halleluia

It's like playing a country song backwards... I get my husband back, I get my life back, I get my time back, I get my nights back...

Congratulations, Babe!

Love you!!!

waterfire

the women's retreat: a haiku

fully clothed, we came
expectant yet uncertain--
longing for your touch

ten in a circle
hearts bared in the dark of night
unzipped and undone

freedom followed tears
joy came with the morning light...
we left, buck-naked

grace and muscle

Were you to emblazon my daughter’s approach to life across the front of one of those cute, trendy little t-shirts, it would read: “If a little is good, a LOT is BETTER!” She comes by this honestly—I didn’t learn moderation myself until, well, I’ve never learned moderation. So it shouldn’t surprise me that my daughter goes at gymnastics just as hard as she does everything else in her life.

When it comes to flipping and flopping, my daughter has the power and the raw talent, but she lacks the self-control. “My hip bones hurt, Momma,” she tells me one morning after practice. They have been doing their “strong arms” on the bar and practicing “popping” their hips off the bar. Popping for most girls looks like rising two to three inches off the bar five or six times. Not my daughter. My daughter takes popping to a new level. Literally.

My daughter pops so high and so fast that she is nearly flipping herself over the bar. This is a clear snapshot of her personality—unchecked energy run amok. Her little face red and sweaty, her muscles taut and twitching, her body in constant, exaggerated motion. This is my daughter, every day of her life.

The cheerleaders at our high school chant, before taking the floor, “Grace and Muscle, Hunh!” My daughter asks me, one day, what this means. We talk about the balance between strength and beauty, between power and control, between energy and discipline. She wrinkles her nose at me. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she says.

No, to her, I imagine it doesn’t. She comes by all-or-nothing honestly, and that will take some time to deprogram. Her teacher, fortunately, is graciously patient, guiding her along that narrow beam. Teaching her to listen to her body and to know how much is too much. Teaching her how to sustain her energy for the long haul. Teaching her how to moderate her impulses. Teaching her self-control. Oh, how I wish I’d learned these lessons at her age.

Over the course of the morning, she has already improved. Her teachable nature saves her from rampant impulsivity once again. I am relieved. She beams as she crosses the gym, leaping and bounding, all arms and legs and energy again. But there was a brief, fleeting moment there—back on the high bar—when grace and muscle came together, and I could see into her future. And it was a beautiful thing to behold.

spring break fling

Took a mini-trip to Indianapolis for the weekend. This is me and the kids at the Children's Museum. (My hubby and I used to go here on dates--other than the water clock and the ramps in the center, VERY little is the same!)

Did some writing--mostly working on a suite of poems I began when my grandmother was in hospice a year ago. I may post a few later. Hope to write more this week. In the meantime, my mother will enjoy the pictures, if no one else!

My cutie-patooties at the zoo. This is a rare photo, as my son has taken to not wanting his picture taken, lately...

We met up with my college roomie (and one of my BESTEST buddies) and her family at the zoo. From left to right are Holly, her husband Darrin, and their daughter Jessie. I'm trying to convince my son that I REALLY won't let him fall in the water if I hold him up so he can touch a shark in the touch tank...

At the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in the heart of Downtown Indy. Our hotel was one block from the Circle.

A quick break with Poppa!

Me w/the kiddos by the Indiana WWI monument.

vanilla

They come to gymnastics in their designer jeans teetering on designer high-heeled shoes, their designer sunglasses perched atop their designer dye-and-straighten jobs. They are pushing designer strollers wearing designer coats and toting designer purses filled with designer snacks and water bottles. Twelve carat designer rings perch above meticulously-done designer nails, and their equally meticulous make-up matches their accessories which match their outfits which match their shoes which match their purses which match their diaper bags which match their strollers which match the interiors of their color-coordinated, designer SUVs. And they look fabulous. Because, of course, it is terribly important to look fabulous when you are sitting at the gym or running to McDonald’s and the grocery and the library. Of course.

I hear them as I read, sitting off to the side, still in my work-out clothes. They discuss make-up brands, Coach purses, Grey’s Anatomy, which local pool is the best, where you simply HAVE to stay at Walt Disney World. They wobble down the bleachers in their three-inch heels and make their way back to their cookie-cutter designer houses, where they will cook name-brand macaroni and cheese in their designer finery and watch TV all day and night in between picking up the kids from school and doing loads of their children’s designer laundry. They have no interests. They have no hobbies. They have no personalities. They are vanilla. Rich, expensive vanilla, but vanilla, nonetheless.

It’s not that I don’t like these women. Truly. I just don’t know how to relate to these women. I mean, I can talk about sofa upholstery for 45 minutes if I really have to, but if I don’t really HAVE to, why on earth would I WANT to? And truth be told, I’d really rather use my 45 minutes of uninterrupted time to read or write than to do anything, and I do mean ANYTHING else these days (except, perhaps, eat chocolate), so it isn’t such a big deal to sit here and try not to overhear their trivial conversations.

But then, despite my best efforts to focus my attention elsewhere, there is that strange tension between complete disdain and childish jealousy that develops, twisting itself around my thought life and breeding rampant sarcasm. There is truly nothing within me that wants to BE these women—but if I’m really honest, I sure wouldn’t mind some of the designer accoutrements. And I find that it is, unfortunately, easier and much more fun to be judgmental than to sit here feeling jealous.

Another woman comes and sits down near me—and I immediately notice she is similarly curly-headed, which is delightfully shocking in this day and age. She, too, is made up and well-heeled, but I am intrigued by her obviously hand-crafted jewelry, her bright, unusual clothing, her pile of books with her. She is studying Korean—to test for her black belt, I find out as I begin talking with her. I listen to her talk about her days as a champion collegiate hurdler, about how boring aerobics is so she needed a challenge, about running marathons and teaching yoga and entertaining local celebrities. I am smug with self-satisfaction at my new-found friend. She is not vanilla—she is Jeni’s Thai Chili, Salty Caramel, Queen City Cayenne. Finally, there is some flavor!

We talk for ten minutes and she never asks me a single thing about myself. I am perplexed and put out at first. And then it finally dawns on me—SHE thinks I’M vanilla.

Designer irony. And, wouldn't ya know, it doesn't match a single thing I'm wearing...

five and nine

My Girlie-Girl, after finding the horse barn Grandad made for her.

I tried last night to talk her into staying eight for another year, but she would have no part in it...

Buster Brown in a submarine at his fifth birthday party in February.

easter at my folks'

My Mom made the quilt above the mantle... pretty impressive, eh?

a poem on driving myself crazy

the diet

endlessly striving
always resisting
never attaining

more martha hiaku

still struggling to find/make time to write, but i will figure it out. managed to write these during my quiet time last night:

can't sit still

sitting at your feet
doesn't come naturally--
can't we walk instead?


kp duty

i putz around in
the kitchen while you are there,
patiently waiting

duties, desires--
all my own, warring within...
i've not chosen well

up to my elbows
in my own mess, i beg thee:
teach me the "one thing"

yielding

(subtitled: Did I Step In Something?)

"The first thing I must be willing to admit when I begin to examine what controls and dominates me is that I am the one responsible for having yielded myself to whatever it may be... There is no power within the human soul itself that is capable of breaking the bondage of the nature created by yielding... No release or escape from it will ever come from any human power, but only through the power of redemption. You must yield yourself in utter humiliation to the only One who can break the dominating power in your life... It is easy to sing 'He will break every fetter,' while at the same time living a life of obvious slavery to yourself. But yielding to Jesus will break every kind of slavery in any person's life."

Excerpted from My Utmost For His Highest, March 14

the final 28

76. I am surprised I might actually FINISH this list of 103 things you may not know about me.

77. I get chronic headaches--just about every day of my life. I have one right now. It hurts.

78. I am an Air Force Brat.

79. I have had to move because of Emminent Domain. There is now a turnpike exhange in the spot where I grew up.

80. While I don't enjoy working out, I DO enjoying walking and biking. WITH other people...

81. I don't like to be alone.

82. Correction. I DO like to be alone sometimes. Like when I'm trying to go to the bathroom. Or read a recipe. Or follow directions to something. Or need just one flippin' moment of peace and quiet FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD!!!

83. I regularly thank God for my heated mattress cover and flannel sheets.

84. I need them because I USED to be hot all the time, but now, even though I've weighed this weight before and never been cold, I am cold ALL THE TIME since I've lost weight.

85. I want to take art classes. All kinds. I want to learn how to throw a pot, and make batik, and enamel stuff, and paint, and...

86. I sang my first solo in church when I was in first grade. I was hooked.

87. When I was a kid and was somewhere boring, I would count how many circles I could find in the room.

88. When I was older, I graduated to very complicated doodling. I'll post a picture of one later. I was known in grad school for my doodling, of all things...

89. I DON'T doodle in session.

90. I'm running out of ideas.

91. Every time I watch my daughter do gymnastics, I'm convinced she's going to break her neck. Now she's going to be on a team. I'm going to need a nerve pill, I think...

92. My head still hurts.

93. I attended my first writing conference when I was in third grade. You can read about it here.

94. I furrow my eyebrows when I'm thinking. Everyone thinks I'm mad.

95. I'm not.

96. I constantly tense my shoulders. Since I sat down at the computer, I've had to relax my shoulders at least seven times. I just had to do it again.

97. I am part German, part English, and part Hillbilly.

98. When I get tired or am around my grandmother (or her family), I develop a drawl.

99. I also like to go barefoot, say "y'all," and call people "folks."

100. I love live music. Especially jazz.

101. If I lived in the city, I'd stay up all night with a telescope looking in people's windows. I'm terribly nosy!

102. When we went to NYC and I couldn't sleep, I did just that!

103. I'm going to go take some more aspirin and go to bed.

104. Oh, and I'm an overachiever, too...

105. I always have to do more than is asked, because more is always better.

106. But I also know when it's time to quit and go to bed. Good night!

snow daze

Got at least a foot in the last 24 hours--some of the drifts are as tall as my little guy!

Tell me again why we live here?!?!

After hearing our stories about the blizzard of '78, the kids were thrilled to get to build their OWN snow "fort!"

today's lesson is brought to you by the letter "D"

Today, my sensitive, spirited daughter learned the "D-word." Curled up in her booster seat, she sniffled noisily as I maneuvered my way through the slush-covered streets. We were supposed to be headed somewhere else, but because of the snow, we were headed home. My heart broke for her, but there was nothing I could do.

Disappointment. Today, he and my daughter became well-acquainted.

Selections for district speech meet representatives were made in January. One child for each category from each class. "I really hope I get picked this year, Momma," she confided one night. And so I helped her prepare. Every night we rehearsed, and, sure enough, she came home beeming one afternoon. It was the first year she'd been selected, and she was as pleased as punch with herself, as she should have been. I was thrilled for her and frightened for her at the same time. If all went well, it would be a great experience. If not, well...

And so it was that I was prepared for her to forget a line or fumble a sentence, but was not prepared for the weather. Speech meet was cancelled, in the midst of a midwestern snow storm, not to be rescheduled. I came into the classroom to pick her up, and her nose was red. She held it together until we got out to the hall. "They aren't going to re-do it, Momma," she cried into my coat. "I'm not going to get to go. I worked so hard, and now I don't get to do it."

I teared up for her then, just as I do again, now. This is a hard lesson for a third-grader to learn. It is a hard one for a tender-hearted mother to watch, as well. We curled up on her bed at home, the colorful outfit we'd negotiated the night before now splotched with her tears, and I let her cry herself out. "Mrs. Smith told me it was nothing to cry about," she sobbed. I sat her up and turned her toward me.

"You listen to me, Sweetpea," I said. "This time, Honey, your teacher is WRONG. This is the PERFECT thing to cry about, and you can cry all you need to, do you understand?" She nodded, burying her head in my shoulder again. "This is a very disappointing thing, and it is perfectily okay to be sad. Don't let anybody tell you differently, Baby."

I waited for a break in her emotion, and I went on. "But here's the thing, Sweetie. You be sad now while you're sad, and you get all that sad out. But then you've got to take all that sad, and you've got to put it all in your hands, and you've got to give it to Jesus. And you've got to tell him, 'Jesus, I'm so sad. Will you please help me not to be sad anymore?' And then you've got to choose to stop being sad, and focus on what's next. Be sad all you need to right now, Honey. But in a little bit, we need to give it to Jesus, so you won't need to be sad anymore."

She looked up at me and nodded, and in a few minutes looked up again and said, "I'm ready to be done being sad now, Momma." And so we took that sad, and we placed it at the foot of the cross, and we got up, and we went sledding.

Disappointment is painful, but it is not fatal. Perhaps she and I will learn that one together, as we both continue to grow up. Perhaps our hearts will toughen up, perhaps not. But at least she is learning where to go with that tender heart to receive peace. I pray that THIS lesson is the one that sticks in her mind the most.

Asleep now, after a night of movies and dancing and chocolate, she looks like a contended angel. I am cautiously relieved. We made it through the evening. And though I would have given anything to see her recite her poem, I have never been more proud of her than I am at this moment.

103.75

51. In addition, I carry five different shades of tinted lip balm in my purse.

52. I also carry bandaids, ointment, sanitizer, lotion, toiletries, cough drops, aspirin, a mirror, and a nail file.

53. I don't use any of them.

54. I would argue that James Taylor is quite possibly one of the greatest songwriters of all time.

55. My favorite classical composers are Vivaldi and Aaron Copland.

56. I have sung the Carmina Burana with the Indianapolis Symphony. It ROCKS.

57. I have sung the Mozart Requiem with the Toledo Symphony. It's pretty darn good, too.

58. I can sing the alto part of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus by memory. I've sung the Messiah approximately seven or eight times.

59. One can never get tired of singing the Messiah.

60. One can, however, probably get tired of hearing it.

61. I cannot be trusted alone in a book store.

62. I dream in color.

63. I consistently use up all the hot water when I take a shower. It is the best place in the world to sing...

64. I've remained married for fifteen years DESPITE the fact that I always use up all the hot water.

65. I am NOT A MORNING PERSON.

66. I have managed to remain married for fifteen years despite the fact that my husband IS.

67. I never could understand why my mother couldn't have me an OLDER brother.

68. I love photography. I tend to look at the world as if I am composing a shot. It can tend to get annoying--especially when you frame a GREAT shot and don't have your camera!

69. I have had the West Nile Virus.

70. I still don't understand who the heck thought Jesus and all his men were going to get fed if Martha weren't in the kitchen...

71. I relate more, unfortunately, with the older brother than with the prodigal son.

72. I love to read the Epistles.

73. My favorite book of all time is Hind's Feet on High Places. I prayed for years to be transformed into "Grace and Glory," only to find out many years later that Lorie means "Glorious Victory" and Anne means "Grace." I'd been Grace and Glory all along...

74. I do not often live, unfortunately, as if my name were Grace and Glory. Or Victorious, for that matter.

75. But I am working on it....

a martha haiku

I will be studying Martha for a while--I hope you'll enjoy reading about her!

Lord, where is the time
in the midst of the urgent
to sit at your feet?

How do I choose the
better over that which is
true necessity?

And how do I find
you in the bills and battles
and betime routines?

103.5

25. I could eat pizza for every meal. And sometimes I have.

26. I have also been known to eat an entire plate of chocolate chip cookies for dinner.

27. I have, despite a fear of heights and falling, climbed three mountains. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.

28. I have been "saved" at least 12 times. I lost track somewhere around Jr. High...

29. I work out an average of five times per week. I HATE IT.

30. After a decade of trying to make my naturally curly hair "feather," I made an inner vow to never blow dry my hair again. And I haven't.

31. If I ever won the lottery, I would get a tummy tuck. Suffice it to say that pregnancy was not kind.

32. I am a compulsive shell-picker-upper. You don't want to go to the beach with me, unless you like to do so, as well. (And if that's the case, stay out of my way!)

33. I read Calvin and Hobbes religiously while it was in print. It is my favorite cartoon of all time.

34. I've been in every state east of the Mississippi, and a handful west.

35. We have a goal to see all fifty states before our youngest graduates from college.

36. When I was pregnant with my youngest, I craved Chipotle incessantly. I went at least twice a week, and for the entire last month of my pregnancy they gave me my food for free because they were afraid I'd give birth in their dining room!

37. I love to hike. We do so several times a month. My oldest can do eight to ten miles, and my youngest just made it to two or three.

38. I love to camp. As long as there is a real bed, a real toilet, and a real shower.

39. I am still close friends with the first friend I made in kindergarten, despite the fact that he lived in Japan for ten years.

40. I collect rocks. And shells. And handblown glass ornaments. And "blue things." And artsy cat knick knacks.

41. Apparently, I collect collections.

42. I am running out of shelf space.

43. I don't have cable, and you can't make me get it.

44. My 20th high school reunion is this fall. I am actually looking forward to it. But now that I've typed that, I realize that I'm also scared to death about it...

45. I wish I'd started using Mary Kay about ten years sooner.

46. When I was fifteen, I told my boyfriend's mother I could see myself working at a church, talking to people about their problems, and praying for them. So I went to college and majored in music. Fifteen years later, God reminded me of this conversation, as I sat in my office at the church, counseling people and praying for them.

47. Music was just the first of five majors. I still graduated in four years, and still minored in vocal performance. (I was also one credit hour short of a minor in French.)

48. My husband had ONE major, decided upon it when he was in late elementary school, graduated, and worked in that field for over 15 years. I don't understand that for the life of me...

49. I have known my husband now for longer than I didn't know him.

50. I always carry in my purse chapstick, cinnamon gum, a pen and paper, and a snack. I will not carry anything for you, so don't ask me.

More (perhaps) to come at another time!

103

In the spirit of "Common, everyone ELSE is doing it..." I am commencing my list of 103 things you may not know about me.

1. I rarely finish anything. This may be a list of 54 things you may not know about me. Or 13.

2. I am afraid of the dark. Really.

3. My secret vices are fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies (okay, that's not a secret!) and The Simpsons.

4. I know the words to virtually every Barry Manilow song ever written. And I can sing them to you upon demand. This request is not something, oddly enough, that happens often...

5. I am a professional musician. Or rather, I WAS, in a former life. (Like, when I HAD a life!) You can read about that here.

6. I read about six-eight books at a time on average. I finish about 40% of them. There's a lot of poorly written CRAP out there...

7. If I could do anything, I would find a way to become independently wealthy so we could travel the world and see all there is to see. I have a longing to travel that is unfortunately not matched by our budget.

8. I bait my own hook. I have also gutted my own fish, caught a snake, and held multiple frogs. I cannot, however, stand to clean off someone else's plate to put it in the dishwasher. GROSS.

9. I am a Trekie. Hold your laughter.

10. My husband has recently gotten me hooked on the new Battlestar Galactica. NOW you may laugh.

11. I love to watch cooking shows and read recipe books. I said once to a friend that I "read recipes like romance novels." She didn't get it. But I know some of you do!

12. I talk in my sleep. According to my husband, I am completely nonsensical.

13. I am a neat-freak, but not a clean-freak. I pick up the house daily. I dust quarterly.

14. I wanted to be the next Sandi Patti. Really. (I can't believe I'm sharing THAT one...)

15. I also wanted to be the next Amy Grant.

16. I do a pretty good imitation of both. Again, not many requests for either these days...

17. The ideal year, to me, would be for there to be spring (sunny and 75) until the beginning of June, then fall (sunny and 75) until the middle of November, and then it could snow from Thanksgiving until New Year's Day and then start all over again.

18. I drink my tea with cream. Or, at least I did until I started this new diet.

19. I abhor meatloaf, peas, lima beans, and pot roast.

20. I have been known to eat cereal three meals a day.

21. I make "happy eating noises" when I am enjoying a particularly good meal.

22. I do not like to share my food. I am worse than a dog. I have actually GROWLED at my husband. And my children, well...

23. I love baby-butts. I think they are the cutest things in the world.

24. I have peed in the woods and lived to tell about it. (And not dribbled on my shoes!)

Gotta get to work... maybe more later, maybe not!

gains and losses

I knew better, but I did it anyway. At some point this morning the voice of reason was drowned out by the voice of immediate gratification, and I went ahead and did it. For the third time this week. And the outcome hasn’t gotten any better.

The reassurance I sought as my feet met cold metal was replaced with despair. A beep, a whir, and a blinking number. 144.0 … 144.0 … 144.0 … 144.0 I slunk down off the scale, my thoughts racing, and began to prepare for the morning ahead.

Crap, I thought, digging through my fat clothes yet another time. What the heck? I’ve been on this diet almost two weeks now—the scale is supposed to be going DOWN, not up! I tried to quiet the tirade, to no avail. Why won’t my body do what it’s supposed to? I’m following the diet perfectly—how the heck did I GAIN two pounds over the last few days? The food itself couldn’t have even weighed that much! MAN I hate this…

I laid the clothes on the bed, remembering it was a work-out morning. Hearing the kids playing peacefully below, I decided to boot up the computer and email one of my “talk me down off the ledge” friends. “Tell me I can do this,” I pleaded with her. “Tell me this is going to work. And tell me to stop getting on this stupid scale!”

Of course, she’s told me all of this before, many a time. But listening is not my forté. Being impulsive and neurotic is. Fortunately, she is not put off by my neuroticism, though I would not blame her, after seven years of listening to the same ol’ same ol’, if she finally told me to just shut the heck up and get over it. But, of course, I wouldn’t listen to that, either.

These last ten pounds have been the bane of my existence for, oh, I dunno, about two or three years now. But the weight itself, well, that has been a lifelong preoccupation. Another of my “talk me down off the ledge” friends reminds me with great regularity that it’s all about perspective. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight and kept it off for several years now—who cares about the last ten pounds?

I care about the last ten pounds. Despite my best efforts, I care very much. Not because of the number on the scale, but because of how my clothes fit. Because of how my body feels when it gets there. Because of how my body looks when it gets there. And ultimately because of what that number represents.

The moment I first became aware of my body a life-long tug-of-war began internally and hasn’t let up since. I have cursed my body. I have hated my body. I have tortured, tricked, treated, and tormented my body. But I have never once, in 37 years, come to trust my body. That is, perhaps, the greatest loss of all.

I have gained strength, I have lost weight. I have lost self-control, I have gained muscle. I have gained confidence, I have lost hope. I have lost flab, I have gained perspective. My husband has weighed a steady 118 lbs since the day we met. His attitude toward his weight remains likewise unchanged. I am not as fortunate. For me, life with my body is a constant roller coaster of gains and losses. Perhaps one day I will be at peace with this fact.

Perhaps one day.

fear or trust?

I've posted this quote once before, but it strikes a chord with where I am currently, so I decided to post it again:

Writing...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 you can trust yourself.

Geneen Roth

"...doing it may sometimes look like not doing it..."

Brilliant. Just brilliant. I can't say it any better.

stormy weather: a haiku

The surface reflects
clear blue skies and sunny smiles
to the passing glance.

But underlying
currents run deep and dark and
strong—poorly hidden

from those well-knowing,
who see the storm clouds gather,
threatening rain clouds.

the stats say it all...

"When are you going to post again?" he asks me. Every time he sees me. It's endearing, in a guilt-inducing sort of way. It wouldn't bother me so much, were it not for the fact that I am particularly prone to guilt.

He is the same one who innocuously asks in writer's group this week whether or not we write because we love to write or because we want to be published. I sit back in my chair, caught off gaurd by the emotion his question stirs within me. Later I return home and check out the blog of a friend I have been remiss in reading, to discover that in my absence she has joined the blog365 movement and is truckin' along at a post per day. Again this stirring. I do not care for stirring. Not here. Not now. Not ever, as of late.

As for me, well, I've been a part of the blog-once-every-few-months-movement here lately. Fourty-five whopping posts in 2007. What does that say? I don't know, other than "my husband is in grad school and I don't have a single, solitary moment to myself and it's beginning to wear on me." But it's there, every night--that same stirring, that same draw to the computer, that same guilt, that same tension. As I am not one for dealing with emotion lately, avoiding it all has been my m.o. But a handful of you, thankfully, are not content to allow me to continue in that avoidance. And so, here I am.

At some point, for me, writing and blogging became synonomous. That was a mistake. Rather than being about "I have a neat thought/quote/picture to share," it became about needing to post because I was "expected" to post. And while I don't disdain that for others, it is not working well, apparently, for me. It began to create pressure. The pressure to post, to read, to comment, to keep up, to out-do. Too much pressure in a life already stretched tight. I dealt with it by laying down my laptop.

But therein lies the tension. The desire to write is still there. And the desire to have an audience for that writing is even greater. And so, while other friends have chosen to deal with this same quandry by giving up the blog, I am uncertain that is the path for me. Because while I want to believe that I really write just for the sheer joy of writing, the truth is that the joy, for me, comes in the sharing. And at this point in my life, this is the only available outlet from which to share.

And so share I will. I've made a few minor changes to the layout because I was bored, as was my pestering friend. If they are hideous, please let me know. What this writing thing will look like as this winter season approaches an end and graduation rounds the corner is uncertain. But what I am certain of is this--this will be a writing thing, not a blogging thing. And so my promise to myself is this--I will write. I will read. I will take pictures. And as I have the time, I will share them.

Because I need to. And because my friend won't leave me alone if I don't.

Catching up

Here are some pics to bring you up to date. This is Christmas Eve.

start spreading the news...

The hubby and I in NYC for our 15th anniversary.

have i mentioned lately...

...how much I adore my kids?

one big happy...

Taken this fall by a beautiful young woman at our church.

not writing

It has been over two months since I’ve sat down at my computer with the intention of writing. Two months since I‘ve tried to put words to that which most often goes unspoken in my life. Two months since I have last invited my creativity to come out and play, to reboot from its idle status, to come up for air and fill its lungs with life-giving oxygen. The keyboard feels foreign under my awkward fingertips. Two months is a long time.

I’ve forgotten how to balance my laptop on one knee from my perch on the couch in the living room. I’ve forgotten how it was that I used to look at the world when I was writing regularly. I’ve forgotten that it is necessary to barricade the cat in another room when planning a creative endeavor. Will it all come back to me? Will it have the opportunity?

More importantly, will I allow it?

The excuses for not writing are numerous. I have young children. I have a career. I have a hang nail. I need to get through my email. I need to deal with the kitchen. I need to eat my way through the kitchen. I need to pick up the slack that my husband used to pick up in his pre-graduate school days. I need to slack off after too much picking up the slack. They all hit the floor with a hollow “ping,” bouncing and scattering into dusty, dark corners, unable to be retrieved. As with most excuses, they don’t have much weight to them.

The truth is, I could find the time to write if I really wanted to. I would make the time to write if I really wanted to. And I would really want to, if I weren’t so damn scared by the whole thing.

I’m beyond caring what other people think of my writing. That boogey man doesn’t scare me anymore—I’ve written enough and grown enough and read enough in the last few years of writing to know that I do alright, and I’ll find an audience as long as there are other women out there who struggle with mommy guilt and spiritual angst and an addiction to chocolate chip cookies. I’m not afraid to put it out there.

I’m afraid, I believe, to look at what’s in there. That’s why I’m writing tonight about not writing—because it’s safer than writing about the fact that I lost ten pounds and gained it all right back within a month because my appetite is insatiable for all things sweet and high in carbohydrates. It is safer than writing about learning to unentangle myself emotionally from my daughter so as to avoid being the primary topic of therapy in her twenties. And it is safer than writing about the low-lying gray cloud that settled in over our house about a month before my husband started graduate school and hasn’t budged an inch in almost a full year.

When I sit down to write, I typically open up the junk drawer that is my life and rustle around inside until I determine which item to pull out and put away. Usually it’s a little angst-gadget here, a little ball of neuroticism there, and a humor-ma-bobbie or two thrown in for good measure. But not lately. Lately, my life feels less like a junk drawer and more like the proverbial monsters-lurking-within closet. Vices and habits and hang-ups and heart-breaks loom larger-than-life, and, to be frank, I don’t want to open the door.

Of course, opening the door is what I need to do. Of course. I am a counselor. I know this. I tell lots of other people, in my smug, confident, counselor-voice, “My dear, you need to open that door.” They nod, “Yes, Lorie. I need to open that door. I will open that door.” And miraculously, some of them even go off and do it. Truly. And I am forever in awe.

I have opened doors. I have closed doors. I have purged closets and junk drawers alike, and have worked to have a place for everything and everything in its place. But sometimes I get tired, just as I do within my home, of continually re-straightening that with which I thought I was already done. And so I avoid closets like the plague, and refuse to sit down at my computer, turning instead to inane tasks or pleasurable reads, trying to take my mind off that which my mind will not be taken off of.

Tonight, if only for a moment, the running stops. I have closed the bedroom door behind me, and for the next two hours, it’s just me and whatever is lurking behind that door. And after I’ve wrestled a while, if I have any bravery and energy left, I’ll write about it.

In about two more months…

significantly confused

I didn’t know whether to stand up or not.

I sat there for a moment, listening to the pastor’s call for prayer, feeling the tears threaten but not fully understanding why. “I’m not really a stay-at-home mom,” I thought. “I work part time. The call is for stay-at-home mothers.” The tension within me grew as he continued, speaking the truth that I knew so many of my friends needed to hear—that staying home and wiping noses and packing lunches and practicing math facts is significant. That there is worth in the thousands of little sacrifices they were making every single day. That the job they were doing has infinite value. It was a tender, much-needed call for prayer—I just didn’t know if it was for me.

It was a tension I was very familiar with, having dealt with it from the time my first child was six weeks old and I returned to my part time counseling practice. I had the “best of both worlds,” my friends would say. I had three days per week home with my children, but I had two or three days each week of meaningful and significant work (translated as ADULT CONVERSATION) to “get me through.” And though it was not my choice—we needed my income to make ends meet no matter how modestly we tried to live—it did indeed seem to be ideal. The problem was I was both a stay-at-home mom and a working mother, and I didn’t fully fit in either opposing camp.

Nor did I feel I was able to do either one adequately because of the other. What others considered the “best of both worlds” was a constant struggle of having a little bit of both but not fully enough of either. Paying bills and doing laundry and playing “Super Cat” takes time—when your week is short two or three days, time is of a premium. Something has to go. Utility companies tend to want to get paid. Super Cat suffers. Guilt ensues.

Women around me were beginning to stand. I hesitated. “What if someone thinks I’m not really a stay-at-home mom because I work here at the church?” I realized, albeit much later, how ridiculous this was—as if working two or three days a week disqualified me from needing prayer for the other three days. “What if someone thinks I shouldn’t be standing?” I stood up.

Friends tell me sometimes they wish they were working, too, so that they felt they were doing something more significant. Friends who are working tell me they wish their job were more like mine, so that they felt they were doing something more significant. And the truth be told, I love my job for that very reason. What I do matters. Not everyone can say that. But there is a trap hidden within that significance, and as I was being prayed for that morning, God began to reveal it.

The tears that merely threatened earlier began to flow of their own accord. I had been convicted—of believing that what I do outside of the home is more significant than what I do within. Of wishing away my time while at one in a longing to be at the other. Of not always giving the best of myself to my children. I, too, had fallen into the trap. I, too, believed somewhere in my mind that motherhood was somehow a lesser calling. I, too, needed prayer.

I prayed that morning, as I stood in my rightful place accepting the blessing I so desperately needed, that the Lord would help me to truly see—packing lunches is significant. Answering my son’s fifty questions when I’m walking and would rather listen to my worship music is significant. Paying the bills is significant. Making jewelry with my daughter is significant. Reading an extra chapter before bedtime when I’d rather get started on my own book is significant. Play dough is significant. Sidewalk chalk is significant. Super Cat is significant.

I am a part-time stay-at-home mom, and that is significant.

first day of school

here ya go, mom!

not doing much writing, but taking a lot of pictures...

doesn't she look older? oh my gosh...

last day of summer...

at the beach with the kaufman cousins--was sunny when we got there. within an hour it was as dark as night and STORMING! so much for the beach!

orneriness

had to add this one of my nephew... just about sums him up!

hangin' around with buster brown

i promised my daughter some pictures of what we've been up to

while she's been visiting grandma. here they are!

miss ya, bub! hope you're having a great time!

love, momma

just being artsy

i was lying on my back in the "ambulance" and this caught my eye--

i like the way it turned out. i hope it translates onto other screens as well.

the spirit of life

this was created by a holocaust survivor and sits downtown

by the river. check it out--it's beautiful.

a love of color

I've been saying for years I wanted to get some pictures of this thing

with the sun shining on it. Yesterday was the day!

doubtful anticipation (a mis-lined pantoum)

Cool breeze blows white cotton across blue expanse—
shushing through the tall hickory trees,
causing the sun to dance in the shadows
as I listen to the twittering of birds and the chirruping of crickets.

Will you truly meet me here?
Shushing through the tall hickory trees,
sweeping down to touch me
as I listen to the whirring of cicadas and the roar of the lawn mower?

Here, in the midst of your green glory—
will you truly meet me here?
Here and now, when I so desperately need you
sweeping down to touch me?

What is expectation without hope?
Here, in the midst of your green glory
I question why I have one but not the other,
here and now, when I so desperately need you.

My heart knows the truth: only you can save me.
Cool breeze blows white cotton across blue expanse—
I pray that you will show up,
causing the sun to dance in the shadows.

and a few haiku

freely and lightly
in unforced rhythms of grace
I will learn to walk

(Mt 11:28-30, MSG)

oh to grasp how wide
and long and high and deep—this
extravagant love

(Eph 3, MSG)

and now, for a message from our sponsors...

Having grown up in the golden era of network television, my generation has collective memories centered around three to five primary channels of broadcast programming. We can sing to you what a conjunction is, tell you how to get to Sesame Street, whisper in your ear who shot JR, tell you the blues of a bill on Capitol Hill, and recite the ingredients of the Big Mac in rapid succession. While there were many programs that continue to be sentimental touchstones to my childhood, it is the commercials that come back the quickest, and at the oddest moments.

I must admit I have a warped nostalgia for the commercials of my youth. I can sing, in one breath, the entire Oreo cookie song, and do so pretty much every time I see one. My daughter asked me one day how I did something, and I told her it was an "ancient Chinese secret." She looked at me like I was speaking Chinese. And to this day, I cannot watch a sunset without hearing in my memory, "going, going, gone..." "Do it again, Daddy!" At a time when I was naive to the evils of advertising, commercials were fun ("No, silly, I'm talking to the toilet paper") and lighthearted, and I was easily and eagerly impressionable.

I don't feel that way any longer, now that a commercial has ruined my life.

Many of you are aware that, despite my childhood nostalgia, I do not watch much television at this point in my life. I wish I had not been watching this particular night, as well, as the images and ideas refuse to leave my mind and probably never will. This is why I don't watch television, I have reminded myself. But the damage has already been done.

For the life of me, I don't remember where I was when this occurred, nor do I remember what I was watching at the time. Someone was trying to get me to buy something, and then suddenly there was a woman in front of a mirror, gazing intently at her face. The woman raised one finger to each temple, and then very gently lifted up her cheeks. And then another woman. And then another. I cocked my head to one side. Another woman. My eyebrow went up. Another woman. I began to think about how I was going to get nonchalantly to the bathroom. Ten or fifteen women, all told, all around my age, examined themselves in the mirror in that 60-second, million-dollar spot. And then one more got up and excused herself to the bathroom.

Eyebrow still raised, lips pursed, I stood in front of the mirror, knowing I should just turn around and walk away. But like a dieter drawn to the buffet, I could not help myself. One arm lifted, then the other. I placed my fingers to my temples. I looked deep into my eyes. I lifted.

I gasped.

Today I turn 37. They tell me I will be at peace one day with the wrinkles across my forehead, the jowls around my mouth, the salt beginning to mix with my pepper--but not today. Today I am 37 in a world of 27 year olds, and I wish I'd started using the Mary Kay a whole HECK of a lot sooner.

And I wish to God I'd NEVER seen that commercial...

when God speaks to me, he uses music...

(like freedom in spring)

She's alone tonight with a bitter cup and
She's undone tonight, she's all used up
She's been staring down the demons who've been
screaming she's just another so and so
another so and so

You are golden, you are golden child
You are golden, don't let go
don't let go tonight

There's a fear that burns like trash inside
And your shame the curse that burns your eyes
You've been hiding in the bedroom hoping this isn't
how the story has to go
It's not the way it goes,
it's your book now

You are golden, you are golden child
You are golden, don't let go
don't let go tonight

You're a lonely soul in a land of broken hearts
Your far from home
is a perfect place to start

So this final verse is a contradiction and the more we learn,
the less we know
We've been talking about a feeling, we both know inside
but couldn't find the words
I couldn't write this verse. I've seldom been so sure
about anything before

You're golden, you are golden child
You are golden, don't let go
don't let go tonight

You are...
(This world is a dead man down
Every breath is a fading crown we wear like some
debilitated king...
The earth spins and the moon goes round
The green comes from the frozen ground and
everything will be made new again
like freedom in spring)
...golden
(like freedom in spring)
golden
(like freedom in spring)
golden

Music and Lyrics by Switchfoot

quiet time

It begins with the creaking click of the knob turning, slowly catching the internal mechanism, and then releasing with a soft, metallic echo. The door swings open, and a muffled thump-thump-thump approaches my bedside. A small, impish figure, armed with three stuffed animals and a rather large blanket, hoists itself up beside me and begins to ruin my quiet, restful morning.

“Momma, are you ready to get up now?” the treble voice asks. I look at the clock. 6:30 AM. No. I am not ready to get up yet. Not by a long shot. “Momma…” I roll over toward the voice, which comes out of a deceptively angelic-looking face, framed with soft, sun-kissed curls glowing like a golden halo. In my stupor, I am taken in. The tender moment, however, is fleeting. “Buddy,” I croak in my “it’s dark-thirty AM” voice, “Momma is still sleeping. You need to go back to bed.” “I want to be with you, Momma,” he insists, throwing his legs over mine and grabbing my arm to position around him under his neck.

As I know it is a lose-lose scenario, I choose, this time, to give him a chance. “Buddy, you MUST lay still and you MUST be quiet,” I warn him in the sternest voice I can muster at this hour. It is yet another exercise in futility. Legs on top of mine, legs underneath mine. The arm is in the right spot, the arm is in the wrong spot. “Momma,” he urges, “roll over this way.” Groaning, I roll the opposite direction, to no avail. Tiny legs fling themselves across my torso, shifting roughly every three seconds. Ire is building within my not-a-morning-person spirit. I breathe deeply and hope that ignoring him will deter him.

I hope in vain. “Momma, are you ready to get up now?” he asks again. “I’m ready to eat now. Momma… is sissy up yet? Momma… did Daddy go to work already? Momma… will you play with me? Momma…” In miraculous self-restraint, I calmly roll over and insist that he return to his bedroom. After a moment of protests, he retreats in a fit of whining, slamming both my door and his own along the way, which requires me to get out of bed to address. Finally, I am alone in my bed (oh, sweet mercy) and, smugly congratulating myself for not killing my son, begin to drift back to sleep.

BAM!!! BOOM!!! I awaken and push my door shut, turning the fan up to deal with both the rising heat and the rising noise. CRASH!!! Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. I roll over, glancing again at the clock. Another hour of “sleep” has passed. SPILLLLLLL!!! Yammeryammeryammer. “Buddy, you’re too loud,” I warn. He quiets momentarily. Then comes the tape player blaring math facts to poorly written imitation-80’s rock music. BEAT-BEAT-BEAT-BEAT. The clock reads 7:50. I groan and finally, wearily, drag myself from bed.

He appears the minute my door opens. “Momma, are you getting up now? I’m ready to eat, Momma. Can we eat now?” I stumble to the bathroom. “Yes, Buddy, we can eat in a minute.” “I want Cheerios, Momma. With honey. Can I have honey?” “We’ll see, Buddy,” I mutter, making my way in to wake up my 8-year-old sleep-loving likeness. “Time to get up now, Sissy!!!!” He diverts his attention to her for a moment, and I begin to dress in my slow, I’m-not-awake-yet pace. BOUNCE!!! “Momma, can we eat NOW?!?!”

Making my way downstairs, he curls around my feet like the cat. “Can I have Cheerios? I want Cheerios. With honey. Can I have honey, Momma?” “Buddy, I got it, okay?” “Okay, Momma,” he chirps, off to clatter with his trains. I enter the kitchen, the cat now curling around my feet, yowling to be paid attention to. My daughter thumps down the stairs and the bickering begins. “That was my train, Sissy! I had it first!” I attempt to ignore it and begin preparing breakfast. Dishes clank against one another, tones harsh and startling to my ears. My irritation grows despite my best efforts.

"Come on guys, it’s ready.” Spoons clinking, Cheerios crunching, children chattering. I place my ingredients in the blender and brace myself. WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!! “Momma, are you making a smoothie?” “What do you think, Buddy?” “Can I have some smoothie? I want some smoothie!” I pour my breakfast—MY breakfast—and come to the table.

I pull my devotional reading out, shuffling through the pages to today’s date. I begin to read, hungry for a nourishing moment. “What are we going to do today, Momma? Are we going to aerobics today? What are we doing after aerobics? Are we going to a friend’s house today? I want to play with a friend today, Momma. Can I have my gummy vitamins, Momma? I haven’t had my vitamins yet…” It takes me ten minutes to read the three short paragraphs. The moment I shut the book and lay it down, it has already left me. “Momma, I want some more…”

Some more. Yes. I want some more, too. More sleep. More peace. More “Mommy-Time.” More quiet. I know it is a season, one like many others I will encounter. But it is a particularly noisy, relentless season, and I am one who is sensitive to the noise and the pressure. “They tell me there will come a time when it seems too quiet,” I say to my husband one night, as they are bickering in the stroller. “I can’t imagine...” “Don’t say that,” he gently admonishes me. “You know it will be here all too soon.”

Yes, I know this. I remind myself of it daily, trying to be comfortable with the tension between cherishing the now and anticipating the not-yet. There will come a day I will long for that little voice to wake me up and fill my day, but, at the moment, the day is filled to overflowing. I pray for moments of quiet, moments of inner peace, moments of grace. One comes, as the children exit the kitchen and flow out into the backyard. Moving into the living room, I pick my devotional up again, and soak up as much as those three minutes will allow. “Momma,” I hear all too soon. “Momma, I need you..."

This time, I am ready to rise. I close my eyes for a moment, lifting up a prayer for our day, for my children, for my heart. Then I get up, placing the book back on the kitchen table, and I follow the noise to its source. With a newfound calmness, I respond.

“Whatcha need, Buddy? I’m ready now…”

just five or six more...

The scale read 140.0 two weeks ago. Tonight it reads 148.0. I stare at the glowing number in despair, my heart sinking, though not with surprise. How could I possibly be surprised, when I knowingly binged all afternoon?

Today was the low point of a slowly-gaining-momentum roller coaster ride—emotions out of whack and appetite out of check and my weight as up and down as the track. I can hear the clack-clack-clack-clack of the cable as I begin another ascent—up to the height of my irrational fear—and for a moment I perch motionless at the top before careening down a slippery slope of trying to control my never-satiated need for more. I clutch the crash bar for dear life, knuckles white, cursing myself for getting on this ride, knowing full well I never could handle roller coasters.

When did I first find myself back in this car, belted and barred and unable to place my hands and feet on solid ground until the ride has come to a complete stop? Until recently, life had become a fairly mellow ride—more like the Matterhorn—round and round and round with its predictable ups and downs. Things were steady—eating healthy, exercising regularly—and then a small dip—a weekend barbeque or a wedding reception—then back to steady, steady, steady, dip, steady, steady, steady, dip. It felt reasonable. It felt healthy. It felt (dare I say?) normal.

It doesn’t feel that way any more. For whatever reason—my monthly cycle, side effects of a newly-tried-then-newly-discarded medication, depression, spiritual attack—nothing is steady now. Not today. Not this weekend. Not this week. Not ever again.

I am, of course, becoming dramatic. This is because drama is what I do. It is much more compelling to write that nothing will ever be okay again than it is to write that in another two weeks I will be back on track and the scale will read 140.0 again. And, truthfully, it FEELS like it will never be okay again. It FEELS like I am 240 lbs and doomed to stay there, or, worse, increase. It FEELS like I have changed nothing and made no gains against my formidable appetite. It FEELS like I am still the sad, pathetic, lacking-in-willpower creature that I FEEL I have always been. I have lost. The battle is over. The white flag is up. I surrender.

(Pause for dramatic effect) Sigh…

(In a hushed, subdued tone) I surrender. I am desperately, hopelessly hungry, and there is nothing—NOTHING—that satisfies. Not Oreos or beef brats or corn on the cob or sweet potato chips with dip. Not pizza or strawberry pie or nachos or cranberry oatmeal cookies. I eat one, I want another. I eat another, I want five or six more. My stomach says, “enough.” My waistband says, “enough.” My spirit says, “enough.” My insatiable appetite says, “more, more, MORE!!!”

I am not satisfied. It is not my stomach that growls, empty and discontent, but my heart. I am hungry for more than my pantry can ever hold. I surrender—not to my appetite, but to He whom I am hungry for.

Delight my soul in the richest of your fare, Lord (Isa 55:2). I beg of you—meet me here, at last.

more than a conqueror (a pantoum)

The white flag is raised—
tattered and torn, it whips back and forth in the wind.
I surrender…
there is no fight left in me.

My spirit is limp—
tattered and torn, it whips back and forth in the wind.
Weariness like a mountain weighs upon my shoulders.
There is no fight left in me.

I am overcome with despair.
My spirit is limp—
where is my hero now?
Weariness like a mountain weighs upon my shoulders.

“All-consuming-yet-never-satisfied-wants[1]” declare victory…
I am overcome with despair.
A conquering power brings the enemy to its knees[2]—
where is my hero now?

Two sets of hands reach for me—only one may claim me.
“All-consuming-yet-never-satisfied-wants” declare victory…
but faith will overcome.
A conquering power brings the enemy to its knees.

There is another who fights for me—
I surrender
to the one whose blood was shed in victory.
The white flag is raised.

___________________________________________
[1] Galatians 5:19-21, MSG
[2] 1 John 5:4, MSG

the first tastes of summer

Ahh... summer. Popsicles, watermelon, and corn on the cob. With any luck, they'll be room for some writing on my "plate," as well! One can always hope!

reva's daughter

The line, though well-rehearsed, never felt quite natural to me, no matter how many times I recited it over the course of the past week. Perhaps because it is a line I’ve not used much in recent years, perhaps because other lines have taken its place with the passage of time—for whatever the reason, though it always rolled easily off my tongue, it always sounded unfamiliar to my ear, as if I were introducing myself by another person’s name or speaking about myself in past tense. “Hi, I’m Lorie,” I would begin, smiling, my hand outstretched. “I’m Reva’s daughter.”

The response became downright comical after a while. “I knew you was Reva’s daughter,” each relative would reply, smiling back at me. “You look just like her.” “Yeah, I get that a lot,” I would chuckle in return. And I do—which is the funny part. Were we talking about my aunt and her daughter, this would not be nearly as amusing, because my cousin is the spitting image of her mother. But my mother and I—well, suffice it to say that even though she has gotten stopped more than once at the grocery store or the mall with, “You must be Lorie Kaufman’s mom—you look just like her,” we don’t really think we look much alike at all. But I played out my role, smiling, and nodding, all the while wondering what they saw that I did not.

And so it was that I found myself in this odd, bemused place—adult child of my mother, half in the present, half in the past—contemplating what it means to be Reva’s daughter, Jennie’s granddaughter, my husband’s wife, my daughter’s mother. Contemplating what it means to be so linked with another that this link becomes part of my identity. Contemplating what it means to bear the image or imprint of another. I’m not sure I’ve come to any conclusions, save this one:

As much as society tries to convince me that I am an “Army of One,” I cannot escape the fact that my smile is my mother’s, my eyes are my father’s, my outgoing nature is my granddad’s, and my I’m-gettin’-tired Kentucky drawl is my gram’s. The people I come from, the people I’ve united with, and the little people I’ve produced all contribute to the person I was, the person I am, and the person I am to become.

Though the only place I’m now known as Reva’s daughter is in the company of family, I do not cease to be that person once I return home, any more than I cease to be my daughter’s mother when I go to work or my husband’s wife when I leave for a weekend with the girls. And while we may not think we look much alike, I bear my mother’s image nonetheless, just as I do that of my father, and his mother, and so on. Mom’s interest in genealogy is not lost on me—we do not stand alone in a single point in time. I am not separate. I am a part of something beyond myself. I am a Rees. I am a Kaufman. I am an Endicott. I am a Hottle. I am a Baisden.

I am Reva’s daughter.

here she comes...

In memory of my Grandmother

Jennie Baisden Endicott

(The chapel at Community Hospice, Ashland, KY)

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to their destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!" there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"

And that is dying.

Anonymous

I have to admit, I was apprehensive. Six hours of partying with four eight-year-olds was ambitious, at best. Completely insane, at worst. Introducing my agenda to the mix? I wasn't sure what to expect.

Having done childcare for several years before getting a "real job" (meaning one in which I really worked, rather than played out side all day) and eventually going back to school, I knew enough to keep the agenda flexible and make sure I had several back-ups. Six hours is a long time to keep bored children entertained (meaning preventing them from tearing up the house). Should the main event not go over well, I had several back ups to turn to in a pinch before heading to dinner.

Truth be told, the real anxiety was over the main event, not the down time. I had suggested to my daughter that we could do a "spa party" and she was initially very enthusiastic about the idea. Facials, cucumbers, foot massages, manicures, make-overs--the works--and then dinner out to show it off. As the time got closer, however, I heard less and less about it. And as I began to really take a look at these young ladies at school and at church, I began to worry that they may not sustain interest either.

Between attending a church that describes itself as "casual" and a school that mandates uniforms, my daughter and her friends don't have much reason or occassion to really dress up. As a result, my daughter has largely grown, how shall I put it, well, CASUAL. The days of playing dress up have become fewer and farther between, and getting her to wear a skirt to church (as opposed to shorts--in MARCH) has become a hill I have decided I am not willing to die on. Factor in the dirt smudges on her cheeks and the stringy, I've-been-playing-hard hair, and the picture is not one of girliness.

So, would these girls get into a girlie party? Would their interest be sustained through soaking feet and painting nails and making jewelry and curling hair? Would there be an "after" picture with which to compare the "before?" And what would I do with them FOR SIX HOURS if there wasn't?

As usual, I fretted in vain. From the moment we slipped on the headbands, the girls were enthralled. Somewhere within each of these girls their innate desire to feel beautiful kicked in and they were completely willing to be pampered from beginning to end--and thrilled with the results. Goop on their faces, slime on their feet, and sticky stuff in their hair aside...

There are many things I pray for my daughter. While not among the most imperative, the hope that she looks in the mirror each day and smiles at what she sees is one that I will continue to lift up on her behalf. Is feeling pretty the most important thing in her world? No. Not by a long shot. But the gift of feeling good about who she is, BOTH inside and out, is one that will serve her well, and I will go to great lengths in my attempt to give it to her.

Even pampering four eight-year-old girls.

For SIX HOURS.

Here's how they turned out:

eight

The "after" picture from her Spa Party today.

Been too busy raising my kids to write about it...
...I keep telling myself that's the way it should be...
but I miss it! Hopefully more soon!

against the wind

The March wind blows through my still-damp hair, impeding my vision and tangling the curl beyond any possible repair. Impulsively I raise my hands to my face in yet another futile attempt to keep its tickling tendrils away from my mouth and nose, out of my irritated eyes, wishing I’d remembered something with which to tame its enthusiasm. I catch a glimpse of myself in a passing window pane—myself and my taken-on-a-life-of-its-own head of hair, dancing its own wild dance of joy while I swat and swing and shove it away in fit of frustration.

My hair has gotten out of control.

The March wind blows through my well-ordered days, scattering my schedule like scraps of paper, carrying away my best-laid plans in its cold, ghastly gusts. Impulsively I reach to grab it all, to pull every moment tight to my chest in yet another futile attempt to keep the ticking of time away from the sacred sanctuary I long to create within this spiraling space that is our family. I regard my face in the mirror—I am losing the battle against Time, wearing my weariness across my forehead, under my eyes, around my mouth, while he laughs raucously at my frantic flailing in his general direction.

My life has gotten out of control.

I regard them both, my curls and my calendar, attempting to determine what more may be cut away—an inch or two here, an activity or so there—but I am unable to discern what will best flatter my face or fit my family. I have been here before—I have trimmed away and I have let grow, sometimes even drastically, and yet here I am again with my clarity obscured by my bangs hanging in my eyes. Would that I could restrain time in the same manner I subdue my hair, placing it under my control with a simple twist of the wrist. To be able to braid together my work, my family, my talents and interests, and to not have them come immediately unraveled with the first innocent, carefree toss of my head. I do not desire to cut—I desire to tame. I don’t know if that is possible. I will find out in time.

The March wind blows through my spirit, ushering in a new season in its typical blustery way. Impulsively I brace myself for its changes with my usual mix of anxiety and anticipation—reminding myself that just as the blue skies eventually follow these months of gray, clarity usually comes after these times of confusion. As for today, it is finally sunny and blue, and so, pulling back my hair, I bundle up against its blasts and abandon my agenda to rustle around in the bottom of the coat closest in search of the kite.

When the wind is out of control, it’s time to let something fly.