It is what it is

The saying "It is what it is," really bothers me. Is it a dismissal? Is it a refusal to accept that while you don't understand the facts, you are more then happy to stand on your soap box and say... something and nothing at the same time? Is it an awkward transition to a new topic because, as the French say, "C'est la vie?" (And therefore a fatalistic acceptance and passive resistance to said topic at the same time?) WHAT IS "It is what it is?" ???

You can now understand my dilemma a little better. I lay sleepless and yet so tired that my head is spinning, and think to myself, "It is what it is." To me this is a trendier way of saying, "Meaningless, meaningless. All is meaningless." It almost sounds like something with some substance. "Been there, done that." It even sounds a little humorous. "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." (Well, okay, at least that one, I GET.) But it's nothing! A vapid puff of words. Just like my nothing sleep I'm having right now. Maybe I should just "Get over it."

Let's get real here. The reason I started this blog was to write, 1: funny stories involving my kids and/or self depreciating humor, 2: an outlet for my creativity that isn't otherwise satisfied with cleaning crayola painted bathtubs , dried playdough crust off my floor, sharpie marker on the couch, kids, self, house, etc in my daily routine. (Oh Lord, let Sharpie cleaning NEVER be a part of my daily routine!!) Lately I have been feeling so depressed and self-loathing that nothing is funny. So I'm praying for God to restore my sense of delight, of joy, and more more more sleep, so that I have an eye for the funny again.

TTFN

Great Grandma

My grandma speaks the way a stone skips across the water. Only she isn't the stone going straight, straight, straight... she is the ripples, symmetrical, crashing; surface disturbed. I think I have learned the new language - the one after stroke. Words mean other things. "I took the paper," is "I read the newspaper," 'he' and 'she' are usually mixed one for the other. Everything is spoken with the same importance, and I find it wearying to listen for hours. Her breakfast menu spoken as if it were her last wishes, her daily walk, a treasured secret she shares with me. I keep meaning to record a conversation or two; her and I in electronic memory. Why I find it so wearying I don't know. Sometimes she feels like she has been given a second chance, sometimes she feels like she was robbed of a graceful death, but she rambles and I am a tired mama.

Today I found myself at a geriatric assessment clinic, surrounded by grandmas, each delighted to hold my 4 month old. "We certainly don't get many babies in here," said one nurse, who held Theron long enough for me to skim a magazine article. Me wishing for rest, wanting to hide behind baby, wanting to prove that I am keeping my head above water, keeping tears back while I drive, keeping tears back while I read. And grandma says to me, "I remember when I took my stroke. I was at Zellers and I thought, 'Oh, oh, oh,' and I thought I was going to die. Maybe not die today, but I thought the next day I would be in the hospital and I would die." "You remember that?!" I asked, so surprised. "Yes, and I was ready. I wasn't scared at all." Articulate. Clear eyed. Strong. And I didn't want to cry. I was proud for her.

I feel like I am the one missing out. My time should be a treasured secret too.

That's her on the left holding Theron in November. I'm sure I could find a better picture, one that isn't a picture of a picture on a scrapbook page, but I'm too tired to navigate my computer's files right now.