Machine

"All I want for Christmas is an airsoft rifle and an iTouch," said my 10-next-week son, Sebastian.

"Well, you'll be disappointed, then."

"How do you know that? How do you know what Santa will give me?" He said, voice laced with cynicism.

"I just know. And I will make it known. That assault-weapon-looking guns are not, nor will they ever be, welcome in this house."

Silence. Maybe tense. But quiet, as Sebastian tries to find a come-back, or, no doubt, a defense for his wishes.

Patrick, 5-years-old-next-week joins the conversation. Softly.

"What I would like to ask Santa for? .... Is a machine. ....A machine that could make you one or two. Whenever you went in it. Like a baby.

I would like that."

"oh?"

"Because I would like very much for you to carry me like that again."

...

"Oh, pPod. That would be nice."

...

"Yeah," he said, wistfully, "it really would."

(We lived in Florida. There was a hurricane. He bathed in pool water. In a bucket. It was chilly. He was, and is, unflappable.)

Roar

Something tells me that to be disciplined, and to have meaning here - to be followed, to be watched to be read...I have to write something.

Mostly, I write what moves me, I write "what matters," and the topics are things that flood in at some point - idle thoughts that I hear myself shape into something else - so I add them here.

Right now, today, these days of late - nothing is striking me. And I know it isn't that nothing matters - it's that my vision is a little clouded with the one-two punch of unknowns and niggling fears.

In the scheme of things - the grander scheme - I know I am being shaken awake.

I took on, in my work, things so grossly not suited to me that they overshadowed the parts I did well, and enjoyed. The wrong bits accelerated the inevitable, and I lost my job.

I am certain I am learning from this. And I am certain there is work out there to be done that I will do better.

It is my responsibility right now to stay positive. To perk up, to take the steps I need for the Next Thing and to make home life, and writing life work.

I need to be nicer to my Littles, to engage sooner and more fully. I need to look for a job, certainly, but the search can be far less stress-inducing than was the job, if I let it.

As Pollyanna-ish as it sounds, I know for certain-sure that rolling around in the muck of it will not improve one itty bitty thing.

Telling myself I had that in mind, I skipped a dinner last night with a steady, gentle group of friends who would have asked questions and added kind support. I wasn't in the mood. I didn't want to talk about me - because I say too much. And it bores me right now.

And in retrospect, I know - of course I know - that I traded on the good bits of the evening, and the wine, the perfect mashed potatoes, and the laughter that also would have come. Because I wanted a little wallow and some navel-gazing. Alone.

Enough of that.

People around me help. And I will let them. And I will leave my belly-button as often as possible to glean knowledge and reach for different perspectives.

So. As Agatha (the glue of the aforementioned group) says, quoting a friend of hers (who's prominent husband had died) - no pats, please.

As Doris advised, I will take my occasional medicinal tequila shots. Only the good stuff. And I will find room and reason to laugh with my littles while no work to-do list looms.

As Ali advised, I will take the funded trip to Florida and I will breathe in salt and sun.

As Monsignor advised, I will send my resume far and wide.

And as pPod would advise - it is time to paint on my tiger face and try my hand at conquering.

I welcome - and request - any advice you may also have to add.