Hoarded Extraordinaries
I can't remember a time when I didn't believe extraordinary things were my destiny. But one day you realize you've followed destiny's footsteps along the garden path to normal, and have settled there quite comfortably.
It was the final inning of the final game, the one for all of it. You were my coach, walking to the mound to take the ball from my hand. You had to pull me, even though I'd pitched the game of my life, because the arm was tired, the score was close, and you knew I'd given everything I had to give. I wanted to cry, but wouldn't, and you knew that, too. In the blink of a moment you were Dad, tugging the bill of my cap, looking in my eyes and saying, "I am so very proud of you."
Normal is as normal does. It's in the everyday, the ordinary, by definition. Wake up in the morning and head to work. Put in a full day, do a few errands. Cook dinner, throw away yesterday's paper. Watch some TV, or read, or coax a little evening conversation. Lay down and ready yourself to do it all again tomorrow.
Dreaming. That's what I thought, really. "I must be dreaming." The pain from the c-section was excruciating, the exhaustion threatened to smother me. I lay in the hospital bed, barely aware of my surroundings, unwilling to open my eyes. Then I heard you. Humming, softly. I turned my head to see you sitting in the horrid, hard plastic chair, scooted up right next to my bed. And you were holding her. This red, wrinkled, tiny human being was cuddled in your arms as if she'd been born to lay exactly there, in the crook of your elbow, head resting against your chest as you hummed her a lullaby. Watching you with her, in that very moment, was when I knew. So many things.
I still believe I'm destined for extraordinary things. Exceptional, life changing things. Legacy things. Impact things. I've got ideas, in my little mind. I've got plans and dreams of making a difference in this world. Of slaying dragons, of conquering fears, of saving lives and of unearthing buried talents.
You are crying like your heart is broken, but all I want is for you to go to bed. In your mind, the world has ended and you are mourning its passing with every last wail in your body for what seems hours. I can't take it any more. Angry, I go to your room and lift you out of your crib. Your face and jammies are soaked with tears, your eyes are swollen puffy, your face is covered with a web of red blotches, and now my heart is broken, seeing you this way. I hold you close, swaying back and forth in the darkened room until your sobs subside into hiccups and your breathing softens into raspy regularity. We stand there together in silence for a little while, when I feel your pudgy fingers feathering my cheek. I look over at you, looking back at me, thumb firmly planted in your mouth, a wily little grin of victory on your face. "I love you, my sweet mommy."
What resides within a person, enabling them to cross that line between good and great, between normal and ethereal, between ordinary and extraordinary? It lives in me, I'm sure of it. Even if I don't always know what it looks like, or recognize it when I see it. Even if I have a tendency to pack it away temporarily in a little locked box, hoarding my extraordinaries away for safekeeping. And there they'll be, waiting for me, in a moment of inspiration or insanity or curiosity, to open the lid, unpack the contents, and study the wonders inside.
There are times I may have doubted, but I've always really known.
It lives in me.
Hi Jennifer:
This post made me cry. Really. The part about picking the crying baby up out of the crib, angry that what little free time you have has been distubed, then that little face looks at you and you think, "if I've done nothing else in my life worth while, well then, it's o.k. because this little person is a work of art."
Great post. Great blog.
Posted by: Lisa Marshall | July 30, 2006 at 12:13 AM
SweetiePie, go check your email!!!
:)
MotherPie
Posted by: H.A. Page | July 29, 2006 at 11:57 AM
You. Are. Extraordinary.
Posted by: wordnerd | July 29, 2006 at 12:30 AM
I can relate to your last para; I've always known too though I may be blinded at the time.
Posted by: ChickyBabe | July 29, 2006 at 12:25 AM
You know what's extraordinary? The fact that so many things we take for granted simply don't happen to, or for, some people.
You're on the plus side of the ledger. Feel free to enjoy it.
(And yes, this is a reminder for myself.)
Posted by: CGHill | July 28, 2006 at 09:42 PM
The beast stirs.
Posted by: poopie | July 28, 2006 at 08:37 PM
Absolutely amazing that you can turn it out everyday. I have so many ideas but haven't learned the art of displaying them so tantilizingly. This is better than books because books always end.
Posted by: Marsha | July 28, 2006 at 05:30 PM
Jennifer, this is such a wonderful post that it gave me goosbumps. For us facing (almost - for me) empty nest, you've caught the liminality of it all.
Cheers.
Posted by: H.A. Page | July 28, 2006 at 05:24 PM
What a beautiful story..
Thank you for sharing your life with us..
You are extraoridinary!
Have a wonderful day!
*^_^
(=':'=) huge huggles
(")_ (")Š from da Raggedy one
Posted by: Raggedy | July 28, 2006 at 04:56 PM
Holy crap, woman. You know I won't even be able to write my own name now for weeks, don't you?
Posted by: Jennifer | July 28, 2006 at 04:51 PM
Jendo, when I read posts like this I know I'm reading the work of someone destined to capture the hearts and minds of readers all over the world. You are the real deal.
David, this is what good writer's aspire to. She has accomplished what few published authors can - continuous, thoughtful prose and utterly beautiful writing on a daily basis. I don't have her gift for words but we all express ourselves differently. It's not a competition. We all grow because our lives are richer for her words.
Posted by: Lissa | July 28, 2006 at 04:49 PM
Breathtaking prose poetry. I read this first thing his morning but thought about it all day in the garden. Trying to do an ordinary thing with extraordinary ...not grace, but something.
I understand how David feels. Imagine a paint-by-number on velvet!
Thanks for the tip toward Elinor Lipman! I haven't read any so I've a big new list to tackle.
Posted by: AC | July 28, 2006 at 04:14 PM
If this entry uninspires you to blog, then I would consider it an utter failure. Writing from the heart can be as simple as painting by numbers. It doesn't have to be a masterpiece - and I harbor no illusions that any of the words here are that - it just has to be true to you.
Go forth and blog, David. Don't make me come up there.
Although there might be relief from the heat in it for me, then, eh?
Posted by: Jennifer | July 28, 2006 at 02:02 PM
There are moments when I know I should not blog. This is one of those moments. You encouraged me to write, but entries like this make me feel like I am standing next to a great painter with my paint by number picture. You overwhelm me with your colors. Your describe things so well, I feel like I have memories of them.
Thank you Jennifer! Have a great weekend!
david
Posted by: david | July 28, 2006 at 01:48 PM
(((Exhale))) That was awesome! I've always believed those little glimmers of greatness (extraordinaries) exist in all of us. Sometimes I see them peeking out in others, in moments that I can see in their eyes, that they feel like they can conquer the world. Today is the first time I've read it (that glimmer) in words.
Posted by: Babaloo | July 28, 2006 at 11:00 AM
I've had coffee, grits and now, air. I am so glad I stopped by before heading out into my day.
Thank you for this extraordinary moment.
Posted by: Deborah | July 28, 2006 at 10:35 AM
One of your "extraordinaries" is your writing skill, for which I am thankful and especially so because you are NOT hoarding it, but sharing with us! Please don't stop, Jennifer. I would mourn your loss every day.
Posted by: kenju | July 28, 2006 at 08:09 AM
Thank you for a healthy dose of morning inspiration and optimism.
Posted by: Karen | July 28, 2006 at 07:57 AM