Trophy

Packing up your entire life for an out-of-state move is no small job. I have already spent countless hours in a hot, dusty attic sorting through boxes and bags. Knowing that I have to fit my belongings into a home with less than ½ the amount of space (but nearly twice as expensive, and don’t get me started), I have been quite motivated to purge. The process of downsizing is not an easy one, although I have been surprised with my liberal attitude toward just plain getting rid of things. But these belongings are mostly items I have held on to for many years because of there sentimental value or what they represent to me.

As I have dug around the boxes of old clothes, photographs, and keepsakes, I have come to realize that most of this worthless stuff either represents memories from my past (senior pictures, slam books, programs from my performances), or my hopes for the future (prom dresses for a little girl’s dress up, a size zero pair of Capri pants I may someday fit into). Sorting these items may prove to be as beneficial as a trip to a therapist.

The trigger for all this self-reflection was dragging out a box of high school memorabilia. I pulled out the journals, the Class of 92 coffee mug, and my West High School present’s Pippin sweatshirt in florescent orange and blue-(I am not sure who designed that one, but I am guessing they did not make it in the world of graphic design). Underneath it all I found a shiny blue and gold trophy. A trophy. Not participating in athletics, this was the only trophy I ever earned. I won the prized possession for taking first place in a forensics prose competition in 1991. I have held on to the damn thing for all of these years. Although hardly a major accomplishment, I was never so proud or excited as the day I won the honor for reciting a short story about infertility. It strikes me as odd now that a 16 year old teenager would act out the part of a grief stricken woman unable to conceive. Ironic that years later, I actually experienced the pain of infertility first hand.

Seeing that trophy I had a flash back to the girl I used to be. I was miserable in high school, insecure, moping around after a boy who wasn’t interested, obsessed with losing weight, and generally hating myself. Today, as I look at my high school treasures, it pains me that I was so hard on myself. I was great. I was active and involved, running from rehearsal, to voice lessons, to forensics, on to the peer helper group I was elected to. I studied hard and got all A’s and B’s. I had so many interests. I won a freaking trophy. No, I was never invited to a cool party in the woods with a keg, and on that dreaded day around the Valentines holiday when perky cheerleaders delivered roses to the most popular in homeroom, my stomach ached, for I would never receive one. But I see the pictures of the “ugly” girl I thought I was, and I see a prettier than average teen, and wonder what the heck my problem was.

I miss the competitiveness-in forensics winning a first or second prize, on a paper earning an A, getting “Highest Ranking Senior” in the University of Wisconsin’s Child & Family Studies program. Today, there are no trophies, A’s or scholarships for being a sometime-contract recruiter and a stay at home mom. Maybe that is why I adore interviewing so much, “winning” the job, impressing others. And perhaps that is why I am so disturbed about my inability to be a truly exceptional housewife. I am simply not good at keeping a tidy, organized Martha Steward-worthy home. I wouldn’t even get a bronze medal for that.

They say that hindsight is always 20/20. Given my regret for my teenage years, my guess is that someday I will look back on my thirties and think I was an energetic, social mother who gave her kids all types of fun experiences, and that although I own not one, not two, not three but probably four junk drawers, and that my refrigerator always has crusted food stains on it, I was great

Moving On....

Its 2:30am. I'm sitting at the desk in a fine resort in Oakland California. I can't sleep. My husband is happily in slumber land in the bed behind me. I am gazing at an unfamiliar skyline, a beautiful show of a million lights. We aren't on vacation. We have shared a whirl-wind, frenzied weekend of house hunting in the bay area. We are moving.

David has accepted a career-changing position with a huge company. Although, weary of leaving behind a beloved life in Colorado he is a flutter with the excitement of a new future and an adventure. He is moving to a company that pursued him and will offer him welcomed new challenges. I on the other-hand feel like all I am doing is leaving behind.

I am petrified and sad. Certainly, there is a part of me that is excited to live in an amazing part of the country. I envision trips to "The City" with the boys-gobbling up sourdough bread and clam chowder on the wharf and family excursions on the cable cars. But that is a family vacation. This is no vacation. This signifies an end to a life I have spent the past eight years building.

I can and most likely will get lost in the details and logistics of such a major move. The next few weeks are going to involve so much work. We need to pack up our three story, nearly 3000 square foot house into boxes, hopefully packing only enough contents to fill our new rental home that will be ruffly half the size. This means sorting through, in my case YEARS of crap. I must admit I am a bit of a pack rat. In a recent purging frenzy I have sorted through probably 15 years of clothing, finally donating souvenir T-Shirts from London (but I am KEEPING my Billy Joel concert t-shirts, damn it!), items that are too small or too big, or skirts that are embarrassingly short (good Lord, I was a whore). I have drawers and closets and general messes of keepsakes, photos, birthday party supplies, you name it. All will need to pass the "Do-I-really-need this" test. I must get our own home in shape to be rented, and find lovely new tenants to fill our empty home. I need to find a preschool for Zachary and schedule telephone service and all of those other necessary utilities.

The details are good. The work is good. When I stop thinking of those things- I am left to think about what we are really doing, and it leaves me in a near-panic-attack state. I start to think of what I am leaving behind and the life I have built. I have had such an amazingly full life here. I have a professional network I have built up over the past eight years, I have my adored friends Shannon and Darren whom we were lucky enough to meet and share margaritas with within days of our first arrival to Denver,, I have my sister and her husband, my nephews. My nephews. Zack and Evan were suppose to grow up really knowing their cousins. Sharing barbeque's with them, and feeling as though Auntie Erica's house was a second home. Now the relationship will likely be boiled down to holiday visits and maybe later random facebook posts.

Those who I have shared the news with thus fair have been supportive. They have told me they are sad to see us go, but that I will build a new life, make new friends. This is true, but at the moment I feel like lying on the ground and throwing a full blown temper tantrum, kicking my feet and pounding my fists and crying "BUT I DON'T WANT TO!" I don't want to make new friends I have my friends. I don't want to learn a new city, I am so deeply in love with my community.

Eventually the self pity party will end. I'll deal with it. I have no other choice.

Where Did The Baby Go?

When I was a little girl I was a big fan of the Golden Books. Those are the hard cover children's books with the shiny gold binding. Sadly, I can now find many of my favorite titles in a dusty bin at a neighborhood antique store. One of my favorites was "Where Did The Baby Go?" This book features an adorable little girl who stumbles upon photographs of a baby who appears to inhabit her home. The girl sets off on a mission to find the missing baby. She checks in closets and under furniture until the mystery is solved when she discovers the baby in the pictures is really her, years earlier. I used to be delighted that like the main character, I too was once a tiny baby, and I liked nothing more than to pour over my own baby photos, admiring myself in my cute little outfits.

The story of course has new meaning to the mommy-me. Now I look at my own child and think "Where did the baby go?" Where did the helpless newborn who liked to sleep on my chest run off to? What about the little one who stood up in his crib, arms outstretched reaching for me every morning? And what happened to the silly toddler who clutched a maraca in his chubby hands in music class, making me feel so proud? (He's a musical genius!). Who is this skinny, inquisitve energizer bunny who took his place?

Don't get me wrong, of course I love my child. But there is a part of me screaming IM NOT READY to be the mom of a four year old. It is one thing to be a young mommy of babies, and an entirley different thing to be come a MOTHER to CHILDREN. The time has gone so fast. I know it has been a period of years, but in some ways it feels like it happened in the blink of an eye. In one moment I was holding a squishy little baby on my hip, and the next he is hiking up a "mountain" on a family outing. At this rate he will be an akward teenager with acne and wet dreams in no time. I will become the parent who annoys my child and enjoys such attrocities as museums, botanical gardens and quiet nights at home.

Perhaps this is why some women keep having babies. As a way to keep themselves from becoming that mom. To stay young, to stay in the baby center.com culture. In anycase, I am going to watch Evan like a hawk to make sure he doesn't get away so fast....

So not about me

When I was a kid there was absolutely NOTHING in the world better than my birthday. Birthdays meant waking up to a pile of presents on the kitchen table, it meant running to the mailbox and grabbing a rainbow colored, fistful of envelopes with my name on each one. It meant a cake with ballerina's, Shirlee temples and probably homemade pizza. It was my day.

I have not given up on this idea as the numbers of candles on the cake have increased. It is still ALL ABOUT ME. Granted, there is usually no table full of presents, no pinata, and maybe not cake, but usually I expect some first-class spoiling from the husband and family.

Today is my birthday, and so far it has been a world-class flop. Not to any fault of the people I love, but because tragically, it is so not all about me. Today we received some information that could hugely impact our day-to-day life. I must be cryptic at the moment, and be assured nobody is sick or dying, and I am 100% not pregnant. This information is, (can you imagine?) bigger than Rachel-Fest 2009. Go figure. And now I wish I could schedule a due-over birthday.

All in and all it has been a difficult day.

Anyone out there?

My hubby asked me a few days ago if I had lost interest in blogging. (Is that a real word now?). He said that he had noticed that I have not posted anything new for a while, and that this was true death for a blog. I told him no, in fact I have just been busy, and that nothing has inspired me to write over the past week. I immediately felt the need to post SOMETHING (So what, I don't lose my HUGE following-ha!). I am new to the world of blog. I have read some, and many are like a daily diary, show-casing fitness accomplishments (of which I have none), or commenting on the day to day life of the author, as a mother/worker-bee/activist/addict/comic- whatever it may be. For me I have found that blogging is more of an opportunity to be expressive, a hobby that allows me to try writing again, and to pick out and explore topics that interest me, a little less diary like, and more essay like. But my husband's question motivated me to write, and to inquire- is anyone actually reading this? If so, please respond by commenting, or emailing me at rkargas@hotmail.com. I would be interested and perhaps motivated by knowing you are out there. Thank you!

Love Letter

Ten years. Ten years is a long time. Think of what can happen in ten years. Lives change, careers are built, children are born, and loved ones die. On August 14 Dave and I had our ten year wedding anniversary. I could say it is hard to believe, but honestly it is not. It feels like ten years, but not in a bad – oh my gosh I have been with this guy forever and I am bored kind of way. More in an amazing, we have lived through so much and had so many wonderful experiences kind of way. In the past ten years we have lived in two cities. We have made strong friendships and built a life here in Denver that I adore. We have struggled through infertility and ultimately brought two amazing little boys into the world. We have learned how difficult it is to parent, and how to juggle the competing demands of our lives. We have buried our grandparents and have accepted the true role of adults. We have fought about money and laundry and a host of other common marital challenges. We have remained best friends. Last night we got a sitter and went out to dinner to celebrate the milestone. We had cocktails and chatted and laughed and it was so much fun. When I told my mother about it, she responded with “I am so glad you had fun that can sometimes be hard after ten years”, and my thought was, no- not true. Dave and I always have fun. That is the sincere reality. There is nobody in the world I would rather raise children with, vacation with, build a life with. I am a lucky lady