Jen and I have often talked about creativity. How it is a blessing and a curse. Our daily lives consist of those daily-type things. You all know them well. They bring you up and they bring you down and then you find a way to just plateau and get them done.

But creativity always seems to work itself into the day somehow. Not being creative, exactly, but having creative ideas. And no where to put them. Because there is no time for that in the daily grind, the plateau is easier than managing the ups and downs while fitting in the creative part, too.

But you see, I was talking to another friend about that creativity thing just yesterday. And I find that if I have the time to talk about it and think about it I should also have the time to DO something about it. Even in fragments of 5 minutes or less, in between wiping a child butt and pouring juice into a child cup and retrieving a child from school.

So here we are. Striving to let the creativity out of the bag. Maybe it’s just another symptom of the oh-it’s-2012-and-the-world-is-all-new-and-shiny-again mentality. That tricky little New Year’s bug gets into all of us, one stinking way or another. I haven’t made any resolutions this year. I’ve set some goals but I think of those much more seriously and I forgive myself a lot more when I fail to meet them quite exactly, or meeting them takes longer than a person thinks it should. In fact, I have set no time limit whatsoever on my goals. I need it that way. Deadlines make me itchy and only push me to give up faster than it took me to dream them up in the first place.

My kids bumble around the house and play with new Christmas toys and readjust to the real life of school and soccer practice, bedtime and go-go-go from the moment they first awake. I, too, bumble around the house and readjust to a new shade of life. Is it the New Year? Is it the startlingly cold temperatures we’ve had? Is it those goals that I’ve written down–in conjunction with my husband–that have me figuring out how to navigate today so that tomorrow I can feel I accomplished something? No matter what it is–and it really doesn’t matter, I’m a new color, hue, shade, whathaveyou.

I’m never quite sure of anything anymore. And least sure of what I want to write here on the ol’ blog, as Jen puts it. We’ve been here awhile, in this space, and we’ve been on bottom and we’ve been on top and now we just are. Maybe I’ve been waiting for this spot all along. To just be.

A year ago I was most uncomfortable with the just-being part of living. I didn’t dare sit still and contemplate my life, my self, my thoughts. I’d try to sit still but just get wrapped into a tangle of thick vines and sturdy leaves and have trouble finding any meaning to the feeling of being trapped, tangled up and trapped in my thoughts. But several weeks ago my husband made mention of an everyday Saturday morning wherein he found me behind my closed office door. I was sitting in the corner chair, listening to some lovely tunes, ignoring the children and the mess that inhabited every other area of the house except my office. I had a book on my lap but I wasn’t reading. I was sitting and I was thinking, I guess. I wonder if I was listening to the lyrics of that sweet melodic voice coming from the speakers, or if I was making a plan for the day. I don’t know if I was there because I was happy or I was sad or I was recovering from some other emotion that may have overtaken me the day before, the hour before. I was just sitting, he said. Sitting and listening to music and I looked so content and so peaceful and he wished he had more of that. Music. Peace. Sitting still. Thoughts that didn’t revolve around work and business and schedules.

I hadn’t realized it at the time–obvious by this point–but I was crafting my own little perfect space away from it all. I wasn’t fixated on something, I don’t think. I was just me. Part of me was old and part of me was new and I was sitting with them both. Contentedly. For as long as it would last.

He kissed me gently and left the house. I’m sure the kids soon invaded my space and I turned off my music and fixed up their breakfast and broke up their fights. But I had those few moments. I can see them still. The light outside was so dim and the air inside was so warm and I was sipping hot coffee and drifting my head back into the chair and just… ahh.

So I guess what I’m saying, if I’m saying anything at all, is that I have to make time for the creativity. I have to remember what it means to sit still. And that, as I wrote a dear friend of mine today, I am in the garden of my life. Everything is lush all around me. I should feel fortunate for all the creative ideas that come. I should try my best to do something with them because I know they are a result of the lushness. But that I also must seep into the moss sometimes and hold steady, because being a part of the lushness means just as much as creating something from it.

It’s here. The season of giving. The jolly and cheer.

What do you most wish for this year? What do you most wish to give?

We talk a lot about effort in this house. And attitude. Body language and doing the best you can do and supporting those around you and having good cheer. I defined “oblige” last night during a bedtime read.

I’m exhausted from the conversations, to be honest. But the irony is not lost on me, oh no. If I gave up on the lesson because it got too hard or too frustrating or I felt like I was constantly running backward, what kind of example would I be?

He’s only 9 and I’m daunted. It gets harder as they get older. You become so much more aware that they are individuals. They will one day function all alone in the world. No mamas and dadas to tell them when and how to dig deep when it really counts. No one, in fact, to even define what it is that really counts.

It is such a tricky balance: knowing how far your kid can go and pushing him to that place, while also supporting him when that “place” does not measure up to those around him, not all the time. I often feel like a coach. And not just from the soccer sidelines, but during school wrap-ups and after a bummer playdate with a friend. I am always trying to get my kid to be the very best person that was planted inside of him. He’s there, a seed at birth and still–always–slowly growing. I use soft gloves and hope there is no wilting, no torn leaves, no brown roots. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, of course, but there’s always the promise of a budding flower, and often the blooming comes erupting so suddenly I’m stifled by shock and awe.

He’s there, that person. That little man, growing up before my eyes. Unavoidably sprouting. Watching him and coaching him and loving him is effortless. But consciously teaching him how to stand tall and push through and not give up when life gets tough is overwhelming. How often have I given up? Changed course? Lost direction? How many times did it get so hard that I ran away?

I think this is my first taste of “I want you to have it better than I did” kind of stuff. The “I don’t want you to walk in my shoes” song and dance of parent and child relations. Truthfully, I’m not happy to be here. I never wanted to say those things or think those things. But I finally get it. My heart is wrapped right around this child and I want to move him toward all the opportunities that I lost just because I didn’t know the definition of “oblige” or the reward for effort.

Truth is, you may never win the race, dear child, but if you keep moving your legs, you will always finish. Stick with me, I’m going to learn all of these things myself by teaching you. And then we will be unstoppable.

In early Autumn my son had a soccer tournament. Day 2 found me alone on the sidelines, no little boys in tow pulling my eyes away from the field and my chatter away from the relatively adult conversation that can happen between players’ parents. It was a glorious weekend. The kind of pervasive sunshine that sneaks up on you, burning the gap of skin between your hairline and your collar. The boys had played three out of their four scheduled games. During the break between games we moved our chairs into the shade, doling out Gatorade bottles, and passing high fives to our brilliant players. We parents have an awesome job sometimes.

After 30 minutes of getting their sillies out and refueling, the boys were called back together. Coach did a little coaching–work on this, work on that, this will be a tough game but you can do it–and then he forced 14 9-year-old boys to shut up. They were not allowed to speak. They were not allowed to play. They were asked to lay down, or sit comfortably, and relax. Zip it, chill out and relax. That’s an order!

I remember looking over at the boys and at the Coach and then back at the boys in awe. Sure, a few of them just could not handle it. They ripped up grass and threw it at each other. And then they waited for the Look from Coach, which they got, followed by a smile. But most of them relented. Leaned back into the field and watched the trees above, listened to the parent chatter-chatter to their left, watched the current game to their right. Most of them were relieved, I think, to have a moment of calm, to let their bodies shut down just enough so that they could fill back up. So that they would have the energy to bring every last nerve and muscle to the next game.

Sometimes there’s The Hard up ahead. I can see it and I want to pause and lay down and regroup. I want a moment to let my body gather energy again, just so that I can go on, even if The Hard of today is nothing like what I dealt with last week or last year. It’s Hard now. It takes energy and strength and calm. Now. So much resolve that I so rarely have. Now, now, right now.

But there is no pause. There is no one saying, “DON’T.DO.ANYTHING!–Stop your body, stop your mind, just stop.”

I try to make this happen. Like in the little snippet of time where I’m waiting in the car while oldest runs in to grab his forgotten homework. Or when youngest doesn’t want to come out of the bath. Or when middle takes 12 minutes too long to choose his goodnight books. I try to make that my pause. It’s forced upon, a la Coach, and I try so hard to see it as a gift. Here you are, Sarah, and all you are doing is waiting, Sarah. So gather up your breath, Sarah, and let the sun pour in your eyes. Fill up your mind and your strength now. Right now. Courage and calm will come. It will come.

Sometimes the little pauses are just the thing I need. Sometimes I am so grateful to have remembered the opportunity they bring.

But sometimes I want to back the car up and leave my child running from the front door, homework in hand, wondering how he’ll get to school. Sometimes I want to say Little Pauses, go to Hell.

Not that I do. I’m just sayin’.

There are all these new moments in my life. They come rushing in. When I least expect it. That’s what “moments” do best, right?

My heart swells in the after-thought. Remembering what just occurred. Remembering, only seconds later, that he said this and I thought that and wow. Just wow.

My 9-year-old is growing up. He has his own sense of humor. He’s getting to know his parents so well. How we’re quirky. How we are when we don’t have to be parenting, parenting, parenting his little brothers. How we are real people. People he might just want to spend time with and get to know. People he might just be able to “mess with,” using his new-found sense of humor.

He peeked out of his bedroom tonight. I heard the incomparable squeak of his door. Soccer practice and homework keep him up later than I am used to. After reading and reading and reading–well past his required 20 minutes–he emerges. The TV is on downstairs and there’s music and he’s got a sneaking suspicion Dad and me are watching X-Factor. And he’s right.

So he gingerly steps down and then perches on the edge of the couch beside me, one butt cheek holding on, hoping with all hope I won’t shoo him off to bed. And so I let him stay. And he watches. And on the commercials Dan starts in with Dan-stuff. We see a commercial for a new phone and then: “Did you know when that phone was in development they wanted to use kevlar for the back? But they couldn’t because the gorilla glass made the phone too flexible and it kept breaking.”

So I say to my boy: “This is the stuff we talk about after you go to bed. It’s riveting, isn’t it? If you’re lucky, Daddy will tell you about a new car that’s come on the market, or a computer part he ordered today that’s supposed to amazing things.”

My boy glances at me, sideways smiles, and turns back to the TV. We watch a few more singers. He takes inventory of our judgments and listens to our description of music and what makes it ROCK.

Moments before it’s time to finally shoo him away Dan and I start chattering again, just for his benefit. Something about I-don’t-know-what but it was funny, and we were obviously trying to get a rise.

“I’m not listening to you anymore,” he says. And we all burst into laughter. Because it’s humor, you see. He’s still listening. I have to remind myself that he’s always listening. I have to tell future-Sarah to remember that he’ll still be listening at 15 even when he pretends–again–that he’s not.

We have his ear. He is intrigued by us as people and not parents.

We have these moments. The ones that sneak up on us. The ones that are so easily lost if I don’t write them down, or at least take a breath and recount in my mind.

We are so lucky to be parents. I don’t say those words enough.

He’s 90 pounds now. A big, beautiful, athletic boy. He towers over his classmates. He doesn’t get his height from us. But I have to believe he is getting so much more than that.

Dan feels the pride and connection that I do in this moment. I know this because he stands up with Jamis when it’s time for his shuteye. He bends down enough to lift Jamis over his shoulder and carry him upside-down-backwards up the stairs like he did for all those nights, all those years.

My heart swells.

And then my sweet husband comes down the stairs. Sits beside me and says, “Our boy is growing up.”

I know this but it’s new again.

When Dan and I were dating and we lived in Florida and life was really, quite literally, one day at a time, I overheard him talking to his Mom one day. He was sitting on the stairs in our duplex. An apartment I shared with three dudes. The stairs were carpeted and covered in dog hair from the two pit bulls who resided with us. Dan said to his mom: “A girl with the most beautiful blue eyes.” And he winked at me. And he smiled. I smiled back in a blush-y kind of way and then turned away.

I look at myself in the mirror now and that’s all I can see. The blue eyes. They still hold some beauty. But the rest of me? I blush. Not in a sultry sort of way like it was before. But in a shameful way. The way that comes when life has taken its toll. And three babies. And busyness.

—-

I never imagined marriage when I was a girl. Never envisioned a wedding. Never played with dolls like I was their mama. I never dreamed the life that I am now living. The Mom aspect of it, the roll of the Wife.

I was the third child. The one who was always trying to keep up. Assert her independence. Be noticed. Make herself known, without always knowing who her Self was.

And now I’m here. In marriage. In motherhood. And I look in the mirror and I stare at the blue eyes and I imagine another life. A wedding. Some children. But I already have all that. I shouldn’t imagine anymore. I am the Mother now. The Wife. The Responsible one.

There’s no time for the daydreams. The fantasies. There’s no eventual reality in that.

Maybe it’s better this way because I have what I have and it’s here so I can move forward toward a different me. The one no one would have imagined because we never thought past this stage. We never thought past marriage and motherhood. If we did, it was of success. It was of a comfortable life. Of summer homes and elaborate vacations. It wasn’t filled with the same kind of identity that we imagine now.

At least not for me.

—

It’s past midnight and I take a shower. I am so conscious of every noise I make. Will it wake the boys? Will the squeak of the door cause alarm? Will the water run too loud? But I take a shower because I feel this intense urge to cleanse. The water and me, we are together always. A shower is like a lifeline. Solitude and renewal altogether and one. Symbiotic.

I emerge and I grab a towel and I stare in the mirror. I sigh. This body is scarred and tired. So I cover it up. And I stare only at my eyes. The eyes my once-lover proclaimed so beautiful. I wonder, is that the only part of me left? Is there more? Was there ever?

—

Our eyes tell a story, to be sure. They talk and they still, all at once. They are quite something all alone. But it seems, at least for me, that they don’t get to speak much on their own any more. Not once marriage and motherhood have come to pass.

Once they were enough. Enough to base a story on. Once upon a time they were the greatest detail to divulge. Love was seen and felt there. Life was kind and sweet with them in mind. Once.

I know it’s cliche, but where did it go? Winter is fast approaching. I bought snow boots the other day. Of course, they don’t fit and I have to take them back, but at least I was thinking about snow in advance of snow actually landing on my lap. Well, that’s not really true, I suppose, since we just experienced a freak October snowstorm and were powerless for 7 days. Can you believe there are people in CT who still do not have power? Ugh. I feel horribly for them.

So I’m daydreaming about summer. Not really because I want to go back but more so because I want to remember. I guess you could say that’s the same thing, but no, it’s not. I’m content right where I am. A rainy day, somewhere around 45 degrees. But I’d like my heart to look back and remember and smile a bit and sigh, because another season has passed and another is on its way and we will never again be where we were yesterday. And sometimes that’s just hard to handle.

Did I do ok? Were they as happy as they should have been? They are children. They should feel happy. And free. And water-logged from time to time.

Happy. Free. Beautiful.

Max, do you want your sandwich cut in half?

No.

Places sandwich on butcher block table and illustrates with large chef’s knife. In half this way? Or diagonal?

I don’t want it cut.

You want it whole?

YES!

Pause. Older brother has something to say. (Because when doesn’t he, really?):

Max, I like mine cut in half. Ironically it makes me eat faster.

Jamis, did you just say “ironically”?

Yeah. Why?

Oh, I don’t know, because you’re NINE and you used it CORRECTLY!

And also, so very many things go faster when you break them in two. Go smoother when they are smaller. Seem easier when they are broken into halvsies. Do you know this, too? Or is your knowledge limited to sandwiches? Hmm. Methinks this is an easy answer.

:::::

And because it’s totally and completely unrelated I thought I’d insert a photo of Ethan: Littlest Brother. He rocks the accessory store like nobody’s business. Hats and sunglasses, shoes, necklaces and bags of every size and for every use.

This particular hat came home with us. He is already hipper than I will ever be. But he spits more. So there’s that.

Peace!

We were without power for seven days. 7. Seven. SEVEN!

When my husband texted me last night I was in disbelief. “We Have Power!!!!” And then I called him. And he was giddy. And I knew it was true. But I wasn’t surely sure about it until we drove home and I saw the streetlamp and the stoplight just a few houses from ours. 50% of our town is still without. I’m feeling a bit guilty for being one of the ones who is not currently sitting in the dark, charging phones in the car, dealing with ashes and soot, soot and ashes coating anything and everything within 20 feet of the fireplace.

My kids will remember this. The year Halloween was cancelled. The week we slept in the living room. Dropped the mattresses down the stairs and actually encouraged the boys to get closer, closer, even closer to each other just to stay warm at night. I cringe at what they will remember. How Dan and I yelled at them to STOP BOUNCING? How we didn’t really do anything fun during all.that.time? How I bought them each a small toy at Target, and a cheap book at Barnes and Noble? Something to give them a quick high, enough to maybe last an afternoon or two. Enough to keep them busy for a bit because they were getting under my skin, and fast.

Truth is, I almost miss the dark. ALMOST.

One boy fell asleep tonight with his head on a wooden puzzle. He’s rosy-cheeked and flopped on the tiny couch. Two boys and Dad are watching a movie. And here I am, a room away, writing a post for the blog–something I rarely, if ever, do anymore. Something I’d like to do more but you see…my family took center stage a while back. And just before that, I took center stage. These two things have never really happened since the start of me. Well, not in this way. I’ve spent very little time on the inside. I learned how to “go deep” without really having to think deep or be deep or dive deep. Don’t ask me how one can do this–it seems an oxymoron–but I did.

And now I’m standing in this place, you see, where I’m ready to crawl back on the outside a bit, but I’m unsure of how many steps to take or what parts of me to put up on the ledge. This is a brand new me.

But back to the dark. And how I almost miss it. We five were all in a room together. The two entrances closed off to keep the heat in. There were toys and blankets, pillows and sleeping pets. Piles of dirty clothes and baskets of clean ones. And lots and lots of firewood. We were there, doing what a family should do. Getting to know each other in the small spaces of life. It’s not as though we don’t spend time together. Oh we do. Oh certainly, yes. But that time is so rarely as inherently quiet as life without power. With no school for the week, no TV as a distraction, no work to squeeze in, no laundry to do, dishes to maintain and hair to wash. We were just us. Each of us. As independents. And us. Just us. Together. As one. A whole. A family.

It got old quick, as they say. But as one friend put it, the beginning was “romantic.” Indeed.

Life is slowly resuming. The TV is on. The first floor is cleaned. Dishes and laundry have been running non-stop since power came back last night.

But school is again closed on Monday. Likely on Tuesday as well, we’ll hear soon.

So, we are still waiting. I can’t imagine not waiting for life to really, truly resume.

In the meantime I want to remember. We had this really wonderful, difficult time together. I’m sad for it, but I’m so, so lucky it’s over. 52% of my town is still in the dark. You’d think we live in the middle of a forest. I guess no matter where you live it can feel like that from time to time.