Faith, Fiction, Motherhood & More

The Oldest Baby Boy

2010-09-03T21:08:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was Son1's birthday. He is sixteen. SIXTEEN. There is so much I could say about this, but I don't think I can put much of it into words.

So instead I will share a poem about him. I actually remember writing it on the eve of his first birthday:

You
Boy
Blue
Beautiful
Were birthed
In ice
Heat
In pain
Pain
You emerged
With my scream
And echoed it
Before your toes touched air

He really did cry before he was all the way out. And really, that is just so him. In fact, I look back on so much about him as a little person, and I can see how his personality was there even then.

A Metaphor of Sorts, Maybe Mixed

2010-08-24T07:30:00.008-04:00

Yesterday was a hard day. Exhausting. Son1's biology class started yesterday, a full week before his other classes. A parent was required to attend the first hour of the three-hour class, and that meant Herman had to go too.That was the beginning of Herman's hard day, in which he was dragged from pillar to post, as my mother would have said. To biology class. To Costco. To the doctor for shots. And then in the evening back up to school with all his brothers for a lengthy orientation. And finally...home for bed.

Late last night after the Herms was asleep, I sat out on the front steps with the husband and the dog...and I needed a blanket. It was like a New England summer night, and this summer has needed a lot more of those. I have experienced many hot summers, all memorable for their own hideous brand of oppressiveness...but this one I will never forget. It is, after all, Son4's first summer, but also the heat felt like a living metaphor.

There has just been so much misery this summer. Sons 2&3 have been out of sorts that this particular summer hasn't been very fun. No beach. Few trips to the pool. That sort of thing. The baby has made many things impossible, but at the same time it's not as if we've been sitting home doing nothing. I wish. Adding to the mix is the fact that lots of long-brewing issues have sort of reached their apex this summer. And then the husband has had deadline after deadline, which is a relief in one way after months with not enough work, but draining for him and makes all of life feel like a pressure cooker. One household item after another has broken. We lived for two weeks without the use of our kitchen sink and dishwasher due to a major plumbing issue, only to find out soon after that we also need a new dishwasher. And let me not forget the invasion of mealy worms (and moths), which arrived months ago in a bag of jasmine rice and flourished in my pantry until I figured out what was going on.

Through it all, the heat bore down on me like some malevolent force; at times it reminded me of being in labor, that sort of inescapable anguish. All you can do is endure.

It is unfortunate how much this summer's oppressive heat felt like a metaphor for life the past few years, but there you have it. It did.

But last night's cool air felt like a baptism. The breeze wrapped around me and reminded me again that, sometimes anyway, things do change.

A Do-Over

2010-08-19T06:05:00.005-04:00

About a month ago now, I asked God for a do-over. I'd gotten into a bad place, and trust me, it had taken a long time to get there. But I felt like somehow my head and heart had gotten filled up with a lot of BS about God and the Christian life. Too much teaching, too many books, and not enough of the Bible itself, I think. And I like to read the Bible, so it wasn't as if I hadn't been reading it.

But somehow my head had gotten full of other people's ideas and thoughts about God...and ultimately that had led me to some dark places. Because God didn't seem to me to be who other people made him out to be...and that led me to a lot of pain and confusion. I've been working my way through all of that for a long time, trying to sift truth from untruth...but perhaps because life feels so incredibly overwhelming right now and I can scarcely finish my own thoughts, I felt I needed a fresh start. I wanted to just throw out all the old stuff and start again. Mostly I didn't want to grapple any longer with my lingering feelings of anger toward God for this, that, and the other thing. I suspected it was all a load of crap anyhow. And so I asked God if we could start again, and if he could show me who he is and what it means to follow him and live as he would have me live. I decided the epistles would be a good place to start, and soon I'll probably thrown in Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John.

The whole experiment is going pretty well so far, which isn't surprising since I think God really does want us to know who he is and how we can live in response to that knowledge. Here's a verse that jumped out at me yesterday:

"For it has been GRANTED TO YOU on behalf of Christ not only to believe on him but also TO SUFFER FOR HIM." (Philippians 1:29). This feels like medicine for my American-culturized soul.

And this verse caught my eye this morning from Philippians 2: "Each of you should look not only to your own interests but also to the interest of others." It intrigues me that the verse says to look "NOT ONLY to your own interests." Because I have had trouble looking to my own interests.

I think when you're in the throes of motherhood, it's easy to look to the interests of others but not so easy to look to your own. For a long time I forgot that I had my own interests. That I mattered at all in this equation. I completely subjugated myself to my kids and what they wanted. Not that they're brats. They're not. But I got trapped in thinking that what they wanted was far more important than what I wanted, and now I don't think that's the case anymore. I can look to my own interests, and I can look to theirs, though the whole thing can be a pretty confusing process. Not particularly cut and dried. In other words, a lot like life.

Yes, for a Change

2010-08-11T21:31:00.000-04:00

On Sunday just as we got in the car to leave for church, Son3 said, "Oh, my glasses just broke." Great. He was simply pushing them up, and the arm broke off. Oh well. It was time for new glasses anyway. I asked him about his back-up pair (every 11-year-old boy needs one), and he said, "They're bent and all messed up." Perfect. We found the back-up pair later that day and they were just as he described...and one of the lenses had popped out.

And so he asked for the millionth time whether he could get contacts. He's probably been asking for contacts for two years and we've resisted. He was too young. Contacts can be expensive, and then they become yet another ongoing expense. Just what everyone needs. Then there's the responsibility factor. There's also the issue of his eyes. They have always been sensitive and the source of many freak-outs. “There's a bug in my eye!” “There's dirt in my eye!” Blood curdling screams about the eyes! I figured there was no way he could do it. So we've always said no. But on Sunday, I finally said yes.

We get his vision tested and his glasses at Wal-Mart, so I made the appointment and took him yesterday for the exam. I left the baby with a sitter because I figured the whole process of him learning to put them in and take them out would demand all of my attention. First, we watched a video, and it was then that I began to panic. You have to keep everything so clean! Could he do it? Would he remember all the steps and everything that has to be done? Because I won’t. Not right now. For four days last week I couldn’t even remember that his older brother had lost his toothbrush and needed a new one. Would he be flipping out about his contacts every morning, multiplying the stress of our already stressful lives? I pictured him freaking out and needing help while the baby cried. Ugh. I tried to maintain my equilibrium and tell myself I could do this for him.

After the video, someone came in to teach him how to put them in. He tried and tried. His eyes started to hurt. They got red and irritated and he still couldn't do it. He got frustrated, and he didn't like the idea of how he was going to have to take them out if he ever got them in. He started to say he couldn't do it. The vision tech said the appropriate encouraging things, but I said, "You don't have to do it. It's okay to change your mind. Maybe you're just not ready." He continued to plug away, and then finally said, “I can’t do it.” Again the vision tech tried to encourage him, but I said, “That’s okay, you don’t have to do it. Let’s just get some new glasses.” And he said okay.

Later he said, “My eyes are just really sensitive. I can’t do that.” I said, “I know. That’s why we always said no.” He then asked why I hadn’t told him that and continued to say no, and I explained that he wouldn’t have believed me. Miraculously, he admitted, “You’re right. I wouldn’t have,” and smiled sheepishly.

As a parent you have to say a lot of no’s. At least I do. But recently I’ve had a few experiences like this…where I’ve felt that it’s time to say yes, let them have their way, and in the end they come around to the decision that I was fairly sure was the right one to begin with. And when that happens, it feels a bit like a miracle.

Too tired for titles

2010-08-03T23:03:00.006-04:00

I can't get it together to blog. I think of new posts all the time, but the only time I have to sit down with my computer involves doing actual work. If I'm not getting paid, then I'm pretty much not sitting with my laptop. Okay, sometimes I am. A quick email check, a scan of the day's headlines. Nevertheless, my news addiction is suffering. I'm not sure how CNN.com and the New York Times online continue to survive without their most devoted reader. Guess I'm having some trouble juggling a new baby with the taxi service I run for the three other boys and the editing I do for clients and the planning I have to do for the next school year. Who does this? On second thought, don't answer that. The last thing I need to hear is that there's some mother out there who can seamlessly juggle homeschooling and caring for an infant and working and managing a house.

***

Today I took Son3 to buy new sneakers. Nobody needs new sneakers more frequently than this kid, which is ironic considering that he's the one I always have to yell at to remind him not to run around the yard in socks. Herman came with us on our shopping trip, and at one point I told Son3 to put the paci in Herman's mouth. At that point Son3 sidled up to me and said very quietly, "When we're in public, can you call him by his real name?" I must have looked confused, because he followed that up with, "I just don't want anyone to think his name is Herman."

***

This week I'm thinking about where I was this time last year -- in North Carolina with the boys, visiting my dear friend and her girls. More importantly I am remembering that I was living in the last few days of ignorance. Two days after we returned from North Carolina I made the shocking discovery for the reason behind the dizziness and excessive thirst I was experiencing: pregnancy! Yup. It's been a whole year since that shocking news turned my world upside down. I just wish I could travel back in time and reassure myself. I'd let me know that Herman is simply delicious, that I often feel drunk just looking at him, that he's healthy, sleeps well, and cries very little. All of that might have gone a very long way toward averting the major freak out I experienced. Or maybe not.

What's in a Name?

2010-07-01T08:32:00.003-04:00

We have never been able to call our babies by their given names. I'm not sure why. It seems they take a while to grow into them or something. We never set out to give them nicknames, but that's what always happens. Eventually the baby nickname fades away though, and our kids become the name they were given. So strange how that happens...how they become their names.

But the baby is not the embodiment of his name yet, and so we find ourselves calling him...Herman. Here's how it happened. Son4 is the squirmiest baby we have ever met. He doesn't cry much, and I think squirming is his brand of fussy. Which is not bad as fussy goes. In fact, if you could order up a brand of baby when it comes time to have one, I highly recommend the Herman brand because he's sweet and delicious and squirming is the quietest kind of baby fussing that there is.

Anyway, Herman squirmed so much that we began to call him Squirmy Hermy. This stuck for a while, and we still refer to him that way...but eventually it just became Herman. Now we say it all the time. When Herman is sleeping, my husband will say, "Where's Herman?" When Herman is feeling sad and fussy, we say, "Oh, Herman..." with voices full of sympathy. I'm pretty sure my husband and I say it every chance we get. I think it somehow makes us love him even more.

In the car...

2010-06-15T22:30:00.003-04:00

Tonight Sons 1 & 4 ventured to the grocery store with me. Son4 slept little today, but we had some time to kill before I would let him call it a day by giving him a bottle and putting him down for the night. (Well, maybe not for the NIGHT, but for the next five or six hours.) It seemed like an opportune moment to get some much-needed grocery shopping done -- but I had no intention of doing it alone with the little bugger. I could have done that, but it seemed better to bring someone with me to help with the baby or with the shopping or both. It's not easy to lift a huge watermelon while carrying the baby around in the baby bjorn. I know. I've tried.

So Son1 pushed the stroller with his baby brother while I pushed the cart and tried to fill it with as much food as possible. It didn't used to bother me if I forgot something at the store, or if I had to go there a few times a week. But life's a bit more complicated now. These days I want to fill my cart to overflowing and not go back for a week. And speaking of filling the cart, did you know that a family of five should be able to feed their family (and provide toiletries) for $200/week? I know this from a friend who's being going through a lengthy and painful mortgage modification process and who's had their finances relentlessly scrutinized. Two hundred dollars is a fair amount...but have I mentioned that my kids never stop eating?

Anyway, when we were putting the groceries in the car I noticed the astounding collection of items in there. I confess that sometimes when I'm in a parking lot I peek into people's cars to see whether they're on top of things or their life is as chaotic as mine. So, to make you feel better in case you have a messy car, I thought I'd let you in on what you might see if you were to get in my van right now:

An empty seltzer water can in my cupholder
Germ-X (I'm a big fan)
A pair of sneakers with socks inside them
A baseball bag full of gear
A baseball glove (not in the bag)
Flip flops
Empty resusable water bottles
Empty kill-the-planet water bottles
Pencils
Receipts
A script
A copy of The Hobbit
A Land's End Catalogue
A copy of The Atlantic
A baby blanket
A sweatshirt
Resusable grocery bags (which I always forget to bring into the store with me)
Sunblock (more than one kind actually)
Wrappers of many varieties
And the remnants of a major spill of peanut butter pretzels

Bet you can't top all that! But if you can, please let me know so I can feel better about myself. And now that I think of it, I believe it's time to cure a bit of Son3's early onset of summer boredom by having him clean my car.

Today & Tomorrow

2010-05-31T21:38:00.002-04:00

Today I was outside -- not for long, it was sweltering! -- holding Son4 and standing in the shade of the Sycamore tree. He was not having a great day because he just couldn't settle in for a real nap. With this particular baby, that is not an all-out disaster. His version of fussy is simply wanting to be held and have someone hold his paci in his mouth. There's really no screaming and crying involved. So I was standing in the shade holding him and holding his little green paci in his mouth and considering what the heck was I doing with this day anyway? and it just struck me for a moment that my time is so not my own anymore. Again.

A year ago today I could have been doing who knows what at any moment...but right now, at any given moment I am probably holding a baby. And I agree that that is lovely in so many ways. But it's also very different from what I've been doing lately, and it means my life is a lot less flexible. I am okay with this. I really am. Today I am okay with this.

I've been thinking of that verse that says not to worry. Why shouldn't we worry? The funny thing is that the verse doesn't say don't worry because it's a sin, or because God hates it, or anything like that. My little inner-religious-freak child says those are the reasons. But no, the verse just basically says that worry is pointless. God's got it all covered and tomorrow has enough trouble of its own, so what's the point of worry?

It seems that the thing about this baby is that I have to live in the moment. I have to take care of him. Feed him. Change him. Comfort him. All of that happens NOW. There is no putting it off. And so I have to live in today. In this very moment, and I can't really plan anything. And I may think there is a lot I have to do, but mostly I just have to take care of him. And I have to do it NOW.

So this is how today went: Today he woke me at four in the morning to be fed. Today he wouldn't go back to sleep, so the husband held baby boy on his chest, holding the paci in his mouth, trying to get him to sleep, which he sort of did. The baby boy squirmed for a long time, and then he slept. Today he woke up at seven for another bottle. Today we took a walk and he slept on the walk but woke up when we came home. After that he wouldn't sleep and had to be held all day. That's today.

Tomorrow may be different. Or it may be like today. Six months from now will be different. And a year from now most definitely will be. I don't know how I'll do it or when I'll work. I just don't know. But that's not today. Today I fed my kids. Today I took care of two boys who got migraines. Today I didn't try to work. Today I read a book while I fed the baby. Today I prayed while I fed the baby and prayed while I walked with him in the stroller. Today we watched a movie while I held the baby who wouldn't sleep.

I have no idea about tomorrow or all the tomorrows after that, but I do know that tomorrow has enough worry of it's own. And I'll leave that for tomorrow.

Miracle

2010-05-29T08:32:00.003-04:00

Six weeks ago yesterday, Son4 arrived. And he is just wonderful. I am smitten with him -- fully and completely devoted to him. The funny thing is, I am not sure I have ever felt this way about a newborn before. To be honest, it always takes me some time to connect with a new baby. Emotionally, that is. But this is different. I feel so much freer. So much less concerned about the practical, caretaking things. So much less worried.

I don't remember whether I mentioned it here, but back in the fall someone told me that the baby could feel how much I didn't want another baby. The person implied that I was damaging the baby for life by feeling my own feelings. Anyway, I told her that the baby would get plenty of love when he or she arrived. And I was right.

An hour or so after Son4 was born, I called my dad to tell him the baby was here. He was overcome. He lives about ninety minutes away from us, and he said he'd leave in ten minutes and drive down to meet the baby. We asked him to pick up the boys and bring them to the hospital, which he was happy to do.

I wish I could show you my boys' faces when they got to the hospital to see their brother for the first time. They were captivated. Elated. After the boys had a chance to meet the baby, my dad came into the room and held him. We have pictures of the first time my dad and the boys held him. And they are wonderful pictures...but in my mind is a better picture: all of their eyes lit up with love and wonder.

There are times when I feel drunk with love looking at this little person. The way he arches his back and stretches when I pick him up. His hands splayed out in front of his face. His big toe, which he holds out from his other toes when he's contentedly drinking a bottle. (The bottles are another story for another post.) His long blond eyelashes. And his lips. I can't even talk about his lips. They are that delicious. They make me swoon.

He's a quiet guy. Doesn't really cry. The boy's name means bringer of peace, and he does feel like a little oasis of peace. It seems he has a little well of the stuff inside of him.

This whole baby thing still doesn't make sense. Why us? Why now? Why do we get this fabulous boy when so many people can't even have one baby? When others suffer with infertility, miscarriages, and stillbirths? Why have we received a gift -- a healthy baby boy -- when we weren't even looking for one? I don't have any answers. I am not in charge.

I do know that I'm not worried about all the things I was worried about before he got here. Once I made my peace with being pregnant, the only thing I could imagine about having another child was having a newborn. I couldn't picture any other phase of life without feeling panicked. And so I stopped imagining those other phases and just thought about a baby. But now that this baby is here, I don't feel panicked about him being a toddler. Or about any of those future phases -- because he's Son4, and I love him to death, and I want to see who he is and love him the whole way through.

For some reason the way this has all played out has had me thinking of a line from an Irish blessing. Here's the first stanza:

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

I knew that my crazy pregnancy feelings weren't the end of the story. But I never expected this. I never expected that this new little fellow could be so wonderful. Really. That probably sounds terrible, and maybe it is terrible...but I just wasn't ready to be a mom again. But now that I am...well, I feel like the road has risen to meet me.

Perfectionism & Self-Reliance

2010-04-15T06:44:00.004-04:00

For years now, I feel like God has been working hard at undoing all my perfectionistic tendencies, my religiosity, and my self-reliance. It's a long process apparently, and for quite some time I didn't even know it was going on. Well, I knew things were going on; I just didn't know what God was up to. But these past nine months or so has been like the PhD program for the end to my self-reliance, and it's been...painful. It's not easy to see parts of ourselves die, especially those parts that seem actually useful.

Perfectionism is not necessarily all that useful. It often prevents progress, and I don't think I've found it too hard to let go of. But self-reliance...well that seems like a good thing, right? Be responsible. Do your part. God helps those who help themselves. We believe that stuff. And I'm not saying it's bad. We have to be responsible. We have to do our part. But that whole "God helps those who help themselves"...I think that may be the part that God is looking to kill off in my life, and to do so He's had to practically incapacitate me.

I've not been doing too well the past few days. I've been frustrated by people and things and plagued by the physical and emotional discomforts of the end of pregnancy. But topping it all off is that little voice in the back of my head sending nasty messages. Those messages generally revolve around the idea that our life is so imperfect that we have no place having another baby. Little pieces of life keep blowing up in my face issuing the same reminder. And so I see that some part of me is still pretty uncomfortable with imperfection. And my self-reliant self is angry and frustrated that this little buddy won't leave the womb and enter the world, which would put me on the path to moving on to figuring out how to get back to work in some capacity to help our family financially.

Instead I find myself living in nothing less than complete uncertainty and lack of clarity. And I'm pretty sure that this is exactly where God has wanted me for the past several months. All of the frustration I've been feeling for the past few days tells me that perhaps not much progress has been made in dealing the death blow to my self-reliance. Because now that the end of this pregnancy is near, I feel more energy than I've felt in the past nine months. And I don't think it's just that burst of energy that people get at the end of pregnancy. I think it's me, saying, "I can do this. I don't know how, but I can. I can fix things." And the truth is, I can't.

So I'm swinging wildly between these thoughts and emotions, and you can all count yourselves lucky that you don't live with me. As usual I was up this morning before everyone else, and it was only a matter of minutes before I was crying, flooded with the reality of certain things. And then I read a chapter from Anne Lamott's Plan B: Thoughts on Faith, which I've been reading sporadically over the past few months. And she said this:

"I have a lot of faith. But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything. I remembered something Father Tom had told me--that the opposite of faith is not doubt but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns."

And that made me feel a bit better. Because I'm the kind of person who likes certainty, and I believe that Anne Lamott (or Father Tom, I guess) is right. Certainty isn't faith. After that, I read Psalm 44. I read a Psalm every day, and then I just cycle back through them when I reach the end of the book. Today's Psalm said:

"It was not by their sword that they won the land, nor did their arm bring them victory; it was your right hand, your arm, and the light of your face, for you loved them."

So again today I am trying to let go of my self-reliance. I will notice the mess and try not to feel overwhelmed by it. I will try to stop telling myself that it's my job to fix everything. That I can do it right. I will wait for God and the light of his face.

Waiting

2010-04-10T08:10:00.003-04:00

There's nothing like waiting for a birth to give your patience a little tune up. Two weeks ago I went to the hospital on a Friday evening and a few hours later, we were sent home. False labor. It's never happened to me before. I was okay with everything not happening right then, but it's hard on the boys, who just want their brother to get here already. They ask me several times throughout any given day, "Any contractions?" They are driving me nuts.

For the record, I do feel sorry for them. I know it's hard to wait. Sons 1 and 2 were late, so I know what it is to wait. (Torture.) I keep telling them that this is their brother's way of making sure we know it's all about him and not about us, but that doesn't diminish their impatience. At yesterday's OB appointment, we set an induction date. Unfortunately, my husband and I have to be the kind of people who think that things should happen naturally. (Why?!?!?) So, we set the induction date for April 21 -- exactly a week beyond my due date.

It's funny how people, including my sons, think there should be some clue about when labor will begin...but there just isn't. Yesterday my doctor said he really didn't think there was any way I would make it to the 21st, but what does he know? With my first baby, I was dilated six or seven weeks before my due date. The doctors told me he would absolutely come early. Nope. Six days late.

People ask me if I'm walking or doing anything else to bring on labor...and I am not. Because I've tried that in the past and it did exactly nothing. With my first, I logged miles around my Chicago neighborhood with a dear friend who came to stay with us and be there for the delivery. Those miles didn't seem to do much of anything, but it is fun to walk and talk.

Other people say to talk to the baby. To welcome him to the world. We've been talking to this little dude for weeks. He seems relatively unaffected by our pleas to come on out so we can hold and kiss him. Maybe he doesn't like it when we sing that Talking Heads song to him with these lyrics, "Baby, baby please let me hold you..." Maybe he's not impressed with our singing skills.

Maybe he's just super comfy. Whatever the reason, we just keep waiting.

In the meantime, I try to distract myself with the little work I currently have. And with doing the things that get undone. And with books. And with the beginning of baseball and soccer season. Today is opening day for Son3's little league. About an hour from now, the little league parade will pass in front of our house, and later today he has his opening game. I really didn't want to miss today's festivities, so I was pretty sure the kid would actually come last night as my kids generally seem to have a penchant for messing up my plans. But I'm still here, so it's game on, and maybe I can go into labor as soon as today's game is over. Or not.

Books & Thoughts

2010-03-25T07:17:00.004-04:00

I've read a few good books recently and I'm reading a few others now, and I thought I should pass them along here since I'm frequently begging you all for book recommendations. I recently finished a book titled The Girl Who Fell from the Sky, which was an interesting story about a girl of mixed race growing up in the early 1980s. Lots of insight into the struggle of not fitting in. Can't remember the author's name. I also recently finished The Sacred Echo by Margaret Feinberg, which is one of the most insightful books on prayer and hearing God's voice that I've read. One of her main ideas is that God repeats himself to get our attention, and that is "the sacred echo." But one of my favorite things that she says in her book is that prayer is one part talking, one part listening, and one part waiting. I've never thought of prayer quite that way...that the waiting is a part of prayer...and I found it really encouraging.

I'm currently reading a book called The Lie, which is a story about what happens after one of two brothers is shot and killed on the family's front porch. Cheerful, right? Nevertheless, it's well-written and I'm enjoying it.

But the book I'm most excited is The Jesuit Guide to Almost Everything: A Spirituality for Real Life by James Martin, SJ. After reading the first chapter I discovered that I may actually be a Jesuit. The four "ways" of Jesuit spirituality are:
1. Finding God in all things -- meaning that nothing is outside the reality of our spiritual lives.
2. Becoming a contemplative in action -- meaning that in the midst of our activity we can be contemplative and allow that to inform our actions.
3. Looking at the world in an incarnational way -- meaning that God can be found in the everyday events of our lives.
4. Seeking freedom and detachment -- meaning not having "disordered affections" or being tied down by unimportant things.

Hard to argue with, huh? I've only just started reading this book, but I'm looking forward to the rest of it. Strangely enough, the author was on the Colbert Report last night. Hilarious.

***
On a different note entirely, I was watching the news this morning and I heard that a lot of congressmen and women who voted for the health care bill are receiving threats. One congressman, who is a pro-life democrat, is getting a lot of those threats as a result of his vote. There is so much I could say about this...I mean, isn't helping people buy health insurance actually "pro-life"? I'm not sure when people got such a narrow definition of what "pro-life" actually is. But I just needed to point out the irony of this enraged pro-lifer who called his congressman and said, "You baby-killer motherf***er. I hope you die." That's the spirit, right?

***
Just for the fun of it, I welcome your predictions on when this baby will be born. It's so strange to know that our lives will change so dramatically but not know exactly when that will happen. The boys are asking when. Even my husband is asking if the doctors are making predictions, though he knows darn well those predictions are useless. Yesterday someone at Little League rubbed my stomach and suggested the birth would happen on April 10, opening day. At this point, I am actually hoping for just a few days from now -- Palm Sunday, which I think would be super cool.

Almost Cliche

2010-03-21T08:10:00.003-04:00

I'm not sure that I've ever been so full of anticipation for spring as I have this year. I am probably not the only one.

So yesterday, on the first day of spring, we did some some spring cleaning. The two younger boys cleaned under their beds (Yuck! -- Son3 apparently had been storing a bag of goldfish and some pretzels under there). Then they tackled their closet, which looked like one of those imploding, top-heavy closets you might see in a bad sitcom. Their room took...All. Day. Son1 dealt with his room, took out garbage all day long, and helped me too -- with a whole lot of help from his girlfriend. They took furniture out of his room to make way for the crib and waged war against cat hair. (Ugh. Remind me again why we have pets?) And they assembled the bassinet.

I am not quite sure what I did. Helped the boys with their closet. Did a little refereeing. Cleaned old clothes out of my closet, which also happens to be my laundry room. Washed baby clothes and put them away. Asked other people to do things for me. Fortunately, one of my friends actually volunteered to be here, and she's pretty skilled at ass-kicking. She ordered Son1 and the girlfriend around and did lots of heinous tasks that are too much for my body at the moment. I assure you, there are not many people I would ask to vacuum under my bed. (Remember the pet hair! I think it nearly gave her an asthma attack.) You have to rely on someone really non-judgmental for that. Fortunately, she is just the person.

My husband cleaned the garage and his office and moved probably hundreds of books from our house to a pallet he made in the garage. Last night I went to look at the clean garage and passed the many daffodils that some lovely soul planted years ago. Now they are our daffodils, and they have been busy poking through the ground and growing taller for the past week or two. We've all been eyeing them with much anticipation, commenting on their progress. The other day, some buds appeared, and last night, the first one bloomed.

By the end of the day we were MUCH better prepared for this baby's arrival than when we started. I am so relieved. A perfect first day of spring.

Mood Swing

2010-03-20T06:10:00.003-04:00

Yesterday morning I was sitting with my husband before I had to leave for...yes...yet another doctor's appointment. He had received a facebook message from his aunt and was reading it to me. When he finished, he commented on the way that people of his aunt's generation use facebook. This got me thinking about my mom. I wondered out loud if she would have learned to use facebook in order to keep up with her grandkids. I think she would have, though she would have been utterly baffled by it. I know that her grandkids were the reason she learned to use email.

Anyway, I suggested this possibility to my husband, and he proceeded to do a spot-on imitation of her with with her glasses and the way her hands would have flitted across the keyboard and how surprised she would have been by the whole thing. I laughed out loud, a completely delighted laugh. Son2 walked in the room and said, "That was a great laugh." But by the time he said that, I was crying. Tears were rolling down my cheeks because somehow, my husband's imitation had captured her so vividly. It was like seeing a disintegrating snapshot of all that was so funny and wonderful about her.

So I cried, because she is not here, and we will miss all the delight and laughter she would have brought to this crazy situation -- the birth of this unexpected boy, which will happen within days of the birth of what would have been her first great grandchild (my nephew and his beautiful wife are expecting their first baby just two weeks before ours.) All of that delight will be missing. We will talk about it, I know. We will imagine how it would all be even better with her here, but that obviously falls far short of the reality.

So I sat on the couch trying to swallow my tears and my feelings and forget about it. And then from the other room, Son3, who has been listening to this unfold, pipes up and says: "Was that a mood swing?"

And then I was laughing agin.

A Great Acceptance Speech

2010-03-12T19:51:00.003-05:00

The other night, I caught a bit of the Academy Awards. I turned it on just in time to see the award for best musical score. Well, I think that was the category. I absolutely loved Up! and I was pleased that its score won, but what I liked better was the artist's acceptance speech. He said that when he was nine years old, he found an 8mm camera in his dad's drawer and asked if he could have it. His dad said yes, and he began making movies. He told the audience that his parents never made him feel like the time he spent making movies was time wasted. He said that no one ever made him feel that way. But he also said that he knew that many kids don't get any kind of encouragement for their talents. He stood up there encouraging kids to use their talents and follow their dreams.

His speech brought me joy. It made my husband cry. For real. We have a little filmmaker at our house. Son2 is constantly dreaming up new stories he can tell in short films. He hears music and thinks about what kind of film it could go in and what might be happening at just that moment when the music plays. He astounds me. I didn't know anything about who I was or what I could do as a kid. I feel grateful that my sons seem to have some idea of what they love and what they can do well.

Well, I say that with a bit of a caveat. Because Son2 doesn't think this is a special talent, or a talent at all. He thinks anyone can make movies. He thinks it would be better if his hair was different (more like his brothers'), he was better looking, and he could play sports. There are times when he would gladly trade in his movie-making abilities for those other things. Fortunately, that's not an option. For the record, we think he's cute just the way he is, and we've never wished he could play sports well (except that it would make him feel better). Just a month ago I talked with him for over an hour about this very thing. He was beside himself. He wanted to be a different person. It was heartbreaking.

But on Monday morning we played that Academy Awards acceptance speech for him, and he smiled a certain kind of smile before he left the room...

High, Low

2010-03-10T08:02:00.003-05:00

My thoughts seem pretty disjointed these days. I think about blogging, and then I...don't. So it seemed like the perfect time for High, Low -- the kind of post that doesn't call for thoughts that actually flow together. So here's a few of my recent highs and lows.

High: I got some really cute pictures of the little buddy when I had my latest ultrasound. He looks like Son2, which means I think he looks adorable. Son2 looked at the picture and announced that his brother looks like a pear. Son1 looked at it and said, "He looks like an old man." And I said, "Exactly. That's how your brother looked when he was born."
Low: Still going for ultrasounds every week, and I find the waiting room depressing. So many young, single moms. So many people who make me feel a deep concern for their children's future. Like the couple due any day whose baby weighs less than three pounds and whose toddler runs around the waiting room, drinking some thick pink concoction from her bottle. They call her "Crazy," as in, "Get over here, Crazy." "Don't do that, Crazy." I just want to run out of that waiting room and never look back. I realize this sounds judgmental, but I bet you'd sound the same way if you had to sit in that waiting room.

High: This little dude is coming out soon.
Low: My body has never hurt so much. I literally feel like I won't make it.
Other Low: We still don't have a crib set up...or well, anything set up.

High: There are green things shooting up in my yard.
Low: It's supposed to rain for days, and that means it's going to get really muddy.

High: We've been watching American Idol.
Low: We've been watching American Idol. Is it just me, or is this the least talented group of finalists ever?

High: The little dude supposedly weighs five pounds now.
Low: I've gained more weight so far than I wanted to gain for the whole pregnancy.
Other Low: Everywhere I go, people say annoying things. Why is a pregnant woman's body open season for comments? I mean, if you can't tell me I look great, then just don't say anything. An older gentleman (and I use the term lightly) said to me yesterday in the grocery store, "Due any day now, huh?" I just smiled and thought, "Nope. Due in a month, idiot."

Alright, if I'm being honest, I'm a little more focused on the lows right now -- like the fact that my butt is actually asleep from sitting in this chair too long. The ongoing high is that this baby looks healthy and that we're all excited for his arrival. But the lows keep presenting themselves -- mainly the small physical complaints that accompany the end of any pregnancy, and that seem particularly acute when, like me, you're on the higher end of the age range for childbearing. I literally walk around the house moaning. At times, anyway. So one of your highs should be that you don't have to live with me. Any other highs or lows you'd like to share?

Ready...

2010-02-24T17:55:00.004-05:00

In my backyard I can see some mud and grass. And a huge puddle beneath the rope swing that hangs from our neighbor's giant sycamore. This is the most glorious February mud and grass I have ever seen. It makes me dream of daffodils and crocuses and budding trees. I ache for Spring. I want to walk. I want to take the dog to the park and watch him run. I am ready for new life. Ready to move on. Ready to push this baby out and take him outside for some fresh air, even if I still have no place for him to sleep or anywhere to stash the clothes my friend has generously set aside for him.

I am seeing robins everywhere, and right now it's six o'clock and it's still not dark. Harbingers of Spring.

I am ready for baseball and open windows, even if the street noise where we live is louder than any city street we have ever lived on. I am ready for rain and wind. For March, in like a lion, out like a lamb. For Easter. Renewal. Resurrection. I feel like I too am about to be born.

What are you waiting for?

The Wood

2010-02-21T08:18:00.003-05:00

We have a wood stove in our house. I've probably mentioned it before. I actually credit the wood stove with preventing me from feeling the low-level anxiety and depression that I used to feel for much of the winter. Somehow, a fire helps to keep that at bay.

But wood stoves are a good bit of work, and we don't even go out and chop wood ourselves. We have it delivered to our driveway...but then it has to be stacked in the woodshed. And that's where the trouble starts. For some reason this brings out a lot of unreasonable behavior in the younger two boys. They have trouble working together, and fight instead. But to be honest, the mere thought of having to stack the wood sends them into a tailspin.

We had wood delivered on Friday. I explained then that sometime over the weekend, it would have to be stacked. Some kind of storm will be here Monday...though (thank God! -- and I really mean that) it looks mostly like just a cold rain. Nothing happened with the wood stacking on Saturday. Everyone was happy to be lazy, and Son1 had his girlfriend over all day. So this morning when I got up, I announced to the younger two that they should expect to be stacking wood this afternoon (their older brother wasn't up yet, or I would have told him too). They went over the edge in about a second flat. Son2 announced: "I hate the wood, I hate the stove, and I hate this house." Okie dokie. "Go to your room," was my response, because a certain someone has an ongoing problem with gratitude and perspective and complaining. I knew he was lucky that his dad wasn't up yet to hear that announcement. Things would have gone way worse for him. Indeed. When I told the husband what Son2 said, his response was, "If I were my dad, he'd have to sleep in the garage tonight. Then he'd be thankful for the wood stove and any roof over his head." Yup. He was not an easy dad to grow up with.

Somehow there's nothing like chores to bring out the lectures around here. Son3 said, "I hate the work that has to be done again and again."

WHAT? "Umm, that's all work, kid. The grocery shopping, the vacuuming, mowing the lawn, and going to work. It all has to be done again and again. That's called life. And when you grow up, are you really going to complain every day that you have to go to work? Get a grip," I said.

How is it that they don't understand this yet?

Waiting for Spring

2010-02-17T18:49:00.006-05:00

I feel like the snow is serving as some sort of insulation for my brain. These storms and all that they have left behind have made me feel muddled and lost in time. Like my life is in a state of suspension. Which, of course, it sort of is, and that may be why the snow is having such a profound effect.

I've lost whatever groove I had. My days are caught up in some strange, sleepy rhythm despite the fact that we plowed ahead (no pun intended) with school throughout the storms. No matter that the public school kids didn't have school for over a week and will be delayed two hours every day this week. That's too bad, I tell my kids. We have a baby coming. We are wasting no time. Plus, quite frankly, they are driving me slightly crazy with their energy and endless chatter. I can't imagine if there weren't any schoolwork to occupy them for hours during the day.

Nevertheless... I've enjoyed the lazy rhythm of these days. Scrabble and yahtzee and hot chocolate and all of that. But I've been trapped inside while everyone else has gone out to play...and now I just feel lost. How do I organize my time? How do I get work done? Can you remind me? Because I feel like I've forgotten. That and all the other practicalities -- paying bills, planning meals, buying groceries...it all just seems to get done by the skin of my teeth. Did there used to be rhyme or reason to this?

In the movie Elf, Will Ferrell refers to himself as a cottonheaded ninnymuggins...and that is just how I feel.

I am a cottonheaded ninnymuggins waiting for Spring. Crocuses and daffodils and this baby. A little more sunshine and even a soft, warm breeze. And then maybe my head will clear.

Poets in the Making

2010-02-11T09:55:00.005-05:00

I have said before that poetry seems to have left me. I still see life through that lens. The snow. The birds. The dog curled up at the foot of my bed. And yes, the heartache too. But none of it bubbles up to words that pour out on paper.

I am really enjoying a new book I'm reading: Lit by Mary Karr. Karr is a poet, and this memoir, thus far, seems to tell her tale of the struggle to become the poet she always knew she was. It is also about her own alcoholism as well as her mother's and father's -- the craziness she grew up in and ran from, only to live out herself in her own way. I heard her interviewed a few months ago on NPR and knew I had to read this book. Through it all, somehow, some way, she recently met up with God and converted to Catholicism. Here's a quote from the book jacket:

"If you'd told me even a year before I started taking my son to church regular that I'd wind up whispering my sins in the confessional or on my knees saying the rosary, I would've laughed myself cockeyed. More likely pastime? Pole dancer. International spy. Drug mule. Assassin."

It's a long book, and I've only just begun...but I'm enjoying hearing about her journey to prize-winning poet. Which got me thinking about my friend's daughter, who I mentioned months ago.

Last year, as a seventh grader, she had to write some poems for English class. My friend sent me one of them, to get my opinion. It brought tears to my eyes. I was just amazed that this 12-year-old girl had written something so evocative. Her family had recently moved from northern New Jersey to North Carolina, and their new home is so different from their old one. This poem perfectly captures her first home and her family heritage. Happily, I have permission to share the poem with you.

"Where I'm From"

I am from a shack red house in Englewood,
potato chip bags and soda cans in the front yard.
From a huge old tree that stood over the years,
only to be knocked down by the wind.
I am from sweltering summers and freezing
winters, from Bear Mountain and the Bronx Zoo.
From a restaurant business father and an english
teaching mother.
I am from running like the wind, and writing like
fire, from doodling and drawing on gray rainy days.
I am from a line of teachers and mentors on both sides
of the street, and this I will become.

I am blossoming like a pansy in the spring, yearning for
sunshine, needing earth and love to grow.

All that Gets Undone

2010-02-08T21:28:00.004-05:00

I am weirdly obsessed with fruit right now, and I have been for the past seven months. Apples. Endless apples. But also grapes, oranges, and mangoes. Every piece of fruit I eat seems like the best fruit I have ever had. In the past month I can't seem to eat enough mango. Too bad enjoying a piece of fruit can't be something I check off the to-do list that grows longer with each day.

I'm having so much trouble accomplishing anything lately that if I felt more energetic, I'd be near despair. Fortunately, I don't seem to have enough energy for despair. So I just kind of wander about my house, noticing all that I should do -- clean the kitchen, put things away, wash more clothes, make some space for the baby -- something, anything. Instead, I often just sit back down and somehow manage to avoid the work that awaits me on the computer. Actual clients who want things from me. I get their work done, but it feels like I just barely do.

Here's the trouble. My drug of choice is usually the drug of getting something done. Let me accomplish something, anything, and I will likely feel a little better. But I'm not accomplishing much these days, and I don't recognize myself. Tonight I had to call my friend, my pecan sandie best friend, to try to restore myself, to find a way to feel like me. Hearing her voice helped.

Because we have weirdly parallel lives and a few of the same frailties, she told me that lately she is consciously trying to spend more time doing things that can't be undone. She says she spends too much time doing all the things that get undone -- namely, the household chores that dog her hours when she's not at work teaching high school English. She says she's trying to take more time for things like laughing with her girls, reading a book, walking the dog, and even taking a nap -- things that she says can't be undone.

After we talked, I ate a mango and read a chapter of the book I've been slowly enjoying lately: Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott. Enjoying a mango can't be undone. According to the ultrasound I had today, this little dude has gained a pound in the past two weeks. (I won't mention how much I've gained.) I savored the mango and tried to find a way to live with myself as I am right now -- a person who accomplishes much less than usual. I tried not to wonder if I'll ever be myself again. I did wonder how I would ever find the energy to clear out some kind of space for baby clothes and diapers. I thought about the process of partially dismantling Son1's very small room to make way for a crib, because that is where this kid will have to sleep -- in a room with his oldest brother. I thought about the process of baby proofing this very un-baby-friendly house.

I didn't proceed to actually do anything, but I did enjoy that mango and the chapter that I read. Then I played a few rounds of Boggle with Son3.

I expect that sometime in the next nine weeks we'll bring this little fellow home -- it will happen whether I ever actually find a place for the baby clothes, whether my husband sets up the crib, and whether I finish my work. Of course, I may very well get organized and find a place for the baby clothes and diapers, my husband will likely set up the crib, and surely I won't let my clients down. Right? I hope so. Nevertheless, I will keep eating fruit and this kid will keep packing on the pounds, and I expect that won't be undone.

Pecan Sandies

2010-02-06T18:09:00.004-05:00

When I was a kid, I loved to sleep over my best friend's house. They had a cat and a dog, and their household was entirely different from mine. They also had dessert every night. The thing is that I could have dessert whenever I wanted to as a kid, a million times a day if I wanted, because my parents were desperate for me to eat and gain a little weight. But I wasn't particularly interested in food. Yet dessert was somehow different at my friend's house, because it was something sort of official, like dinner. And I liked that.

Every once in a while, though, there wouldn't be anything good for dessert. Sometimes there were only pecan sandies. I think if I were to eat pecan sandies now, I would actually like them. But at the time my friend and I thought they were gross, and her brothers thought so too. And that is precisely why her father, who did the grocery shopping, bought them -- because he got tired of always having to buy more food. And if he bought pecan sandies, then he could always claim that there was a dessert available...but he also knew that no one would eat them. It's quite a tactic. He found a way to never run out of dessert!

When we were kids, we couldn't understand why he did this. But now it's crystal clear. There comes a point where you just get tired of buying food and having it run out. It sounds absurd, I know. But I ask you: how many granola bars can you buy in one week? No matter the number I buy, they all get eaten -- in three days! So I think, I could just never buy granola bars again and save all that granola bar money. Sometimes the food disappears so fast, It's as if I literally can't buy enough. You can only fit so much food in the cart, and I'm not going to turn into one of those people who uses two carts. At this point, I find grocery shopping to be an exhausting endeavor anyway. I walk through the store having contraction after contraction, hoping they are harmless and not leading me to some crazy early preterm delivery.

And so another boy, who will surely eat a lot, is on his way. I heard some statistic about how it costs over $200,000 to raise a child to age eighteen. I believe it. And that's why sometimes you lose your mind and start buying pecan sandies for dessert.

Insomnia and Sarah Palin

2010-02-05T05:43:00.005-05:00

Well, it's 5:43 and I've been awake since 2. Two in the morning! I am beginning to agree with the husband...maybe God really is getting me ready for a baby who just won't snooze. But I'll be honest: I hope not. Really. Everyone should hope not. I am more human when I sleep. I found out this week that I'm anemic, and in my mildly obsessive quest for information online, I learned that one symptom of anemia is insomnia, so I am hoping that this lovely iron and herbal potion I am downing twice a day will take care of the anemia and the insomnia.

Yesterday morning I was watching the news and decided that we really have lost our collective perspective. Apparently back in August the White House Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel, called some liberal democrats "f***ing retarded" for attacking the president's health care plan. Now Sarah Palin is calling for him to resign over the use of the word retarded. Umm, really? If we ask people to resign over such things, would anyone be left in DC? And honestly, we don't seem to ask them to resign for lying to us over weapons of mass destruction and taking countless innocent lives, so I fail to see the urgency here. I know, that's a tired old axe to grind. But, right?

Here's my question: can she really not see that Emanuel's use of the word retarded, while in poor taste I guess, is not actually an attack on people with disabilities? Is her mind really that dull? Umm, don't answer that.

I'm sorry, but this woman annoys -- and terrifies -- me. But what scares me more than her are all the people who think they want her to lead our country. This is a person who couldn't even hang in there for her term as governor of Alaska. That there are people who would still gladly elect her to our country's highest office offends me a lot more than anyone's use of the word retarded.

See? I'm a little cranky when I don't sleep.

Books & Movies

2010-02-03T07:34:00.003-05:00

Son2 is really looking forward to the upcoming release of the Lightning Thief movie. He's been reading his way through the series throughout the school year, and he's enjoyed them quite a bit. I read the first two (the books were were recommended here when I was begging for book recommendations), and I especially enjoyed the first.

I am just hoping that the movie lives up to Son2's expectations. That book to movie transition isn't always smooth. In fact, I've enjoyed very few movies based on books I love. The Lord of the Rings movies are the most notable exception. I loved The Lovely Bones when I read it, but I wouldn't dream of seeing the movie, and that's usually how I feel about such things. I like to preserve my feelings about a book and not let a movie wreck it. You know?

So, I'm wondering whether you've read any books and subsequently enjoyed the movies...

Sometimes I think that it's just whatever you first experience. A gzillion years ago I saw the movie Unbearable Lightness of Being and just loved it. If you've never seen it, I highly recommend it. Then i read the book and didn't love it so much.

Son2 is pretty critical of things. He has strong feelings about music and stories and movies. We would not be surprised if he grows up to be a filmmaker, or at least gives it a good shot. He's always making these goofy movies and posting them on YouTube. More important, he's always dreaming up the next one. He had one cooking in his brain throughout early December, and as soon as Christmas break started, he devoted himself to three days of filming. He played all the parts and did almost all the filming. It was a total manic creative episode. When he finished, he sat down and edited it for hours. The result was his most well thought out and interesting movie yet, though it is a bit lengthy. We were so proud of him.

All of this to say, he loves Percy Jackson and he loves movies, and I hope he's not disappointed.

****
On an entirely different note, I had another ultrasound the other day, and the little guy decided to show me his face, which I appreciated. I brought home the pictures, and brothers 2 & 3 announced that they thought his nose looks awfully big. (In all fairness, it does look like kind of a turned up pug nose.) And I thought, poor guy, not even born and already being criticized by his brothers. Regardless, we all keep wandering over to the refrigerator to sneak peeks at the little buddy's pictures hanging there...

The Right Words

2010-01-28T18:22:00.003-05:00

The other night, I could not sleep. When exhaustion drives you to bed by 9:30 but you're awake again by 11, you know it's going to be a bad night. And it was. Apparently it was a bad night for my husband too...maybe because I was tossing and turning relentlessly? He got up before me, around 3, I think. I stayed in bed until 4 and surrendered to the inevitable. That's how we found ourselves huddled by the woodstove around 4:15 in the morning talking about how to negotiate our lives, juggle the labor, help our family and each other survive this upcoming transition.

In the midst of this conversation, he started playing with one of our cats, Smudgie, enticing him with a string. It was one of those surreal moments, being awake so early, trying to figure out life, while the cat rolled and batted and acted goofy. Cats. Lovely creatures without a care in the world, and always good for a little levity and distraction. That morning, the levity brought back a memory.

The summer I was seven years old, I met my epic friend. Our families were at a barbecue, and our brothers introduced us. She was the only other little girl at the party, perhaps the only other child my age. I don't remember. Most of the families there had children my brothers' age -- in other words, not children at all, but teens and young adults. Like me, this girl was the surprise in her family. Her brothers were eight and ten years older than her; mine, ten and twelve years older than me. One of my brothers was friends with one of hers, and they thought we should meet.

The trouble was that both of us were shy, painfully so. So our brothers stood there, telling us about each other, and we stood there, giggling like goofballs, unable to say a word. It looked like this meeting might go nowhere, until I finally piped up and said, "Want to play with the cats?" And that was it.

We've been friends for more than three decades. Through dolls and silly sleepovers, painful adolescent moments, first boyfriends, choir trips and youth retreats, college, life in the city (complete with giant roaches!), first real jobs, marriage, babies, businesses, and more, we have seen each other through. We have oddly parallel lives, and somehow we reflect and interpret reality for each other. She has three girls, essentially the same ages as my boys. Her first, born a month to the day after mine; her last, born six weeks before mine. Well, before this very last one, of course. These days, when she calls, my husband says to her: "So, are you pregnant yet?" Because really, this pregnancy of mine brings us to the greatest divergence of our realities.

I am certain that I have all the greatest friends on this earth, that no one is as fortunate as me in the friends department. Beautiful, wonderful women. Interesting, unique, and true. I don't know what I would do without them. But this friendship is altogether one-of-a-kind, perhaps because neither of us has sisters and we have known each other for so long. For most of our childhoods, she was the bolder of the two of us, and she overcame her shyness long before I overcame mine. But I like to remember that our friendship got its start because I found the words to get it on its way. I would not be me without her, and that our friendship hinges on a cat and her kittens at a summer backyard barbecue somehow makes it all the sweeter.

Classic

2010-01-26T07:01:00.002-05:00

Yesterday I started the merry-go-round of testing that will make up the last trimester of this pregnancy. Trips to the doctor's office two or three times a week, depending on the week. If you can believe such a thing.

WARNING: Unless you live a life of ease with no responsibilities whatsoever, do not get pregnant in your forties. Just don't do it people! Not only do they tell you scary things and require insane amounts of additional medical care, you will be exhausted. Trust me, I know. Pregnancy is way harder this time around.

Every Monday until this guy's birthday, I will go for a biophysical profile (BPP), which is a fancy term for an ultrasound where they measure certain things -- mainly (I think) fluid levels as well as the baby's muscle tone, growth, and practice breaths. On Thursdays, I will go for non-stress tests, hooked up to the monitor that you wear during labor that measures contractions as well as the heartbeat and who knows what else. Every other Friday I visit the doctor. It feels like a bit much. C'est la vie. My husband says I should be grateful for good medical care. I am certain he is right. I'm working on the gratitude thing, trying not to fret about the time that all of this takes.

The important news is that this little fellow passed his test yesterday with flying colors. But what made the whole thing just a classic representation of my life is that the ultrasound tech couldn't get any pictures of his face. Instead I walked out of there with a picture of his forearm and a very powerful-looking fist as well as a good shot of his butt and well...yes, his balls. If I'd had any doubts (which I really didn't) about his gender, I don't anymore. This one is all boy, in personality and more.

Tears

2010-01-24T20:40:00.003-05:00

Historically speaking, I haven't been much for crying. Years can go by. I can be sad, upset, or depressed, but the tears don't really come. Sometimes, yes. But more often than not...not.

But this pregnancy has changed all of that. I started crying before I even knew I was pregnant. I couldn't figure out what exactly was wrong with me. And then...well...then I found out. So now I am undone by things, big and small. I cry and cry. One of my dear friends says that she is grateful to this little fellow for enabling me to cry. She suggested that perhaps when he grows up, he will be the kind of person that others will feel safe to cry with. A lovely thought. I hope he is that kind of person.

I really love Guster's music, and the other day my husband realized that the song "Two at a Time" is a song referring to Noah and the flood. He showed me the lyrics and played the song. Here are a few of the lyrics:

Once upon a time,
For the Lord the skies they parted;
So a few must die
To bring us back to where we started.

CHORUS:
Two at a time,
Two at a time,
Two at a time,
Two at a time,
Do what you're told.

Each and every kind were gathered up,
This tiny boat - the future of the world.
For those that drowned, it made no sense;
They should have known, because we told them so.

I listened to the song and read the words...and cried. I'm not even sure why. Except for the fact that it had been a terrible week. I was feeling vulnerable and tired, and those lyrics broke my heart somehow. I thought of those animals, innocent of the wickedness that plagued mankind, and how they had to die anyway. I thought of the way that God devised a great plan -- the future of the world in a tiny boat. A great plan, yes, but loss and death were an inescapable part of it.

Suffering, loss, and redemption, an endless cycle, and the tears just kept coming.

Sleep

2010-01-14T05:12:00.003-05:00

I've always been someone who could sleep. I've also always been someone who can get up early and actually feel awake. Both are a blessing. But in the past month in particular, sleep hasn't been going so well. I often wake up at three in the morning and find I just can't sleep. I try so hard not to let my mind wander to things it shouldn't...namely, all the things I'm worried about...and I often manage to push those thoughts aside, but still it takes forever to drift back to sleep. I try to pray. And I do, but my mind wanders and my body sends me little annoying updates. My back hurts. I have to go to the bathroom. Again. I'm thirsty. Again. I have to roll over. Again. Too bad I'm trapped between my husband and the dog, and the blankets feel like tethers. The baby kicks. Again and again. And I wonder whether he's actually nocturnal and will be awake through the night after he's out here with us, breathing air. I wonder.

Eventually I either realize that I will not be going back to sleep, like tonight (or, I guess, this morning), so I turn off my alarm and get up. Or at some point I realize that sleep may come, so I turn off my alarm to avoid being awakened in an hour or two. Either way, it's no good. The day will be disrupted in some way or another. More things I simply cannot control. This seems to be the lesson that life offers me. I'm not sure whether it's the lesson I'm supposed to learn.

But what does all of this really mean anyway? This baby is an awfully good reason not to sleep. I know. And I can get up and get a glass of water. I can work. I can turn on the news, as I've done this morning, and see just how fortunate I am.

Haiti is a disaster. Pat Robertson says that in the 1700s the Haitians made a pact with the devil, and that's why their lives are such a disaster and they suffer so unspeakably. I have no idea whether any of that is true. But I know that Haiti is the most desperately poor country in the western hemisphere, and I'm pretty sure they need help and compassion instead of some finger-pointing at their ancestors. Ugh. Why can't Christians ever keep their mouths shut and just let their compassion and generosity do the talking? Like that quote attributed to St. Francis: "Preach the gospel at all times. Use words if necessary."

Time Is Short

2010-01-10T20:32:00.002-05:00

This morning it hit me that this baby is coming. Soon. For so long it's been out there in time, a date far in the future. Now, not so much. This little dude is coming. It doesn't matter what's happening in our lives, or how ill prepared I may feel, or that we'll just have to wedge him and his crib in somewhere. He's not interested in or bothered by the obstacles or our own state of confusion. In thirteen weeks or less, he will make his grand entrance and we will feed him and rub his little back and sniff the top of his little baby head and fall in love.

Men of Gondor...

2010-01-03T07:54:00.003-05:00

We were watching Return of the King yesterday. The extended version. I took a half-hour nap during the movie and still saw most of the important action. There is so much in those stories to chew on and contemplate and inspire, but this is what particularly struck me yesterday. Hopefully you'll forgive me if I get any of the details slightly wrong. I love Tolkien more than many people do (Really...Tolkien is Son2's middle name) , but my mind is not exactly a steel trap for all the place names and such. My husband's is. I don't understand how he remembers it all, but then again, his psychic space isn't quite as hijacked by schedules and appointments and medication dosages and social security numbers. So he can better remember the details of the Lord of the Rings and other stuff that I have no room for.

Anyway. In this scene of Return of the King, the battle for Minis Tirith has begun and the good guys are completely outnumbered, waiting for reinforcements. It looks like all the forces of hell are arrayed against our friends. Gandalf is standing with the men of Gondor, trying to steady their nerves because the steward of Gondor can't be bothered to do so. (He is busy planning his suicide and his son's death because he has lost all hope.) But the battle is on and something is battering the gates of the citadel, and clearly that something is about to break through. There is nothing the men of Gondor can do to stop it. So Gandalf says, "Men of Gondor, no matter what comes through that gate, stand your ground."

On the second day of the new year, that line rang true. There are good years and bad ones. I feel more hopeful at the beginning of this year than I have in the past few. Some things have shifted for me recently; I really didn't expect to enter this year with this little ballast of hopefulness. Yet I have, and I am grateful. But I know others who are now standing their ground, and my heart goes out to them.

I know these battles always come at us unforeseen. Things grow dark in our lives, and then darker still. Sometimes the very best you can do is stand your ground. You go on, somewhere well past hope, somewhere well past what feels like hanging on, but by grace you don't turn back or run away or do what Job's wife advised: curse God and die. Sometimes you can stand your ground so long that if it feels like you're not standing anymore and you wonder if you ever had any ground to begin with. But you did, and you do. Hope often arrives at the darkest moments, but not before you think you've already experienced the darkest moments. In the movie, a flower blooms on the barren white tree of Minis Tirith while the battle rages on. No one knows it's there, but that doesn't mean hope hasn't bloomed.

Of Acid and Caves

2009-12-04T07:37:00.004-05:00

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

2009-12-01T17:15:00.003-05:00

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?

2009-11-23T19:26:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-19T19:09:00.002-05:00

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

2009-09-18T07:22:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-17T10:12:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-15T07:35:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-31T20:22:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-28T15:07:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-02T21:20:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-31T08:03:00.005-04:00

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

2009-07-29T16:06:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-23T05:51:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-09T09:34:00.003-04:00

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

2009-06-24T19:39:00.005-04:00

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

2009-06-07T21:43:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-04T16:25:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-27T22:09:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-21T16:09:00.005-04:00

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?

2009-05-13T12:02:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-05T13:20:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-02T09:05:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-30T11:19:00.002-04:00

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

2009-04-18T09:53:00.004-04:00

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

2009-04-15T09:53:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-09T16:09:00.004-04:00

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

2009-04-05T18:42:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-01T19:16:00.003-04:00

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

2009-03-23T18:01:00.003-04:00

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

2009-03-22T17:26:00.003-04:00

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

2009-03-18T18:42:00.005-04:00

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

2009-03-02T20:34:00.004-05:00

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)

2009-02-24T19:16:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-18T20:43:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-07T11:08:00.002-05:00

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"

2009-02-02T15:59:00.004-05:00

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

2009-01-28T21:48:00.003-05:00

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!

2009-01-19T18:03:00.002-05:00

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

2009-01-08T18:50:00.005-05:00

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.

Birds: My Antidepressant

2008-12-29T17:57:00.004-05:00

Yesterday morning I had to run out and collect my oldest son from a sleepover at a friend's house so that we could make it to a doctor's appointment. Ordinarily it might be a bit annoying to retrieve someone at eight in the morning, but it was sunny (finally!) and cold and the route to his friend's house is a scenic one. I was feeling really out of sorts, as I have been for a while now, so the drive helped. At one point I was driving on a road beside a creek and when I came around a bend, I saw this group of ducks having a morning swim. The female ducks were the loveliest ducks I've ever seen -- not the usual duck variety, I guess. They were these beautiful shades of brown and tan and creme. I don't know what it is about birds, in particular, that always makes me feel better.

Things have been difficult lately, especially just in my head and in my heart, and my drive made me realize I need to attract some birds to my yard. I wish I understood why they bring me such joy...but I guess I don't really need to understand it to enjoy them. Somehow the opportunity to watch birds fly in and take some seeds and leave gets me out of my own head. At our old house we had a bird feeder on our deck and plenty of tall trees in our yard; winter there was a little more enjoyable than it might otherwise have been because it was a great season for bird watching. The boys loved it. The cats really loved it. We called it Cat TV.

At this house, we don't have a collection of tall trees, though the neighbor has a huge tree right on the property line that drops all its leaves in our yard. Also, we live on a busy street, which doesn't endear us to the birds at all. We have a dog now, who seems to think that birds are flying intruders, and that he, the Protector, must rid our yard of them. Two years ago, when we first moved here, we had a huge gray cat who lived outdoors, and he was quite the hunter. I think the birds innately understood this. The only bird I saw hanging around our backyard, a bold mockingbird, eventually met with an untimely death. I found some feathers by the garage door one day and announced that I thought Gray & White (yes, that's what we called him) had killed the mockingbird. Apparently everyone else already knew this and had tried to hide the evidence from me. To our great sadness, Gray & White disappeared a year ago...

Somehow, birds just make me feel better. Many winters ago, after a terrible miscarriage, it was the bluebirds who brightened my depressed days. And so I think I will take some Christmas money and go buy a bird feeder.

Random Thoughts on Christmas

2008-12-27T07:58:00.003-05:00

Well, with Christmas behind me, I'm hoping that I can make a little more time for blogging. I've thought of a lot of things I'd like to write about lately, but the need to wrap presents and visit the grocery store just one more time kept taking precedence. Don't ask me why.

Yesterday morning, I decided it was time for Bear, our dog, to have his Christmas moment. He did get a special bone on Christmas day -- though I thought the bone would last him for hours (thereby keeping him from driving my father, the dog-hater, nuts) and he polished it off in about thirty minutes -- but we did not give him his "real" Christmas present on Christmas day. You simply can't give a retriever a frisbee and then not take him out to play, and that wasn't on our agenda Christmas morning.

Anyway, when I presented the beloved Flippy Flopper frisbee, Bear was overjoyed. Seriously. I could tell. We headed off to the park with Son3 and his new ripstick in tow. The boy practiced on his new toy, and I threw the frisbee for Bear. That dog will fetch anything, but when he chases a frisbee, he flies. He flattens himself out in a dead run with his ears flopping, fully determined to catch the frisbee. If he makes an awesome catch -- one he just barely snags -- he's inclined to take a little extra run with the frisbee, rather than coming back to me immediately. He may even jump in the creek. If he doesn't catch it, or he has to stop and wait for it before the catch, then he comes right back for a new throw. Because he can jump in the creek for a swim or a drink, he could play frisbee for more than an hour. I usually don't last that long. Yesterday he proudly walked home with the frisbee in his mouth. He wagged his tail, which was coated in tiny icicles, the whole way home.

While we were playing frisbee, I heard a lot of shotguns firing. Guess the hunters received some Christmas gifts. Not a very Merry Christmas for the animals... How killing living things qualifies as a "sport," I'll never understand...

Christmas eve day, I was on my way to a bookstore and listening to a bit of Christmas music. One of my favorite Bill Mallonee songs, "Sing Angel Choirs," came on. One of the lines says, "We stumble around through the message each year. Open these eyes, open these ears." That is always my prayer at Christmas time: to see something new, to know God in some new way.

This year I was thinking a lot about the whole "no room at the inn" part of the message. Our field trip to the National Christmas Center had a profound effect on me. The last part of the exhibit is a re-creation of Mary and Joseph's journey, which really got me thinking about Mary and how difficult it must have been to settle down in a stable to give birth after a lengthy journey. In my twenty-first century, first-world mindset, I often think that God should want to make life easier for me. I think I only need to look at Mary to see that that way of thinking is a bit off. She was chosen for something so amazing we can scarcely fathom it, but she suffered much. Just sticking to the Christmas part of the story, she had to live with a scandalous pregnancy and with a reality that people couldn't and wouldn't believe. I wonder if she had her own doubts sometimes. Then she had to make a lengthy journey just as she was about to give birth and then give birth in a stable. If that were me, I'd be thinking that God would definitely provide a room at the inn. Wouldn't you?

But God, as he tends to do, had his own plans. Jesus was born in a stable, and this makes me love God in just a crazy way. That he came as close as he could to all of us in our desperation and included everyone. Surely there's a message in there for the downtrodden, for the homeless, for the outcast, for those estranged from their families...And that message is that God is with us. God with the homeless, the outcast, the powerless, those who feel they're at the mercy of their circumstances. But also God with the wise, those who seek to understand, those who look for him, those who make a pilgrimage to find him. The wise men were surely wealthy, bearing those amazing gifts, and God is with them too. And this year it struck me, God with the animals too. I often think of those verses in Romans 8 that say that all of creation has been subjected to frustration and is in bondage to decay, and all of creation is groaning, waiting for liberation and freedom. Jesus, born in a stable, is surely a message to God's creatures. I am with you too. You are not forgotten. Liberation is on the way.

Riding Lions

2008-12-20T16:14:00.003-05:00

The other morning my youngest son came into the kitchen and asked me whether we'd be able to talk to animals in heaven. I, of course, said yes -- not to humor him but because I truly believe that. He was happy with my answer.

Then he told me that when he gets to heaven and sees a lion, he's going to say, "What's up?" and then try to juke out the lion. When the lion catches him, he'll give him a hug, jump on his back for a ride, and then come to find me so I can see him riding a lion. This little bit of news made my heart leap.

I am reaching the end of those years when I am my sons' number-one. It is a marvelous thing -- the adoration a mother receives from her boys. There is nothing like it, but I don't think it lasts forever. Some day, each of my boys will give his heart forever to a girl...and if he should want to show off his lion-riding abilities, it will likely be to her and not to me. That's how it should be, but for now I'm happy to enjoy all the adoration they care to send my way.

Success, of sorts

2008-12-18T19:00:00.003-05:00

Well, I've learned a few things in the past several weeks, which is always good. The most important thing is simply this: this story's time has not yet come. Writing habits are one thing, but if your story is still brewing, important ideas still coming, then it may not be quite time to hit the keyboard in earnest. This is not to say that plenty of ideas, even important ones, won't make themselves known once I'm writing lots of pages. I am counting on the fact that they will. But...the ideas that are helping me construct this world, this society, are not all in my head, and until they are it's just putting the cart before the horse.

Just today another piece of this novel presented itself to me. It came as a great surprise while Son2 and I were visiting the National Christmas Museum. (Very cool place BTW.) The idea comes from a German Christmas myth, and it's just what I needed for my story -- but I didn't know that until I stumbled upon it. I love that. Happy little accidents.

I think my quest to write more consistently and my frustration with not doing so has just been a huge trap, making me feel like a failure, when really I'm doing the work. Quite honestly, I've been feeling like I've been letting God down when I haven't been writing. This could sound crazy to some of you, but perhaps not to all of you. Last January (as I surely wrote about somewhere on this blog) I felt like God told me to give this story a little water and a little sunlight each day. And somehow I turned that into write five pages a day, or well, please, at least one. But I haven't been able to do that, and now I see that my frustration is unwarranted. This story needs my attention...but it isn't actually asking to be written yet. I still don't have enough information. And all my attempts at writing page after page have only been increasing my doubts about my own abilities.

So, with all of this nonsense behind me, I'm actually excited about writing this story again. The pressure's off. I'll work on it each day and watch out for happy little accidents. I'm sure I'll know when to start writing in earnest. In the meantime, there's another story I may take a crack at. This one takes place in the real world, so it's a completely different endeavor. And...I think if I can successfully get down to work with this one, it will give me confidence when it comes down to actually writing this fantasy novel.

I have missed writing here and reading your blogs...so I'm looking forward to getting back into the swing of things.

Making Room

2008-11-17T19:39:00.002-05:00

"They" say it takes twenty-one days to make a new habit. For that reason I'm going to take a little break from the blog world and make way for some better habits. Well, maybe just one -- working on this novel. It's not even that I blog that frequently or read others' blogs too obsessively. I was surprised to see that it's been almost a week since I posted something new here because I have a million things I want to write about. They are things I want to share, and they take up space in my brain -- space that right now should be hammering away at these characters and this plot. At the moment I don't have room for it all. And since working and writing and emailing and blogging and reading blogs and buying Christmas gifts and reading the news obsessively all take place on my computer, everything starts to run together into a jumbled mess. So I'm making way for more creative writing by temporarily avoiding blogging and blogs and my compulsive reading of the New York Times online.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, "they" say, and I'm feeling desperate. The new year is about seven weeks away and I don't want to get to January 1 without making some kind of progress on this book. I want to find some momentum sometime soon. Please. Oh please. I'm also feeling a tad, shall we say...convicted. And that rather uncomfortable feeling settled in for a visit after I read someone else's blog. That someone else is a writer (so different from me because he actually writes!) and on his blog he was reflecting on something he had written, noting that if he hadn't put time into writing it then it wouldn't exist. The gist was to consider what you're NOT doing. Your creative works won't be birthed without you, and the world could be missing out on something great and important.

This is not to say that what I am trying to write will be great or important. That's not the point. It's just that I'm the only one who can write this story.

And so we'll see if I can make some new and better writing habits in the next three weeks. Hopefully my next visit to this page will have some good news -- a post about success rather than failure. For the next three weeks I will miss writing the occasional blog post and I will miss reading your blogs, but I'll be back.

For now, I must depart. I hear an argument brewing in the house. One brother just said to another: "There are no words to express how annoying you are." This does not sound like the recipe for a smooth bedtime.

Failure

2008-11-11T19:45:00.002-05:00

It is amazing to me, when I stop and reflect on it, the degree to which feelings of failure dog me as an adult and as a mother. These feelings are my constant companion. I don’t know why my fall-back position is to see what I am doing wrong rather than what I’m doing right. I don’t know why I can’t just cut myself a bit of slack. Yet at just the thought of that, I think, why should I?

There are a lot of reasons for this, but one contributing factor is – my children! They are not only articulate but they’re quite open with their thoughts and feelings. Honestly, sometimes I think I’d prefer it if they were a little less honest. Kept a few thoughts to themselves.

This is perhaps not the best example, but this morning, Son2 said, “When are we going to start doing other classes for homeschooling? Isn’t the whole point to try new things? To broaden your horizons?” And that’s a direct quote. I heard this and I felt like a bomb went off inside of me, all this frustration with my own shortcomings. And so what’s a mother to do except get defensive? And I say something like, “Just because I haven’t found any classes for you doesn’t mean I haven’t been looking. I’ve tried really hard. I have a lot to juggle, and I’m doing my best.” I also said, “Yes, that is one of the reasons for homeschooling, and it can be a benefit, but our main purpose was to make things less stressful for you because of your migraines.” Just to make it clear that I wasn’t a TOTAL FAILURE. Ugh.

For me, the opportunity to feel like I’m failing lurks around every corner. I wonder if other women feel this way. Here are just a few more glorious examples:

My friend comes to pick up her son who’s been playing here for the afternoon. She brings homemade cookies for us. I think, I suck. I never bake.

I hear about people who are doing creative things. I nearly despise myself. I am not writing. I’ve pretty much trashed my manuscript. I’m rethinking the characters, confused about the point of view. I think, I will never be able to do this. I don’t know how to write this way. And, I can’t even find the time. I can’t even get dinner made half the time. Who am I kidding?

Another day goes by in which I don’t make phone calls that need to be made – doctor appointments that need to be scheduled, the appliance repair man to come and fix our leaking refrigerator, the fencing club (yes, really) about fencing lessons for my dissatisfied homeschooler. And yes, another day has gone by.

Son2 says, “We used to do fun things on Saturdays. Now we never do.” Great. You’ll have no happy memories. Is there any point in explaining the ins and outs of this? The activities. The exhaustion. The need to occasionally clean the house and keep things from falling apart. And is it really never? I know it isn't, but still I feel that frustration with myself exploding. It's so easy to believe I'm letting my kids down.

Why is it so hard for me to focus on what I do well? On what I actually do accomplish? I really have no idea.

***
On an entirely different note, I was watching the news yesterday morning and I saw a commercial for the Broadway Across America tour of A Chorus Line, which will be coming to the Hippodrome Theater in Baltimore. We don’t have our tickets yet, but I’m super excited!

A Lazy Post

2008-11-07T20:03:00.002-05:00

I'm experiencing blogger's guilt for whatever reason. It's only been two days, hardly enough to feel guilty about, but that's how I am. My husband likes to remind me that I would have made a wonderful Catholic. Undoubtedly.

But my mind is feeling dull, perhaps some strange side effect of not being overwhelmed by work. Who knows. So my lazy post is a poem that I wrote forever ago. I thought of it the other day when the yellow leaves on the tree that overshadows the front of our house made a golden glow of sunlight in our living room. Not that the poem is about our living room. That could be strange. But it is about fall.

BTW, I don't love the ending. It feels a bit abrupt, which I think I recently said about one of my other poems. Guess I need to work on that!

Woods Walk

I smelled death that day
the sweetness of rotting layers
of leaves becoming dirt
all that was once green
fallen
growing richer still

and smoke too
the fragrant offering of Autumn
filling our nostrils
with the passage to dormancy

I heard our feet crunching
stirring up the layers
your legs kicking up joy
laughter punctuating the silence
of that canopied sanctuary

I saw the eerie illumination
sunlight filtering through orange and red
three small bodies
glowing with me
in the smoky silence

feast for the senses
this walk in our gullied woods
sacred communion deepened
by the flash of a bounding stag
we tracked his footprints
headed for home

From This Day Forward

2008-11-05T08:45:00.002-05:00

I had not planned to write today if Obama won. I did not want to gloat. But I am not gloating. I am simply elated. I am thrilled that Americans voted for a man of ideas. A man who cares about ending the war, knows the value of education, and understands that the price of a college education is growing increasingly out of reach. A man who cares about the earth and energy independence. A man who recognizes how broken our health care system is and knows that something must be done to expand health insurance and lower costs. A man who cares that jobs are being shipped overseas and plans to penalize companies that take part in that particular undoing of America. I am so pleased that he is well-spoken and that with his election, the rest of the world can look at us a bit differently. We need the world to look at us with new eyes -- to see that we can lead in the best sense of the word -- not with aggression but with ideals. I am hopeful that we will be putting this period of arrogant aggression behind us and increasing our diplomatic efforts around the globe.

Last night I went to Wal-Mart with a friend, and she brought up the subject of the election. Despite my opinions, I don't talk politics with most people -- only with my family and very close friends, and, well, here on my blog. My friend Jane (names have been changed to protect the not so innocent) said, "I bet I know which way you voted." So I asked her to guess, and she was right. I inquired about her and her husband and she said they voted for McCain and then confessed, "David can't stand Obama. He calls him a bad name. A very bad name." I looked at her, confused for a moment, and then I understood. A bad word indeed, a bigoted one, and one I will not repeat here. Then she went on to say, "I am not prejudiced, but..." Allow me to interrupt myself here. This is never a good way to start a sentence. If you have to start a sentence this way, it's probably best to keep your mouth shut. It turns out that Jane is not prejudiced but she doesn't think that blacks and whites should marry. Hmmm.

Sadly enough, since we moved to this area I have encountered racism for the very first time in my life. We did not know what a stronghold of racist thinking existed here before we chose it for our home thirteen years ago. We quickly learned of our ignorance when B went for a job interview and was closely questioned about why we had chosen to move from Chicago to this particular town. When the interviewer could see how clueless B was, he informed him that this town has had a long association with the KKK. Woops. We had no idea. Several months later I was driving through town with my two-year-old and he piped up from the backseat, "Mommy, why are those funny guys dressed up like that?" I turned my head and for the first time in my life I saw men dressed in hooded sheets, hate right there on the street. I rolled up the windows and told my son to close his eyes.

The KKK has gone underground here, but I have no doubt that there are still white supremacists in my town. I know there are racists. I meet them all the time. They are the people I hang out with at Little League. I have had several conversations with people who start their sentences as Jane did. Last night I told her that soon none of this will matter. The world is changing and young people, the kids, are not burdened with the same thoughts and beliefs that the older generations are. I told her that I grew up in a place where the races lived together and I never even heard that word as a child. I knew no difference. I told her that I hoped soon no child would.

In fifth grade I went to VBS and made a new friend. Her name was Denise and I asked my mom and dad if she could go to our pool with us one Saturday. They said yes and we arranged to pick her up and bring her with us for the day. Years later my parents told me that when they pulled up to Denise's house that day and I ran to her door to knock, they asked each other, "Do you think Denise is black?" Indeed she was, but I had never mentioned it because through their actions my parents had taught me that the color of someone's skin doesn't matter. We are all the same. I am grateful to my parents and to the community of school and church where I grew up that this is the lesson I learned. I am grateful that in the community where I now live, children of parents who still hold prejudices will grow up knowing that a black man can be president, and that he got there with the votes of blacks and whites together. I am grateful that from this day forward every child born in our country will know that race knows no bounds and a black man can be president of the United States of America. It's a beautiful day.

Election Day at Last

2008-11-04T12:39:00.002-05:00

I confess, some days I actually thought we'd never make it to this day -- like this election would always exist as some point in the not-so-distant future and I would be caught in some kind of news purgatory. No matter what happens, I don't think there is a person out there who won't be glad it's over. Finally.

Another confession: I am nervous today. I went to vote early, hoping to try to forget about the whole thing for the rest of the day. I will not turn on my TV until late tonight, and I'll avoid the news sites I normally drift to at some point during the course of the day. Instead I'll keep in mind the song I was listening to on my way home from voting: Joshua Radin's "Everything Will Be Alright." I sat in the car until the song was over, watching the sparrows flitting around in my neighbor's bushes. The sparrows and the song were just what I needed to remind me of the true nature of reality. As another one my current favorite songs says, "The world spins madly on..." and it will keep doing so no matter who comes out on top. But I will be breathing a big sigh of relief tomorrow if the world in spinning madly on with Obama as our new president.

*****

On an entirely different note, I retract my previous comments about The Shack. Well, sort of. I maintain that the first few chapters are a real drag. They are not well written, but that is all forgotten once you get past them. In the chapters that follow the author does a great job, and he makes a lot of thought-provoking points.

I finished Beautiful Boy, and I highly recommend it to anyone who knows and loves an addict. David Sheff writes eloquently of the anguish and the unknowing...the ups and downs...the letting go. I'm sure I'll have more to say about this, but for now I'm going to go ignore the news.

Fun with License Plates

2008-11-02T20:00:00.003-05:00

Last night while I was driving home from the grocery store, I saw this personalized license plate: KEGGER. Someone with the IQ to think that's a smart idea for a license plate should never have been issued a driver's license. How often do you think this person gets pulled over? Why not just have this for a license plate: DRUNK.

When I reported this idiocy when I got home, B and I had a wonderful time coming up with all sorts of moronic possibilities for license plates. Try it. It's fun.

Reading Material for Doctor's Visits

2008-10-29T12:19:00.003-04:00

The other morning I began to wonder if God was secretly preparing me for some kind of strange medical transport ministry. Why? Because it seems all I've done in the past eight weeks is drive my kids to medical appointments. And cram my work in, in between. To the orthodontist. To the dentist. To x-rays and ERs. To orthopedists and neurologists. And so often to the family doctor that he recently joked that I'd won a free set of dishes for our frequent visits. To talk about warts and acne and migraines and sinus infections and broken bones. I can honestly say I've never had an eight weeks like the past eight weeks. It's a good thing gas prices have been dropping. I'll apply the savings to all the medical bills that should start showing up in our mailbox any day now.

Anyway. This seems to have left me a bit...irritable. So it might be best if for today I hold my tongue and just let you in on the books I'm reading these days. Of course, I'm doing most of that reading while we wait in waiting rooms. Hopefully you'll let me know what you're reading these days, or what you've recently read, or what you're hoping to read soon. I tend to read a few books at one time, so here's my current list:

Walking with God by John Eldredge. I highly recommend this. Eldredge is so honest about the thoughts in his head and has a great way of talking about his relationship with God without using super Christian words.

Beautiful Boy by David Sheff. This is...devastating. Scheff's journey through his son's addiction to meth. This book got me through our ER visit on Monday after Son3 hurt his elbow (which may or may not be broken -- we still don't know!).

Mr. Popper's Penguins by Robert and Florence Atwater because Son2 is reading it right now for homeschooling. I haven't gotten too far, but it seems like a cute story about a penguin living in someone's refrigerator. Too bad my son's not enjoying it.

A Member of the Family by Cesar Millan (aka the Dog Whisperer). Just started it and already I feel I've learned some important things about living with a dog.

The Shack by William Young. It seems everyone is reading this book. I probably won't have much to say about it until I finish it. What I can say right now is that I'm glad this author is enjoying such success, but I think it's really poorly written. Which just goes to show that some books succeed despite the writing.

Soon I'll be starting a book I'm really looking forward to: Farm Sanctuary: Changing Hearts and Minds about Animals and Food by Gene Bauer.

There's nothing I love more than book recommendations, so I hope you'll post yours here.

Icebreaker Questions

2008-10-22T06:36:00.002-04:00

This past weekend we had a women's conference at our church, and I was asked to provide ten icebreaker questions to use during lunch. I took the lazy way out and found most of them online. Here are six of them and then my answers.

1. What is the worst summer or part-time job you ever had?

2. I'm most aware of God's presence when ______________________.

3. The hardest thing I have ever done was ____________________________.

4. The greatest compliment I ever received was_______________________.

5. If you could have had the starring role in one film already made, which movie would you pick?

6. If a movie were being made of your life and you had to choose an actor or actress to play you, who would you choose and why?

Answers:
1. The worst part-time job I ever had was at a gourmet cheese and pastry shop in Washington, D.C. The cheese smelled dreadful, the roaches were plentiful, and there were a lot of rats around the dumpster each night when we had to take the trash out.

2. I'm most aware of God's presence when I read the Bible and it just clicks or when some ridiculous "coincidence" happens and I know it's God.

3. The hardest thing I have ever done was take care of a super colicky baby when I had post-partum depression.

4. The greatest compliment I ever received came from one of my college English professors when he told me he thought I could be a professional writer someday.

5. If I could have had the starring role in a film already made, I would want to play Arwen in Lord of the Rings. The thing is, I don't really just want to play Arwen, I think I'd like to be her.

6. If a movie were made of my life...well, I pity the poor sucker who'd go to see such a movie. I actually have no idea who to choose to play me. Not a clue. But I'd love to know who you all would want to play you in a movie.

Okay, these questions are ridiculous, but I hope you play along.

The Big Idea

2008-10-20T21:42:00.002-04:00

The good news is that one morning a few weeks ago, the big idea that my book desperately needed finally came to me. I am grateful. All along I knew that something -- something big -- was missing from this story of mine. I needed a magical element, but I had nothing. It was a big blank space in my head. And it was so strange. I had characters, and the roughest outline of a plot, and several pages of story...but I knew a huge piece was lurking somewhere outside my head. It came to me in the way that things often do... seemingly unrelated ideas that keep hammering away at my brain for reasons I can't explain until they finally bubble up and present themselves as something new, something transformed -- something I need.

The bad news is that I am having a terrible time writing. It's a tired old complaint, I know. Aside from just the realities of life, I feel like my beliefs about myself are holding me back. When I was a child and even a teen, I thought I had no talents whatsoever. I still struggle to see myself as a creative person. I completely doubt my ability to write a whole novel. That's for other people, I think, not me. I have to push past these thoughts and feelings constantly; but when I try to, I feel like I'm deluding myself. I'm not asking anyone to tell me these things aren't true. I wouldn't even believe it anyway. The problem is with me, in my head and in my heart; and if I can't overcome these things, then this book won't ever get written.

Kids and Politics

2008-10-15T19:55:00.002-04:00

This election has captivated my boys, which is something I hadn't anticipated. Each afternoon when I pick up my youngest from school, he has some election-related news to deliver. For days on end I was informed with great distress that all of his classmates want John McCain to win. The first time he made this announcement it led to a lengthy discussion about why people make the choices they do about candidates. I explained the kind of issues that most Christians feel strongly about and most likely why most of his classmates' parents would be casting their ballot for McCain. Of course, then I had to explain why those issues, while important, are not the most important ones to me and to his dad, and why we feel strongly about certain other issues.

It's hard to discuss these things with a nine-year-old. I find myself resorting to great contrasts to explain the differences, which may not be the best approach. I believe I said, "Should I care more about the death of an unborn American baby than the death of an Iraqi child or American soldier who died because we started an unjust war?" Of course, I explained that I care about them all. I want my children to understand that we believe there is far more to a "pro-life" position than a stance against abortion. If nothing else, this election has gotten that conversation started.

Anyway, on to the slightly lighter side of life. This week there have been a lot of negative Obama rumors circulating at school apparently. Yesterday Son3 got in the car and said, "'John' [who you may remember from a previous post] says Obama is a muslim. Is he a muslim? And that he's friends with terrorists." I say no and explain how these rumors got started; at the same time I wonder whether "John's" parents ever consult a credible news source. Today it was a little different. "'John' says Obama is stupid becuase he's going to raise taxes on rich people. Is that true?" I tell him it's true, and there's no response from the back seat. Then I say, "Well, if he has to raise taxes, should he raise them on rich people or poor people or regular people?" He agrees that it would be better to raise taxes on the rich than the poor, especially when he finds out that we're not in the "rich" category.

It is difficult to share the shades of gray with kids; easier obviously with my fourteen-year-old than my nine-year-old. I figure some conversation about these issues is better than none at all. They feel strongly about the issues without understanding that they are just swallowing whole everything we are telling them -- just as their classmates are doing. I haven't bothered to point this out.

Oh well. I've been mindful lately of dialing down the rhetoric a bit. That seemed like a good choice after Son3 expressed his frustration with his brother by saying, "He's being so annoying. He's acting like John McCain."

More than once through all of this I've wondered whether I'm raising a future generation of political activists. My youngest even came up with an idea for a campaign T-shirt. He was annoyed by a T-shirt some of the high schoolers wore recently on a dress down day. The shirt read "NObama." His idea? "GObama." Good boy.

More Than I Bargained For

2008-10-12T20:48:00.003-04:00

I’ve been working like crazy the past two weeks, and I haven’t had a spare minute. I knew when I agreed to the project that every one of my family members would pay the price – but mostly me. And indeed, that’s how it went down. But now it’s over and I’m back to a more regular work schedule and the usual worries of how to keep all the plates spinning. As opposed to the past two weeks in which I didn’t try to keep the plates spinning at all. The boys complained about the lack of groceries, I complained (to myself) about the interruptions of driving them to medical and dental appointments, and if the dog had a voice he would have complained about his drastically shortened walks. Fortunately my husband isn't the kind to complain about a lack of meals or clothes that haven't been washed, which is a quality I recommend in a husband.

In the midst of my busyness, I've really missed blogging, which makes me happy. I used to write here primarily out of guilt, but not anymore I guess. I've thought of lots of posts I'd like to do. Okay, that's overstated. I've thought of a few. One thing I’ve been thinking about posting is some writing prompts. They can be fun to do, especially if they’re not particularly demanding. I give them to Son2 most days to write in his journal as part of his schoolwork. Of course, I probably wouldn’t post the same ones I give him. But maybe I would. Who knows where they might lead?

And that leads to my story. A week or two ago I gave him a writing assignment. I asked this question: If you could travel anywhere in time to any place, where would you go? What would happen while you were there? I told him that if he wanted to, he could write a story based on the idea of time travel instead. He’s a creative fellow and I figured he’d take me up on that opportunity, but I was wrong. Instead he wrote that he would travel back to the time that I was pregnant with his older brother and that he would switch places with him and completely change his life.

Not exactly what I was expecting, but I’m glad I asked the question.

I guess...

How about you guys? Any takers?

Train of Thoughts...

2008-10-03T05:37:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I was driving home after dropping the boys off at school and I found myself obsessing over a problem one of the boys is having. I could not stop thinking about it -- what I should or could do about it, how he was feeling about it, what purpose this serves in his life, and so on. And so on. After a while, I stopped my thoughts short. What am I doing? Wasn't I going to use this time in the car to pray? Yes! That's what I meant to do. But a short time later I realized I wasn't praying at all -- I was still obsessing.

And then I started thinking about that. Isn't that what a mother does? Isn't a mother the one person who will always think of you and about you? The person who can't stop rooting for you? The person who's in your corner and whose thoughts are full of you?

I stopped my thoughts again and began berating myself for failing at the prayer time. It took me a minute or two to realize that was a waste of time, a trap. And then I thought of that verse in Psalm 139: How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them. Apparently that verse can also be translated like this: How precious are your thoughts concerning me, O God! How vast is the sum of them. (Really. Check the NIV text notes; wow, that makes me sound like a major geek!)

But the idea struck me...Are God's thoughts full of each of us as my thoughts were full of my son on this particular morning? The way I could not stop thinking of him, contemplating what could be done, what would be best...is this just a little bit like the way God is always thinking of each one of us? Rooting for us? Wanting and hoping the best for us? I think perhaps it is. The next verse says, Were I to count them (God thoughts), they would outnumber the grains of sand. So I stopped feeling bad about not praying. Instead I felt so relieved, so grateful that God's thoughts are constantly full of love for me and that if I'm obsessing over this boy I love so much, well, God is all the more.

Clubhouse Rules

2008-10-01T12:28:00.003-04:00

For the past two years, since we've been living in this house, we've been telling the younger boys to turn the small outbuilding in our backyard into a clubhouse. What kid doesn't want that? For reasons still unknown to us, they have not wavered in their resistance to this idea.

Whatever.

But talk about the power of peer influence. On Sunday two boys from church (brothers) came home with us to play with our younger boys for the afternoon. When they all grew bored with watching each other play Guitar Hero, they went outside. (Finally!) And that's when it happened. One of the boys suggested they should turn that building into a clubhouse. Aha! A brilliant idea!

They went to work. Cleaned it up, furnished it a bit (even provided a garbage can), and settled in. And then they wrote the rules. Here they are (no corrections have been made):

No spitting.
No swearing.
No littering.
No handheld games.
No alcuhol.
No smoking.
No starting fires.
Don't pee in the clubhouse (LOL).
The clubhouse closes at 9 p.m. Keep these rules and you will be fine in the clubhouse.

Good rules, one and all. I decided not to find it disturbing that my young sons felt that it was necessary to instruct themselves and everyone else that alcohol and smoking wouldn't be tolerated in the clubhouse. I decided it was better to be encouraged by the very same fact. As far as I'm concerned, they and their friends can live by the clubhouse rules for a good long time.

Confessions of a News Junkie

2008-09-27T23:02:00.002-04:00

I am an obsessive consumer of news. I cannot help it. And so, you can imagine that this is reaching epic proportions lately. In addiction parlance, I think I’m about to hit bottom. I watch the news in the morning; I feel disoriented without it. When my brain is desperate for an editing break, I read the news online. CNN. The New York Times. The Washington Post. NPR. BBC. I can’t get enough of it. I have to force myself to stop. When I’m driving, I listen to NPR. The boys beg for music; after the election, I say. I’m fairly certain most college journalism majors suffer from this condition. Some people even have it worse than I do.

Last night, we watched the debate. Had to. Truth be told, I was desperately hoping to see McCain put the nail in his own coffin so I can sleep easier each night before the election. Because this election is eating away at me, and I can’t wait for it to be over. I’d like to know now whether we’ll need to move to Canada so our sons won’t have to die in some unnecessary conflict because our elected leaders are so far from understanding diplomacy that they have us mired in conflicts around the globe. And that debate made it very clear: there is one candidate who truly understands the value of diplomatic efforts and the need to restore America’s standing around the globe. It was not just clear in what he said but in the way he conducted himself. And for that reason, among many, many others, I will be voting for Barack Obama this November. And frankly, I hope you will be too.

Back in the Saddle

2008-09-26T19:29:00.002-04:00

I always appreciate it when God helps me out with the basics. I've been nothing short of overwhelmed lately. With work. With the kids. With laundry. With the need to feed people. What? You need to eat? Again? The basics. Now that summer is over and we've settled back into a routine — albeit a rather chaotic one — I've been wracked with guilt about not writing. And overwhelmed at the thought of when I could possibly squeeze that in. I mean, please.

At the same time I've been frustrated with the morning's increasing darkness. Bear and I walk each morning, and I had been doing it before the boys got up for school. That meant walking at 6 a.m. It's a great time to walk, so peaceful. But suddenly it became a little too dark for walking alone. Well, walking alone with the dog, who I know would protect me if called upon...but I do try not to be stupid.

Back to the guilt and the not writing and my inability to find even a sliver of time when I would not feel like I had to be doing something else. I just sort of presented all the overwhelming demands on my time to God and said, "Help!" And miraculously, my thoughts finally fell into place. Now don't be deceived...it's not like I've got the God hotline or anything. For weeks I've been trying to put this together. How to make the mornings work with everything that's required: Getting two boys off to school (in particular, helping them find their socks, which never seem to be in their drawers), starting another on his schoolwork, answering clients' e-mails, getting started on my work, walking the dog, spending time with God...and my big stumbling block: writing. Suddenly I saw the opportunity the darkness was giving me. I'm now writing at six o'clock each morning and walking the dog later. The truth is that if I don't write before everything starts to get crazy and people start needing things, then it's just never going to happen. So, I'm pretty happy about this. Wow...this is a really long post just to say that I started writing again.

Not Quite the Brady Bunch

2008-09-18T19:55:00.002-04:00

I loved the Brady Bunch when I was a kid, and my kids love it now. They record it early each morning and watch it almost every afternoon. Do you remember the episode where Marcia draws a picture in school and is busted for it because a nasty comment about a teacher is written above the drawing?

Well, last week I got a call from the elementary school principal. Let's just say it's not the first call I've ever received from her. She said, "I just wanted to let you know that I had your son in the office today with a classmate because a student told us that they were drawing inappropriate pictures of teachers."

Of course, the word inappropriate set alarm bells off in my head. What?! But in my calm voice, I said, "What exactly did he draw?" She said, "A cyclops." I'm still not sure how I contained my laughter.

That night I asked Son3 who he'd drawn as a cyclops. The headmaster of the school, of course (who also happens to be teaching one class -- fifth grade math). "Who told on you?" I asked. I had to know. Son3 named the classmate (we'll call him John) and then did his best nerd imitation (something he and his brother have perfected over the past few months) and said: "John said, 'I talked to the Lord about it and I felt that you and Jordan were drawing disrespectful pictures.'" This time I didn't bother to contain my laughter. That's Christian school for you.

Of course, in the Brady Bunch episode, Marcia drew the picture but it was a classmate who wrote the problematic comment. Far be it from Marcia to actually do something worthy of punishment.

An Anniversary...of sorts

2008-09-15T21:58:00.002-04:00

Seven years ago today my mom died. I don't think I have any words for this. In many ways it is heartbreaking to me that we learn to go on. I remember how lost I was, how completely bereft after she died. For the longest time I felt the loss acutely. She was simply not there. It was shocking. Yet somehow over time I absorbed that loss, and it's as if the vacuum that she left has become a part of me, just as surely as she is a part of me.

I was going to post a poem that I wrote before she died. It's called The Diagnosis. I cannot. It's such a short poem, and in so few words it's just...devastating. Too much truth or something. So I'll post this one instead. I wrote it on Thanksgiving Day, two months after she died. Seven years later I still think it captures those days perfectly.

Thanksgiving

your veins ran to crimson
your bruises to mulberry
your skin to honey
before autumn even arrived

my eyes I could not lift
suspended
I was transfixed
upon the unexpected
passage of your seasons

so I drank your honey skin
warmed myself
at the bedside of your illumination
tenderly held
your stained and thinning hands
in September, thanksgiving was upon me

now winter is nearly here
but your autumn haunts me still
the hushed morning
a Saturday
when your last leaves blew away

A Poem

2008-09-10T21:18:00.003-04:00

I thought that poems had left me. It's been years since one has come to me, which is how it works for me. I've contemplated this lately...whether I could sit down and write one without a dose of inspiration. Poems arrived almost unbidden for years, and they practically hunted me down after my mother died, begging to be written. But for a few years now, there's been...nothing. Until the other evening when a butterfly flitted through the yard while we were all outside playing wiffle ball. The butterfly was a lovely pale lemon color, and it seemed so out of place, in an evening that seemed to herald fall.

Here it is, without a title:

The leaves yellowing at their fringes
The incessant chorus of crickets
And the evening’s brisk breeze
Remind me that summer is
Waning toward darker evenings
And November’s biting wind

The falling leaves, the relinquishing
A memory struggling to surface
Interrupted by you, butterfly,
Your flight a dance of dappled light
Cinderella
Waltzing through my yard

I'm not completely satisfied with this. It's awkward or something...and perhaps doesn't say all that I'd like it to. But that little lemony butterfly has been nagging me for a poem, and I had to write something to get started.

Oreos and Microchips

2008-09-09T06:53:00.002-04:00

Yesterday afternoon, sometime after I'd consumed my millionth Oreo, I realized I might be a tad depressed. Not really sure why; my life doesn't leave me much time for self-reflection. Perhaps I'm depressed because I'm avoiding writing, though the overwhelming nature of life right now means it doesn't feel like avoidance at all. It feels like survival, and I don't see that changing. I keep waiting for some extreme sense of drivenness to take over. Regardless, yesterday I began thinking that perhaps I could be implanted with a microchip and when I go into the store to buy Oreos, I would be unable to complete the transaction. Perhaps they'd scan my hand and the check-out person would say with disdain, "Sorry, you're not allowed to buy Oreos," and she'd quicky snatch them away. Not much of a plan, but when depression is setting in and self-control is lacking, it seems potentially helpful.

The Problem of Pain — When You're Eleven

2008-09-06T10:03:00.002-04:00

The other night I had one of the most difficult conversations I've ever had with one of my boys. Son2, in addition to the migraines, has been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately. On Monday night he was...near despair. He's not the most optimistic fellow...and why would he be? But he'd had a terrible night's sleep on Sunday, and he was convinced he was in for more of the same. When he is like this, there is no reasoning with him. So this conversation about sleep led into one that was much more intense, and, frankly, disconcerting. Son2 wanted to know why he is the only one in our family who suffers. Hmmm. I tried to point out the things that his brothers deal with, and at the same time acknowledge his pain and the fact that he does seem to have more to handle than his brothers do. I know he feels like their lives are so much easier, so much more...blessed. Both are athletic, and popular. Both are sort of quintessential...boys. Son2's gifts are different, and amazing. But that's not what we're talking about. He agreed with me that he would not want someone else to have to deal with the pain that he does, but I could also tell that, honestly, part of him felt like it would be a-okay if his brothers were living his life and he was living theirs. I understand.

But still he wanted to know, why me? I admitted I do not know, that I only know that God is the only one who can take our pain and losses and bring good. That this is a miracle, and God can do that miracle for him. Then, of course, he wanted to know what good could possibly come from his pain, his trials. I said it would likely be a long time before we would know that answer. I said that great art most often springs from those broken places in our hearts, and that any art he makes in the future -- writing, music, sculpture, film -- would all be richer and deeper because of this. I also explained that only people who have suffered can truly comfort those who are suffering. That comfort is a work that Jesus does and that we can work with Jesus to comfort those who need it, to be with them in their pain. But still...he wanted to know, why me? Why am I the only one?

And so I had no choice but to let him know that he doesn't know ways that his dad and I may have suffered in our own lives as children. I said I could not tell him the things that I had been through as a child, that it wasn't right for him to know that now, that it is too sad, but to trust me that I had known deep pain at his age but that, unlike him, I was very alone, with no one to talk with about it, but that it is okay now and that somehow God saw me through those years. As soon as I started to explain this to him, my voice broke and I began to cry, and he jumped up and said, "Oh mom..." with such...compassion and understanding...and then he began to sob, and he put his arms around me.

I explained that all that pain I experienced and more pain and losses since have made me able to be with people who are suffering. And then I said, "Do you see? You're eleven, and you already can do this. You just did it." And he saw it, though he has no idea how rare it is.

That night, fortunately, he slept. And I did too, though that conversation left me drained and a bit worried about what adolescence may hold.

At the brink

2008-08-28T19:08:00.003-04:00

Here I am, five days into homeschooling, and I feel on the brink of insanity. I remember now why I didn't have more children. It's that need for some level of personal space...and, introvert that I am, that's important to me. It's not that the homeschooling aspect of things isn't going well; it is. It's the constant togetherness. This other person is here all day, and he's a child, and he needs me. And we've been dealing with an explosion of migraines since the first of August and he's having all kinds of trouble sleeping — problems falling asleep, problems staying asleep, nightmares, etc., etc. It is awful for him, but the ugly truth is that it is also awful for me. I don't want to deal. I just don't. And so there it is. I'm such a nice mommy.

The Pets

2008-08-20T19:14:00.002-04:00

Why do we love our pets so much? What is that? We were recently away in New Hampshire, just the boys and I, as the husband had too much work to do. I missed the pets desperately. When I came home, Checkers spent the next day folded up next to me on the bed while I worked. Every once in a while she would look up at me through her tired, half-closed eyes and begin to purr. We were a picture of contentment. It frightens me that I now understand how someone ends up in a house full of forty cats. Or eighty. I am hoping I don't let this happen to me.

And the dog. I was assured that he didn't appear to be missing me too much. He was, supposedly, his regular self. But Bear was utterly overjoyed at our return. Beside himself happy. The next day I was outside on the deck while some guys were finishing up some work on it (a project that someone else started last summer), and when I was introduced to one of them, Bear rushed to my defense as the guy came toward me to shake my hand. Bear charged up onto the deck with his terrifying bark, telling the guy to back off. Obviously I wasn't in any danger, but, honestly, that made me love Bear even more. I mean, Bear knew the guy; he'd been there while we were away. But somehow he knew that I didn't know the guy, and I guess he wanted to put the fellow in his place. Or something. But this is something I love about Bear, that protective instinct.

I think a lot about animals. They figure into the book I'm trying to write, and somehow in that story I really want to express some of my thoughts and feelings about the relationship between humans and animals. But I often find myself wondering about animals' emotions. How do they feel about us? What do they think? What do we mean to them?

Reading and Writing (not!)

2008-08-08T13:36:00.003-04:00

I recently finished Unaccustomed Earth, a collection of stories by Jumpha Lahiri. Everything about it was perfect. She's one of those writers who I wish was much further along in her career because I'd like there to be a great backlog of books to read. Oh well. I''ll just have to wait a year or two or three for the next one.

I love to discover great writers I haven't read before. I think sometimes that reading can be a bit like gorging yourself -- but mostly without the guilt, unless you're reading when you should be working. And when you find a writer and discover you adore their writing, then it's so much fun to go back and read all their books. That way you can avoid that slightly depressed feeling that can come after you finish a truly great book. Of course, only true reading geeks know just what that feels like.

I've been trying to read some children's/YA fantasy lately -- something, anything to sort of inspire me to get back to the work of writing -- but it's just not working. I can't get into anything. It feels like work and not joy. And I am not writing. I think I sort of surrendered the summer. A lot of work to do. And just the work of summer -- helping the boys have a good one, that is. And the lack of a stable routine. But who am I kidding? The school year, which starts in two weeks, is going to be tricky too. Working. Homeschooling. The demands of school and sports and all the back and forth. And somehow, some way, I must set aside a time to write each day, otherwise this whole thing will just go down the drain. And it would be so easy to let that happen. I'm busy enough to pretend that would be no big deal.

Perhaps I should drown my sorrows in a good book. Suggestions anyone?

The Penderwicks

2008-05-30T09:49:00.003-04:00

If you're a fan of juvenile and YA fiction as I am — or if you have kids who love to read — don't miss The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy. This book is pure delight and one I plan on reading aloud to the boys over the summer. I'm happy to say that it won the National Book Award for young people's fiction. And I'm happier to say that a second book about the Penderwicks was just published. This may help ward off that slight feeling of depression that usually sets in when I've read the last word of a book I've thoroughly enjoyed. And my geeky inner child is looking forward to learning more about the author, Jeanne Birdsall.

And if you're looking for more delightful juvenile fiction, check out The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate Dicamillo (author of Winn Dixie).

The Verdict Is In

2008-05-29T22:24:00.002-04:00

Well, obviously my limited devotion to blogging has waned considerably in the past six weeks. Even I had forgotten what my last post was about. Lots of questions apparently.

Well...many of those have been answered. The homeschooling is a go. Wonder what I'll have to say about this next fall once we've gotten underway.

I know this is the right thing to do for Son2. He's not meant for school, and I'm not meant for stupid school policies. In my opinion, who cares if the kid misses six weeks of school as long as he makes up the work and gets good grades? But the school seems to think that this requires a load of summer school, which we, of course, would have to pay for. Mmm...yeah...let's punish the kid three times over for having migraines. Good idea.

As I was still mulling over this decision, I heard this great interview on Fresh Air with the guy who wrote the Academy Award-winning-song for and played in the movie Once. Now, I was less than thrilled when this song won the Academy Award because I thought “The Happy Working Song” from Enchanted was the award worthy song. It’s an instant Disney classic. Alas, I suppose this just shows why I am not a part of the Academy.

Anyway. This was a great interview with that songwriter/actor, and he told a wonderful story about leaving school when he was thirteen. He said that the headmaster called him into his office and said it was time for him to leave school and go and learn more about music and see if he could possibly make a living at it. So the kid headed off to some street in south Dublin and the rest is history.

And somehow, this was the final thing that made me able to set Son2 free from traditional school. If a headmaster can tell a student, you’re not made for this…go and pursue what you are made for, then surely I can do that for my son. It’s not like I’m asking him to make his way on the streets of Dublin.

At the moment I don’t have a clue exactly what he’ll be learning, but I’m excited to orient his education toward the arts and his interests. Last week he had a neurologist appointment and since he was missing a field trip because of the appointment, I took him to the Brandywine River museum to make up for it. I love that museum. Andrew Wyeth is one of my favorite artists; his paintings grip me in some unexplainable way. Son2 loved it, and it was great to share that with him. The best moment came when we read a quote from Andrew Wyeth that said something like this: “Sometimes when it looks like I’m doing nothing, I’m getting the most done.” Son2 said: “That’s just like me!”

I’m telling you, that kid can break my heart sometimes. He would love to be a person who plays sports and wins things and has no trouble with math. But that’s not who he is, and we desperately want him to be happy with the wonderful, creative person he is. So anything that affirms the normalcy of the creative experience is a relief to him, I think.

After that museum visit I found an article online about the fact that Andrew Wyeth was withdrawn from school when he was still quite young and tutored at home for the remainder of his schooling. He talks about the fact that he believes artistic kids should be homeschooled.

One last note. Lately I’ve been noticing that when he stays home from school with a migraine, he spends a lot of time doing creative things. It got me wondering whether the migraines sometimes come as a result of a build-up of creative energy. A good theory anyway.

Too Many Questions

2008-04-07T07:43:00.003-04:00

Here are the things that have been occupying my thoughts lately, all of which have probably kept me from blogging. At least that is the excuse I'll use.

Do we let Son1 go on a missions trip to Belize? Is an 11-day trip into a foreign country, being totally immersed in various ministries, too much for him to handle? Too much for any 13-year-old?

How long can I survive without any editing work? Why don't I have any work? What's going on? Is everyone just freaking out about the economy?

Do we homeschool Son2 next year? His migraines, his struggles with math, and his overall temperament and interests seem to make this a good idea.

Do I write a curriculum to teach people how to write a good children's picture book? Do the people who try to write these books ever read them? In case you were wondering, I'm fairly certain they don't.

Do I take a long-term substitute position as a language arts teacher for fourth and fifth grades at my boys' school for the last seven weeks of the school year? I don't have any jobs at the moment, so is this the right thing to do?

These issues and others have been really overwhelming my thoughts of late. And...brief update...I mentioned back in January that I was going to start giving attention to this novel I want to write. Well, I really blew it for a while, but I'm back on the wagon. Every day I realize how much more research I have to do -- just to write something that is essentially a YA fantasty/adventure novel. I'm certain that my local librarians must think I'm insane. On my most recent trip to the library I came home with The Company of Wolves, Tracks and Trailcraft, Life in a Medieval Village, Vegan Express (so I can make dinner in the midst of the craziness), and five young adult novels (so I can read their openings and then return them -- unless they're good of course).

Who new? Much of the plot is still a mystery to me, but parts of it are becoming clear. I guess I thought I would just start writing, but it has not turned out that way. I'm going to keep plugging away at it until the plot is essentially clear, then sketch out each scene, and then I'll start writing. Phew. For any writers out there, I'm reading a great book called Plot and Structure by James Scott Bell...very helpful.

Oh well, time to go wash some floors and brood some more.

Amusing Observations

2008-03-17T10:09:00.002-04:00

You may not know this about me, but one of the things I actually like most about myself is that I'm easily amused. Now, I'm not sure whether this is truly an admirable quality, but it does make life better. Heaven knowns the small things can often make life worse -- cat poop in the bathtub drain, a dog that needs to be let out to pee at 3 a.m., or someone crying in the morning before school because they "forgot" to finish their homework. If such small things can send a day on a downward trajectory, you better hope some small things can help propel it in a happier direction. And this is why I think it's good that I'm easily entertained.

I am definitely an observer. I should have followed my journalistic calling because observation seems to be one of the things I most excel at. But since I'm not using my powers to report on world events, I do use them for my own entertainment. Here are a few small, amusing observations I've made lately:

Yesterday, in the grocery store parking lot, I noticed a truck with a bumper sticker, which I thought said, "Vegetarian." I was surprised, because you don't see many people around here proclaiming their commitment to vegetarianism. You especially don't see it on the back of pickup trucks. They're more likely to have this bumper sticker: "Vegetarian: Indian word for bad hunter." So I looked a little more closely at the truck with the sticker, and I had it wrong. The bumper sticker actually said, "Vaginatarian." And I thought that was pretty funny.

In the same grocery store parking lot, I recently saw a general contractor's truck with lettering on the side. It said: "McQuitty Contracting." Honestly, if your name was McQuitty wouldn't you choose another name for your business?

This morning I was shopping for gobs of Easter candy for the boys at Wal-Mart, which B. and I have re-named China-Mart. In the aisle with all the Easter goodies, there was a rack of pocket New Testaments in Easter colors. I picked one up to look at it, turned it over and discovered that it was manufactured in China. So it's illegal to own a Bible there, but it's okay to make them. Classic. If they're not capitalists, then I don't know who qualifies for the label anymore.