I can't sleep

It's 12:35 am and I can't sleep. To tell you the truth, I haven't been sleeping a lot lately. Oh I go to bed. Snuggle in my covers wearing my comfy jammies. I hunker down and square my shoulders, rotate my ankles, roll ny neck muscles and release the breath of the content. and as I lay on my left side, my rosey cheek lovingly laid on my soft pillow, I release meself to sleep...... a long slow breath escapes my nostrils, my hands are snuggled up against my chin, ummmm, ummmm yeah... deep cleasing breath: I release myself to sleep..... ok, this sucks. So not working. I open my eyes. Did I file the Baxter paperwork? My fingers are flexing a little.....did I copy the Mullins notes?Yes, Yes, of course I did. Stop it. I clear my head, I sigh a little, pull my chin to my chest - release slowly as I stretch it back breathing a slow, cool, breath. Stretch a little, stretch a little more. So to sleep. yes, sleep, very sleepyeeee. Shoot. Did the Martin paperwork get documented? Did I call Mrs. Bell? Yes, yes. Were the envelopes ordered? Did the cat get fed? Wait, wait, wait. I don't have a cat. And, trust me, if the dogs had not been fed they would have eaten the lawn ornaments by now. Go to sleep. Relax. I run my fingertips, down my cheek, across my lips, my hand nestles beneath my chin. I breathe deep, I release slow. I think I'll wear my coral sweater set with the brown slacks and the cute flats I got at Payless, my light brown knee highs are clean, I'll only need a light ja...............

written for my daughter just before her wedding May 26, 2007

Just Yesterday

Just yesterday you joined us all shiny pink and new
Just yesterday your gurgles turned into soft, sweet coos
Just yesterday you sat up straight with a purpose and a flair
Just yesterday you wobbled from the sofa to the chair
Just yesterday you gave a pout cause that new baby was here to stay
Just yesterday you took his hand and took him out to play
Just yesterday you boarded a big bright yellow bus
Just yesterday you rode it home with never any fuss
Just yesterday you trotted Barney for a ribbon in the show
Just yesterday you were an American Girl who learned how to sew
Just yesterday you giggled with your girlfriends overnight
Just yesterday you ran the track with all of your might
Just yesterday you gathered seashells in the sand
Just yesterday you marched with clarinet in the school band
Just yesterday you rode on a convertile parading through the town
Just yesterday on the football field you marched in cap and gown
Just yesterday you packed your car and headed off to college
Just yesterday you missed us so your car got lots of mileage
Just yesterday the man you love got down on bended knee
Just yesterday you pledged your heart with love for all to see
Just yesterday will stay with me while Daddy walks you down the aisle
Just yesterday will fill my heart and keep me all the while

My son, my only son, will be discharged from the Marines on or about October 20, 2008. His four years completed. His unregimented life to begin. I can't even decide how to start telling you how I feel about this. "Elated" doesn't scratch the surface.
My baby decided to enlist at 17. He saw no future for himself having drifted through high school with grades that wouldn't wow even Skateboarders U, with no direction, with no outlook, he listened to the recruiter that visited Ocean City High School. He was too young, we had to sign his enlistment papers. I still can't believe I did that.
The Recuiter. The not so tall, handsome black man that engaged us in conversation, answered all our questions, promised me the only son of an only son would never see combat, spoke with conviction and manners unparalled, was the same man who whisked my second born away from his home in the wee hours of the morning without a goodbye hug or kiss. I cried for days. I cry still.
His letters home were devasting and desolate. His loneliness heartbreaking, his toils backbreaking. Parris Island is an amazing place. It houses many, many fine men and women. It can exist on it's own. It has barracks and classrooms, exercise facilities and training, military stores and libraries, Pizza Hut and death.
A young man my son knew didn't make it through Parris Island. Apparently some do not. A military secret, I suppose. But unfortunately, not uncommon. We send our sons and daughters to do what they feel is their duty. And when you send them, you know in your heart you're not sending them off to sleep away camp. But you do assume that they will be in a safe training place. A place where they learn the evils and the skills to avoid them.
He made it through. With honors. Having taught others in a religion class, having been a squad leader, having done us proud.
So proud and so secret that he was, in addition to his battalion assignment he was recruited by the elite. The Chuck Norris want-to-be squad. The youngest taken into consideration, he was taken directly from boot camp, and he excelled. The first time he experienced proudness. He was exceptional at something. His shoulders squared a little straighter. His chin raised a little higher.
He would come home on leave. And bring buddies. And we would laugh and joke and cook and have parties. And he would come home again the next time And some who had, could not.
He saw combat. My only son of an only son had changed his request for positioning and had requested infantry. Once he saw, as the rest of us had, the beheading of dear Nicholas Berg, he changed his status. No one can do that to us mom, he said to me. No one. We have to stop this. ...... This.
He saw all the awful places. Witnessed all the awful things. The child I never allowed to have a plastic toy gun was patrolling with his squad in a god-forsaken country with a weapon I can't even imagine in his hands. He took a bullet in one place. Just one. Jumping off a humvee something smashed him in the chest. Thank God for keflar. Thank God for his "brothers". He told me that he was hit and flying backwards, but what he saw was the men with him, weapons aimed, who obleterated the enemy who had fired upon them. And he did not lie back, as when he discovered he was not bleeding, he fell to his left elbow, his own weapon poised and began to fire. The bullet that hit him lodged in his vest. He was able to free it on their way back and snap a picture. That picture hangs on our fridge today. It's caption reads "baby's first bullet" As the mother of a Marine, any other caption would have been useless.
He had other injuries. he's got a nice new knee. He's been fixed up and patched up and bandaged. He's been tattooed and tortured and tested. And he's coming home when so many have not.
When he enlisted I told everyone how proud of him I was. How amazing it was to me that my heart could burst with pride and break with anticipated sorrow at the same time.
And now he is coming home. Too broken for deployment, too broken to re-enlist, but whole in body, he is coming home. Though his nightmares continue, he is coming home. Though he startles easily, he is coming home. Though he wears too many other dogtags of his fallen brothers, he is coming home.
And I am torn.
I will grab him as he comes through our gate. And I will hold him as no mother has ever held her son. And I will hold on for so long, for so many, for myself, and for others who can't.
And I will cry for us all.

Hello Gentle Reader,

I think I'll open a bottle of red and kick back tonight. This week has proven to be so stressful that I doubt even yummy Sven couldn't relax me with a swedish massage. But it may be worth a try......

Why are some weeks easier to handle than others? Are there different limits to our tolerance? How come I can be in my office and handle clients calling about their declining account balances in the state of the stock market, and then freak out when I break a nail getting gas? Why can I tolerate a 4 year old kicking the back of my seat as we sit in traffic, but when my husband tries to snitch a slice of bacon while I'm cooking breakfast he's in danger of losing an arm from my wrath?

Is it a matter of importance? Your position on the "food chain" your rung on the ladder? I know we can't quabble over what we can't control. But I can control my emotions and speak in a calming manner when Mrs.-I-retired-in-1993-and-expect-my-retirement-account-to-carry-me-through-the-golden-years hits an all time market low. And I can say to Madeline, hey darling girl, can you stop kicking your feet, you're hitting aunt Sindy's seat with your feet and bumping my back, without sounding like the mistress of an orphanage in 1924.

But when my husband forgets a phone message or a co-worker twists my words you might think you were watching a remake of "Carrie".

Is it because I love my job and I LOVE LOVE LOVE children that I am more tolerant of them? But I love my husband, so why can he set my teeth on edge? Hmmmm. I think an educational grant may be in order. I'll apply for a few hundred thousand and then grab my best few girlfriends, a few bottles of pinot and a summer cottage by the beach and get right to work!

Maybe I should start an advice column? I love giving advice. And of course it would be free so anyone could write in. I wonder how one does that. I'll have to ask Fe.

Well, this wine isn't going to uncork itself, so I'll take a breather, let the wine breathe, and be back atcha.
xoxoxoxox Aunt Sindy

So I have this aunt. This Amazing Aunt. And she is 91 and starting to be a bit confused with things. Who am I kidding..... she started being confused what seems like forever ago, it's just hit home now that the "Assisted Living" capsule has been engaged. Boy that sucks. Why can't she live with me? Why am I not independently wealthy so I can stay with her? We talk all the time, we read the same books (ok, she can re-read hers more often but so what). She stays with me for weeks at a time for visits now that her son whisked her off to Fl to be near him. She was always closer to us anyway. He can keep the damn inheritance, just give me my aunt. I don't need her $. I need her. She taught me to ride my bike. I can walk with her to the mailbox. She taught to fish - and bait my own hook. I can show her the remote for the tv, even 1000 times a day. I know she won't understand it then or the next time. She won't need to, I'll put on the news, or Vanna White or Oprah. We'll have our happy hour. She doesn't know that her glass of wine is cut with so much water that you couldn't evn calculate the alcohol content. We sit and laugh and read and sweep the front walk and could have a very happy co-existence thank you very much. So why is she still in FL and not here with me I ask ya?

So, I was just thinking of starting this and writing to release and it dawned on me that writing to release was good for me but in a blog situation others may read and that might mean that release could equal upset feelings. So, I'm going to write to release and if I hurt your feelings, I'm sorry. But write I must, and write I will. But maybe tomorrow.......