womanly intuition

Through the years, our children have regularly received what my husband and I (not so affectionately) refer to as “grandparent toys.” You know the type. They are either full of stickers and markers which will soon be festively decorating the walls of your home, or they make sounds. The sounds are never gentle; they are just above the level of tolerability.

In the past, some such gifts were fire trucks and talking bears. Without fail, after the celebrations have ceased, and the babes have toddled off to bed, their father can be found disassembling these toys and placing a layer of packaging tape over the speakers to reduce the volume. their mother can be found placing all “art supplies” under lock and key to be enjoyed later under close adult supervision. The children have, by and large, accepted these changes without comment - one would almost believe, without notice.

This year the offending plaything seemed such a simple amusement – a small plastic rabbit which squeaks when squeezed. The sound, however, is not so simple. It is insidious. It seeks out the nerve at the base of your spine, sending your legs into fits of twitching and your psyche into retaliation mode. So, shortly after the departure of the very last guest on Christmas day, the father was absorbed in the business of dislodging the squeaker to a safe resting place inside the creature.

Half an hour later, the girl wandered into the room. She picked up the beloved critter and gave it a firm embrace. Nothing.

R: Heyyyy! What happen?

Dad:

R: (with lip in full pout and big brown eyes misting over) Dad, you killed my bunny!




Is it any wonder I got an earful of squeaks during my nightly bedtime rounds?

post Christmas fizzle

Sorry I have been absent quite frequently. At first I could blame it on the fact that my house was a complete disaster which needed to be at least partially tamed before the introduction of visitors. Then there was the joy of spending time with family and friends. Now, I am just sleepy! Perhaps a respite from insomnia is God's gift to me this Christmas. Hopefully I will be up and running at my normal sloth's pace by tomorrow.

Just remind me to mention the freckled child who suddenly started appearing in my living room, the alternating generosity and attitude of the working-boy, the sqeaky bunny incident, and other stories.

Until then, sweet dreams. I hope your holidays were truly blessed.

oooooh shiny

Like a moth to a flame, like Gollum to his Precious, like dust bunnies to the underside of the bed, like squished pop tarts to the bottom of a passing shoe, this insomniac is drawn toward the pillow and tempted with the whisperings of sleep only when she HAS to stay awake.

We have a UPS on our computer. It betrayed me today. I spent at least half an hour before taking the boy to work organizing a detailed agenda for the next few days (in a desperate attempt to get myself on track). I commanded the thing to print immediately before leaving for the commute. I returned to discover a printer error. So, as I have done many times in the past, I restarted the printer. A fraction of a second before the print job was sent to the printer, the UPS suddenly decided to beep and power down the whole system.

I didn't save the document. I didn't see any need to keep it in my files; I just wanted it on my refrigerator. So, now I am flying blind without an agenda, and I am shocked to discover that I haven't the faintest idea what I told myself to do tomorrow.

Ah well, Christmas will come whether I accomplish my tasks or not. If worse comes to worst, we can always eat pop tarts for Christmas dinner - preferably not the squished ones.

oh how the mighty have fallen

Throughout my life, I have heard often of the great circle of life, food chains, and man being at the top of the chain. Often, when conservationists are attempting to bring awareness of an endangered species into the limelight, they will comment upon the fact that man has become such a dangerous predator to so many species while there are no natural predators of man. I beg to differ.

We (the dear husband, N, and I) were watching Dirty Jobs earlier this evening. If you have cable and you have never seen it, I highly recommend it. In the show, the host, Mike Rowe, travels to various places and takes part in dirty jobs – those occupations which make our world run as smoothly as it does but which are often thankless, menial, and just plain gross.

In this particular episode, Mike traveled to Louisiana one year after Katrina to take part in some of the ongoing dirty jobs (side vent on this one later). First he traveled and labored with a demolition crew responsible for cleaning out a house and getting it down to nothing but exterior and framing. Most of us have put a load of laundry in the wash and forgotten it for a day or so. We all know that lovely reek. Imagine that smell magnified a thousand times and you might get an idea of one small part of that job. Clothes left in a washer or dryer – sodden with not only the wash water but with what the demolition crew affectionately call “Katrina Soup,” a mix of floodwater, silt, sewage, mold, and more disease than you could be expected to name in an hour even when armed with a Physician’s Desk Reference.

The second job was tracking down, studying, and attempting to control the increased rodent population. The third job was mosquito control.

You might ask what any of these jobs have to do with my opening paragraph. In fact, you have probably asked that several times since beginning to read. Well, it seems to me that humans do have natural predators, they are just very small. Ironic, isn’t it, that the life form most dangerous to us is so small you cannot see it with the naked eye? Natural disasters bring about situations which rapidly accelerate the growth of bacteria and molds. At the same time, the rodent populations increase because of an increased availability of rotten, pungent, abandoned food. The mosquitoes increase as well, feasting upon the blood of the rats and that of the humans – equal opportunity suckers. They also aren’t so modern that they refuse to make house calls. They bring the disease right to our doors. No natural predators – bah humbug.

the side rant

I guess, sadly, the human response to disaster is often like the acquaintance’s response to someone else’s grief. The heart reaches out during the initial injustice. Helping hands are everywhere. A little time passes, though, and suddenly the griever is left in a solitary grief. Only those closest understand. Everyone else goes back to life as normal. Natural disaster as a motivator has a shelf life. Most of us grow weary of bearing other people’s grief long-term. We begin to resume life as normal, forgetting how impossible that is for some.

The men working demolition for the company highlighted in this show were not always laborers. The company owner has been in that line. The other men came from such varied backgrounds as bouncing, teaching English, Investment banking. You see, if these men want to stay in their home town, they need to work. But, until this work is done, their old jobs – many people’s old jobs – simply do not exist. Some may never come back. Those which do will only thrive again through the sweat and blood of men and women like these. The pain doesn’t go away just because the cameras stop pointing it out.

rounded tablespoons

In honor of the holidays, I am departing from the traditional sleeping with bread mold, and sleeping with cookies instead. I can also blame my lateness on the holidays, even though it is really due to the fact that the day got away from me.

fat-free, sugar-free cardboard cookie replicas

I don’t like feeling helpless. It is always worse when I am helpless in regards to my children. Last night, at bedtime, S noticed that his hermit crab was hanging out of the shell and barely moving. In the life of a hermit crab, that is a pretty good indicator of illness and impending death (unless of course they are about to molt).

I came down the stairs and began my internet research on hermit crab health. After all of the reading, I could come up with several possible causes of demise (one of which has something to do with the crab’s age), but I couldn’t find any way to rescue the poor bugger. Today, the crabby passed quietly away and journeyed to the big hermit crab climbing log in the sky.

This is not the first pet my children have lost, but it opened up a discussion about death and how it is part of life. We talked about the pain of losing a critter actually helping to prepare us for greater losses later in life. We reminisced about other animals who have paved the way. Since the birth of our first child, we have lost 3 cats, two dogs, 2 gerbils, 2 rats, 1 hermit crab, and countless goldfish. Most of them have lived long lives for their respective species (except for the goldfish which tend to all die at once after the first one falls ill).

I don’t like not being able to take the pain for these children of mine. I can be of comfort in their sadness. I can point them in the direction of the true comforter, but I cannot make the pain disappear. The best I can do is help them to let the pain bring about growth.

the real thing

Perhaps that is why we made cookies today. Sure, Christmas is only a week away, and we hadn’t started baking yet, but I wasn’t planning to start until after a full day of school. Instead, we did a little bit of written work and set about exploring the science of cookie making.

A friend had passed along an extremely rich recipe for butter cookies. I decided there was no better way to bring about comfort than to bake. Not only would the sugary sweetness help to chase the blues away, but we could have a very tangible lesson in how one solid base can create so many different things.

We joined together in our dying, molding and decorating, and enjoyed each other as a family. We rejoiced in the discovery of blended ingredients. We thanked God for whispering to that first soul who somehow thought it would be tasty to combine such separately ordinary things.

They all took part – the girl acted as professional taster and consumed at least 7 cookies without assistance. The momma proclaimed that she would not care if she never saw food again.

Creation – it doesn’t take away the sadness of loss, perhaps, but it goes a long way toward setting us on the path of healing.

sometimes you don’t have to look very far

So, I always try to find the humor in a situation lest I lose what little sanity I have left. As the title says, sometimes it doesn’t take that much effort.

oedipal complexes

T, age 5 came into the bathroom. I was sitting down watching R wash her hands. Neither of them is allowed in the bathroom alone while washing because of several recent events (more on that later).

T: I need a kiss.

Me: Hold on just a minute, I am helping your sister wash her hands.

Apparently, this wasn’t good enough. He came over, placed a hand on either side of my head, turned my face toward him, and planted a big old kiss on my lips. He turned around to leave the room, but just before exiting, his voice rang back to me, “And that is how you kiss a woman!”

on why we should be product testers

If anything can last a year in our house, it definitely deserves the Good Housekeeping seal of approval. We are not a gentle family. Through the years, many incidences have revealed to us just how creative our children can be.

Plastic golf clubs and golf balls – please do not ever consider giving them to my family. Within two days of receipt, they will be turned into weapons. After repeated blows to the head and body of any passing sibling, the end falls off of the club, and little jagged bits of plastic stare angrily at knit fabrics, furniture, and delicate skin. Although they are confiscated by loving parents and thrown into the nearest trash receptacle, the sharp edges invariably pierce the plastic, and the prying eyes of children discover their bounty and spirit it away for use in the next surprise attack.

Safely suction-cup-ended arrows make wonderful ceiling tile darts once the suction is removed. K’nex and Lego Technics may be formed into various weapons of mass destruction – the self-loading, quadruple band, rubber-band revolver being but one example.

A metal pot with large wooden spoon is especially dangerous. Not only can the spoon be wielded as a club, it can also be launched. Should the fancy strike, the pot can be placed on the unsuspecting head of a sibling then repeatedly bashed by the spoon and other heavy toys.

Markers, crayons, play-dough, scissors – these are kept under lock and key.

Imagine my joy when they invented the Aqua doodle pad. Here was a toy that was soft. You write on it with markers filled with water. The lids screw on these markers in a counter-clockwise direction to confuse and slow down the average small child. Should the child write on a surface other than the pad, it is only water, and causes a lot less damage than that sharpie I am still trying to remove from the mini-blinds, pocket doors, and radiator covers.

So, before taking five minutes Friday to get an update on one of those doctor’s appointments I was worried about (update posted below), I made sure that the little ones were playing with the aqua doodle. They had recently discovered they could use sponges on them to get a different effect, and had also recently learned to unscrew the marker caps, but I still figured it was safer than, say, a densely packed flying missile (also known in other parts of the world as a book).

Five minutes. That’s all. I was only out of the room for 300 seconds.

Somehow it never occurred to me to lock the bathtub toys in my personal safe. That might be because I don’t have one.

I walked into the room to see R gingerly carrying an overflowing plastic watering can toward the doodle pad. A quick look around the room clued me in to the fact that this was at least the sixth such trip. T, ever the gallant brother, squealed out, “She did it!” before rapidly disappearing from the lower level of the house.

And don’t get me started on what they can do with bubbles.

the thin purple line (updated)

Every trait has a flip side, kind of like a coin. Sometimes I am convinced that our first thirty years are spent trying to discipline the negative side of those traits so that the positive may shine more brightly.

For instance, I like to look at both sides of every issue. I try to see where a person is coming from even when their views disagree with mine. I like to weigh the pros and cons of everything, but often end up with equal piles because of my ability to keep the insight going. Therefore, the flip side of my coin would be indecisiveness.

Insomnia hit again last night. I tried to go to sleep, really I did, but I ended up sitting in front of late night TV and watching Dr. Phil. It is a show I have only seen a few times (since it is on after 2 AM). A mother was on who basically wanted help in backing off from her son while he is trying to do homework. She acknowledged she had a problem with pressuring him and nagging, and getting into his face with her anger. Dr. Phil, though, felt that she wasn’t admitting she had a problem because there were a few quotes her family supplied, and she was having a hard time believing she used certain words. She felt like he was portraying her wrongly. He used that to intimate that she was not admitting she had a problem. Cue camera shots of an audience looking on with shock and pity. Ah, the poor momma just won’t admit what a monster she is.

Dr. Phil continued to assert that she was not admitting to the problem, and every minute of show between the commercials was basically a rephrased version of the first five minutes - the flip side of the coin. You see, the power of persuasion which makes him so good at what he does has a flip side too. The negative side of persuasion is manipulation. Sometimes the line between the two is very thin. I believe he crossed that line in this show. The mother felt it too, and was trying to express it to him. She did eventually stop arguing with him about it, and let her comments peter out to the simple, “I completely agree,” for the sake of moving on and getting help for her and her son.

I have a very active imagination. For the most part, it has served me well, but there is a downside even to this. I am able to imagine all sorts of possible outcomes. Worrying about and concentrating on those possibilities can take my eyes off of the God who is offering me the support needed to go through the one real outcome in any given situation.

Today is Friday and I have two friends visiting doctors for completely different reasons. One of those appointments is a standard first OB appointment, and will likely yield no new information. Still, considering my history of several very early miscarriages (a history she shares) and one stillbirth, all things OB have the power to make me very nervous. The other appointment is with a neurosurgeon to check on Gladys (or the map, as I like to call her), the happy little resident deep inside of my friend.

So for today, I would like to ask permission to turn my imagination off. Thank you.

As expected, the OB appointment was the standard, waste of time first appointment. The brain doc appointment wasn't so bad either. Thanks for your thoughts and prayers for my friends.

in over my head

So what have I done now? I'll tell you.

My friend Mary joined in on a meme give away that she located over at Darlene's site. Being in touch with the adventurous side of my being of late (ha), I had the audacity to join the throng by being one of the first five to comment on Mary's post. Not only do I get some cool creation in the process, but I am burdened with the responsibility of offering my own wares to the first five commenters to this post.

Houston, we have a problem.

You see, I am NOT artistic. I must admit that my stick figures come really close to resembling figures made out of sticks, my photography skills have not improved since I was about 12, my painting skills are similar to those of Jackson Pollock without the talent - my splatters being more the result of tripping while carrying a paint can, and any other artistic skills being sporadic and uneven at best.

So, should you be generous enough to be one of the first five people who comment to this post, I can give you a few choices.

1. You could send me some guidelines (like preferred topic, or certain words to use), and I would craft you a homegrown mediocre poem which I could either email to you or actually pen (in my lopsided script) and send to you via snail mail.

2. I could twist together some bread ties into a convincing replica of a twisted bunch of bread ties.

3. I could attempt a photograph in which you would likely get a clear view of my finger or hair partially obscuring the lens.

4. I could get my eldest to make you something cool out of duct tape or gum wrappers.

And the only thing you have to do in order to receive this mighty gift is pay it forward. Yes indeed, you must add your link to the meme chain and offer five commenters to YOUR blog (or in your life, for those of you who are not bloggers) the gift of art, if only they pass it on.

See that, I just very expertly pushed the burden onto you. Ain't I sweet?

update

My friend who was in the hospital awaiting her babe's arrival (in hopes of it being a safe one) has given birth to a baby girl. Phew! One worry down, only a million to go (but two specific ones for this week).

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...la la la la la.....

fruitcake

sleeping with bread

So, tonight was the night that we took all of the kids Christmas shopping. Several years ago, after getting sick of wading through the piles of dollar store toys which the children purchased for each other every year, we got the bright idea of having them draw names. That way, each child only feels responsible for getting one of their siblings a present. Kids like it because it means they get a better present. Moms and Dads like it because it means less stuff to find a place for after the big day passes.

Making a trip to the store that includes everyone can be quite the experience. I was not looking forward to doing it during the Christmas rush. Amazingly, it turned out well for two major reasons – older kids and cell phones.

As we were driving home in the car, I began pondering which bread I wanted to use as my pillow this evening. A food network special solved this question for me – of course, it has to be fruitcake. Logically then, I simply must speak about connection. Okay, so maybe it isn’t a logical progression to the average soul, but I never claimed to be average.

Connection. While wandering the aisles of the store without children (again, thank you cell phones), I felt a very sure sense of connection. My husband and I got to spend some very rare weekday time together with each other – laughing at some items, frowning at others. One particular wall clock which was designed like a seat cushion gave us quite a few minutes of enjoyment. But, not only did I feel connected to him, I felt a very strong bond with my children who were in other aisles of the store. The little waves of hello when we happened to cross paths brought several smiles to my lips. It helped that everyone was actually behaving in a civilized fashion this evening (another rarity). I needed this.

For the past week I have felt very disconnected. I will not call it hopelessness because the one connection I did constantly feel was that between me and God. But, I have felt very separate from everyone and everything else. Some of that was undoubtedly due to being computerless. Still, I think it quite possible I would have been withdrawn for the week even without the technical difficulties. Contemplation creates a myriad of thought-words, but they are still in their infancy and must be sheltered from the external world. Observation jump-starts philosophical ponderings late into the night, but the keys on the keyboard remain untouched – the lips remain still.

God is speaking quietly into my heart. He whispers of mercy and grace – of my need to give myself a break. He murmurs to me reminders of the creative abilities He gave me, and He nudges me toward letting go of the notion that I must always follow the text so closely.

The last line of crocheted stitches connects to the first with a simple loop – full circle- disconnection becomes connection; solitude becomes union.

it ain't origami

I feel in need of haiku. How odd is that?

lights shining brightly
beckoning giving spirit
from stillness within

gentle quiet touch
of understanding the deep
hidden parts of me

bare branches reach out
silhouettes in the night sky
fingers touching God

whatever happened....

I'm not ignoring you...really! I'm just computerless at present.

Hope to be back soon!

burnt toast

In the explanation for sleeping with bread, the following quote jumps out at me today: “The examen, based on the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius, helps a person hold onto what spiritually nourishes him by looking at what is giving him consolation in his life or causing him desolation. It allows someone to express his gratitude to God for the good stuff and turn to him for solace for the bad stuff.”

Today, I need solace. There isn’t a lot of bad stuff, but I am in a very gray place. Therefore, since I neglected my bread until after 11 PM, and I almost forgot about it completely, I am going to follow a slightly different format today.

The bad stuff:

I can’t seem to get myself even remotely organized. I have been pathetic about homeschooling for several weeks in a row. I can’t seem to drum up the motivation to be a good teacher, and it takes just a slight blip in the normal routine of the day to completely throw off my ability to teach at all. I look around at the chaos which is my home – that which is supposed to be a safe haven and a place of peace – and my attention-deficit-ed brain can see no possible way of turning things around in a reasonable amount of time (a.k.a. less than 100 years). I am wimping out on teaching my kids responsibility because I am too emotionally exhausted. It has a lot to do with insomnia, I know. It probably has even more to do with the fact that I am focusing my eyes on the wrong place. Peter didn’t start sinking until he took his eyes off of Jesus.

One would think that such a graphic image would go a long way toward steering me away from the same path, but alas, I seem to be stuck in Romans (specifically Chapter 7 verses 14-24). Sometimes the cycle is longer than others. My forward progress seems to go for longer spurts between bouts of paralysis through disappointment in self.

The good stuff:

And then there is Romans 7:25, “Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!” I don’t feel it right now, but it has already happened. It was all accomplished long ago. I just need to reach out and take it.

Also, my close friend who is expecting is in the hospital. She has had two stillborn sons. I worry for her. She is almost 35 weeks, and being closely monitored. “What’s this?” you say, “That sounds like the bad stuff!” Nay, it is indeed the stuff of prayer and blessings. It would be the bad stuff if she weren’t being observed – if the sporadic bad spots the babe goes through had not made themselves clear in the presence of doctors. But they did, and she is being watched, and while that doesn’t always make me any less nervous, it is the best place she can be.

So many blessings fill my life that I can actually become accustomed to them, and even, at times, irritated by them. That’s the good stuff.

Evidence abounds that God is truly watching over those I love.

What better stuff can there be?

I am grateful.

I no longer fall into depression which has no hope. Depression may still come (and it does), and hope may be microscopic at times, but it is there. Even a pin-prick of light is evident in a darkened room.

God is good.

what's new pussycat?

Children are strange and wonderful. An excerpt from T's Christmas list follows:

1. The Lego Christmas train set (997 pieces, $178 - he's 5)

2. A Giant Ultra-blast Batman and a green hook-shooting Batman (any clue?)

3. A red truck with holes in the walls from Burger K1ng, but now they have Happy Feet (again, any clue?)

4. A red rubber elephant

5. A stuffed animal cow


Children are strange and wonderful. An excerpt from our day follows:

Me: We are going to have a creative day of school today. I want you guys to start thinking and planning out how you would like to make ornaments for the tree.

thinking and planning ensues

Me: Okay, now that you have thought about it, what supplies do you need from me?

small paper plates, cups, staples, tape, markers, crayons, and origami books make an entrance on the table

J: Mine is going to be an airplane.

T: Mine is you, Mommy. Can you draw the pupils?

R: Ho Ho give you Chrismus for you birfday! Me draw Ho Ho (her name for Santa).

M: I think I know what the partridge in the pear tree stands for in the song. I think it is about when Zacchaeus climbed the tree to see Jesus. I am going to make my ornament the first five days of Christmas. What does a partridge look like?

Me: That's a lot of birds!

M: Yeah, and I am not quite sure how to draw calling birds. Maybe I should draw sound waves coming out of their mouths.

S: The origami book only has ones which are more than one piece, and I don't want to tape it. So, I made the moon. The cow jumped over it, but he didn't get far (evil laugh).

N:

N, isn't really silent at this point, he is just at work, so I have no idea what he is saying



Children are sometimes a trial. Excerpt from our family trip to the warehouse store follows:

N,S,M,J,T,R: Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-m! Are you going go get this? Can we get this? Do we have any of this?

The Dear Hubster: Honey, do we have any of this? Can we get this? Boys, if Mommy says no, it means no. I asked!

Me: Insert long and ranting lecture here. Rewind and repeat.

Mothers are sometimes imperfect:

I really do need to remember to take God along with me when I travel. The patience I can muster when flying solo wouldn't cover a quick stop at the corner store. Note to self: Pack prayer, humor, and free-spiritedness into every nook and cranny before rising. Replenish as needed.

random acts of blogness

If you give a mom with ADD a muffin, an employee of the United States Postal Service will likely find it in the mailbox the next day (provided she is a U.S. mom). So too with the thoughts - a million little stories and ideas flit through the brain on an hourly basis. None of them stick around long enough for conflict resolution. Heck, some of them don’t even have the endurance to make it through character introduction. Considering the fact that I believe it is possible my memory is using all of its limited and valuable resources holding onto this potpourri of thoughts, I am going to spew them out on you lovely people in hopes of freeing up some disk space in the old brain.

the rolling chair of doom

Awhile back, we rearranged our office/den to make it more aesthetically pleasing. At first the venture was successful, but eventually (okay, in less than a month) the general messiness returned. But all is not right with the world.

We live in an old house – one of those old houses where you can’t find a truly square corner, where shims and creative molding are a common part of daily life.

My husband is about a foot taller than me, and although we have something like ten computers in this house if you count the laptops, he and I share a computer.

On the surface, it would appear that there would be no possible connection between repainting and rearranging our office, having an old house, and being shorter than my husband. Of course, I learned long ago that surfaces are often misleading.

The chair in the office is set to my husband’s height. I usually curl my legs up next to me or prop them on something anyway, and it is easier than remembering to reset the height on the chair. This means, of course, that my feet just barely brush the ground if I point my toes.

Before we moved things around in here, the desk was on the opposite side of the room. It works better this way except for one thing. Remember that “old house” comment? Old houses sometimes have floors which are less than level.

I have always known God has a sense of humor. After all, we are created in His image, and one of the things which sets us apart from the animal kingdom at large is our ability to find humor in life.

Sometimes, when I am sitting here typing, my chair decides to go on a voyage toward the center of the room. Remember the tall husband? I can’t just put my feet down. Occasionally, I try in vain to pull myself back into position by grabbing onto the desk. I don’t know why I do this. The desk just comes along for the ride.

If, perchance, I have just started getting into the swing of preparing a homeschool lesson, it is almost guaranteed that one of the youngest will attempt to climb onto the chair. I like to think of it as roller coaster training.


And now I’ve gone and stayed up too late to unload any of my other random thoughts.

oops

All that fuss I made when I hit 50 posts, and I didn't even raise a celebratory twinkie to the magic 100 when sleeping with bread. Woe is me.

I had intended to post something this evening (morning), but the day left before I got the chance.

As the DDR man says, "There's always a tomorrow!"

heels are our friends

sleeping with bread

In honor of Thanksgiving, I thought it appropriate to once again visit the realm of gratitude. Having a thankful heart is something which has importance every day, not just on a holiday. Even so, it isn’t always the easiest thing to do.

When pondering the question, “For what am I least grateful?” it occurs to me that there are two ways to be ungrateful. At times, that for which I am least grateful is something that I do not like or appreciate – a weakness or a flaw. Today, I will talk about the other side of the issue. Another way to be ungrateful is to take for granted a great blessing. The heels on the loaf are often eschewed, but without them, the end slices would soon become stale. There are elements to my life which are just as essential, just as useful, just as golden, but I don’t often remember that they are a gift to me.

This week, I have spent a lot of time reading, doing puzzles, and generally avoiding responsibility. I haven’t exactly been lying around doing nothing, but I have made sure to take “me time” whenever possible. I began to reflect on my earlier days of motherhood when I had three young children and the husband was working a lot. I couldn’t go anywhere alone. Every minute of the day was spent trying to maintain some level of sanity.

Now, I have three older children to help with the younger three. Now I can run to the grocery store to get milk without having to find six socks and six shoes (and three children). I am able to get the milk and stand in line without hearing screams of, “Mommy can I have ______?” You fill in the blank. I have this enormous blessing of children I can trust, if not to clean the house, at least to care for their siblings with love (or at least minimal abuse). And yet, how often do I look at those blessings and impart to them the true measure of my gratitude? Not often enough.

I have been guilty of taking them for granted, of being ungrateful for a blessed gift, of missing opportunities to let them know how much it means to me.

I have, however, been the most grateful for my children this week as well. Even though much that should be done has fallen by the wayside, I look at these precious monsters and feel awe and thankfulness that I get to be their mother. Each one of them is so unique and wonderful. They aren’t super-children by any means, but they are very much in touch with the something special that makes them who they are. I am grateful that God has given me the ability and desire to really know them as them – not merely as an extension of myself.

There will come a day, in all probability, where none of them live at home with us anymore. Our lives will take separate paths with meeting places along the way. Knowing them will serve me well when those days come.

those were the days

I am old enough to remember a series of Alka Seltzer commercials in which a severely uncomfortable individual would lament, "I can't believe I ate the whole thing!"

I can relate.

The strawberry shortcake is gone. S and I finished it off tonight. I shall miss it. I am glad I don't have to stare at it every time I open the fridge.

The turkey leftovers are gone now too. All of the leftovers disappeared just in time to allow me the opportunity to make soup.

Ah soup.

"patheticism"

What can one do when faced with a truly terrible set of words from word beads? Why, write a truly terrible limerick of course. This shouldn't even count since I added 's' to two of the words and only used half rhyme on the last line. Woe is me. Worms should be my daily diet.

There once was an ad-man stochastic
Testing slogans for waistbands elastic,
“Though ancient they be
Circumscription is free,
Acronyms merely subject to taxes.”

by the way, he got fired...

words for the week were as follows:
slogan
acronym
stochastic
ancient
circumscription

favorites

I am not a superstitious person, but I do have a favorite number. It stems back to my high school days, my first crush, and varsity jackets. That number is 1122. It always brings a smile to my face when I just happen to look at the clock, and that hour stares back at me. Such bliss, then, this evening when at 11:22 on 11/22, while putting the last bit of shortening into the pie crust batter, I was fortunate enough to look at the clock.

Do I for one moment believe that this will send good things my way? No. But I do think I will have a better day for it. My disposition, after all, is a rather strong influence on the way I look at those things which do occur.

So my hallway is full of paint cans and things I need to clean up. So the children have left collapsed cardboard boxes throughout the house which were not put away after their fort was disassembled. So my inlaws will likely be stopping by at some point in the early part of tomorrow. So I never got around to bathing the children, and two of them are sick. So what? I have a smile on my face because of some silly little number, and that will help me to remember to look at everything with the slightest touch of humor.

I can always throw the kids in an assembly line shower in the AM. I can toss a blanket over all of the offending mess and call it seasonal decoration. I can hand my father-in-law his homemade apple pie and be sure of getting compliments at least for that. And hey, if it really gets crazy around here, I can always reassemble the fort and hide inside of it until they go home.

And then it is off to my sister's, so I don't even have to cook. Give thanks.

zzzzzz

Okay, so I guess I killed my self-imposed goal of writing something daily. Yesterday was one of those days. Off in a foggy blah-world, I read some blogs, painted some trim, cooked some food, acted as a taxi, and basically felt a simmering sense of foreboding. When I get like that, I seem to have a complete inability to express myself in any way. I guess it's good, then, that I fell asleep on the couch before 11 PM (anyone who knows me will find this nothing short of miraculous). It would have been nice to make it to my bed, or at least have drowsed with pillow and blanket, but I'll take it.

Today, the pink one is coughing - not occasionally, but constantly. Sometimes it seems that the biggest thing my children learn in church is how to pick up cold germs. I guess this isn't that surprising since they are homeschooled, and Sundays are when they spend the largest amount of time closeted in a germ-breeding ground with their peers.

As you can probably tell, I still have nothing to write about, so I shall go pick up the paint brush and start on the second coat.

If you can’t untie a knot roll, you might as well eat it whole

Monday. Today is Monday. It is a day in which I am supposed to be accomplishing much. It is a gray afternoon with a chill in the air – the kind of day which is good for self-examination, or brooding.

When I started this whole sleeping with bread thing, I determined, at least for the first go-round, to work through each of the questions. I have made it through eight of them and only one is left – one I have been avoiding. It’s all about freedom. And when I ask myself when I have felt the most and least free, two definite pictures come to mind. The soul-flying freedom of running barefoot over grassy hillsides with a forest line looming and the sound of a gentle rocky stream in the distance is the picture of freedom. Imprisonment is represented by the image of a girl, sitting in a chair in the dark corner of a crowded room immobilized by her fears.

Fear. I have always been good at fear. Though I know in the deepest part of me that God is holding me in His protective shadow, fears persevere. Though I read and logically understand those scriptures dealing with fear, the words do not always reach beyond my logic and into my heart. Over the past week, I have felt the least free every time I have turned my back on those things I should do and say simply because of fear. One particularly silly example of this would be my messy closet. You see, it is the time of year when mice sometimes come into houses. Shortly after moving into this house, we discovered that mice had been an issue here for years. We got them under control, but there is fear.

The house we rented years ago in the country was so infested with mice that you could hear them running above the suspended ceiling every night; you could reach in the drawer for an oven mitt and startle a mouse from his acquisition of pot-holder fluff bedding. Let me clarify. I am not afraid of mice (though I don’t like them to be in my house). What I fear is something jumping out or moving suddenly when I am not expecting it. Couple this with the fact that no one in this house is neat, and clothing tends to be dropped onto the floor of the closet when knocked from the hangers while searching for something to wear, add in a dash of “we must save all cardboard boxes until we know the product functions well and we intend to keep it” and you get the breeding ground for fear. But then, sometimes I think I lean on my fear as a security blanket, a familiar friend, and an excuse to avoid responsibility.

Ironically, I chose this example out of fear as well. My other fears are too raw at the moment, and revealing them yields the fear of rejection. Even the silly mouse thing brings that about (and btw, we have only seen one mouse so far this year, and the cat took care of that). What will you think of me if you know that *gasp* rodents have been known to enter my house at some time in the past? And there, I suppose, is the core of the matter. I worry too much what people think. Chains that bind. Hindrance of freedom.

Late at night, as I prepare for sleep and hear the not so gentle snores of my husband, fears want to come at me. But, even though I am still so bound by my fears – both unrealistic and well-founded – I can see evidence that I have learned to rely more on God through the years. I can now sometimes speak up when I feel strongly about something. I can talk to people I do not know, but the evidence is never clearer than in the still hours of darkness. God gave me a husband who exudes a very certain aura of protection. God also gave me a small portion of wisdom. So, last night after I startled awake (having fallen asleep on the couch), when I climbed into my bed, I remembered the headphones. Music, sweet music, especially worship music has, over the past week, become a healing balm (even more than ever before).

When have I felt the most free? The answer is quite simple. Freedom - soul-soaring, sunlight-dappled, pastoral landscaped freedom - has reached out to me through the power of prayer and worship.

After all, God is bigger than the Bogey man.

withdrawal

I can feel it looming - the desire to withdraw into my shell and hide away from overwhelming feeling.

I am fighting against it by forcing myself to write daily, but I think I have identified the root cause this time.

I have a post brewing. Maybe it will end up being something I write only to myself. I am avoiding it. I have all sorts of good reasons for so doing, not the least of which is the snail's pace at which I type.

Why is it that there are times when I feel so separate and insecure?

Still, the letters bleed onto the page from the motion of my fingers - words with so little meaning and direction.

Tomorrow is Monday. I'm not ready for it. Still, I'll face it square in the face and attempt to do more than survive it.

A side note: The BJ's express lane is apparently labeled as such because the service is so slow that it gives you plenty of time to express your dissatisfaction.

A note from N on the whiteboard:
There are 10 types of people in the world, those who understand binary and those who don't.

See that, I managed an entirely ignorable post.

Taking a bow as the hook pulls me fiercely from the stage.

drivel

Bound and determined to do the word beads assignment, though I feel like writing absolutely nothing, I reach for a thread of ingenuity. Nothing. I can’t find the rhythm in my thoughts. Even recalling the dream I had last night yields no tidbits of interesting blogability. I guess I will have to admit it now; my completion of the assignment is inconceivable. So instead, I will open a vintage bottle of wine and sulk. Or I would, if I had any wine.

words for the week of Nov 12-18th (nothing like the last minute) were:
thread
dream
rhythm
vintage
inconceivable

brownies and brownie points

We never made the cake. It turned, instead, into a busy-ish evening of shopping for some and season-ending football party for others. Still, we managed to gather together for pre-made brownies as I re-introduced the children to their brother. We sang a rousing and intentionally off-key rendition of Happy Birthday then wrapped things up for the night.

In other news, my ability to tell my children that Arizona does not observe daylight savings time led to the following conversation (which will be filed under Useful Ammunition in the old memory books):

N: You only know that because you have an internet friend in Arizona.

M: No, Mom knows that because she knows EVERYTHING...just like our dad.

N: Nope, Mom knows everything. Dad just has a wireless earpiece so Mom can feed him the answers. Otherwise he would only be right 96.6% of the time.

T&J: Mom knows everything!

R: Yeah!

I can conveniently forget that they all laughed after that little interchange.

Thank you, God, that life carries on after loss.

nine years

I’m reading a book called The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. I haven’t decided whether I like it yet, but I do know it has been the catalyst for strong emotion on my part. Within the first two sentences, I found myself tensing up for the inevitable disaster. A woman, going into labor during a snowstorm, no good could come of this.

The axe fell – differently than I expected, but with at least as much heartache. I threw the book to the side and refused to pick it up again for a month. However, it kept calling to me. The other day, I picked it up again. Reading is going slowly. There are times when I find myself near tears. Other times I want to scream in anger. Still other times I just want to make one of the main characters understand. Don’t try to bury the grief! It needs to be lived!

Nine years, and grief changes. I was planning to write a post and have it ready at 12:01 AM. I slept through the hour. On November 17, at 12:01 AM in 1997, my precious Caleb was born asleep. He had died in my womb mere hours before. In that first week, grief was so searing that the slightest touch from “the real world” was like acid – fire to the soft tissue of emotion. That immediate all-consuming grief had to be set aside to care for my living children – mirrored, if you will, by the tossing of the book.

Over the first year, it seeped into every day with sudden pangs. The sight of a pregnant woman, running into someone I hadn’t seen for awhile, a TV commercial – anything really, could suddenly bring the same intensity to the surface. Mourning isn’t over because the world goes back to normal. Mourning doesn’t come to a halt because people who don’t understand think you are dwelling too long, nor should it.

As the years passed, the grief didn’t depart, it simply changed form. Less frequent are the times in which it is all-consuming. While I can still see that immense pain in my mind’s eye, I no longer feel it. That is not to say that pain doesn’t come. It sneaks up sometimes and takes me by surprise. It moves me to greater worry at times when those close to me are pregnant (as now). It gives me clarity and familiarity when someone else experiences a loss. It gives a depth to my being that might otherwise be absent.

But today, so far, I am not sad. A sweet melancholy of remembrance floods me. I choose to take today to remember the brief time we did have together. Will this keep me from sadness, this resolve? No. And if sadness wants to come to me, that is okay, and right, and I will welcome it.

As I looked through old pictures yesterday from before the digital age, a single photograph of Caleb fell out from among the rest. I don’t know how it got there. The rest of the photos and memorabilia are in a special memory box, pulled down when the need to touch the physical reminders of him is strong – dusty now.

Nine years, and I have changed. The eldest of my younger three has begun asking questions about the brother who died. It is strange to answer those questions with the benefit of elapsed time. I have only answered them before from the throes of tears in a hidden doorway. I have only explained while attempting to be strong in the midst of my own anguish.

Today, we will make a cake. We will sing Happy Birthday to a child who has wisdom greater than our own – a child who is no longer a child – a child who holds the hand of Jesus.

Happy Birthday Caleb – until we meet again.

the days of wine and roses

I remember when I used to work outside of the home. Granted, I barely remember it since I haven’t done it for sixteen years, but it’s still there in the dusty files toward the left corner of my right temporal lobe. I fired the housekeeper years ago during budget cuts. In those working days, I remember getting up and taking a shower then getting dressed and ready in a leisurely fashion.

Today, I was excited by the prospect of getting a shower. The husband was home, and I had grand illusions of actually de-griming at a snail’s pace. Laundry and childcare did get in the way of my schedule, but eventually I headed to the bathroom for a few minutes’ steamy solace.

Interruption #1 (husband): Knock knock knock?
Him: What are you doing?
Me: Taking a shower.
Him: (pause) Oh.

Interruption #2-#8
T: Mommy, what are you doing?
Me: Taking a shower.
T: Oh (sound of running sink water)

R: Hi mommy. What doin?
Me: Taking a shower.
R: Oh (continuing sound of running water)

T: Are you washing your hair?
Me: Yup
T: I’m playing with a boat.
Me: Oh

(sound of splashing water)

T: R, look, the car is trying to get the man.
R: My boat!

T: Let’s make bubbles.
R: Mommy, my shirt wet!

Dog: Woof (loosly translated: “Mommy, what are you doing?”)
Me: Now this is getting ridiculous.

R: Mommy, you naked.
Me: Yes honey, I usually am when I take a shower.
R: Oh.

I give up.

loose screw bin

Remember the saga of the keys? I was planning on posting last night a sequel to that journey. Instead, I opted to stay up much too late IMing with two dear friends. Just as I sat down to write today, the husband came home from work, at 10 in the morning. It appears he got today and tomorrow off to compensate for working so many hours last week. He wouldn’t have had to go in today if someone had remembered to email him that the meeting was cancelled, but heck, everyone likes to spend three hours on the train for no reason, don’t they? Anyway, since he tends to frown upon me spending my time doing such frivolous things as typing drivel into the computer when there are 37 or so loads of laundry waiting to be done, I figured I’d put it off until later.

We all know that when a story first pops into the head it is usually in perfect form. It itches to be told. However, the longer something like that is tabled, the less entertaining it seems. I am having trouble mustering energy to post.

Tease!

Yeah, that’s been a problem of mine for years. Now I feel I have to go through with it just because I mentioned it. Simply to assuage the arguments raging in my brain, I will comply, but only as a snippet. There’s far too much other random nonsense floating around in my imagination to concentrate solely on one subject (this could most likely be translated as, “Have you ever been checked for adult ADD?”).

So anyway, those keys:

Yesterday, I was trying to run out the door to go to my mother’s house with the kids. When it isn’t football or baseball season, we try to get over there on a weekly basis. I may have been procrastinating a bit since I knew she wanted us to help her move living room furniture (to see how it looked). I have a feeling we will be doing that for the next several visits. I noticed my keys had fallen deep into the bag I use as a diaper bag/purse/assorted carry-all. I decided that it would be best to remove them from this precarious location so as not to have a repeat of the key incident. My family never lets go of an old joke, you see. I placed the keys on top of the bag (or thought I did), but was then reminded of something else I had to do before leaving. Once all of the children were shod and jacketed, I returned to the bag. I carried it past my husband and S into the dining room. As I set it down on the table, I muttered, “Where are my keys?” to the delight of everyone. S and the dh seemed particularly entertained by my predicament.

As I retraced my steps, almost positive of where I had left them, S could barely contain his giggles. It was around this time that I connected with the more astute side of my being (a side which has been in hiding for some few weeks now). They were laughing just a little too hard. Yes, you guessed it. S had taken my keys and was hiding them about his person with my husband’s full knowledge and cooperation. I ask you, is that a fair and loving thing to do a woman approaching middle age?

Other nonsense:

I find myself wondering if the dog has a brain tumor. Basically, I might as well stop wondering. If it is that which is causing the seizures and not epilepsy, I will only find out by him passing away. The husband is not of a mind to do a CAT scan or MRI on a dog. Most likely he has just been finding new ways to throw his medicine up after swallowing, but the seizure activity has increased substantially lately. If I call the vet about it, they will just increase the meds. I honestly don’t think that will do the trick, since he seems to have seizures in clusters no matter what the level (he was on higher levels last year ).

Will my voice be strong enough to teach the children over the sounds of construction tomorrow (the side benefit of my man being home)? Will the force of my personality be strong enough to keep them focused when there is something interesting going on? Okay, I can answer that one in the negative. These kids of mine can be distracted by a commercial for genital herpes medication; there’s no way I will get 100% of them when Dad is home.

Will I remember my priorities and spend my typing time designing an official looking transcript for S tomorrow instead of satisfying my basic social needs? Nah, I doubt it – especially since it is still in the procrastinatable stage (for another 24 hours at least).

Will Batman and Robin get free from the swinging pendulum of fire? Will the Joker and Catwoman put an end to our dynamic duo once and for all? Tune in tomorrow: same bat time, same bat channel….

the whole loaf

Sleeping with Bread

Sometimes adolescence seems like nothing more than a futile search for connectedness. The entire goal in life is to find others whose magnets attract our own. After marriage and family, the need for connectedness is just as strong.

Connection is also something you don’t always realize you have until it is gone. Over the past two weeks, this bronchitis has made me much less present than I would normally be. Every moment, I felt separate from everything that was going on around me. People could interact with me, and I would just foggily stare (most likely with mouth agape and required drool). I can honestly say that I felt less than connected to the family as a whole. I was glad that no one else was suffering with me, but I felt very much like I was just a member of the audience.

And yet…

Yes, it is true, family is stronger than Kleenex. Even though I felt separate, I was still Mom. I remained Wife. My family didn’t turn their backs on me simply because I was physically and emotionally incapable of being the entire person I usually am. Connections didn’t cease.

Sometimes, when we are going through hardship and feel disconnected, when some major trial pushes us to the outer edges of humanity and we feel like an observer of the world instead of a participant, we believe we have no connection. That lie often speaks to us in our sorrow.

And yet…

God the father looks upon us with arms outstretched. We are still Child.

It’s too bad we are often so fond of shoving cotton in our ears.

dank yew bewy mush

Today I am thankful for a nose that cannot smell.

Why, you might ask?

1. Cat killed bird and left it on the back porch as a present to mama.

2. No one else stepped up to the plate.

3. I have been too tired to wash anything in the kitchen all weekend.

4. No one else stepped up to the plate.

5. Not all children in this house are potty trained.

6. Said children’s bowels have had very productive weekends.

7. No one else stepped up to the plate.

8. Dog has had four seizures in the last 36 hours (which are accompanied by loss of bowel and bladder control and a very special seizure smell).

9. No one else stepped up to the plate.

10. I…ummm…left clothes in the washer all weekend again…

11. Yeah, you know….


Methinks I should take advantage of this situation and clean with bleach (something I normally can’t do because of my odor sensitivities). Then again, that would require energy which I do not have.

By the way, if anyone wants to volunteer to come do about sixteen loads of laundry, wash three loads of dishes, and homeschool my children tomorrow, I am accepting applications. I’ll happily sign over my normal paycheck to you in compensation.

what’s in a name?

a “who am I” in disguise.

I almost signed my name on a comment today. I do it regularly. You might ask why I am so adamantly opposed to letting my name spill forth upon the page. You might not. Perhaps you assume that it is due to privacy and all that jazz. I suppose that would, in part, be true.

My name is hardly common. If I did say my name, even without stating a location, I would be easier to find than your average Jane Doe. I don’t really care for my own privacy in that way. Heck, being stalked might add a little variety to my life (yes I AM kidding), but I do want to protect the privacy of my kids and my family. Privacy of another form might come into play, though.

The nature of the blogbeast is such that one can sway easily between spouting silliness and revealing some of the deepest concerns of the heart – sometimes even those that would not easily be shared with the people who cohabitate. Anonymity makes confession that much easier. The curtain of the confessional, the pseudonym given to the advice columnist, the slightly drunken revelations to the tender of the bar – all of these attest to that fact.

So, while I might not mention my name herein, I do reveal at least a portion of the truth about me, who and what I am. And yet, intentionally at times and others quite by accident, there are large voids left in the picture – A Rembrandt self-portrait missing more than just an ear.

My dear cyber-friend Mary recently answered a “who am I” challenge. Forgive me for forgetting where she originally found the challenge and for not looking up the actual post. My lucidity at the moment is tenuous at best and I fear a search for those facts might send me right back into my muddle-headed stupor. I had averred at the time that I thought I might accept that challenge. Then, as is so often the case, I procrastinated. Considering the length of these introductory words, you might note that I am still procrastinating to a great degree.

Ah tangents! This makes me wonder if I should take the procrastination as a sign that I should perhaps refrain from turning this into a post about who I am. Maybe I should continue to hide behind my veil of secrecy and leave my enigmatic image the only one you will see. Or maybe not.

I am who I am. A mother first some might say. I am not sure that has been true lately.

The past in me, the part which communes with nature (and can be felt if you listen to the Rich Mullins song “The Color Green” - lyrics below), is a very major part of who I am on the inside, even though the closest I come to communing with nature these days is to accidentally catch a glimpse of the sunset while picking up doggy landmines.

The desire to play with words and have intelligent or trivial conversations with people I care about through the written word – this is a major part of me. This is also a part that is at least moderately satisfied through the internet since my dear husband is not a lover of the written word.

The small child within, holding her arms out to a world and wanting to find comfort, is a slice of my psyche. It is a sliver I fight against since I know that the void I am seeking to fill can truly only be filled by God. And yet, He created me with this longing to touch and be touched on a deeper level.

The woman who consciously closes the door to strong emotion to keep from feeling broken-hearted over the loss of deep passion once upon a time, the woman who chooses to feel content with stability and familiarity, she is part of me as well.

The crazy kid who wants to splatter-paint walls and run off to other states and countries on the spur of the moment, she is also me, but I don’t let her come out and play anymore – too many people are depending on me to be the grown-up.

The part of me who reached out long ago to a God who had been reaching out to me for much longer is perhaps the very definition of me. And yet, to many, that would bring about a very narrow image. No creature of God is simple. If you doubt that, try to name and number every variety of insect you have ever seen; stop and notice the differences in two trees of the same name; examine the lines on the knuckles of every person you meet this week. Such detail goes deeper than the skin.

Who am I? I am a graceful tree, a roly-poly bug, a three-toed sloth, and (according to one silly internet quiz) an angry spork-flinging plaid wildebeest. I am the part of me inside of you.



*those lyrics

The Color Green by Rich Mullins

And the moon is a sliver of silver
Like a shaving that fell on the floor of a Carpenter's shop
And every house must have it's builder
And I awoke in the house of God
Where the windows are mornings and evenings
Stretched from the sun
Across the sky north to south
And on my way to early meeting
I heard the rocks crying out
I heard the rocks crying out

Be praised for all Your tenderness by these works of Your hands
Suns that rise and rains that fall to bless and bring to life Your land
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that You have made
Blue for the sky and the color green that fills these fields with praise

And the wrens have returned and they're nesting
In the hollow of that oak where his heart once had been
And he lifts up his arms in a blessing for being born again
And the streams are all swollen with winter
Winter unfrozen and free to run away now
And I'm amazed when I remember
Who it was that built this house
And with the rocks I cry out

Be praised for all Your tenderness by these works of Your hands
Suns that rise and rains that fall to bless and bring to life Your land
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that You have made
Blue for the sky and the color green

Be praised for all Your tenderness by these works of Your hands
Suns that rise and rains that fall to bless and bring to life Your land
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that You have made
Blue for the sky and the color green that fills these fields with praise

dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones

Just a quick health update:

I do have bronchitis which might explain my inability to concentrate and exert energy.

The follow-up with the rheumatologist was yesterday and the MRI showed no actual joint damage, but plenty of tendon inflammation on just about every tendon in my foot and ankle. He couldn't give me a definite on what is causing this, but has narrowed it down to about five possibilities. So, I get to go on long term meds and go back in February.

On a completely unrelated note, I know it's warm today, but I saw a guy riding his Harley down a major road in nothing but shorts and a helmet (yes, he was barefoot). I guess he is trying to get that last bit of tanning in before winter arrives....

pilfering

Yes, I am "borrowing" ideas from Mary yet again. This one is called "word beads," and the assignment is to string together five words into a sentence, paragraph, story, or poem - just like she did here. The words were as follows:
Steal, Ghetto, Myrtle, Unregulated, and Ligament. My humble attempt follows.

External Beauty

The trailing myrtle vines
of your tenuous control
over me
wind slowly

Designed to steal the rhythm
of my heart
and leave nothing
but unregulated pulsing

My injured soul is left
a ghetto
where hope and protection
are but a myth

The ligament binding us
knows nothing of truth
or love
only manipulation.

general bee-fuddlement

Being the good mom, I took N to work today, as usual. It is absolutely gorgeous outside today (70-ish, sunny, and bright), so I had both windows open. As I stopped at a stoplight, I looked to the side and noticed a yellow-jacket, lured from his nest by the warmth, walking along the rim of the car window. I reached for the window controls, but too late.

Sir Wasp continued into the car and made the short flight to the steering wheel. I continued driving, keeping one eye on the road, and one on those stinging hindquarters. He (or she, more likely) made the circuit of the steering wheel then began exploring the back side just out of my sightline.

Knowing that my trip was a relatively short one, I decided to continue on, but I steadfastly kept my hand in the exact same spot on the wheel – determined to make one-handed turns if need be. As I neared the house, the wasp was inexplicably lured to the shininess of my keys, dangling from the ignition. Hmmmm, if I waited him out and just sat in the car until he moved, how long would it be before I could enter the house? Would he wear me down?

He hopped back onto the steering wheel. At this point, I began tapping the wheel with the key about an inch behind him in an attempt to lead him toward the open door of the car. My theory was that I would rather deal with it at the time then re-enter the car later with no clear idea of where he might be hiding. My plan was going well too until he decided to turn around and climb onto the key which was tapping.

“Aha!” thought I. “Now I may exit the car and set him free to roam the colored leaves!”

It couldn’t be so simple. He began crawling toward my hand on the extended key. Fortunately, when I reflexively launched the keys into the air, they came to rest on the street just outside the door.

When last I saw him, Sir Wasp was walking up the street. I couldn’t tell if his thumb was outstretched in search of a ride back home.

all things me-ish

And, shamelessly stolen from jouette

I am: careful to always remain at least slightly enigmatical
I miss: the carefree passion of youth
I long: to touch the deeper side of myself and to be the kind of parent/wife/person I know I can be
I wish: I could muster the slightest bit of motivation
I feel: extremely disjointed
I drove: my husband up the wall for the 6,276th consecutive day today
I want: a personal chef, maid service, and tutorial team for a month who will promptly cease to exist in the natural world after servicing me and mine so they will never be able to tell anyone just how sloppy and disorganized I really am.
I fear: many of those in my life would stop liking me if they REALLY knew me
I might: someday actually attempt publication
I discussed: a secret with my BFF
I am excited for: that secret
I am sad to: say that I still haven’t found any motivation even though my logical mind can point out at least 3,000 reasons I should have it
I like: reality TV, reading, and spending quiet time near trees
I plan: every conversation and action out in my head before having it/doing it, but rarely do anything according to those plans when the time comes
I disregarded: the alarm clock this morning
I witnessed: several armed robberies in my lifetime
I enjoy: reading blogs, reasearching miscellaneous tidbits of information on the net, and hugging my children.
I hate: concise and unfair judgment based upon a small amount of information
I played: spider solitaire for far too many hours on more than one occasion
I love: the feel of early autumn and mid springtime on the closed-eye cheeks of memory
I went: hiking around a local reservoir under the starry sky with someone special many times in my youth
I will: learn to forgive myself for being less than perfect
I kiss: warm bellies every night at bedtime
I have: more blessings than I deserve
I did: this exercise during an hour when both my kids and husband were at home and awake, and I don’t even feel guilty for it!

pillow talk

There is a picture hanging on the wall of my daughter's room. The amazing thing about this picture is that my mother had it for quite some time and decided to give it to me when I had a girl. It is a picture of a little girl holding a basket of flowers and standing in the middle of a wildflower field. She looks just like my daughter - so much so that it is eerie.

Tonight, after the bedtime song was sung (she only got one song tonight, but it was the essential "Jesus Loves Me" complete with signing, so she didn't throw too much of a fit), we had the following conversation:

R: Dis my woom?

Me: yes, this is your room.

R: You wike my woom?

Me: Yes I do.

R: Me wike my woom! Dat my picshur.

Me: Yes it is.

R: Dat my me in picshur. Me pwincess. Me have big fwowers. My pick fwowers for me mommy.

I can't say I've ever enjoyed the gift of flowers quite so much before.

lumpy drop biscuits

I’m going to attempt to reach the deeper aspects of thought today through sleeping with bread, but I cannot promise success. I am still experiencing great muddle-headedness. My husband would say, “Yes, and the difference would be?”

Perhaps today is the perfect day to examine times when I have felt whole and those in which I have known myself to be fragmented. Taking a cue from Mary’s SWB post, I am not going to restrict myself simply to the past week for this one.

As far as fragmentation, I would have to award a tie for first place. The two times in my life that have caused me to stop and view the pieces of myself strewn across eternities were both major influences on my life and who I have become. They both involved loss: the heart-wrenching loss of control when someone I cared about was hurting, and the unimaginable pain of losing my son.

When the man I loved went through trauma many years ago, as I watched it happen, not knowing what to do, terrified that I was simply making mistake after mistake, the pain I felt for him tore my soul into kite ribbons and sent them flying in a gale. Nothing I had experienced up to that point in my life had ever made me so fully dependent upon God – nothing else was left to lean on. Yet, ironically, I also turned away from acting in a godly fashion even as I relied completely on His strength to keep my naked soul in His incubating warmth.

When my son died mere hours before he was born, I needed the knowledge of that earlier loss to help me understand I could survive. I needed the cries and requirements of my living children to pull the few remaining shards of my broken self together. I needed the arms of God to help me know He cried with me and for me, and I was not alone – that no matter how far the fragments were scattered, they were all within His grasp. It was a time that had to be stepped through from second to second – anything longer was too great a burden to bear. Gradually, those seconds stretched into moments, hours, days, and eventually years. Many of the pieces returned to me in different form than they had existed before, but somehow the puzzle still fit together.

Wholeness, strangely, has also come to me through loss, but loss of a different kind. My body was swollen with the impending reality of my first child. When I lost him as a part of me, and he became fully himself, the moment he emerged from me, and I was a parent for the very first time, I felt more whole than I had ever felt in my life. Suddenly I saw the nature of things with a clarity alien to this temporal world. I inhaled the knowledge that I had aligned with my purpose. I knew love like I had never known love – more deeply understood the enormity of God’s love for me. Isn’t that what it means to be whole?

What I need to take away from this self-study today is a reminder to never take the great gift of love I have been given for granted. Every breath, every smile, every pair of grumpy eyebrows is a lesson, is a touch, is a visceral reminder of the astounding uniqueness that is my life.

evil, wicked, mean, and nasty

That's what I tell my kids I am every time they complain about me saying, "No."

But right now, I really am. I have a cold which I thought was the tail end of a different cold, but it looks like the dang thing had a chance to mutate or we picked up another one. I guess we are making up for the fact that last year was a pretty healthy one.

Evidence of meanness: I felt like walking out on my poor, dear husband simply because he gave me a look. You know the looks. This was one of the "You are blowing things out of proportion. Get a handle on yourself" looks. I hate that look - especially when I can very clearly and logically reason out why I am acting a certain way. Then again, cold logic is not always so reasonable.

Since I have the typical muddle-headedness that comes with clogged sinuses and reduced oxygen intake, I am going to stop writing. Lord knows what might make its way to the page in my current state.

mixed feelings

Football is over for the season. We lost tonight, taking us out of the playoffs. Unfortunately, the game was colored by some severely bad calls on the part of the officials, but I really think we probably would have lost anyway.

Part of me is sad about the loss, but(dare I admit it?) another part is breathing an enormous sigh of relief. Our schedule has been insane lately. It will be nice to have one less thing to worry about. Still, even though it means warmer fingers and toes, I feel guilty. Then again, I've always been extra good at guilt.

Could you pass the hot chocolate, please?

the incredible speaking woman

When will I learn to check for ingredients BEFORE starting a recipe? Obviously I didn't learn it today as I had to run out to the store mid-muffin making for milk (try saying that five times fast). As I placed the milk into my cart, a rapidly speaking woman began talking in my general direction about her hopes for having enough money to pay for her groceries. Here I had another "I should have known better" moment when I said with a smile, "You should never go grocery shopping hungry!"

I was rewarded with the following (at speeds formerly unattainable by human lips):

"I am hungry too, I was just thinking that I was going to go home and eat all of this at one time. Do you do that too? Do you want to go home and eat everything when you go to the store hungry? That's really funny. I shouldn't go shopping hungry. I remember one time I was so hungry..."

At this point, having finished my shopping, I did start to walk away. Obviously, she didn't need me for the conversation as it continued even after I was out of her sight and standing in line. A few minutes later, she was standing behind me in line. The monologue continued.

Due to the unfortunate fact that the cashier rang something up wrong and keys were needed to process a void, I got to learn much more. She apparently has such a great fondness for Suburban ginger ale that she has been out shopping for it at 3 AM. I wasn't aware that they had changed the labels. I learned the inner workings of her life with husband. I learned that she is afraid to drive on the roads in Los Angeles (which will serve me well next time I travel cross-country with her). I learned that she is sicker to her stomach than she ever remembers being and has been throwing up all day (oh joy, thank you for breathing all over me).

And now I draw a blank and have no clue how to end this post.

Hit delete!

No!

You'll be sorry!

I'm always sorry.

Well fine then!

Pfffft!

shiver me timbers

What is it about aging which makes you feel colder in fall and winter and hotter in spring and summer than when you were a kid? I guess it has to be circulation. It couldn't have anything to do with lack of insulating body fat since I have MORE of that now.

Why does it matter? Well, it is supposed to be in the low 30s around here Saturday night. The boy's game doesn't start until 8PM. I don't know what made me think I was unselfish enough for this mothering gig!

chemistry 101

You know those days where you find yourself rummaging through the medicine cabinet in search of just the right combination of drugs that would knock the kids out without harming them - as a preemptive measure to prevent anyone from serving time for causing vicious bodily damage? Yeah, one of those. But, just as I unearthed the goggles and lovingly fondled my mortar and pestle, things improved. Okay, so my house looks like the aftermath of a tsunami, but there’s nothing unique about that.

I often swear I am going to videotape some of these horrendously noisy, bicker filled days. I know a time will come where things will be so quiet around here that I will miss even that craziness. Besides, I am sure there would be humor involved after enough time had passed.

Recently, the dear husband was transferring some of our family videos to the computer. He happened upon one Christmas. You see, several years ago (like 10), we gave up the practice of trying to get group shots of our kids. There is a comedic tale of a busy photographer, a pregnant mom with three young boys, and a wobbly table leg behind this decision. It wasn’t very funny at the time. For a few years after that experience, we would take a few minutes of video of the kids in hopes of getting one frame to capture in which all of the kidlets were at least looking in the same direction. This particular video was one of those from way back in the days when we just had four. It goes on for about 15 minutes. It is a comedy of errors. I make the girl scout promise that there was not one single frame in those entire fifteen minutes which bore an acceptable image.

For some reason, I have been toying with the idea of actually attempting a professional group shot of them all this year. Perhaps it is because my oldest is getting so close to the age of fleeing the nest. Perhaps I am growing weak from constant mother-in-law nagging about the fact that she has pictures of all of her step children and grandchildren, but no recent ones of us. Perhaps I drank too much lead-filled city water.

Speaking of water, what is wrong with my cat? And where can I find slides for the microscope? These things are related, you know. We forgot to close the pool this year. I am not sure that is really the right term, since the pool has seen better days, and it is possible we are just going to rip the thing down and replace it. Right now, it is filled with lovely dark green water. My cat, who will not drink from his own water bowl, gingerly climbs down the ladder and drinks from this slimy reservoir of single-celled life. Still, I’m not about to empty the thing when I have a child who is taking Biology this year – thus the need for slides.

And of course, biology leads into chemistry, which brings us back to where we started – all tangents excused.

crispy crusts and melted butter

sleeping with bread

The crust of French bread – so deliciously crispy – is completely foreign when compared to the soft warmth inside. People can be like that too. While all appearances from the outside show a cohesive and firm resolve, the center is tender and vulnerable. The butter of experience soaks into the pores of the innermost being.

From the outside, I am the least like myself. The way circumstances lead me to act is often contrary to my basic nature. Parenting is a good example of this. Over the last week, I have had several whiny children. Mild sickness tends to bring that aspect forth. The firm and decisive crust I exhibit when faced with the tantrums of a three or five year old does not come naturally to me. I am basically non-confrontational. I look at all sides of a coin and understand the motivations behind certain unacceptable behaviors. If I weren’t in the role of disciplinarian, I would likely reach out and be a shoulder to cry upon. As it stands, I know I must be firm, and somehow, God grants me the strength to do it. Sometimes, I choose not to rely on that strength, and I come to regret it. Sometimes, I resort to using the strength of anger to fuel my discipline, and that, while it reflects a side of who I am, is not who I want to be.

Perhaps the times I feel most myself, then, are pretty evident. When the discipline is over, when the crying has stopped, my children come to me for comfort. It is in those quiet teaching moments that I touch base with the doughy interior - that I soak up their love, their cares, their insecurities, and reciprocate with warm, gooey goodness. It is in the seconds of explaining the whys that I become most truly myself. Touch – it’s who I am, who God made me to be.

don't you hate it when:

...you are wearing laced shoes and you get an itch on your foot that you can't reach even with the aid of a really long pencil?

...it rains really hard Friday night into Saturday and your rec football game is rescheduled for 7 PM on a very windy and chilly Sunday evening?

...all of the toy companies start airing their Christmas commercials?

...a little person asks for a drink the minute you sit down, and you know the container is too full for them to get it without your help?

...you think you are finally about to catch up on laundry only to discover another full hamper hiding behind the bedroom door?

...a drink spills in the refrigerator, and it just happens to be sitting on the same shelf as the lettuce, celery, and carrots?

...your five year old suddenly decides to start chewing on his shirts?

...your husband kindly volunteers to announce for a youth cheerleading competition leaving you alone to make sure several kids get to different places at approximately the same time?

...you go to put laundry away and realize that everything is not going to fit until you purge those things which are no longer in season/no longer fit?

...you start a blog entry that never gets very interesting, but you can't seem to end it?

the cone of silence

DH: How old is your mother?

Me: 66

DH: How long have you known me?

Me: 22 years.

DH: Which made your mother how old when you met me?

Me: Duh, 44.

DH:

Me:

DH:

Me: Oh my goodness, that's how old you are now!

There's just something wild about that fact.

the page is still blank

Sometimes it is so frustrating that no matter how long you stare at a blank page waiting for the ideas to come, nothing magically appears there. When I was in college, we would have writing assignments for poetry. This would be part of the reason I dropped out of college. I always accomplished the task at hand. I always did a relatively passable job of it, but something was lost in the process. I felt sort of like many bi-polar people must feel when they are medicated. It was all technique and not much of that deeper part of me which felt driven to write.

Since that time, I have never been able to fully recapture the drive I had before college. I write much less often. Granted, most of what I wrote before that time was drivel, with a few gems hiding in the rot pile. Now, if I don’t seem to be putting my finger on what I am trying to say in a way that I deem worthy, I am much more likely to abandon the project. The up side to this whole thing is that there are less horrible poems lying around that I cannot throw away. There is a down side though. The writing itself was therapeutic. Getting the emotions out through my words helped me not to tuck them into deep pockets of my mind where they would subtly affect every aspect of my life. Then again, I was a pretty depressed creature back then. Perhaps the writing just kept me from going over the edge of depressed into the realm of suicidal.

Now I sit and look at the page and wish that I could be a storyteller today. Things have happened which, at the time, gave me comic or angst-ridden inspiration, but I don’t seem able to hold onto the thoughts long enough to set them in print. I would suspect that I accidentally swept them away while cleaning, except that I haven’t managed to do much of that either. In fact, I still have the same darn load of clothes in the washer that I put there on Tuesday. I guess I should go wash them again.

oh cruel irony

So, I put that dang word verification thingie back on, and what does it do to me to repay the favor? I get nine letters to enter in order to comment on my own blog. I ask you, did I really deserve such a fate? :)

thought

In the still hours of nighttime,
I look into the depth of myself
and see so many thoughts and feelings
that I can never express aloud.

Hurtful things live
in the corners of darker shadow.
Hurting things hide deeper still.

I walked outside and saw stars in the city sky –
a rare thing indeed.

The illumination in my soul
is no brighter than those stars –
casting only slight touches of
less than dark
about each introspective glance.

Knowing the thoughts sets me free from them,
perhaps,
and allows me to walk closer to the one
who sees the deepest shadows.

eek eek eek

N will officially be 16 in two minutes! Eeeeeeeek! Hold on, hold on, I can put off my freaking for another hour and a half if I think of it as his actual birth hour. If all goes well, I could be asleep by then and wait to deal with this until tomorrow....

Eeeeek!

(I just discovered the time stamp on these posts is wrong by about 7 minutes. How odd)

will i ever learn?

How incredibly naive I can be. When I saw J playing with his new build-a-bear koala complete with baseball uniform, why oh why did I make a suggestion? Suggestions go astray so easily. It seemed harmless enough, "Maybe the next time the paper towel roll is empty, you can use it to make him a baseball bat."

You can see it coming already.

J: "Mom, when I went in the kitchen, there was a puddle of water on the floor. I didn't see it so I slipped. I went round and round and then fell down. When I got back up, I could see it, so I cleaned it up, but there are no more paper towels."

Me: "That was almost a new roll of towels on there!"

J: "It was a really big puddle."

And to think, I was just sitting here ready to post about the advent of new technologies and my normal gratitude for the increased absorbancy of disposable diapers and pull-ups. I say normally because at this moment, there is a nice little pile of non-sweepable gel granules in my upstairs hallway (what happens when corner of door repeatedly meets discarded sodden pull-up device). I really do need to hire someone to come do some potty training around here, then I can use those leftover pull-ups for more important things - like cleaning up really big puddles.

when all you have are breadcrumbs

Why does it have to be Monday? Here I was, all set to be grumpy and mean, and I suddenly remembered sleeping with bread. I don’t feel like sleeping with bread. In fact, this morning, I was so full of general malaise, that all I felt like doing was sitting in a hot tub with a flotation device to allow sleeping without drowning. I need a vacation. I guess that makes it only fitting that I choose to examine when during the past week I have felt most alive and been most drained of life.

For the past two days, I have been so drained that they would have to qualify for this exercise. I am irritated by everything, stemming most likely from sheer exhaustion. Between football, a birthday party, a missed day of church, having two extra boys here for the weekend, and feeling guilty about forgetting to ever get out those birthday invitations (resulting in a low attendance kind of day), I am just frustrated with myself and everything in general. You would think after seventeen years of marriage, the dh would learn to recognize the signs of that mood in me, and work toward smoothing the road.

I am purposefully being vague about the details of all the various grump-inducers. Were I to go into any kind of detail, I would likely be carried away on the waves of my passion. Misery loves company and all that. But I know I need to keep myself from reflecting on the negative side of things, or I will stay in this mood far longer than is needed. I have likely already done so.

With all of my attitudinal issues this weekend, I dreaded opening up a bread post. I knew I would have to seek also the positive side of the coin. When I get into a certain stage of irritation, I seem to find a comfort in it. I have no great desire to look beyond it. I want to just be able to tell someone all that I am thinking and feeling and going through, and receive in return sympathy and understanding. I need instead to learn to let go of the irritation without sharing it.

During the past week, I felt the most alive while looking through old photos on the computer. Remembering does that to me. Images from the past bring back the sights, sounds, smells – the warmth of embraces long past. Even though I avoid the camera like the plague, I remember myself in the situations and recognize that I am still a separate me along with being mom. I am thankful for the huge storehouse of memories these beautiful children have provided me. I am grateful for the amount of ammunition my mother and I give them all for their later comedic storytelling as they grow and take over that responsibility from their father. I am glad to be alive and need to let myself live more fully.

I don’t feel it yet, but perhaps all I need to do is go look at some more pictures…