oh, and my kiddos thrown in for good measure. it is for my mom, after all...
She sat staring at her brunch—face pale, eyes vacant. This was not our daughter. "I don't feel well," she whimpered, sipping her lukewarm raspberry tea. "You'll feel better after you eat something, Bub," I replied. The same turmoil I'd been feeling all weekend returned. How do I handle this? What's the best thing to do? My stomach churned. I wish to God I knew. But I didn't. And I still don't, even in hindsight.
Life is full of these handbook-less parenting moments—I realize this. I know I am not the only parent who struggles to know what is best for their child on a given day. But somehow the addition of gymnastics to our lives has increased the number of these moments in a rather disproportionate way, and I am left feeling like I'm faltering (and failing) more often than not.
This weekend was meet number two of the month, just one weekend after State Championships. Practices are Wednesday nights, Friday afternoons, and Saturday mornings. Dilemma number one: do we opt for the additional Monday night practice, like many of her teammates do, and give her a competitive advantage, or do we allow her to have at least one afternoon (I work T/Th so she goes to her Grandma's and isn't at home) free for being a child? We choose to forgo the additional practice, and spend Monday's at home, reading and relaxing. Her friends do not, and their scores reflect that. What's a parent to do?
Most of the time, we do not have practice on Saturday mornings on the weekend of a meet, but this weekend we did. This was a good thing, as it meant we didn't have to miss a practice. More time to work on the events that trouble her. A good thing, right? Or no? Dilemma two: do I opt to keep her home and let her rest and rejuvenate, or do I take advantage of another opportunity to get more confident on her bar routine? I choose to send her, some moms choose to keep their girls at home. Which choice was better?
Having practice on Friday nights and Saturday mornings means missing a lot of social events. Sleepovers, birthday parties, mother-daughter events for school—most fall on Friday nights. She finally gets invited to an event on a Saturday afternoon—a couple of hours at Fort Rapids, an indoor water park. She loves water parks, she loves the friend who has invited her. She's tired, but she's had a nap. She never gets to just be a kid and do things with her friends. But the meet is tomorrow. Dilemma three: Do I allow her to go, or no? I consult with her father, the Voice of Reason within our household, and he agrees she needs to be a kid. She goes to the water park. She wakes up today tired and with a sore throat. Wrong decision, or no?
We get up for church this morning, unable to sleep in because I'm teaching Sunday school and Tom's running camera, and we're all out the door by 8:30ish. We leave church and head to brunch, to fuel our gymnast for her meet, and she announces she isn't feeling well. You can tell it to look at her. She is not her normal self, by a long shot. Dilemma four: do we pull out and go home, or push through? We get some cold medicine, and within an hour she is feeling better. We push through. But is it the right thing to do?
The meet begins well, with a 9.15 (out of 10) on her floor routine. She's shooting for her 36 today—she needs two within the season to move up to level five next year. Both of her buddies have achieved it—but both of her buddies practiced all summer while she was out with a broken arm, and both attend the additional practice. Dilemma number five: do I break it to her that she's not likely to catch up to them this year, or let her continue to hope (and continue to be disappointed)?
Vault is decent—another 9.15. She's done better, but she's done worse. She squeaks out an 8.65 on the bars, which is a full half point improvement from last weekend, and I make a mental note to point that out to her. You can't spend four months out with a fracked up arm and expect to get a 9 or above right away on the bars. But I digress. She heads in to her final event, the beam, needing a 9.05 to get her 36. Should be a piece of cake. She took first place on beam for her age group last weekend. The 36 should be in the bag.
I am nervous as she begins, remembering that her warm-up was a little more wobbly than usual, probably because of her head cold. I breathe a short prayer, but that is the last breath I take for what seems like an eternity. She is still wobbly, fighting to hold on to poses that normally don't sway her. I pray harder. She wobbles again. And again. And then, my tenacious little fighter falls off the beam. I curse under my breath, trying to keep my disappointment from escaping my eyes.
She finishes, but she is not happy. She dismounts, fakes a smile for the judges, and makes it barely ten steps before bursting into tears. 8.4. There will be no 36 today. Both her friends make 37s, and my daughter is inconsolable.
Dilemma number six: had I made a different choice on any of the decisions above, would it have changed today's outcome? And if so, am I partially to blame for her disappointment? Or worse, totally?
Where is the handbook for THAT?
The day began innocently enough as far as epiphanies go. After a slow start due to a late night the evening before, we were finally all up and moving—moving tubs and bags and boxes up from the basement to be dug through and sorted and stored or gotten rid of. I was nearly jubilant as I plowed through the last ten years worth of stuff (which had heretofore been accumulating en masse all over my basement, already a pit to begin with) trying to determine what were keepsakes and what was simply not worth keeping. Baby clothes, teething rings, books, baskets, tennis shoes, clothes out of date, out of style, out of size. Three carloads to Goodwill later, I was nearly finished.
Laid out before me were the remnants of babyhood to be sorted and stored, and then my work would be finished. I perused the items carefully—which child did they belong to? Was this handmade? By whom? Would they want this for their own children? I tried to identify all the important information one would want to remember but would never be able to in twenty-some years. It was at this point I picked up the dog.
He was cute—a soft, shaggy brown mutt about the size of a webkinz. I couldn't remember for the life of me to which child he belonged. I noticed he had stitching on each ear—one ear read "record," the other, "play." Easy enough, I figured. I'll press play and see if it gives me any clues.
I pressed play and out came my own voice. "Hi Buddy! I love you!" I crooned. Problem solved. It was my son's. I was not prepared for what happened next.
The recording wasn't over. After my own "I love you," there was a second's pause, and then an 18-month old voice echoed back, "I yuv you!!!"
If this afternoon in my life were a scene from a movie, that moment would look like the scene in Ratatouille when Anton Ego, the food critic, takes his first bite of Remy's ratatouille and is sucked back through a wooshing vortex of memory to his mother's kitchen some thirty or forty years earlier. I could almost feel my hair swoosh around my ears as I was transported instantly back to chubby cheeks and cherubic faces and wet kisses and infectious laughter. I lost it.
I sat there in the middle of what will never be again, and I couldn't pull myself back together. And that's when it all finally came clear in one heartbreakingly obvious moment. It was more than just mourning the passing of these stages in my children's lives, though I am wont to do that ad nauseum. No—it was something more, something deeper, something I've never spoken. Something I've ignored and stifled and stuffed and shrugged off but could never quite get rid of. And there it was, all messy and snotty and out in the open. I. Want. Another. Baby.
There. Will. Be. No. More. Babies.
There will be no more babies. After two difficult pregnancies, one of them with multiples, I couldn't have dreamed of putting my 34 year old body through that, let alone my nearly-40 body. I knew, when my son was born, we were done. I simply couldn't do that again. The nine months of terrible pain, the destruction of my body, the disruption to our lives, the months upon months upon MONTHS of screaming, diaper changing, screaming, sleepless nights, and did I mention the screaming? No. There will be no more babies. I knew this six and a half years ago. I know it still.
But there is a difference between knowing and knowing, and my heart began to understand that difference this Saturday knee-deep in blankets and bears and binkies and baby books. I grieved on and off all afternoon. I grieved lying awake in bed, unable to sleep with pre-meet nerves. And I grieve it now, wiping tears between paragraphs, putting it all into words for the first time and perhaps the last.
There will be no more babies. Surrounded with what remains, I closed that chapter yet again this weekend, flipping forward once again to the school-aged years where I will continue to suck every bit I can out of each and every moment available to me. As Buddy listened with curiosity to his younger self, he crawled in my lap, wrapping his slender arms around my neck. "I still love you, Momma," he reminded me. I held him too tight for a little too long, and I told him I loved him, too.
And then, yet again, I let him go.
With good friends at the lake a few weekends ago... Hiked, played tag, ate lots of good food. And saw five bald eagles at the wildlife refuge!
Me and the hubby (AKA "The Old Man")
Boo at the Zoo (Subtitle: The Lamest Year Ever) Happy Birthday, Babe. I love you. Truly.
Bub's first "official" USAG meet. 34.95 overall score (out of 40). Not bad for a kid who was out for five months with a broken arm!
The day after the meet, we met up with the rest of my family to go hiking in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. This is us with my folks and my "little" brother and his family.
The kiddos climbing on the rocks. My mom emailed me the next day and said she couldn't sleep that night because she kept having visions of her grandchildren falling off rocks. I had to laugh. No reason. I certainly did NOT have the same problem...
I love my Bub... She's such a happy kid!
This past weekend we camped at Pokagon State Park in northwestern Indiana. We used to camp here frequently when I was growing up--I've not been there for almost ten years. It was great to go back!
My Buddy! Could he be any cuter?!?!
Normally, my mail doesn't make me cry. Normally. But today's mail was an exception. Today's mail contained the season brochure for The Toledo Masterworks Chorale, and it pressed on a tender spot in my spirit I have gone to great lengths to avoid over the past several years. This blog began as an effort to avoid that tender spot. And I'd done pretty well, as of late. But tender spots always seem to be found, somehow. Someone presses on them by mentioning the unmentionable, asking the unaskable, or mailing you a brochure that gets delivered right into your hands and says, "Hey—pay attention to me now, would you?"
We moved here nine years ago, leaving behind this fine group of semi-professional musicians with whom we had developed deep friendships and made incredible music for eight years. It was the first time since kindergarten that I had not been a part of a choir. I am still, nine years later, choir-less, and today, in particular, that makes me very, very sad.
In a season of life within which women already tend to feel every shred of their identity is laid on the altar of motherhood, it was particularly excruciating to take this part of my heart and lay it down, not knowing when or if it would ever be restored to me. Singing was not just a part of my identity, it was the entirety of who I thought myself to be. I loved singing choral music with a passion that nothing else—nothing else—in my life has ever even come close to. Passion deferred, I am discovering, makes the spirit sick.
Singing with the Chorale was a source of joy, of emotional outlet, of pride. It connected me with God and with others in a way few other things can. I ache for that, and there is nothing I can do about it. There is still, nine years later, no ram in the bush to spare this offering. And so today, thanks to the Chorale's 38th season, I am sitting here at my computer wiping tears and grieving this empty, achy place in my spirit that cannot be comforted by anything less than being a part of that glorious sound again, and again, and again.
Best wishes to the MWC for a fabulous season. Looks like fun. Wish I could be there.
Sing loud, old friends. Sing loud.
Just finished reading Angry Conversations With God: A Snarky But Authentic Spiritual Memoir, by Susan E. Isaacs, within which a disgruntled spiritual spouse decides to take God, whom she has been told all her single life will be her husband, to couples counseling.
Near the beginning, Susan imagines, after having heard about the very popular Conversations With God, what a conversation with the God she currently is "married" to would sound like. It goes something like this:
Susan: God, what the **** are you doing?
God: Shut the **** up or I'll kill you or something.
Of course, this is not what God really sounds like. And, of course, she and God reconcile in the end. But I found the book intriguing, as both a counselor and fellow conversant, and began to imagine my own conversations.
Mine goes something like this:
(I see God across the room, standing alone, looking around at the crowd.)
Me: (Approaching him because he doesn't make eye contact with me.) Hello? God? Do you remember me?
God: Oh! (His eyes register a blank look, but he smiles and shakes my hand.) Sure. I remember you. What was your name again?
(I smile awkwardly, embarrassed that I've remembered his name but he's not remembered mine. Happens all the time.)
Me: It's Lorie. Remember? We grew up together. I go to your church.
God: Oh, yeah! That's right! I thought you looked familiar. How is Scott? (He looks around the room again, scanning faces. He waves at someone.)
Me: Tom. (I smile another politely strained smile, embarrassed all the more.) My husband's name is Tom.
God: That's right—good ol' Scott. (His hand is on my arm, but he's already moving toward someone else.) Hey, listen—I'd love to chat, but I need to go shower blessings on people and heal some stuff and get to know some folks for a while, so, I'll catch you 'round, okay? Good talkin' with you, Leslie! Don't be a stranger!
I stand there, smarting, as he makes a bee-line for a beautiful couple with the right clothes and the right hair and the right stuff and embraces them warmly. I overhear him:
God: Hey guys! Great to see you again—last night was great, wasn't it? Hey—did you get that new job I sent you? Oh, good! And how about the tuition payment? Yes? Great. And how are the kids enjoying the new pool? Fabulous. Just wanted to bless you guys—love to love on ya! We'll get together again tomorrow night, okay?
The sting grows warm, spreading, a stupid don't-you-dare-cry smile plastered to my bewildered face, as I watch God go from person to person, working the room. I observe with jealousy, with hurt, with anger. And I wonder why, after 35 years of trying to get his attention, he still doesn't notice me. As I turn to escape, I hear him laughing, see him embracing others, observe him gaze deeply, affectionately into their eyes.
I walk out into the parking lot, the cool fall air mixing with my tears, soothing my red cheeks but little else. A life-time of trying, in my own insecure, imperfect way, to try to get to know this man, and he still doesn't really know I exist, much less give me the time of day. Why do I continue to pursue him?
Wrote this over the summer on a long, sunny drive. Thought it was fitting for today.
Green upon green upon blue upon green,
Spreading wide and long and high and deep.
What touches the earth, reaches the sky,
Bringing heaven within reach.
Spreading wide and long and high and deep—
Fruited branches ride the breeze,
Bringing heaven within reach,
Rooting peace in the soil of my soul.
Fruited branches ride the breeze—
What touches the earth, touches the sky,
Rooting peace in the soil of my soul…
Green upon green upon blue upon green.
Clear blue skies, mild temperatures, days at home to my self. THIS is what I love about September.
Two peas in a pod...
After eyeing it for months, I finally picked up What I Know Now: Letters to My Younger Self (edited by Ellyn Spragins) with a gift card I received for my birthday. I was immediately transfixed and began thinking of all the different ages at which I wished "I'd known then…" I picked fifth grade for an obvious reason—my daughter begins fifth grade a week from today, and my mind is swimming with all I want her to know about all there is to know.
At ten, I was painfully self-conscious, boy-crazy beyond belief, and immensely insecure. My love-hate relationship with attention was beginning to bloom, and I swung wildly from seeking attention at any price to wishing I could vanish into the cafeteria walls. My worth was based on the label on my back pocket, the insignia on my polo shirt, and whether or not my hair laid flat that day, which meant that most days, I did not feel too worthwhile.
This is what I wish I could have understood then, and what I pray to be able to instill within the heart of my own self-conscious, developing, precocious ten-year-old:
Dear Lorie,
Hiya! How are ya? I hope you're enjoying fifth grade. Mrs. McCarthy is a great teacher—she will follow your progress all the way through college because you made such an impression on her. Betcha didn't know that, but you will in time. Oh, and get over your silly feud with James over whatever the heck it was about. You'll still be friends thirty years from now, so it doesn't really matter.
So, first things first. You need to know that one day you will love your hair. I know. It doesn't feather. I know. I know it is, at times, the sole focus of your neurotic, self-conscious attention. I know you spend hours spitting it down in class, pressing your palm to your forehead, trying to get it to lay flat. It doesn't. It won't. Ever. Not until in your 30s when you discover smoothing serum and the ceramic flat iron, and then you will be giddy over the option to have straight hair for once in your life. But you won't choose it very often. Why? Because you will grow to love your hair, as will everyone else. You're just going to have to trust me on this one. Embrace it, don't fight it. Love your hair, and in doing so, you will learn to love yourself.
Next item of important business—NO ONE IS LOOKING AT YOU. The seemingly trite saying is actually, it turns out, true: they really are too busy worrying that everyone is looking at them to possibly even think about you. Remember this. In the cafeteria. In the halls. At the mall. At church. Any time you're out in public. Hold your head up high, walk proud, and speak confidently, and the right type of attention will come your way naturally.
Here's another secret you're gonna love—all the girls you're jealous of? Miss Gloria Vanderbilt Jeans with the horse and the tennis courts? Miss Perfectly Feathered Hair with the big Goode comb and the attention of all the Goode comb boys? Miss My Father Makes More Money Than Your Father? Get this—they're all actually jealous of YOU. Your creativity, your musical ability, your confidence "on stage," your relationship with your teachers, your grades and your gift for writing—they wish they had some of that. You see, shiny hair, designer jeans, and a clear complexion only go so far. So don't wish you were them. Because they wish they were you, and they will tell you so, in time.
Finally, I can't tell you how much I wish you weren't so afraid. Of pain. Of failure. Of rejection. Oh, what we could be now if you only believed in yourself. You need to know that this is what is true: you can and you will be more than you think you can. But only if you conquer the fear and self-consciousness that that paralyzes your spirit. Be confident, Lorie. And if you don't feel confident, simply act confident. The confidence will follow. There is no need to shrink within yourself. Bloom. The world will open before a young woman with poise and confidence.
Oh, and one last thing, Kiddo. You're not weird, you're not funny looking, and you're not fat. You are gifted. You are beautiful. You are fearfully and wonderfully made.
And you are very, very loved.
See you 'round, Girl! I'm looking forward to it!
BFA&F,
Gertie
I was kinda sorta almost doing okay-ish with the thought of my baby starting first grade a week from tomorrow. That is, of course, until I looked at this.
I had all sorts of fears for my daughter's first year of school—fear, of course, being what I do. In the end, it was all good, as everyone assured me it would be. The role my daughter was cast in has fit her well, and I am eagerly anticipating the playing out of her fifth grade run, though I wish I knew where those adorable cheeks went.
My son, on the other hand, is causing me great concern and distress as we gear up for his elementary school debut. Not nearly as gregarious as his sister (read: at all), my fears for my son include sitting alone at lunchtime and prowling the playground by himself at recess at best, and being teased or bullied over his slight frame and sensitive spirit at worst. My stomach gets all knotty when I think of it—when I picture his sad little face, unable to hold in all that sad and having it spill down all over his cheeks. I just can't bear it. Tell me I'm being unrealistic. Tell me I'm being overly concerned. Please, someone tell me it is going to all be okay.
At day camp this summer, my Buddy never made a buddy. This is not unusual—in all his time at school and church, he has only made one good buddy, and that friend chose him two years ago and latched on to him like stink on a dog and has not yet let go. So after two days of camp, curious if the social situation had improved any, I asked him who he played with at free time. "Nobody," he responded. "The other boys don't want to play with me."
"How do you know that," I responded. "Did they tell you that?"
"No, I just know 'cause they ignore me when I try to play with them."
He delivered the line matter-of-factly, and I responded in-kind, but inside both the fear in my spirit and the lump in my throat grew.
In a two or three weeks, God-willing, this will all be behind us and Buddy will be settled in both scholastically and socially. There will be a lot more prayer between now and then, as prayer is the only thing I can do in this situation. It will be a long two or three weeks, as we wait for the dust to settle and the cast list to be posted.
Then, once that is behind us, I will be free to obsess about how impossible it is that my BABY is in first grade. If I can contain myself that long…
She hurtles down the run-way full speed ahead and jumps onto the spring loaded board, exploding upward with a force that belies her size or age, and lands that force directly upon her arms, which then propel her into the air and over the top of the vault. I cringe internally, then breathe a sigh of relief as she sticks her landing, the arm having carried her there. The arm is healed—but my heart is not. I have a feeling this is going to be a long, long three hours.
Bub is back in the gym after her four month arm ordeal, and she is back with a vengeance. Having broken the arm a mere three days before team tryouts, her coach informed me, once released by her doctor to return, that she'd been invited to join the team based on her coaches recommendations and her scores from the past year. Lots of prayer and a huge financial leap of faith later, my daughter is now a competitive gymnast.
Today is practice number three, but the first I've been able to attend. I am, as is usual, surprised by my daughter's strength and ability. Other than not being able to execute the round-off double back handspring yet, she looks pretty darn good. She's got some work to do, but, quite frankly, no more than some of the girls who have been continuing to work for the past four months.
There is some fear that will have to be overcome, but her first week back has already re-bolstered some of her confidence. This is essential—for us both. Her team manual reads, "While winning is not so important, trying to win represents everything we strive for. Trying to win means coming to practice every day, working hard, overcoming fear, getting up every time you fall down, setting and achieving goals, and getting up on a 4" beam to perform skills difficult to do well on the floor. We do not try to win in the abstract. We try to win in the real world where rules apply, comparisons are made, judgment calls are the norm, grace under pressure is expected, and where falling and failing are part of everyday life."
She must be ready. To fall. To fail. To get up. To go back.
And I must be ready, too. To catch. To comfort. To trust. To let go.
As for which of us will have the harder time, I cannot yet tell you…
3. the sky lift. the best three bucks ever spent after ten hours on your feet. (with the exception of the 25 cent massage chair...)
This pretty much sums things up. And since this picture was taken, about six sunflowers have sprung up and bloomed, as well. None of which were planted. All the wrong things are bearing fruit here, lately.
A "Proud Momma" moment--please forgive me. Bub started her National Youth Leadership camp this week. She was nominated by her teacher and accepted into the program. She wrote letters to help raise funds, and came up with half the money "herself." Pretty exciting! 
The Hubby and I at Young's Dairy, celebrating my birthday.
Bub (with her "bionic arm") and Buddy hiking at Glen Helen, same day.
Ditto--Glen Helen. "Cool Mom" overroad "Mean Dad" and let them get wet. Do I rock or what?
Bub's fish--LOVE this picture. From her week at "Quilt Camp" with Grandma and Grandad.
Buddy, hiking with us while Bub was gone.
My college roomie, Holly, and I, doing our best Calvin and Hobbes impersonations. She and her family spent the 4th of July weekend with us.
Hol's cutie patootie, who is exactly four days younger than Buddy.
The kiddos having fun 4th of July weekend!
