“It’s all over my hands, Momma,” he proclaims, with a hint of panic in his voice. I look up from the computer to find my son wearing nothing but a turtleneck and a look of grave concern, his hands outstretched toward me.
“What happened, buddy?”
His volumous brown eyes spill over with tears, fear and relief co-mingling down his face. “I’ve got poopy all over my hands, Momma,” he cries—my tender-hearted son who cannot bear to have his hands dirty. A stray piece of oatmeal stuck to a thumb can send him into a tizzy—he is now officially beside himself.
“I tried to go potty, Momma, but I couldn’t. I was dirty, Momma.” He sobs—equally upset by the mess he’s created and the mess he thinks is coming. I take a deep breath and guide him back to his room, steering him, or his hands, rather, clear of all obstacles. Wiping them carefully, I applaud his desire to use the potty, all the while trying not to think of what awaits me in the bathroom. It is a step in the right direction—albeit a messy and mis-timed one.
Independence is so hard-earned at three. I wonder, with tender, mother-hearted compassion, how long he struggled in fear before asking help of the very one whose response he feared the most. I call his father to deal with the bottom half—he was about to give him a bath anyway—and I kiss him on the nose while I tickle his tummy, eliciting a smile at last from my nervous little potty-neophyte. “Next time, buddy, come get Mommy if you’re poopy, got it?”
“Got it, Momma,” he grins.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Saturday, February 11, 2006
we now pause for...
Posting may be scant these next two weeks...despite not having an athletic bone in my body, I am an absolute FREAK about the Olympics. If I can get some writing in between coverage, you may hear from me!
Friday, February 03, 2006
Thursday, February 02, 2006
on the menu tonight...
Something new and different for our normal crowd--my first attempt at hosting the Carnival of the Mundane! We've got some great specials tonight, so I hope you brought an appetite with you!
We start off tonight with Cheryl, who reminices in Back in My Day about cheering at Univeral CityWalk and eating wood splinters and germs. This post was NOT made with any Pampered Chef products, of that I am quite certain.
Next, Tracy shares a juicy little tidbit about a popular menu item in Moldy Oranges=Love, "just another love story amidst the mold and the citrus." I recommend reading, but not eating, this entree.
Josh announces some happy news in We're Spawning, though I'm not sure it's polite dinner table conversation in some restaurants! (Spawning, that is!) We rejoice with them, nonetheless!
Speaking of inappropriate at the dinner table, Kristen discusses very attractive nasal irrigation systems in Finding Humor in Unlikely Places. Yum. You'll be ready to eat after this one!
If you still have your appetite, Postmodern Sass tells a story about having a beer at the end of her work day, and arguing about soup with the bartender. I recommend a side of, what else? Pretzels.
Now that the fridge is in, Muse is restocking with all sorts of goodies. Perhaps she'll whip us up a little something for dessert! (In case you can't bear to eat your dessert before your entree, you'll find part one of the saga here.)
Deputy Headmistress shares their Decision to pick out a new toilet. Our dinner conversation is beginning to resemble that of my own home, what with boogers and potties and all... I must add that I'm a little concerned when people say they choose their toilets "by process of elimination." 'Nuff said.
Enough appetizers--let's move on to some main entrees. We hear again from Muse, who laments that $20 Isn't What it Used to Be, speaking of chocolate and backpacks. Chocolate for a main entree--gotta like that!
Josh returns for the main entree as well, debating Why VCRs are Better Than Tivo. You'll be eating in front of the set for this one.
In keeping with the fridge theme, Maria bares the contents of her fridge and contemplates why she eats out so often. Perhaps she and Muse can compare notes as well...
Daisy offers to share the goodies she received in her Unexpected Packages--so, what the heck? Grab yourself a plate and let's move on to dessert!
Ooops! Ferdinand T. Cat hops up on the table to check out the spread and inform us about How to Live with Multiple Cats. Just so he doesn't lick the top off the birthday cake, like another cat I know...
Muse saddles back up to the buffet to discuss The Best Movie Theater, taking back with her some Jujubes and M&M's for the show.
Blundering American shares his thoughts about The Most Magical Place on Earth in two parts. You won't want to take the kids along for this one!
Marsha brings to the table a sampling of her best treats-- a little bit of this, a little bit of that, a morsel here, a morsel there, and more, and still more! Hope you're not too full to try a taste!
And finally, after all those goodies, don't forget to brush your teeth! Join Neil and grab your Toothbrush!
Bon appetite!
We start off tonight with Cheryl, who reminices in Back in My Day about cheering at Univeral CityWalk and eating wood splinters and germs. This post was NOT made with any Pampered Chef products, of that I am quite certain.
Next, Tracy shares a juicy little tidbit about a popular menu item in Moldy Oranges=Love, "just another love story amidst the mold and the citrus." I recommend reading, but not eating, this entree.
Josh announces some happy news in We're Spawning, though I'm not sure it's polite dinner table conversation in some restaurants! (Spawning, that is!) We rejoice with them, nonetheless!
Speaking of inappropriate at the dinner table, Kristen discusses very attractive nasal irrigation systems in Finding Humor in Unlikely Places. Yum. You'll be ready to eat after this one!
If you still have your appetite, Postmodern Sass tells a story about having a beer at the end of her work day, and arguing about soup with the bartender. I recommend a side of, what else? Pretzels.
Now that the fridge is in, Muse is restocking with all sorts of goodies. Perhaps she'll whip us up a little something for dessert! (In case you can't bear to eat your dessert before your entree, you'll find part one of the saga here.)
Deputy Headmistress shares their Decision to pick out a new toilet. Our dinner conversation is beginning to resemble that of my own home, what with boogers and potties and all... I must add that I'm a little concerned when people say they choose their toilets "by process of elimination." 'Nuff said.
Enough appetizers--let's move on to some main entrees. We hear again from Muse, who laments that $20 Isn't What it Used to Be, speaking of chocolate and backpacks. Chocolate for a main entree--gotta like that!
Josh returns for the main entree as well, debating Why VCRs are Better Than Tivo. You'll be eating in front of the set for this one.
In keeping with the fridge theme, Maria bares the contents of her fridge and contemplates why she eats out so often. Perhaps she and Muse can compare notes as well...
Daisy offers to share the goodies she received in her Unexpected Packages--so, what the heck? Grab yourself a plate and let's move on to dessert!
Ooops! Ferdinand T. Cat hops up on the table to check out the spread and inform us about How to Live with Multiple Cats. Just so he doesn't lick the top off the birthday cake, like another cat I know...
Muse saddles back up to the buffet to discuss The Best Movie Theater, taking back with her some Jujubes and M&M's for the show.
Blundering American shares his thoughts about The Most Magical Place on Earth in two parts. You won't want to take the kids along for this one!
Marsha brings to the table a sampling of her best treats-- a little bit of this, a little bit of that, a morsel here, a morsel there, and more, and still more! Hope you're not too full to try a taste!
And finally, after all those goodies, don't forget to brush your teeth! Join Neil and grab your Toothbrush!
Bon appetite!
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
feedback
There is an unnerving stirring in my stomach as retrieve my items from the printer. This sudden swell of emotion catches me off guard—it is just a note from her teacher, I remind myself. You asked for her feedback, you idiot. What are you so concerned about?
The problem is this—I know exactly what I’m concerned about. And despite my best efforts or intentions, it scares me—fear that threatens to squeeze out my eyes and drip down my cheeks in the middle of the workroom on Tuesday at quitting time. Fear for my daughter in all of her glorious, God-made spiritedness—Lord, you created her spirit. Protect her. I beg you—do not allow her to be crushed.
I take a deep breath and begin reading, knowing I will only find love and concern, but fearing her words, nonetheless. It is one thing to know your child’s struggles. It is another, entirely, to have them be known. And there it is, all written down in black and white—her teacher knows her. Her perfectionism, her insecurity, her inattention, her sensitivity. I am at once both grieved and relieved. I am not the only one who sees it—this is both a good thing and a difficult thing.
Packing the letter up with my things, I exhale again and make my way home amid the traffic jam of thoughts honking and blaring in my head. We are on the same page, I remind myself. This is a good thing. This is a good thing.
This is a good thing…
The problem is this—I know exactly what I’m concerned about. And despite my best efforts or intentions, it scares me—fear that threatens to squeeze out my eyes and drip down my cheeks in the middle of the workroom on Tuesday at quitting time. Fear for my daughter in all of her glorious, God-made spiritedness—Lord, you created her spirit. Protect her. I beg you—do not allow her to be crushed.
I take a deep breath and begin reading, knowing I will only find love and concern, but fearing her words, nonetheless. It is one thing to know your child’s struggles. It is another, entirely, to have them be known. And there it is, all written down in black and white—her teacher knows her. Her perfectionism, her insecurity, her inattention, her sensitivity. I am at once both grieved and relieved. I am not the only one who sees it—this is both a good thing and a difficult thing.
Packing the letter up with my things, I exhale again and make my way home amid the traffic jam of thoughts honking and blaring in my head. We are on the same page, I remind myself. This is a good thing. This is a good thing.
This is a good thing…
Monday, January 30, 2006
alive
It has become my mantra—two words repeated over and over. The bridge to a worship song, sung with passion and conviction by a voice not unlike my own. Simple in its sentiment, perhaps even confusing to some as to its power, yet to me, it has become everything—
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.
I remember the first time I made this profession. Our women’s conference had been largely unremarkable to me so far, when out of nowhere, Rita Springer’s deep, throaty passion suddenly began to give voice to my own. Articulating what my own mind had been unable to put into words, the modest lyric affirmed the changes I felt in my spirit—changes that had been a very long time in coming. I stood, arms flung wide as if suddenly free from my inhibitions as well, and I proclaimed life for the first time in over a decade.
Of all the things those years of depression stole from me, losing my passion for life was the hardest to bear. My friend Karen put it best when she described me as a romantic in the truest sense—life, to me, should be like stepping out of the black and white of Kansas into the technocolor of Oz for the first time, every time. Awe and wonder await you around every corner, and the food is meant to be tasted and the wine to be drunk and the flowers to be smelled and the paths through the meadows to be taken. Life is meant to be lived—painted in vibrant hues with large, bold brush strokes upon an endless supply of blank canvases.
As depression took over my life, however, all color faded to rinse-water gray. Passion was lost—swept away in some cyclone that merely ended up in another bleak part of black-and-white Kansas. Life was no longer to be embraced, but tolerated and gotten through, like a long, gray, dreary March in central Ohio. Ten years of no-longer-winter-but-still-not-quite-spring. It was a fate, as some say, worse than death.
Thankfully, over the last several years, the color has mercifully returned—bleeding through the black and white and saturating my soul—restoring richness and detail to the pictures of my life. All that was dead inside me—hope, passion, emotion, conviction, joy—suddenly poked up through the gray landscape like brightly hued crocuses and daffodils, not dead after all, but buried until the warmth of the sun returned to coax them to press up through and join it. Welcome back to Oz, they tell me—we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Only one who has walked among the living dead can understand the power contained in this simple affirmation of life. It catches me off guard, these days, as my CD changer cycles through six sets of worship music, returning every few days to this phrase that still brings tears to my eyes. Just as amazing grace transformed one who was lost into one who was found, it has transformed me from one who was dead into one who is alive. I turn it up and I sing it loud—defying depression, defying death, defying colorless living. I will not go back to black and white. I am living life bright red and royal blue.
This is my story, this is my song: I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.
I remember the first time I made this profession. Our women’s conference had been largely unremarkable to me so far, when out of nowhere, Rita Springer’s deep, throaty passion suddenly began to give voice to my own. Articulating what my own mind had been unable to put into words, the modest lyric affirmed the changes I felt in my spirit—changes that had been a very long time in coming. I stood, arms flung wide as if suddenly free from my inhibitions as well, and I proclaimed life for the first time in over a decade.
Of all the things those years of depression stole from me, losing my passion for life was the hardest to bear. My friend Karen put it best when she described me as a romantic in the truest sense—life, to me, should be like stepping out of the black and white of Kansas into the technocolor of Oz for the first time, every time. Awe and wonder await you around every corner, and the food is meant to be tasted and the wine to be drunk and the flowers to be smelled and the paths through the meadows to be taken. Life is meant to be lived—painted in vibrant hues with large, bold brush strokes upon an endless supply of blank canvases.
As depression took over my life, however, all color faded to rinse-water gray. Passion was lost—swept away in some cyclone that merely ended up in another bleak part of black-and-white Kansas. Life was no longer to be embraced, but tolerated and gotten through, like a long, gray, dreary March in central Ohio. Ten years of no-longer-winter-but-still-not-quite-spring. It was a fate, as some say, worse than death.
Thankfully, over the last several years, the color has mercifully returned—bleeding through the black and white and saturating my soul—restoring richness and detail to the pictures of my life. All that was dead inside me—hope, passion, emotion, conviction, joy—suddenly poked up through the gray landscape like brightly hued crocuses and daffodils, not dead after all, but buried until the warmth of the sun returned to coax them to press up through and join it. Welcome back to Oz, they tell me—we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Only one who has walked among the living dead can understand the power contained in this simple affirmation of life. It catches me off guard, these days, as my CD changer cycles through six sets of worship music, returning every few days to this phrase that still brings tears to my eyes. Just as amazing grace transformed one who was lost into one who was found, it has transformed me from one who was dead into one who is alive. I turn it up and I sing it loud—defying depression, defying death, defying colorless living. I will not go back to black and white. I am living life bright red and royal blue.
This is my story, this is my song: I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.
Friday, January 27, 2006
revolution
(thought of this after I wrote the previous post--wrote it in 1996)
the slow boil.
the motion begins slowly from within
—molecules soon colliding at
lightning speed—
heat is generated…
the burn.
bubbles begin to form—
from deep down you begin
to churn—
changes are coming.
a violent reaction to
outside stimuli—
an internal
revolution.
once all was placid, smooth—
once there was peace.
now there is motion.
now there is yearning.
now there is need.
now there is heat.
burning, churning bubbles
fighting for an outlet—
colliding with a force
that shatters all stillness.
in their frantic spinning,
they rise from the bottom,
they struggle for the top—
they overcome…
and they are released.
the slow boil.
the motion begins slowly from within
—molecules soon colliding at
lightning speed—
heat is generated…
the burn.
bubbles begin to form—
from deep down you begin
to churn—
changes are coming.
a violent reaction to
outside stimuli—
an internal
revolution.
once all was placid, smooth—
once there was peace.
now there is motion.
now there is yearning.
now there is need.
now there is heat.
burning, churning bubbles
fighting for an outlet—
colliding with a force
that shatters all stillness.
in their frantic spinning,
they rise from the bottom,
they struggle for the top—
they overcome…
and they are released.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
boiling water
The kettle sputters on the back burner, and I did remember to turn on the BACK burner this time. Usually, I am not as aware—at least not until the house smells of burnt whatever-is-on-the-burner-this-time and I come in to find the front burner red hot and my water still ice cold. But tonight, surprisingly enough, I have enough of my faculties, despite a head full of something resembling half-dried rubber cement, to boil water. But just barely.
My mind is elsewhere tonight. Or, rather, my mind is everywhere tonight. Thoughts race through my head like satellite channels at the whim of a bored housewife clinging to the remote as if it were her only lifeline. I can’t stay with one long enough to really get into the plot before I am off to the next. But I’m learning a lot about decorating in the process.
Rumbling comes from the kitchen, alerting me that the boiling point is near. I am distracted by watching my wedding ring slide around my finger to the left, pulled by the weight of my husband’s grandmother’s diamond. Over and over I set it upright, and over and over it twists as I type. Quite a change from two years ago, when I couldn’t get it on or off. Again, I change the channel.
click Can I really keep the weight off? click Did I spend enough time with my son today? click Why did I schedule myself so late tomorrow night? click What will the teacher have to say? click What if we don’t hear back by Friday? click How will this project come together? click Did I remember to email the coordinator? click What are we doing this weekend? click What color should we paint the living room? click Are we REALLY ever going to paint the living room? click The scream of the kettle calls and I pry my hands from the remote, all thoughts momentarily focused in the direction of my stomach.
I pour the contents of my 25-calorie diet hot chocolate into my favorite mug, noticing as if for the first time the number of chips around its edges. Hunting out the cocoa powder and artificial sweetener, I prepare to turn my 25-calorie diet hot chocolate into approximately 40-calorie hot chocolate. As I stir the contents, my mouth begins to water in pathetic anticipation. The kettle is returned to the burner, promptly resuming its hissing and humming as it issues miniature clouds out its spout and into our kitchen. I breathe deeply and grab my mug, trying in vain not to spill anything.
Settling back into the love seat, steaming mug of comfort in hand, my mind threatens to return to a rolling boil as well. Tension bubbles up within looking for release—I need to let off some steam. Or, better yet, perhaps I need to be removed from the burner for a while—allowed to cool down to room temperature so as to not entirely evaporate. I am accustomed to boiling—the screaming of the kettle is the soundtrack of my inner life. But not tonight, I decide after some consideration. Tonight, I think am going to play Vivaldi.
I kick my shoes off, leaning back to put my feet up and sinking three inches further into the couch. The remote lays at my feet as I pick up Reading Lolita in Tehran. Perhaps I will finish it tonight. Or perhaps I won’t. But for now, at least, all burners are turned to off, and I am cooling down.
My mind is elsewhere tonight. Or, rather, my mind is everywhere tonight. Thoughts race through my head like satellite channels at the whim of a bored housewife clinging to the remote as if it were her only lifeline. I can’t stay with one long enough to really get into the plot before I am off to the next. But I’m learning a lot about decorating in the process.
Rumbling comes from the kitchen, alerting me that the boiling point is near. I am distracted by watching my wedding ring slide around my finger to the left, pulled by the weight of my husband’s grandmother’s diamond. Over and over I set it upright, and over and over it twists as I type. Quite a change from two years ago, when I couldn’t get it on or off. Again, I change the channel.
click Can I really keep the weight off? click Did I spend enough time with my son today? click Why did I schedule myself so late tomorrow night? click What will the teacher have to say? click What if we don’t hear back by Friday? click How will this project come together? click Did I remember to email the coordinator? click What are we doing this weekend? click What color should we paint the living room? click Are we REALLY ever going to paint the living room? click The scream of the kettle calls and I pry my hands from the remote, all thoughts momentarily focused in the direction of my stomach.
I pour the contents of my 25-calorie diet hot chocolate into my favorite mug, noticing as if for the first time the number of chips around its edges. Hunting out the cocoa powder and artificial sweetener, I prepare to turn my 25-calorie diet hot chocolate into approximately 40-calorie hot chocolate. As I stir the contents, my mouth begins to water in pathetic anticipation. The kettle is returned to the burner, promptly resuming its hissing and humming as it issues miniature clouds out its spout and into our kitchen. I breathe deeply and grab my mug, trying in vain not to spill anything.
Settling back into the love seat, steaming mug of comfort in hand, my mind threatens to return to a rolling boil as well. Tension bubbles up within looking for release—I need to let off some steam. Or, better yet, perhaps I need to be removed from the burner for a while—allowed to cool down to room temperature so as to not entirely evaporate. I am accustomed to boiling—the screaming of the kettle is the soundtrack of my inner life. But not tonight, I decide after some consideration. Tonight, I think am going to play Vivaldi.
I kick my shoes off, leaning back to put my feet up and sinking three inches further into the couch. The remote lays at my feet as I pick up Reading Lolita in Tehran. Perhaps I will finish it tonight. Or perhaps I won’t. But for now, at least, all burners are turned to off, and I am cooling down.
oh where, oh where has my little blog gone?
Can anyone tell me what happened to Dan's blog? Anyone? I'm in haiku withdrawal...
Monday, January 23, 2006
the aproned crusader
She circulates among the masses, alert to the first sign of distress. At the upward shot of a hand, she is there, springing into action. Inserting a hand into her trusty apron, she dispenses vital supplies with lightening speed to the forgetful and the unprepared. Forks. Straws. Napkins. Ketchup. Where there is an innocent child in need, she is there.
The lunchroom nearly spills over with tension and trouble—but no, wait! That’s just Nathan’s milk! Not to worry—milk spills are no match for this dominatrix of domesticity. Mop in hand, chaos is averted for another Monday.
So go about your daily business in peace, fellow mothers. The Aproned Crusader is on the job. Enforcer of the one-more-bite rule. Inspector of the contents of lunchboxes. Patroller of hidden, uneaten sandwiches. Yes, mothers, you can relax. Your child’s lunchtime is safe.
Faster than a child headed to the tetherball tournament. More powerful than your average six-year old girl. Able to open the most stubborn package in a single tear.
But who IS that aproned woman?
It’s a first year teacher… it’s a study hall monitor… it’s an off-duty police officer…
it’s, it’s, it’s…
(duhn duhn da DUHN)
C A F E T E R I A M O M . . .
The lunchroom nearly spills over with tension and trouble—but no, wait! That’s just Nathan’s milk! Not to worry—milk spills are no match for this dominatrix of domesticity. Mop in hand, chaos is averted for another Monday.
So go about your daily business in peace, fellow mothers. The Aproned Crusader is on the job. Enforcer of the one-more-bite rule. Inspector of the contents of lunchboxes. Patroller of hidden, uneaten sandwiches. Yes, mothers, you can relax. Your child’s lunchtime is safe.
Faster than a child headed to the tetherball tournament. More powerful than your average six-year old girl. Able to open the most stubborn package in a single tear.
But who IS that aproned woman?
It’s a first year teacher… it’s a study hall monitor… it’s an off-duty police officer…
it’s, it’s, it’s…
(duhn duhn da DUHN)
C A F E T E R I A M O M . . .
visiting great-grandma
Portable DVD player: $99.99
Case that hangs between the seats: $19.99
Two sets of headphones: $9.98
Splitter jack: $4.99
Complete silence to Sandusky and back: PRICELESS
Case that hangs between the seats: $19.99
Two sets of headphones: $9.98
Splitter jack: $4.99
Complete silence to Sandusky and back: PRICELESS
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
foul
It hangs over me like gray hangs over the Midwest in March, like rain hangs over our city as if it has come to stay, like life and its demands hang over my shoulders bowing my back with their weight. It drapes its dreary self around me, swallowing me like an oversized jacket, and I find myself lost in its billowing folds. I regard myself in the mirror, but all I see reflected back is the cloud-cover.
Overwhelmed. Overextended. Overdrawn. Feeling decidedly at a deficit, I snap at the only ones safe enough to be snapped at. Guilt consumes me—raising like fog, gray on gray, to further obscure all visibility.
Like a cat that has had too many objects tied to its tail in his lifetime, I have tired of trying to shake it. I regard it with weary disdain, eventually settling in to lick my wounds and give off a generally offended air. Not unlike the cat’s, such airs go completely ignored—as they should be. But the indifference irritates me, nonetheless.
It will be gone by morning—evaporated perhaps even before the lights go out for the evening. Nothing but a fine mist will linger, eventually blown away by the morning breeze. All will be sunny again. But for now, I am in a foul mood, and if you’ll excuse me, my cat and I have some sulking to do.
Overwhelmed. Overextended. Overdrawn. Feeling decidedly at a deficit, I snap at the only ones safe enough to be snapped at. Guilt consumes me—raising like fog, gray on gray, to further obscure all visibility.
Like a cat that has had too many objects tied to its tail in his lifetime, I have tired of trying to shake it. I regard it with weary disdain, eventually settling in to lick my wounds and give off a generally offended air. Not unlike the cat’s, such airs go completely ignored—as they should be. But the indifference irritates me, nonetheless.
It will be gone by morning—evaporated perhaps even before the lights go out for the evening. Nothing but a fine mist will linger, eventually blown away by the morning breeze. All will be sunny again. But for now, I am in a foul mood, and if you’ll excuse me, my cat and I have some sulking to do.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
falling down
“It’s all part of learning to skate,” I tell my daughter, who is begging now to end what she begged for weeks to begin. “Everybody falls down when they’re learning to skate.” She looks at me as if she is trying to determine if I am merely feeding her a line. To emphasize my point, I direct her gaze to three children sprawled out flat on the ice around us. She smiles, and we continue to advance around the outer wall.
I must admit, I am fairly nervous myself. Fifteen years since I’ve last been on skates—and while she is made out of rubber, I feel as if I am made out of porcelain. The last thing I need is a broken _______ (insert any breakable bone here). I do my own fair share of clinging to the wall until my ankles finally cooperate with my legs, which takes longer to accomplish than I’d like. But I am in no hurry—neither to let go nor to leave her side.
She is an oxymoron, my daughter. Fearless, yet timid. Bold, yet cautious. This adventure is clearly not what she bargained for. Her eyes are wide with concern as her feet refuse to obey her, landing her, again, on the cold, hard surface. She struggles like a cat trying to get out of the bathtub to regain her footing and put herself upright before asking, again, if we can go home now.
We have only been at it for a half of an hour. I am finally able to let go and allow my legs to support me for short periods of time. Hand in hand, I encourage her to continue, partially out of principle, partially because we shelled out cold, hard cash to make this little ice skating dream come true. I can see it in her eyes—she longs to go out in the middle, but she must let go of the wall to do so. She tries, and falls. Tries, and falls. It will take more time and practice. I know she can do it, but how hard and how long do I push?
We continue for almost another hour at our stop-start-stop-start pace around the rink, mopping up ice as we go. She perseveres, giving it an honest try, and I am immensely proud of her efforts. Her ankles gain strength and her confidence grows in small increments, but she is getting tired. And then, she finally hits a wall. Literally, and figuratively.
Face down on the ice, she begins to sob. “I want to be done now, Momma!” she cries, a mixture of pain, embarrassment, and fatigue in her voice. I gather her into my arms, as several very maternal middle-school girls check to make sure she is okay. I reassure everyone, my daughter included, that she will be fine. I escort her to the exit gate, her dream, for the moment, forgotten.
There is a time for letting go of the wall. That time will not come today.
Today, it is time to go.
I must admit, I am fairly nervous myself. Fifteen years since I’ve last been on skates—and while she is made out of rubber, I feel as if I am made out of porcelain. The last thing I need is a broken _______ (insert any breakable bone here). I do my own fair share of clinging to the wall until my ankles finally cooperate with my legs, which takes longer to accomplish than I’d like. But I am in no hurry—neither to let go nor to leave her side.
She is an oxymoron, my daughter. Fearless, yet timid. Bold, yet cautious. This adventure is clearly not what she bargained for. Her eyes are wide with concern as her feet refuse to obey her, landing her, again, on the cold, hard surface. She struggles like a cat trying to get out of the bathtub to regain her footing and put herself upright before asking, again, if we can go home now.
We have only been at it for a half of an hour. I am finally able to let go and allow my legs to support me for short periods of time. Hand in hand, I encourage her to continue, partially out of principle, partially because we shelled out cold, hard cash to make this little ice skating dream come true. I can see it in her eyes—she longs to go out in the middle, but she must let go of the wall to do so. She tries, and falls. Tries, and falls. It will take more time and practice. I know she can do it, but how hard and how long do I push?
We continue for almost another hour at our stop-start-stop-start pace around the rink, mopping up ice as we go. She perseveres, giving it an honest try, and I am immensely proud of her efforts. Her ankles gain strength and her confidence grows in small increments, but she is getting tired. And then, she finally hits a wall. Literally, and figuratively.
Face down on the ice, she begins to sob. “I want to be done now, Momma!” she cries, a mixture of pain, embarrassment, and fatigue in her voice. I gather her into my arms, as several very maternal middle-school girls check to make sure she is okay. I reassure everyone, my daughter included, that she will be fine. I escort her to the exit gate, her dream, for the moment, forgotten.
There is a time for letting go of the wall. That time will not come today.
Today, it is time to go.
Friday, January 13, 2006
haiku at the zoo
(inspired by the coral reef tank-- our favorite winter hang-out)
salt water ballet
color extrodanary
flows in slow motion
_____
giggles and bubbles
grubby handprints on the glass
life beneath the sea
_____
divine artistry
brings forth unfathomable
creativity
_____
follow me, sissy!
-over, under, through, between-
adventure awaits!
_____
unchoreographed,
the masses move in perfect
synchronicity
salt water ballet
color extrodanary
flows in slow motion
_____
giggles and bubbles
grubby handprints on the glass
life beneath the sea
_____
divine artistry
brings forth unfathomable
creativity
_____
follow me, sissy!
-over, under, through, between-
adventure awaits!
_____
unchoreographed,
the masses move in perfect
synchronicity
i'm so hip i can't stand it
blogging at panera while my daughter parties across the street at chuck e. cheese...
difinitely the only mom online here... (smile)
vivaldi on the sound system, and no whining toddler for miles
ah... sweet freedom!
difinitely the only mom online here... (smile)
vivaldi on the sound system, and no whining toddler for miles
ah... sweet freedom!
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
hiaku for adding a second aerobics class
class one, session two
intermediate, my _ _ _
what was I thinking?
seventy pounds lost
a glutton for punishment
(please pass the cookies)
intermediate, my _ _ _
what was I thinking?
seventy pounds lost
a glutton for punishment
(please pass the cookies)
Monday, January 09, 2006
all you can eat
Another one of those nights when brilliance is eluding me…
My stomach growls, protesting the advice from the aerobic instructor to not eat anything after seven PM. I am hungry—literally and figuratively—but I do not know what for. I’m two feet over the line called Complacency, being pulled in both directions by forces unseen. The desire for comfort and ease grips with arrogance and quiet might while the desire to be more yanks and gasps like a small dog at the end of a short, sturdy leash. My will remains largely unmoved.
Can I really do this? The plate in front of me is full, already. But I am a compulsive eater at the World’s Biggest Potluck and there is more to be tasted in this life. Motherhood. Career. Marriage. Writing. Music. Leadership. Photography. Travel. Service. Friendship. I am torn—my life at this time cannot contain it all.
I suck on a zinc lozenge—surely ten calories will not tip the scale. Perspective is key: is my life sucking on zinc lozenges when what I really want is fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies or is this the beginning evidence of long sought after discipline?
Perspective is realizing I want to be thin and healthy more than I want chocolate chip cookies.
Perspective is realizing the time to write is coming.
Perspective is learning portion control.
My stomach growls, protesting the advice from the aerobic instructor to not eat anything after seven PM. I am hungry—literally and figuratively—but I do not know what for. I’m two feet over the line called Complacency, being pulled in both directions by forces unseen. The desire for comfort and ease grips with arrogance and quiet might while the desire to be more yanks and gasps like a small dog at the end of a short, sturdy leash. My will remains largely unmoved.
Can I really do this? The plate in front of me is full, already. But I am a compulsive eater at the World’s Biggest Potluck and there is more to be tasted in this life. Motherhood. Career. Marriage. Writing. Music. Leadership. Photography. Travel. Service. Friendship. I am torn—my life at this time cannot contain it all.
I suck on a zinc lozenge—surely ten calories will not tip the scale. Perspective is key: is my life sucking on zinc lozenges when what I really want is fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies or is this the beginning evidence of long sought after discipline?
Perspective is realizing I want to be thin and healthy more than I want chocolate chip cookies.
Perspective is realizing the time to write is coming.
Perspective is learning portion control.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Saturday, January 07, 2006
i hope you dance
Check out a friend of mine as she chronicles her efforts to dance for the glory of God. Lots of creativity in this gal...check out her jewlry site also...it links from her blog.
Friday, January 06, 2006
horror of horrors
God help me, but I have it, and I have it bad.
Despite my best intentions and self-directed propaganda, despite regularly sleeping through the night for going on two years now, despite all physical, emotional, and financial reason, I have caught the baby bug like I catch every virus my children introduce to my ineffectual immune system.
Crap.
What is it about babies that make women idiots? A three-month-old flashes a gummy grin at me and I suddenly forget two very long, uncomfortable pregnancies, two horrific postpartum recovery periods, two very loud, colicky babies, and a combined four years of sleepless nights. I hold a sleeping baby in my arms, inhaling its sweet baby-scented hair, and I completely blank out about the sciatica, the back and hip pain, the hernia, the stretch marks, and the 70 lbs. finally lost. The sight of a mother nursing and the realities of the size of our home, our car, or our bank account vanish like Little People under the couch. I forget that I’m almost eight years older than when I started. I forget the fear of losing a baby. I forget the pain of fear becoming reality. I forget morning sickness, heartburn, and sinus headaches for which I can take nothing. I forget the 80% chance of conceiving twins once more. I forget that in two more years I’ll finally have time to myself again.
But then I remember—in two years, I’ll have time to myself again. Babies grow up. The bitter and the sweet war internally over the inevitability. Today was not a good day to go to COSI.
I should have gotten vaccinated.
Despite my best intentions and self-directed propaganda, despite regularly sleeping through the night for going on two years now, despite all physical, emotional, and financial reason, I have caught the baby bug like I catch every virus my children introduce to my ineffectual immune system.
Crap.
What is it about babies that make women idiots? A three-month-old flashes a gummy grin at me and I suddenly forget two very long, uncomfortable pregnancies, two horrific postpartum recovery periods, two very loud, colicky babies, and a combined four years of sleepless nights. I hold a sleeping baby in my arms, inhaling its sweet baby-scented hair, and I completely blank out about the sciatica, the back and hip pain, the hernia, the stretch marks, and the 70 lbs. finally lost. The sight of a mother nursing and the realities of the size of our home, our car, or our bank account vanish like Little People under the couch. I forget that I’m almost eight years older than when I started. I forget the fear of losing a baby. I forget the pain of fear becoming reality. I forget morning sickness, heartburn, and sinus headaches for which I can take nothing. I forget the 80% chance of conceiving twins once more. I forget that in two more years I’ll finally have time to myself again.
But then I remember—in two years, I’ll have time to myself again. Babies grow up. The bitter and the sweet war internally over the inevitability. Today was not a good day to go to COSI.
I should have gotten vaccinated.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
great expectations
It is only when we’re in love
or when we’re little
that Christmas really comes true
… In between
it can break our hearts
with
expectation
Merrit Malloy
“Well, what did you expect?”
Mom
The tree is gone—returned to its summer home in the corner of our damp Clintonville basement. The living room has been re-reconfigured—pictures and tables and lamps and the like all back in their pre-Christmas places. All that is green and red is now stored, once again, in embarrassingly huge plastic tubs of the same color, awaiting next Christmas and sharing my melancholy over the end of the season.
I sit in my post-holiday funk in a living room that now seems stark and I replay scenes that tickle my memory. The romantic glow of the zoo’s light display set against the freshly fallen snow, especially heart-warming when replayed on mute so as to forget that the toddler fussed and cried for the entire last leg of our tour. Missing my husband’s final Christmas concert—the one I was finally going to brave my way through without tears. Making the gingerbread house with my six-and-a-half year old and chastising myself later for trying to control too much of the process, down to when it was okay or not okay to lick the knife. More stellar scenes—biting my husband’s head off as we wrapped gifts for our children, snapping at my children as attempting to get out the door for Christmas Eve service, spending Christmas day in a smoke-filled house with a head cold. Moments of disappointment that beg the question—what did I expect?
Somewhere not-so-deep within I cling to a not-so-secret belief that life should play like a Hallmark movie complete with soundtrack and obligatory happy ending. The script includes lots of “pleases” and “thank yous” and even more “you were rights” and “I was wrongs.” Family times are harmonious and husbands never snap back, childhood memories are recreated flawlessly, and I am at the center of it all—Mother of the Year surrounded by her adoring, smiling, perfect family. And I wonder where my disappointment stems from…
Believe it or not, I truly went into this holiday trying to curb my expectations. I worked to keep my focus where it belonged and tried to convey to our children the meaning of our celebration while hoping feel its impact myself along the way. Sometimes, I actually succeeded, despite myself. In between the hustling and bustling and grinching and grouching, there were some beautiful, tender, precious moments. One day, I will learn to enjoy them more fully.
A final scene flashes through my mind—we sit in a candle and tree-lit room, snuggled up in our pajamas before the Christmas tree, reading The Night Before Christmas with full dramatic flair. My daughter then reads us the Story of Stories in her sweet, innocent six-and-a-half year old voice and my heart is moved once again by the faith and wonder of my child. Prayers are offered by each as we consider with grateful hearts all that we have been blessed with, culminating in the Greatest Gift of All. There is lots of giggling, lots of wiggling, and the occasional “shhhhhh” to one child or the other. It is not a Hallmark Moment, but it is a Holy Moment.
It is the one I will choose to remember as the Christmas soundtrack fades.
or when we’re little
that Christmas really comes true
… In between
it can break our hearts
with
expectation
Merrit Malloy
“Well, what did you expect?”
Mom
The tree is gone—returned to its summer home in the corner of our damp Clintonville basement. The living room has been re-reconfigured—pictures and tables and lamps and the like all back in their pre-Christmas places. All that is green and red is now stored, once again, in embarrassingly huge plastic tubs of the same color, awaiting next Christmas and sharing my melancholy over the end of the season.
I sit in my post-holiday funk in a living room that now seems stark and I replay scenes that tickle my memory. The romantic glow of the zoo’s light display set against the freshly fallen snow, especially heart-warming when replayed on mute so as to forget that the toddler fussed and cried for the entire last leg of our tour. Missing my husband’s final Christmas concert—the one I was finally going to brave my way through without tears. Making the gingerbread house with my six-and-a-half year old and chastising myself later for trying to control too much of the process, down to when it was okay or not okay to lick the knife. More stellar scenes—biting my husband’s head off as we wrapped gifts for our children, snapping at my children as attempting to get out the door for Christmas Eve service, spending Christmas day in a smoke-filled house with a head cold. Moments of disappointment that beg the question—what did I expect?
Somewhere not-so-deep within I cling to a not-so-secret belief that life should play like a Hallmark movie complete with soundtrack and obligatory happy ending. The script includes lots of “pleases” and “thank yous” and even more “you were rights” and “I was wrongs.” Family times are harmonious and husbands never snap back, childhood memories are recreated flawlessly, and I am at the center of it all—Mother of the Year surrounded by her adoring, smiling, perfect family. And I wonder where my disappointment stems from…
Believe it or not, I truly went into this holiday trying to curb my expectations. I worked to keep my focus where it belonged and tried to convey to our children the meaning of our celebration while hoping feel its impact myself along the way. Sometimes, I actually succeeded, despite myself. In between the hustling and bustling and grinching and grouching, there were some beautiful, tender, precious moments. One day, I will learn to enjoy them more fully.
A final scene flashes through my mind—we sit in a candle and tree-lit room, snuggled up in our pajamas before the Christmas tree, reading The Night Before Christmas with full dramatic flair. My daughter then reads us the Story of Stories in her sweet, innocent six-and-a-half year old voice and my heart is moved once again by the faith and wonder of my child. Prayers are offered by each as we consider with grateful hearts all that we have been blessed with, culminating in the Greatest Gift of All. There is lots of giggling, lots of wiggling, and the occasional “shhhhhh” to one child or the other. It is not a Hallmark Moment, but it is a Holy Moment.
It is the one I will choose to remember as the Christmas soundtrack fades.
carnival of the mundane
ordinary people, writing about ordinary life. including li'l ol' me! check it out!
carnival of the mundane
carnival of the mundane
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Saturday, December 24, 2005
a christmas eve miracle
can't believe we got this with the self-timer... a miracle, indeed!
Merry Christmas and God bless!
Monday, December 19, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
what have I gotten myself into now?
Gonna be a part of a carnival. In case you are, like me, completely blog-illiterate, a carnival is apparently a group of people who write about similar stuff or in a similar style/genre, and they take turns "reviewing" one anothers blogs and post about it so you can check out other stuff. This one is called The Carnival of the Mundane, and it is a bunch of folks, like me, just writing about their everyday lives. Should vary in style and content and hopefully include some good writing. Hope you enjoy!
You can check the info out here.
You can check the info out here.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
snippets from bedtime, part two
“I wish I was you, Momma.”
I pause, halfway out the door. It could be a ploy, but I am intrigued. Turning to face her, I reply, “Why is that, Bub?”
“I just wish I was you, Momma.” She grins a self-conscious grin—the kind of grin that wears her rather than she wearing it. I am now intrigued and perplexed.
“Why do you wish you were me?”
“I dunno. I just do.” Her head plummets under the quilt in mock embarrassment, only to reappear with the same infectious grin. I don’t know quite what to say. So, I wing it.
“Well,” I reply, turning toward the door, “I’m glad you’re not me. I’m glad you’re you.” It’s not brilliant, but it will suffice. That’s when she floors me.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about bad stuff,” she blurts out. I pause, half way out into the hall, and turn back around. I am now intrigued, perplexed, and completely caught off guard.
“What?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about bad stuff.” Standing, dumbfounded, in the doorway, I can’t help but smirk at her absurdity. But the sweet innocent has no idea she’s absurd at all, let alone just how absurd she really is—she’s never read my blog, after all. Obviously.
“You think Mommy doesn’t worry about bad stuff?” The same self-conscious grin shakes back and forth. Nope. Mommy doesn’t worry. My smirk threatens to erupt into outright laughter. The child really has no idea. How did I manage to pull that one off?
How did I manage to hide from her my sleepless nights as school approached each and every year? Did she really sleep through the nights I snuck into her room and curled up next to her in bed, convulsing with my fear and wetting her face with my inability to let her go? Does she not understand that I still make her hold my hand in the parking lot because visions unspeakable flash unbidden through my mind at 50 MPH? How does she not see?
Labels. Rejection from her peers. Rejection from her teachers. Rejection from other parents. Deep wounds, thick scars. Illness. Injury. Loss of life, literally. Loss of life, figuratively. Loss of a parent. Loss of our home. Loss. Rebellion. Darkness and anger. Bitterness and resentment. Loss of relationship. More loss. Bad seeds sown. Bad fruit reaped. Deception. Confusion. Walking away. My daughter on a therapist’s couch, talking about me and how I failed her. My daughter, on a morgue table. My daughter, lying in a parking lot. My daughter, in an abortion clinic. My daughter, in a big, bad world that I cannot possibly protect her from.
And those are just my fears for her.
So I’ll leave to her the thoughts of tornados, of thunder, of wind and rain. I’ll leave to her the worries of who sits by whom and what words were exchanged on the playground. I’ll leave to her the “bad stuff.”
And I’ll tell her, “No, my dear. You have it all wrong—it is I who wishes I was you.”
I pause, halfway out the door. It could be a ploy, but I am intrigued. Turning to face her, I reply, “Why is that, Bub?”
“I just wish I was you, Momma.” She grins a self-conscious grin—the kind of grin that wears her rather than she wearing it. I am now intrigued and perplexed.
“Why do you wish you were me?”
“I dunno. I just do.” Her head plummets under the quilt in mock embarrassment, only to reappear with the same infectious grin. I don’t know quite what to say. So, I wing it.
“Well,” I reply, turning toward the door, “I’m glad you’re not me. I’m glad you’re you.” It’s not brilliant, but it will suffice. That’s when she floors me.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about bad stuff,” she blurts out. I pause, half way out into the hall, and turn back around. I am now intrigued, perplexed, and completely caught off guard.
“What?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about bad stuff.” Standing, dumbfounded, in the doorway, I can’t help but smirk at her absurdity. But the sweet innocent has no idea she’s absurd at all, let alone just how absurd she really is—she’s never read my blog, after all. Obviously.
“You think Mommy doesn’t worry about bad stuff?” The same self-conscious grin shakes back and forth. Nope. Mommy doesn’t worry. My smirk threatens to erupt into outright laughter. The child really has no idea. How did I manage to pull that one off?
How did I manage to hide from her my sleepless nights as school approached each and every year? Did she really sleep through the nights I snuck into her room and curled up next to her in bed, convulsing with my fear and wetting her face with my inability to let her go? Does she not understand that I still make her hold my hand in the parking lot because visions unspeakable flash unbidden through my mind at 50 MPH? How does she not see?
Labels. Rejection from her peers. Rejection from her teachers. Rejection from other parents. Deep wounds, thick scars. Illness. Injury. Loss of life, literally. Loss of life, figuratively. Loss of a parent. Loss of our home. Loss. Rebellion. Darkness and anger. Bitterness and resentment. Loss of relationship. More loss. Bad seeds sown. Bad fruit reaped. Deception. Confusion. Walking away. My daughter on a therapist’s couch, talking about me and how I failed her. My daughter, on a morgue table. My daughter, lying in a parking lot. My daughter, in an abortion clinic. My daughter, in a big, bad world that I cannot possibly protect her from.
And those are just my fears for her.
So I’ll leave to her the thoughts of tornados, of thunder, of wind and rain. I’ll leave to her the worries of who sits by whom and what words were exchanged on the playground. I’ll leave to her the “bad stuff.”
And I’ll tell her, “No, my dear. You have it all wrong—it is I who wishes I was you.”
snippets from bedtime, part one
Korey’s Prayer
Thank you God for…
Gamma and Gampa.
And thank you God for…
toys.
And thank you God for…
cats.
And thank you God for…
TRAINS.
And thank you God for…
buildings.
And thank you God for…
more buildings.
And thank you God for…
more buildings.
And thank you God for…
…(Mommy and Daddy?)
mommy and daddy.
And thank you God for…
…(Sissy?)
Amen.
And thank you God for Sissy…
Amen.
Tank you God, Amen.
Thank you God for…
Gamma and Gampa.
And thank you God for…
toys.
And thank you God for…
cats.
And thank you God for…
TRAINS.
And thank you God for…
buildings.
And thank you God for…
more buildings.
And thank you God for…
more buildings.
And thank you God for…
…(Mommy and Daddy?)
mommy and daddy.
And thank you God for…
…(Sissy?)
Amen.
And thank you God for Sissy…
Amen.
Tank you God, Amen.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
do you believe?
“Momma, Madeleine says Santa isn’t real, only St. Nicholas is.” She sounds triumphant yet strangely conciliatory, as though we are sharing a tragic secret about poor, simple Madeleine. My eyebrows rise of their own volition—conditioned over time to do so whenever my daughter speaks with that tone.
“Oh yeah?” I ask from the driver’s seat, acting much more nonchalant than I feel as I try to keep one eye on her face in the mirror and one eye on the bumper in front of me—scanning for signs of danger from either view.
Her eyes twinkle as she leans forward. “Yeah. You wanna hear the real story?”
“Sure,” I reply, throwing Pandora’s box wide open at 70 MPH on the rush-hour-riddled freeway.
“Well,” she begins, her hands punctuating every point, “St. Nicholas was real and he loved Jesus and he gave presents to people who were poor and put money in their stockings. Lots and lots of years later, Santa heard of St. Nicholas, and he began giving presents, too…”
I begin shaking my head from the front seat—our eyes meet in the mirror and my daughter’s voice trails off. “What?”
“Honey, we’ve read the story of St. Nicholas every year—you know that St. Nick is real and Santa is not.” Something not unlike dread begins to form in the pit of my stomach, spreading millimeter by millimeter like Pepto-Bismol.
“What!?” She looks at me with the look that I never wanted to see—the look that was part of the reason we taught her what we did from the beginning. But it is all there in the rear view mirror—her confusion, her fear, her disappointment. She thinks she has been betrayed. Worse yet, she thinks it was by me.
“Yeah, Honey—remember?” Stupid question, as she obviously does not or we would not be having this uncomfortable conversation. “We’ve talked about this every year. St. Nicholas is real. Jesus is real. But Santa’s just a fun thing we pretend, Honey.”
The “buts” begin from the back seat—her mind trying to make sense out of what was to her, just one minute ago, complete nonsense. How did this happen? I tried so hard to avoid this crisis of belief at so early an age—and yet believe, she did. In more than I bargained for.
“I feel like you tricked me,” she accuses from the back seat, her face confirming that this is not mere manipulation. My heart sinks.
I know how she feels. I’ve felt it before when the circumstances of my life did not seem to match up with the tales of a loving, benevolent father who claimed to have plans “not to harm me, but to give me a hope and a future.” I, too, have felt tricked by my Father—convinced that he looked down upon me and chuckled that he got me again. Convinced that my belief in him was for naught. Confused and confounded over what, if anything, to believe when all was said and done.
She pouts in the back seat, and I leave her to her thoughts as I exit the freeway. We reach the intersection and I pray for wisdom and a long red light. Turning my full body to look my daughter in the eye, I tell her that which has taken me 35 years to learn. “Sweet Pea, I’m really sorry you’re upset. But you need to make a choice, Baby. You can choose to believe that Momma meant to trick you and hurt your feelings, or you can choose to believe that you can trust me and that I never meant to hurt your feelings and never tried to trick you. Only you can make that choice, Honey Bunny. You get to choose how you feel about it.”
The light turns green, and I leave her to her quiet thoughts as we wind through our neighborhood, up our driveway, and into our garage. The ignition quiets, and I turn once again toward her. “Have you decided, Sweet Pea?”
She smiles, and I am disarmed yet again by the gaping hole where her front teeth should be. She is beautiful—looking at me with the innocent trust that only a child can muster. “I believe you, Momma. I know you didn’t try to trick me.” I smile in relief, adding Pandora’s to the pile of boxes in the corner.
“I believe you.” Oh, that it had been that easy for me to say.
“Oh yeah?” I ask from the driver’s seat, acting much more nonchalant than I feel as I try to keep one eye on her face in the mirror and one eye on the bumper in front of me—scanning for signs of danger from either view.
Her eyes twinkle as she leans forward. “Yeah. You wanna hear the real story?”
“Sure,” I reply, throwing Pandora’s box wide open at 70 MPH on the rush-hour-riddled freeway.
“Well,” she begins, her hands punctuating every point, “St. Nicholas was real and he loved Jesus and he gave presents to people who were poor and put money in their stockings. Lots and lots of years later, Santa heard of St. Nicholas, and he began giving presents, too…”
I begin shaking my head from the front seat—our eyes meet in the mirror and my daughter’s voice trails off. “What?”
“Honey, we’ve read the story of St. Nicholas every year—you know that St. Nick is real and Santa is not.” Something not unlike dread begins to form in the pit of my stomach, spreading millimeter by millimeter like Pepto-Bismol.
“What!?” She looks at me with the look that I never wanted to see—the look that was part of the reason we taught her what we did from the beginning. But it is all there in the rear view mirror—her confusion, her fear, her disappointment. She thinks she has been betrayed. Worse yet, she thinks it was by me.
“Yeah, Honey—remember?” Stupid question, as she obviously does not or we would not be having this uncomfortable conversation. “We’ve talked about this every year. St. Nicholas is real. Jesus is real. But Santa’s just a fun thing we pretend, Honey.”
The “buts” begin from the back seat—her mind trying to make sense out of what was to her, just one minute ago, complete nonsense. How did this happen? I tried so hard to avoid this crisis of belief at so early an age—and yet believe, she did. In more than I bargained for.
“I feel like you tricked me,” she accuses from the back seat, her face confirming that this is not mere manipulation. My heart sinks.
I know how she feels. I’ve felt it before when the circumstances of my life did not seem to match up with the tales of a loving, benevolent father who claimed to have plans “not to harm me, but to give me a hope and a future.” I, too, have felt tricked by my Father—convinced that he looked down upon me and chuckled that he got me again. Convinced that my belief in him was for naught. Confused and confounded over what, if anything, to believe when all was said and done.
She pouts in the back seat, and I leave her to her thoughts as I exit the freeway. We reach the intersection and I pray for wisdom and a long red light. Turning my full body to look my daughter in the eye, I tell her that which has taken me 35 years to learn. “Sweet Pea, I’m really sorry you’re upset. But you need to make a choice, Baby. You can choose to believe that Momma meant to trick you and hurt your feelings, or you can choose to believe that you can trust me and that I never meant to hurt your feelings and never tried to trick you. Only you can make that choice, Honey Bunny. You get to choose how you feel about it.”
The light turns green, and I leave her to her quiet thoughts as we wind through our neighborhood, up our driveway, and into our garage. The ignition quiets, and I turn once again toward her. “Have you decided, Sweet Pea?”
She smiles, and I am disarmed yet again by the gaping hole where her front teeth should be. She is beautiful—looking at me with the innocent trust that only a child can muster. “I believe you, Momma. I know you didn’t try to trick me.” I smile in relief, adding Pandora’s to the pile of boxes in the corner.
“I believe you.” Oh, that it had been that easy for me to say.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
the joys of parenthood
Was going to write something brilliant tonight. Cleaned up vomit out of a crib instead. Going to go overdose on Echinacea and snort Lysol. Maybe I'll be brilliant tomorrow. Or maybe I'll be throwing up...
Sunday, December 04, 2005
advent
Throughout my life it has been my good fortune to experience the story of Jesus with every turning of every year. The number of the years of my unfolding age is also the number of times I’ve traveled with my Lord from his birth to his death to his triumphant rising again.
And because the story has been more than told to me; because it has surrounded me like a weather; because it comprehends me as a house does its inhabitants or a mother does her child, the life of Christ has shaped mine. My very being has been molded in him.
And because my response to this story has been more than an act of mind, more than study and scrutiny; because the story invites my entering in and my personal participation; because I have experienced the life of Christ with deeper intensity than I have my own daily affairs, the Gospel story now interprets for me the world’s story. It is through the Gospel narrative, as through a window or a template, that I see all things, that I relate to them and come to know them.
In every sense of the phrase: I find myself in Jesus.
As I enter his story, I enter him. As his life embraces mine, he embraces me, and I am his.
Walter Wangerin, Jr.
Preparing for Jesus: Meditations on the Coming of Christ, Advent, Christmas, and the Kingdom
And because the story has been more than told to me; because it has surrounded me like a weather; because it comprehends me as a house does its inhabitants or a mother does her child, the life of Christ has shaped mine. My very being has been molded in him.
And because my response to this story has been more than an act of mind, more than study and scrutiny; because the story invites my entering in and my personal participation; because I have experienced the life of Christ with deeper intensity than I have my own daily affairs, the Gospel story now interprets for me the world’s story. It is through the Gospel narrative, as through a window or a template, that I see all things, that I relate to them and come to know them.
In every sense of the phrase: I find myself in Jesus.
As I enter his story, I enter him. As his life embraces mine, he embraces me, and I am his.
Walter Wangerin, Jr.
Preparing for Jesus: Meditations on the Coming of Christ, Advent, Christmas, and the Kingdom
Friday, December 02, 2005
unto us a child is born (isaiah 9:2-7)
Sweat begins to form on her forehead,
her breath coming faster and faster,
her heart beating faster and faster,
her pain coming faster and faster.
Young and inexperienced,
weary and frightened,
alone and ill-prepared—
she shudders as
labor begins.
…there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress…
Hands strengthened from his trade now
ache from her grip as she
wrestles with her discomfort,
wrestles with her apprehension,
wrestles with her body.
…you have increased their joy, they rejoice before you…
Waves of pain overcome her—
waves of fear threatening to undo her as she
now knows that of which
every mother has a terrible tale.
…..of the increase of his peace there will be no end…
There is no rest now—
no catching her breath,
no pulling herself together
as the child descends through her lower regions,
leaving her womb,
his head pressing forth into the night air.
…on those living in the land of the shadow, a light has dawned…
Her irrepressible cries echo in the darkness,
anguish and agony shadowing her young,
delicate face—
followed by the wail of the newborn, piercing the dark night.
…shattering the yoke that burdens them…
Trembling and spent,
she gingerly reaches for the tiny child—
putting her parched lips to his blood-stained head—
and with fatigue and love in her voice
she tenderly whispers his name.
…Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…
Relief comes to the young mother—
her exhaustion given over to sleep,
her distress given over to peace,
her pain given over to joy—
and she smiles a soft smile as
she cradles
her son
in her arms.
…For unto us a child is born…
her breath coming faster and faster,
her heart beating faster and faster,
her pain coming faster and faster.
Young and inexperienced,
weary and frightened,
alone and ill-prepared—
she shudders as
labor begins.
…there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress…
Hands strengthened from his trade now
ache from her grip as she
wrestles with her discomfort,
wrestles with her apprehension,
wrestles with her body.
…you have increased their joy, they rejoice before you…
Waves of pain overcome her—
waves of fear threatening to undo her as she
now knows that of which
every mother has a terrible tale.
…..of the increase of his peace there will be no end…
There is no rest now—
no catching her breath,
no pulling herself together
as the child descends through her lower regions,
leaving her womb,
his head pressing forth into the night air.
…on those living in the land of the shadow, a light has dawned…
Her irrepressible cries echo in the darkness,
anguish and agony shadowing her young,
delicate face—
followed by the wail of the newborn, piercing the dark night.
…shattering the yoke that burdens them…
Trembling and spent,
she gingerly reaches for the tiny child—
putting her parched lips to his blood-stained head—
and with fatigue and love in her voice
she tenderly whispers his name.
…Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…
Relief comes to the young mother—
her exhaustion given over to sleep,
her distress given over to peace,
her pain given over to joy—
and she smiles a soft smile as
she cradles
her son
in her arms.
…For unto us a child is born…
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
there is no try...
I tried to write last night. The key word in that sentence is tried. But trying is not the same as writing. I am, therefore, switching verbs. Tonight, I am not trying to write. Tonight, I am writing.
I had a good idea, really. And parts of it were, in my opinion, stellar prose. A sentence here, half a paragraph there. But in my attempt to be brilliantly “writerly,” I neglected to just write, and it wasn’t fun anymore. And the idea was to have fun, was it not?
Or was it?
What am I doing here? Really? Is this simply my grown-up equivalent of attention-seeking? Compliment-fishing? Worth-achieving? Approval-attaining? I was so hoping to have outgrown that. But the presence of the site meter affirms more than just my need for affirmation…
There is, of course, more to it than that. Most days. Then there are days like the last two, when all that motivates me is the thought of what will generate the most comments and thereby give my fragile ego the biggest boost for my buck. Those days, in retrospect, are much more frustrating and much less enjoyable. And my writing, quite frankly, becomes overdone.
So, what AM I doing? What is it that I enjoy about this little “exercise?” At a base level, I suppose simply enjoy putting words together. Some people think in poetry—I think in prose, constantly turning phrases in my mind as I narrate the world around me. Life feels, at times, like watching a movie on DVD with the commentary turned on—internal dialogue over the external.
Then there are the words themselves, the mention of which prompts an embarrassing confession: I was one of those freaky, nerdy kids who enjoyed diagramming sentences. As in, did it at home for fun. Really. Word-smithing stirs something within me—there is a joy that comes from creatively saying exactly what I mean to say. The satisfaction it produces is, I must admit, a bit odd…
But there is more to it than these things, I am certain. My friend Dean commented once that writing is largely about seeing (or something vaguely along that vein)—perhaps I am a person who sees things, and I like to share what I see, in hopes that others may see something as well. On a good day, it is this that motivates me to write, to post, to pursue this dream. The little lamb is not the only one who asks, “Do you see what I see?”
I’ve heard it said, by people who are multi-lingual, that they must often shift between languages in order to articulate a thought precisely. My heart knows this. There are certain moods, certain thoughts, which my heart can only convey through my music. There are certain moments I can only capture through my lens. But then, oh, but then there is my writing…
…my native tongue.
I had a good idea, really. And parts of it were, in my opinion, stellar prose. A sentence here, half a paragraph there. But in my attempt to be brilliantly “writerly,” I neglected to just write, and it wasn’t fun anymore. And the idea was to have fun, was it not?
Or was it?
What am I doing here? Really? Is this simply my grown-up equivalent of attention-seeking? Compliment-fishing? Worth-achieving? Approval-attaining? I was so hoping to have outgrown that. But the presence of the site meter affirms more than just my need for affirmation…
There is, of course, more to it than that. Most days. Then there are days like the last two, when all that motivates me is the thought of what will generate the most comments and thereby give my fragile ego the biggest boost for my buck. Those days, in retrospect, are much more frustrating and much less enjoyable. And my writing, quite frankly, becomes overdone.
So, what AM I doing? What is it that I enjoy about this little “exercise?” At a base level, I suppose simply enjoy putting words together. Some people think in poetry—I think in prose, constantly turning phrases in my mind as I narrate the world around me. Life feels, at times, like watching a movie on DVD with the commentary turned on—internal dialogue over the external.
Then there are the words themselves, the mention of which prompts an embarrassing confession: I was one of those freaky, nerdy kids who enjoyed diagramming sentences. As in, did it at home for fun. Really. Word-smithing stirs something within me—there is a joy that comes from creatively saying exactly what I mean to say. The satisfaction it produces is, I must admit, a bit odd…
But there is more to it than these things, I am certain. My friend Dean commented once that writing is largely about seeing (or something vaguely along that vein)—perhaps I am a person who sees things, and I like to share what I see, in hopes that others may see something as well. On a good day, it is this that motivates me to write, to post, to pursue this dream. The little lamb is not the only one who asks, “Do you see what I see?”
I’ve heard it said, by people who are multi-lingual, that they must often shift between languages in order to articulate a thought precisely. My heart knows this. There are certain moods, certain thoughts, which my heart can only convey through my music. There are certain moments I can only capture through my lens. But then, oh, but then there is my writing…
…my native tongue.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
perfectionism
The equation:
Five days away from home and keyboard, plus four legal-sized pages of scribbled notes and ideas, plus two nights with not nearly as much time as I'd desired at the computer, minus any worthwhile inspiration whatsoever, equals squat to post.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
preparations
The dark navy jeans with the striped v-neck. No—the turtleneck. The striped one looks better with the black jeans. She looks around the room frantically. The black jeans. Where are the black jeans? Oh fudge—they’re dirty. She shoves them in a bag, climbs over the baby gate, and lugs them downstairs. Here goes another two flights up and down—as if aerobics this morning was not enough. Dang, my thighs are killing me.
Okay. Black jeans with the v-neck, denims with the turtleneck. Oh heck, just throw in all three pair of jeans—and the brown ones, too. Where’s the jacket that goes with that? That would look okay. The pile leans precariously on the edge of the bed, unnoticed by all but the 20 lb. cat who desires to deposit half of his hair along the side of it. “Max!! Argh!!!” She picks everything up off the floor, shaking off cat hair and arranging them in smaller piles not so close to the edge of the bed, but right in the range of the toddler who crawls over them, making his way toward the cat who is now wide-eyed in fear.
Which bra goes with that? Socks! I need socks! Oh shoot—if I pack that pair of pants, what am I going to wear to work tomorrow? “Momma… Moooooooommaaaaaaa…”
“What, sweetie?”
“Mooooooommaaaaaaa…”
“YES???”
“Will you color with me?”
She turns and looks incredulously across the hallway at the grade schooler, just in time to bump into the toddler who in turn scares the cat who in turn shoots like a bat out of hell (or a cat out of toddler’s reach) down the steps. At least HE’S not in my way anymore…
“No, bub. Not right now. I’m trying to pack for our trip. Sorry baby. Later, I promise.” Yeah, right. Right after I pack for all three of us and make dinner and get ready for my meeting tonight.
“But Mooommmm…”
The whining noise fades somewhat as she returns to her room, leaving most of the guilt pangs in the hallway. Now the toddler is in the suitcase. At least it’s not the cat, this time. “Oh buddy…” Oh heck, never mind. Let him sit there. What am I going to wear to work tomorrow? Here—the black turtleneck with the tweed. Write myself a note to be sure to pack the black boots once I get home. She pastes a third sticky note to the dresser, then bustles into the bathroom, hanging the work outfit to steam in the shower.
She turns again into her two-foot shadow, now carrying his sister’s plastic guitar, which his sister has not desired for months until it was placed in her brother’s room and which is now the object of great rivalry and ugliness. Note to self—pack after bedtime next time. She sidesteps the flailing toddler, takes the guitar back again from his sister, and shuts the door to her room, not even remotely muffling the hysterics of both of them just outside. Okay—socks. I need socks. What colors will I need? Let’s see… red, black, black, white…
Her mind drifts back to the email. What the heck am I going to wear to that party? And to church? Doggone it. The last time I was there, he asked me if I’d lost a little weight. A little? I’d lost fifty pounds—the jerk. MAN I don’t want to go to that party. Wish I didn’t feel so flippin’ obligated. Five years and nothing’s changed. The size ten jeans and the new, tight, red velour top that my husband said was sexy. Now THERE we go. It has gotten quiet in the hallway. She silently debates whether she should be concerned or relieved, afraid to turn the knob and shatter the treasured silence. Toddler footsteps and their voices chattering back and forth—she chooses to be relieved for the time being.
Crap. Shoes. What am I going to pack for shoes? She eyes her closet, momentarily dumbfounded. Why do things have to be so complicated? They never wanted to get together while we lived there—why do they care now? What the heck am I supposed to do? Go and put on and pretend that nothing ever happened? Isn’t that why we moved, really? To not pretend anymore? Oh heck—both pair of boots and the black loafers. Can I fit in my tennis shoes? The familiar urge to tell him off arises within her. She gives in. Again. “I was never unkind to you. I was never, ever rude to you. I never, ever treated you the way you treated me. Not ever. I never deserved the way you treated me.”
She is distracted by the sound of the cat rubbing against the door, causing it to jiggle in its frame. “Alright, Max. Come on. Just don’t get in my suitcase.” She opens the door and he jumps up onto the bed and immediately takes up residence where he has just been instructed not to. She sighs and considers taking up her rant again, then realizes it’s time to start dinner. Room for the tennis shoes. Great. Pack the carry-on in the morning, and I’m all set. She removes the cat, stroking him for a moment under the chin, feeling his motor run against her chest. I wish I could just let go of it… She sighs, and closes the suitcase.
All her baggage is ready to go.
Okay. Black jeans with the v-neck, denims with the turtleneck. Oh heck, just throw in all three pair of jeans—and the brown ones, too. Where’s the jacket that goes with that? That would look okay. The pile leans precariously on the edge of the bed, unnoticed by all but the 20 lb. cat who desires to deposit half of his hair along the side of it. “Max!! Argh!!!” She picks everything up off the floor, shaking off cat hair and arranging them in smaller piles not so close to the edge of the bed, but right in the range of the toddler who crawls over them, making his way toward the cat who is now wide-eyed in fear.
Which bra goes with that? Socks! I need socks! Oh shoot—if I pack that pair of pants, what am I going to wear to work tomorrow? “Momma… Moooooooommaaaaaaa…”
“What, sweetie?”
“Mooooooommaaaaaaa…”
“YES???”
“Will you color with me?”
She turns and looks incredulously across the hallway at the grade schooler, just in time to bump into the toddler who in turn scares the cat who in turn shoots like a bat out of hell (or a cat out of toddler’s reach) down the steps. At least HE’S not in my way anymore…
“No, bub. Not right now. I’m trying to pack for our trip. Sorry baby. Later, I promise.” Yeah, right. Right after I pack for all three of us and make dinner and get ready for my meeting tonight.
“But Mooommmm…”
The whining noise fades somewhat as she returns to her room, leaving most of the guilt pangs in the hallway. Now the toddler is in the suitcase. At least it’s not the cat, this time. “Oh buddy…” Oh heck, never mind. Let him sit there. What am I going to wear to work tomorrow? Here—the black turtleneck with the tweed. Write myself a note to be sure to pack the black boots once I get home. She pastes a third sticky note to the dresser, then bustles into the bathroom, hanging the work outfit to steam in the shower.
She turns again into her two-foot shadow, now carrying his sister’s plastic guitar, which his sister has not desired for months until it was placed in her brother’s room and which is now the object of great rivalry and ugliness. Note to self—pack after bedtime next time. She sidesteps the flailing toddler, takes the guitar back again from his sister, and shuts the door to her room, not even remotely muffling the hysterics of both of them just outside. Okay—socks. I need socks. What colors will I need? Let’s see… red, black, black, white…
Her mind drifts back to the email. What the heck am I going to wear to that party? And to church? Doggone it. The last time I was there, he asked me if I’d lost a little weight. A little? I’d lost fifty pounds—the jerk. MAN I don’t want to go to that party. Wish I didn’t feel so flippin’ obligated. Five years and nothing’s changed. The size ten jeans and the new, tight, red velour top that my husband said was sexy. Now THERE we go. It has gotten quiet in the hallway. She silently debates whether she should be concerned or relieved, afraid to turn the knob and shatter the treasured silence. Toddler footsteps and their voices chattering back and forth—she chooses to be relieved for the time being.
Crap. Shoes. What am I going to pack for shoes? She eyes her closet, momentarily dumbfounded. Why do things have to be so complicated? They never wanted to get together while we lived there—why do they care now? What the heck am I supposed to do? Go and put on and pretend that nothing ever happened? Isn’t that why we moved, really? To not pretend anymore? Oh heck—both pair of boots and the black loafers. Can I fit in my tennis shoes? The familiar urge to tell him off arises within her. She gives in. Again. “I was never unkind to you. I was never, ever rude to you. I never, ever treated you the way you treated me. Not ever. I never deserved the way you treated me.”
She is distracted by the sound of the cat rubbing against the door, causing it to jiggle in its frame. “Alright, Max. Come on. Just don’t get in my suitcase.” She opens the door and he jumps up onto the bed and immediately takes up residence where he has just been instructed not to. She sighs and considers taking up her rant again, then realizes it’s time to start dinner. Room for the tennis shoes. Great. Pack the carry-on in the morning, and I’m all set. She removes the cat, stroking him for a moment under the chin, feeling his motor run against her chest. I wish I could just let go of it… She sighs, and closes the suitcase.
All her baggage is ready to go.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
The H.O.
Twenty years since the boxes, carefully packed and tied with twine, have been opened. The musty, metallic smell that begins to fill the room as bags are opened and objects removed attests to the passing of decades. My husband inspects each piece with care, reminiscing as he goes. “This engine here would be worth between sixty to a hundred dollars if you were to buy it today,” he informs me. It is at this point I question, given this information, “Are you sure you want to do this now?”
But he has waited for this moment for years. “Do you think the kids are big enough this year? Do you think we could put the train around the tree?” This year, after six Christmases, the answer is finally yes. With the proper care and monitoring, our children will be inducted into a magical piece of their father’s childhood, as he was, once, into his own father’s, and so on. Nostalgia is something no family should be without. Ours has an abundance, passed down through the generations. Which is why the boxes, after much scheming with his father, are now in our living room and my husband is somewhere circa 1978.
He holds one up—“we have a little red caboose!” That will excite our son, who, of course, is who this is all about. Really. I’ll remind him of that shortly. But for now, I allow my husband to play with his toys in our living room. He pulls more items out and looks, perplexed, at a tangle of red-orange wire for a moment before returning it to the bag. “It really IS for him,” he insists, as he discovers what I’m writing. And I mostly believe him. Mostly.
Our son, obviously, inherited his fascination with trains honestly. He is a child obsessed, his little wheels turning constantly. We’re driving home one night after dark, and my daughter is asking if grocery stores are open all night. We begin to discuss how some places that sell food are, indeed, open all night. “Why isn’t the train store open all night?” my son asks, out of nowhere. We are hiking one day, just a week ago, and my daughter points out to me the sunset, because “I know you like sunsets, Momma.” “I DO like sunsets,” I reply. “I like train sets,” he pipes in from the kid-carrier. Obsessed, I tell you.
So, I do believe this is motivated, in part, to please and excite a particularly coy two-and-a-half year old sleeping upstairs with Thomas the Train. The two-and-a-half year old who checks every time we get off the freeway on the status of the train bridge we go under to return home and reports to me, excitedly, what he finds, as if I can’t see for myself. The two-and-a-half year old who plays for hours with wooden track on loan from a friend and who will sob, broken-heartedly, tomorrow when we return the set to its rightful owner. But I know better than to believe this is his sole motivation.
The lid comes off the engine, the track having been laid carefully on the living room carpet. The moment has come. “Most of the couplers are still in really good shape,” he informed me earlier, but they are about to be put to the test. The engine lights for a moment, then sputters, then lurches forward. He tweeks it, repositioning it on the track, and it is off and running, much to his surprise. “I thought I’d have to do more to it than that--that's amazing!” Cars are coupled together and, viola, we have a train. I must confess it is a little exciting.
I chuckle. And then I smirk. Seventeen years I’ve known this man, and I’ve never seen these boxes. I knew they existed, the mythological trains in his parent’s basement, but now they have come to life for me, as they will for our children come Christmas morning. But more magical to me, for now, is the nine-year-old boy with the twinkling green eyes laying track in my living room, working intently on his model trains.
But he has waited for this moment for years. “Do you think the kids are big enough this year? Do you think we could put the train around the tree?” This year, after six Christmases, the answer is finally yes. With the proper care and monitoring, our children will be inducted into a magical piece of their father’s childhood, as he was, once, into his own father’s, and so on. Nostalgia is something no family should be without. Ours has an abundance, passed down through the generations. Which is why the boxes, after much scheming with his father, are now in our living room and my husband is somewhere circa 1978.
He holds one up—“we have a little red caboose!” That will excite our son, who, of course, is who this is all about. Really. I’ll remind him of that shortly. But for now, I allow my husband to play with his toys in our living room. He pulls more items out and looks, perplexed, at a tangle of red-orange wire for a moment before returning it to the bag. “It really IS for him,” he insists, as he discovers what I’m writing. And I mostly believe him. Mostly.
Our son, obviously, inherited his fascination with trains honestly. He is a child obsessed, his little wheels turning constantly. We’re driving home one night after dark, and my daughter is asking if grocery stores are open all night. We begin to discuss how some places that sell food are, indeed, open all night. “Why isn’t the train store open all night?” my son asks, out of nowhere. We are hiking one day, just a week ago, and my daughter points out to me the sunset, because “I know you like sunsets, Momma.” “I DO like sunsets,” I reply. “I like train sets,” he pipes in from the kid-carrier. Obsessed, I tell you.
So, I do believe this is motivated, in part, to please and excite a particularly coy two-and-a-half year old sleeping upstairs with Thomas the Train. The two-and-a-half year old who checks every time we get off the freeway on the status of the train bridge we go under to return home and reports to me, excitedly, what he finds, as if I can’t see for myself. The two-and-a-half year old who plays for hours with wooden track on loan from a friend and who will sob, broken-heartedly, tomorrow when we return the set to its rightful owner. But I know better than to believe this is his sole motivation.
The lid comes off the engine, the track having been laid carefully on the living room carpet. The moment has come. “Most of the couplers are still in really good shape,” he informed me earlier, but they are about to be put to the test. The engine lights for a moment, then sputters, then lurches forward. He tweeks it, repositioning it on the track, and it is off and running, much to his surprise. “I thought I’d have to do more to it than that--that's amazing!” Cars are coupled together and, viola, we have a train. I must confess it is a little exciting.
I chuckle. And then I smirk. Seventeen years I’ve known this man, and I’ve never seen these boxes. I knew they existed, the mythological trains in his parent’s basement, but now they have come to life for me, as they will for our children come Christmas morning. But more magical to me, for now, is the nine-year-old boy with the twinkling green eyes laying track in my living room, working intently on his model trains.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Monday, November 14, 2005
Sunday, November 13, 2005
setting the record straight
When I am no longer the most important woman in his life and the object of his bright sunny smiles and sticky wet kisses…
When I am no longer the one he calls in the middle of the night when the dark is a heavy presence overwhelming his young, tender heart…
When I am no longer the one he runs to with skinned knees or lady bugs or untied shoes or boo-boos needing the magic kiss of a mother…
When I am no longer his leading lady and another woman moves to center stage, joining him in the soft glow of the spotlight…
When I have shifted into my proper place on the distant home planet of his ever-expanding, ever-exciting universe…
When it all happens, as it all should, and the one who has captured the heart of the one who captured mine holds her breath as he bends down on one knee, takes her hand, and asks her the question every girl’s heart dreams of hearing, I simply want the record to show…
…he asked me, first.
When I am no longer the one he calls in the middle of the night when the dark is a heavy presence overwhelming his young, tender heart…
When I am no longer the one he runs to with skinned knees or lady bugs or untied shoes or boo-boos needing the magic kiss of a mother…
When I am no longer his leading lady and another woman moves to center stage, joining him in the soft glow of the spotlight…
When I have shifted into my proper place on the distant home planet of his ever-expanding, ever-exciting universe…
When it all happens, as it all should, and the one who has captured the heart of the one who captured mine holds her breath as he bends down on one knee, takes her hand, and asks her the question every girl’s heart dreams of hearing, I simply want the record to show…
…he asked me, first.
Friday, November 11, 2005
but Mom, everybody's doing it...
I was inspired by Dan who was inspired by Louise The Poet who was undoubtedly inspired by someone else, so we wrote haiku during our freewriting time at part one of our writer’s group retreat tonight. Here were my attempts:
for my daughter:
curly-headed sprite
energy meets emotion
glorious fireworks
for my son:
behind big brown eyes
wheels turning unceasingly
ornery little imp
for my husband:
eyes of heathered green
crinkle around the edges
tell me nothing’s changed
for my daughter:
curly-headed sprite
energy meets emotion
glorious fireworks
for my son:
behind big brown eyes
wheels turning unceasingly
ornery little imp
for my husband:
eyes of heathered green
crinkle around the edges
tell me nothing’s changed
I'll work on visual presentation later--just wanted to get them posted.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
average
I am not the fattest girl in the class.
This comes as somewhat of a surprise to me. By some miracle of natural selection, I find that I am not the weakest, nor the slowest, nor the most out of shape. Should we suddenly be faced with an eat-or-be-eaten situation, I would survive. This comes as a sort of morbid relief, as does the fact that I do not have the biggest legs, the biggest butt, or the biggest waistline. It’s amazing what I will cling to when I’m desperate…
Twenty-some women pour into the mirrored room each week. Twenty-some women grab step boxes and floor mats, dumbbells and body bars, water bottles and stretch bands, arranging themselves where they can either see, be seen, or hide completely, depending on their own love/hate relationship with the mirror. Twenty-some women pant and sweat and groan for an hour—perky, skinny ones with pony-tails and coordinated workout clothes that show off their perfectly tanned and toned abs and overweight ones with well-worn, oversize 1980’s concert t-shirts that whimper “for the love of God, please don’t look at me…”
Skinny ones, fat ones, tall ones, short ones, pretty ones, not-so-pretty ones, even a few unsightly ones. As my two-year-old says, “De good, de bad, an’ de ug-wee.” I find myself somewhere in the middle. And for once in my life, I’m happy with that.
I have no delusions of being buff. Or ripped. Or any other bizarre colloquialism referring to an unobtainable level of physical “perfection.” I will never be skinny—genetics, hormones, metabolic make-ups, bone structures, and the after-effects of carrying two nearly-nine-pound babies have sealed my fate. Add to that the fact I hate to workout with a passion almost as great as my passion for food, and there you have it. Thin will never be in my future. But average… well, average might be another story…
That word would have once made my inner perfectionist shudder, but I am slowly becoming more comfortable with it. Or, perhaps, it is merely becoming slightly less offensive to me, though I’m not entirely certain what was so offensive about it in the first place. For whatever reason, in our “Be All That You Can Be” culture, I am beginning to look realistically at where I am and making the decision that where I am IS all I can be at the moment.
5’2”, 135 lbs, size 10. Average height, average weight, average size. No delusions, no excuses, no comparisons. I will be the best average I can be.
I am not the fattest girl in the class. I can live with that.
This comes as somewhat of a surprise to me. By some miracle of natural selection, I find that I am not the weakest, nor the slowest, nor the most out of shape. Should we suddenly be faced with an eat-or-be-eaten situation, I would survive. This comes as a sort of morbid relief, as does the fact that I do not have the biggest legs, the biggest butt, or the biggest waistline. It’s amazing what I will cling to when I’m desperate…
Twenty-some women pour into the mirrored room each week. Twenty-some women grab step boxes and floor mats, dumbbells and body bars, water bottles and stretch bands, arranging themselves where they can either see, be seen, or hide completely, depending on their own love/hate relationship with the mirror. Twenty-some women pant and sweat and groan for an hour—perky, skinny ones with pony-tails and coordinated workout clothes that show off their perfectly tanned and toned abs and overweight ones with well-worn, oversize 1980’s concert t-shirts that whimper “for the love of God, please don’t look at me…”
Skinny ones, fat ones, tall ones, short ones, pretty ones, not-so-pretty ones, even a few unsightly ones. As my two-year-old says, “De good, de bad, an’ de ug-wee.” I find myself somewhere in the middle. And for once in my life, I’m happy with that.
I have no delusions of being buff. Or ripped. Or any other bizarre colloquialism referring to an unobtainable level of physical “perfection.” I will never be skinny—genetics, hormones, metabolic make-ups, bone structures, and the after-effects of carrying two nearly-nine-pound babies have sealed my fate. Add to that the fact I hate to workout with a passion almost as great as my passion for food, and there you have it. Thin will never be in my future. But average… well, average might be another story…
That word would have once made my inner perfectionist shudder, but I am slowly becoming more comfortable with it. Or, perhaps, it is merely becoming slightly less offensive to me, though I’m not entirely certain what was so offensive about it in the first place. For whatever reason, in our “Be All That You Can Be” culture, I am beginning to look realistically at where I am and making the decision that where I am IS all I can be at the moment.
5’2”, 135 lbs, size 10. Average height, average weight, average size. No delusions, no excuses, no comparisons. I will be the best average I can be.
I am not the fattest girl in the class. I can live with that.
fast friends
My daughter and Laura are getting on fabulously, as evidenced by the fact that she read THREE CHAPTERS on her own Sunday afternoon while the rest of the family napped. She not only READ them, she UNDERSTOOD them and could tell me what took place in each chapter. (May I just remind you that four months ago she was not officially reading yet?) I'm ecstatic about her love for reading (and her love for Laura), but half the fun was going to be getting to re-read them myself! In the words of my son, "Oh MAN!"
I guess I'd better catch up if I want to enjoy them as well!
I guess I'd better catch up if I want to enjoy them as well!
Saturday, November 05, 2005
blue
It was not coincidental. Of that, I am certain.
“Did you remember to reset the white-balance on that? I think I changed it when we carved the pumpkins. These all look a little blue, Babe.” He pointed this out after I’d taken nearly 90 pictures—my attempts to hoard a day’s worth of gold to spend throughout the gray days of winter all done in vain. The shocking brilliance of the sun glinting against the yellow maples reproduced on my tiny digital screen in lime green—a little blue, indeed.
Looking back, blue shadows were beginning to be cast even before the pumpkins were carved and the camera futzed with. A hint of melancholy that I passed off as premenstrual hormones lingered longer than pre and held on into post. Technical issues aside, it was no coincidence I had captured that entire day in shades of blue. The representation was uncanny in its accidental accuracy.
Life is like this, sometimes. Details remain unchanged—the leaves, the trees, the river, the children—but a blue hue discolors everything, turning the golden brightness of life to chartreuse while the operator is unaware. Melancholy does this to me—messes with my white-balance, casting colorful shadows that distort yet don’t.
Photoshop may save my stash of gold. The beauty of digital is that sometimes color can be easily corrected. The problem with life is that sometimes it can’t. I turn to that which re-calibrates me, and I hold out for splotches of yellow, storing them up for the season when blue will turn to gray.
All will be color-corrected in time.
“Did you remember to reset the white-balance on that? I think I changed it when we carved the pumpkins. These all look a little blue, Babe.” He pointed this out after I’d taken nearly 90 pictures—my attempts to hoard a day’s worth of gold to spend throughout the gray days of winter all done in vain. The shocking brilliance of the sun glinting against the yellow maples reproduced on my tiny digital screen in lime green—a little blue, indeed.
Looking back, blue shadows were beginning to be cast even before the pumpkins were carved and the camera futzed with. A hint of melancholy that I passed off as premenstrual hormones lingered longer than pre and held on into post. Technical issues aside, it was no coincidence I had captured that entire day in shades of blue. The representation was uncanny in its accidental accuracy.
Life is like this, sometimes. Details remain unchanged—the leaves, the trees, the river, the children—but a blue hue discolors everything, turning the golden brightness of life to chartreuse while the operator is unaware. Melancholy does this to me—messes with my white-balance, casting colorful shadows that distort yet don’t.
Photoshop may save my stash of gold. The beauty of digital is that sometimes color can be easily corrected. The problem with life is that sometimes it can’t. I turn to that which re-calibrates me, and I hold out for splotches of yellow, storing them up for the season when blue will turn to gray.
All will be color-corrected in time.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
getting reacquained
She’s exactly how I remember her. Details come back to me as if it were yesterday and not decades since we last spent time together—the way she talked, the way she thought, the way she lived. I reminisce—sharing with my daughter, who I invite in to this circle—about growing up together, about happier, simpler times, about family and friends and faith. There is a sense of comfort, as if a homecoming has taken place. All is familiar. All is well.
I introduced my daughter on Monday to an old friend. She and Laura Ingalls are already getting well acquainted, and it appears my well-worn paperback set may take an even further beating in the years to come. That is okay with me. Good friends are for sharing.
I have eagerly awaited this reunion—many, many more are to come…
I introduced my daughter on Monday to an old friend. She and Laura Ingalls are already getting well acquainted, and it appears my well-worn paperback set may take an even further beating in the years to come. That is okay with me. Good friends are for sharing.
I have eagerly awaited this reunion—many, many more are to come…
love letters, revisited
For being the kind of man who cooks dinner, clears off the counters, runs the dishwasher, occasionally empties it and on a rare occasion returns dishes to their correct locations…
For being the kind of man who loves music and leaves and camping and symphonies and beauty and children and family and art…
For being the kind of man who cleans the house while I’m at work on a Saturday, in between gymnastics lessons and making lunch and running errands and naptime and “Daddy, will you play Barbie’s with me…”
For being the kind of man who cries when he buries the cat…
For being the kind of man who gets up at dark-thirty to go running so he can be healthy but not have it interfere with family time…
For being the kind of man who creates things like “Tickle Fest” and “Milkshake Night” and “Daddy Dates…”
For being the kind of man who has (finally) learned to say, “I’m sorry. I was wrong…”
For being the kind of man who works hard, works smart, works ethically, works as if unto the Lord…
For being the kind of man who would pursue me, marry me, put up with me, and pursue me all over again…
I love you.
For being the kind of man who loves music and leaves and camping and symphonies and beauty and children and family and art…
For being the kind of man who cleans the house while I’m at work on a Saturday, in between gymnastics lessons and making lunch and running errands and naptime and “Daddy, will you play Barbie’s with me…”
For being the kind of man who cries when he buries the cat…
For being the kind of man who gets up at dark-thirty to go running so he can be healthy but not have it interfere with family time…
For being the kind of man who creates things like “Tickle Fest” and “Milkshake Night” and “Daddy Dates…”
For being the kind of man who has (finally) learned to say, “I’m sorry. I was wrong…”
For being the kind of man who works hard, works smart, works ethically, works as if unto the Lord…
For being the kind of man who would pursue me, marry me, put up with me, and pursue me all over again…
I love you.
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