As with any construction projects it could take a month or 2 years.  She may or may not give you updates…it all depends on her master builder.

She’d appreciate your warm and happy thoughts and prayers.

Please keep in mind that I am not a poet.  It doesn’t come naturally. I don’t understand the rhythm or the process.  But on this day, my weak poetry skills helped relieve the strong emotions that were making my heart beat faster and my hands shake harder.  Because I set aside my intimidation of poetry, I am experiencing another moment of happiness.  And it feels gooood.

Don’t forget to read another good moment I experienced in my essay, The Best Migraine Day Ever on mops.org.

Greedy

by Nikki Deckon

A moment of happiness

A second of joy

A breath of sweetness

But just a moment

Not an hour, not a day and

certainly not a week

Irritating, frustrating and perplexing

Why only a moment?

Pursuit of happiness

Is my right

Yet, it stays elusive

Flighty

And finicky

Then I picture the child

With no home, no food,

No shoes

She plays near a sewer

Growling stomach and swollen lips

She can barely find one single moment

Of happiness

Or laughter

But hope swirls in her heart

She reminds me not to be

Greedy

To rejoice in my moment

And to anticipate the next one

Knowing that all the horrid ones

In between

will only make the joyful one

all the sweeter

all the longer

and all the more worth it

Pre-baby, I hiked, camped, white water rafted, visited, tore my way through over 30 states.  Happily.  With no mishaps.  Sometimes alone, sometimes with great friends.  Often with my cutie-pie husband. So went wrong?  I do not know.  Seriously, I don’t know. 

I do not think it is just my kids though because even when I take a short trip alone crazy things happen. Take the time I flew to my sister’s. My first flight ran way late, so the flight crew let a bunch of us with connections off the BACK of the plane to run across the tarmac…in hopes of catching our next flight.  I made it, some did not. I still feel sorry for the 80 year old lady who just couldn’t huff it through the airport.  But it didn’t end there.  Once I did land in my sister’s town, my luggage was lost. 

Actually, I have dozens of stories like this.  People have suggested that I do some travel writing, but it’d be more like a survival guide for the traveling challenged.  Hey…maybe that really would be a good book to read.  I’ll have to think about it. 

In the meantime, I will still ponder the question of “what happened? Why can I not travel like a normal person anymore?”  I’ll let you know if I come up with a good answer.

I am exhausted. I feel sick. I’m tired.  Man, this is where my kids get their whininess, huh?  We have a super-duper packed summer and all I want to do is lay on the couch and read trashy novels. Whine, whine, whine.

So I have to ask myself, what can I do about this?  I think I am going to take my %40 off coupon to Borders and buy me a book on what energizing foods to eat.  Maybe that’ll work.

Or I could just put one foot in front of the other and just plod on. But what kind of life is that?

Or maybe, I could just let myself rest.  Why do I feel guilty doing that? Why  can’t I just slow down and do…nothing.

Today as I paint with dark colors, I envy monks. They have permission to spend hours in meditation.  They can afford to contemplate nature for days on end. They don’t have to lock themselves in their overstuffed closet to get three seconds of prayer time.  Today, if could  really choose what I want…I wouldn’t choose the Border’s book, or the trashy novels, or the five minutes of rest that I can sneak in…I’d choose monkhood.  Without the sex change, of course.

My nephew is coming to visit. Yahoo!  We are going to see the goonie house, the shining lodge, Cannon Beach, Multnomah falls and bunches of other cool stuff around Portland.

Then we go to Florida for 16 days. Surfing, the beach, the pool, Disneyland (or is it Disney World?).  The boys are so excited, as am I.

We follow that up with a trip to L.A., OH, and possibly Nashville.  Phew.  What a summer!! And I didn’t even list all the activities the boys will be involved in!

And do you know what all this means?  VERY LITTLE TIME TO CLEAN! YES!!!!  I look forward to a summer of very little cleaning up.  However, there is something else that there will be very little of…writing.

After much thought, I will not be writing any essays or short stories this summer.  When I find the time, I plan on working on Death by White Picket Fences and My 12k Drama. And that’s it. I won’t be submitting to my usual magazines and newspapers.  I will not be concocting new article ideas.  I’m on summer hiatus.

I have mixed feelings about this.  First, I feel a teeny bit of relief.  On a daily basis I have to fight to get three minutes of writing time.  And I’m tired. I don’t feel like fighting right now.  Secondly, I am sad. I adore writing and working and keeping my brain thinking on the next thing I want to write.  Thirdly, I’m curious. What will it all look like in the Fall when both kids are in school? Will I be able to just jump right back in?

We shall see…we shall see!

Why Should You dream NOW?

1. It’s better than doing your taxes!
2. Once you realize your dreams have value, you will discover that YOU have value!
3. Life will only continue to get crazier when kids and new jobs and hubbies come along—so now’s the time!!
4. You will get to know yourself better, and accept who you are, where you are and how cool you are!
5. As you accept and love yourself more, it’ll be easier to accept and love others just where they are and for who they are!
6. Why not? Why wait?
7. Understanding your dreams helps you to find your very special place in the body of Christ (and you can start saying NO to projects that don’t fit into who you are).
8. You can inspire others!
9. Again, I say…It’s better than doing your taxes!!
10. Is this something you’d want your mom or sister or best friend to pursue? Then why not you?
11. God gave you your dreams, why not figure out what they are?
12. It’s fun and freeing!!
13. You need to do something special after the insanity of the holidays!
14.  You might not feel as inspired to do it when “everything finally falls into place.”
15. It’s the perfect gift guide for the people who love you.
16. Because YOU ARE WORTH IT!!

Getting Started on Your 100 Dreams Album

Find and album or journal or notebook and make it a goal to reach 100!

1.  Look at all aspects of yourself
2. Forget about time, money, resources or any other limitations
3. Let your heart soar—put NO restrictions  on your list of dreams

 Your Childhood

What did you dream about being as a child? At 6? At 10?

Physical

          Ever dream of running a marathon? Climbing a mountain?

Relational

Do you want to get married? Be closer to your sister? Pray with your mom?

Spiritual

Is there a question you’ve ever wanted to ask God? What dreams do you have for you and Jesus?

Stuff

Do you have a dream house? Do you wish you had matching dishes?

Travel

What kind of adventures do you dream of going on?               Want to visit Antarctica?

Special note: there is one dream you cannot have…to go back in time (and maybe change something…) it is cosmically impossible. Sorry!

http://www.nwkids.com/MamaSays/Deckon

http://lakegrovemops.wordpress.com/newsletters/confessions/

http://www.mediaforliving.org/read/47/thankful-for-carpet-stains

http://blog.oregonlive.com/myoregon/2009/03/13/

My writer’s group absolutely hated this story…what do you think?

Bug Love

By Nikki Deckon

            I fell in love with a bug. Yeah, I know. Big. Mistake. In all fairness though, Richard was only partially bug when I met him. In his brain he was already an insect but in body he was still a good old fashioned tall and handsome man. Then his dad, the most famous Entomologist in North America turned him into a praying mantis, his mom into a cockroach, and his brothers into lightening bugs. The dad himself was a locust. Gross.  It’d be worse if they were always in their buggey form; but they each had the ability to transform at will.  That special little skill was way creepier than staying in their new bug body all the time. It equally turned me on and made me want to run away screaming.  And I almost did just that when the dad decided I needed to be turned into a lady bug…a week before my wedding.

  I didn’t think the dad was serious until Richard went all insecty on me and I was forced to call off the wedding and leave in a more dignified manner than screeching into the night as I felt like doing.  I remember hollering at him as I packed my suitcase.

            “Come on Richard. Can a lady bug and a stick bug even get it on?” I had screamed at him. I randomly grabbed clothes and shoved them into my case.  I wanted to be gone before the dad came to zap me with his insect paraphernalia. 

            “Don’t be silly, Sicily. I’m not a stick bug,” he said with disgust. “I’m a Mantodea. And you’ll be a Coccinellidae.  Plus, we won’t be in our insect forms when we make love.”  He said this while waving his green bug arms around.  The rest of him was still human. Yeah, real convincing argument.

            I snapped the suitcase shut. I took one last glance around our bedroom accented in black and red. I wished I owned a gun. Then I’d put it to the dad’s head and tell him to get out of our life.  But I knew Richard had made him a copy of our apartment key; and running just seemed easier.  Also, I didn’t want to spend life in prison with Big Betty as my girl after accidentally murdering my boyfriend’s dad because I didn’t know how to use a gun. 

            Richard grabbed my arms and lowered his head to mine. His long tentacles caressed my face. My eyes fluttered shut.  Jerk. He knew I loved that.  Now only his trunk and legs remained human.

            “I love you, Sicily. Please don’t leave.” 

            I shook my head.

            “Please.”

            I opened my eyes. 

            “I think there are enough bugs in this family,” I whispered.  I stepped back from him and said goodbye to our home. I didn’t know when I’d be back, if ever. 

            The only place I could think to go was Becky’s.  Richard didn’t know we were friends. I’d met her at a knitting club.  She sequestered me in her dank basement and sat by her front door with a shotgun.  I sure hoped she knew how to use it.

I sat on a creaky bed in the corner wondering if it’d be so bad to be a lady bug. Or a “lady beetle” as the dad referred to it.  Then I wondered if I’d shrink when I transformed…or would I be a really giant lady bug?  Could I fly? I sat up straight and smiled. Now, flying, that wouldn’t be so bad.   Actually, that’d be nice.

            I tried to remember how the dad turned Richard into a praying mantis. I scrunched up my eyes and thought about it. I recalled one conversation we had late one night.

            “It feels okay,” Richard had said. He got a distant look on his face and cringed. 

            “Hmmm. That’s not what your face tells me,” I said.

            “No it’s not that…I’m just trying to remember what it felt like to be just a human.”  His arm morphed into a long green praying mantis arm and scratched the back of his head. I shivered.

            “Though, I do remember the last moment,” he said. He cocked his head and peered out the window overlooking downtown.  “My dad put the cap over my entire head, hooked me up to the respirator and pushed the go button. And I thought to myself, ‘I hope it turns my eyes green.’ Then there was a sizzle and I could feel my body shake.  It went all black.  When I woke up my whole family was leaning over me smiling.”  He shook his head and focused back on me. 

            “It was great.” 

            Honestly, I don’t know if I believed him or not. Was it really that easy and painless?  I do believe that he loved me though. And I loved him. I still do.  I had to wonder if being a bug, with the love of my life would be so bad after all…

            I didn’t really get to flush out this idea though because Becky’s shotgun went off. I heard her screeching and stomping about. I threw the covers over my head and cried.

            There was a horrible thump and then silence.   

            The door leading to the basement creaked open.  I squeezed my whole body tight to keep from making a peep.

            Someone walked slowly down the steps.  I held my breath.

            “Sicily? Don’t fight me, daughter.”

            It was the dad.  Crud.

            “It will only hurt if you struggle. But if you remain calm we can keep your blood pressure at the appropriate level for a smooth transition from human to beautiful lady beetle.”  His voice got closer and I felt like a child.  Of course he could see the shape of my body under the blankets. I screamed and thrashed around, kicking the quilt off.

            “Get away from me!  It’s up to me if I want to become a bug. It’s not up to you!”

            There he stood, with his clip on bowtie and wrinkled khakis.  He sure did look young.  Actually, his skin glowed. His eyes sparkled behind his black glasses.  The last time I saw him he was pushing 70. Now he looked about 45.

            “What happened to you?” I asked.

            He smiled. “Turning Locusta Migratoria has brought back my youth, daughter.”

            “I’m not your daughter!” 

            “When you marry my son, you will be,” he said in his nasally high pitched voice. 

            “Who said I’m marrying that…leaf eater?” I shouted.  I noticed that the dad was a few feet from the stairs. I might be able to leap past him and sprint up to safety.  Then I remembered Becky.

            “What did you do to my friend?”

            “Nothing. She’s sleeping peacefully,” he said. His lips curled into a grotesque smile. His teeth were super white. Wow.  Turning bug really had been good for him. 

            “If you hurt her—“

            “I wouldn’t let him hurt her or you, Sicily.” It was Richard shouting from somewhere upstairs. My heart raced.  It was now or never. With a warrior cry I sprinted past the dad and took the steps two at a time. I stumbled out from the basement door and noticed Becky’s large fern in the hall.  If I hurled it down the stairs it might be enough to stop the dad. I searched for Richard, but couldn’t see him.  I went for the plant and suddenly a spiked foreleg whipped out from behind it and grabbed me.  I forgot. I forgot that praying mantises were capable of blending in with any foliage.

            “No Richard!” I screamed and struggled as he embraced me in his mantis arms, snugly.  I cried on his tall, stick thin chest. 

            “I promise you’ll love being a lady beetle,” he whispered into my ear.  I noticed over his shoulder that Becky was tucked in on her sofa with a red blanket.  Richard’s mother sat in a reclining chair and his brothers stood behind her.  They were all in human form.  A rolling cart you’d see in a hospital sat next to them. It was loaded down with strange equipment. I thought my heart would rip out of my chest it was flopping around and racing so fast.

            With bright eyes, Richard’s mother Lucy glanced at all the gear. 

            “It’s an electrophysiological reader,” she said.  She didn’t smile.  She held my gaze for several moments. She was trying to tell me something but I had no idea what.  I wanted to scream.

            “Duct tape her down,” the dad said from behind me. I yelped.

            In a flurry of scuffling, shuffling and me begging and screaming, Richard’s family finally duct taped me to Becky’s floral printed chair.  My chest ached so bad I was sure a heart attack would kill me before they even had a chance to turn me. 

            The dad hooked up a bunch of wires and things to my head and chest as Richard’s oldest brother held me still.  I couldn’t see a thing through the blur of tears in my eyes. 

            “We’re ready,” the dad said. 

            Richard knelt down before me and kissed my cheek.  “No matter what, we still have us.” His eyes were pleading with me.  I’d spit on him but they taped my mouth too.

            “Come on, it’s time,” the dad whined as he flipped a couple of switches on his equipment.  The dad began arguing with Richard over something.  Lucy bent down to whisper in my ear.  

            “Did you know that lady bugs can excrete a yellow toxin from their leg joints?” she asked me.  

I squinted at her and wondered when the whole family had gone crazy.  She looked deeply into my eyes.

            “It can be dangerous to other predators,” she said as she looked up at her rogue scientist husband.  

            And I knew.  There was no way to stop them. I’d become a lady bug or beetle or whatever it’s called against my will. But I also knew that I’d be the one to kill the rogue scientist with my own excreting legs (I’d just have to ignore how disgusting goo oozing from my joints might feel).  That was my last thought before I screamed silently when a lightening bolt shock zapped through my chest.  Everything went black. 

            The next time I opened my eyes the world was foggy. I was pretty sure I was still at my friend’s house, in one of her beds. Duct tape no longer held me down. I felt something wet on my legs and groaned. If I peed myself I was not going to be happy.  I lifted the pale pink quilt tucked tightly around my human body (thank God) and peered down at my legs. A smelly yellow substance clung to my knees and soaked the bed. It wasn’t pee.  I smiled.  Richard’s mom spoke the truth. I knew the time had come for me to poison one little pesky Entomologist turned locust.  The question remained though…would I also poison one tall and handsome praying mantis?    

© by Nikki Deckon 2008. All Rights Reserved.

            In approximately third grade I created a dictionary on lined notebook paper. The whole thing is written in perfect third grade cursive handwriting. One of the words was written as follows:   

Bluskiot (blūshcĪэt) 1. an animal who is able to speak as a human does. 2. a baby who starts to blabber at the age of 1 week and doesn’t stop till the age of 49.

            Whenever I go back and read this little dictionary I laugh.  And today I needed a laugh because everything imaginable went wrong.  So I dug it out and felt so much better about the world.  After all, can you imagine the problems a bluskiot has? No friends…dry throat…no more topics to blabber about.  Compared to that, my life is cake.  I have a lot to be thankful for, even if I don’t feel it.  And speaking of thankful, here are a few places you can read my essays this month….

http://blog.oregonlive.com/myoregon/2009/03/the_shamrock_run.html

http://www.nwkids.com/MamaSays/Deckon

http://www.mediaforliving.org/read/47/thankful-for-carpet-stains

And of course don’t forget the normal sassy mama column: http://lakegrovemops.wordpress.com/newsletters/confessions/. 

© by Nikki Deckon 2009. All Rights Reserved.  No entries, sentences, essays, or stories may be used from this blog without written permission from Nikki Deckon.

A Bathroom Pass

By Nikki Deckon

            What does every mother need to survive the toddler years?  An unlimited all-access, completely solo, bathroom pass.  At least that’s what I told my husband.

One night he said to me in a huff, “When I’m at home, I feel like I need a bathroom pass just to go pee.”

“Well, you do, buddy,” I huffed right back at him.

This exchange came about because I’d grown very agitated with him when he disappeared into the kid-free master bath. Alone. 

After several minutes I stood at the door and hollered, “are you done yet?”  I rattled the doorknob several times and then stomped away mumbling, “I NEVER get to use the bathroom, alone! I need my own pass.” 

If I want a second of privacy in the bathroom, I have to sneak. Sometimes I wait until my boys are busy building with Leggos or are occupied with an episode of Dora the Explorer.  When I am mostly sure they are distracted, I tiptoe down the hall. I hold my breath, listening and hoping they don’t lose interest in whatever they are doing.  All the while, my bladder protests in the form of sharp pains; it threatens to go on strike and stop functioning properly if I don’t unload it, immediately. I tell it to hold its horses and slink into the bathroom, inching the door shut. But it’s like when you get on the phone. As soon as they realize you’re on a call or they hear the “creak, creak” of the bathroom door, they come-a-runnin’.

 If I ever actually get the door closed, then there’s pounding and screaming and “mom, he hit me” for the entire time it takes to do what I need to do.  But most of the time I don’t even get the door shut before everyone piles in and mommy’s potty time turns into a family affair where I end up shouting, “give me that toilet paper back. I mean it this time! Stop blinking that light, I can’t see a thing!”  I feel as if my private bathroom time is being held hostage by two little turkeys who can’t even pronounce toilet paper properly. 

But if I’m honest with myself, the real issue has nothing to do with my husband’s bathroom time versus my own bathroom time.  It has to do with mommy freedom. If I can’t even get alone time in the sacred of all rooms, how can I ever find time for myself to think and dream and just be me? Not mommy, or laundry-conqueror or whatever. Just me.  

Maybe every mother doesn’t need a bathroom-pass to survive, but a “me-pass,” where she can go away for the whole day and night to a posh hotel.  Then she’ll get to remember her dreams, eat whatever she wants, read whatever she desires and stay in the bathroom until she is forcibly evicted by the hotel manager.  

Last year, I decided to ask for this special, holy pass. The morning before Mother’s day my husband surprised me with a little get-a-way at Hotel Lućia in downtown Portland. I left the house within fifteen minutes of receiving this gift.  I’ve never packed so fast in my life.

I arrived and checked into my Deluxe Room overlooking Broadway.  I spent the most glorious night alone. For the first time in five years.  I took four showers with complimentary Aveda products. I watched a dorky movie, Anaconda, starring Jennifer Lopez.  I ate room service and perused the Pillow Menu. I sat at the desk looking out over the city, writing about what I saw.  I recalled my dreams and danced about the room and giggled and posed in the mirror.

One of the things that made it so special was that I could do it all in silence. Without interruptions.  And no Barney telling me how much he loves me. I had the peace and quiet to remember that I am not just a mother and wife. I am a woman. I am me.  And I matter too. 

At home the next day I embraced my boys and my husband. I fell back in love with them. A night away made me feel like I could do this mothering thing.  All I needed was a “me-pass” to get refreshed and energized. I think that instead of requesting a bathroom pass for myself, I need to give one to my husband for recognizing my need for alone time on Mother’s Day.  Or maybe I’ll just stop jiggling the door handle when he’s in the master bath, alone, trying to do what he needs to do!

© by Nikki Deckon 2006. All Rights Reserved.

I was weird in high school. Picture this: me taking my step-dad’s socks, drawing peace signs all over them and wearing them pulled up to my knees.  Yeah. I was strange.  And awkward. And unhappy. I guess, I was pretty typical. But that’s in the past, I’m all grown up and feel so much better about life.  All that popularity stuff is behind me, right?  Well, it was until I joined facebook.

At first it was fun to reconnect with old friends and find out what they were having for breakfast, what their kids said that day and 24 random things about them.  But then I started noticing that a lot of people had 200-300, even 500 friends on their facebook profile.  I wondered do I even know 500 people? Do I even know 200?  So I did a mad dash through facebook trying to find everyone I ever knew. I found myself asking random people that I see regularly, but don’t know their names to join facebook.  Like the gas pump guy and the check out clerk at Lamb’s.  After days of searching for facebook friends I had a grand total of 51 friends.  51.  Even Bush has more people than that who like him!!!

One day my friend said, “well, are you friends with bands, or people you’ve never met?” 

Uhhh, no.  I always “ignore” people I don’t know, or groups and people that scare me.

            “Maybe that’s it,” she said.  “Maybe those people with 500 friends don’t really know every one on their list!” 

Then I realized it. 

Socially, I haven’t really changed since high school, have I?  I don’t have a million close friends; but the ones I do have, I really dig.  I’m not Miss Popularity, but the people who are in my life make me laugh until I want to pee my pants, smile until my jaw aches, and cry until there are no more tears left.   They are my peeps. 

I honestly don’t know how people get so many friends on facebook, in school or anywhere else; but I do know that the friends that I have now are some of the most amazing people around.  I wouldn’t trade them for a thousand new friends on facebook.  After all, they don’t even care that I like to draw on men’s socks and then wear them…right guys?  Right??????!!!!!!