Of Acid and Caves

The other night I was killing time, waiting until I could leave to pick my son up from Christmas Carol practice. All I wanted to do was go to bed. I'd worked on a project for 12 hours that day, which is more hours than I usually devote to money-paying work in one day, and I was going to have to do the same thing the following two days to get the job done. But there were 30 minutes until I could leave for pick-up duty, so I was sitting on the couch watching an episode of Planet Earth with my oldest. It was the episode about caves, which I'd never seen because I'm terrified of bats and caves seem kind of repulsive to me.

They were talking about a cave in New Mexico, the Lechiguilla Cave, which is full of the most astounding crystals. I'd never seen anything like it. The interesting thing they said (if I heard them right in my sleepy stupor) is that the cave was carved out by sulphuric acid....and that's what makes the crystals so stunning and unusual.

It got me thinking. Sometimes, or most of the time, I am truly amazed by God. The beauty that he hides away in the dark places. The incredible creatures that lurk in the ocean depths. The crystals hidden in that cave, unseen for centuries. He does such beautiful things in the places that seem dark and frightening -- the places most people wouldn't want to or think to visit.

The Lechiguilla got me thinking about the darkest places in our hearts and lives, and the fact that sometimes the things that happen to us or the things we do to others are like acid eating away at us. The acid running like a river through us may be unseen by others, but we know it's there. We feel it wearing us away; for some of us, it flows year after year. We see no reason for the haunting pain; we want no part of it. Or perhaps we want to see some quantifiable and redemptive reason for it long before one can ever be seen.

But seeing those crystals made me feel at peace (at least temporarily) with the idea that we may never see quantifiable reasons for our pain... but that God can use its acid to carve astounding beauty within us. We are the temple of the Holy Spirit, and if he wants to make use of the acid in our lives to make a temple of jagged and lovely crystals so that he can dwell in beauty -- a beauty that only he can truly see -- then who are we to argue?

A Book Recommendation

I just finished a great book -- Song Yet Sung by James McBride. Since I was whining about books a few months ago, I thought it would be nice if I actually passed a recommendation along. I won't tell you anything about it -- mainly because I should be working, not blogging -- but I will tell you that about thirty or forty pages into it, I nearly gave up on it. It seemed a little...weird. Some strange characters speaking in a strange code (in the story, the code is used by slaves to communicate vital information). But it was worth hanging in there. Check it out if you're looking for something great to read. The fact that the story is set on Maryland's Eastern Shore made it all the more interesting.

Next up for me: The Heretic's Daughter, a story told from the perspective of a ten-year-old girl whose mother is tried as a witch in the Salem witch trials. If it's great, I'll let you know.

Why?

Yesterday I talked to my forever best friend and she told me some terrible news. A good friend of hers, age 44 and pregnant as a result of their third (and final) round of IVF (they're out of money), had recently learned that their baby had trisomy 18 and aborted it. Her. A baby girl.

This is just heartbreaking to me. For years this woman has wanted nothing more than to get married and have a child. She got married just a few years ago, and they have been trying ever since for a baby. This woman has had a difficult life. Both of her parents have been dead for years. Her siblings are morons and she has no emotional connection with them. She had a close relationship with her mom before she died and desperately wants to be a mom herself... Her career has been in a tailspin for years because the industry she works in has undergone much change and she doesn't bring home the salary she used to. Her husband has some difficult health issues... And now their dream of building a family is dashed, ended in loss and grief.

Last week my husband and I sat in the office with the genetic counselor and listened to all her doom and gloom. I don't recommend getting pregnant at my age. The statistics are nothing short of alarming -- 1 in 35 pregnancies will have chromosomal abnormalities. We were told that the ultrasound we were about to get would identify 99 out of 100 cases of trisomy 13 and 18. Those babies rarely live more than a year. And it would identify about 70 out of 100 cases of down's syndrome. We watched the ultrasound intently. Counted limbs, fingers, and toes. Held our breath as we watched the four chambers of the heart contract and expand -- a mesmerizing sight.

Despite the terrible odds, the doctor came in after the ultrasound and said our baby looked so good that the likelihood of problems had dropped dramatically -- to about a 1 percent chance. As I said in a previous post, God doesn't need the odds. He likes to battle tens of thousands with an army of 300.

And so this baby we have not asked for or looked for appears to be the most beautiful and healthy baby boy...and I am humbled. Why me? Who are we to receive this gift? We already have the three most wonderful boys on this earth (no offense intended to my readers' sons), and now we are being given what so many people so desperately long for and pray for.

There are many ways to be reminded that we are not God. This is one way that God has reminded me of that essential truth. I don't create life, and I don't get to set myself up as God's judge and insist that someone else really needed a baby more than we do. I confess I did just that a few months ago when i found out I was pregnant. Honestly, I am sometimes astounded by the things God can forgive.

A boy

I guess two months is kind of a long break to take from blogging. Oh well. Sometimes words just don't come.

This week we found out we're expecting a baby boy. We've never found out by ultrasound what we're expecting. Always waited for the surprise. But this time we already had the surprise, so we decided we needed to know.

Most people were sure this baby was a girl. I wasn't sure, but I seriously thought it might be...and, quite honestly, that is what I was hope, hope, hoping for. But it's a little dude, and now that I know, I am so thrilled. A boy is just right...the perfect fit for our family of boys...and I now feel the most excitement that I've felt so far about this pregnancy. Who is this little fellow?

And let's be honest, little boys always adore their mothers...and even during adolescence things are more smooth between mothers and sons than they generally are between mothers and daughters.

Best of all, he appears to be perfectly healthy. I am just so grateful.

And as my husband said, well, now that we know...we can start fighting over names! Good times.

Books, Books, Books

This is a cry for help. I need a book to read. A good book. Better yet, I need a list of good books to read. After devouring The Help, I read another good one — Year of Wonders: A Novel of the Plague. But since then I've been stuck. I take books out of the library, start them, and toss them aside. As a result, I am watching obscene amounts of TV. Well, not just because of that. I don't usually watch much TV (when would that happen?), but I have been feeling so sick and so exhausted that I've been going to bed crazy early most nights, and I've even gotten into bed many times during the day. Honestly, I don't recognize myself anymore. I'm just waiting to feel better so I can hopefully return to my normal self.

In the meantime, I need help... because I'm going to shoot myself if I watch another episode of anything on Bravo! — and I like Bravo! But not in the doses I've been getting of it.

So please, please...give me some book titles (fiction please) so I can lose myself in a good book.

***
Last night, I dreamed — again — that we are having a boy. I don't put much stock in it because my dreams have been completely crazy for the past month, nothing like my usual dreams. Nevertheless, I feel better about the idea of a boy this morning. Up to this point, I've only been able to think of this baby as a girl. We talk about the baby as if it's a girl, and my husband calls the baby Pebbles (from the flintstones). He actually has a cut-out of Pebbles (from a box of Fruity Pebbles of course!) taped to his computer — though he's been planning on giving that to a friend who has a baby who looks like Pebbles. Still, we're pretty committed to the girl idea. But I am relieved that my thinking is different this morning — that I can entertain the idea of a boy and feel okay about it. I think it helped to learn last night that my favorite three-year-old boy has been praying "for Nina to have a baby that is healfy and not sick." I love that kid.

The Lecture

Unfortunately for my kids, my husband and I are both good at the lecture. I'm not certain that this is the best parenting technique... I'm pretty sure they may zone out after a while. But sometimes, you just need to set some people (your kids, or at least one of them) straight. That's what happened here this morning.

The conversation started innocently enough, as they so often do. I was explaining to the two younger boys that I was hoping we could build an office for their dad out in our garage, which is a huge detached garage and fitting for such a thing. Of course, there's the small (or not so small) matter of money... but a girl can dream and pray, right? I mean, otherwise, there is just nowhere for this kid to go. But Son2, who has been making a habit of complaining lately, was highly annoyed to realize that this meant his little brother or sister would immediately have their own room. Son2 has never had his own room, and he wants one, and he lets us know it from time to time. "It's unfair!" he proclaimed.

And so the lecture began. (In my defense, let me say that I probably wouldn't have launched into a lecture if there hadn't been a number of complaints already this week, displaying a profound lack of gratitude on his part.) It was a lecture about financial reality and about poverty, and the truth of how most of the world lives. Whole families share rooms. I explained that he rarely sees this reality, that what he sees is the people who have more than we do, who go to Disneyworld every year, or at least go once. I even explained that many fortunate people don't actually have to pay thousands and thousands of dollars each year for health insurance and doctor visits and medicine. But we do, and at least we can go to the doctor and get medicine, even if it doesn't always stop those migraines from coming. At least we can keep working on it. Some kids can't even go to the doctor, can't afford their medicine. I couldn't stop. Well...that's not true. I could, and I did, eventually. But before I did, I told him that maybe this fall, as part of homeschooling, we would do a study about poverty (that was my husband's idea). We'd learn about how many of the people in our country have to live, how people in this world suffer. And then we'll just see what's fair.

Making Room

Perhaps not surprisingly, one of the first scriptures that I felt like God told me after I found out I was pregnant is this one from Isaiah 54:

2 "Enlarge the place of your tent,
stretch your tent curtains wide,
do not hold back;
lengthen your cords,
strengthen your stakes.

3 For you will spread out to the right and to the left;
your descendants will dispossess nations
and settle in their desolate cities."

I knew God was telling me that I'd have to make room for this baby, make room for his plan. I heard him, but nothing in me was ready to grasp that yet. But I read Isaiah 54 again last week, and it got me thinking.

I think that "making room" is one of the biggest things we must learn and do if we're trying to follow Jesus. God has always made room in his heart for us, and now Jesus is in heaven, making room for us. God tells us to care for the widow, the orphan, and the alien...but that does not come naturally to many of us. We have to ask God to help us make room in our hearts for them, so we can be moved to action. Many years ago, we knew a teenage girl who needed a home. My husband said we had to make room for her, but I didn't want to. Such things come naturally to him, but not me. But we did make room, and she is like a daughter to us still, though she only lived with us for a year. Our sons consider her to be a sister, though two of them were not yet even born when she lived with us. By the grace of God, and despite my unwilling heart, amazing things can happen when you make room.

The Jewish people, in the time after Jesus' death, had to make room for the gentile converts. The gentiles would be grafted in to Israel, but not all of them wanted to make room. In fact, you could say that many Jews could not make room for the Messiah... Why? Because he was not who they were expecting.

We were not expecting this baby. In my mind, I can now grasp this idea of making room. I can see God being good to us and blessing us with a gift we were not looking for. My heart is still trying to catch up, though. It will. We will. We will make room and who knows who this person will turn out to be.

I was a surprise baby. My brothers are ten and twelve years older than me, and my mother knew the heartache that I will now know. Her mother knew my brothers, but she died years before I was born. I knew that always made her sad, but I didn't really understand that when I was a kid. My mom died eight years ago today, and I cannot imagine having a baby she will not know.

The Sound of the Sun

A few weeks ago Son2 and I were walking home from the park. It was a brutally hot morning, and only the dog, who'd taken a dip in the creek, wasn't miserable from the heat. The cicadas were buzzing like crazy and Son2 stopped in his tracks and said, "What is that sound?" I told him it was the cicadas, and he said, "Oh...I always just thought it was the sound of the sun."

Searching for Some Equilibrium

This month my husband and I celebrated our twentieth anniversary. And a few days before that wonderful day, we made the shocking and unexpected discovery that we are expecting a baby.

Now that I've made this little announcement I may be able to get back to blogging and also the business of reading people's blogs. We'll see. I'm trying to climb my way out of this alternate universe I seem to have fallen into. I'm just not quite myself these days.

To be honest, this is not exactly what I was planning for the next eighteen years of my life. Not by a longshot. But apparently God was planning it. I'm fairly certain He's been getting a good chuckle for years now every time we've made any mention of our future plans.

And if I'm being really honest -- and apparently I am -- I will tell you that I cried when I told my husband the pregnancy test results. And he, very kindly, took a glass of water out of the kitchen cabinet, filled it half full of water, and set it down on the counter. He looked at me, looked at the glass, and then drank the whole thing. Then he said, "That's the best half-full cup of water that I've ever had." It was the best thing he could have said...and then I cried some more.

That was a few weeks ago. I've stopped crying, though I still feel off balance. I cannot think of the specifics of the future. I know when this little person arrives, we will love him or her (please HER!) with all our hearts. Our lives will change, and that won't be the big deal that it seems like right now. The truth is that right now I probably care more about myself and my goals then I do about this person...but it will not be that way much longer. Soon I will care more about this person than about myself, and our lives will flow together, and it will all be good. So much better than good.

Another Bumpersticker

Saw this today as I was leaving Wal-Mart (where else?) and had to pass it along:

Guns kill people like spoons made Rosie O'Donnell fat

It gave me a chuckle, though for the record I'm actually pro gun control. Just thought I'd pass the fun along. Has anyone seen any good ones lately? Let me know!

The boys and I are leaving in the morning to visit friends in North Carolina...and we'll surely see some good ones along the way...

Just Wondering

I saw a story on the news this morning about a seven-year-old Utah boy who took his parents' car on Sunday morning and drove it several miles around town. Needless to say, his erratic driving caught the attention of police and they tried to pull him over. He kept driving. He drove all the way home and then jumped out of the car and ran into his house to hide. Imagine the officers' surprise when a kid jumped out of the driver's seat. The boy has given two different reasons for his actions. First, he said he just didn't want to go to church. But later he told his parents that he just wanted to try driving.

Now, I'm wondering...if your seven-year-old son took your car out for a joy ride, would you:

A. Ground him for four days and then take him to New York City to appear on the Today Show?
B. Ground him for almost forever and not allow him any attention for his misbehavior?

Just curious.

A Steep Hill

Last night I had to take my youngest to a local emergency clinic because he was not coping well with a case of swimmers ear. As we drove there, I noticed a man on the side of the road. He was standing by his bicycle, which had a wagon full of stuff attached to it. He was wearing a reflective vest, which I thought was pretty smart. He was at the bottom of a steep hill and had to climb another to continue on his journey.

An hour later (miraculously, there was no wait at the clinic!), we were on our way home. The man had made little progress. I saw him pulling the wagon up the hill by hand; a bit beyond where he was (but still only halfway up the hill) was his bicycle, waiting for him. It was going to be a considerable amount of time before he completed the multiple stages of transport for his bike and all his gear. Beyond the crest of the hill, another hill awaited him, though that one was less steep. There was a sign on the back of the heavy wagon he was pulling. It read: Homeless Artist.

Something else awaited him beyond the crest of the hill. Something he could not possibly have anticipated: the county fair. It got me thinking. Sometimes, our journey can be grueling. It can take way more time and energy to travel short distances than we ever anticipated. Years can pass in which we feel like all we're doing is trying to climb the same stinking hill. The top feels a long way off, and we have no idea what we'll see when we get there. Will another, steeper hill greet us? There is no way to know.

But sometimes we climb and climb, because it's the only thing we can do, and at the top we are greeted by the truly unexpected.

Finally

I've been on the hunt for a good book for months. I've tried several and tossed them aside. I've read others, though not with complete enjoyment. But the search, aided by a little visit to npr.org, has finally paid off. Last night I started reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett. The first paragraph of this book reminded me that you really can love a book from the start:

"Mae Mobly was born on a early Sunday morning in August, 1960. A church baby we like to call it. Taking care a white babies, that's what I do, along with all the cooking and the cleaning. I done raised seventeen kids in my lifetime. I know how to get them babies to sleep, stop crying, and go in the toilet bowl before they mamas even get out a bed in the morning."

I read that paragraph and I knew this was a book I'd read all the way through. Thank you very much Kathryn Stockett.

My best friend is an english teacher. She has all these rules for living, and I used to live by them all. She probably lived by mine too. Probably one of her worst rules was developed in college: you had to go out at least once with anyone who asked you out. I can tell you from experience that this is probably not a good way to live. But another one of her rules may have been worse: you've got to finish any book you start. As you can imagine, a bad date takes a lot less time than reading a book you hate. Because I used to live by her rules, my ability to give up on a book after the first chapter is an acquired habit and one I love dearly. Such freedom! Now I regularly give up on books after the first chapter or two. I figure that's plenty of time for the author to grab my interest. If it doesn't happen in that time span, then there's a whole library full of options just down the road.

A Duck Tale

Last July we had the opportunity to meet a new client. They would be driving home from Washington, DC, and they wanted to get off the highway and come meet us. "Not at our office!" we said -- since it's in our house and we don't actually live in a mansion, which we're fairly certain they do. Also because our office is located across the hall from the bathroom where we keep the litter box. We said we'd take them out for lunch.

For whatever reason, I was really nervous about the whole event, which was ridiculous since I wasn't the one actually doing any work for them. Our work for them is only design work, so that's all on the husband. He, of course, wasn't nervous at all. There was no reason for him to be, so I don't know what had gotten into me. When I was getting ready, I decided I'd feel a whole lot better if I could take one of the pets with me. Animals always make me feel so much calmer. But that obviously wasn't going to happen. I had just seen Miss Potter, and the scenes where she could see Peter Rabbit and his family coming to life really affected me. I wished some cute little rabbit dressed in knickers and a topcoat could come along and sit on the table next to my lunch plate. But obviously that wasn't going to happen either.

We went to lunch and since we arrived (miraculously!) ahead of the clients, we chose a table outside, near the water. Within minutes, a duck waddled up to the table and stood right next to my chair. He stayed in place through our guests' arrival and returned after the waiter chased him away (over my protest). The duck was a perfect gentleman. No quacking. No begging. (Do ducks actually beg?) No pecking or biting. His presence made me feel so much better, and so much more like myself. The clients were kind, interesting, and amusing people. I forgot about my ridiculous nervousness. Then I forgot about the duck. The next time I looked down to give him something from my lunch, he was gone. Having performed his little act of kind service, he somehow knew he was no longer needed. Seriously. I am certain that God sent the duck. Does that make me sound utterly insane? Or just partially?

When my husband and I argue, the dog comes and sits next to me. Arguments make me feel utterly overwhelmed and undone, but when the dog comes and lays his head on my lap, I feel sort of restored.

Last night we were watching an all-star little league game. One team was about to lose to the other -- 14 to 0. Before the last out, a cat ran onto the field, dashing toward home plate. What kind of cat rushes onto a brightly lit baseball field surrounded by spectators? No cat I've ever met. I guess God and the cat cooked up that little scheme because they knew a little bit of levity was needed.

The connection between people and animals and God intrigues me. I think the connection we can make with animals tells us that there are bonds and communication that can happen without words. When you love an animal, you can feel the significance, the dignity of that relationship. And those relationships with living creatures we can't speak with teach us about ourselves and God and our place in the grand scheme of things...

Sympathy Cards

Who writes these things? Have you ever thought about how dreadful and inappropriate most sympathy card sentiments are? I ran into the grocery store this evening for five items and came out with fifteen instead. As usual. But one of the things I realized I needed was a sympathy card. We have a new and amazing grocery store in town with a huge card section, so it's not actually lame of me to look for one there.

Anyway.

It's always hard to find any kind of card with just the right sentiment, but a sympathy card is a particular challenge. Tonight I decided to reject all the God cards. They all seemed insensitive. Ironic, right? One of the cards I picked up said something like "Praying for you as God heals your heart." What? Their loved one has just died. Can't they grieve? Can't we acknowledge the black hole of their pain and loss rather than rushing them toward "healing"?

On Monday evening, my friend called me. Her seventeen-year-old stepson had had an aneurysm that morning. He was not expected to make it. This boy was a gifted athlete who had just graduated from high school. He had a full scholarship to play baseball at a college in Pennsylvania. He was in apparent perfect health. He died yesterday. Are there words for these circumstances? None could be found in the sympathy card section, but W.H. Auden struck just the right note in his poem "Funeral Blues."

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Superpowers

I can honestly tell you that when I was a kid I never once considered what superpowers I might or might not want to have. I never gave them a second thought. Or a first.

But the boys, at least the younger two, still talk about "powers," and which ones they'd like to have.

A few months ago, I told Son2 that if I could have any superpower, it would be the power to suck the migraines right out of his head. Hands down. This is the superpower I'm looking for.

I'd like to use it tonight, for the migraine that reared up 45 minutes ago. I would have liked to have it Saturday at 4 a.m. when he woke me to tell me he had a terrible migraine. Please. Oh please. This is the superpower I want. We have two weeks of Oliver craziness ahead of us. Late rehearsals all week. And then the performances. Then a few days off before rehearsals and more performances. It seems like a time that this superpower could come in handy. I'm just praying that God will choose to use his superpowers to keep the migraines from even being a factor in all of this.

This leaves me wondering what superpowers you would like to have. It doesn't have to be as serious as mine. In fact, I hope it's not. It could be silly. It could be completely self-serving. Whatever it is, I'm curious. If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

I Move Things

Years ago I was talking to one of my friends -- also the mother of three boys. She told me that she'd come up with an accurate description for her responsibilities as a mother. She said, "I move things. That's all I do." It feels like all I do too. I move...

Dirty dishes into the dishwasher and out again when they're clean.
Dirty clothes into the washer. Later I move the wet clothes into the dryer and then the dry clothes out to be folded.
Food from refrigerator to countertop to oven to plate to table.
Soap and toothpaste to another surface before I scrub the sink.
Boys to school, to practice, to games, to rehearsals, to friends' houses, to church events -- and back home, of course.
Trash to the trashcan.
Clothes to the foot of the stairs for boys to move upstairs to their rooms or to the laundry room.
Mail and papers to their appropriate homes...though not always immediately.
Dust and pet hair with the help of a broom, a vacuum, and a rag.

My work as an editor can be described in the same way. I move words, commas, and periods for a living.

I find comfort in the rhythm of moving things and putting them away. The repetition of mindless tasks and the temporary achievement of everything in its place soothes me. The predictability of routine is, I suspect, my attempt to placate that little girl inside who was always having the rug pulled out from under her. The unpredictability of those episodes left their mark, and this is one way that it shows.

There are two kinds of people in the world, I think. Those who like routine and repetition and those who prefer variety and spontaneity. I am the former, my husband is the latter. Poor him.

Well, time to go move some kids to the places they need to be.

The Things Kids Say

Tonight, Son3 asked me: "Why do old people have such saggy skin? Look at Coach B. His skin is so saggy it looks like he has skin sideburns." Whatever "skin sideburns" may be, I know I don't want them. But all I could say was, "That's what happens." I didn't bother to say that eventually it would happen to him.

This reminded me of something hilarious that a friend's daughter said to her one day when she got out of the shower: "Mommy, why do your nipples go up and Grammy's go down?"

Why is it that kids can see so clearly -- our faults, our weaknesses, our peculiarities?

A few weeks ago Son3 said this after a baseball game: "We're never going to win a game. I can see it in my coach's eyes." Ugh.

There are so many, many things I wish I'd written down over the years. Hilarious comments. Astounding observations. If your kids are little, I urge you not to be a lazy, procrastinating slacker like me. Write it down! And if the kids you love (yours, your nieces and nephews, your friends' kids) have said something lately that's humorous or profound, please share it.

Small Surprises

In some ways parenting is sheer drudgery. But in a good way. Unless you're insane, you'd never give it up or wish it different. Well, maybe wish it a bit different, like wishing for more sleep when your kids are little.

For years parenting seems to be all about diapers and feeding, teaching and disciplining. Get through that and it can seem like parenting is only about driving, delivering the kids from point A to point B and then doing it all over again. I exaggerate only slightly; that's where I am right now -- the taxi service phase. Surely this is God's way of making you excited about the prospect of your children starting to drive.

This phase, when your kids are of school age, is delightful, if hectic. If you're like me, you might even start to think you have this whole parenting thing down pat. You know who your kids are -- their strengths and weaknesses. You know what to expect from them. And this is the dangerous part, I think. If you're not careful, you could start to put them into boxes and leave them there. This one does well in school. This one hates math. This one is an artist. This one won't ever eat anything deemed "squishy." You could easily compartmentalize and not see that your youngest, who you have always thought of as an athlete and outdoors guy, is an artist too. Surprise!

I think that surprises are the best part of parenting. Okay. In the future I might not think this is true. But right now I do.

This week Son2 surprised me. Out of the blue, he said, "Do you know what my favorite quote is?" Of course I did not, but I was expecting something funny. Instead he said, "'It's amazing what you can accomplish if you don't care who gets the credit.' Harry Truman said it. I love that quote. I think it's really true."

I was flabbergasted (the kid hasn't even worked in an office yet -- how does he know this is true?) -- and delighted. It's fascinating to me that at age eleven this could be his favorite quote. This is the kind of thing that makes me think -- wait, who are you?

On Mother's Day we went to DC, a favorite family tradition. It was a breezy, blue-sky day and we walked from the Metro to the Jefferson Memorial. A certain youngest child who is not particularly fond of museums and memorials might remember the dead rat floating in the tidal basin as one of the highlights of the trip (which he and his dad had to capture on camera), but his oldest brother was captivated by this Jefferson quote and took a picture of it with his phone:

"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be."

Surprise. This boy was already in my smart boy box. And my thinker box. But still, I was astounded. Really? You're fourteen, and you love this? I think teenage boys get such a bad rap. Most people are prone to put them in the unruly and obnoxious box.

Speaking of surprises, I surprised myself this week. The youngest has an injury, which he is, perhaps, grossly exaggerating. Hard to say. This is the sort of situation that reminds me that I don't have this parenting thing down pat. Hmmm, it's not particularly swollen, but you won't walk on it. So we made a trip to the ER and he is supposed to use this enormous CAM walker thing for a week until we follow up with orthopedics on Tuesday. Since all my children have a theatrical bent and this one in particular has an iron will, the situation is maddening. I believe he could walk on it just fine if he wanted to.

So I've been tempting him with a paintball birthday party that he and his brothers have been invited to on Saturday:
"Wow, you're not going to be able to play paintball if you can't wear a normal shoe and run around on it."
"I really hope you can play paintball. I'd hate to see you miss that."

Then, his oldest brother got in on the act. He started calling him wuss-cake:

"C'mon wuss-cake, come and get me."
"Gonna walk on that wuss-cake?"
"How ya doin', cake?"

I surprised myself by not stopping him. I usually put the kabosh on name calling, but I knew he was doing it to provoke his brother to walk. In fact, I was so irritated with the little dude that I wanted to call him wuss-cake myself.

Unfortunately, there was another surprise. The youngest kid's got a stronger will and a greater need for attention than I thought...

News?

I was watching CNN this morning and saw this scrolling on the bottom of the screen in the little "news" ticker that all the networks seem to use these days:

Foul stench in office fridge sickens 7.

Now that's breaking news for you. Consider yourself updated on world events.

Observed

Yesterday while driving the boys home from school, I saw this bumper sticker:
If you think UNDER GOD should be removed from the pledge, then get out of the USA and GO TO HELL.

I laughed out loud. I happened to notice the bumper sticker while we were waiting at a traffic light next to the Extreme Food & Gas Mart. Which is always good for a chuckle.

Here are a few more observations I've made recently:

1. Recently I noticed a septic service truck with these three adjectives describing their services: Reliable, Reasonable, Competent. I can understand reliable and reasonable, but...competent? I hope they're more competent at septic servicing than they are at marketing. Which they probably are. Word nerd that I am, I had to look up competent just because it seemed such a poor word choice for this usage. Webster's definition is "Having requisite or adequate ability or qualities." Like I said. If I had a septic system, I'd be looking for a little more than competence.

2. Someone who shops at my local grocery store has this bumper sticker: Vegetarian -- Indian word for bad hunter. I'm a vegetarian, and that always gives me a laugh.

3. Before Easter I saw a handpainted sign on my way to the boys' school. It said: Easter flowers ahead. Git 'R Done. Somehow I don't think that had been expressed just like that before.

I don't know if David Letterman still does his thing with signs, headlines, and such because I haven't watched him in years. So I need a fix: Do you have any humorous bumper stickers or signs to share?

Quoting Movies

When I was in high school my guy friends were forever quoting movie lines to each other. I didn't get it; in fact, I found it annoying. None of my girlfriends did this, so I concluded that it was a decidedly male thing to do. Well, I now live in a family of males and there is a lot of movie quoting going on, though now I do it too. I can't decide whether this is something that women generally do or if the boys have worn me down. Regardless, we rely on movie lines to communicate all kinds of things around here, and it's amazing how often we find opportunities to use our favorites. Here are a few of our most-used lines:

"Make yourself a dang quesadilla." (Said by the grandmother in Napoleon Dynamite -- with the ls pronounced.) I say this to the boys all the time when they're hungry.

"Tina, go get your food." (Napoleon from Napoleon Dynamite) Often announced when dinner is ready.

"What if...my bladder explodes?" (Bob in What about Bob?)

"Baby steps to four o'clock." (Bob in What about Bob?)

"Bob, there is a groundbreaking new book..." (Richard Dreyfuss in What about Bob? -- said about his own book)

"What is that haunting aroma?" (Will Ferrell in Kicking and Screaming)

"Better in a different, better sort of way." (Or something like that, Will Ferrell in Kicking and Screaming)

"Work. Work's your new favorite." (Will Ferrell's department store boss in Elf)

There are more, but I'll spare you. Now that I'm thinking about it, I realize that much of our communication is actually trading movie lines. Some of our conversations might be completely indecipherable to others. So, I'm wondering...do you this too? What movies or movie lines do you quote from the most?

A Not So Lucky Rabbit's Foot

I was walking my dog this morning and thinking about the fact that I've been a bit negligent with the blogging. I was trying to decide what to write about because there are always a million blog topics swirling around in my brain...but the trouble with all of them is that they're kind of heavy, or involved, or something. It looked like today would be another day when I had too much to do to try to unwind any of those topics and write about them.

But walking the dog is a great time for thinking through things, which is what I was doing when I realized we'd been standing in one spot for a while. The dog was sniffing about furiously and finally I realized it might be the right time to pay attention. That's when I saw the disembodied rabbit's foot at my feet. I gave Bear a good yank and basically leapt over the foot, doing my best to drag him with me before he decided to help himself at the sidewalk buffet.

This got me thinking about the differences in what country dogs and city dogs encounter on an average walk. Fortunately, Bear is not obsessed with finding snacks when we're out and about. We can step around dead bats and birds, and rabbit legs too apparently. I appreciate this about him. Deeply.

Because when we lived in DC and later in Chicago, we had a dog who ate anything he could find. The dog was well fed, but that seemed to have no impact on his obsession with finding discarded "treats." He was like a vacuum cleaner for the city sidewalks. Half-eaten sandwiches, hot dogs, and fries were all fair game. Not to mention chicken bones. That dog could find and ingest a chicken bone faster than I can say chicken bone. Of course, none of these sidewalk delicacies could hold a candle to the time when he licked human vomit off the ground. I assure you, that little encounter resulted in my obsessive scanning of the sidewalk in front of me. It also got me wondering whether you could wash a pet's mouth out with soap, or at least some mouthwash.

Of course, it's good to have such an orally fixated dog in front of you when you're leaving your apartment on a hot summer evening and there's a rat on the steps outside your building. Then said animal can snatch up the rat, give it a good hard shake, and kill it on the spot, saving you the horror of a giant DC rat running across your sandaled foot. Which did, in fact, happen to a friend of mine one muggy summer night in DC. Fortunately, she was a few steps ahead of me and the rat ran over her foot and not mine. I know. I'm a true friend.

The rats rule that swampy town (and no, I'm not talking about the politicians). But that makes me wonder if the overpopulation of rats in DC is one of God's little inside jokes.

Opening Day

Opening day. Sunny and 72 degrees. A Little League parade. Two baseball games. What more can you ask for?

Here's a poem I wrote a few years ago after my oldest played in his first little league all-star game -- the pinnacle of a boyhood dream come true. His first at bat, a ball hit down the left-field line. Some people take pictures; I write poems. Without the poem, I would have forgotten the joy of it by now.


In July’s thick heat
you taught me
the shape of hope
is a boy of ten
set
in the batter’s box

it is the swing of a bat
a body unfurled
for one breath
extended

it is the arc
of a ball over third
and your expectant face
upturned

Ten Years

Ten years ago today, a boy died. We loved him deeply. Like a son. His grave is a short walk from the house where we now live. If it wasn't raining a cold rain today, I would walk up there and sit for a while. I would remember. I would cry.

First I would remember the boy as he was when I met him. I spotted him on the very first day we went to a new church. I knew that in some way we would be connected. Our lives would intertwine. In fact, he became like a son to us. This boy with love on his face and worship in his heart. Exuberant, passionate guitar-playing evangelist boy. In time he brought his friends to us, wanted us to help him take care of the lost souls he collected at school. This I do remember. He was that boy.

Until he got lost. The demons came calling. Their wicked long fingers grasping at him. He opened the door and let them in. They came to steal his life, and that they did. It took years, agonizing years. He became a different boy. Manipulative. Untrustworthy. Rebellious. Stubborn. Addicted. Afraid.

After he died, I heard he had become afraid to get high alone, knew he was taking his life in his hands. Knew he lived on the edge of a knife. Knew it. We all knew it. For years we tried. Begged. Pleaded. Cried. Prayed. Oh, how we prayed. Loved. Let go. Held on. Did it all over again.

It was never enough. That boy died of an overdose in his bedroom in his parents' house. His father found him there on the morning of April 15. Sometime after I heard the news I saw a vision in my mind. The light of God shone on their house that night. Jesus sat in the boy's bedroom. Patiently waiting to take his son home in his arms. I saw Jesus sitting there. I know He came for him. I know it. I hope I know it.

I felt such guilt. Like I had failed this boy. Then God gave me a dream. The boy forgave me. There was more to it. After the dream, I wrote this poem:

I hold you now in arms made strong
your body and limbs, unwieldy
your head thrown back
reveals dark bruises
Gingerly I kiss each one
my lips searching for the root
of all that pain
In my hands I hold out
your long arms
and with my fingertips I gently probe
those small blue holes
that some would say
tell the whole story
but we know are just a fraction of the truth
Long ago I let your hand slip through my fingers
now, only in my dreams
do I hold you like my babies
Because His arm was not too short to save
He holds you now
in arms stronger than mine will ever be


Let it be so.

Holy Thursday

I love liturgy. I love the church year. I love incense and crosses and lovely churches built from stone, quiet and cool in summer. I love prayers written by others, written for me and others to pray. I love to stand and kneel. To confess collectively. To respond collectively. The communion of the saints.

Some people feel like that's not real worship. That a pre-written prayer is no prayer at all, but I assure you it is. Liturgy arrived in my life just when I needed it, simultaneously broadening and deepening my prayers and my experience of God.

Every year at Easter I miss this most desperately. What's the celebration of Easter without the preparation? Without Holy Thursday and Good Friday? Without spending some real time remembering -- as a community -- that Jesus washed his disciples' feet, was betrayed by someone in his inner circle, and suffered beatings and indignities and a gruesome death? I feel that the joy of the resurrection is cheapened when all that preceded it is not collectively acknowledged.

When I was in college I found a church that was just the right place at just the right time. That spring I attended my first Holy Thursday service. Part of the service was something called the veneration of the cross. The priests carried in a large wooden cross and placed it on the floor. After communion we were invited to go up to the cross and sit beside it and pray or place our foreheads directly on the cross. I did the latter. I can't even tell you what happened that night. I can only say that it was an experience that profoundly affected me. I think I cried for hours afterwards.

There are times when the liturgical prayers or the Nicene creed just flood my mind and come alive. I love these words because they illuminate truths that I would not have thought of on my own, express thoughts and feelings I didn't know I had. Remind me of the real ways I'm falling short. Here is part of a prayer of confession for Holy Thursday.

Merciful God, we confess that so often our discipleship has been weak...

when we have failed to serve as Jesus served;
forgive us.

When we have failed to love one another as Jesus loves us;
forgive us.

When we have been happy to proclaim our devotion to Jesus with
our lips and then denied him by our actions;
forgive us.

Merciful God, empower us by your Spirit to be steady and true
to you in every time of trial; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen


Peace be with you.

The Fine Art of Distraction

Sometimes it's the small things that can lift your spirits or help you forget how cranky or blue you're feeling. Here are some things that almost always make me feel better:

1. Wind. The other evening I took the dog for a walk in the wind, and I felt so much better. This has always worked for me. The sound of the wind rushing in my ears drowns out the thoughts in my head and just helps me forget whatever needs to be forgotten. At least for a while.

2. The right movie. When I am stressed or miserable or depressed, sometimes a romantic comedy can do the trick. Notting Hill. You've Got Mail. Music & Lyrics. That kind of thing. Nothing that requires me to do much thinking. And nothing that would ever make me feel worried, stressed, or sad. Those movies are for other times.

3. "Reality" TV. This is always a homerun if I'm feeling badly about myself. For instance, lately my ongoing battle with feeling like I'm failing has been rearing its ugly head. Now, one could argue that I should meet this head on and deal with the issues that are causing me to feel that way. Or, I could just watch Wife Swap and instantly feel a whole lot better.

4. Walking the dog. Even if it's not windy. Another great way to empty my brain and think about other things. Like birds or flowers or trees, which always make me feel better.

5. Getting lost in a good book. This works when I can find a good book. And lately I just can't. I take out millions of books from the library. Read 50, 75, 100 pages, but then I just don't care about the world the author has created. It's just not worth the effort. I stop reading, and the book goes back to the library -- hopefully before I start racking up fines.

I'm feeling pretty fine at the moment (other than the aforementioned feelings of failure), so I'm not certain what got me thinking about this. I guess I was thinking about someone else who I think could use a bit of distraction herself. Distraction can work for the minor things that plague my mind and heart, but it's a handy tool during the worst of times too. The show 24 started soon after my mom died. I was instantly hooked. Still am, but that's another story.

Do you try to distract yourself when you're feeling sad or angry or worried? What works for you?

Proud Papa, Redux

Today my oldest son was inducted into the National Honor Society. It was not an April Fools' joke. :) But it did get me thinking along the lines of what it takes to feel proud of one's children. Again.

Quite frankly, I'm really disappointed with my sons' school this year. This is our eighth year there, and we will not be returning. All of this to say, it's nice that my son was inducted into the National Honor Society today -- I'm happy for him, but I don't feel particularly proud of him. Sure, his average is above a 90 and that's great...but he did that without working for it. I think it's wonderful that he's so smart, but that's a gift God gave to him.

On the other hand, I had the opportunity to swell with pride over Son2 this weekend. Here's what happened. He auditioned for a part in Oliver, which is being staged at our local community college theater. To audition he had to sing, which is really not his thing. He can actually sing well and he has loads of fun with Karaoke Revolution on the playstation...but singing all alone in front of a few adults -- not his thing. He just couldn't find his confidence. He almost couldn't sing it for me and his dad. A few hours before the audition, our children's pastor was going to help him, but Son2 couldn't get anything to come out when he tried to sing for him. So sad. He was just paralyzed with fear. I thought he'd give up. Not go to the audition.

But he did go. He went in and sang. He forgot some words, and that made him sad. I am sad that he is sad about that, but I am just so proud of him. Could not be more proud. He was truly terrified, but somehow he didn't let that stop him. He stepped past those fears and gave it a shot. How did he do that?

I guess all of this goes to support what (I think) I said previously -- that I'm more likely to feel proud of my children's character than their accomplishments. If Son2 does get into the musical, I won't feel any more proud of him than I already do. And if Son1 worked his butt off to get Bs and Cs, I'd probably feel more proud of him than I do today. (Don't get me wrong -- I'm not one of those impossible to please parents. I am pleased with him and his good grades. I'm just more impressed by overcoming something or by hard work than by simply doing what comes easy -- even if it's straight As that come easy.)

We should know by the end of the week about the musical. I fear he won't make it, but I certainly hope he does. This particular little dude could always use some things that go his way.

Ten Things about Today

Today I saw a bluebird perched on a speed limit sign. It made me smile.

Today when I was practically running through Wal-Mart, tossing things like bread, bagels, and Nutri-grain bars (yuck!) into my cart, I happened to notice a box of Asian Helper alongside the Hamburger Helper. I nearly laughed out loud. I bought neither.

Today I did laugh out loud while I sat in my car, opening the mail. (We have to go to the post office -- Mayberry style -- to get our mail). I laughed out loud at the absurdity of the letter we received from my husband's health insurance company. Starting next month his premium will increase by $150 a month to a whopping $600/month. TMI? Oh well, in case any of you lovely readers of this blog think massive healthcare reform isn't needed, I am here to tell you unequivocally that it is.

Today I heard a reporter on CNN say, "...most of them anyways." Anyways?

Today it is in the forties and windy and we discovered that we will have to buy another cord of wood to make it until the warm weather arrives.

Today I am wearing my most uncomfortable pair of jeans because all of my comfy jeans have ripped and shredded. I can't wait until I can put on my comfy sweatpants. I think I need to go shopping for some better jeans.

Today we received an email informing us that our oldest son is going to be inducted into the National Honor Society next week.

Today I am praying and hoping, praying and hoping, praying and hoping that Son2 will make it a whole week without a migraine. If he hasn't gotten one by the time he wakes up tomorrow morning, then it will be a week -- the longest stretch without a migraine in months. This will truly be a miracle.

Today I heard a new Joshua Radin song, "Sky," on the radio. I enjoyed it. I also heard a Tori Amos cover of "I don't like Mondays," and I didn't enjoy that (despite the fact that I do, generally, enjoy Tori Amos).

Today I worked on editing a children's picture book manuscript but didn't get it finished. Rrgg.

Days are made of such wonderful and such mundane moments. Tell me about some of your today moments.

Poem Crazy, again

One book I return to occasionally is Poem Crazy: Freeing Your Life with Words. If you are prone to poetry writing at all, I highly recommend it. In my opinion much poetry is just dreadful to read -- either too abstract or too much about feelings, rather than evoking some. And other poems are deliberately too dense, leaving you with nothing more than a WHAT? I hate poems like that; they lack respect for the reader's time and attention. But Poem Crazy is good medicine for what ails your poetry, and I'm thinking of reading it again.

I guess I'm thinking of reading it again because I've been thinking about poetry again. I haven't written much poetry in the last five years, but I got the spark when my beloved childhood friend sent me her 12-year-old daughter's poem in the mail. I keep forgetting to ask her permission to post the poem here, but if she allows me to, I'll post it sometime soon. It is nothing short of astounding, and I hope she lets me share it. It brought tears to my eyes when I read it -- because it's such a wonderful poem, but also because this lovely girl has the flame of poetry inside her. I love that I can be inspired by a 12-year-old's work, and I'm grateful too.

On Friday I had Son2 write a list of Spring words. I do this to him occasionally, and he hates it. Oh well. It's a great exercise (one recommended in a few variations in Poem Crazy), and it creates some fertile ground for poetry writing. This morning when I walked the dog, I thought about my own Spring words as I listened to all the different bird songs and observed the tentative signs of life. They started stringing themselves together into phrases and ideas, and I know a poem will be coming soon. If (or when) I'm happy with it, then maybe I'll post it.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with a Spring poem I wrote a few years ago:


The Oriole

Will our orioles return with the daffodils?
Arrest our attention with their treetop song?
Will they weave another basket to dangle

precipitously

from the end of the slimmest of branches?
Will they lose another nestling
whose wings cannot bear it to safety?

Do those treetop dwellers remember?
With what dreams do they greet the spring?

Some books

A few weeks ago I was listening to Fresh Air, one of my favorite programs on NPR, and I heard an interview with Bart Ehrman, author of the book Jesus, Interrupted: Revealing the Hidden Contradictions in the Bible. I won't talk about the contradictions. I don't feel qualified. But what intrigued me about the interview was the author's discussion of his faith.

He considered himself a "born-again Christian" for years, including his time in seminary at Moody Bible Institute. But then he went on to Princeton Theological Seminary, and the more he studied, the more convinced he became that the Bible is not inerrant. This dramatically changed the author's faith, and he lived with that changed faith for years. But eventually he became an agnostic. Why? He decided he could no longer believe that a good God could allow so much suffering in the world.

I felt sad when I heard this, though I must tell you...the author did not seem sad. But it just got me wondering, why do we humans so often see this world as the glass half empty? We see the suffering, and we decide there is no loving God. I can understand that. I can. But how is it that we listen to the sound of the ocean waves and the cheerful chorus of birds, smell the lilacs and lillies, see the stars sparkling in our night sky and marvel at the way they offer a mode of navigation (if you happen to be a 15th century explorer)...and don't wonder whether there might just be an all-loving higher power out there after all? We survive because the sun and the rain do their work in the earth and enable us to eat...and we don't see God's goodness. Why is it so easy to draw conclusions from the suffering, but not draw the opposite conclusion from the beauty and the masterful design of this place? Interestingly enough, the interviewer asked him whether he still lived a life committed to ethics, and he said yes. That he felt even more free to choose and act in a moral and ethical way. He actually said, "A sense of morality and ethics is hardwired into me." I found that to be an interesting and telling choice of words...

I was talking with a friend about this, and she mentioned another book (don't know the title) written by someone who underwent a dramatic conversion from addict to drug-free Christian, and years later renounced his faith because he decided God didn't answer his prayers. It got me thinking that these two men are each on their own journeys, and these particular books may not be their last words on faith. Some day, a new understanding may come to them. If so, maybe they'll write some new books.

I haven't read Jesus, Interrupted and don't really plan to. But after a long and exhausting search for any book that will capture my attention, I have found one: An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. I'm only in chapter 2, but the theme seems to be that the whole world is God's House, and we can encounter him anywhere. He is not confined to the church and his speech is not only heard through the Bible. I think I will be sharing my thoughts about this book as I read it, because I love it. I'll leave you with this quote from chapter 1:

"The House of God stretches from one corner of the universe to the other. Sea monsters and ostriches live in it, along with people who pray in languages I do not speak, whose names I will never know.

"I am not in charge of this House, and never will be. I have no say about who is in and who is out. I do not get to make the rules. Like Job, I was nowhere when God laid the foundations of the earth. I cannot bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose the cords of Orion. I do not even know when the mountain goats give birth, much less the ordinances of the heavens. I am a guest here, charged with serving other guests -- even those who present themselves as my enemies."

In Like a Lion

When I was little, I was captivated by the phrase "March comes in like a lion but goes out like a lamb." Why, I am not certain. I do know that as a child I was always looking for certainty...so even a phrase that confidently predicted the weather may have been a welcome guarantee. Or perhaps I just liked the way the cold weather was described as a lion, and the warm weather as a lamb. A simile I could grasp.

March definitely roared in like a lion yesterday – just when I’d made peace with this winter’s lack of snow and my own readiness for spring. I’m not a big fan of a winter without snow, though recently I’ve been struck by the beauty of winter’s snowless palette.

One thing I love about living in this strange place, so different from the suburbia where I grew up and the urban areas I chose to live as a young adult, is the connection it brings with the changing landscape.

In the mornings I walk my dog down a street that leads out of town. It’s a strange street, because it is lined with houses and a sidewalk on one side and an enormous farm with a beautiful stone farmhouse and barn on the other. The farmland has gentle slopes and sections of thickets. Any time of year, on any given day, it can take my breath away. Not in a Grand Canyon kind of way, but in the way a single flower can bring you to your knees if you see it at the right time, when you’re in a particular frame of mind.

Last week, when I was out walking, I was struck by all the subtle variations of brown and barely green that paint the winter landscape. The pale hues seem to make the stripped trees appear darker, almost black, and the sycamore trees look even whiter. The sycamores look so wise and old and surprising. Sometimes they remind me of Gandalf.

Soon the trees and plants will blush and bud. The lion will be tamed, and spring will be here. But first we’ll shovel snow.

School (sigh)

Yesterday my youngest was home from school. Sick. Again. While he lay on the couch blowing his nose, he said, "I'm glad I'm not at school. Mrs. Jones never lets us get more than one tissue per class."

WHAT?

As a parent, this is the kind of tidbit that can put you over the edge. I mean, seriously? When your nose is running like a faucet, you're only allowed to get up one time per class period for a tissue? (And I should mention that at the beginning of the school year each student has to provide several boxes of tissues -- along with many other supplies -- for the class to use throughout the year.)

I understand it's tough to be a teacher. Classroom control can be a big issue, but wouldn't it be better to risk the loss of "control" for the sake of germ control? I'm fairly certain that students wiping their noses on their hands and sleeves is not in the CDC guidelines.

Have I mentioned that Mrs. Jones reminds me of Angela from The Office?

And speaking of The Office...here's another little school tale for you. Son1 was recently chastised by his foreign language teacher for using the word retarded. I guess the class was nearly over and the students were allowed to talk quietly with each other -- and that's when the offending word was used. He was taken to task for it, and rather than simply saying, "Yes, Mrs. Smith, I apologize for using that word," a discussion ensued. And eventually he explained his position by quoting Michael from The Office: "I'd never call a retard, a retard." Ugh. I assure you that when he told me about that, I did not feel an ounce of pride. (Though I may have laughed out loud, just from the surprise of it. Yup. I think I did. Which was definitely a mistake. Definitely.) Not my proudest parenting moment by a longshot.

Proud Papa

Most mornings, if you were to get a sneak peek inside my house, you'd find me with the first half hour of the Today Show on. I catch glimpses of it as I make lunches and remind people to actually get up and eat breakfast in time to leave for school. Somehow, a strong cup of coffee along with their brand of "news" and their little dose of morning cheerfulness helps to orient me to the world on weekday mornings. Not sure how that happened.

Last week when I was watching, Meredith and Matt had a brief chat with the new Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. As they rolled a clip of her writhing on the beach in her impossibly small bikini, she was explaining how wonderful it was to hear her father tell her how incredibly proud he was of her to have made the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Umm. Yeah. Not exactly the reaction I would have if she were my daughter and I were her father.

So that got me wondering, what would make me proud as a parent? I love my boys and I receive a lot of joy from watching them do the things they love to do...but I don't know that I necessarily feel proud of them when they get an A, make a goal, get a hit, or do a great job on stage. I feel happy for them, of course. But I don't think I feel proud.

Of course, it's a strange phrase anyway. What is it to be proud of someone else? I had to look up the word proud in the dictionary to get an idea of what it really means in this context. One definition for proud is "much pleased" and that must be how it's being used here.

I know for sure I wouldn't be "much pleased" to have a daughter displaying her body for cash. No matter how substantial the paycheck or how great the fame.

What makes me feel proud of the boys -- what makes me feel much pleased -- is when they choose to act compassionately or express love for others, particularly those less fortunate than themselves. A few years ago Son3 was honored in chapel with a medal because his classmates chose him as the one who was most Christ-like in their class. That afternoon, he got in the car and told me he'd received a medal. His brothers clamored to see it, but he told us he didn't have it. He'd given it away to a kid in his class -- a boy who is kind of a sad case who really wanted the medal for himself. Son3 gave it to the boy, and his brothers berated him for it. I wasn't proud of his brothers for lambasting him, but I was definitely proud of him. He's a kindhearted little fellow, and that pleases me.

And my other guys have done things for others that have astounded and pleased me. I'd like to tell you, but for whatever reason it just doesn't seem right to share the details. But their hearts are generous and good. This makes me proud. Not that I feel I can take any credit for it. I actually don't. But I do feel much pleased. I feel grateful that I get to be their mom.

Anyway, I'm just wondering what would make you feel proud of your kids or your nieces or nephews or whomever. Do you feel proud of their accomplishments? Their grades or their goals in soccer game? Is it strange that I don't?

And if your daughter grew up to become a swimsuit model for Sports Illustrated, would you feel proud of that? Don't worry...if you say yes, I won't blast you for it. Or not too badly anyway...

Thoughts on Coraline & Other Thoughts, too

Well, one of the great things about homeschooling is that you can get a bunch of work done in the morning and then go see Coraline in the afternoon. Son2 loves movies, and he's a particular fan of stories that reflect the reality that life isn't perfect. I respect that. Artistic and interesting little dude that he is, he's been anxiously awaiting Coraline. I told him to watch it with a critical eye -- that he's going to have to write a movie review.

He'll write his on Monday, but here's my simplistic review: I liked it. This is definitely not a movie for little ones. It's pretty complex and dark. Exploring a child's loneliness and dissatisfaction in an animated film is interesting to me. It seems to me that because it's animated, these ideas can almost be expressed with more honesty yet don't feel quite as heavy. I guess. What do I know? I'm no film critic. Anyway, we enjoyed it. It was thought provoking and interesting to watch. Guess you can't ask for much more.

****

Do you ever wish your eyes were a camera? It would be nice for those moments of striking beauty you happen upon as you're out and about, but I usually find myself making this wish when I see something funny. Yesterday I was in the parking lot at Dunkin' Donuts (I'd just bought a few muffins so Sons 2 and 3 could survive their brother's basketball game) and I looked up just as this man was driving by. He was looking at me, so we made eye contact just as he was taking a huge bite of something (a donut, I presume). A kind of embarrassing moment for him, I'd say.

Anyway, I wish I could have snapped a photo at just that moment. It would have cracked up my husband, which is pretty much my goal in life -- to make him laugh. I know it's his goal to make me laugh, which I appreciate. And he's definitely more skilled in the humor department than I am, so I'm getting the good end of the deal. Here's a for instance. I was having a bit of a pregnancy scare toward the end of this week. And at this stage in life, it is a scare. I have no desire to go backwards. The husband was being a great sport about it, saying all the right things and making me feel better...but I was so stressed about it that I got a killer tension headache in the middle of the night. It was intense and crushing, so when I got up yesterday, I took three advil and went straight to the store and bought a pregnancy test. Negative. Phew! While I was out running around with the kids yesterday, he called me and said, "Do you want to know what I was going to say if the test had been positive?" Of course I did. And he said, "I was going to ask, 'Is it mine?'" And that, in short, is why I love him. Because only he could make me laugh under those circumstances.

"I Need Socks"

I believe socks are the bane of every mother's existence. I know they are the bane of mine. Yesterday afternoon when I urged my 11-year-old to hurry up and get his shoes on so he and his brothers could take the dog to the park, he said, "I need socks." That was probably the fourth time that day that he'd made that announcement.

I am always doing laundry, and we are always running out of socks. How is that even possible? And if we haven't actually run out, then no one has matched them up -- and no one besides me seems capable of matching the many varieties and brands of white ankle socks that we now own. This leaves him always announcing, "I need socks," which is code for "I can't find any socks and I'm too lazy to keep looking."

Truth be told, a certain 11-year-old seems to be the most incapable of ever finding a pair of socks. He is easily frustrated and because that frustration can snowball into excessive emotion over a very small issue and that excessive emotion can then snowball into a migraine...well, you can probably see how I've participated in the development of his small incapabilities. Also, because he is, in general, highly responsible and self-motivated, these incapabilities have sort of slipped in and taken root without me realizing how insidious they are.

So, while it may be time to head to Wal-Mart for a few more bags of socks, it may also be time for me to become a little less involved in helping people find a matching pair. We have friends who dump all the socks into a treasure chest, and it's up to the kids to match them all. Do you think there's a treasure chest aisle at Wal-Mart?

Just kidding. A laundry basket will do just fine.

The Winter Sky

Today was a disgusting weather day. When I trekked outside to get wood at -- yes -- 5:30 this morning, I was greeted by a treacherous layer of ice on top of what would have been some lovely snow. At that moment I couldn't quite decide whether it would be best to let the fire in the stove die out or risk slipping and hitting my head, to be found by my family hours later. I decided it was cold and it would be better not to let the fire die out. That was a good choice, because the day remained cold and wet and gray and altogether unpleasant. Until this evening, that is. The wind started to blow and the western horizon cleared. It was nearly dark, and the sky above held dark gray clouds, but a good stretch of horizon was the deep blue of twilight, tinted with orange at its edges. It was breathtaking.

Somehow, for me, tonight's winter sky seemed to carry a poignant message. So many people I know are suffering right now. Job losses. Financial difficulties. Drug and alcohol problems. Marital problems. Major disappointments. All of the above. I, quite frankly, have been having my own particular brand of difficulties lately, which have left me tired and distracted (and not blogging much). Yet tonight's sky seemed so hopeful. The whole day was dreadful, and night was coming on. If the sky had waited a few more minutes to clear, the twilight and the glow of the setting sun would have been lost. But it was not. It seemed to me to be a perfect reflection of a deeper reality.

When I am praying for someone (or for myself) over the long haul -- some ongoing source of pain and trouble -- I usually reach a point where I run out of prayers. Then I'm just sort of hanging on for that person, and I often start to pray in pictures -- because I have no more words.

All hope seems lost in many of these situations that are on my mind, but I know it's not. When I run out of prayers, I will pray tonight's clearing winter sky, the unexpected twilight and the sunset's warm glow. I will remember that sometimes salvation comes long after it even seems possible. Hope has already been lost. But the change comes anyway -- sudden and unexpected, like tonight's breathtaking horizon.

Snow!

Every birthday throughout my childhood, my birthday wish was for a snow day the following day. If I remember correctly, it actually happened one time. Magic.

Well, today is my birthday and I am delighted to report that it snowed today -- a very unexpected two or three inches. Who knew? In this age of the Weather Channel and an overall over-reporting of weather-related news, it is wonderful to be surprised by snow. Usually it works the other way -- excessive hype about something that turns out to be a non-event. I hate that -- the way everyone flocks to the grocery store for milk, eggs, and toilet paper (yes, I spy on people's grocery carts) at the threat of a dusting of snow.

But today the snow was a pure surprise. The boys and I went to Longwood Gardens, and it was a delightful way to spend the afternoon. The flowers were inspirational and fragrant, and outside the windows of the conservatory we could see the trees covered in snow. When it was time to go, they ran and slid down the pathways, and I admired the frosting on the trees. Perfect.

My only complaint of the day: The inability of the state of Pennsylvania to actually clear roadways. What exactly is their problem? We saw three accidents and four cars that had run off the road. The roads were treacherous. It took us more than twice as long to get home as it should have. But when we got into Maryland, it was smooth sailing...they had even cleared the shoulder. Okay, complaint over.

Snow, in some mysterious way, elevates everything. Why is that?

High-Low

I think I better make my way to Wal-Mart and get that bird feeder before I go down the tubes. Where does that expression come from anyway? Down the tubes. What sense does that make?

Anyway, the new year got its start in...well...not the most desirable manner. Two boys came down with the stomach flu on new year's night, and then my husband got it the next night. Son2 has been dealing with a milder version this week -- along with a three-day migraine. Happy new year indeed. Ugh.

All of this has left me feeling a bit drained and a tad...depressed, or something. Thus the need to make the bird feeder a priority. All of this is nothing that a few juncos and chickadees couldn't cure.

January. It's just not my favorite month. April through October, I'm good. November through March, not so much. But, because it's important to look on the bright side, I'm trying to come up with some good things about January. Here's my list thus far (though, I confess, it's short, and a bit heavy on the TV side of things):

1. The start of 24!
2. The start of Lost
3. My birthday
4. The possibility of a snowstorm

Unfortunately, I'm hard pressed to come up with any other good things about January. If you know of any, please fill me in.

The morning of new year's day, we had a big breakfast and we each had to list our high and low of the past year. Here are mine:

Low: The gzillion medical appointments my children had this past fall.
High: The election of Barack Obama. Seriously. I was having trouble identifying the highest high. There were a lot of great days, but I could not come up with The Big Moment. And then my husband looked at me and said, "Election night. Your high was election night." And he was right.

And that leads me to add one more item to my list of good things about January: the inauguration. (BTW, one of the great things about making a list of good things is that once you start doing it, you keep thinking of more. I used to have a notebook full of good things.)

High-Low is one of our favorite things to talk about. I'd love to hear your highs and lows for 2008 if you feel like sharing them.