another go ‘round

I was kinda sorta almost doing okay-ish with the thought of my baby starting first grade a week from tomorrow. That is, of course, until I looked at this.

I had all sorts of fears for my daughter's first year of school—fear, of course, being what I do. In the end, it was all good, as everyone assured me it would be. The role my daughter was cast in has fit her well, and I am eagerly anticipating the playing out of her fifth grade run, though I wish I knew where those adorable cheeks went.

My son, on the other hand, is causing me great concern and distress as we gear up for his elementary school debut. Not nearly as gregarious as his sister (read: at all), my fears for my son include sitting alone at lunchtime and prowling the playground by himself at recess at best, and being teased or bullied over his slight frame and sensitive spirit at worst. My stomach gets all knotty when I think of it—when I picture his sad little face, unable to hold in all that sad and having it spill down all over his cheeks. I just can't bear it. Tell me I'm being unrealistic. Tell me I'm being overly concerned. Please, someone tell me it is going to all be okay.

At day camp this summer, my Buddy never made a buddy. This is not unusual—in all his time at school and church, he has only made one good buddy, and that friend chose him two years ago and latched on to him like stink on a dog and has not yet let go. So after two days of camp, curious if the social situation had improved any, I asked him who he played with at free time. "Nobody," he responded. "The other boys don't want to play with me."

"How do you know that," I responded. "Did they tell you that?"

"No, I just know 'cause they ignore me when I try to play with them."

He delivered the line matter-of-factly, and I responded in-kind, but inside both the fear in my spirit and the lump in my throat grew.

In a two or three weeks, God-willing, this will all be behind us and Buddy will be settled in both scholastically and socially. There will be a lot more prayer between now and then, as prayer is the only thing I can do in this situation. It will be a long two or three weeks, as we wait for the dust to settle and the cast list to be posted.

Then, once that is behind us, I will be free to obsess about how impossible it is that my BABY is in first grade. If I can contain myself that long…

ready or not, here she comes

She hurtles down the run-way full speed ahead and jumps onto the spring loaded board, exploding upward with a force that belies her size or age, and lands that force directly upon her arms, which then propel her into the air and over the top of the vault. I cringe internally, then breathe a sigh of relief as she sticks her landing, the arm having carried her there. The arm is healed—but my heart is not. I have a feeling this is going to be a long, long three hours.

Bub is back in the gym after her four month arm ordeal, and she is back with a vengeance. Having broken the arm a mere three days before team tryouts, her coach informed me, once released by her doctor to return, that she'd been invited to join the team based on her coaches recommendations and her scores from the past year. Lots of prayer and a huge financial leap of faith later, my daughter is now a competitive gymnast.

Today is practice number three, but the first I've been able to attend. I am, as is usual, surprised by my daughter's strength and ability. Other than not being able to execute the round-off double back handspring yet, she looks pretty darn good. She's got some work to do, but, quite frankly, no more than some of the girls who have been continuing to work for the past four months.

There is some fear that will have to be overcome, but her first week back has already re-bolstered some of her confidence. This is essential—for us both. Her team manual reads, "While winning is not so important, trying to win represents everything we strive for. Trying to win means coming to practice every day, working hard, overcoming fear, getting up every time you fall down, setting and achieving goals, and getting up on a 4" beam to perform skills difficult to do well on the floor. We do not try to win in the abstract. We try to win in the real world where rules apply, comparisons are made, judgment calls are the norm, grace under pressure is expected, and where falling and failing are part of everyday life."

She must be ready. To fall. To fail. To get up. To go back.

And I must be ready, too. To catch. To comfort. To trust. To let go.

As for which of us will have the harder time, I cannot yet tell you…

the state fair: a photo essay

top ten things i love about the fair:

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

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

...and my son be my son.

3. the sky lift. the best three bucks ever spent after ten hours on your feet. (with the exception of the 25 cent massage chair...)

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



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

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



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

8. baby cows. can you get any cuter?

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

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

hope you enjoyed! we sure did!

milestones

As this is a milestone year, I have been thinking about what I want life to look like during this season. To that end, I have set a few goals. Feel free to harass me about meeting them.

1. (I can't believe I'm putting this in print) Complete first drafts of More and Fear Not.
2. Return to and maintain my normal weight by working out four times/week.
3. Take two spiritual retreats, one alone and one with the Hubby.
4. Attend a writer's retreat at The Convent.
5. Be intentional about deepening my intimacy with God, my family, and my friends.

I have rough outlines completed for both manuscripts. Don't ask me about my weight. Did you not hear me say I had a birthday? Retreat number one is scheduled for October. I am already saving money for the writer's retreat in the spring. As for the last one, not really sure what that will look like.

Wish me luck.

writing date number two

(Wrote this last week, but couldn't post it because we were at Spend-Bucks and I was NOT about to pay for an internet connection.)

My mind won’t get quiet. Neither will my daughter. Writing date number two begins. One hot Tazo Passion tea and an iced decaf white chocolate mocha. “I’m cold,” she tells me, hanging tight to her iced coffee. My tea is still too hot to drink, her cup is nearly drained.

She scrunches up her nose at my computer/reading glasses. “You look better without glasses,” she tells me with a consoling tone. “No offense.” A smile to ease the blow. Personally, I think they’re cute. But I’m three days away from turning 39. What do I know?

“Only three days?” she asks.

“You gonna write or what?”

I struggle to tune out—the Big Band tunes over the loudspeaker blend with the trio of men talking business at the next table, and my earbuds don’t block out either, but at least make it impossible to discern what they’re saying, helping me to concentrate on writing rather than eavesdropping.

“Hey! It’s all gone!” She slurps what’s left clinging to the ice in her cup. I’m about to make her move to the other side of the table so she stops reading what’s on my computer screen. She giggles. But she’s still reading.

And talking.

And I’m still trying to write. Trying to focus. Trying to clear my mind and shake off the tension of the day that lingers like the smell of cigarette smoke after a night out. I can’t get rid of it. Stubborn, this feeling in my insides. It will not be coaxed away.

“I like that,” she says. “It will not be coaxed away.” She hates that I keep quoting her. But it hasn’t caused her to be quiet and write yet. So I’ll keep at it.

“Good idea.” Pencil to paper, her side pressed against mine, we begin, finally, to write something.

you know you're not in your full mind when...

...you stand in front of your front door for a full minute pressing the unlock button on your car key, wondering why the door won't open...

a snapshot of my summer

This pretty much sums things up. And since this picture was taken, about six sunflowers have sprung up and bloomed, as well. None of which were planted. All the wrong things are bearing fruit here, lately.

The question, of course, is what to weed out. Or is it? It's pretty obvious all that has grown up between the cracks here does not belong. That which was not intentionally planted does not belong, either. I can identify these things easily. Applying this metaphor to my life, however, is not as simple.

The sunflowers can stay. The cornstalk, despite my kids' protests, has to go. As for what is next, who can say?

bub's big adventure

A "Proud Momma" moment--please forgive me. Bub started her National Youth Leadership camp this week. She was nominated by her teacher and accepted into the program. She wrote letters to help raise funds, and came up with half the money "herself." Pretty exciting!

catching up in photos...

Some highlights of our summer, since I've been remiss...

The Hubby and I at Young's Dairy, celebrating my birthday.

Bub (with her "bionic arm") and Buddy hiking at Glen Helen, same day.

Ditto--Glen Helen. "Cool Mom" overroad "Mean Dad" and let them get wet. Do I rock or what?

Bub's fish--LOVE this picture. From her week at "Quilt Camp" with Grandma and Grandad.


Buddy, hiking with us while Bub was gone.

My college roomie, Holly, and I, doing our best Calvin and Hobbes impersonations. She and her family spent the 4th of July weekend with us.

Hol's cutie patootie, who is exactly four days younger than Buddy.

The kiddos having fun 4th of July weekend!

Had to put this in because it makes me LAUGH OUT LOUD. My jock-brother's son, AKA "The Monster Fairy," on his fifth birthday. Great show hands!

a new year

Yesterday was my birthday. I begin my fortieth year with these wishes from my mother:

How to Make A BEAUTIFUL LIFE--
Reflections For a Daughter On Her Birthday

Love yourself.
MAKE PEACE with who you are
and where you are
at this moment in time.

Listen to your heart.
If you can't hear what it's saying
in this noisy world,
MAKE TIME for yourself.
Enjoy your own company.
Let your mind wander among the stars.

Try.
Take chances.
MAKE MISTAKES.
Life can be messy
and confusing at times,
but it's also full of surprises.
The next rock in your path
might be a stepping-stone.

Be happy.
When you don't have what you want,
want what you have.
MAKE DO.
That's a well-kept secret of contentment.

There aren't any shortcuts to tomorrow.
You have to MAKE YOUR OWN WAY.
To know where you're going
is only part of it.
You need to know where you've been, too.
And if you ever get lost, don't worry.
The people who love you will find you.
Count on it.

Life isn't days and years.
It's what you do with time
and with all the goodness and grace
that's inside you.
MAKE A BEAUTIFUL LIFE...
the kind you deserve.


The people who love me found me this weekend. For that I am immensely grateful.
Thank you, thank you, thank you...

Here's to a new year.

natural and logical...

My daughter is in bed, crying. I don't know whether to beat her, or cry, too.

I'm done. I'm done with PT and the freezing waiting room with its gale force air conditioning that gusts on my head no matter which freakin' place I sit, giving me an even bigger headache than my son crawling all over me, fighting inter-galactic battles in his full-voiced soprano. I'm done with the drive, with the interruption to every single day I'm off work, with the need to entertain my son at the constant cost of entertaining myself.

I'm done with talking about full range of motion and letters of medical necessity and random, made-up insurance limits that have nothing to do with our actual needs. I'm done with the whining--about the splint, about the exercises, about the appointments. I'm done with fighting with her--about the splint, about the exercises, about the appointments. I'm done caring about her stupid arm. And I'm done paying for it, in more ways than one.

Whose consequence was this, anyway?!?!

And so, tonight, there are tears, this time because she didn't do all her exercises today at her Grandmother's (despite our discussion about it this morning... and last night... and yesterday at PT...) which meant Poppa had to pull on her arm for 20 minutes instead of five. Again, whose consequence should this be? Why is it constantly mine?

And so I sit here, torn between feeling like the worst mother in the world because I allowed her to feel the consequence of my anger and frustration, which translates into "I allowed myself to get angry in front of her about this flippin' ordeal for ONCE," and feeling completely justified in my anger, if not in my lengthy format for expressing it. She is not alone in this. She took us all with her down that damn tube, and me more so than the rest. I am trying to let that go, but it is a daily battle. A raging, bloody, ugly battle. Some days I overcome. Today...

"I love you more than you'll ever know," Lifehouse sings over my new Switchfoot station on pandora.com, "and a part of me died when I let you go." I die a millions deaths with this child. Each one harder than the last. I am weary of this process.

Apparently crying is the option I choose tonight as well, though I don't recall the point at which I chose it. But the tears are there, nonetheless, and I do not think I can bear them much longer. Hers are enough.

I am done.

more lemon bars, please

All I know is that Helen's lemon bars made me happy. And so I ate several. In addition to my German Chocolate Chip Cookie Bars, which also made me happy. In addition to the "Texas Caviar," which also made me happy. In addition to...

(read more at more)

as i was saying

Hope to write on Wednesday. In the meantime, a quote from my reading today:

"... many of us feel quite sure, both from the hunger in our hearts and the meager Christian fruits in our lives, that we are far from a life rooted in the deep resources of God. Times of trial and other adverse circumstances may sometimes cause us to renew our intentions and resolves in this regard for a season. Usually though, with the return of better times, or simply under the myriad pressures of life itself, we gradually relax our grip on our resolutions and return to our more pragmatic, 'real world' concerns."

Bob Benson, Sr. and Michael W. Benson

...far from a life rooted in the deep resources of God. That's what I'm sayin'...

exhibit A

This weekend we were back at the park where my daughter broke her arm in her normal over-the-top fashion, which allowed me to finally get a look at the spot where it happened. Yep. This is what my daughter raced down headfirst. The platform is at least six feet off the ground, the top of it probably ten.

"You see why I feel so stupid?" she asks.

I say nothing.

WWW, take two

A quick trip to Egypt and back!

writing date, take one

A chocolate Northern Lite Cooler sits between us, though slightly closer to the small hands that reach for it with twice the frequency. She's filled three pages already in the half hour we've been here, but each page consists of three or four words, perhaps even a sentence or two, and then a wild flurry of scribbles. Needless to say, I'm not getting very far on my own writing.

My daughter has expressed an interest in writing since she was very young--even before she was able to read and write. She would illustrate stories--long, detailed stories--and then recite them from memory. Once reading and writing started, she began doing what writers do--collecting notebooks. Ten pages filled in this one, three or four written in another, bits and spurts and starts of stories interspersed with her tell-tale illustrations.

We are here to nurture that interest. To fuel the fire that that began, like her mother, "Once Upon a Time..." And, of course, to drink Mochas.

(Maybe, if she'll let me, I'll post her story later. But given the way she's guarding it with every body part she can spare, I wouldn't hold your breath!)

a bit of a stretch

It was an unusual sight. Eight or ten bodies in motion, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, and my daughter's body static. It is not a sight I'm used to. It is not a situation she is used to. But, alas, this is what happens when you break your arm.

You don't get to play on the trampoline with the other kids. Or do the sack race on field day. Or go to the water park with a friend. You have to sit on the sidelines and watch. And when you are not a sideline kind of kid, this is a bit of a stretch.

Three times a week for the last several weeks, we have driven, all three of us, across town to sit in a freezing waiting from for an hour while my daughter has physical therapy to straighten out her broken arm. This, too, is a stretch, given I had just cleared my calendar to make life more laid back.

But the real stretching comes at the hands of Todd, her therapist, who sits for thirty minutes at a time simply pulling on her arm. For a child who is not comfortable with discomfort, this is indeed a stretch. She sits, quietly (unlike at home, where I must do it for a measly five minutes, three times a day, while she whines and moans and complains) as he patiently yet firmly works to undo the damage done by four weeks of immobility.

Immobility. I know a thing or two about not moving. About things locking up, tissue wrapping around tissue, weaving tightly to the point of preventing freedom of movement. Stretching, apparently, is the key to freedom.

Like my daughter, I grouse and gripe at the simplest amount of pressure applied to a tender tendon. Like my daughter, I do not like to let someone else pull on my arm. But the type of stretching necessary to take my daughter's arm from a 90° angle to -5° is apparently something she can't do on her own.

And, apparently, I'm supposed to learn something from that.

parenting pop quiz

When your six-year-old falls into the fountain at Whetstone, completely submerged, which is the appropriate response?

A. Give him a stern lecture on not running off and climbing on things. Oh, wait, you've done that already. Twice. Just tonight.

B. Roll on the grass laughing at him as he stands there with his hair plastered to his head and water running down his legs. Try to pretend to be upset with him when you walk past the parents that saw him fall in. Ignore the fact they thought HE was a SHE.

C. Make him sit in the shade. In the breeze.

D. Your response?

in memory

There are some who would insist I was one of his pets--that I only got the parts I did because he "played favorites." I don't know that this was true, but what I do know for certain is that I wanted desperately to please this man, and still, to this day, wrestle with conflicted emotions regarding my inability to do so.

My high school theater director died yesterday, and my emotions remain conflicted. Make no mistake--I am very sad to hear of his passing. Many of my best memories of high school, if not most, were orchestrated by and filled with this man and his larger-than-life personality. Innumerable shows, trips to New York, French class, co-directing the children's theater--when I flip through my photo albums, he is ever-present, even if not seen. Truly, I am very sad.

Harry Wilcox was an icon in our little hometown outside of Toledo. Perhaps, at least in theater circles, even in all of NW Ohio. It is true that the man could put on a darn good show. He was loved by many, loathed by others, raised to a saint-like status by many more. The man truly had a presence. Eccentric would be an understatement. As round as he was short, Monsieur, as we all called him, could command a room like no one else. And did, frequently.

I was asked, in a college composition course, to write an essay about a teacher who had most impacted my life. I wrote about Harry. It was heartfelt. I wrote, of course, about the positive impact, too close to and too confused by the rest to pay it heed at that time. I wrote about the courage and confidence I'd developed as a result of my days on his stage. About his willingness to drive me (and about a billion other kids) back and forth to practice on his way home so we could participate. About his ability to kick your butt into gear with a great deal of French cursing and feigned frustration, and to pull out of you things you didn't even know you had in you. I wrote about his good side, and the charisma and humor that exuded from that place. I meant it all.

As for the rest, well, I don't have a box to put that all in, still, after all these years. It doesn't seem to fit with the pictures and playbills and trophies. Funny--it didn't fit then, either, but that was part of the confusion. The je ne sais quoi with which I continue to wrestle at moments like these.

What I can tell you with certainty is that I truly loved this man, in my naive, wanting-to-please, high school student way. In all his quirky, irritating, amusing, and sometimes hurtful glory, he was, all in all, a loveable man who cared about his students. And I am terribly sad to hear his run has come to an end.

wild wacky wednesday, take one!

Our first official Wild Wacky Wednesday of the summer! Went to Easton and saw, you guessed it! Up, in 3D!

Our official grading:

Bub: A (I'm not supposed to tell anyone she cried)

Me: B/B+ (The beginning killed me, and the scrapbook. The rest just wasn't very compelling. Not Pixar's best work. But not bad.)

Buddy: "E+ Because it kind of scared me. But I liked it. That's why I gave it a plus."

Other movies on the list for this summer:

*Extreme Games: The Movie

Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs

Aliens in the Attic (This one has yet to win me over, but ever since Grandpa showed them the trailer online, it's ALL I hear about. THANK YOU, Grandpa!)

Planet 51

Other fun outings we are considering:

painting our own pottery

bowling

Chuck E. Cheese

Magic Mountain (AFTER we get the library coupon!)

COSI

the zoo

the pool

Zoombezi Bay (AFTER we get the zoo coupon!)

Playing in the fountains at Easton

Other fun ideas?

oh yes, i remember this...

It is 11:20 PM. After working for roughly twelve hours today, I am finally parked in front of my computer with my scribbles from the past several days. The kids weren't in bed until after 9:30. (After spouting some selfish notion about wanting to actually spend time with me after I've been gone all day.) Then the hubby called. (Ditto.) After that, I was going to do yoga to undo the knots from yesterday's aerobics class and try to work some of this fanny off. That was the plan, at least.

But I have 60 messages in my inbox to respond to. Dishes in the dishwasher to put away. Bills that need paid tonight. Laundry screaming both to be done and to be put away. My bedroom is dismantled, still. And what do I really want to do?

I want to write. I want to write.

Ah, yes. Summer vacation. This is what I couldn't wait for.

a few of this weekend's scribbles

I've been meditating on a passage out of my devotional entitled A Song at Midnight. I wrote this in response a few nights ago...

night vision

you speak of blessing,
insist you are near at hand
waiting for my call

but i am hoarse from
calling, all to no avail--
you do not come near

promises kept or
not kept--i know not the truth--
blind eyes do not see

fresh revelation
though the midnight hour is dark...
i welcome your sight

and the pictures, as promised

Buddy, on field day. (After a very thorough warm up stretch. Gotta have your competetive edge, after all. These relays are VERY important.)

Bub, at her California Pizza Kitchen dinner--she won their box decorating contest this spring! Dinner for six! You go, girl!

summer "break"

I've finally coaxed myself off the porch before the mosquitoes could carry me away. Next stop is bed--early, for two reasons. One is the killer head ache I've had since, oh, say Friday. The second is due to having to work early tomorrow morning. Both children are conveniently in one bed, which means my daughter's is open. Having spent the one spare hour I had of our first day of summer vacation dismantling my bedroom, I will spend tonight in the neon room, because I've had neither the time nor the wherewithall to put it all back together.

Putting it all back together. Indeed, not something I've had the time or energy to do.

Hopefully this week will bring a few pix from the end of the school year, and a post or two that have been bopping around in my head. In the meantime, I'm going to grab a couple more ibuprofen for the road...

sad and sadder

The door clicks, followed by the soft footfalls of six-year-old bare feet on the hardwood floor in the hall. There is a pause, then more shuffling. Another click. The quiet clamor back up the ladder to the top bunk. All is quiet. I can return to my book in peace.

I no sooner reconnect with the words on the page when a soft wail rises from my son's room. As my niece and nephew are spending the might, I get up immediately to both see who it is and to keep that one from waking the other. Another wail rises as I make my way into the darkness, trusting my ears, not my eyes, to lead me. They lead me to the top bunk.

It is, as I expected, my son who is quietly sobbing atop his loft. "Whatsa matter, Buddy?" I ask. "I don't know, I'm just sad," he sobs. I sweep him down out of his bunk so as to not awaken the one I know I will be less easily able to comfort, and I take him out into the hallway. We sit, his head in my neck, and I ask him why he's sad. He sniffles, wiping tears from his big, brown eyes. "I dunno," he chokes out. "I'm just sad. I'm really sad."

This is what I'm talking about.

So, why does this innocent, cheerful, albeit slightly sensitive child's tiny bright red apple fall so close to his mother's tree? Is it genetics? Learned behavior? Generational cursing? Self-pity? Lack of contentment? Poor nutrition?

I don't know, but I sure wish I did. For him. For me. For others.

What causes a child who has everything—loving (albeit imperfect) parents, a room full of toys, food in his belly, friends who seek him out, a roof over his head, a knowledge and certainty that he is loved—to go to bed, night after night, feeling sad to the point of tears?

What causes his mother to do the same?

quote of the day, take two

From my son, in exasperation, as he explains to me the necessity of sleeping in the basement tonight because Hope, a six-year-old meteorological expert, informed him there will be tornadoes tonight:

"Momma, you don't know everything."

quote of the day

"Momma, Miracle Whip is not really a miracle."

Buddy

yearning: in response

Some good friends have had some insightful thoughts about my previous post, but my thoughts are too extensive to post within the comments, so I will reflect upon them here.

I still stand in agreement with the quote, albeit taken out of its proper context, and with KP, who states, "some parts of our society are trying to vilify any mood state or behavior that is outside of 'normal' and 'happy'." We are taught, repetitively, that happiness is our ultimate goal in life, and anything short of that is both short-coming and short-sighted. I don't know a single person who would tell you his or her life is completely happy. Not a one. What is wrong with those people?

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with a one of us. Other than not measuring up to an unattainable goal. I do not believe, rightly or wrongly, that perpetual happiness is our intended state on this earth. Now, joy, perhaps. Peace, possibly. Contentment, I'm not so sure. But these are not qualities that are naturally occurring. They are fruit that is cultivated.

I'm not saying the opposite, either. I'm not saying that our sole purpose on this earth is merely to suffer. I don't buy that line of bull, either. I'm simply saying that I do believe, wholeheartedly, that we are living every moment in the tension between the now and the not yet. We were meant to live life one way, and we are living it another. That tension is uncomfortable at best, unbearable at its worst. But we don't want to be uncomfortable, not indefinitely, at any rate.

I know there is contextual and circumstantial depression. I know there is chemical depression. I know there is spiritual depression, strongholds and the like. I preach this message several times a week. I know full well that all of the above and more weave together in a delicate, intricate web that is not always easy to untangle. And I know that all strings leading to the center must be considered, not just one.

But I believe that, even as Christians, we are quick to ignore or even disdain this spiritual component. Why is that? I believe it is, in part, because we believe we can control the other parts, but the God part we know we cannot. And that frustrates us. Or, it frustrates me, at least. (And "frustrate" is a mild term, believe me.) I don't want to consider where God fits in to the picture, because there is no formula to follow or pill to take that guarantees an outcome. But, quite frankly, none of those things have provided an overwhelmingly beneficial, sustainable outcome, either, so where does that leave me, and others like me?

KP points to the year I've had, which I've moaned about repeatedly here, as just cause for feeling depressed. I agree. And I also agree wholeheartedly that better self-care and stewardship of my time and energy would certainly help the situation. But it doesn't explain the melancholia that has rested heavily upon my shoulders for as long as I can remember, not ever giving up its roost even in the face of medication, nutrition, exercise, strong relationships, and all the self-care I could possibly muster at various given points in my life.

The past year doesn't explain waking up nearly every morning, from the time I was a child through to the present, feeling as if I could cry for truly no good reason. It doesn't explain the ache in my heart when things end, when moments pass, when life slips through my fingers. It doesn't explain the persistent numbness in my spirit, the quickness to cry at certain things, the inability to cry at others. There is more to it than my overextended schedule. But you know this.

There is more to it than biochemistry. Than my blood sugar. Than not getting enough sleep. There is more to it than feeling occasionally distant from my husband, feeling inadequate as a parent, expecting too much of myself in nearly everything I do. There is more to it than what we want to naturally equate it to. Personally, I believe that this "more to it" has something to do with God. No Christianese bullshit about it.

So, I retract my ending statement from the last post, in which I question whether or not the depression I feel is just my heart longing for its true home. Is it just that? No. And that's not what I intended to imply. But is it part of the equation? Is it one of the strings entwined among the others? Is it something I must consider and move toward in order to move toward joy? I believe the answer is resoundingly yes.

yearning

In our society, we have come to believe that discomfort always means something is wrong. We are conditioned to believe that feelings of distress, pain, deprivation, yearning and longing mean something is wrong with the way we live our lives.

Conversely, we are convinced that a rightly lived life must give us serenity, completion and fultillment. Comfort means "right" and distress means "wrong." The influence of such convictions is stifling to the human spirit. Individually and collectively, we must somehow recover the truth. The truth is, we were never meant to be completely satisfied.

Gerald May, Addiction and Grace

Hmm... going to be chewing on that one for a while. Within the context this is written, it begs the question: is what I consider depression really just the yearning of a heart that knows this is not its home?

excuthe me, you theem to be mithing thomething...

Buddy, after Poppa knocked out his two front teeth last night! (In his defense, they were hanging by a thread anyway...)

i love to tell the story

To be a person is to have a story to tell.

Karen Blixen

Love this quote. This is why I read memoir rather than fiction--our real-life stories are so much more interesting to me than the made-up ones. This is also why I keep this blog--I find that I have stories to tell, and stories beg for an audience. "...a story to tell..." she states. We must tell our stories, or we lose something of ourselves, I think.

I've discovered this truth Ms. Blixen shares is partially behind my love of counseling, as well--people's stories are compelling to me. There is healing in their telling. There is healing in my hearing. And it is an amazing thing to enter someone's story and help them rewrite it for the better. There is no greater honor, I believe.

And so I write and read and talk and listen and share and counsel and pray and live all within this love of story and its power to create, to recreate, to name, to rename, to heal, to give life. If you are alive, you have a story to tell. We will all be richer for the hearing of it--won't you share it?

a war story of her own

The car was quiet, save for the patter of rain on the windshield and the swooshing of wet tires speeding over wet roads. Quiet is not a normal occurrence in my life, especially not with both children in the car, and one having been caffeinated on an afternoon play date to boot. But today, it was eerily quiet, and it didn't take much to determine why. Bub was getting her pins out this afternoon, and both children were more than a little apprehensive.

For as brave as my daughter is in some areas, she is as proportionately a spaz in others. When people ask me why we've still not pierced her ears, I tell them the story of getting her five-year shots prior to entering kindergarten. I describe how the nurse put numbing cream on both arms, assuring her she wouldn't feel a thing. I tell them about how this same nurse (who, I might add, should be fired, or better yet, shot), gave her the worst shot first, which, coincidentally, cannot be administered through said numbing cream. Then, I describe how it took three nurses and forty-five minutes to get the last three shots into my daughter's arms. No, we'll not be piercing her ears anytime soon.

So, this same child went today to have her pins removed, after hearing war stories from every child in her fourth grade class about what it feels like to have pins pulled out. "It feels like someone twisting a door knob," Chloe explained. Domenic warned her, "There will be a lot of blood." Every child had a story, and each story was worse than the one before. I began to think perhaps I should have kept her home for a month.

When we were at the hospital, at the beginning of this little adventure, I chalked her hysterics and irrationality up to adrenaline and shock, mixed with a little morphine and the lack of anything to eat for the last several hours. I didn't expect to see that response from her again. I don't know what I was thinking.

As soon as the nurse began unknotting the sling, my daughter began to tremble, shaking from head to toe. They hadn't even touched her yet. When the nurse began to take off the bandages in order to take her back for x-rays, Bub began rocking and crying, telling her she didn't want to see it or take it out. Worried this trembling child was going to throw up on her, the nurse kicked the caretaking up a notch, talking her through each step and checking how she was doing with every new movement. Once assured that my daughter was not nauseous, just panicked, she began moving her toward the x-rays. "What are they gonna do, Momma? Is it going to hurt? What is it going to feel like? I don't want them to touch it, Momma." And then there was my Buddy, right behind me, reminding me, "Momma, I think we should pray…"

How my daughter managed to be so like me yet so unlike me is completely beyond my comprehension. I wouldn't have been caught dead at the top of a rope ladder, let alone climbing down it head first. That is her father's gene pool, through and through. Adventurous, athletic, and a little bit of a dare devil—they are two peas in the same pod. Fear doesn't really enter the equation, or at least it hasn't up until this point. But then there is my genetic contribution—the active imagination, the rapid-cycling what-ifs, the quiet, pent-up worry that is unable to be silenced with logic or rational thought, not to mention the powerful, insurmountable instinct to avoid pain at all possible costs. This is where my influence can be found.

My mom will readily tell you, nodding her head in my direction, "She was the same way." And she will tell you with an amused, slightly condescending smirk on her face, because I don't get it from my mother. My father is the worrier of the two, and she teases us both, though he gets the worst of it. And so it goes that my daughter, in this predicament because of the Rees genes, freaks out about it as a result of the Kaufman genes.

When it was all said and done, she confessed, over sundaes at Max and Erma's, "I don't know what I got so upset about. That really wasn't that big of a deal."

"You let your worried thoughts get the best of you," I responded, thumping her forehead, and she nodded, embarrassed and slightly amused with herself.

We will continue to work, in the days and months and years to come, on pushing back these thoughts. Fighting back with truth. Staying present in the moment. But for today, we're just glad it's over. I tucked her in to bed with the same prayer I've prayed every night since Palm Sunday—that the lessons learned here will stick. Obedience. Good judgment. Taking our thoughts captive. Trusting those who are caring for you. May they guide her actions in the years to come.

She's sleeping soundly now, spent after our two hour ordeal. She's propped the pillows back around her unsplinted arm, feeling vulnerable and uncertain. Her breath is full and deep, and her face is peaceful, all traces of worry erased. We've come full circle, and now, finally, all is quiet again.

a matter of trust

Therein lies the problem. I do not believe this for a moment. I do not believe that my body is a benevolent force intent upon my health and emotional well-being. I have chronic pain. I have IBS. I have a life-long weight issue. What, exactly, am I supposed to find trustworthy about these things and my inability to rectify them?

(read more at more)

shame on you

Whether I've managed to hide it from you or not, it is there, though I've yet to fully figure out why. Much has been written about glorifying thinness and vilifying fatness—I'm sure there are judgments I've made along the line, both of myself and others. I'm also sure our culture deserves a lion's share of the blame that is to be taken. After all, if I lived in the Elizabethan era, I'd likely be the subject of an oil painting. But I don't, and I'm not, and I digress.

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disclaimer

I have fought this battle in my head, hidden in darkness, for far too long. I must bring it out into the open, into the light of truth, for the lies within to be exposed. But this openness, this fully exposing how wide and long and high and deep these issues run within me, is not something that comes easily. It is one thing to do it once I'm through it and on the other side, back "together" again. It is another to do it from the trenches—muddy and messy and up to my waist in the mire…

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things that last

She is not my oldest, longest friend, but she is perhaps my dearest. Ours was a friendship forged out of coming of age together—struggling together (as we still do now, come to think of it) to discover who we are, what is important, and where we fit into God's greater plan.

Hol and I met the weekend of freshman orientation, as did my husband and I, and we have all been friends ever since. We schlepped through the valley together, ate smuggled-in homemade meals by candlelight in the Haven, sang in the Chorale, toilet papered upper classmen. We took long, meandering walks, stayed up 'till all hours of the night rearranging our dorm room (again), suffered through mandatory chapel (made more interesting by my creation of the "official" chapel poll), created "Primal Whine Therapy."

I carried her books when she burnt her foot with the hot pot, she listened to hours of debate over whether or not I wanted to date that geeky tenor with the big glasses and annoying sense of humor. I helped her pick out the dress for her senior recital, she suffered through my daily alarm clock ritual and still continues to speak to me, twenty-some years later. (Though she still knows better than to expect much out of me in the morning.)

We have been key players in "the best days of our lives." We went through all four years of college together, lived together for two of them. We weighed in on each others' prospective husbands. We stood up in each others weddings. We sang trios and duets at each other's churches. Our six-year-olds were born four days apart (funny how neither one of us could figure out why we didn't feel well that weekend we hiked Clifton Gorge). Despite three hours and a world of difference between our lives (but not our hearts), there is always a sense when we get together, whether here or there, of finally coming home. We had an all too brief time of homecoming this weekend, and now, as I make my way across I-70 toward the east, toward the place I call "home," I find myself desperately and heartbreakingly homesick.

There is a joy in the visiting, but always a sadness that lingers in the leaving. Would that I could coral all the people I love into a tight, tidy little area within arm's reach and keep them there forever. I know this is part of life. Sometimes we get to love people up close, sometimes we have to love them from afar. We take the moments we can steal and we savor them, hoping the flavor will linger on our tongue for a good, long while. Those moments are sometimes few and far between, but the commitment to maintain them remains. And should I ever be so fortunate as to have all the people I love all in the same place, you'll know where to find Holly. She'll be right next door, and I'll be in her kitchen watching her knead dough.

six more words

another set of six-word autobiographies:

one foot in, one foot out.

not who you think i am.

not to do, but to be.

loud. quiet. bold. timid. internally conflicted.

threatens selling her children to gypsies.

they told me there'd be chocolate...

overnight

Yesterday, the streets were lined with skeletons—tall and bare and brown. Today, the same bodies are enfleshed with green leaf-lings, bones no longer visible. In an act of divine mystery sometime between the dark and the light, life burst forth into my neighborhood, catapulting us from winter into spring in one lone 24 hour period.

I lay on my bed, waiting for teeth to be brushed, and gaze out the open window, taking in the sights and sounds and smells and sensations of spring. Birds titter and call, fledgling leaves rustle in the gentle breeze. The setting sun casts a golden glow across the expanse, while the scent of crabapple blossoms drifts upward on the same sweet wind. A lover of green, I soak it all in.

Yesterday, the grand trees that dominate the landscape outside my window were still bare. Today, they are suddenly clothed. Just like that. Were that all transitions so sudden. Or perhaps at least a few. Perhaps.

The shower runs in the background, my six-year-old's soprano voice cutting through the buzz of the spray. No, it is a good thing not all transitions happen that quickly. Though should you ask me in another twelve years, I'm sure I'll tell you it happened overnight.

The light is fading, the twilight songs moving toward their finales. The breeze settles, and all is calm outside the bedroom window. The rich blue of the sky deepens, and, tonight, for the first time since last summer, there is green against its royal background. Bodies grow restless beyond the bedroom door, and the rites and passages of bedtime await less than patiently. I cast one last glance across the roof tops and tree tops, marveling at the difference one day makes. I leave my pen and paper, my twilight serenade, my moment of quiet reverie, and I go take advantage of this night, before it, too, has passed and become something new.

too much yes

My mind begins rationalizing. I just want to eat like everyone else is eating (although I’m not—I’m eating much, much MORE). It’s a special occasion (like a Friday… or a Saturday). I won’t get the opportunity to eat this/like this again for a while (like until NEXT Friday or Saturday)...

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pass the tissues, please

I'm convinced his entire goal is to make us cry. He always succeeds. Were it not for the fact that he is so likeable, I would really hate that about him.

He greeted us all with high fives as my kindergartener stepped off the bus this morning with 14 other similarly nervous-looking six-year-olds and quickly came and grabbed my hand. Despite the fact we've been in the elementary school every day of the last four school years, Buddy was now suddenly nervous. What seemed downright blasé this morning was now unnerving him in his quiet little way, and I allowed him to cling for a moment as we were ushered into our classroom.

The visit to first grade is an important rite of passage at our school, for both children and parents alike. Because the kindergarten is housed separately from the elementary school, the visit is intended to calm any fears that may arise as fall approaches by making known the big unknown, both for the little and the big in attendance. Introductions were made, buddies were assigned, and the exploration began as the parents were whisked off to meet with the principal in order to allow the children time to spread their wings and move toward the edge of their safe little kindergarten nests. Or at least that's what they'd have you believe. But I know better.

Because this is the point at which he always makes us cry.

Get the emotion out of the way now, and next fall won't be so hard. Perhaps that is his philosophy. But I know enough from the tears in his own eyes as he talks about his oldest son to know that he knows better. There will be tears now, and there will be tears later, and that's okay. But it's still not nice to deliberately make us cry.

He begins, as he always does, by cutting right to the truest, deepest question within our hearts. "Your child will be cared for here," he tells us. Four years ago, it was these words that dissolved me, as that was, indeed, my greatest fear. Would my quirky little bundle of energy and excitement be received and appreciated for the joy she could be, or would that spirit within her be squelched and drained? The answer, I learned very quickly, was the prior. So now, four years later, these questions are a moot point for this mother. I know my son will be cared for here. I don't worry about that at all. I'm just not ready for him to BE here yet.

"The umbilical cord was cut six years ago," he reminds us. This is the line that kills me this year. "They're not ours—they're merely entrusted to us for just a short time." I know this. I KNOW this. But that doesn't mean I LIKE it.

My baby is not a baby any longer, and despite my desperate longing for full days of being BY MY SELF, I am just not yet ready to let go. I don't want the years to keep moving on. I don't want to think about my baby going to school all day. I don't want to think about approaching Bub's last year in this building, about middle school, about being home alone, about outgrowing the sweet one on one hand-holding dates to the zoo, the conservatory, to COSI that I have loved for the last ten years. I know the next stage will be good and will have its own unique joys. I know this. But I liked THIS stage. And this stage is almost over.

He knows this. And rather than dance around it and pretend it doesn't exist, he brings it right out in the open for us to acknowledge and even bond over, knowing that it may mean tears for some. For many, even. I suppose that is a good thing. I suppose. But I sure am glad I won't have to do it again…

Not until fall, at least.

well-meaning

"There's nothing you can say, he told me with a shrug, looking intently into my tear-filled eyes with his own. "There's nothing you can say." And so I hugged him tightly, adding my tears to those already blended on the shoulder of his jacket, and I didn't say anything at all.

It was Good Friday. He had just lost his twelve year old daughter after a long, hard fight against the insidious evil that is cancer. There are no words for these moments. Only tears.

Tim was a friend and colleague. We had gone through grad school together, and despite a mutual disdain for one another at the very beginning, by the time we worked together there had grown a deep respect and an amusing fondness between us. Though I had moved away a year or so earlier, while Lin was in remission, I had kept abreast of Lin's recurrence through Tim's email updates, maintaining that connection within my heart. That Friday, my heart was aching with the need to speak something that could not be articulated, but only felt.

There is something about the silence of grief—the void created by loss—that compels those of us around to fill that space with well-meaning words. I felt it then, I feel it now. That helpless, I-want-to-make-it-all-better feeling that drives so much of what I write and say and do. But despite my clinical training and my carefully-crafted prose and even my very best intentions, I can't make anything better. And I can't quite come to peace with that.

I re-read my attempt to process another Good Friday funeral, and I find myself wanting to delete my words. "No, no, no—I said it all wrong," I think to myself. I remember Jill at women's group, this past week, graciously dodging our often mis-aimed attempts to say the right thing, and I wish I'd just never said anything at all.

I have to step back and remember who these words were really written for. Often the words we speak are often the words we ourselves need to hear. This was certainly the case with this post. As I wrestled with my own questions of faith, brought too close to the surface by David's death, I spoke, unaware, to the reassurances I, myself, needed to hear. Perhaps they will bless others, perhaps not. But my heart was more at peace for having written them.

Sometimes it is best to keep quiet. To listen, to cry, to hold. To not attempt to speak what is truly not speak-able. But sometimes our own hearts must grapple to put words to that which alludes words, no matter how clumsily we may do so. For me, it is this process within which God speaks the perfect Word, and that is, after all, what we're all longing to hear.

more of the same

Panic grew and spread like the layer of fat sprawled across my backside. My weight consumed my every thought—trying to figure out what to wear, what to eat, what to do. I was at a point of despair. So I did something desperate...

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something more

a friend of mine emailed me today "pleading" with me to post something. "i know you're in a raw place," she acknowledged, "but it's such a treasure to read your heart. more, more, more!"

i found that ironic. i've been working, these last few days, on getting a second blog ready. the title? more.

i've been very open on this blog about my struggle with food, my body, my weight. that struggle has been especially intense lately, and the way i process best is to write. i like the current format of this blog, and therefore do not want to devote it solely to the purpose of my neurotic and, let's face it, lame issues. so i have created a home for those ramblings, but will still keep you posted here when this struggle is rearing it's ugly head.

you can read "more" at:

http://www.morechipsmorechocolatemoregod.blogspot.com/

hope you enjoy.

salivating

Three words. Chocolate. Covered. Bacon.

Day four on my diet and my husband climbs in bed with his magazine. I look over and there it is. "Two equally obsessive foods come together in one perfectly balanced bite of savory, smoky, and sweet." Oh. My. Gosh.

I can't sleep.

You can order it for me here, if you're so inclined...

promises, promises

"Return to me, and I will return to you. Put away the idols, and give me your heart. Lay your heart open before Me, and I will purge away the dross. I will cleanse it and fill it with My glory. You will no longer crave the leeks and the garlic of Egypt. You will no longer feed on chaff; but I will satisfy your soul with manna from heaven, and with milk and honey you shall be nourished.

And your health will return to you, and your vigor, and you will serve me with fresh energy. You shall go forth in new power, and My joy shall be your constant portion."

Come Away My Beloved
Frances J. Roberts

with love, for a fellow alto

(In honor of Jill, her precious babies, and the two loves of her life—Jesus, and David…)

She said goodbye in the rain, under a gray, it’s-still-not-spring-in-Ohio sky, in the kind of cold that soaks into your bones and doesn’t leave until curled up hours later under layers of blankets with another warm body pressed up against your own. Who will that body be for her, this afternoon, when she is cold and weary to the bone?

High school sweethearts. Fresh-faced, bright-smiled, big-haired photos, dated back 23 years. Homecomings. Proms. Joyful wedding portraits, dated one week before my own. Family gatherings. First homes. Bringing home baby boys. Rejoicing over a baby girl. Vacationing with friends. Driving the ‘Vette. Easels full of smiles, smiles, and more smiles.

She still smiles, but it is a weary smile. A tired smile. A sad smile. I know a brighter smile will return—as will laughter, as will joy. But I know, too, that it will be bittersweet, as smiles always are for those who have lost much.

God is good, she reminds us. She raises her hands in exaltation. She reminds us to keep singing, when we “wonder if we’ll ever make it through.” I know her faith is strong. I know her God is big. But I know her heart is broken, and I know it won’t heal quickly.

Faith is an amazing, beautiful thing, and hers has been (and I’m sure she hates to hear this) an inspiration to many. It will carry her through, even when that very faith causes her to wrestle in the darkness with the one who gives and takes away. She will persevere, and she will overcome, all by the grace of God and the indelible spirit he placed within her.

But faith doesn’t spare her the cold, empty spot next to her in bed, the sight of the wheelchair in the corner of the garage, the driver-less Corvette parked in the driveway. It doesn’t spare her children the absence of their father or his parents the loss of a son. It doesn’t fill the empty seat at the dinner table or erase the smell of his cologne from his pillow or mow the lawn and take out the garbage. Faith doesn’t prevent the heart from aching, the soul from grieving, the tears from falling.

But what it does—oh, what that faith does. It receives into its soil every seed of hope—of healing, of mercy, of grace, of comfort, of peace—and it buries them inside its rich darkness, nurturing them with its life-giving, death-like silence. That faith protects each tiny seed—choking out the roots of resentment and bitterness, fighting off the crows that threaten to snatch up each deposit of life—and goes to work fertilizing, hydrating, compressing, forcing each and every one to burst open with determined life that presses up through the darkness and into the light, reaching higher and higher and higher until it opens wide and bears its fruit so that all may pick from its harvest and taste and see that the Lord is good.

God is good. Some days she will sing it. Some days she will shout it. Some days, it will be just a whisper. It will remain true, whether she professes it or not, but she will continue to profess it, nonetheless. Because she knows something about rainy days, and about pain, and about wondering if she’ll ever make it through—and she knows that all she can do is to keep on singing.

Keep Singing
by Mercy Me

Another rainy day
I can't recall having sunshine on my face
All I feel is pain
All I wanna do is walk out of this place
But when I am stuck and I can't move
When I don't know what I should do
When I wonder if I'll ever make it through

I gotta keep singing
I gotta keep praising Your name
You’re the one that's keeping my heart beating
I gotta keep singing
I gotta keep praising Your name
That's the only way that I'll find healing

Can I climb up in Your lap
I don't wanna leave
Jesus sing over me
I gotta keep singing

Can I climb up in Your lap
I don't wanna leave
Jesus sing over me
I gotta keep singing

Oh You're everything I need
And I gotta keep singing

post-traumatic parenting disorder

The adrenaline is gone, and the codeine is about to follow. My "good in a crisis" nature has gotten me through the worst of it, but has now abandoned me in the middle of melancholia with no more gas in my tank and miles to go before I'm out of the woods. Sleep is not coming easily, and it's not just the middle of the night dosings. It's the images. The sounds. The emotions. They won't let me be.

"I don't want to close my eyes, Momma," Bub sobbed repeatedly at the hospital. "I keep seeing my arm snap over an over again. I can't make it stop." After urging her for a while to capture her thoughts and try to focus them elsewhere, I took a different tactic. "Yep--you're going to see it for a while, Bub. It's okay. It can't hurt you again. It's okay."

I was wrong. My hope that in validating the struggle, the struggle would cease was misplaced. I know, because I can't make it stop, either. And it's keeping me up at night.

I close my eyes, and I see her coming toward me, her arm grotesquely mis-shapen, her eyes large with fright, her face red with fear and pain. I see her tears, I hear her voice, I feel her pain. Over. And over. And over. I see things I didn't even see--I see her fall, I see the arm snap, I see her screaming, I see what could have happened had God not protected her. I don't want to see any more.

Which is funny, because for years these have been the images that have played in my head from time to time as I've watched her at play, swinging and flipping and jumping. Images of falling, of twisting, of hurting. I don't bid them to come, but they come, just the same. And so when my eyes saw it for real, it become more than just a this could happen if she's not careful, if I don't protect her, if I don't teach her to have good judgement. It became a reality. And now it won't leave me.

Several people expressed surprise that anger was one of my initial reactions. Perhaps that was too strong, perhaps not. It is what it is. Because of her impulsive nature and passionate spirit, my daughter and I have talked ad nauseum about the need to think before she acts. She didn't fall off her bike. She climbed up on something she knew she shouldn't be on top of, and then tried to climb down it head first. She is a child, I know this. She will do stupid things. But I also know how I've drilled her to use the brain the good Lord gave her. For this very reason. For her. For me. For all of us. And so, when her first words were, "I knew I shouldn't have done it," I would be a bold-faced liar to deny the anger that rose up in me. Anger at all it would cost her. Anger at all it would cost us. Anger at all those words, spoken in vain. It's not pretty. But sometimes, life isn't pretty.

Shaunti Feldhahn, in her book For Parents Only, writes, "This is the stark truth: Short of locking our teenagers in their rooms day and night, there is almost no way to physically prevent them from doing what they want to do. And they know it." I considered this for days after reading it, and determined this is really the human condition. This is what we face as parents whether our child is six or sixteen. This is what we face when a spouse walks away. When a friend does the wrong thing. When we simply live our I-want-what-I- want-when-I-want-it lives. And God grieves like a parent taking her child to the ER, only more so.

My daughter was going to climb whatever it was she climbed and crawl down it head first regardless of what I'd ever told her, simply because she wanted to. I can't control that. I can't, no matter how desperately I try, control what she WANTS. And it scares the crap out of me. And that is really what this is all about. The fear. The talks. The prayers. Bones will heal. Her images will fade. But what will she WANT next time? What will she choose? And what will the cost be, then?

discombobulated

We are home, but not back to normal. The last 48 hours have been a fog, and I'm not even on the codeine. Sleeping on the trundle bed, awakened at all hours. Alarms set in the middle of the night for medicine. Chapters of inane cat warrior stories read out loud for hours on end. Naps at the foot of her bed, trying not to jostle the arm. Coordinating Buddy's care and entertainment. Figuring out what to eat, how to eat. It is all a blur.

Add to the mix the news that the husband of a friend of mine died on Sunday. Brain cancer. A year and a half battle. Three kids. Married same length of time we were. Perspective. More fog. More schedule coordinating--Dr. appointments, visitation, work, funeral, more work, Easter. I don't know what to feel, so I don't feel at all.

I gave my daughter a journal a year or so ago to write back and forth to one another. A way to share things that are hard for her to say. In the last six months or so, it has become her confessional. Last night, I beat her to the punch. I told her how much we loved her. How this could have been so much worse. How we were not happy with her, but we weren't angry with her either. I told her how we would not hold this over her head. And how this didn't change our love for her.

Then I told her the awful truth about being a mother. About how hard it was to watch her pain and her fear. About how I had tried to spare her that pain and fear, had she only listened to me. I told her about how hard it is to know that she will make her own choices when I'm not around, and I can't guarantee the outcome of those choices. And I told her about how scary that is for a Momma.

I think about Jill's children. About her breaking heart. About theirs. I think about how we would do ANYTHING to spare our children pain. I think about how their comes a point where it's out of our hands. I think about pins in elbows, about funeral arrangements, about sleeping but not sleeping, about carpool plans. Too much.

I sit here at work, wondering why I'm here. My first two appointments have not shown up. I need a distraction. Someone else's problems to think about. I'm tired of thinking about my own.

Perspective. Relief. Healing. I will focus here.

broken

“MrReesMrReesMrRees! I need you to come RIGHT NOW!!!” His shock of red hair ran toward us across the expanse between the playground and the picnic tables. We sat there for a moment, not certain what type of urgency his voice contained. We both stood, almost cautiously, scanning his face for an indication. “It’s your daughter. She’s hurt.”

We moved toward the playground, used to this scene. I wasn’t terribly concerned—she probably just needed some consoling, the mud wiped off her legs, the tears from her cheeks. Suffice it to say, we were not in any great hurry. Until we saw her coming toward us, another mother holding her up, nodding her head at us over the top of Bub’s. “It’s bad,” she mouthed to us. I looked at the arm my daughter was holding—bent in three angles, none of them natural. Oh shit, I breathed, breaking in to a dead run for the car.

Adrenaline pumping, I fought the various emotions that coursed through my veins as we drove to the closest urgent care. Fear, concern, anger—they came like a flood. “That was so stupid,” my daughter sobbed. “That was really, really stupid, Momma. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That was really, really stupid.” You’re damn right, I wanted to yell. That was a stupid, stupid thing to do. What the hell were you thinking?!?! Do you have ANY idea what affects this will have?

I said nothing of the sort. “You need to calm down, Bub. You need to take a deep breath, and CALM DOWN. Nobody’s mad at you, Sweetpea. We’re just glad it’s nothing worse. You’re going to be fine.”

“What did I do, Momma, what did I do? What’s wrong with it? Momma, it hurts! I want to die! I want to die!!!”

“LISTEN TO ME. You need to take a deep breath and calm down. Your arm is broken. We’re going to take you to get it fixed. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be FINE.” She’s going to be fine, she’s going to be fine, I repeat.

I called my brother. He was blessedly already in his car, three minutes away. He came for Buddy, who was near tears in his concern for his sister. “I think we should pray, Momma,” he said as we registered a few moments ago. “I think we should pray right now.” He would be fine in a few moments, but for a brief moment his world was crumbling. I prayed that mine won’t go with it.

Five hours, an ambulance transport, an admission to Children’s, and several doses of morphine later, my daughter is finally in surgery, having the compound fracture in her left arm set and cast. My left-handed daughter. I sit here alone in the parents’ waiting room listening to the fish tank gurgle and try not to obsess about what this latest lack of judgment is going to cost us.

What it is going to cost her has already been discussed throughout the afternoon. Championships are in three weeks. She will obviously miss them. Tryouts for the team, coming up this week—also off the calendar. Scratch the next session of gymnastics. Put the new skateboard on a shelf in the garage. She will pay for this dearly, as well.

I will resist the urge to comment any further. To lecture, to remind her that I’ve warned her this could happen if she did not choose to use the brain the good Lord gave her. “I didn’t think this would ever happen,” she repeated over and over, tears streaming down her face. “I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” her father and I both replied.

She has had a rough, rough afternoon, with a great deal of pain and fear. While I could have wrung her neck five hours ago, and still may consider it tomorrow, for now I think she has had punishment enough. I pray that the lesson sets along with the bone. It is not one I care to have us repeat any time soon.

good reasons why i have no good reason

reasons i have no reason to be depressed:

1. i have two fabulous kids who think i'm great 95% of the time.
2. the other 5% of the time, they're not my problem.
3. i have a husband who adores me.
4. he also puts up with a heck of a lot of crap, without too much complaining. most of the time.
5. i have a job that is enjoyable and meaningful about 98% of the time.
6. i get paid well enough that the other 2% is worth it.
7. we have a roof over our heads. and it's actually fairly cute, albeit very small.
8. for the moment, we can still afford that roof.
9. i don't have cancer. or any other life-threatening disease.
10. none of the people closest to me currently have cancer--including both fathers and a brother and a good friend who are all now cancer-free.
11. i have good friends.
12. i occasionally get to see some of them.
13. i'm not pregnant.
14. i have all my limbs and organs.
15. i occasionally get to do something creative for small periods of time.
16. sometimes, i even get to do it uninterrupted by small children.
17. i can see and hear and taste and smell.
18. the stupid cat will, on rare occasions, actually sit still on my lap and purr for me, which is why he was allowed to live here in the first place.
19. sometimes, not often, but sometimes i actually read something i've written and think, "i'm not too bad at this."
20. sometimes, even more rarely, i actually think, "darn, this is actually pretty good."
21. i still have my voice. mostly.
22. winter HAS to end.
23. soon.
24. we still have a season and a half of BSG to get through.
25. our kids have developed a love for TNG. we all watch it together. all crammed on the love seat.
26. chocolate.
27. my husband does most of the house-cleaning when i'm at work on saturdays.
28. he also empties the litter box.
29. all of our parents are living and healthy.
30. we have good relationships with all of them.
31. we live in a free country.
32. we have running water and electricity.
33. we have two running automobiles.
34. we are extremely fortunate.
35. i am extremely fortunate.

This list is meant to give me hope and the ability to sleep tonight. But it only makes me feel guilty. There is no reason for this sadness that engulfs me from the moment I become conscious in the morning until the moment I return again to the numbing escape of sleep. There is no reason for feeling as if I could cry at any moment. There is no reason why I can't when there is finally an opportunity.

I have lived with this--this disease, this demon, this character flaw,whatever you want to call it--for as long as I can remember. I am sick to death of it robbing me, and those around me, of my life. I have been called negative. I have been called pessimistic. I have been called a number of things, but none of them explain why I can't shake this cloud that clings to me like stink on a dog.

There is nothing to be depressed about. Why does my God-forsaken body not get that message?

correction

Yesterday's post should have been titled
"Let the Eye-Rolling Begin"