a nose for trouble

It is quiet under the kitchen table—a point I don’t immediately notice because I am tying over 1,000,000 knots in a craft project with my daughter while my son repeatedly retrieves the tri-beads he has dropped onto the kitchen floor. While her craft project is progressing, his, on the other hand, has mostly resulted in several trips under the table to retrieve beads. I have stopped paying attention at this point, other than to occasionally encourage him to put another bead or two on his snowflake. Suddenly, however, the silence becomes glaring and all movement from below stops. “Buddy, whatcha doin’?” My son is never silent. I do not have a good feeling about this.

“Nothin’,” is his response, as he climbs back into his chair, hands empty, tentatively rubbing the bridge of his nose. Something is not right.

“Buddy, where is your bead?”

“I dunno,” he flat out lies, still rubbing his nose, his eyes three times their normal size. He is scared. So am I.

“Buddy, did you put that bead up your nose?”

“No,” he lies again, eyes even wider, as if mystified that I could have possibly known the location of the missing bead. He tries sticking his finger up his nose to retrieve the object that he insists isn’t there. I catch him just in time. Oh crap, I think to myself, as the realization sets in that I am probably bound for the emergency room.

“Buddy, let me see…”

I draw his freakishly-quiet body to me, his eyes growing wider by the moment and threatening to brim with tears, and tip back his head. Now I am really scared—I cannot see the bloomin’ bead at first glance, and I envision an entire evening and one hundred bucks both spent at the ER. I very unceremoniously turn him upside-down under the light and breathe a sigh of relief—I can see it. Now I just have to retrieve it.

I lead him up to the bathroom, still rubbing his nose with his wide-eyed gaze monitoring my own to determine when or if he will need to freak out. So far I have not, so neither has he. So far.

I grab the tweezers and pray hard that bead-extraction is one of my as-of-yet unknown talents. He rubs his nose again, still pondering these events and their outcome, as I flip him over on my lap and begin the procedure. Apparently it went in more easily than it came out, but with two gentle pulls and one or two frightened cries from my three-and-a-half year old, it came out, nonetheless. We are both dully relieved, and we have a nice long talk about never, ever, ever putting anything in our noses ever again. Ever. He appears convinced, at least for the moment.

I return to the kitchen and turn my thoughts toward dinner, feeling relieved and a little bit smug. I hearken for a moment back to my Girl Scout days, envisioning a bright, colorful “Bead Extraction” patch to add to my sash. Another notch in my Mom-belt. I have somehow arrived. I have removed my first tri-bead, saving my son from certain death and myself from a miserable evening at the hospital. I don my Super Mom apron and prepare now to make something spectacular for dinner, daring the beads that remain on the floor to “Go ahead, make my day.”

this one's for mom...

The answer to "How I Spent my Thanksgiving Weekend."

thanksgiving memories

(This piece began two years ago at our writer’s group—the prompt was to write about a favorite Thanksgiving memory from the 3rd person vantage point. This was my free-write, with a little editing, of course! Oh—and because my Mom and Dad will be sure to point it out, I’ve taken a little liberty with which cousin is which… writer’s perogative!)

It was a scene she remembered well—two little heads of hair, one curly, one straight, bobbing up and down the same creaky wooden steps. She looked across the room at her cousin with a knowing smile—the smile was returned with a confirming nod. It had been the two of them, some twenty-five years ago—bobbing up and down the steps, poking their heads through the cutout window on the landing that allowed a prime view of the preparations, eyeing the pies and the brownies with particular interest. It had been the two of them giggling, whispering, telling secrets and generally making the grown-ups worry and wonder. This year, it was their daughters…

She marveled at the resemblance as if seeing them again for the first time. No wonder her father often slipped and called her daughter by her own name. She wondered if her uncle did the same. “How surreal this must be for our parents,” she thought. It was surreal enough for her—as if she were looking back in time and observing her own childhood. She wished she could remember her own thoughts and plans and schemes—she wished for that precious insight into the mind of her daughter as she caught the gleam in her five-year-old eyes on her way through the living room for the fourth or fifth time. “Nothing,” her daughter responded sheepishly when asked what she was up to. None of them believed her.

Her father commented to her uncle about the scene looking familiar—apparently she was not the only one finding the unfolding events to be worthy of note. Somehow, that was reassuring to her. It felt good to know she was not alone in her fascination—nor in her feelings of affection. The curly-haired one bobbed by her yet again and she grabbed the wriggling child for a quick smooch on the top of the head before turning her loose once more, catching her father’s eye as she did. He smiled, and she smiled in return. “Brings back memories,” he said to his own curly-haired girl. “Indeed it does,” she replied with a sentimental smile. “Indeed it does.”

gains and losses

Some days, it is all I can do to not throw up. My muscles scream, my lungs implode, my head pounds with the driving bass. Driving me to move. Driving me to sweat. Driving me to “feel the burn.” Today is one of those days. I quiver and pant, wondering what the heck I was thinking, as I concentrate very hard on not vomiting in the middle of kick-boxing. Punch-punch-kick-lunge. Punch-punch-kick-lunge. Throwing up would throw off my rhythm, just when I’d finally gotten the hang of it. Finally.

I bounce and kick and jog and squat and all the time I’m thinking, “I’ve been doing this over a year now—when does it get easier?” The questions won’t stop—when will my legs stop begging for mercy a third of the way through the leg workout? When, for that matter, will I be able to complete the entire leg workout? When, if ever, will I not collapse into a puddle of molecular goo on the floor during the leg workout? And an even more important question—is it poor aerobic-etiquette to lie down on the floor and cry in the middle of the leg workout? They are questions for which there are no answers.

There are days—rare, but existent—when I don’t feel like I will die in aerobics class. Nausea-free days when I leave feeling like I’ve worked hard but I can still make it to my car without needing my three-year-old to carry me. There are even moments, rarer still, of victory over weakness. Heart-pumping, pulse-quickening, adrenaline-flowing moments. I am powerful. I am strong. I am Wonder Woman. I am She-Ra, Princess of Power. I am not going to throw up. It is short lived. Before long, I am a quivering puddle of goo again.

The cycle repeats itself ad nauseum. I feel stronger, I feel weaker. I increase the weights, I decrease them. I increase the reps, I decrease them. I increase the intensity moves, I decrease them. My weight comes down, my weight goes up. Nothing is constant. My strength. My endurance. My fitness level. My will power. No gains are permanent. I don’t like not permanent.

I like things that are done when you are done. Grad school, for instance. I graduated in 1998 and I still have my Master’s degrees. Once I completed the requirements, I was done. Once I was licensed, I was done. Once I was done, I was done. Sure, I have to do CEU’s, but I don’t have to redo the flippin’ degrees every year. I’m done. Exercise is never done. I want to get in shape and be done.

I want to come back after the three-week break and still be able to make it through class without collapsing. I want to make it though a workout all four weeks of the month, not just one, two if I’m lucky. I want my weight to level out and stay put. I want to invest my time and energy up front and then have it pay out consistent returns for the long haul. I want to get to a point where it’s easy. Where I’m coasting. Where I’m done.

I look around me at the other women in the room. Women in their 20’s. Their 30’s. 40’s. 50’s. Perhaps even older. Women in for the long haul. Women who get that this health and fitness thing is never done. I must be honest in questioning if I want to be one of those women. I have never been one of them before—this is a newfound persona, birthed out of the desire and need to lose weight. But therein lies the issue—it is always about losing the weight, never about maintaining. Health and fitness is about maintaining, and that has never been my strength.

When I step back from the dumbbells I can see I have made some gains that have not been lost. The ends of the weights say 8lbs and 5lbs now, not 3lbs. The bar reads 15, not 12. And my Monday class, which once threatened to kill me, has been conquered, thanks, in part, to the class that is yet to be slain. It isn’t easy. But perhaps, on a good day, it is easier. And with time and perseverance, it will slowly but surely become even more so. And, perhaps, that is the point. Some things are never done. But they can get easier with time.

I can only hope to God this aerobics class is one of them.

ouch

Most of us collapse at the first grip pf pain. We sit down at the door of God's purpose and enter a slow death through self-pity. And all the so-called Christian sympathy of others helps us to our deathbed. But God will not. He comes with the grip of the pierced hand of His Son, as if to say, "Enter inoto fellowship with Me; arise and shine." If God can accomplish His purposes in this world through a broken heart, then why not thank Him for breaking yours?

Oswald Chambers

My Utmost for His Highest

in lieu of writing...

...we have "lieut," instead!

jumping...

...for joy!

what i happened to work out to tonight... (coincidence?)

Follow me through the door to the great unknown
(something was telling me
that this would shape my destiny)
Take my hand, understand you are not alone
(shame on me if I oppose
the stirring of the Holy Ghost)

I heard a voice calling out to me
I have come to set your spirit free
And in me you are free indeed

I took a dive
(I took a love plunge
into your arms)
I took a dive
(I took a love plunge
into your arms)
I took a dive
(I jumped in
with all of my heart)
I took a dive

I'm breathing underwater
I'm sinking like a submarine
Your ocean's so much deeper than
anything I've ever dreamed...

Won't you come and take a dive with me
Won't you come and take a dive with me
Jump in with all your heart and
take a dive

("Dive," From DCTalk Supernatual)

summer memories: the deep end

More than five minutes left to go, and they are telling her to get out of the pool. Her confused look registers from clear across the aquatic complex, but she obeys, nonetheless. She stands on the cold tile, shivering and squirming, her questioning eyes following her instructors as they begin to walk toward the other end of the pool, the rest of her class in tow. My daughter follows them blindly as they lead her away from her three-and-a-half foot safety zone, take her around the corner, lead her to the rim of a twelve-foot-deep water-filled hole in the ground, stand her at the edge, and tell her to JUMP. She gapes at them with wide-eyed disbelief.

I recognize her anxious look—indeed, I feel it in the pit of my stomach, having grown up with a paralyzing fear of being in over my head. The shallow end is much more my style—I am infinitely more comfortable where my feet touch. My daughter lines up along the side of the pool, and I cringe inwardly, remembering my own first encounter with deep water. Get pushed off a diving board at swim lessons just once and you’ll learn not to trust. But that is my issue, not hers, so I smile encouragingly from my perch along the wall, and mask, yet again, my anxiety for my daughter. SHE trusts. Not fully, but enough to be brave. Enough to be obedient. I pray they won’t fail her.

Fourth or fifth in line, she has a few moments to contemplate her fate, her feet shifting back and forth, hands wiggling and wringing, as the questions flash across her face like the LED ticker in Time’s Square: will they catch me? Can I do it? What if I can’t? What will it be like? Do I HAVE to? The answers, unfortunately, will not come until after she takes the risk. Her turn arrives, and my heartbeat races as she approaches the edge. Her toes curl over the side of the pool in a final moment of hesitation—her arms stretching out in front of her nearly three times the length of her body in an attempt to cling to her instructor—and she half jumps, half falls into the water. Enough trust to jump, but not enough to do so with abandon. But she jumps, just the same. My daughter is in the deep end.

I am learning, albeit more slowly than my daughter, that so much of life is about just jumping in. High dive, low dive, running leap or barely falling off the side clutching our swim instructor—at least we’re in the water. But I can’t help but think there is more joy in the running-leaping-falling-diving kind of jumping than in the fearful-clingy-clutching kind. My daughter is getting it—learning what she is capable of, what she is comfortable with. She will learn to dive—of this I am certain. Me? I’m not so sure…

Having been caught, she makes her way to the side of the pool held by strong, trustworthy hands and searches for my face among the other mothers. She smiles—half victorious, half still uncertain—and I flash her a thumbs-up sign, once again in awe of this child that is so amazingly flesh of my flesh and yet so amazingly unlike me. Oh, to have the trust of a seven-year-old—to look into an immense stretch of deep water and only see the hands ready to catch me. To jump without hesitation, to obey without fear, to risk without answers. To embrace life, deep end and all, and jump in full force with a flying leap.

Oh, to have the faith that someone will catch me.

He reached down from on high and took hold of me;

he drew me out of deep waters. Psalm 18:16

hunger

…fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies with a large glass of milk… order in the midst of chaos… time… apple crisp, right out of the oven… heart-felt worship… connection with friends, with family, with God… chips and salsa… faith, hope, and love… but the greatest of these is more chips and salsa… time at the piano, at the computer, at the art table… creative outlet… mama mimi’s pizza… intimacy… play-time… touch… fresh-baked bread with real butter… a night out with my husband… freedom… relief… breakthrough… satisfaction… more chocolate chips cookies… warm brownie sundaes with nuts and caramel… apple pie a la mode… the last pack of school lunch cookies… the crumbs at the bottom of the potato chip bag… stale graham crackers out of the back of the pantry… anything I can get my hands on…

What am I hungry for?

Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good,

and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.
Isaiah 55:2

wishing my weekend weren't over...

on semipermeable membranes

It is 8:27 and I’ve just gotten off the phone. Again. I resume my place on the couch and the cat resumes his, nibbling on my elbow in his attempt to solicit affection. It is not working—affection is definitely not the response it evokes in me at this moment. In between the two first paragraphs I’ve already written and disposed of, my daughter has come out of her room not once but twice, complaining, tonight, of a hangnail. “My finger hurts…” she whimpers in a voice just loud enough to know she’s talking but not loud enough to hear her—her ploy to be beckoned to the edge of the staircase. I send her to her father, who is already upstairs, though I know it is me she really wants. But right now, to be quite honest, I don’t want to be wanted.

Tonight, I want to be left alone. I don’t want to be touched tonight—I don’t want to be climbed on, nibbled, elbowed, fondled, tickled, kicked, head-butted, or stepped on. I don’t want to be talked to tonight—I don’t want to hear about the neighbor’s cousin’s dog’s puppies or the problem you had with your bosses boss and the brilliant way you handled it or the trouble with the doojie-hoojie that hangs down under the thingamajig on the car and how it will affect the amount of rainfall in China. Tonight, I don’t want to be nice. I don’t want to smile and nod. I don’t want to pretend I’m interested. Tonight, I want to put my oxygen mask on and take a deep breath so that I can do it all again tomorrow for everyone else. Tonight, I want to be left alone.

I chose these things—indeed, I continue to choose them. I chose to be a wife, a mother, a cat-owner, a friend. I chose to be a counselor, a leader, a teacher, a mentor. These are things I invited into my life—consciously, willingly, freely. But having chosen them, does this mean I must choose them all at every moment? It does not, but you cannot tell me this—the compulsion to be all things to all people forms “yes” on my lips even while my insides scream “NO!”

“Mo-mmy… Mooo-mmmmmy…” I hear faintly from within my daughter’s room, having threatened her not to open the door again. Door. There is a good “boundary” word. Door. Gate. Window. Fence. Wall. Door. I have closed the door tonight. But it doesn’t stay closed…

In this world of “boundary” talk, I am a semipermeable membrane—allowing all that fits through the unclosable doors to pass through my sham of a barrier and enter my day-to-day living. In my spreading thin I have become too easily diffused—matter spreads, rationalization spreads, real need spreads—my membrane becomes thinner yet. Pressure is exerted from the outside and I allow passage once again. This is not always a bad thing. Not always.

But then there are nights like tonight—nights that have followed days that have followed weeks of meeting other people’s needs and neglecting my own. Our pastor once said that if you feel like you don’t have time for any more friends, you need more of Jesus in your life. This from a man you have to make an appointment three weeks out to talk to. Not that I don’t understand his point—I truly do. But perhaps if I were a man and my children were grown and I had an assistant who managed all my contact with the outer world, I could be as cavalier about the issue.

The truth is, I do need more of Jesus. I need him to fill me up so that when I pour myself out yet again there is reserve left for me to survive upon. I need him to teach me to love when I don’t feel loving, to forgive when I don’t feel forgiving, to listen when I don’t feel like listening. But I also need him to show me when to serve and when to withdraw into the solitude of the wilderness, to show me how to find and take those quiet times alone with the Father, to show me how to rest in the Lord and wait upon him. I need the Heavenly Flight Attendant to remind me that my mask goes on first.

So, if you call my house and get the machine—I may or may not be there. I am trying to learn, slowly, that it is okay to not answer the phone, to not go back up to my daughter’s room for the fourth time, to not have to meet every need presented to me. “The need is not the call,” another pastor used to remind me. Tonight, I listen to the call—and it is not the telephone. Tonight, I allow myself to meet my own needs.

the apple that didn't fall far from the tree

I'll write tonight. I promise. I promise MYSELF. I'm dying to finally get into a routine again...

In the meantime, here are a couple of cuties, taken this weekend!

pumpkin picking

what a turkey!

fun times at the fun run

Forgive me, but I have to play the Proud Momma for a moment. First place, second grade girls. 7:41. First girl across the finish line, grades K-3. The only two girls faster were 5th graders. Okay, I'm done now. This is taken at the finish line.

on trust

Perhaps it is because I am trying to do both that I found this quote compelling...

Writing a book, I've discovered, has much in common with resolving weight issues. You can proceed from the fear that unless you force yourself to do it, you won't. Or you can proceed from the belief that you want to do it, and will, but that doing it may sometimes look like not doing it. One way is as difficult as the other; both require perseverance and commitment. The way you choose depends on how you want to live. You can fear yourself or trust yourself.

From Breaking Free From Emotional Eating, by Geneen Roth

laid back

Maybe it’s the two jumbo mugs of caffeine I abused to get me through the afternoon. Maybe it’s the ten-hour days I’m pulling at work. Maybe it’s the accumulation of unfinished projects lurking in the house, the yard, the garage. Maybe it’s the added responsibility of being a room mother, cafeteria mom, assistant chef, and folder stuffer, not to mention spelling list checker, reading buddy, memory verse mentor, and research assistant. Whatever it is, it is rising like the water level during a hard, steady rain and threatening to drown me at any moment.

Lucky for me, I’m good at treading water.

It was a skill I learned in elementary school but perfected as a matter of survival during my four summers as a YMCA camp counselor. After seven or so hours at the park with ten first grade boys all over me like squirrels on a tree, I desperately needed the time in the pool as a respite. I had a firm rule that I was not to be touched in the pool (just ask my husband—I put him in timeout for dunking me one summer), but to further insure I would be left alone, I would position myself right smack-dab in the middle of the deep end and tread water for two hours. It was brilliant. I could keep an eye on everything I needed to, carry on adult conversations without being asked for the eleventh time for permission to go to the bathroom, and the kids could swim out and talk to me for as long as they could tread water themselves. Since the average first grader can tread water for only about two minutes tops, it worked like a charm. Treading water—that I can do.

But perhaps, now, I’ve been in the pool a little too long. What was meant to be a two-hour respite has become a way of life. I’m getting a little prune-y, and, honestly, a little worn out. My muscles are fatigued, and I’m beginning to struggle to stay just above the rising levels of anxiety and stress that threaten to shoot up my nose, causing me to choke and sputter like a child who’s inhaled at the bottom of the water slide, not that I have reason to know what that feels like. I feel tired, overwhelmed, a little panicky—maybe it’s just the caffeine. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve never really been comfortable in the water…

I was never one of those kids who could lay back and relax in the pool—although I floated like a buoy (go figure), floating was uncomfortable to me. I didn’t like it. Too vulnerable. Too laissez faire. Too trusting. Despite my teacher’s best efforts to coax me, I would not remain in a float any longer than was necessary to prove I could accomplish it. The fear was too great. True to my nature, even in the pool I was more comfortable striving to be in control than allowing the water to do what it was created to do. I’d like to say I’ve changed. Unfortunately, most days, I cannot.

The irony is not lost on me that water, in dreams and visions, often symbolizes the Holy Spirit. The pool is full of that which can uphold me, and I’m flailing in the middle of the deep end, wearing myself out trying not to drown, looking more than a little silly in the process. This is my life, most days. But oh, for the ability to trust—to lie back, arms outstretched, and allow myself to be upheld. To hear the Instructor’s voice whisper Just relax—I’ve got you. I am not at ease. Maybe it’s the caffeine. Maybe it’s PMS.

Maybe it’s time to take a deep breath and dare to trust that the laws of nature really do apply to me and not just to a fortunate few. Maybe it’s time to plug my nose, and lay back and float a while.

a pellet gun would suffice...

So, my hubby and I were sitting out on the deck late one night this weekend, enjoying the cool, relaxed September evening and celebrating it with a fire in the chimnea, when a dark figure made an arc around our yard. Is that a cat? my hubsband asked. I squinted as it made its way through the shadows to my right. I'm not sure, I replied. Momentarily it disappeared from sight, reappearing seconds later at the foot of the steps just below me. Its masked features peered up at me in the firelight, and my husband and I groaned in unison.

Raccoon number five.

Anyone have a firearm we could borrow?

i'll leave the light on...

He walked through the front door, put down his bag, and turned off the lamp on the table next to him. I came behind him with his carry-on, and watched as he walked through the dining room into the kitchen, turning off the lamp over the piano as he went. I smiled a wry smile. You're officially home. How symbolic.

My husband left two weeks ago on an airplane bound for Zambia. His absence was most felt in the evenings--the kids asleep, the sky dark, and our bed empty. Knowing myself well, I did what I needed to do to make it through those 15 nights alone.

I left the lights on.

The two lamps my husband extinguished as he entered our home this morning had been burning since he left. Literally. In one fail swoop he announced to my spirit and all others in attendance that darkness was no longer a threat to me--he was home.

The light of my life was home.