by Cheryl Mathis on December 3rd, 2008
We started decorating for Christmas yesterday. I put lighted garland inside the arch between the living room and dining room and hung beautiful glass ornaments from it (and only broke one in the process). Chris put up the Christmas tree, including the lights.
While reading FamilyFun magazine, I was enamored with their Sparkling Ice Crystals. They looked so beautiful and so simple to make. This morning, I bought the supplies, and Ben and I got to work.
You see, in my head I had a vision of a winter wonderland in my living room.
A back story. When I was in college, I had an awesome apartment, featuring an awesome living room. I covered the ceiling with gnarled grape vines. It felt like a winery arbor. Gorgeous. When I was going through my butterfly phase, I hotglued thread to little butterflies made of feathers. I tied the thread to the grape vine. The result was a butterfly garden effect. It felt like butterflies were flying around in the room. Beautiful.
Why not hang the ice crystals in a similar fashion? That’s what I did. Well, that’s what Chris and I did. We’ll add more when we get more supplies. I think it’s magical.
You may also notice from the pictures that I’m in the process of painting my living room. Yeah. It’s taking forever, but it’s so hard to find time to paint when the kids are gone or distracted.
by Cheryl Mathis on November 16th, 2008
Anna started walking when she was 13 months old. Really, she started just after her first birthday, but she didn’t start walking on a regular basis until a couple days ago, when walking became her ideal mode of transportation. She quickly learned the value of walking upright and how it eclipses crawling both in speed and convenience.
My little girl. She’s walking. She toddles along, straight legged and clumsy, falling often, but able to get up now without having to pull up on something.
When Shiloh was a baby, Angelina Jolie got a lot of flak for calling her a blob compared to the sparkling personalities of her other children who she didn’t meet until they were older. She called her infant a blob? How terrible. Well… not really.
I loved Anna desperately even while she was still in utero. After she was born and began growing, I was delighted and enamored with every new squeak, every new gesture, every spark of the special personality developing. But honestly? It’s not until these last couple months that she’s less “my baby” and more “my Anna.” She has distinct likes and dislikes. She calls me “Mama.” She plays hide and go seek with her toys. She claps and giggles and loves petting the dog. And now she’s walking everywhere, suddenly with much more access to mischief.
She’s becoming fully formed now. It’s so difficult for me to remember Ben when he was still a baby. He’s come into his own now, and he’s my buddy, my entertainer, my shadow. This is who he is, more himself now than when he was a wailing infant.
So I’m feeling like I’m getting to know a new friend now, as Anna throws her first tantrum when I won’t let her play with my cell phone, as Anna runs to greet me at the door when I get home from work, as she yells, “Mama!”, when she wants my help.
My brain is fuzzy in the mornings, my eyes bleary, after yet another night of frequent wakings. Her sleep apnea keeps us all up at night (or at least the two of us) as she’s stirring awake every hour or two in a hacking cough. I barely wake up now when I’m summoned into the dining room to feed and cuddle her again. Every night, I consider sleep training again, night weaning, so I can share the burden and lighten my load. But nearly every time, my heart goes into protective mother mode, and I go hug her as she yells and cries for me. So I resolve that when she has a clean bill of health, when the doctor tells me that she’s fine and there’s no reason for her to not sleep through the night, that is when I will start sleep training again.
In other news, Molly Dog survived her spay surgery on Thursday. She slept most of Friday and yesterday. She’s very cuddly and sensitive, and I hope she’s not in much pain. That first day and night that she was home, she had diarrhea, and there was much … um … “leakage” where she was lying down and sitting. It was horrendously stinky, but luckily that resolved quickly.
by Cheryl Mathis on October 15th, 2008
Dino told me I should come out of my shell. So I tried ripping off the bandaid. How did I do? The quality is terrible. A blessing and a curse.
by Cheryl Mathis on October 6th, 2008
I was walking the dog (and the kids) the other day when I was thinking about some of Tom Neal’s ideas to make Wausau greener. I think he suggested helping low-income people better insulate their homes. It got me thinking about my former life as a renter. I lived in a variety of apartment buildings, duplexes, single family homes that I didn’t own. I wouldn’t have been able to add insulation or new windows. I didn’t own the place.
The kicker? I was responsible for the utilities. No matter how drafty the house was, I was still responsible for the heating bill. My landlords could care less. They didn’t feel the pinch.
So here’s my crazy idea for how to make landlords feel that pinch and hopefully how to get them to start paying attention to the energy efficiency of their properties.
Say an office is created. That office is responsible for creating a grading system for structures in the city. At the tenant’s request, a letter grade is assigned to a specific structure. A for well-insulated, energy efficient structures. B for reasonably insulated structures. C for low-to-moderately insulated structures. D for poorly insulated structures. F for little to no insulation. This scale would also take into account the windows, doors, etc, that would effect the insulation value of a structure.
For structures with an A or B grade, the landlord is not affected. For a grade C or less, the landlord starts being responsible for a percentage of the heating bill for that structure. A C grade would mean that the landlord has to pay 15 percent of the bill. A D grade, 30 percent. An F grade, 50 percent.
The goal would be for landlords to start feeling the pocketbook pinch resulting from their apathy about making their properties more energy efficient. It would be in their best interests to start investing in improvements to increase their letter grade.
What is your opinion of this idea? Is it totally impractical? Is it unfair?
by Cheryl Mathis on August 3rd, 2008
We’re slowly climbing back on the horse. No more excuses. We are starting with working out again. At least we aren’t starting back near our beginning weight. I don’t know. I’m too scared to climb on the scale. I’m going to wait until I can feel a change again, til my pants feel looser.
We went to the Y to workout Friday and Saturday mornings. Today, I biked the kids to the park. Instead of sitting in the grass with Anna, I made up playground workout routine I thought you’d find amusing.
It’s a simple playground. A slide/jungle gym with monkey bars. A detached steel swing set.
First, while Anna was sitting in the swing, I worked my arms and back by putting my feet near the base of one of the swing set’s legs, feeling my arms take up the weight as my center of gravity shifted. I then pulled my body towards the pole, keeping my pecs tight and feeling my back flex, my biceps bulge. As many reps as it took to make my arms ache. Then, just to prove to my body that I was in charge, I did another set, this time just one arm at a time.
Next, I walked lunges back and forth along the length of the playground as Anna sat and ate grass. After that, I did deep squats in front of the park bench, concentrating on my breathing, feeling my heart rate skyrocket and the sweat start to build on the small of my back.
For triceps, I used the low ladder bars under the end of the monkey bars, just perfect for holding onto while I pressed my lower body towards the ground then raised up again, feeling the strain in my triceps and back, the tightening in my abs.
For calves, I used the first step of the jungle gym. Countless sets of calf raises, alternating legs near the end for maximum effort, the other foot curled around the pulsing calf muscle of the active leg.
Abs were next, on the grass. I twisted and contracted up and to the side, standard crunches, feeling the bulk of leftover baby flap being pushed back and forth on top of the straining ab muscles. Ben came over and joined me, and I transitioned to some stretches and lengthening exercises, some that Ben demonstrated first, exercises he had learned from Baby Gym at the Y.
For fun, I raced him back and forth next to the playground, doing jumping jacks and toe-touches at each end. This was difficult for me, because I have yet to find a nursing sports bra that can control my bountiful glory. Luckily, we were alone at the playground, and my audience was only my children.
After I was done, I felt invigorated and motivated, not only because I had given my body a decent workout, but also because I had shown my impressionable children that we should always take advantage of opportunities to exercise and be in the moment and feel our bodies move.
I was going to go back to the park with Chris and the kids, but luckily, it started storming, so you will all miss out on my beet-red, sweating face and thick, trunk-like limbs, showing nothing of the rippling muscles underneath.
by Cheryl Mathis on July 9th, 2008
The day after Independence Day, we followed my sister’s family down the road to Sawdust Days in Oshkosh, WI. Instead of throwing ourselves into the crowds around the fairgrounds, our destination was “Little Oshkosh,” the amazingly intricate wooden city in a corner of Menominee Park. Wow.
We could spend all day there, and hopefully this summer, we’ll actually do that.
There’s something so peaceful about being in a place that is the object of so many people’s talents and imaginations. It felt like a locus of creative energy, and I felt revitalized. The toddler fairy tale land with carvings and paintings to remind you of Mother Goose’s family of stories was especially enchanting. This place is a dream for me.
I didn’t even get a chance to explore much of the older kids’ section, a maze of narrow and steep bridges and steps, tunnels and entryways, corridors so low you have to crawl and rooms in the far reaches of this children’s castle that are perfect for hide-and-go-seek and princes who are devising their fortress’ defenses.
I’m living so much in my head this summer. It’s not necessarily a bad thing; it just is. I feel like I’m in the center of a whirlwind, but here inside the Eye, I am calm and still, separate from the chaos, but surrounded by it.
Sitting there in a tucked-away corner of Little Oshkosh nursing Anna, I looked out across this fanciful landscape of dreams and triumphs, and I felt deeply comfortable in my heart. I’m having so many new experiences now, I’ve opened myself up to so much more, so many more people, I’m left breathless at the transition. For the most part, I am just leaping with my eyes wide open, not looking back, not looking down, just looking ahead towards the unknown, having faith in my intuition.
Right now, I’m looking ahead to a very special project I’m calling the Scott Street Stories in my head. With my new BFF Dino, we’re going to craft a book together. I was so deeply honored when he asked me if I would write it with him, and it felt like a puzzle piece had gently clicked into place. I’ve always felt there was a book inside me, but I kept slamming up against the brick wall of my empty imagination. I don’t have characters and stories percolating in my head. I never have. Whenever I’ve tried to draft a story, I end up writing myself. I can write, but I had nothing to write about.
Enter Dino, a 37-year-old hurricane with a breadth of experiences behind him, notably a career on the sidelines of a live music industry, a career full of interesting stories. He’s giving them to me, a precious gift, an immaculate rough diamond for me to carefully hone into a jewel. That’s right, folks. I’ll be writing a book about live music and bars. Tell me. When you think “Cheryl,” don’t you think about live music and bars?
He knows about my lack of history with the subject, and his encompassing faith in me is humbling. I think I’ll have a fun time hearing his stories for the first time, entering into this world that is so foreign to me, finding a voice, and writing.
by Cheryl Mathis on July 3rd, 2008
Sometimes I feel a bit isolated from my siblings. They all live within 45 minutes of each other on the eastern side of the state. If I ever move away from Wausau, I will want to move over there to throw myself into that mucky, wonderful mess of people.
Tonight after Chris gets done with his last economics class ever, we’re driving a couple hours to Oshkosh. It’ll be the middle of the night, but she’s leaving the door open for us. A saint. A very pregnant, beautiful saint. Tomorrow morning, we’re getting up at the butt crack of dawn to get ready to drive to a 5K race that benefits wounded soldiers.
Everyone and their nana will be there. That is, everyone in my family will be there. I’m not sure who all is racing, but we managed to guilt everyone into showing up for the occasion. My parents will even be there, though my father would rather be in the UP.
Afterwards, we’re having a great, big, gigantic, blowout of a family picnic back at my sister’s house in Oshkosh. After that? I have no idea. We might even stay another night, we’ll be having so much freakin’ fun!
I’m excited to see everyone and show off my kids. I’m excited to walk (not run) a 5K “race.” I’m excited to show off my new rykä Tri Trainers for the festivities. I’m excited to see my nieces and nephews and lovingly rub my sister’s tummy.
What are your plans for the holidays?
by Cheryl Mathis on June 30th, 2008
I don’t think I’ve ever linked a viral video before. Hell. I don’t even mention them. I watch them, though. And this one rocked my world in such a good way.
The guy’s name is Matt Harding. He’s a goofball. He’s the “star” of the following video. It basically shows him dancing in various places all around the world. Something fantastic happens, something that wrapped my spirit in joy, something that leaves me with happy tears sliding down my cheeks every single time. I can’t pinpoint where in the video my heart overflows, but it’s definitely there.
My husband had this to say about it, “Neat. It makes you feel like maybe there is a chance. Maybe the world isn’t going to hell in a handbasket.” Okay. I paraphrased.
You can read more about Matt Harding and why and how he made this video by going to his site. If you watch the video, please watch at least two minutes of it. The video takes a little bit to get into the good stuff. There’s no talking, just some music over a slideshow. But what a slideshow!
Click here to watch it at vimeo!
by Cheryl Mathis on June 19th, 2008
I love happy endings. Who doesn’t? When the happy ending arrives, you feel as if the circle is complete, the story was fulfilling. You aren’t left with disappointments and regrets.
A little over a month after I married Chris, we got “the phone call” on the morning I turned 25. It was my mother calling as she explained that my father was being transferred from the walk-in clinic to the ICU. The next couple weeks were a roller coaster of emotions ranging from anger and frustration at my father’s stubborn bullheaded-ness to grief and loss at his pending death.
I remember sitting in a little consultation room with my mother and Chris as we heard from a doctor that they found a large tumor in his colon. We saw the pictures, heard the diagnosis. We knew the next steps, and we suspended our hope in the air above our heads, that once we knew the problem, they could fix it, and my father could live.
We had a happy ending. After surgery and months of chemo, my father went into remission, where he’s stayed since. He exercises every day, and I think he enjoys his grandbabies more. I am more easy to forgive him his cantankerous personality, because I know how much I’ll miss him when he’s gone – I had to face that possibility in a real way before, and I know how deep my grief will be, how strong my attachment is.
Some people don’t get happy endings. Before I met Chris, before I became a proofreader, I was a nanny to a lovely little girl and her family. I had the privilege to get to know the whole family, and I regularly babysat Claire’s cousins, Isabel and Felix, two very delightful children who amazed me every time and drew me to them with their sweet, funny personalities.
I especially remember Felix, who, before his fourth birthday, told me that he’d love some throw pillows for his bedroom as a present… and maybe an accent lamp. He was a charming little boy who loved dress-up and Batman, Barbie and Spider-man. He was free with his affections, and everyone in his life loved him desperately, including me.
Last summer, I received a mass email from Claire’s father, letting people know that Felix was diagnosed with brain cancer. I hadn’t seen him in three years, but his precocious smile and sparkling purity were immediately forefront in my mind. It wasn’t fair. Not Felix. Please, not Felix. He’s one of the special ones.
His mother has blogged their journey over the last year, and I’ve faithfully read along, my heart caught in my throat each time, loving to read of his bravery and strength, his courage and peace through everything. Like many pediatric cancer patients, he delights and cajoles the nurses and doctors, showing far more maturity than most adults would show in his situation. I’ve grieved silently with his family as the diagnoses became more dire, as the tumors that seemed to have been controlled in his brain spread to his abdomen, as he weakened.
Hopefully, he has one last summer. Last weekend, he and his mother were driven in a limo to the Milwaukee Brewers game, where he threw the first pitch and basked in the applause and joyous shouts of thousands of people. He continues to make beautiful paintings and other art projects, he loves his friends and his family, and he’s doing what he’s done since the day he was born – loving life with no apologies and no expectations.
Maybe we all have happy endings. Felix’s happy ending is a legacy of peace and joy to everyone who knows him. My father’s happy ending is a new understanding of how much we love him, how much he loves us. Happy endings may not always be full of life and sunshine, hugs and kisses; maybe all we can ask for from a happy ending is closure and peace.
by Cheryl Mathis on June 15th, 2008
Last week I tried to explain my desire to be a mother to a dear friend who just buried her father who committed suicide. She was angry and grieving, and she reiterated her intent not to ever have children, because she didn’t want to bring another life into her messed up family.
I don’t think that motherhood is necessary to every woman, and I try to never attempt to talk someone out of saying they don’t want children. I only know why I wanted to be a mother.
My mom was a stay-at-home mom for most of my childhood, but more importantly, her whole heart and being was wrapped up in her children. (For the record, I think that’s still possible if a woman works outside the home. They aren’t related.) I saw how she loved us and how she thrived off of our returned affection. Other than her faith, we were “it” for her. Her life. Her essence.
I guess part of me just assumed that was what life was about, giving your heart over to your children. I never expected or planned for any other life, so when K said she didn’t want children, I couldn’t understand, but at least I knew I couldn’t understand.
I offered my perspective, and it was interesting for me to frankly think about what I’ve chosen for my life. Here it is:
My whole reason for being on this planet is to learn how to love better, to experience and live grace and kindness, to live wholly and honestly as much as I am able. By having children, I’ve brought more opportunities for growth and learning into my life. Through them and the experiences they will have, I’m exposing myself to more trials and tribulations, more joys and successes. I’ll learn how to love them fully, and they’ll bring people into my life who I will learn how to love as well. I will learn new facets of love through them and with them, and since that’s what I imagine life is all about, they are critical to that purpose.
I know life can be lived and lived well without children. It just feels “right” that my path is one with kids. I have no way of knowing if K is meant for children as well, but I do know that it is well within her power to raise children without repeating the mistakes of her parents. Just like I am not fettered to the mistakes of my past, she is not bound to the mistakes of hers.
I bought and read The Shack by William Young yesterday. It was an intense, illuminating experience, and the message reinforced many of the conclusions I had come to on my own. One of them is about forgiveness and moving on.
Early in my life, I experienced some trauma that left me twisted and scarred. It distorted my views on sensuality and who my body belonged to. It fractured my thinking, and I was left incomplete and broken. One afternoon in college, I experienced a relief and healing from that inner hell.
What happened is mine, and I’m not sure I’ll ever blog about the details, but I will describe the result. In my mind, I encapsulated all the hurt and violence and trauma I had lived through, and I pulled it from my body. I replaced the resulting emptiness with quiet and peace. Then I took the bottled up hurt and made it a bubble, and I let it float away from me. It popped, and the contents spilled into the atmosphere, instantly diluting and becoming insignificant and just another particle of life’s experience, just another molecule in the air. It had no more importance for me than a remembered road trip or a parakeet’s name.
The freedom was full and exhilarating, and it’s lasted. I found forgiveness and understanding. Everything that came before is gone, and what matters is what I do with my life now.
What I do with my life now is love my children, my husband, and my family. I love my life and the possibilities it holds. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I know that I’ll try to live it fully, with peace and joy and humility. I wasn’t given a second chance and I wasn’t reborn; I simply did what we all have the opportunity to do, begin the new day with acknowledged purpose and grace.
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