song

By the time I was my daughter's age, I'd been singing in a choir for at least six years. I contemplate this as I watch her make corporate music with her classmates today—praying that similar seeds of interest and affection would likewise get lodged deep within her ready heart and take root.

Their voices are sweet, innocent, self-conscious. How long until she learns to sing with abandon, I wonder? How long until she discovers the thrill of giving herself over to the experience? How long until her joy in the glorious moment overpowers her fear of what other people think?

I flash back to my weekend—singing love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all, with my college choir Saturday night—full heart, full voice, full volume. Complete abandon. Complete accord. Complete joy.

I try to tell Beth about it at breakfast. About how alumni of the Chorale always get to join the choir in the singing of this piece at every concert. About my director and the significant role he played in that very significant time in my life. About how I've never been so happy as when singing with a choir of that caliber. But I can't tell her. Not without tears. Not today.

The Chorale sang—

What can purge my heart
Of the long And the sadness?
What can purge my heart
But the song Of the sadness?
What can purge my heart 
Of the sadness
Of the song?

("Song for Billie Holiday," Poem by Langston Hughes)

This sadness cannot be purged by any other means. Song is the remedy. Song is the therapy. Song is the salvation.

There will come a time when Song will be restored in my life. All is healed, all is health… Hearts all whole. ("Sure on This Shining Night," James Agee) I eagerly await that day—when my heart is once again whole. Until then, I merely listen, missing pieces of that which is most essentially me.

My thoughts come back to the 6^th graders before me—fresh-faced, fledgling voices lifted up together in praise. I smile, fighting back tears for the second time today. I pray for their song to purge my sadness. And I listen with eager excitement, awaiting with baited breath the moment when they, too, learn the fullness of joy that comes from abandoning one's self to the music. Until they, too, know what it feels like to be Complete.

standing strong when the winds blow

"Momma, they're kissing on the LIPS," my sixth grader tells me, distraught. "And their parents don't KNOW."

A wide range of thoughts and emotions churn in the back of my head making a sound similar to the whirring and grinding my computer does when its busy thinking. I am confused—when on earth did this happen? I am concerned—why is this issue coming up so frequently already? I am relieved—my daughter obviously thinks this is a significant problem. I turn cartwheels quietly in my head at the reassurance she does not think this is appropriate. I am alarmed—how do the parents not know? What's going on? I am apprehensive—do I need to tell them? How do I go about doing that? And how do I protect my daughter, the bearer of information, in the process?

She goes on and on in her concern. For several days. DAYS. She talks to me. She talks to teachers. She cries on their shoulder. She cries on mine. So much drama for such a tender little heart. So much confusion and chaos for such a young spirit. It consumes her life for several days. And, therefore, it consumes mine, as well.

The proverbial winds of change are blowing with a gale force this March. Boys and girls kissing. Friendships shifting. Homework increasing. Expectations increasing. And that's just at school. An exit from the gym. An entrance into physical therapy. An increase in my hours. A change in my husband's employment. Her life is in flux. Flux is not fun.

She tells me in bed last night that she's worried. She sees herself in a row of dominoes. She fears that the choices her friends make will affect her. She frets that if one domino falls, they eventually all fall. I give her a different picture. I encourage her to see herself as a column. A pillar. Tall and strong and rooted in the ground. A domino cannot topple a column. "I like that, Momma. That's a good picture," she tells me, nestling into my shoulder.

Innocence is already beginning to slip away, and my daughter is not yet even twelve. I take a deep breath, and I pull her close, and I pray like crazy for wisdom, for guidance, for her protection. I pray that God will show her in a multitude of ways that he is in control, and he's got this situation in his hands. After amen, I go downstairs, and I look up pillar on biblegateway.com, and this is what I find:

Then our sons in their youth will be like well-nurtured plants, and our daughters will be like pillars carved to adorn a palace. Ps 144:12

Our daughters will be like pillars.

He is showing me, in a multitude of ways, that he is in control. He's got my daughter in his hands. I can rest assured.

I can rest, assured.

not broken

The good news is, the back is not broken.

The bad news is, we don't know why it still hurts after almost three months.

Physical therapy resumes tomorrow, after three weeks off to be certain therapy was not aggravating a stress fracture. We are relieved, but in a really bittersweet, I-hate-physical-therapy-and-can't-believe-we're-back-here-again kind of way.

I am not entirely certain, yet, that she's okay. Her grades are slipping. For the first time. Ever. She's unhappy at school. Could be hormones. Could be more. I just don't know.

When you take a kid who is used to nine hours of intense physical activity every week, on top of her normal screwing around, and tell her she has to BE STILL, I've got to think that takes a toll. I've got to think she has to miss it. I've got to think she looks at her trophies and her medals and her pictures and feels a loss, if nothing else. I sure do. But if she does, she doesn't mention it.

So, for the moment, she does not appear to be broken--body, mind, nor spirit. Time will tell if the diagnosis is sound. And time will hopefully, as they say, heal all wounds. ALL wounds.

She is not broken. My mother-heart can rest in peace tonight. Tonight...

Tomorrow is a new day. We shall see what prognosis physical therapy holds, and how quickly they can put her back together again.

Again.

breaking up is hard to do

My Bub, winning her third straight title as Beam State Champion. Words cannot express how proud I am of the things my daughter has accomplished in the last three years, the overwhelming majority of which don't come with a title or a medal.

We made the tough decision tonight to pull Bub from the team early. We'd planned already for this to be her last season. Competing interests have become a strain. The cost has become a strain. The schedule and transportation have become a strain. But we hadn't planned for this.

A back injury one week after winter States has not healed. And, in fact, it has gotten worse. The doctor has ordered 4-6 weeks out of the gym. Spring States are in nine. That doesn't seem feasible. And so we've done the difficult thing.

After coming back from a broken upper arm and several months of PT her first season to win the All-Around State Champion Title last spring, we were pretty psyched to see what she could do entering the season on a more even playing field. In her first five meets, she made one of the top two spots on the podium for all-around four times. To say that we are disappointed is an understatement. But.

But. We believe that this doorway closing paves the way for other doors to open. And she is fortunate that there are several other doors awaiting her. While this is not how we wanted this to end for her, we are thankful she is in agreement with our decision and, as she has learned how to do throughout these past three years, is taking it in stride. That, to me, is the attitude of a champion.

Not all victories come with trophies. Nor do they always feel victorious at the time. But they are victories, nonetheless.

for my firework...

...as she tries to sleep after we've just talked about the possibility that we might be ending gymnastics sooner than we planned...

Firework
(Katy Perry)

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting through the wind
Wanting to start again

Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin
Like a house of cards
One blow from caving in

Do you ever feel already buried deep
Six feet under scream
But no one seems to hear a thing

Do you know that there's still a chance for you
Cause there's a spark in you

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own

You don't have to feel like a waste of space
You're original, cannot be replaced
If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow

Maybe your reason why all the doors are closed
So you can open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will blow
And when it's time, you'll know

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
It's always been inside of you, you, you
And now it's time to let it through

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em goin "Oh, oh, oh!"

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon

I love you, Bub. You're still gonna shine.

You're still gonna shine.

community

Cris texts me. "Rds r clr...just cold as i dont know what."

I text her back. "Keep us posted. Haven't left yet. There by dinner."

I text April. "What time r u leaving? We're l8r than we hoped."

"We are trying to get out of the house too. Our goal was 2."

"Ours, too. Will prob b 2:15-2:30. Cu u there--wanna get dinner 2gether?"

"That sounds good! As long as not too fancy. Im in comfy clothes."

"U got it!" We agree to connect once we settle in the hotel. I continue getting ready.

"7.65 on bars," Cris updates. "Second highest in grps so far." I tell my daughter. She whoops.

"Tell her that's awesome!"

"Keira says AWESOME!"

April texts. "On the rd."

"On our way 2 get bagels then will be 2."

Another update. "9.1 beam." I tell Bub. Another whoop.

"Keira says NICE!"

We hit the road for The Big Meet. Will will be spectating this go round, but it is what it is.

"8.3 on floor. fell on front tuck."

"She okay?"

I don't hear back. We wait for the report.

I like these people, I think to myself. This is fun. I'm going to miss this when we're done.

"Champps or Buca's?" I text April.

"Buca's," she replies. So much for my low carb diet. That' okay. The company is more important.

I love this little community we've found ourselves in by virtue of our daughters' mutual interests. I love feeling a part of something outside of myself, even if it's just gymnastics.

"We're at mile marker 101."

"No way! We just passed 106!" We're a caravan and we didn't even know it.

An update from Cris. "Vault 9.325."

Jasmyne is finished. We'll await her all-around score and placement as we continue our way into Indy. Tomorrow the updates will come from April, as Iris competes with the group Bub would have been in. As Bub will be there watching, there will be no whoops, no one for me to report it to as they come in.

But that's okay. Because I want to know.

We're in this together.

And I really, really like that.

another go-round with the big “d”

"My back hurts, Momma," my daughter moans for the umpteenth time. "It really hurts." I remind her to take some ibuprofen, to lay on her heating pad, to hang in there until we see the doctor tomorrow. She sighs a heavy sigh—not the "you are such an unbelievable idiot of a parent and I can't believe you are making me/won't let me do that" sigh I have grown accustomed to as of late, but a deeper, weightier "I'm tired and I'm in pain and it won't stop and I'm so very, very disappointed sigh" that can just about break a parent's heart.

It is certainly breaking mine.

A few too many standing front tucks appear to be the evil culprit, executed a week or two before Christmas. With state championships out of the way, her coaches were working up new skills, much to my daughter's delight. The tucks themselves felt fine, but shortly thereafter she began to notice her back was sore. Within a day or two, the muscles surrounding her spine in her lower back had contracted so tightly she looked like she had small loaves of bread under her skin.

Certain it was muscular, we took a heat/stretch/massage approach to healing, which seemed, at first, to be working. A night of playing tag with friends on New Year's Eve, however, caused them to seize right back up and we were faced with the question of what to do next. Massage therapy ensued with a local therapist who specializes in working with gymnasts. We were encouraged and hopeful.

We knew Bub would likely miss her first meet of the new year, and that proved to be true. But our hopes were that a little rest and a lot of prescribed stretching, combined with a couple visits to Jan, would have her back up and running by The Big Meet this coming weekend. Our hopes are proving to be mis-placed.

The new season had started off so well—after coming from behind last year to win the all-around title at the spring state championships, we were very excited to see what this year would hold. In her first four meets, she took one of the top two spots every time. We were thrilled—what a good experience for her, I thought. It will be great for her to see how well she can excel when given the opportunity. We went in to fall states with great expectations.

A rough vault (we could not for the life of us understand her score, though I will admit scoring for the vault appears to involve a lot of complex calculations and the correct alignment of the heavenly bodies) knocked her down to 4^th place overall, but a spectacular beam routine gave her a third beam state championship in a row. She was disappointed, but she took it in stride. I was disappointed, but I did not.

We shook the dust off of states our feet and set our sights on the future. The Big Meet, an invitation-only select team event which Bub had made for the first time, was coming in January, and then the Buckeye Classic, and then States again. Plenty more opportunities to show 'em what she's got.

Or not, as it turns out.

Turns out, my daughter will display another set of skills at The Big Meet this weekend—a set of skills she has, unfortunately, had her fair share of opportunities to develop and hone.

To say it is a difficult thing to watch your child face disappointment is beyond understatement. As parents, we want so much for them to have the big win, the personal best, the positive experience. We want for them to know that "thrill of victory" and to spare them "the agony of defeat." If only we could. For our own sake, if nothing else.

I have wrestled for a month with my emotions over the outcome of states, over the back injury, over the probability that this may be her last season. I want so desperately for her to end on a high note, if ending is what proves to be necessary. I want for her to feel good about what she's accomplished, to have pride in her efforts, to know this time has been worth it. Sometimes, more often than I would like to admit, it is hard to remember that winning is not a necessary ingredient in the making of such an outcome.

This weekend, my daughter will show people what she's made of internally. She will attend The Big Meet and she will cheer her heart out for her friends. She will continue to rest and heat and stretch and will tell herself that every athlete has to overcome physical adversity, that every top gymnast has had to sit out for a season. She will handle her disappointment (because rest assured, she will be disappointed) with a grace and maturity that has been hard-won. And she will cultivate a deeper sense of who she is and what she's capable of in the process.

My daughter is learning what it means to persevere, to endure, to overcome.

And that, I remind myself, is worth infinitely more than winning.

rockin' the new look

This summer Bub joined Mid-Day Son, a band created by a group of her friends at school. Here they are leading worship last night for a middle school lock-in.

Sorry for the onslaught of pictures. Have to keep the family happy.

I hope to post WORDS very soon!

this one's for mom

My Bub's new haircut.

Lest there be any doubt about who's child she is...

kill me now

I was informed tonight, in her very delicate, demure manner, that I am apparently the ONLY parent who pays any attention to my child's grades on the WHOLE ENTIRE PLANET. This was news to me. Which is why I laughed out loud in her face when she said it. That probably wasn't the best tactical move. But it followed so quickly on the heels of being informed that it was ALL MY FAULT my daughter has NO TIME TO DO ANYTHING because I MAKE her do senseless extra work like correcting her math papers in order to regain some of the credit she lost, that I just couldn't contain myself. It just kind of bubbled out. It was also made clear, in a similar tone, that I DON'T CARE about her because I EXPECT HER TO BE PERFECT and INSIST ON CHECKING EVERY LITTLE CRAPPIN' THINK SHE DOES. I agreed with her. That is most definitely a sign of NOT CARING. In fact, I must absolutely HATE HER.

Which is why I've spent eleven years cultivating a relationship with this child that I pray will withstand all the storms that are a-brewin' in our neck of the woods. Which is why I sacrifice my time, my energy, my money, my freedom, my dreams and desires so that SHE can do what she desires. Which is why I lose sleep at night thinking about things like not being able to afford another year of gymnastics and the conflict that's going on in her little universe and how to speak to matters of the heart when all she wants is to do whatever she wants. It's all because I really, truly, don't give a rip. Really.

Sigh.

Somewhere along the line some ugly little hormones have reared their ugly little heads and turned my daughter, for brief periods of time, into an ugly little snot. I don't like it. The tone of voice. The lack of patience. The outbursts of anger with not even a cursory nod toward the pretense of self control. And the lack of remorse or responsibility for any of it. To her, the eye-rolling, book-throwing, pencil-breaking, yelling-screaming-crying-threatening-stomping-off is all completely justified. Which is possibly what concerns me most.

This is not a child I was permissive with. Nor is this a child I controlled and micro-managed. This was your normal, every-day girl-next-door who was obedient and cheerful and occasionally a pain in the fanny but usually felt pretty convicted about it later. I wonder if she is still that child. I want to believe she is. I want to believe this is just hormonal and nothing evil and sinister is lurking beneath the surface. But I can't know that. And it can scare the crap out of me if I let it.

When I got home tonight, her face lit up and she hugged me and followed me around as I got my dinner, babbling like a brook about her day. When I kissed her goodnight, she wouldn't even speak to me, because I am apparently the MEANEST PARENT IN THE WORLD. I know not to take it personally, and so I don't. I know not to freak out and lecture her, and so I don't. I know not to worry about it because it's normal, but I do anyway. Because I feel icy, cold fingers wrapping themselves around the part of my heart engraved with her name, and I'm chilled to the bone to consider the possibilities of what could await me as we move full force into this new stage of life.

May heaven either help me, or kill me now.

snuggling and sacrifice

It is nearly 11:00 AM on this temperate but grayish and wet New Year's Day, and, oddly enough, I am the only one up. The hubby who stayed up reading after we returned home from our holiday revelry is cozied up in bed next to the seven-year-old, who desperately but unsuccessfully tried to keep up with the almost-twelve-year-olds who intended to stay up ALL night but were found, true to my prediction, sacked out on the couch this morning, unknowingly succumbing to sleep somewhere after movie three. It was a valiant effort, nonetheless.

To say it is unusual that I am the only one up would be a gross understatement. When left to my own devices and not bound by the constrictions of four different calendars, it is quite the norm to find me still in bed while all the rest of my household starves for lack of an ability to get their own bowl out of the cabinet and pour their own milk and cereal. Occasionally the almost-twelve-year-old gives me a run for my money as her body shifts to its adolescent time table, but I can still easily beat her in a sleep-in-off hand's down just about any morning I am given the opportunity.

That is, until Buddy comes and crawls in bed.

Both of my children, I should clarify, are avid snugglers. They love to come into our bedroom after they've awakened and basically make sure that I am awake, too, which is very kind of them, if not entirely misguided. They pull back the covers and burrow through them until they've found my warm body, and then adhere themselves to me in whatever fashion they are able as warranted by my position in the bed. This has been our morning ritual since they were old enough to get out of bed--indeed, Bub even has gone as far as to set her alarm to be sure she gets snuggle time before she has to get ready for school. It is as much of our family's genetic code as ice cream and game nights and hiking adventures and leaving the new toilet paper roll on top of the toilet paper roll holder.

Sometimes, when they've shuffled in with a groggy step and fallen into the bed half-aware, I am blessed with another bit of sleep as their breathing falls mercifully into a deep, deliberate pattern and their bodies are gloriously still. I may not be able to breath or move myself, wedged as I am into the double bed I grew up sleeping in alone and now am forced to share with not one but two to three people and as many cats, but at least they are not moving and if I breathe deeply myself and try to visualize pleasant, spacious places, I can get very close to falling back asleep, myself. Almost.

But I am not always so fortunate. Buddy, who is the true cling-on of the pair, is also a bit, um, shall we say, squirrely, and I know as soon as I hear distinct, rapid footsteps scampering from the bathroom that my evening's repose has expired. No longer drowsy, all hope is gone of his body again becoming static, and I am up for a morning of elbows and knees and whispers and wiggles and sighs and desperate, futile pleas for him to please be still.

They tell me I will miss this.

Truth be told, I tell myself this, as well. It is the only reason I do not lock and bar my bedroom door on a nightly basis. I know I will miss this. Desperately. And so I endure it. And I only groan inwardly as soon as I hear Buster Brown descend from his top bunk across the hall, so that he will not ever know I am not as thrilled as he that he is awake and ready to snuggle. But it is a bittersweet snuggle, as I once again, for the first time of many that day, sacrifice that which I desire for the ever more important desires of my children.

We are nearing 11:30 and there is still no sound from upstairs. Apparently starting a movie at 2:00 AM was enough to keep Buddy quiet for his father this morning, and they are still warm and cozy in MY bed that I could no longer lay still in for lack of space and breathing room. (Literally.) Rather than fight for cramped, sweaty, broken sleep this morning, I have done a new thing in this new year. I have arisen before my entire family and come down to the kitchen and sat my butt in front of the computer and I've done something I WANTED TO DO. For once. Perhaps this bodes well for the new year. Perhaps this is an omen. Or perhaps this is just a fluke. After all, it is much easier to rise before everyone else when I am rising at 10:00 in the morning. Which is just about right for me...

Parenting and writing do not flow easily for me out of the same space. Somewhere between all the work of taking care of people, which is done both professionally and personally, I fear I have lost my creative self. The writer. The musician. The artist. I know intellectually they are truly not lost--just hibernating, perhaps, not enjoying the cold, gray winters of Ohio any more than I do. But I miss them. Desperately. And I feel incomplete without them. And I've still, after almost twelve years, not yet determined how to balance that which I need with the needs of my children. And I've yet to comprehend, in my own life and beyond, where the mystery of death to self and the reality of taking care of one's self intersect.

For a fleeting moment I hear a bird singing outside my window, and just as quickly as it came, it is gone. Thank God for temperate, unseasonable days that bring us out of hibernation and restore to us that which we were created to do. Even if only for one, quiet, up-before-everyone-else morning.

he gives and takes away (though not necessarily in that order)

In loving memory: 1993-2010

We got them almost on an impulse. Though I'd been desperate for a cat for at least a year, their actual acquisition was, well, not exactly planned. That seems to be the way things go around here.

They fulfilled their purpose with incredible success—bringing me comfort at a time when I needed it most. Deeply depressed and struggling through my first year of marriage, I knew, I just knew, I would feel better if I only had something I could hold. Turns out, I was right. That seems to be the way things go around here.

Both incredibly affectionate and gregarious, Max and Ruthie were the kind of cats that even the most die-hard dog people couldn't help but love. They brought an immeasurable amount of joy to everyone around them—well, except maybe Beth. But she was a good friend and tolerated them both, and her daughter found a great amount of joy from being around them, so that sort of made up for that. To everyone else, they were "the nicest cats I've ever met." And we would concur.

Ruthie was the first to go about five years ago—breaking my heart in the process. The only thing that got me through it was that Max was there, waiting, when I got back home. With Ruthie gone, our affectionate boy got downright needy, and in his desperation finally made friends with my daughter, who requited his love enthusiastically. Which made his passing this past week all the more difficult.

Seventeen years old this spring, Max had begun losing the spring in his step, as well as a significant amount of weight, a few months ago. I knew the end would come, and come relatively soon. I just was not prepared for it to come quite as quickly as it did. About a week after returning from our vacation, Max took a sudden turn for the worse. Not eating, barely drinking, and unable to walk, he laid around the kitchen looking like a sack of bones for a week before I finally made the decision no one who owns a pet ever wants to make. I made the appointment to have him put down.

Though I'd cried every night for a week, that night was by far the most difficult. I lay on the floor long after everyone else had gone to bed, stroking his ears and thanking him for loving me, and for letting me love him. The next day my daughter, because somewhere along the line he'd become as much her cat as mine, held him in the car on the way to the vet, choking back the kind of tears that take your breath away. "It's okay, Max," she'd croon as he cried, never one for the motion of the car. "It's okay." I flashed back in my mind to a ride some nine and a half years earlier—she is one and a half and we are moving to a new city. Max is in a carrier on one side of her car seat, Ruthie on the other, and neither are happy to be there. My daughter croons to them the entire three hour drive… "S'okay, Max. S'okay, Ruthie. S'okay…" It is not okay, today. Tears fall fresh and I blink them away, breathing deeply and focusing on the road. We get there all too soon.

I cannot begin to describe how difficult it is to watch your child grieve the loss of a beloved friend, especially as you grieve your own. Mercifully, we have a wonderful vet, and she was gentle and tender with all three of us. We brought him home and took turns rocking him in the glider, holding him one last time, baptizing him with tears that flowed from that place where love and sadness reside together in strained compromise, two sides of the same coin forced to live back to back. We buried Max that night, on the opposite side of the raspberry patch from Ruthie, and prepared ourselves to grieve for a good, long time. What we were not prepared for was what God did next.

She crawled out from under our deck this weekend—dirty, skittish, and underweight, but quick to warm up to our attention. We fed her out of compassion, and that was all it took for us to somehow get adopted. We named her Latté—her creamy tan coat the color of milk and coffee—and wondered if she would stay. She did. We wondered if she would take to the house. She did. We wondered if she would take to us as much as we had taken to her.

She did.

We've gone back and forth in our minds about this decision—questioning if we've minimized or somehow disrespected the loss of Max by allowing another cat into our homes and hearts so soon after his departure. What I've determined, after much soul-searching, is this: we did not go looking for this cat. This cat came looking for us. Somehow, God in his infinite wisdom seemed to know that there is a certain grief that can only be comforted by holding something warm and soft and purring, and he sent us that comfort. We are choosing to be open to receiving it—because, after all, what a better tribute to Max and Ruthie than to have loved them so fully that we would be open to loving that way again, in spite of the pain such a love will inevitably bring.

We will wait a week to see if any lost kitty signs pop up, and to see how Latté acclimates, and if all goes well, we will take her to the vet after that time and we will make it official. We will, in turn, adopt the cat who has adopted us. Almost on an impulse, we will open our hearts again to loving and being loved.

Because, well, that seems to be the way things go around here.

Latté, on Bub's lap this evening...

redemption

Forgive me, but I'm going to be an obnoxious parent for a moment. Particularly given that Bub's last meet did not go so well...

36.525 (Finally--the necessary 36!)

First place vault

First place beam

Fourth place floor

SECOND PLACE ALL-AROUND

There were no tears this meet. THANK YOU JESUS. Which was a particularly good thing, given she had four friends from school there and seven family members!

She and her buds claimed the podium for all-around. Above you have first, second, and third!

Thank you for your patience. We now resume normal programming.

Oh wait, this IS normal programming...

airborn, take two

Bub had her third meet of the season today. Fourth place all-around for her age bracket. Would have been higher, but learned a hard lesson about gravity on her dismount from the uneven bars. (Translation: she fell on her FANNY.)

Giving that the apple does not far from the Perfectionism Tree, she of course is not happy unless she's at the top of the podium. After a frank discussion about the fact that she's outscoring some of her teammates from last year even after being out for four months with a COMPOUND FRACTURE, she calmed down. But she's still aiming for that top spot...

Here's a couple shots of her in action!

No wonder I get so nervous!

Way to go, Bub!!!

how i spent my weekend

Marmon Valley with a crew of fifth grade girls. I am still recouperating!

This whole "having more time when the kids are both in school full time" thing is more challenging than I'd hoped. Sure wish I could get in a regular pattern of blogging. How do y'all do it? At any rate, I have about 6000 words done on "the book." They're rough, but they're on paper. Well, theoretically speaking. Tomorrow my goal, for the whole four hours I will have free, is to write chapter two. Wish me luck! And don't email me, okay? I'll be too tempted to respond... Gotta stay out of my email!!! Ugh!!!

a taste of freedom

It is 11:30, and my house is eerily empty. I have both anticipated and dreaded this moment for months, if not years. After ten years of child-filled days, I now have three days a week to myself. Having already had breakfast with one of my best friends, now also child-less, I'm not quite sure what to do with my afternoon.

Today will be filled with getting done all that has not gotten done this summer. Paying bills, updating accounts, catching up on emails--all sorts of fun awaits me at my computer. I might even unpack from our weekend. Maybe.

Buddy is now at lunch--I try not to picture possible scenarios, as they all, currently, in my own fearful mind, involve him ending up in tears. It's just best that I not go there. Not today. Not any day. He will be fine. He will be fine. He will be fine.

I will try to turn my thoughts to balances and budgets and bookkeeping. I will try to not watch the clock. I will try to work first, and will try to play later, as well. I will try to not call out to an empty room, "Listen, Buddy! There's an airplane!" I will try to reserve this time for myself, and fill it only with what I want to do. I will try to not miss my Buddy, and wonder what he's doing every moment. I will try to focus on being an adult without children, if only for a few hours. I will try.

Then, once they are home and tired and whiney and bickering, I will remember why I couldn't wait for today to come. And I will sigh a sigh of both contentment and frustration, and I will both look forward to and dread Friday, when I will do it all again.

the big day

I really have actually done a little writing, but have been on the road and getting these kiddos set for school. Hope to post some of it tomorrow, perhaps!

My baby, first day of first grade. Where has the time gone? (Where have his CHEEKS gone? Not to mention his TEETH?!?!)

My FIFTH GRADER. Ugh. I am getting OLD. (Isn't she pretty?)

Two peas in a pod...


...all the way down to their toes!

our last days of summer vacation

If my dear friend Bob thought it strange that we spent part of our last spring break in Indianapolis, he will be completely flumoxed by the fact that our summer "vacation" was spent in Springfield, Illinois.

The kiddos in front of the state capitol building. (Should that be capitalized? I'm too tired to care...) It was one of the most beautiful domes (from the inside, of course) that I've ever seen.

Hangin' with the Lincoln Family at the White House. I HIGHLY recommend the Lincoln Presidential Museum. Very, VERY well done.

Yep, that's corn. Right next to our camp site. BUT it's the BIGGEST darn corn I've even seen--which says a lot for a girl who grew up next to a corn field. (To give perspective, I am 5'3" in shoes. That is BIG corn!)


Was thrilled to find out my good buddy, James (we've been friends since kindergarten), got back into the country the week before we drove right smack dab through the town where he's doing his Ph.D. Stopped and had lunch, then made him late to go sell his textbooks. Oops.

Not the most exciting vacation, 'tis true. But when you spend over $3000 on a broken arm, you make do! We had a great time with my folks, and it was great to see all the Lincoln sites during his bicentennial year. Now, to prepare for school!

ready or not, here she comes

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…

the state fair: a photo essay

top ten things i love about the fair:

1. for one whole day, i don't feel fat, frumpy, out of style, or underdressed.

2. i leave with a newfound appreciation for my own children. i get to watch my daughter be my daughter...

...and my son be my son.

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...)

4. fried dough with sugar on it. 'nuff said.



5. the ferris wheel. what's not to love?

6. more food on a stick than you can shake a stick at.



7. the state fair youth choir. summer of 1986. ah, the memories...

8. baby cows. can you get any cuter?

9. bright, colored, twinkly lights. lots of 'em.

10. cows made out of butter. only in america.

hope you enjoyed! we sure did!