It can be said that we learn more from our kids than they learn from us. That is certainly true in some situations. Although in my case, my children have given up trying to teach me how to be a Lego Whisperer of their caliber. Any caliber, really. And in the case of Littlest, he taught me that gerunds are just about the funnest thing in the world. (Actually, I already knew this, but I was going for parallel structure within my argument, so can we all just roll with it? Thanks.)
Yesterday, he and Middlest were entertaining themselves with a MadLib and when she asked him for a verb, he offered up this gem: DIARRHEA. As in, “the hippo with the brown striped nose and octopus head was diarrhea-ing in the hopping car.”
And you know, making the noun diarrhea into a gerund makes sense. Especially if you’ve ever had the occasion to diarrhea yourself or spent the day diarrheaing after eating something not so wholesome.
In case you are wondering what diarrhea has to do with BAMFing it up, well, this is my brain, remember. All random things connect and make sense in my mind. I don’t even use street drugs folks.
Previously, I haven’t had many occasions to use the acronym BAMF but I am working on rectifying that.
BAMF BAMF BAMF BAMF BAMF BAMF BAMF BAMF BAMF BAMF
You should probably know that I actually said all those words as I typed those letters and it felt pretty awesome doing it. (In case you don’t know what BAMF is an acronym for, go google it (YES! Another gerund!) and then reread that line. Wasn’t that basically most excellent? Aside from the profanity for those who are profanity adverse, of course. That may have been a tad uncomfortable for them.
Anyhoozle, I noted today that my kitten gave me two 3-claw scratches to my face and neck and I questioned if I looked like a BAMF. No one thought I did, but they can be forgiven because they didn’t see the blood trickles.
Today is a typical day in that I have a lengthy to-do list and must run several errands. Most folks would be less than thrilled to go into public looking like they were a kitten-scratching-post, but I decided to make it a lemonade moment and tell myself I just looked like a BAMF. That I could spend my day BAMFing it up.
And suddenly, there was another gerund in my head, just like that.
Just like the BAMFing gerund-loving, lexicon-turns-me-one bibliophile that I am.
If you need me, I’m running to the store for a loaf of bread and some milk. I’ll be BAMFing it up in my mom-van and not-mom-jeans with One Direction rocking the factory installed stereo system.
Now, go make some gerunds like a BAMF. Or at least learn what a emmeffing gerund is, for pete’s sake.
I know that according to my bio, I may appear to be one of those creative types, but that appearance is much better on paper than in real life. No whimsical long skirts or beaded necklaces here. No clouds of patchouli or dread locks. Nope, I look like I could be an accountant or maybe a cashier at the grocery store.
What’s more, I never have been a poster child for creativity. I was a serious child who didn’t play like other kids. I didn’t play with dolls much, I didn’t dream about my future husband and plan out my children whom I would name Sebastian and Josephine. I didn’t create play worlds out of my Tinker-Toys and Lego. I was a strange little child, indeed.
But we all know that what is seen is not all there is.
The truth is, I really am one of those creative types, perhaps trapped in the body of a nondescript middle aged lady better suited to life in accounts receivable. I built my sister houses for her Barbies, I organized my toys and clothes into patterns of colors and sizes. I gathered my classmates around me on the playground and told them stories and jokes. And I lived in the worlds found in the books of my public library.
I am creative, just on the inside more than the outside.
There are stories always in my mind, their voices just waiting to speak. There are pictures in my head, people in my heart, and songs on my tongue. And they all clamor to be let out into the world.
But there are times when my creative passion must take a backseat. I wish this wasn’t my truth, but it is.
When I am stressed, I eat sugar and carbs. I drink more coffee and alcohol. I break out in hives and have heart palpitations. I wake up at 2:30 am and obsess over my to-do lists. I lose my temper and I wear an expression that looks far from a smile. I cry. I stop baking bread for my children and buy them Pop-Tarts instead. Instead of thriving, I settle for simply surviving.
But most importantly, my passion for creating the arts of my heart hides from me.
These days, I am stressed. We are selling our house and trying to buy a new one. If you’ve ever done that particular bit of joy, you understand. If you are a writer or painter or dreamer, perhaps you understand why there is no creative juice left in my hand that aches from painting baseboards.
My day job is heading into its busiest time and there are even more pressures on me than usual. The news is filled with sad stories, scary stories, frustrating stories. My pants are too tight and my paycheck too small.
So my creative side? It doesn’t fit these days either.
I am living on black coffee and the hope that everything will work out sooner than later. But I’d really like to be able to pack up my laptop and go sit in a coffee shop and just write. To take the story living the loudest in my heart and breathe life into it. Instead, I’ll reschedule the carpet cleaners, pack up a box of stuffed animals, and make another cup of coffee.
And I’ll dream of the day that my need to create doesn’t take a backseat to my other needs.
I’ll admit I struggled a bit to come up with a title for today’s post because what I planned to write about seemed a bit, well, b-o-r-i-n-g and I have a certain level of un-boring to maintain around here. So I did what most sleep-deprived folks do, I googled the correct spelling and instead of finding a mere answer, I found a trove of information I didn’t know I was missing.
The process went a bit like this: Read more…
Hello all you beautiful people! How are you? Me, I’m doing all right but I am a bit sleep deprived. Which, in my little corner of the world, translates into rum-dumb silliness. Or, in other words, goofy things make me snicker.
Things like people’s names. For example, I recently heard of a gentleman with a first name of Richard. And a surname of Wisher. And he goes by the nickname for Richard. Let’s hope if he’s married, his wife doesn’t get mail addressed to Mrs. blah blah. Read more…
If you ever see me with a French pedicure, I’m being held against my will and am trying to signal you to call the police. And I don’t just mean the fashion police either. Whenever I see someone with a French pedicure, I’m pretty sure I need to stage some sort of intervention. After all, they do look like a call for help. (I’ve never seen male feet with one, but there’s no call to be sexist about bad ideas, right?) Read more…
I’ve been fairly open here that I have PTSD. For those of you who don’t live with this particular beast, it is a fiery one. Most times it is just there, like scars from a bike ride gone wrong back in elementary school days. But then things trigger it and it sets off a maelstrom of emotions. For me, sometimes that looks like a leaf on the wind trying to float to the earth rather than plummet. And sometimes it looks very different.
On April 15th, we all know a terrible thing happened in Boston. And many of us know it because the images of the bombings were all over every media outlet. From the beginning, before I realized what was happening, I saw photos of the carnage.
And since blood is a major trigger for me, I immediately started a PTSD struggle.
“Let’s get coffee!” How many times have you said this? If you’re my age and living in the United States, chances are pretty high that number is greater than your digits by a long shot. I’m not sure what people said in 1813 or 1913, but getting coffee has certainly become a part of our cultural norm in 2013. And right along with it comes that other cultural norm: the opportunity for regret.
There are so many rituals in making and drinking coffee (tea is just the same). This is true especially when you make coffee at home. The filling of the device, the smell of the beans, the sounds of the coffee becoming real, the first taste. For coffee drinkers, making and drinking a cup of coffee includes all sorts of emotions and experiences that change it from the mundane into an almost revered thing. So asking someone to join you in that pursuit is both a casual thing and potentially a memory-making event.