if he could even have possibly imagined, that day that he held toddler me along the banks of the river, that one day, decades later, I would fall in love for certain in a red canoe on the river.

 

P.S. I promise that I will connect my scanner soon so that I do not keep posting crappy quality photos. I am an art teacher for crying out loud. I should know better. I am also an exhausted momma, so you know, whatever.

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Quinn

Posted on April 8, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

Today I held my newest cousin, all seven little pounds of him. It is the first time I have held a newborn since Quinn was born and it made me think of all that has happened between then and now and about who I was three years ago, long before my son changed my life permanently.

Though I have provided a link for you to read about my mighty Quinn’s journey, I feel compelled to summarize his story for you here in hopes that there is another mom out there, who possibly just went to her 20 week ultrasound and walked in full of hope and excitement and left terrified, and can be somehow comforted by our experience.

At my 20 week ultrasound, the dates no longer lined up like they had at my 6 week ultrasound. The baby was “much too small.” It’s a long story and I don’t know that the details are important, but Quinn was going to be an IUGR (intrauterine growth restricted). A blood clot had formed behind the placenta and he was not getting what he needed to grow. Every single thing I read about on the internet was dreadful and terrifying and it was at that point I decided the following things:

  1. I can only worry about what I can control, so I will leave the worry to the doctors.
  2. I will love this baby. I can control that.

Still, I was terrified. My friend Martina gave me a meditation to do, which I did religiously and for anyone out there with scary ultrasound news, I strongly recommend you follow suit:

Each night I touched each of my fingers to my thumb, one at a time, and each time they connected, I would sing OUT LOUD (and yes you will feel stupid, but just do it anyway), “You are loved. You are healthy. You are growing.” If thoughts become things, Quinn’s story is proof.

By 25 weeks, my doctors decided to hospitalize me. I had preeclampsia. They were hopeful that I could hold out to 28 weeks, and I was too, but I never made it. It’s important for me to say that because I was determined to make it and it is still something that makes me feel like a failure, and to this day, I get a little nut of a lump in my heart when I see fat, pregnant bellies. Those bellies don’t make me feel envious, but they make me feel ashamed. I am working on this.

I made it to 26 weeks. Sean and Luke were at a KISS concert on September 2nd, Luke’s first concert. They got home around midnight and I called them at about 1AM from the hospital to tell Sean that I thought I had to pee and in fact, thought I was peeing, but when I looked down, I saw a toilet full of blood. My placenta had torn, just a bit from the wall. Throughout the night doctor’s argued about what to do. My ob-gyn wanted to wait, to get me to 28 weeks. He thought I threw up earlier because I had eaten bad chili. My high risk ob-gyn insisted that it was NOT the chili, but that I had HELPP syndrome, that I was dying, and that I needed to deliver right away. She won.

They tried to do a vaginal delivery. Anesthesiologists did not want to give me a spinal because my platelets were so low they thought they would paralyze me. My doctor insisted in case the need for an emergency c-section arose (which it did). Sean had to sign a form that if the needle hit the wrong spot and I became paralyzed that doctors would rush to save my legs and not the baby. Then he was told to wait in the hall.

During his wait, I was told to sit perfectly still. I was a Narnia statue for what seemed like a thousand winters. As soon as the needle was in and working, the rest of my placenta ripped and off for the emergency c-section we went. I puked during the entire procedure. Sean said my insides were every color that existed in nature.

When my doctor pulled Quinn from my stomach and I saw that he was no larger than a hamster, I looked at Sean and said, “That is not good.” Quinn scored a 7 on his Apgar and was wheeled away fast, but slowly enough for me to see through his glass house that he had a deep, deep dimple in his chin. I immediately thought about how Susie’s mom always was telling me that my dimples meant that I had been kissed by angels. Seeing Quinn’s dimple pacified me. I knew he had been kissed. Here he is, moments before I witnessed the dimple. He weighed 480 grams (a single pound):

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Here is Quinn today, being held by his siblings. Image

He is the most beautiful, smart, energetic, wonderful boy. His only flaw at the moment is that he prefers to pee on the floor instead of the toilet.

So today when I held the newest member of my family, I sighed, “You are loved. You are healthy. You are growing.” I am pretty sure I will say that to every baby I ever meet. I am also learning to say it to myself.

Quinn stayed in the hospital for four months. His body transformed from one that resembled a dying bird to one that resembled life. While I was in the hospital, I wrote on the wall, “All things are possible.” It continues to be my mantra and prayer.

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The Un-Doing, Let’s Begin

Posted on April 7, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

During a high school Spring, I went to Racine, Wisconsin with my paternal grandmother to fill up jugs of fresh spring water from a well. I recall telling her that I would like to die in springtime. She gasped at that. “Why in the world would you want to die in Spring? Everything is blooming and fresh. It is my favorite time of year!” As it turned out, she did die in Spring. She was holding my hand.

It seems fitting, then, that I begin this blog at the start of this season. One that is full of rebirth, renewal, and forgiveness. Last night, my husband snapped at me, “You just need to undo yourself.” His words brought angry tears to my eyes and I could not do anything but leave the restaurant we were sitting in and walk away.

The truth is, though, that I do need to undo myself. I need to begin unraveling the knots of yarn that are stuck in my stomach, tangled over winter branches, just waiting for my fingers to gently tug at them, releasing forgiveness and uncertainty.

Unlike past stories that I have written, nothing traumatic or unusual has triggered me to begin writing again. A pigeon hasn’t died in the backyard. William hasn’t brought flowers to the roadkill chipmunk in our driveway. I haven’t just birthed a one pound micro preemie (again). It is just Spring. Time to start new and time to undo many of the lies I have been telling myself.

As you are possibly new readers of mine, I can only begin by telling you the truths about myself that I hold to be self evident and to introduce you to the people that are likely to show up in this blog more often than not. I am married to Sean. I met him when I was eighteen. He is intense and brilliant and complicated, as is our relationship.

I have other favorite people, my parents, my brother, Susie. Other friends come and go and show up now and again. There are four people that I would throw myself in front of a bus for: Luke, on the verge of 17, Lizzie 12, William 11, and Quinn, 2, and I might throw myself in front of a bus for Haley because she brings more joy and hope to my son Luke than I will ever possibly be able to.

I teach art in a medium sized public high school. I have a dog, Greta, who is kind of like my pulse. I have lots of music on my iPhone, but have only purchased full albums from three bands: The Beastie Boys’ Licensed to Ill, David Byrne and Brian Eno’s Everything That Happens Will Happen Today, and absolutely every single thing the Avett Brothers have ever written or uttered. My favorite color is grey. My favorite season is Fall. I like homemade soup and bread. My favorite pie is anything made by my mother. I am a writer and I am an artist and for many years now, I have been separating the two, a separation which I am learning has created a deep sadness within me, a loneliness that is difficult to explain. I do know that writing is my way to share my story and that painting is my way to cover it up.

It is my hope that each time I post new words, I also post new art, even if that means sharing doodles from the inside of my checkbook or photos of my empty glass. It is my hope that in sharing these pieces of me that you will find yourself in them.

My spring break ends tomorrow. At the beginning of the week, I redecorated Luke’s bedroom. Redecorated is a serious understatement, as he has been sleeping on a twin mattress on a floor full of splinters for months now. I painted it a chocolate grey and we hired someone to carpet it on Wednesday. The man who came to give us the estimate walked in, sweaty, and smelling of a combination of cheap cologne and a car air freshener. As he wrote up our bill, he told us that he was raised Catholic, but then got cancer. He feared that he may not get into heaven, that he may have missed something, so he began to research all religions and then, he said, he found a really simply answer. He proceeded to tell us that if we just accept that fact that Jesus Christ is our savior and that we are sinners, we will get into heaven. He went on to say that he could not believe the answer was so simple.

A younger me would have challenged him. A younger me would have rolled my eyes. And as much as I wanted to say, “It’s simpler than that, dear man. If you want to go to heaven, simply believe in heaven,” I just smiled and offered him water. I have learned, over many years (when I was in Catholic high school, I drove my teachers nuts, negating everything they said, so much so that by the time my brother got to their classes three years later, it took them all of one class period to say, “Ah, you must be Kelly’s brother.”) . . . anyway, I have learned that everyone has their own truth and that is okay with me. I am hopeful that as I begin this blog on a cloudy, cold day in April, that you will allow me to share mine.

The day after the carpet man left, Sean sent me a heartfelt email, with an attached youtube video of the band Red, singing Start Again. That is what I am doing here. Springing forward.

“What if I let you in?
What if I make it right it?
What if I give it up?
What if I want to try?
What if you take a chance?
What if I learn to love?
What if, what if we start again?”

                                                                                           – Red

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