an "ill-conceived" sentiment

For the past few wintery evenings, I have turned on the bed early and cozied up to a delightful book by Rachel Simon entitled Riding the Bus With My Sister. Ms. Simon, whose younger-by-eleven-months sister Beth is mildly mentally retarded, takes the reader on an enjoyable journey through both her childhood and her mid-life “coming of age,” both set around her relationship with her sister, whose sole focus in life is riding the public buses from morning until night around her Pennsylvania city. The year that Rachel commits to riding the buses with Beth is nothing short of life-changing—challenging, among other things, Rachel’s self-protective busyness and her concepts of mental retardation and self-determination. Other than a few conversations that felt overly-philosophical and forced, it was beautifully written and well worth reading.

That being said, I had one jaw-dropping, “I can’t believe she said that!” moment about half way through the book that greatly disturbed me. Rachel recounts reaching a point, once Beth is living on her own and becomes “involved” with someone, when her family must make a determination about birth control. After much deliberation, it is agreed that she would never remember to take the pill, couldn’t be trusted to use a diaphragm, couldn’t manage a condom, and would never agree to an IUD. It is at this point that Rachel remarks, as they are feeling the urgency of the situation, that “…the thought of Beth undergoing an abortion seems unbearable—not that she would anyway, as she is the one family member who objects to abortions.”

This is not the comment, just to be clear, that made me gasp. The fact that Ms. Simon does not object to abortions, while it says something to me about her politics and sense of morality, does not, unfortunately, shock me. It is entirely all too common in our “my rights and my needs above anyone else’s” and “there is no right or wrong, just what’s right for ME” culture. What caused me to wake my husband up came two pages later.

After determining as a family that a tubal ligation is the best option for Beth, Rachel accompanies her to the procedure. It appears she is not prepared for her own emotional response afterward. She writes:

Then, after I pull away, waving with a big, sunny smile, when I am too far down
the road to glimpse them in my rearview, I weep. It is a terrible act to
eliminate the possibility of children, to terminate a long march of futures.

This is the same woman who does not oppose the elimination and termination of a fetus? What am I missing here?

Now, I will grant you that some people may argue that what Rachel is really grieving here is the loss of Beth’s choice. Both abortion and conception are, after all, about “a choice, not a child,” correct? Given the articulate nature of the rest of her writing, however, I am not willing to entertain this argument. Her writing is very blunt and intentional. Had she meant that, I’m confident she would have written it as such.

I believe that what Rachel mourned in her rearview mirror was the loss of life in her sister’s womb. The problem with this is that Beth’s womb did not yet contain life—it merely contained the promise of life. I cannot, therefore, reconcile how she could mourn the loss of the promise or hope of life—the “possibility,” as she put it—yet could be perfectly okay with the actual loss of life within her sister’s womb. The contradiction was apparently not as blatant to Ms. Simon.

It is this type of ill-conceived sentiment that convinces me that many in our nation still have a conscience, but refuse to heed it. We know, in those moments of feeling, that there is something lost—that there is something amiss. We feel it in our gut, it washes down our cheeks, it bunches up in our throats, causing us to be unable to swallow. But so many are unable to untangle the web of feminist politics to see that what is amiss ARE the feminist politics, and therefore go on buying the rhetoric that you can have it all—sex without strings attached, choice without consequence, possibility without the true promise of life.

I, too, grieve for Beth, and for other women who have lost the choice to have children. But I grieve even more for the women who elevate the loss of choice over the loss of a child.

how i spent my weekend

A good time was had by all! (Now, I'm off to BED!)

sledding

(not) sledding

what part of "no" don't i understand?

He stood at the top of the hill, leaning against the guardrail with the nonchalant air of an adolescent, not even glancing my way as he spoke to me. “No, I don’t want to. Not today. Maybe next year.” His tone was clear and even—no trace of the soprano tremolo that usually indicated he was upset or wound up. I tried again.

“Come on, Buddy. Sit right here—try it just once.”

His voice was firm. Matter-of-fact, even. Not a voice I was used to hearing out of this child’s mouth. “No, I don’t want to. I just don’t want to. Maybe next year.” His words didn’t even register. I tried again, my friend joining me this time. “Come on, Buddy—just one time. You’ll like it.”

“No, I just don’t want to.” Were it not for my friend’s daughter inadvertently starting my down the hill alone, I would have probably continued to press the poor child further. It was then, as I sped down the hill at full speed on some orange flyer advertised to break several bones in one fateful trip, that I finally realized the idiocy of what I was doing.

I don’t like sledding.

Neither does my son.

So why was I trying to force us both to fly down this hill?

I teach my children to assert themselves, and then I don’t listen when they do. I tell them to listen to my “No,” then I railroad over theirs. What was I thinking?

I was thinking of my own fear, and of having lived a life paralyzed by it. I was thinking of the things I’d missed as a result, and the regrets that accompany them. I was thinking about my struggles as I’ve lived my life on the sidelines, watching my husband and my daughter soar and fly and climb and run while I stand by, both feet firmly on the ground. I was thinking about ME. Fortunately, my four-year-old was not. Secure enough to speak his mind, he let me know where he stood. He stood at the top of the hill, and he was very happy to keep it that way. When will I learn to listen to my children?

“Maybe next year,” he reminded me when I returned, his sister flying by behind us for the umpteenth time. I took his hand, and we headed for the snowplow pile he’d been eager to climb since we’d arrived. “Whenever you’re ready, Buddy. Whenever you’re ready.”

Maybe next year I’ll be ready, too.

mirror, mirror, on the wall...

It is the bane of my existence.

Its slim, graceful frame hangs above the sink, halfway imbedded into the wall, sleek and silvery against the muted gray of our bathroom. Having just slammed it shut, its mirrored surface now returns my furrowed brow, my likeness cursing in unison with my own mouth. The irony is that though the image looks like me—my eyes, my hair, my lips—my true reflection is actually found on the other side of the door.

Several times a day—especially lately, given how our lovely Midwestern winters affect the health of our household—I open the glass front, holding my breath, and tentatively reach within. Three shelves in height crammed with six levels of various remedies and elixirs, all precariously perched, disassembles at my slightest touch, sending multiple boxes and bottles and paraphernalia crashing into the porcelain sink below, usually when the children are sleeping. “Are you trying to wake the kids?” my husband calls, as I slam the medicine cabinet shut after three attempts to balance all that I know fit into it because it all came out of it. My usual reply is not fit for print.

Brightly colored band-aids, just out of my daughter’s reach so as to not run out of them in a week’s time. Beige colored band-aids, so that my husband does not have to go to work with Barbie on his boo-boos. Thermometers, tweezers, nail clippers and dental floss. Creams for itching, creams for burning, creams for bumps, and creams for bruises. Pills that make certain things run and pills that make other things stop running. Orange colored bottles, half-full, labeled “BE SURE TO TAKE ALL OF THIS MEDICATION.” Seven different types of pain relief, most of them legal. (That’s a joke.) Boxes of this, bottles of that, tubes of the other—the medicinal menagerie has gotten unmanageable.

It feels all too familiar.

If it’s not the cabinet, it’s the pantry. If it’s not the pantry, it’s the linen closet. If it’s not the linen closet, it’s the basement. Crap is falling on my head all over the place, and that’s just the external problems. If it’s not my marriage, it’s my parenting. If it’s not my parenting, it’s my weight. If it’s not my weight, it’s my relationship with God. Crap is filling my head all over the place, falling out at the wrong times in the wrong places with the wrong people, and I am constantly trying to cram it all back in and make it fit. Too much stuff, not enough space. This is my headache.

All I needed was a flippin’ ibuprofen.

Now, I need a tranquilizer.

one big happy...

four

Happy Birthday, Baby!

sitting on the couch while the cultural war rages on: why parents do not engage

As the mother of a daughter, there are several choices I’ve had to make that have been less than popular, and, at times, less than comfortable, in regard to how I allow my daughter to interact with our current culture. Such decisions have been made after a great deal of inner debate, and have been guided in part by insight from books I’ve read and discussed with others, such as Home Invasion by Rebecca Hagelin and Your Girl by Vicky Courtney. So when I came across Dean’s post about a hyper-sexualized middle school talent show a few weeks back, I began giving further thought as to why it seems so many other parents DON’T seem to be making similar choices.

Dean quotes from the original New York Times article about the highly provocative nature of the “talent” being displayed, then quotes another blogger who asks, “Why are parents giving up?” Dean responds that the answer is simple. “Many of these parents probably hold secret misgivings about what goes on in these productions, but silence them in an effort not to damage their child's acceptance in the achievement elite.” He concludes his post by saying, "Because those parents who might object to this kind of thing are silent, those who have the greatest tolerance for the sexualization of children continue to push the boundaries of acceptability. Combine this reality with the common belief that sexual mores inevitably become looser as time goes by and the belief that the highest calling one can have on one's life is to be a celebrity (which requires the early sacrifice of modesty) and you end up with talent shows like this one."

While I agree entirely that this is a legitimate factor, I disagree that it is as “simple” as this. I think there are many more reasons why even well-meaning, able-conscienced parents throw up their hands and allow their children to be swallowed whole by the culture. I will take a moment here to offer up just a few.

Rebecca Hagelin states, in the introduction to the afore mentioned book, “…too often, even good moms and dads, when confronted with the struggle—and believe me, it’s a struggle—simply give up. They shrug their shoulders and decide, 'I just don’t have the energy to argue. Everybody’s doing it, so what’s the harm in my child doing it too?' This syndrome has become the mantra of too many parents.” It takes energy to engage in the cultural war against our children and families. Many parents simply lack the energy or the motivation to stand up for what they know internally to be right and appropriate, because they think they are but one facing millions (or even just one other) and they are not up for the argument. They don’t want to be challenged or questioned, they don’t want to be given a hard time, they just want to sit on their couch and be comfortable. If every parent who had a conscience would take the time and energy to stand up for what they believe to be right and appropriate for their children, be it at the school talent show or with the entertainment industry or with their own child, we would see standards change. They would have to.

Furthermore, many parents not only lack energy and motivation, but conviction as well. It bothers them that their twelve year old is gyrating her pelvis on stage (or even just in the living room) with her abdomen exposed and the rest of her body barely covered, but they aren’t really sure why and they’re not bothered enough to really DO something about it. In a culture that lacks a moral compass, lines are not easily drawn. If a parent has not taken the time to draw these lines both for themselves and for their child, they are not equipped to respond to the uneasiness that arises within them in such situations. And they will likely not become passionate about it until the threat of pregnancy or STD is eminent, because those are the only lines they ARE clear about.

But the lines are not drawn come middle school, when the sign-ups begin for the talent show—they begin as early as life begins with the choices surrounding what their children will and will not be exposed to and how they will deal with such exposure. Rebecca Hagelin states, “…media companies who want your child to like their programming at, say, fourteen, start trying to captivate them at age four. The idea is to get the kids and the parents gradually numb to certain ideas that would normally offend their sensibilities—and they start, oh, so subtly and cleverly to do so.” Many parents have become numb to the culture because they are over-saturated by it. About ten years ago my husband and I partook in a little experiment and for all intents and purposes stopped watching TV all together. As the time has gone by, we find ourselves more and more appalled by what is on television, because we have not been regularly and systematically desensitized by the entertainment industry for the last decade. This makes us all the more vigilant about what we allow our children to be exposed to, because we have seen first hand how we can become numb to our consciences.

As previously mentioned, in the interest of time and space, these are but a few of the reasons I believe many parents simply “give up” in the battle against our culture. I believe many (myself included, at times) lack the energy, the motivation, the conviction, and the moral sensitivity necessary to enter into a war that will likely not be won in our lifetime. Combine these factors with a driving desire to be comfortable and not rock the boat, and the pervasive message that parents are no longer the experts when it comes to their own children, and you get entire armies of parents who sit, dazed and useless, on their couches while their children become casualties.

Although the war is daunting, I strongly believe battles can be won for our children in the day to day if we only take the time and the energy to say no to that which makes us uncomfortable. Our conscience is our God-given, internal alarm that tells us that something is not right. As parents we must learn to trust it and follow it, because if we do not exercise our conscience, it will weaken over time, and our children will pay the price.

ready or not...

“Momma, what’s sex?” My eyebrows shoot up involuntarily as my heart skips a beat. As she is turned away from me in the dark and using her “I’m feeling really self-conscious” voice, I’m not sure I’ve heard her correctly. I silently hope I haven’t.

“What did you say, Bub?”

“What is sex?” She turns toward me and I see her questioning almost-eight-year-old eyes in the half-light of her bedroom. I heard her correctly. I silently hope aliens will abduct one of us, rescuing me from having to answer her earnest yet uncomfortable question. They do not.

I take a deep breath.

Fortunately, I am not completely unprepared for this conversation—the lucky side effect of being a slightly neurotic parent who worries about too much about too many things and has too many books but too little time to read them. My bookshelves and nightstand all contain, smattered among the memoirs and novels and books on writing, titles like How and When to Talk to Your Kids About Sex or How to Talk to Your Child About Sex or Talking to Your Kids About Sex. (Books on the topic are prolific—alas, creative titles are not.) I’ve even read parts of some of them. And underlined in them. I’ve been a good student. I just didn’t think the final exam would come for, oh, about another year. Or two. Or five.

I silently wish I’d studied harder.

This is not our first conversation, which further complicates the situation. She has been asking questions, albeit infrequently, for about six months now, and I have been answering them in honest but veiled answers, explaining that more information will come as she is older. The groundwork has been laid. But she has been less and less pacified by my responses. She is wanting more. But is she ready?

“Where did you hear that word?” I begin with an indirect route, trying to determine how she’s heard the word used and by whom, who is saying what, what does she really know. As the conversation continues, it becomes clear she is getting some very erroneous information from some very confident but VERY misguided second graders. I am going to have to answer her directly. She needs honest, accurate answers. I silently hope for the Second Coming.

I don’t remember learning about sex for the first time, but there is much I do remember. Awkward conversations, questions directed toward friends who were more “experienced” though not necessarily more knowledgeable, avoided conversations, lessons learned about the hard way. Shame, embarrassment, and confusion were the threads that wove together my knowledge of sexuality. They do not pull out easily. It is not what I want for my daughter.

And so, as carefully and simply as I can, I explain “sex” to my precious, precocious almost-eight-year-old.

“That’s weird,” she giggles, wrinkling her nose. I wrinkle mine back. “Yeah, it is kinda weird, isn’t it?” We have a good giggle and then talk for while longer, allowing her to empty her overflowing bucket of questions. I kiss her good night, reminding her that second graders are not the authority on such matters. I leave her, hopefully, with thoughts of sleepovers and birthday parties.

I silently hope I have done the right thing, at the right time, in the right way.

sunny days

sweeping the clouds away on sanibel island

the kind of white stuff I prefer

Suffice it to say, I would rather be at the beach!

catching up

The tree is put away, the presents have all found places to live, we have been to Florida and back, and all the suitcases are finally empty. A few more loads of laundry, and life will finally return to "normal." (Or as normal as things can be with a spouse starting graduate school!) Hopefully, this will mean more WRITING.

In the meantime, my college friend Dean, inspired by having his first child, has had some great discussions going about several social issues that affect us as parents. Take a minute to browse through the past few weeks of posts, if you're so inclined. He has some good, intelligent points to make--feel free to make a few of your own!

merry christmas to all, and to all a good night!

my own pursuit of happyness

“This part of my story is called: Fear.”

It is 6:00 AM on a Saturday morning and I am wide-awake. Given that I am not usually wide awake until about 9:30, preferably 11:00, I am not sure what to do with myself, let alone the stirring in the pit of my stomach. I rummage around our hotel room for paper and a pen, fortunate to find two measly sheets by the phone, and slip back into my space in the middle of the king-sized bed next to my sleeping husband, pulling the heavy duvet back up over my chilled legs. He moans softly as I turn on the light by my bedside. I begin to write anyway.

It is the writing that has caused this stirring—this inability to enjoy my Saturday morning without children in a bed large enough to have its own zip code. No—perhaps it is the movie that has caused the stirring, but the stirring is about the writing. Whatever the exact source of this tension, I don’t like it—especially when I could be sleeping. Especially when I could remain comfortable. I don’t like to be stirred. Like the meals in my crockpot after a day left alone on low, too much of one thing is stuck to the bottom and too much of another has risen to the surface. Do I stir it all back into the soup, or do I start skimming off the top and avoiding the bottom?

What makes a man with a high school education, barely getting by in his sales job, think he can be a stock broker just because he could go through a math book in a week as a child? What makes a mother of two in the “heart of America” with a zoo membership and a microvan think she has anything to say that could be of relevance to anyone just because a few people told her she could write? Better yet, what makes one act on it, boldly pursuing his dream, while the other sits on the couch at the end of the day staring at her laptop, paralyzed by fear and the excuse of busyness and the mundanity of her life?

In a scene that I overlooked until this early-morning moment of epiphany, Will Smith’s character boldly pitches himself and his product to a CEO way out of his league in the CEO’s private box at a 49ers game and is shot down for his inexperience. The disappointment is clear in his eyes, in the shrug in his shoulders as he leaves later that day, bone density scanner in hand, and walks several blocks to take the bus back to his hotel room from which he is about to be evicted, rendering him homeless. What I first saw in this scene was the failure, the rejection, the disappointment. Then I saw the determination to keep going. But it wasn’t until this morning that I finally saw the big picture.

Will’s character, “Chris,” met that afternoon at the football game several young, up-and-coming businessmen eager to invest in the exploding 80’s market. His pursuit of the big fish had resulted in failure, but in the end it reeled him in a large enough net full of smaller fish to procure him the coveted 1 in 20 position at Dean Whitter, which began his climb to success and wealth. Small fish, big picture. He got it. I haven’t. Yet.

Fear of rejection and a lack of faith in the bigger picture. That is what grips my stomach this morning, robbing me of precious time spent sleeping in. That and the knowledge that I need to either act on it or stop torturing myself with just talking about it. I’m really not too busy to do this—I’m just too chicken. And so it seems, like it or not, God has reached down in his divine wisdom and stirred the pot—all the dreams stuck to the bottom and all the fears skimming the top all mixed back up in one big, delicious scoop. The decision is now mine—do I serve up a dish while it’s ready, or will I inevitably let it settle again?

girl's night out

My girlie and I, after The Nutcracker.

more orifice issues

My ear hurts, I hear from the front foyer. My ear hurts...it really hurts!!! He is crying, as he was most of the night. I cringe inwardly, knowing that I have a full day of clients ahead of me and I talk to my husband about taking him to the doctor's office. The details worked out, we go our separate ways with kisses and hugs and the drying of tears. Everything will be fine.

And yet there is a nagging... Two voices whisper in my ear. One is named guilt. It whispers things like, you should have caught this yesterday. How did you not see he had an ear infection? What kind of mom are you? I try my best to ignore it--after all, we've not had an ear infection in our home since my daughter got tubes over six and a half years ago. This is the first he has complained that his ear hurt. I could not have known. But you should have recognized it...

The second voice is named fear. It screams things like, what if you can't get him in to the doctor? What if his eardrum has ruptured? What if you have to take him to Urgent Care? To the Emergency Room? What if he misses his Christmas program on Thursday? Then, fear stops screaming and begins to whisper--icy cold breath on my neck that sends shivers down my spine. Thoughts I would never think on my own. Thoughts that make me crazy swirling around in my head until I know the answer and all is resolved.

Thoughts like, what if that little turkey stuck one of those tri-beads in his ear?!

it's all in my head

I’ve been sick so often since my youngest child was born that I’m beginning to have to grasp at straws in order to look for the bright side of this situation. My latest attempt involves likening my spiritual life to a sinus infection. In it’s most basic form, the theology goes something like this: I’ve got so much gunk in my head, I can’t think straight. Therefore, I feel like crap. It ain’t Augustine, but it works for me at the moment.

The Word indicates often that the thought life is the root of much of our trouble. That being the case, I seem to have developed a rather insidious strain that is particularly resistant to antibiotics, and it is wrecking havoc with my health. I no sooner clear up the symptoms than another infection rears its ugly head and I am down again. I worry—about my weight, about my finances, about my children, about my relationship with God. The germ enters my system and before I know it fear, discontent, and entitlement are racing full-blown through my bloodstream. I am sick.

I want to get better. But I am powerless. There was an old commercial for some food product that urged us to Eat all you want, we’ll make more! I’m convinced whatever creates snot in our heads works for the same product label. Blow all you want, we’ll make more! I take my thoughts captive as often as I blow my nose, discarded Kleenex and thought-particles all over the nightstand and floor, but my head is still full of both. No amount of striving brings change without a healing agent at work in my head.

Saline rinses, one person tells me. Oil of oregano capsules, says another. Echinacea, vitamin C, zinc lozenges, Airborne, mushrooms— I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. Bible reading plans, journaling, memorization, fasting, prayer—I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. I’ve got to try harder, I tell myself. The answer is out there somewhere, preferably in a conveniently-packaged pill form—that is the promise, is it not? Take this, you’ll feel better. But I’m not feeling better, and I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Finally at the end of myself and my medicine chest, I invite the Holy Spirit to do what only He can—to heal my weary head. I implore Him to clear out all that is not of Him and restore right thinking, clear breathing, proper functioning, and overall health. Bring healing where my best efforts have failed. Enable me to breathe again. I’m tired of sitting on the couch with a box of Kleenex—I want to get on with my life and stop blowing my nose. I am ready, Lord. It’s time to clear my head.

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.

take me out to the ball game

Rooting for the (former) home team!

in the air...

A cool breeze blows across me, filling my home with the promise of change and the sound of crickets. A fire burns in a backyard somewhere, its scent stirring within me a longing for clear, starry skies and burnt, gooey marshmallows. In a few weeks, the longing will be fulfilled, but for tonight that itch remains unscratched. I lean back, closing my eyes, and breathe in deep, greedy breaths—I want to suck in all that gives me life. Tonight, life smells like fresh-cut grass and glowing embers…

Max sits at the screen door, his twitching ears trying to take it all in as well. His tail sweeps the same space over and over as he dreams of catching the Japanese beetles I repeatedly end up finding dead in the bottom of my mailbox after a long night of courting the porch light. Occasionally a dull thwack comes from his post, causing him to scurry under the couch having apparently scared himself with his own boldness. Eventually his aging body will end up draping over my own, and as his motor-boat engine rumbles in my lap all will be right with the world, if but for a cool, pre-September moment.

There will be many more to come—these perfect nearly-fall moments that take my breath away with the largeness of life and the magnificence of God. Some people mourn the passing of summer—I am not one of them. I live for clear, brilliant blue September skies framing crisp, golden maple leaves, for chilly mornings and snuggle-weather nights that require a sweatshirt, a companion, and a fire, for afternoons of leaf-raking and pile-jumping and pumpkin-picking and jack-o-lantern making. They are just around the corner—I can smell them in the air.

There are memories of summer to share, but soon my attention will turn to wringing every bit of life out of my favorite time of year. If tonight’s breeze is any indication, it will be delicious…

what a difference a year makes

Front teeth, for example. She has both, this year. And while there are still holes in her smile, the biggest ones are filled. She's got longer skirts, shorter hair, bigger backpacks, smaller pencils. An air of confidence surrounds her--it comes with knowing and being known. And without her nervous stage mom hovering around, she's spreading her wings and taking flight, mostly in large circles around the playground.

It's quiet here this afternoon, although her brother is doing his best to fill the space with the voice that comes out of hiding whenever "Sissy" is away. I take a moment to reflect on the changes, but not too long. My own confidence is still too fresh to linger here, in the place between the now and the not yet.

My daughter is taking yet another step closer to the edge of the nest. I will try not to hold my breath. A year ago, I'd have passed out. Today, I inhale and exhale, and send up a prayer that her wings will be strong.

...and we wonder what's wrong with maurice clarett?

An Ohio judge recently decided two teenagers can complete their high school football seasons before they serve 60-day jail sentences for a car crash caused by a decoy deer placed in a country road. Two teens were injured--one of which is brain-damaged, the other of which is facing his 11th surgery for multiple broken bones. (See the story here.) Is anyone besides me completely APPALLED?!?!?! Anyone?

Our society creates the Maurice Claretts of this world with the mistaken notion that football is a sacred institution and those who play it are its gods. These young men, and their community, gain nothing by being told that starring on the HS football team and leading them to a victorious season is more important than facing the consequences of the irresponsible and dangerous behavior that have cost two families more than can ever be repaid. As a mother, as a counselor, as a Christian, as a member of a community, as a human being--I am completely disgusted and outraged.

Just like the former OSU "star," these young men are hearing loud and clear that there is something much more important in our society than character and personal responsibility. They are hearing that if they can run, throw, and sack--not cure cancer, not protect society, not prevent AIDS--that they can be above the law of reaping and sowing and not face the immediate consequences of their choices. It is a message that is far too prevalent and destructive for my liking.

Had these young men not been football players--had they been in the marching band, on the chess team, in the fall musical--this ruling would not have been rendered. When will we stop worshiping athletes and start valuing the development of young men's' character instead?

...and still counting...

make that four raccoons.

sure am glad we did not go with the service that charges by the animal!

running tally

three raccoons

one oppossum

the neighbor's cat

(just kidding! we didn't catch the cat!)

(yet...)

great, now i've got guilt

It falls under the category of it seemed like a good idea at the time... Flea infested raccoons move in under our deck, infesting our yard with fleas which we then track into the house which promptly results in our house and indoor cat getting infested (do you know how hard it is to get rid of fleas?!)...but I digress. Three raccoons, so brazen as to come out during the light of day, fighting on the deck at night, living under the space where my children play and my neighbor's cat sleeps. (A lot.) Every day she asks me--my neighbor, that is--what I'm going to do about the raccoons. I have no flippin' idea didn't seem like the response she was looking for at the time...

Not that I blame her. She has an outdoor cat and two dogs, one of which, apparently, the raccoons could eat, and they are, after all, on "her side" of the house. She has every right to be vocally concerned. I'd want them gone, too. And I do, really I do.

So, in the interest of neighbor relations and flea prevention and a rabies alert, I placed a call to Varmant Gaurd, who not-so-promptly set traps filled with peanut butter and apples around our deck. (PB and apples? Who knew?) Last night at one AM, in the midst of being unable to fall asleep, I hear rustling outside our window. Metal rattles, and then, in the dark of the night, the fatal "clink." Raccoon one, trapped. Fifteen minutes later, "clink." Raccoon two. I put the fan back in the window to muffle the rattling of their cages (as I already was having trouble sleeping), and drifted off to a fitful sleep, knowing my neighbor would be delighted. I was pretty relieved myself.

Until this morning.

Did you know that raccoons have German-shepherd-brown eyes? And that they shake and chirp when they're scared? Granted, they growl and spit like a, well, like a caged animal, when you get too close to their trap, but still...

I feel horrible. Fleas and rabies and neighbors and neighbor's cats aside, they're kinda cute. And they're scared. And they're gonna die.

And it's my fault.

Tonight the Varmant Gaurd Man brings "stinky fish" and takes the first (innocent?) victims away.

If I can't sleep, I'll tell you it's the smell of the fish below my bedroom window. But you'll know better. The guilt will be killing me...

bittersweet

I brace the cherry between my tongue and my teeth, pulling the stem out and losing it somewhere in the couch while I wait for my circa 1996 laptop to boot up. The pit makes a muffled dink as it hits the bowl, and I absent-mindedly reach for another, being careful not to mismanage the stem this time. I wonder, as the screen flickers and the internal workings of my machine click and whirl and beep, where the summer could possibly have gone.

Three weeks until school starts. Three weeks until routine and schedule and order return to our lives. Three weeks until I have my night-life back again. Three weeks until I can really write again. Three weeks until I lose my daughter again…

Must everything always be so bitter-sweet?

As if to answer me, I bite into a cherry not yet fully ripe and am caught off guard by the tartness of its taste. I look up from the screen to search for a burgundy-ripe selection and chase away the bitter with the cool, delicious sweetness.

This has been my summer. Chasing away the fleas, the raccoons under the deck, the termites, the weeds, the potty training, the endless pairs of poopy underpants, the tantrums, the attitudes, the battles over flash cards, the battles over dinner time, the battles over getting into the pool, the battles over getting out of the pool—chasing it all away with the sweet moments of star gazing and camp fires and friendship bracelets and “field trips” and making ice cream and you’re the best Mommy ever. All in all, I am left with a sweet taste in my mouth.

Even if I’ve not written a lick.

What was once a beautiful bowl of luscious deep-red cherries is now a collection of pits and stems—at least most of the stems. They are what remain. When these stifling days of lingering sunlight and long walks are gone, we will have consumed them fully—used them up in the best way we know how—together. The memories will remain.

And once school starts, I’ll share some of them with you.

writer's block pantoum

I’ve been having immense guilt over not writing at all lately—I tend to be all or nothing, so if I can’t finish a piece, I don’t bother to begin it, it seems.  In hoping to break out of that, I at least wrote something.  (And I finished it, to boot.)

i cannot think tonight—
my mind as blank as the page
ideas as fresh as week-old lettuce
wilting in the dregs of the crisper

my mind as blank as the page
blue lines on green paper
wilting in the dregs of the crisper
daring someone to make salad

blue lines on green paper
crumpled up, inside and out
daring someone to make salad—
i toss it, instead

crumpled up, inside and out
it may be redeemable—
i toss it, instead
better luck next time

it may be redeemable—
ideas as fresh as week-old lettuce
better luck next time
i cannot think tonight

"what i did this summer"-- a photo essay

since there's been NO TIME TO WRITE, thought i'd show y'all what we've been up to. these are all just this past weekend...

i miss writing...

...but we're having a blast!

a bitter-sweet drink

just a little too close...

just because she's beautiful

laid on my back to get this one. i don't recommend doing so in 90-degree heat on the sidewalk... just in case you've ever had the urge...

it's not a digger, momma...

... it's a eggs-ca-bay-tor.

(Where does one learn the official names of construction equipment, pray tell?)

he's actually operating this, btw.

sharing some history at cosi

My husband and I were my daughter's age when the first movie came out.

Do your own math.

her-father's-daughter with her father

Ya wanna come with me, Momma?

(Silence)

fun at the festival

his-mother's-son wouldn't try a thing...

(sigh) those were the days

Saturdays were not meant to be spent cleaning the house, but, alas, since we’ve run like gangbusters since it first started to get warm, Spring Cleaning could not wait a moment longer. One absolutely gorgeous day down the tubes—but our house is finally clean. Well, as close to clean as it’s going to get, at any rate. A neat freak I may be, but a clean freak I am unfortunately not. The kitchen was where the majority of my time and effort was spent, and as I went from grotesque mess to grotesque mess (Have you ever seen what grows under your stove? Ew!) I began to question what ever happened to the Magic Kitchen of my childhood.

I can only assume that every home had a Magic Kitchen, but, truth be told, mine is the only one I can verify with any certainty. I’ve never heard mention of another, but I cannot imagine what stroke of pure luck or heavenly blessing could have possibly bestowed such a glorious creation on my family and my family alone. What wonders it beheld—oh, the nostalgia! The longing to go back! The yearning for an era gone by! But, alas, the Magic Kitchen seems to have faded into obscurity with avocado appliances and Jello molds—and I am all the sadder and wearier for it.

The piece de resistance in the magical masterpiece of my childhood kitchen was the Magic Fridge. Official 70’s-appliance-green (See what I’m saying? It must have something to do with the color!), the Magic Fridge stood in the center of the kitchen like a tower erected to the Grocery God. This dietary deity must have been quite pleased with us, because—and here’s where it starts getting good—the fridge never emptied! Like some widow’s jar of oil, the Magic Fridge refilled itself completely on it’s own—I never had to do anything but open the door. Lemonade, Kool-Aid, Soda Pop (or just Pop, if you’re a Midwesterner)—beverages flowed like milk and honey. Jello, Cherry Cheese Cake, Baptist Pie (a staple at Methodist potlucks despite the obvious theological issues), Rocky Road Fudge, Chocolate Pudding—not to mention all the staples for making pizzas and sandwiches and casseroles and tacos! I’ve never again in my life seen anything like it, I am grieved to say. It was a sight to behold.

While this was obviously the grand tour de force of the Magic Kitchen, especially to a child, I cannot help in my adulthood to also reminisce with great fondness about another important and overlooked feature—the kitchen was self-cleaning. Yes. It’s true. I never lifted a finger in that kitchen and yet the refrigerator shelves were always clean and the oven never had burnt cheese in the bottom of it and the dishes appeared on the shelves as if completely of their own volition. Clean. The first time. It was astonishing. The floor never stuck to my feet, the counters never collected crumbs, the sink never had a ring around it, and the utensils never collected dust. Ever. And I never did a darn thing. Amazing. (Sigh.) Those were the days.

Four hours later, as I look around my own kitchen—white, all of it (that must be the problem)—I remember as well the self-stocking pantry, the pre-packed school lunches, the self-cleaning toaster oven, and the garbage can that never needed to be emptied. I sigh deeply at my prunish hands and ragged fingernails, wiping sweat from my brow with an arm that smells like Pinesol and bacon grease while I try for the 37th time to get my hair out of my eyes. After fifteen years of cleaning kitchens, I had almost forgotten the days when I never had to lift a finger. Almost.

(Sigh.)

Magic kitchen—oh, where have you gone? Why have you forsaken me? You have left me to toil endlessly while my children do nothing but consume and make messes—

you’d think they believed the kitchen just took care of itself!

firecrackers

IMG_9152, originally uploaded by as we see it.

camped with my parents this weekend-- here are a few highlights!

a loose cannon

IMG_9035, originally uploaded by as we see it.

Five minutes later she did a head-first flip off the side into three feet of water. Twice. Lord preserve me!

what can i say?

IMG_8980, originally uploaded by as we see it.

so cute i could EAT HIM UP!

summer lovin'

Always one to try something new (ignore my husband laughing in the background), I read about Pantoum, a form of poetry writing, and thought I'd give it a shot. The lines duplicate in a pattern, so in a 10 line/phrase poem, for example, the stanzas would look like this: Lines 1,2,3,4 / 2,5,4,6 / 5,7,6,8 / 7,9,8,10 / 9,3,10,1. Wrote this one while camping with the kids and my folks.

love wraps its sunscreened arms around my damp neck
its sweaty, summer-sticky body pressed to mine
like bare flesh on station wagon vinyl--
peel it off and it leaves its mark

its sweaty, summer-sticky body pressed to mine
scented with the long, hot day
peel it off and it leaves its mark
love's lingering fragrance mingles with my own

scented with the long, hot day
oppressive in its desirous nature
love's lingering fragrance mingles with my own
clings to me with fierce affection

oppressive in its desirous nature
I bear the heat of love's attention
clings to me with fierce affection
such are the sweet sacrifices of summer

I bear the heat of love's attention
like bare flesh on station wagon vinyl--
such are the sweet sacrifices of summer
love wraps its sunscreened arms around my damp neck

sticking to it

Here's a fun new blog I found called Bum Glue--done by a writer here in town who puts on practice writing workshops. Also puts out a newsletter, which I get, called Write Now, which details writerly stuff going on in town. I always get a little nugget of encouragement out of her newsletters--if you're a writer, check it out!

you say it's your birthday (bah nah nah nah nah nah)

my little blog experiment started a year ago tonight... not sure if that's noteworthy or not, but it gave me pause to reflect! if nothing else, i've had fun writing again!

posting may be scant this summer--after bedtime is my prime writing time, and now that the kids are out of school, all bets are off as to when bedtime will be each night! i intend to keep at it, however hit and miss it may be!

i've run out of my exclamation point allotment, and now i must go to bed!

the orange route, part one

“I’m not from these parts—I’m what you call a transplant,” she tells me in what I discover later is a manufactured southern drawl. “Moved here from Chicago seven years ago. Packed up three kids, two dogs, four cats, two iguanas and my houseplant—which has a story of it’s own, you understand, couldn’t leave it behind—and headed out here on a whim. My boyfriend followed three weeks later—the cord is short, I tell you. What else can I say? I’ve been here long enough, though. ‘Bout time I move on. Can’t stay in one place too long. We’ll see who follows me this time.”

I gauge her to be early sixties, with long, fading red hair that blows, unstyled and untamed, around her seasoned face. Her freckles pop out around her glasses, which she passively nudges back up to the bridge of her nose after each drag on her cigarette. The blue in her eyes matches that of her wide assortment of accessories, and as she leans forward, I discover she is braless under her flowing, similarly blue shirt—a fact that somehow doesn’t surprise me.

“What they call a lake here is a joke,” she informs me, and though I can’t get a word in edgewise, I am inclined to agree. Having, like her, been reared along the Great Lakes, I have some difficulty conceptualizing the small river that runs below my hotel window—which, I’m told, is dammed on both ends—as a “lake.” But, always one to participate in the spirit of things, I squint real hard and tilt my head to one side and try to visualize a lake where a river flows. “A friend took me to see a lake up north of here—I stood there and could see the other side. ‘Where’s the lake,’ I asked her. ‘That is the lake,’ she told me. ‘That ain’t no lake—I could ride my bike around that in an hour!’ I told her. ‘Show me a real lake.’”

She pulls her hair back from her face—a futile gesture—and attempts to light her third cigarette with an emptying lighter—yet another. As she talks, ash flutters down around her, covering her lap and neighboring white straw Stetson, smoke swirling mercifully in the opposite direction from where I stand. She blows more sideways out the corner of her mouth, motioning perpetually with both hands like a marionette with the mouth and the arm strings somehow connected on the same stick.

“I’m a decent at the Austin Museum of Art—I love bringing art to life for kids—and I consider anyone under thirty a kid, let me tell you.” She points at me with her cigarette, looking me in the eye to see if I flinch. I do not let on that I am no longer a child. She continues. “So many docents are just ‘blah, blah, blah.’ I like to liven things up a little.” As she goes on, I learn she docents as well at the Texas State History Museum as a Ranch Hand, and went through training to lead “Haunted History” tours for The Hide Away which includes a pub crawl through the adjoining basements of several historic 6th street bars. Once again, I am not surprised.

Her delight in story telling, immediately evident upon sitting down next to her at the bus stop, is no doubt an asset that has served her well in these pursuits. Indeed, I remember encountering her a few hours before as she explained to a seven-ish looking young man the advent of branding cattle. “Image that someone suddenly decides that any steer that doesn’t have your name on it is fair game to add to his herd! Now, wouldn’t that just get under your saddle?” She punctuated her question with a finger into his chest—he stared back at her blankly, uncertain how to respond to her animated inquiry. I seem to recall chuckling—men of all ages seem uncomfortably uncertain what to do with a lively woman.

(to be continued…)

deep in the heart of texas

P6176346, originally uploaded by as we see it.

back from almost a week in austin with the hubby. here are five "faves" from the 188 pics we took! to see the rest, click on any of the images and then go to the "austin" set. (just to warn you, they aren't all rotated--so if the picture looks funny, tilt your head to the right and see if it gets any better!)

hope to post some of the stuff i wrote there in the next day or two!

south of congress

P6176374, originally uploaded by as we see it.

otherwise known as "soco." great galleries--had a blast shopping!

shopping in soco

P6176385, originally uploaded by as we see it.

quite a tail you got there...

P6186415, originally uploaded by as we see it.

the armadillo tail (yes, you read that correctly) on austin's city hall.

a capital experience

P6146218, originally uploaded by as we see it.

they aren't kidding when they say EVERYTHING is big in TX. the capital building is HUGE!

just beyond dusk

The sky is green on the west horizon, tall maples and pines stark black against its hue like intricate scherenschnitte cut with large, divine hands using small, impossibly sharp scissors. It stretches from the treetops of High Street to the rooftops of Indianola Avenue, turning to deep blue as it spans across our home on its way to the other side of the neighborhood. The moon carves its bright crescent curve out of the darkness, followed by star, after star, after star…

All is quiet now—chirping children and babbling birds alike—save for the low roar of the interstate and the occasional rumble of northbound trains in the not-so-distant distance. This is when my ears begin to perk up, searching the silence for the herald of summer, beseeching him to make his sweet, gentle music and set my spirit at ease. He does not disappoint me, this harbinger of both good fortune and great joy, as he slowly tunes his instrument, picks up his bow, and begins to play. He is rewarded with a contented sigh.

Deep, blue darkness has pulled its thick blanket across from east to west and the paper-cut images of trees have disappeared into the darkness. We are tucked in for the night—the lullaby of summer playing softly outside the window, which is finally unbolted and opened wide. I will sleep, tonight, in the tender caress of the almost-summer breeze, and dream sweet dreams of lightening bugs twinkling over vast wheat fields filled with a symphony of crickets.

curtain call

I had a little trouble with my daughter starting first grade, but, in the end, we both passed with flying colors.

The pretty one, the funny one, the smart one, the fast one, the loud one, the friendly one, the polite one, and the rambunctious one-- they can all take a bow!

(If anyone has read the script for second grade, I'd love to know what part we'll both be playing!)