Mason 365: Day 14

Becoming Cereal Mom

It's a chilly, rainy day here at the Washa House. Zach is at work, Logan's at school, Mason's snoozing in the bouncer, and Grandpa's reading a story to the girls in the living room.

I've just been standing here in the kitchen, putting dishes away and pondering the meaning of life. I was picturing myself giving a speech to some young people contemplating their next phase. I was trying to describe to them the process - how everything in life has meaning and no experience is wasted. How your path isn't always as straight as you'd like it to be; how you can't always see beyond the next bend, but God can.

Several lines into my "speech" I voiced the following sentence, "Life is just a process of discovering yourself... and what you want..." (something was missing - oh - ) "and how you can use your talents to serve others."
I stopped dead in my tracks. It was one of those 'struck by lightening' moments. Ironic choice of words since in the real world, a pretty sizable storm had just concluded.

I know what I am.
I'm a writer.

A friend recently referred to me on Facebook as one of her "writer friends." I admit that I had to reread the sentence a few times and even after that I wasn't entirely certain what to make of it. I guess I've always thought of myself more as someone who writes than as a writer. The term writer sounds so formal; like it should pay well; like more of a career than a hobby.

You've probably all noticed by now that in the past two weeks I've taken a "photography" project and turned it into a writing exercise. I literally couldn't help myself. I'm pretty sure I even knew that's what I was going to do from the very beginning (refer to the fact that I decided to center the project around my blog - where I primarily write or to Mason Day 1 where I blatantly refer to myself as "much more a writer than a photographer",) because writing isn't either of the previous two classifications for me. It's not a career because I don't do it for a living. One could argue that, being a stay-at-home mom, I don't do anything for a living, However, I've just heard a breaking news story on the local radio station that women such as myself have come to consider the term "stay-at-home mom" offensive and insulting, so for right now let's just stick with writing doesn't pay me anything. 

So it isn't a career, but it's also more than hobby. Hobbies have value. I love hobbies. I kind of wish I had more hobbies. But hobbies tend to be expensive, and casual. I truly believe that for some people, writing can be a hobby. They write down something they want to say, they like it, they go about their business - to work, to school, to basket-weaving class. They forget about it for a while until the next time they feel like writing something. It's a hobby.

I like to garden - flower garden, to be specific. I love flowers. When the spring weather finally shows up - Logan's estimate for this year is June; From the looks of things he's not too far off - I buy as many pretty flowers as I can afford, get creative with the amount of planting space I have left out front, sometimes try to take over parts of the vegetable garden which Zach does not appreciate, water them as often as I remember, and when the frost comes, it comes. A good half of them die, even the perennials, probably due to my lousy gardening skills. I don't like to see them go, but I don't spend the whole winter pining for them either. I can get new ones next year - more or less the exact same ones if I really want to. It's a small loss. Christmas approaches and I have larger priorities. I love Christmas, too.

A couple of months ago I got this awesome blog post idea. I was going to recount a day in my life from start to finish. The fun, the messes, the games, the laundry pile, the extreme organizational problems, the fires, the spaghetti sauce, the works. I got about a quarter of the way through. I liked what I had, but I wasn't obsessed with it. It was just okay. Which is probably why, when some kind of weird internet or computer glitch suddenly wiped the whole page clean and, as I had only been writing on it here and there, between two computers, when I had a few minutes, all I did was sigh, pound the desk a few times, and give myself a good couple of months worth of Depression Leave until the grieving process was completed. Blogger and I made the best peace we could muster. Although I begrudgingly still await an apology...

Imagine what could have ensued had I actually felt some significant attachment to that particular post. The Depression Leave could've gone on forever. I could have become the dreaded Recluse Blogger...
So, long story, well, long, for me flower gardening is a hobby. Writing is a vocation -  like teaching or music or anything else that refuses to show up at 9 and retreat at 5.

I've seen interviews over the years with various people who are known for having extreme success in some particular field of work or play or study. The questions are always different, but a few cornerstone queries remain the same. One in particular springs to mind: When was it that you first knew that (philanthropy, basketball, archaeology, rocket science, etc.) was the thing for you - the thing you would consider your ultimate life's work? The answers are generally some variation of, 'it dates back to my childhood.'

An athlete knew it the first time he stepped on to a baseball field, a singer the first time she picked up a microphone, a third was more like me - confused back then, but with increased poise and clarity as an adult.
I love photography. I take pictures of my kids (and other stuff) every day. I take my camera with me wherever I go. My coat pocket feels naked without it. Sometimes I take a day off - the camera is with me, but I don't take it out. I love singing too. I always have. And I'm pretty good at it. It's something I would really hate to have to live without. It's a part of my everyday life. In the past, it's even made me money. But it's still a hobby.
How do I know I'm not a photographer? Or a singer? They don't keep me up at night.


For the first 12 or so years of my life (minus the time before he was born, of course) I shared a room with my younger brother. Right around the time I started middle school, I finally got a room of my own. It was the larger half of my parents' attic. It was spacious, largely private, and (but for the obnoxiously squeaky (I'm a really light sleeper), terribly uncomfortable bed frame and extreme attic-type temperature variations,) a pre-teen's dream!  (I'm pretty sure my parents lived to regret that decision since the room turned out to be so awesome I wanted to be in it all the time, but they did a great job.) It had pretty pink walls, white trim, my stereo, my bookshelves, and my parents' computer. What more could a growing gal need?

The tower of aforementioned parental computer was located directly beside my bed which turned out to be the ideal location for accommodating my writers' insomnia. Each night at bedtime, a notebook and pen perched patiently a foot or so away from my ever-churning brain, anxiously awaiting the pitch-dark pounce of the midnight doctor-scrawl that I would ultimately place upon it, hoping my scribbles would remain discernible linguistics by the next day's light.

My mom always said I should write a book - for as long as I can remember. I spent a couple of summers in college as a waitress at an assisted living home. I both loved and hated that job. For the most part, my co-workers were a pretty fun bunch and the "old" people, as I then referred to them, were often very entertaining. I used to come home and regale my parents with tales of how none of them could remember my name and one man in particular took to re-naming me "girl" for his own convenience, entirely irrespective of my continuous efforts to convince him otherwise. Or of Ernie, a quiet, not especially friendly, but not entirely antisocial type, who was seated, at his request, with his guy-pal Joe, and was so insistent on beginning each meal with a single tomato, cut into slices and seasoned with salt and pepper, that all three of our chefs knew to have it ready and waiting for him the moment he arrived. Or Betty and Bill, a World War II-era couple with a lovely corner seating. Half of Bill's left leg had been amputated as the result of a war injury and Betty was in the habit of wagging her finger at the wait staff while joking that "the food had better arrive hot and on time or Bill will kick you." They thought it was just about the most amusing joke ever, and for all the joy it brought to their twilight years, it probably was.
Another favorite diner couple of mine were Bill (different Bill) and Helen. They moved in "temporarily" one summer while Bill was recuperating from surgery. They planned to stay there together for a few months so that he could get extra care before returning home.
There was a much older woman who sat at the table where I folded napkins after each seating who was largely unable to feed herself. Sometimes if the nursing staff was called but proved ultimately too bombarded to show up before the meal was over, I would pull up a chair beside her and spoon-feed her soup and cottage cheese and yogurt until a nursing assistant arrived. I loved the dishwasher there (the person, not the machine.) We were friends and he was always warning me that I should stop feeding people because it wasn't my job and I could get into trouble for it. I took him seriously, but I decided I'd rather get fired in the service of the hungry than keep my job for the sake of conformity. If you're thinking that sounds really noble, I was young and I did enough incredibly stupid things while I was there to more than make up for it.
Finally, there was Rosie. She was there from the time I got hired until the time I resigned. She was one of my most and least favorite residents. I always categorized her in my mind as a kind of female mafia boss. The location of her table changed a few times, but her company never did. They couldn't. She demanded it that way. I've heard it said of George W. Bush that he did a brilliant job of hand-picking his cabinet, and then never listened to a word they said. I couldn't say whether or not the folks at Rosie's table were brilliant, but they were yes-men for certain. They laughed at her jokes, pandered to her requests, ignored her idiosyncrasies. And she wouldn't have exchanged them for the world. Not because she particularly cared about them, but because they didn't particularly annoy her. As opposed to some of the less functional residents who she constantly berated with relentless scorn, at her table were seated only the best, most polished, and most well-respected residents. At times, Rosie's behavior was obnoxiously reminiscent of a common, rude, prejudiced, ignorant bar-room drunk. She sipped her tea like a duchess (and lord help the waitress who didn't have that tea waiting in just the right spot at just the right temperature when she arrived) and ran her mouth like a sailor, but she didn't settle for anyone and there's surely something to be said for that.
The summer before my senior year, I knew I was finished. I arrived in my shiny new wait staff uniform, caught up with my old employee friends, and set about my work as familiar faces began to roll through the dining room doors... some of them anyway. Joe was deceased as was his friend. Two chipper, younger ladies had taken their place. The woman I used to feed was also gone, as well as Bill, who over the course of several summers never did try to kick me. Betty had become somewhat hostile in his absence and she didn't seem to remember me. The guy who called me "girl" had been relocated, which wasn't incredibly depressing, but Rosie had lost her edge as had Bill and Helen, who for some reason had never made it home after all and were both fading fast. (Helen had not so much as a cold when they first arrived.) Not one of the three lasted the summer.
I didn't, as they say, have the "heart" to write the book - for several reasons. First of all, I didn't think I could do it. A book seemed like such a huge, daunting undertaking, and I've spent more than a quarter of my life convincing myself that I'm still just that no-talent kid who can't accomplish anything. Also, I'm not sure I wanted to remember any more than I do right now. The experience was fun, and awful. It was my first real glimpse of mortality and that's a pretty bittersweet pill for a college student to sit contemplating over a desktop, when she could be out on a date.

And speaking of dates...
Ever notice how when someone meets the right person - the person they're going to marry - everyone else seems to see the wedding coming before the couple does? Know why?
It's because they're just too close to it. They have the joy... and the fear.
What if he/she doesn't feel the same way I do? What if it doesn't work out? What if this isn't as permanent as I hope it will be? What if it is and I'm not ready? What if it all just falls apart?

I got dumped by my college boyfriend (the one before Zach) because he said I just wasn't "the one."
I was completely devastated. It was my first real, committed relationship and I thought sure we were going to get married.
But God knows. God sees what we can't, or don't want to.
College Boyfriend kind of hated kids.
That's a little harsh.
I don't think he hated them, but they weren't really his thing.
They annoyed him. And he was kind of impatient with them.

Turns out he was right about us after all.
Because all the while, guess who hadn't yet realized she wanted all of this...

He wasn't especially fond of Catholics either. Oops.

Within a few months of being with Zach, friends and relatives started bringing up marriage. I was horrified - halfway through college, no career prospects, no substantial future plans at all, and some days Zach bugged the heck out of me. I didn't want to think about becoming his wife. I just wanted to hang out and go to school.
Less than two years later I was planning our wedding.

I'd say it's only within the past few years that I myself have developed the intuition  - intuition here defined as the ability to discern a young couples' long-term compatibility after having spent precious little time with them. We attended a relatives' wedding last July and another is rapidly approaching. The first time Zach and I met both soon-to-be spouses we knew - they were a fit.
Families aren't one-size-fits-all. They have size variations. Not literal sizes, spiritual sizes. Sometimes you date someone, you care about them, your family cares about them, you love them, but for some nagging reason, they just aren't quite the right fit. They're just not "the one."
But then one is, and it makes all the browsing worthwhile.

My mom knew I was a writer when I was kid. I can remember a time, even before I could read, when I would review events that had happened or were currently happening to me, sometimes silently in my own mind, and occasionally muttered aloud for the world to hear. I would phrase and rephrase my sentences until I had them just right, then picture a big book of my life's experiences, fully completed, waiting for me up in heaven, worded just the way I liked it. I'm pretty sure my mom thought it was the beginning of becoming a modern, anti-social Thoreau. For me, it was just the process of becoming me.
My friends and family knew it a few years ago when I started posting funny stories about my kids on Facebook. If I'm lucky, this post will generate the usual few comments about when I'm going to finish my compilation novel and submit it for publication. *sigh* Someday...
So, as it turns out, the only one who didn't know I was a writer up until now was me.
Know why?
I'm too close to it.
I have the joy - and the fear.
Not of the blank page or of writers' block. If anything I'm cursed with having too much to say. But...
What if I write something and nobody likes it? What if I think I'm funny, but I'm not? What if I say something that upsets someone?
What if none of it matters?

What if I just try...

It's not going away. I was up until 3:00 last night writing this - not because I had to , not because there was a deadline, but because I couldn't stop. Even after I went to bed, I slept restlessly, partially because my tiny one was snoozing restlessly beside me, and partially because I was missing my midnight notebook and pen. The sentences just kept swirling around and around my brain with no hope of release. Maybe I should scare up a significantly used computer tower, for old times' sake. I'm certain we have one around here somewhere.

I have notes about things I don't want to forget all. over. my house. Not stuff like 'scrub the sink' or 'pick up toilet paper at the store.'
Stuff like, 'potential titles' and 'sentences about which I've had an epiphany of the exact right wording,' (often while vacuuming the couches or sponging up baby puke.)

I'd love to be able to use my writing to give my family a better life.
But the life we already have is wonderful.
I've been so blessed to have found "the one" not once, but twice.
First in Zach and again in my love of the written word.
And ultimately, whether or not writing ever makes me a cent, it is certainly one of my primary purposes.
It's me.
It's what I want.
I'm willing to tolerate a super messy home, little to no sleep, and the 24-hour job of nursing it and my four or so other Callings in order to keep it in my life.
All that remains unclear is how I can best use it to leave the world behind a little better than I found it...

They say hindsight is 20/20 - and it is, (even if your actual eyesight has been more like 20/40 for the majority of it.)
I once read a quote that I will never forget by an author who knew exactly how his calling could serve others:

“Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” –E. L. Doctorow

And so my trip begins... or continues... through the hidden blessings of being a Cereal Mom.

I'm glad to have all of you with me as I round the next bend :)

Finally, Just For Fun:

My Primary "Writing Stations"

Before you judge me too harshly, here's a self-absolving quote that I love:

“People with messy desks don’t have messy heads. Quite the contrary – they’ve taken the mess out of their heads and piled it on their desks.”

-Richard Harper

from The Myth of the Paperless Office*

*At present, the book has more anthropological than practical value,

but the quote, as you're about to see, is timeless :)

The Den
There's not nearly as much paper here as there normally would be.
I "tidied up" for a visiting Grandpa.

The Piano
Traded one type of keyboard for another...

Starting to feel a little better about the shape your house is in?