The Chance Chatter of Chameleons

Everywhere, nowhere always chasing rainbows. Everything and nothing all at the same time. Running through life to never get home.

I have sat down to write this piece at least ten times now. Ten times over the course of the past three months. Every time I sat down the perfectly crafted words in my brain felt fake and disingenuous. Truth is (mike drop) most of us are fake and disingenuous; let us be honest, who really wants the world to see us as we really are? Are we even truthful and honest with ourselves; have we stopped running through life chasing rainbows long enough to return home? I have not.

There I said it, I have not stopped chasing rainbows. Rainbows are not tangible all the while they are real. Rainbows are reflections of light, colorful prisms that create an illusion. Many of us, not all (that would be a brush stroke to broad), are terrified of living that life without the colorful prisms which hide our hurt, our insecurities, our demons, our failures, our worries, our scars, and even sometimes our successes behind the sparkling illusion of a rainbow.

Being everything and nothing all at the same time. Dedicating energy to hiding traumas, fulfilling peoples needs, not being wanted by the people we need. The constant act of being empty while filling those around us up. Smiling, sparkling, always showing up when it counts. That is a rainbow. They are not always there, just after the rains to remind you that there is beauty after the ugliness of a storm. I am still chasing rainbows.

Running through life to never get home. Is trying to get home a climb to steep, a run to long? Are we going to get home only to find that what our soul longed for is not there? Maybe home is not where we need to go when we are done chasing rainbows; broken, bruised, disheartened. Maybe you are one of the lucky few who do not have demons and have not been damaged by life in some manner, barring yourself to the world without concern. For those who are not lucky (we know who we are) maybe home isn’t what we need, maybe we need to return to ourselves. Perhaps the true chase is not rainbows but empowering ourselves to heal, to slay our demons (or at least cage them), to not always show up, and allow ourselves to express our opinions. Hugging ourselves when we are lonely but do not have the energy for people, which is returning to yourself. Finding the place that has been out of reach, climbing to a height where you can clearly see the landscape around you, stop chasing rainbows.

You will never reach that rainbow; it will be just out of reach no matter how long you chase it. Instead of chasing rainbows, I am going to climb the mountains and find the balance in the center of myself. It may take a bit of time, some patience, a bit determination, and some self-love to find the balance at the top of that mountain but once there I will be able to look down at the rainbows I was chasing and appreciate the journey. Once I’m there, I return to myself, the colorful prisms of the rainbow can fall to the ground so the world can see me, the beauty that was hidden by the storm.

Everywhere, nowhere always chasing rainbows. Everything and nothing all at the same time. Running through life to never get home.

chancechatter

September 13, 2022

Purpose

Existence, fill the well, growth, life, mental health, philosophy, relationships, self love
I see you. I see you tired and beaten, emotionally drained; I see you. I hear you, I hear your voice for others, the advocate, when no one else will talk for them: I hear you.

It likely started at an early age, you were the one that cared for the broken, the misfit, the outcast. You were the one whose mother relied on you for her emotional wellbeing; or whose father worked long hours to try and put food on the table; but still had to rely on the state for assistance. You were the one who grew up too fast, who worried, who was anxious, who was never enough.

I see you. I hear your voice.

In high school you fit in everywhere and nowhere. You listened to the chatter, you longed to be like them, you wanted to fit, while wanting to run away. No one noticed you, but everyone knew you. You were involved, but you did not engage, you were already tired.

You ran away, you ran to who and what you thought would care for you, be your voice, your advocate your emotional support. You were wrong, you ran to exactly what you were trying to run away from. I see you. I see your smile, I see your façade, I see you being an advocate, caring for the broken, the misfit, the outcast. I see you being the emotional support and cheerleader for any one in your circle that needs you.

I see you; I hear your voice.

This continuous spiraling circle of life never ends. The emotional roller coaster that never shows on your face, is never heard in your voice.

I see you; I hear your voice.

I see them rely on you constantly, I see them look to you for solutions, for answers, for validation. I see them; I hear them. I see them take; I see them expect you will fill their well. I watch them surround you. I see you continue to lift them up, to be their voice, to fill their emotional needs.

I see you.

I see you carrying the weight of worry, of sadness, of loneliness, silently behind a smile. I see you furrow your brow wondering if you are enough, if you are failing, if you are worthy of putting down your load for someone else to carry, even if only for a little while. I watch you pause; I watch your step falter almost invisibly; I watch you carry on.

You cannot put down your load of worry, you are not capable. You are compelled to be the advocate for the weak, the sad, the bullied, even if no one listens. Your voice sounds happy, your words are wise, your optimism is contagious. You are dying inside but no one would ever know.

I see you; I hear your voice.

My heart breaks for you. Tears roll down my cheeks. There is no one to carry your load, no one to fix this, to help you break out of the spiral of life in which you are caught. I can tell you; you are enough, you are worthy of putting down your burdens even if for just a little while. You are not failing; you are tired but amazing. Its ok to pause, you do not have to continue every minute of every day, its ok. Be kind to yourself, the way you are to others. Be gentle, be forgiving, be your voice.

I see you; I hear your voice.

chancechatter

April 19, 2022

Purpose

advocates, community, emotional well being, Existence, life, mental health, perfection
Days are the measurement of time defined by the earth rotating on its axis. Twenty-seven times the earth rotated on its axis, the equivalent of six hundred and forty-eight hours; that is the measurement of time it took me to change the water filter in the fridge after the warning on my refrigerator alerted me it was time for a new water filter.

It was three days after deployment began that the water filter started counting down the days until it needed to be replaced. Ten days was the countdown; I watched the days count down each morning as I filled water bottles for school. Each day, I chided myself for not having a replacement filter handy. Day nine, day eight, day seven, day six, day five, day four, then suddenly on day three I finally went to buy that filter. For the remainder of the countdown and for twenty-seven more days it sat on the counter next to the fridge as a reminder that I needed to change the filter. A reminder that the kids water bottles were filled with ice and water that hadn’t been filtered. A reminder that I was the only one responsible for everything.

The concept of being the only responsible adult in the house is not new to me. Deployments make you numb to that, at least they do me, but for some reason that water filter kicked my ass. It nagged at me, it buzzed in the back of my mind like a fly I just could not swat away. Change the filter and the fly disappears. I just couldn’t. I kept telling myself I needed to get that done, change that filter. I was doing everything but changing that filter. I wasn’t struggling at work; I was nailing those issues. I was managing the house, the spring yard work, the dog, the kids, and my schoolwork hands down, no issue. That DAMN water filter though that filter was the mountain I had to climb.

I started climbing the hill on day three of the countdown until replacement, that was the day I ventured out to buy the water filter, I replaced the filter on day twenty-seven. Thirty days from the date I bought the filter was what it took me to take out the old and put in the new. Why is this water filter so damn hard?

Why is it that every deployment every light bulb in the house in light fixtures you can’t reach burn out? Why do tires go flat, kids act like emotional terrorists, dogs need the vet, and why every deployment does the water filter need to be changed? Why in all that is holy can’t this happen when your spouse is home? Oh, but it does. It most certainly does. Its just not all on you to take care of it, and most likely, you don’t even notice most of it because it just gets done.

I changed the water filter and I feel much lighter now, there are no more days being counted on my refrigerator. The water is filtered, the kids are going to school with water bottles of filtered water. I have 140 plus days (after this water filter count has finally ended) left of changing light bulbs, wiping noses, weeding gardens, walking dogs, cooking meals, doing laundry, and chauffeuring kids. 140 plus days to write, to read, to run, to work. That’s why I couldn’t change the filter, it was a daunting reminder that it was just beginning. The span of time in front of me to bear the responsibility of everything was taunting me from the front of my refrigerator.

Feelings of being overwhelmed, angry about tasks being left undone, blah, blah, blah are supposed to be common during deployment. I don’t feel any of those things. They talk about the stages of deployment, what to expect, how you will feel. No one tells you that twenty-seven days and a water filter will be the demon that taunts you. No one can really prepare you for how you will feel when you pause for that moment to realize that your world and life seem to stand still until that deployment ends. That once they get home you will breathe, until the next time you start measuring in days, the countdown to the next deployment and water filter change.

Change the filter you will feel better.

chancechatter

March 25, 2022

Uncategorized

community, healthy reflections, life, mental health, military life, military spouse, mom, outlook, time
Grace is an interesting word. I had an English teacher in middle school that taught us to diagram sentences; to label the words as verbs, adverbs, adjectives, nouns, pronouns and so on. I loved writing, but I didn’t particularly enjoy breaking down the written works and deliberating over the proper use and placement. I was thinking about Mrs. Morin today while I was quietly stalking the connections I have on Facebook. I was reading their posts and my catty, nitpicky mind was picking apart grammar, sentence structure the proper usage of words. I was remembering the grammar rules that Mrs. Morin so diligently taught. Then I started to REALLY read their posts and thinking about what a butthole I was sitting there in my chair judging the quality of the content. The quality didn’t matter, the grammar rules were inconsequential. The human beings struggling to show themselves grace mattered. The human beings spiraling out of control in political posts, in oversharing, in over comparing.

Grace, what is grace?

Grace:
- disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency,
- a temporary exemption:REPRIEVE
The Merriam-Webster Dictionary has numerous definitions, numerous examples of how it is used, nouns and verbs. Reading and re-reading the definitions brought clarity to me. Human beings in general, as a rule, don’t show grace consistently. We don’t provide our fellow humans temporary instances of reprieve to feel their feels, to be less than on point all the time. We are often not kind. We pretend to be, but when we examine our inner thoughts and workings, we are not kind.

Each morning when I put my kids on the school bus, I kiss the top of their head (I know the days of this are numbered) and tell them: “I love you, be kind and make good choices”. What I am really asking them is to exhibit grace, grace instead of judgement when other kids are not like them, grace instead of anger when they get frustrated and want to use words that are unkind, grace instead of needing to have their way all the time. I am trying to instill in them the need to live in grace. I need to learn from what I am trying to teach my children, likely most of us do.

I have a theory: to show others grace, we need to show it to ourselves. We need to allow ourselves a reprieve when we are not able to “keep up” with those elite on social media who have the seemingly perfect lives. We need to show ourselves grace when we are not meeting our own standards, to provide ourselves the courtesy of feeling our feelings, we need to show ourselves grace when we fail. If we don’t accept the grace, we are offering ourselves, we certainly cannot offer it genuinely to others.

Winter is harsh in its beauty, a time when no grace is shown, or is it? Winter for seeming harsh allows the bears to sleep and rejuvenate, the plants dormancy to come back stronger and more beautiful than the season before. Winter unapologetically forces those that would not otherwise rest to rest. Winter is not harsh, it is kind. It sees what needs to be done and slowly creeps in gradually forcing the wide awake to slow down and sleep. As quietly and slowly as it creeps in, it creeps out. Winter knows when the time has come to let the sleeping wake, to let the dormant feel the warmth that will bring rebirth. As winter leaves the crocus emerge, with bright and hopeful colors unashamed of the grace they showed to themselves in their dormancy. Grace allows growth.

I need grace, we need grace. We need to stop evaluating the bits and pieces that make up the content for accuracy. We need to evaluate for the meaning, the cries for help, the need of the people to be validated, the root of the message. I’m not a touchy feely roses and butterflies’ type of person, I don’t think you have to be, I think you just need to be self-aware and mind your words, your thoughts. You need to allow yourself grace, don’t run that extra race if you are tired, don’t clean that damn house if you want to just sit, don’t cook that meal (peanut butter and jelly are just fine), speak to yourself kindly. This personal act of grace will overflow into those around.

Grow some crocuses, year after year you will be amazed at how they come back. Remember, be kind, and make good choices. Grow grace.
chancechatter

March 7, 2022

Purpose

community, Existence, grace, humanity, life, meaning of life, perfection, professional
Superman is HOT! He can leap buildings in a single bound, fight crime like a mother. Spidey? Well, those super Spidey senses save the day. He swings from place to place with those fantastical silky spider webs. His upper body strength is unmatched. There is Batman, Captain Marvel, Thor, the Hulk, Superwoman, the list goes on and on. There is a superhero for every bad guy out there. The problem is they aren’t real.

We are all searching for a superhero to save us. To vanquish the villain. To sweep us off our feet. We are looking for a romanticized ideal. I have seen superheroes. They have stinky feet.

Superhero’s wipe their moms’ eyes with sweaty small fists clenched in balls. Superheroes grab your hand with their clammy little hand and walk proudly beside you even though they are as scared as you are, never showing fear. I have seen these superheroes. They don’t wear capes; they wear their heart on their faces and run through the yard with stinky feet.

I have seen firsthand these superheroes and smelled their feet. The day that my 2-year-old daughter kissed my raw bloody knees after her father pushed me down and hugged me close, she was my superhero. She saved me from the villain. The time my son climbed up on my lap when I was utterly exhausted and overwhelmed, took his fists, and rubbed the tears out of my eyes telling me “Don’t cry, it will be ok”; he was my superhero. When I was in the darkest of places, and I saw five sets of eyes looking at me to pull my life back out of the depths of depression and hopelessness; they were my superheroes. True superheroes have stinky feet.

Year after year, time after time, I have been surrounded by superheroes. Those stinky feet hero’s that love unconditionally when I am unlovable. They love me when I move them once a year, changing schools like most people change clothes. They reach deep into their superpower reserve to lift me up out of failed relationships. These superheroes ground me when I am neurotic and irrational. These superheroes stand by my side when I fail as a mom, as a daughter, a sister, a friend, shit fail as a human. They continue to use their powers for good. Superheroes have stinky feet.

For 26 years I have been hiding superheroes in my hideout. For 26 years I have been washing their stinky feet at the end of the day. Most of my superheroes have moved on to live their lives in their own lair. The stinky feet smell is fading. There are still some moments of sweaty hands. There are still times that I remind some of my superheroes that they need to wash their feet. Those times are fewer than I would like. What will I do when the last of my superhero’s leaves the lair? Will they leave me with a bat signal? The world needs superheroes; but so, do I.

chancechatter

March 5, 2022

Uncategorized

community, exisence, life, military spouse, moms, philosophy, superheroes
Write, write, write. My gut, my brain keeps telling me to put my thoughts on paper. This is how it has been my entire life. I’m not a great writer, I am an honest writer. Putting my thoughts on paper somehow puts my mind at ease and stops the words that race around in my busy brain. I often read my words and criticize my technique, my choice of words, my thought patterns. Why would anyone want to read them, why would anyone care? Do people think I’m dumb or worse do they think I’m crazy? Maybe. Maybe people think all those things, maybe they don’t care, maybe they won’t want to read them. What if they do? What then? What if on the third Thursday of the thirteenth month when the moon and the sun are on the opposite side of Mars and purple hippo unicorns fly across the morning sky someone reads my words and says “shit, I get that! That means I’m not alone!” If that happens, then I made a difference.

Growing up I always dreamed of writing, I wrote poems, essay’s, dark stories, on every scrap of paper I could get my hands on. I wrote during class on the brown paper bag book covers of my schoolbooks (yes I am that freaking old), instead of paying attention to class. I wanted to be a newspaper reporter. I wanted to write children’s books, I just wanted to write. No one fostered this, I was encouraged however, to get my M.R.S. In case you need that translated: M.R.S equals Mrs. (married). Get married, have a family. I didn’t want either. I wanted to escape the place I came from, the inevitable drudgery of what would come if I stayed. So, I left. I stopped writing. I grew up and got a job, a husband (the first of three). I gave up dreaming (bad marriages will do that to you).

During my grown up phase, I happened into a professional field where writing became essential. I felt good. It was professional writing, formal, but it made me happy to write again, even if it wasn’t the idyllic, romanticized dream I had of writing. I moved around, supporting different managers, different companies, until I stopped for awhile at a company where a manager( I will refer to as Dickhead Dave) crushed all confidence, I had in my ability to write. I remember sitting in his office while he was giving me my yearly review and he said to me “you can’t write, you will never be successful in this field because writing is a skill that can’t be taught.” I have been afraid to share what I write at work, or on a personal level ever since. That moment was when my communication became very much like my friend the chameleon.

Despite Dickhead Dave, despite his confidence crushing leadership style, I have become successful in my field. This success didn’t come without anxiety, overthinking, overreacting, and being generally overly defensive. I try harder and worry more than most of my peers (at least from my view of the room I think I do). This success has reignited my dream to write. I need to write, good pieces, bad pieces, mediocre pieces. I NEED to get it out.

Dreams are good, even if the journey back to them is long and painful. Don’t let the Dickhead Dave’s of the world steal your dreams.

chancechatter

March 2, 2022

Uncategorized

communicate, community, confidence, dreams, joy, mom, philosophy, professional, writing
I pulled on his black and white flannel shirt this morning. The one I bought him when we did family pictures in December of 2015. That was seven years ago now. All six boys had coordinating flannels. The girls in their cream cardigans. That was at the tail end of his CO tour with the Bluetails. We had been back together for almost six years at that point, married and had added the last baby to our family just that past September. Ten kids total for us, eight I birthed, three together, lots of fights, lots of tears, lots of lonely nights, missed anniversaries, missed birthdays, missed life shit. Today I pulled on his flannel shirt and missed HIM, not the commander of a squadron, not the second in command of a ship, not the captain of the ship, the PERSON. I wear his flannel, not his rank.

I never wanted to marry a police officer, a fire fighter, an EMT, or a military member. I HATE change and unpredictable, unstable schedules. They make me anxious and sick to my stomach. Here I am, 12 years later married to an officer in the Navy. I love my husband; I don’t fit here. I mean I change my colors depending on the military event, the small talk, the ceremonies to be “that wife”, but I don’t fit. “Hi, I’m Charlene” followed by “what’s your husbands call sign? What does he do?” I wonder how any of them would react if I responded with “every chick he can when he’s underway?”. I mean, he doesn’t but, what if I didn’t respond with callsign and rank? Oh, I know! Then we could talk on a social personal level. How novel would that be? I wear his flannel, not his rank.

This life is weird, I have very few military friends because they either don’t want to talk and be friends with the bosses wife (which is the dumbest thing ever since I seem to be obligated by some sort of weird unspoken code to look after these spouses as the senior spouse) OR they are a senior spouse and because their kids are all grown and they don’t have careers/jobs I can’t coordinate schedules to socialize(because oh, yeah, I still have little kids, a career, a house, a dog and well life). Then there is the third military spouse type, the one I refer to as the step ford milspouse. This military spouse lives and dies by the spouse’s career. They are devastated when their husband doesn’t pick up rank. That’s the one who is sitting next to you in all of her perfection at a ceremony and when you ask her what she has been up to she tells you she has been doing volunteer work at a nonprofit. Sounds impressive huh. Don’t we all want that for our resume? This is the military wife that EVERYONE knows and loves, is involved in EVERYTHING. She looks perfect, she acts perfect, she doesn’t say embarrassing things to the admiral (I may have done that). Let me clue you in; nonprofit volunteer work translated is “works at the MWR gift shop for free”. Now that is cool, no shame in that, but why not say it if you aren’t ashamed of what you are doing? Why pretend? Oh, yeah you wear the rank, not the flannel.

I’m NOT a good military spouse, I never will be. I don’t want to be. This doesn’t mean I am not proud of what our military members do, I am. I am proud of my husband’s success, I am proud of what he has accomplished, but that is his career, not mine. I’m not a good military spouse because I often avoid telling people what he does and avoid disclosing his rank, I have learned people won’t talk to you if they know and are affiliated with the military. I don’t get involved in military spouse groups, I don’t have anything in common with most of them, and the ones I do, if we become friends, they move away. Every two to four years your orders change, you move, what is the point in putting the energy into these friendships. I also become mentally exhausted listening to the struggles they are having because of detachment, workups, deployments. We ALL freaking struggle. This life is lunacy. I don’t want the reminders that for days, weeks, months on end I will need to not only hold my shit together but that of everyone in the house. So, I wear his flannel, not his rank.

This marriage, this relationship, this “thing” we have, is often not a priority to either of us as we try to find our way through the absences. Through the pursuit of his career and mine. One thing I think we both know, is I will wear his flannel, not his rank and it will be hanging in the closet when he makes his way back.

chancechatter

February 27, 2022

Uncategorized

acceptance, community, life, military spouse, mom, perspective, professional
4:59 this morning (a Saturday morning mind you, the day I don’t have an alarm set to get up at 4:45) I hear the tv in the living room. It was my favorite YouTube gamer (NOT). I don’t especially like hearing his annoying voice during the day, at 4:59 this morning it was time to level up on my kids. I growled at poor Boscoe to “stay on his bed” in hopes of crawling back into mine after turning off the tv and threatening the kids with no electronics if they don’t go back to bed. I did threaten and I did crawl back into bed, only to get up 45 minutes later because I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Walk the dog, brew a cup of coffee, and sit down to savor those glorious hot drops of delicious black magic that will save my children’s lives this Saturday. About two minutes later, my Benny B. wants to know when I will be finished so I can get them breakfast. His eagerness for breakfast this morning was the fulfillment of a promise that I buy them McDonalds hash browns and flapjacks if their behavior reports all week from school were good. I bribe my kids, I’m not ashamed to say. Unabashedly not ashamed to bribe them into making my life easier.

7:10 this morning I am in my jammies, with a heavy coat on driving to McDonalds to get their breakfasts. The roads seemed unusually empty, but what do I know, I haven’t driven anywhere at 7:10 any morning since COVID first shut us down in 2020. It was a strange feeling being out that early. I felt guilty, almost like I was doing something wrong. I realized as I was driving to McDonalds, that I don’t know what normal is anymore. Each day blends into the next. The only differentiator is whether I must get the kids on the bus or not. I wear leggings and a hoody if it’s cold, or leggings and a t-shirt if its warm. I don’t put on makeup, I don’t dry my hair (if I wash it, that is always the debate, to wash or not). All my days are the same, to include work. I often work on Saturdays and Sundays because my office is right off my living room. Since COVID there is now no separation between work me, mom me, wife me, or the me that I have yet to figure out. It feels like that since the separation has been removed, I don’t exist.

I KNOW I exist; I mean if I didn’t how would everything get done? I make my bed, shower, start the laundry, do more laundry, clean up the kitchen, water the plants, write a paper, take the kids for a run (Benny B wants to bring a backpack next time with a drink and a snack; that half mile was just too much for his 8 year old self), get lunches, clean paintbrushes for the girls, clean up their painting mess, do more laundry, walk the dog, eat my lunch while scheduling a pine straw delivery, pour a beer and write a history paper, do more laundry, empty the dishwasher, make dinner, clean up the kitchen, walk the dog, get the kids desert and sit down finally to snuggle and watch tv with them before bed. See, if I didn’t exist the life in my house would have gone to absolute shit today. So, I DO exist. The question is, does anyone else know I exist? It goes back to the age-old question, if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it does it make a sound? If I am busy and take care of everyone, but no one sees me do I exist?

I realize as I sip my wine, that I used to treasure the weekends. Weekends were a chance to be home and spend time with my kids. I used to look forward to Monday’s because I treasured my time with other professionals outside of the house. Going to work validated my existence. I welcomed the opportunity to separate myself from the mom me, the wife me. Now it all runs together. While working remote allows me more flexibility to be mom, it removed the separation that allowed me to reset to be a better mom. All day, the four words that have continuously run through my head are “I made my bed”. Today, the one thing I did for me, only for me was make my bed. That one simple act helped me feel like my life had order. That the day didn’t run into the night and the night into morning. No one will come to the house and see it, no one will care that my bed is made. No one may see me today, there may not be any visual eye contact with anyone outside of the house, but that is the way with chameleons. Find the “bed” and make it because it makes you feel like your life is in order.

chancechatter

February 26, 2022

Purpose

Existence, life, military spouse, mom life, moms, perfection, professional mom
Kids say the darndest things, at least mine do, they have no filter. As a contracts professional I have spent years barely showing up at school to anything. Couple a career with an anxious mind and that is a cocktail for the “missing mom”. I always manage the important things somehow, but never have I read to the class, volunteered for chaperoning class parties, or field days, or any activity that really involves social interaction. The chameleon in my just doesn’t have enough colors to support those types of things for my kids. I want to, I really do, but I can’t.

I’ve always hated June Cleaver. Who can really like someone who is perfect at the mom thing? How can that be normal or natural? I always joked that she must be sipping a little something extra in her coffee and that is why she was always smiling and was happy to see that misogynist husband, Ward of hers. In my limited view of her world, I had judged her as the idyllic housewife and mom who didn’t want anything for herself but to take care of her boys and husband. That right there my friends made me a narrow-minded judgmental bitch. I’m going to unpack this bad boy a little bit more and share that part of why I hated her, is deep down, way deep down (well maybe not that deep) I wanted to BE JUST LIKE HER! Now that that fact is out there, let me take it one step further, I made these judgements without taking the time to get to know WHO she was, uh-oh. I judged what I saw. How many of us do this? I bet if I could see by a show of hands, I’m not the only judgmental bitch out here.

Now that I know I am unfairly judgmental, I figured it was time to do a little research to find out who June is before I cast my final ballot. I found out through just a few clicks on this wonderful thing called the internet that June Cleaver was smart. She had a bachelor’s degree (shut the front door a stay-at-home mom can be smart and not work)!?!? She wore her pearls not to be perfect but to hide how deep her throat indent was, she was flawed! She handled a misogynistic husband expertly, through sarcasm (I respect the shit out of that)! I found all this information and more on National Women’s History Museum website (https://www.womenshistory.org/articles/defense-june-cleaver ). Check it out, it will change your mind if you were a June hater like I had been.

Now that we have cleared up the misconception that June was a housewife with no ambitions, lets get down to the dirty truth about women, stay at home moms, working moms, or working women with no kids. We are judgmental bitches (most of us), but why? Does it really matter what fulfills you as compared to other women? Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could feel supported no matter what path we choose? Whether we wear or pearls to work, leave them home or not wear them at all? Those pearls don’t define us, they are an accessory to who we are. We need to be honest with ourselves, we are judgmental because we are all afraid, we don’t measure up to unrealistic standards we have set.

I’m going to leave you with this: one thing I know I do right (for me) with my kids, is dinnertime. Every day we sit down and eat dinner as a family. Placemats, plates, napkins the table is set for whoever is home. Each night we talk about what made an impact to us in our day. The other night my ten-year-old daughter said the darndest thing in response to that question, she said “you’re the perfect mom, you work, you take care of us, you take care of the house, and you go to school, you are perfection”. I didn’t know what to say, so I laughed. I’ve always thought the perfect mom was June Cleaver. I always saw the perfect moms as the ones involved at the kids’ schools, not yelling at them to hurry up because they were going to miss the bus, or travel for work and miss Halloween, or not be there after school but send them to daycare. I was barely a good mom in my mind. In my kids’ eyes, right now, I am perfect. June couldn’t be perfect to them.

Maybe it is time we get out of our minds and realize that the “perfect women, perfect mom” is the perfect women/mom for the life we live. We need to all embrace our inner June. She was perfect for her family, and we are perfect for ours, so wear your pearls with pride.

chancechatter

February 25, 2022

Uncategorized

communicate, life, military spouse, moms, perfection, professional
I was asked recently for the purposes of writing a philosophy paper to describe myself the “who I am”. That doesn’t sound hard, right? Dang, if I initially couldn’t describe myself outside of what I look like: 5’5” tall, medium build, blue eyes, white/brunette hair. I then dug DEEP (deep is relative here) and widened my description: wife, mom, daughter, sister, friend, professional. That was deep right? What I realized is, I have no idea WHO I am. I know “what” I am. That was the hardest bullshit paper I have ever written. I got an A, but it was total bullshit. I moved on; paper done. I honestly didn’t want to think about it too much, what if I didn’t like who I am?

Recently, I have had a lot of time alone (deployment sucks in case you were wondering), being alone with my thoughts is NEVER a good idea, but maybe it is? I was went running to burn off some depression and anxiety this morning and I realized I do know “who I am”; I am whatever people around me need me to be, a chameleon. Chameleons are rather interesting, they don’t talk. The communicate through body language and color changes. They are what they are perceived to be by other creatures. I feel that to my core. What would they say if they communicated? What would that chatter sound like? Would anyone care or listen? I think there is a community that cares, I think there are other beings that could benefit from that chatter, even if it’s to not feel alone. The ones that don’t, won’t matter. The chatter needs to start somewhere, so I think I will start it here.

chancechatter

February 24, 2022

Purpose, Uncategorized

communicate, community, life, military spouse, mom, philosophy
Spring is slowly emerging. While walking black dog in the early morning light I noticed a widersped spun in the peach trees. It was sparkling like a thousand diamonds as the early morning sun caught the frosty dew on its silken strands. The breeze moved the diamond covered silk about among the peach blossoms in the branches but never shook the diamond shards onto the ground below. Widerspeds are fantastic works of art and engineering. The arthropods that spin them are just as amazing. Tenacious, strong and self sufficient much like the three-year-old that once dubbed these spiderwebs widerspeds. Despite the fact she is no longer three and no longer calls them widerspeds, widerspeds to me they will forever be.

I remember the day she first called the spiderweb a widersped. It was before she learned that spiders bite, before she became afraid of insects. It was before she learned to be afraid, period. I envied her lack of inhibition, her lack of fear. She had an insatiable curiosity (she still does), she was in awe of the world. She thought widerspeds were magical, and beautiful. The creations of spiders who simply wanted a place to live (which is mostly true). She caused me to stop and look at widerspeds through the eyes of a three-year-old girl. From that day forward when I see them, I look at them differently. Don’t get me wrong, I am terrified of those multi-eyed, eight legged nasty little arthropods who can inject venom with their fangs, no three-year-old could make me forget that; but those widerspeds are fantastic.

Arthropods (as I will refer to them because it is far less creepy a word than spider) are able to create a protein-based silk from their own body. They can use this silk to build elaborate webs, they use the webs to catch their food. It is strong and versatile.

Widerspeds, the creation of the arthropod, the beauty of the widersped at daybreak with the dew, the twilight after the rain, the strength and versatility; that is what life is, that is what love is, and friendship is as well. The silken strands of hope, of empathy, of communion, of connection. The strong and tenacious threads of friendship that blow in the wind while sparkling with diamond dew. You create these silky strands from somewhere deep inside of you, and you spin your own unique widersped in the world that sparkles and attracts others to admire your creation. Some, only pass by and look briefly, they don’t stop and “stick”. Others get wrapped up into your beauty just as you do theirs. When the strands break free, you weave again. You start over, you never give up.

The widersped was gone from the peach tree when I walked black dog tonight at dusk. I was a little bit disheartened. I was hoping to see the widersped had survived the wind today, that it had overcome. My widersped is a bit empty these days, most of the strands that connected me to the branches have broken loose. I am still connected to the tree, but only by a strand. I had hoped that diamond covered widersped had faired better than I.

Spin your widerspeds, when they break, continue spinning. Pause to marvel at the diamonds that collect on your marvelous widerspeds as they sparkle in the early sun as dawn breaks. Widerspeds and their beauty don’t last, but the beauty of a widersped is it can be spun anew again and again. As long as you see the beauty in the spinning you will forever see the world through a three- year- old’s eyes and your widersped will always be fantastical.

chancechatter

March 26, 2022

Uncategorized

childrens thoughts, community, connection, dogs, Existence, mental health, military spouse, nature, relationships, spider
Walking the black dog around the perimeter of our property is just about exactly one quarter of a mile. He and I do this walk five or six times a day. It takes 15 or 20 minutes because I let him savor being a black dog in the country. He sniffs the goose poop, the rabbit turds, he digs up rocks and carries them around in his mouth like he has some sort of prize; sometimes tossing them up in the air to himself like he has a ball. He is silly, its good for me. Our walks get me out of the office, out of the house and I see that there is life going on around me. Cars driving down the road, mail trucks, delivery vehicles, people coming and going from their houses. Knowing that people are moving through their lives, keeping their routines provides me a feeling of safety, for whatever reason.

I look forward to our evening walk, the walk that is just as the sun is setting. I treasure it now especially as the days are warming up and springs tendrils are beginning to wrap its delicate wispy threads across the outdoors. The peepers are beginning to sing, the warming of the dirt causes the decay and fresh life to waft a rich earthy scent as I walk with black dog. He and I both pause occasionally and stare at the stars and the moon, I think he is in awe of them as am I. How can they be that brilliant, but we can’t touch them or feel them? The little birds in our yard (I wish I knew what they were) shriek at us as we walk through the grass, they are quite unhappy that we are disturbing them as they are settling down to sleep. Occasionally, we happen upon a sleepy bird that flies up out of the grass in front of us, causing both of our hearts to skip a beat and walk a little faster.

These warm(ish) evenings, the signs and smells of spring, the sparkling stars, the fresh breeze on my face remind me of the evenings long ago when the fireflies lit up the back yard like magical fairy lights. I remember laying on my back underneath the night sky mesmerized by the fireflies; not wanting to catch them lest I be the cause they stopped twinkling. It was magic to my younger self. I couldn’t imagine a world without these fairy lights. These fireflies that flitted about with their twinkling lights.

My thoughts, my muses, my ideas for writing, twinkle in my mind. They flit around like my fireflies. They light up my nights when I lay awake unable to sleep. These thoughts bounce around on the inside of my brain keeping me awake. I wonder sometimes if anyone can see them twinkle like I do. Sometimes, when I don’t write for a long time, it is almost as if I don’t write because I am afraid if I catch those fireflies, if I let those thoughts be seen, I will be the cause they stop twinkling. Will I be the reason the magic stops? What will my world be like without those lights? I’m afraid if they are captured in a jar, I will see them for the beetles they are instead of the magical fairy lights I want to believe are twinkling.

I think that that time between the day and night is a place where magic happens. Where beetles can be magical fairy lights and thoughts can be released into prose that create an escape. When we look deep into ourselves, we can all find a time, a place, a memory that brings us to a time and place of innocence that we believed anything could happen.

It will be a few months yet until thousands of fireflies light up my back yard. When they do, I am going to walk the black dog around the perimeter. While he is busy doing black dog things I am going to lie on my back and watch the stars and fireflies and hold onto that simpler magical vision of life.

Until that night, I will find magic in words and in the little things around me.

chancechatter

March 13, 2022

Uncategorized

communication, community, Existence, life, magic, meaning, muse, reflection, simpler times, writing