Snapshot of Life Interrupted

So about a month ago, my mom was getting on my case about blogging again. She is like one of five loyal readers I've amassed over the last decade and misses my random posts.

"I can't, Mom, I need to focus on my novel writing. I don't have time (or the creative space) to do both. I tweet. I facebook. Read those."

Bahahaha. I know, RIGHT?!? *shakes head*

I don't have time. Oh, One-Month-Ago Erin, you're HILARIOUS.

A mere week later, maybe even less, our Hahn lives got twisted, curled, flipped-flopped, stomped on and wrung out. For those of you who don't read my fb posts or haven't picked up on my vague-tweeting: My husband, Mike, had a truly epic sledding accident on a truly steep and icy hill and dislocated both knees and tore basically every tendon imaginable in those knees. Turns out, that's a Big Deal and Very Rare. I'll skip over all the gory details because, ew, but suffice it to say, he won't be sledding, or walking or even standing on his own any time soon. And by soon, I mean at minimum two surgeries, months of rehab, a wheel chair, a walker and a commode lift-away. If you are a praying person, please pray for his spirits. He has yet to regain feeling in his feet and they say he might never recover that. It's those nerves, man. They be fickle little guys. But my handsome, extra-capable, outdoorsy husband needs to climb rocks and stand in water and operate chainsaws. He HAS to, it's what makes him glow— it's how he feels God's presence— it's where he finds his joy. (I mean, he loves us too, obviously, but he loves us even more when we're outside.)

This past weekend, we moved across town. We had planned to move anyway, just not for several months. Instead, we gave three days notice and packed up our lives to a place that has zero steps and wide doorways. I was *supposed* to enter my newest MS into a writing contest that day. It's sitting on this very laptop, basically untouched and disregarded right now. I can't sit still long enough to concentrate on my fictional characters. Those who know me, know this is probably the hardest part for me, personally. Those that don't might think I am being shallow. Artists, you know? We're super self-centered. Or rather, we're trapped in our own minds? *shrugs*

I sit at this moment in the waiting room of Mike's physical therapy. We should both be at work right now, but this is more important. Isn't that nutty? MORE IMPORTANT THAN WORK. Like, a month ago, very little was more important that our livelihoods.

Now, practically everything is.

Here's a snapshot of Current Erin: This morning I was making the kid's school lunches and breakfast. Again, we just moved, so I can't find anything in my kitchen on the first or even second try. Also, since we moved, in order to keep the kids in the same school to finish out the year, I am driving them to and from each day, so our timing is new. Once Mike is settled in his chair for the day, he's good. He's a strong and proud man with amazing faith and will. Honestly, he's incredible. He's just not able to help right now (for the record, he's always been a superb partner in parenting. Always.). So add to the kids the occasional patient request from my husband, "Can you please refill my coffee cup?" or "Can you put on my sock?"

I get distracted easily, lemme tell you.

In addition to all of that, our place isn't new. It's nice, but not new. So there are a few quirks that we need to report to maintenance. Such as the strip of laminate on the counter that catches on my sleeve every time I open the fridge and the bottom ledge to the cabinet that pulls off.

This morning, and every morning, Mike puts Jesus Music on the Pandora. We are still breathing by the ultimate, sloppy generous grace of God. There it is. Without Him, I'd be crazy. And not like fun crazy, like certifiable hot mess crazy. So I am flying back and forth between cabinets and counters and cutting boards like a lightening bug stuck in a jar and I'm signing praise music and loving on my Jesus and simultaneously dropping more f-bombs than this third grader I know named Omar (which is a LOT).

My life: Praising Jesus, depending on Jesus, leaning on Jesus and then dropping a sh*t-ton of F bombs.

Sorry, George RR, I'm not ready to commit...

http://insidetv.ew.com/2014/06/03/george-r-r-martin-ice-and-fire-publishing-plan-game-of-thrones/

So I've had LOTS of people recommend reading Mr. George RR Martin's works... LOTS.  And I admit, they seem right up my ally and unlike the rest of the civilized world, I do not have HBO so nothing has been spoiled for me as far as character deaths go (of which, I am told, there are too many to count).

Here is my problem:  I suffer from Post-Traumatic Harry Potter Release Date Stress. Or, if you prefer PTHPRDS.  Its a thing, I swear.  I spent a decade waiting for the releases of JK Rowling's books and movies. The series became a part of my life; the fandom, a friend.  It was all-consuming in a way that might not have been healthy.

I can't bring myself to do that again.

At least on purpose.  Rick Riordan, that sneaky bastard (In the best possible way. I love him. He is my spirit animal.), hooked me with the Percy Jackson books.  I thought I was jumping in at the end, but then he began a whole NEW series and here I am eagerly awaiting/mournfully dreading the NEW end this October.  Years and YEARS later.

So this article, that I linked above, means that for the time being, Mr. Martin and his series is nothing to me.  I get the whole "artistic license" thing.  He's the creator of this world or whatever so he can drag it out as long as he likes... but until he ends it, I am gonna steer clear.  Didn't he take five years between the most recent two books???

At this rate, I will be dead before the series is through.  So will he, for that matter... so that is worrisome.

Nope.  Sorry.  Won't do it.

This is actually happening

I have hit a milestone, my friends.  I spent yesterday afternoon, while Al was napping and Jones was Math-gaming (ie: his version of quiet time), brainstorming plot.  For me, this is a highly technical process that I perfected in my angsty teenaged years of sitting in a comfy chair, blaring emo music (via headphones, nowadays) and scratching out dialogue and random song lyrics in a big notebook.

HIGHLY technical. 

But, Erin, you say, that's just what every teenager does.  Sits alone, being gloomy/willfully misunderstood and listening to alt rock.

Indeed. Forget for a minute that I am thirty... er...thirty one. It works, right?

Back on topic, though, my MILESTONE. I started plotting out the last quarter or so of my story.  You know: where should I end this one and where to start the next one?  Do I resolve or just keep building, building, BUILDING tension towards a cliffhanger?  In making my decisions, I was struck with the startling realization that I am going to FINISH WRITING A BOOK.

And I am terrified.

In all my twenty years of wanting to be an author, in jotting plot bunnies down on scrap paper and jabbing them in random places, only to be found and puzzled over months and years and Major Life Events later, it never actually occurred to me that I could finish something. 

Of course the movies and their soundtracks have played endlessly in my head before falling asleep.  And I've perfected my NPR interview.  But to actually have the end in sight??? 

It is completely daunting. 

I need an agent.  I need to write cover letters.  I need to get rejected 7 million times, so I need to get started RIGHT NOW.

Of course, I still need to finish the book. 

And there are the other two books in the series that I need to be concerned about.

So I should just chill out.  And rest in the knowledge that God already knows how my particular plot plays out and He's written a fantastic story for me full of ups, downs and of course, cliffhangers.

 

Daniel Radcliff not playing a creepy guy???  Count me in.  This looks adorable.

Brad Paisley is a good egg in my book

https://music.yahoo.com/news/brad-paisley-taunts-westboro-baptist-protestors-183002743-rolling-stone.html

So one of my all-time most incredible fan girl stories is of the time that my girl, Meg, and I were chosen for the "hot girl" seats at a Brad Paisley concert.  We were tooling around before the show, sitting on the concrete sidewalk that leads up to the cheapo lawn seats (that we purchased- no shame), when a man came up to us with free passes to the front rows.  According to him, 'Brad likes to take care of his fans' or something along those lines and two young mothers fit the bill.

It was awesome.  We were close enough to touch Brad, if we wanted (we didn't.  it felt creepy) and he put on a fantastic, clean show.  I sang to every song and am pretty sure I might have even cried at a point or two.  In my defense, I was pregnant. 

I think that's why this article struck me.  I saw the selfie that Brad took yesterday and then read up on it this morning.  These Westboro Baptists sure have a lot of time on their hands.

For a group with such high morals, you would hope (and pray) that they would channel that spiritual fervor in to sharing the love of Jesus, rather than spreading fear and pain.

Also, they just seem tacky.

Its been awhile since I posted that its been awhile since I've posted.

Such is the life of a seriously important, on demand person.

Such is my life at times, too.

So here is the thing.  I hate emailing.  I just do. 

I'm not such a fan of calling on the phone either.

That being said, I so understand the whole "facebook is the end of all human to human contact".  And to be perfectly honest, sometimes I hate myself after reading facebook.  I hate that I compare myself to other more-with-it, more successful, skinnier and better moms.  And I hate that I know more about obscure people I've barely spoken with in real life than I do my parents. And I hate, I hate, I HATE political memes. (PLEASE tell me someone out there heard that in Hook's voice???)

SO.

Then I was writing an email (I said I hate it, not that I won't do it) and I got to the "electronic signature" portion where my blog address is located, which I always just delete out of habit and... What?!  What am I DOING?

I.Have.A.Blog!!!

Duh. 

And so here I am.  On my blog.

If you didn't know, I recently moved to a new state.  Michigan.  That's right. Puuuuuure Michigan.  And if you haven't noticed because you are too cool for facebook or you have unfriended me, in which case I doubt you will see this, then I will tell you that I have been posting a LOT about my family in these past few weeks.  This is because we moved hours and hours away from my children's grandparents and aunts and uncles.  Therefore, it is my job, nay, my duty, to keep them well informed in all things Hahn kids.

Sorry for that, if its not your scene. 

My remedy is this:  I will blog about my family and our adventures and whatever else I want and then you can CHOOSE to follow along.  As this is a democratic process, you may choose NOT to follow along.  Either way, I won't judge. But seriously, who wouldn't want to know?

Today, I don't have much to report on my family.  Its Monday.  I did laundry. Four loads, which doesn't seem like a big deal, but when you pay $3 for each, it can be daunting.  Its a stressor I never counted on... which clothing makes the cut?  Will we need these fleece jammie pants this week?  Its like eighty five, so no.  Sorry, fleecies, you are back on the bench.  Maybe next time.

And I am pre-making dinner.  All day long.  There are two reasons for this.  1. My husband commented off handedly to me last week that since I've been working on my book again, I've let the "preparedness" that I am known for go to the wayside.  Puh. 2. Since I no longer work (apart from aforementioned author-ing), I find I need to create my own schedule.  So here is what I have:

7:30 wake up.  Pretend you've been awake longer so when husband comes in to wake you, you can be like "what? I've been awake forever.  Just catching up on current events on my phone.."

8:00 Coffee and quiet time.  I do my bible study and the kids start begging me for second breakfast.

8:02 Cave and make second breakfast and then back to quiet time.

8:45 Distracted quiet time is over and I make my breakfast

9:00 Shower

9:01 Turn on water and then catch my kids trying to get another snack since they think I'm in the shower.  Put away the snack. Get in the shower.

9:30 Start separating laundry while listening to BBC on NPR.  Yes, I really, really do this.

9:45 Laundry round one.

10:45 Start laundry round 2 and snack time (or third breakfast or pre lunch)

11:00 Sort through kids clothes for donations.  I am thinking we might be done with sweaters, finally.

11:45 Laundry round one is folded and sorted away.

12:30  Picnic lunch on floor for kids.

12:45 Laundry round two complete.  Kids help me get it this time.  Complain while I am sorting in the laundry room that they are hungry and wish they hadn't come with so they could have finished their lunch instead.

1:00 Make lunch for me. Leftovers.

1:15 Put away dishes in dishwasher and reload from umpteen meals thus far today.

1:30 Take lettuce out and rinse it for chop salad dinner.  Needs to sit out and dry off, since I don't have a lettuce spinner.

1:45 I've been texting my fellow rad mom, Audrey, all morning and we are hilarious.  This is the point, where I believe, we started talking smack about her neighbor's tree service. Worth noting, I think.

2:00 Bacon for chop salad in oven.

2:02 Before my kids can ask for another snack, they get a warning that rest time is coming.

2:03 They hide.

2:15 I decide to find them and get them into beds. Take bacon out.  Nice and crispy, just how I like it.

2:30 Decide to resurrect the blog.

3:00 Post blog.  Link on fb just so everyone knows and then time to work on book.

4:00 Kids will likely still be asleep.  I will consider waking them, but won't because I am getting more work done with them sleeping.

4:30 Husband home.  He will comment about how nice the house looks and how gorgeous I am in my wrinkly laundry day outfit and how awesome I am at preparing dinner on time, despite my writing.

See?  Very busy day.  I run a VERY tight ship.


What say YOU?  Will you read The Blog?  Are you so over it because I've teased you with consistent posting in the past?  Will The Gilligan finally get them off the island? 

Did you understand that last reference???

Peace out, Boy Scouts.

I must be getting reflective in my old age...

This week an old classmate of mine died.  Its not the first time it's happened, and certainly won't be the last, but it really did something to me.  Maybe because he was only thirty.  Or because it appears to have been some strange medical fluke- as far as I know, he wasn't sick and there wasn't some sort of traumatic accident.  Maybe its because I haven't spoken to him in probably 18 years, and that's the age of a college freshman and I can't believe I am that old. 

I wasn't the only one struck by this, it seems.  Our little catholic school class of 35 kids or so, scattered all over the country, was mobilized by this.  Facebook, these past few days, has been overwhelmed with outdated pictures while we all bemoaned our puffy bangs and stone wash jeans and braces.  Friend requests were sent with reckless, nostalgic abandon. 

It really is an incredible and wonderful thing.  Very healing.  There's even been talk of a middle school reunion.  Wouldn't that be something?  To reunite our close knit class after so many years?

Let me just say: I would love a reunion.  After a few days of this, however, I started to wonder. I read a post from a old classmate who spoke about forgiveness and I had a conversation with another friend whose memories of grade school weren't all shiny and covered with rose colored glasses.  I could relate.  In the mass of names that commented on pictures, there were a few that pierced me.  Just reading the letters gave me a queasy feeling in my stomach.  The insecurity and confusion I felt at twelve was incredibly enough, still there. 

It once more occurred to me that wounds run deep.  Of course, everyone says this.  This isn't a new revelation.  Books and songs, movies and documentaries are all built around this principle.  But what I am just now beginning to wonder about- what never crossed my mind before- is that I think everyone has these wounds.  And I mean everyone.  You may have already known this.  I'm dense and self-absorbed sometimes.  Forgive me.

See, I thought I was one of the Wounded.  One of the select few who was either picked on or maybe just overly sensitive to criticism (which I realized didn't matter, because hurt is hurt is hurt- however it comes about).  But now I am wondering if every single one of us has a bit of pain when they think about that super vulnerable time in our lives.  The popular girl with magically perfect hair. The good looking basketball player with the starter jacket.  The brainy kid who was reading in preschool.  The chubby girl with a strange name.  Whether they were awkward on the play ground or uncomfortable on the bus or were mistreated at home... we all had our heartaches.  And at thirteen, I doubt any of us were emotionally mature enough to cope. 

I'm not proud of this, but a few months ago, I was told off.  As I said, our grade school class was tiny.  Same thirty or so kids for 10 years.  Rules were established, codes were made, inside joke were... inside.  So you can imagine, typical pre adolecent grievances aside, it would be particularly difficult to join our class as an Outsider.  Not only that, but one who had a tough time in public school so their parent's decided a private school may be a better option.  Add to that, a strictly Jewish girl in a strictly catholic school.  I don't recall making fun of this girl, myself.  In fact, I doubt I had it in me.  But, I never stood up for her.  I never defended her or befriended her and I probably joined in the laughter.  I don't remember.  To be perfectly honest, I don't want to.

I recall running into this particular girl in high school on occasion and doing the whole "Hey, how's it going?" thing.  Nothing sincere, but friendly enough to think I did my part in making up for her humiliation.  You know, letting bygones be bygones and all.  Then ten years later, I began to run into her at my work place.  She would come in with her parents and seeing her through older, wiser eyes, I was able to realize that there was something a little off with her.  She would pick on my employees and was very confrontational.  Its difficult to describe, but we all knew something was different and so we took her words in stride.

She never really spoke to me, though.  Always avoided me.  It was awkward because we clearly knew each other.  I wondered how long this would last.  My answer came on a quiet evening at the club.  She strode up to me with her head held high and said "If you would like to apologize for how you treated me in junior high, I will accept it now."

Wow.  I was stunned.  Literally speechless for a full thirty seconds to a minute. My staff were of course up at the desk with me, studiously trying to appear to not be listening.  Bless them.  A thousand retorts spun in my brain ranging from a defensive "I never actually made fun of you" to "where do you get off accosting me at work?" to "what do you know about me?" to "good for you!"  The latter won out.  I apologized.  Not only for me, but for the rest of my class. I was proud of her.  I imagine that she must have been working up to that for a very long time.  In fact, I think she was waiting for me to step up and once she realized I wasn't, she forced the issue. 

Now, I still don't think she should have done it the way she did.  I was at work after all.  And after she got that off her chest, she took the opportunity to tear me down at every encounter after that with backhanded compliments.  But, I am almost thirty and have been very blessed.  I can take it.

In a recent telling of this story to a friend, they confessed that they had tormented her in high school.  Because they, themselves had been tormented in junior high.  They felt responsible for my tormenting at twenty-nine and sincerely apologized.  I accepted, but then realized I needed to apologize to them as well.  You see, I never stood up for them either.  Hurting all around.

The circle of life.

So. I wasn't ONE of the select few.  I was just one among the masses. And despite this, we all survived, it seems.  And that's the point. (I know you were probably wondering. What IS your point, Erin?)  Some of us matured early and got it right in high school... we became those super cool kids who didn't give a sh*t and were loved by everyone.  I met one of those people once.  I am still in awe. Some turned their hurt into anger and took it out on someone else.  I certainly get that.  Its a vicious circle, but it's such a human response.  Others still channeled their pain in to something positive.  I remember being in the snow ball club in high school.  I did it for the free candy and the perk of getting out of gym class, but there were some sincerely caring kids in there who were hoping to change things. I admire them for that; to be so enlightened at fifteen.

In college, it was more common.  My husband and I talk all the time about how college was where we both finally felt like we were able to find our true selves.  It took moving six hours away from everything I knew to REALLY know.  I still have a hard time being back in Illinois sometimes for that very reason.  Sometimes I will drive past my old schools and have fond memories- much like I did on fb this week.  Sometimes I don't.

But, we all did it.  We've all come to terms with our selves, I think.  It doesn't mean that the hurt or insecurities have vanished.  I think it just means that we have enough life behind us to cover up the hurts with good things.  And that's survival.