thankful

Living,
Breathing,
Cackles,
Groans,
Rivalry,
“m-o-o-o-o-ms”

The fact that I can’t even finish a list of thanks because the act of appearing to do anything for myself immediately draws all children under the age of 13 (which is only three of them, but still).

The fact that I listed that as something for which I am thankful even though it often pulls me straight to the brink of sanity.

In everything, give thanks.

combined influences may be hazardous to your health

Last Sunday, the pink one came home from church with a Noah’s Ark associated craft and various flashcards with different animals on them. Earlier this week, she could be found curled up against her father watching the closing few minutes of Rocky Balboa. On the surface, these two things might not be related, but be warned. Your five year old, when exposed to these influences may begin asking multitudinous questions about death and cemeteries. She also might be inclined to make up interesting flashcard games. What begins as a simple flashcard memory game might turn into the following musical:

Setting: The pig card stands before the assembled animal council near the entrance to the ark.

Pig: I came back because you missed me, missed me.

Other animals (chanting): Missed me, missed me, missed me….

Pig: I was sad because my mommy died.

Other animals: She died, she died.

Pig: But now I have a new mom, and she’s cool, and she’s a robot…a robot.

Other animals: Robot pig, robot pig…

I am sorry to say I missed the closing scenes as it was at this point that I had to quickly excuse myself from the room.

eighteen days

Just eighteen days…

You came out kicking. It was the strangest sensation to feel you pushing your way out of me so fiercely after taking your sweet time working your way down the birth canal. You let me push for two hours before you got frustrated with me and took matters into your own hands (or feet as the case may be). You have always had that fiery independent streak (and the habit of ‘humoring’ me).

I have watched you grow – have been astounded by the beauty of your greatest strengths – have been saddened by the lingering nature of some of your greatest weaknesses. You certainly inherited the best and worst of both your father and me. I can’t decide which frustrates me more. But overall, I am so very proud of you.

In a moment, the gift God gave through His Son was made more tangible to me – the very moment of your arrival in the world.

Some of the subsequent days took eons to elapse - perhaps most notably those days filled with colic, temper tantrums, and natural investigative curiosity. But suddenly, I look back and you are no longer behind me or looking up to me as you hold my hand. You still hold my hand from time to time, but I look up to you as I struggle to keep up with your rapid pace. Suddenly you have a driver’s license, business cards, a college I.D., and a voter’s identification card. Suddenly you are about to be…

Eighteen.

raisin bread

Gosh, it’s been awhile since I slept with bread. I wasn’t even sure I remembered how to do it until I reread the recipe over at Mary’s place. I guess it is a bit like riding a bicycle – it comes back to you as you go through the motions. Even so, those first few laps back on the bike are usually fraught with wobbles and uncertainty. I mustn’t expect too much of myself until the dust loosens from my joints.

Oh, desolations and consolations, where art thou?

So much stirs under the surface. My desolations would seem so small: My oldest started college classes this fall at the community college; he was accepted elsewhere, but chose this option as best suiting his schedule. The instigator is back to school in the real world. The remaining four are schooling at home. Yes, indeed, the pink one has begun the journey. All of these things add up to a multitude of small stresses and a return to morning person status (not my favorite rotation). My father is still in an assisted living facility, but things have been up and down in that regard due to administrative changes. In the current incarnation, he is feeling unsettled due to the return of an aide (who is not his “favoritist” person in the world), thus he has lately been requiring extra energy on the part of my sister and myself. My mother, love her as I do, lives alone and requires (daily) a sounding board for all of her tangents – usually during the school day.

Shriveled, the “me” cowers on the inside – taking less time than I should to pull my eyes away from me and onto God, away from me and onto my family, away from me and onto others. Yet ironically, I spend so much time focusing on me that I somehow manage to convince myself that I am spending no time on me at all. Like a grape in the sun, sustaining hydration seeps away. I am raisin.

There’s a funny thing about raisins, though – when properly stored, somehow they maintain their juiciness. The sweetness on the inside is compounded.

The environment I would store myself in would dry the raisin into nothing but a shrunken pebble. How great the consolation that my God knows a thing or two about hydration – a God who can even bring dry bones back to life. That knowledge might not always seep as far as my heart, but the conviction never falters in my mind. I do not presume it to be true; I know it more surely than I trust the earth’s rotation, the ebb and flow of tides, or even gravity.

Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.
Romans 8:37, KJV

just for grins

I don't know how long I will leave these up here, but I just thought you might want to get a look at the family. Mind you, this might not give you the clearest dose of reality....





P.S. Mary's mention of comments in the comments on the last post reminded me that I wanted to thank you guys for your comments. Did I say comments often enough in the last sentence? I plan a woe is me post about commentversation at some point in the future. Knowing me, it will likely make it to print in a year or so.

yeah, it was a long phone call, wasn't it?

I don’t know how long it is possible to sit staring at a blank white document with blinking curser before being compelled to start babbling, even if the babble is about nothing.

I opened my blog and was assaulted yet again by the harsh reality of time – with nothing to show for it – padding by on toddler feet – rapid and aimless.

When I was in high school, I wrote rather depressing poetry – most of it bad – with astonishing regularity. People who read those lines often expressed their concern over my emotional well-being. I let them know they didn’t need to worry over the writing. When it flowed from me onto the page, it was a release valve of sorts. The pressure might have remained high, but it was not terminal because I was able to let some of it out. I told them they should probably worry far more if I wasn’t writing at all.

I have had some time to think on that response of mine in this, my long silence. Let me assure you right away that I am not so depressed as to be suicidal, but there are some connections to the silence and my state of mind.

I think that I haven’t written because I have been sad. I have been numb; I have been a little bit broken from time to time. But, I have no valid reasons to have remained in this mood for so long. All of my complaints are so trivial when compared to those of so many in this world – when compared to my own blessings. I don’t want to inflict them on other people – whining and moping about. Or is that really the truth? Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that part of me does want to inflict that upon you but is afraid that no one would want to hear? Please don’t jump in with assurances that you would be here for me. I know, in my head, that this is true for those who care about me; and my heart would not trust assurances when I am in the depths of melancholy.

There are no horrible circumstances in my life. Things can be a bit hectic – sure – but that is to be expected. Among my father, my mother, my children, my mother-in-law, my closest friend, there are many anxious feelings floating around. My head grabs hold of the blessings – my kids’ relative health, my parents’ somewhat good health and often sound minds, my friends’ support structure during her trials (much more acute than anything I might be going through). This introverted soul of mine might just be cracking a little under the sheer weight of time – the accrued weight of years without aloneness.

Ingratitude: It hampers the ability to feel the blessings of ice cream covered kisses, high school graduations, and baseball games on strangely cool early summer evenings. It erases the means to laugh at the mistakes – knowing in the laughter that a good story will one day take the place of the angst.

I’ll be alright. Even if the words weren’t coming out now, I would be alright. My Savior has never stopped holding me. My family and friends have never stopped being there for me. Heck, to outward appearances (IRL), I have probably seemed quite better than alright all along.

Baby steps.

From 1994

PIERCING-

Can’t anyone else hear the screams?
Grasping -
Fingernails scratch-searching for a hold
Falling

The people go on
Buying
Their new and improved
Bigger
Better
Self-improvement
Foods, ointments, cars, homes

And the lost fall
Screaming
To the ground
Invisible
Inaudible

Alone

I AM still alive

But things must be complicated if I am using capital letters in my title line. I just wanted a few people (hey Mel) to know I am still alive. I will try to write more later when I am not on the phone.

grrrrrr-dom

I am sitting here trying to breathe deeply. I am attempting to hold myself steady in this chair as opposed to running up the stairs with anger blazing.

It is after midnight, and for (at least) the fifteenth night straight, the youngest two boys are still wide awake, loud, and out of bed (shortly after I leave the room, repeatedly). My insomnia is one thing, but getting four hours of sleep a night when I am actually tired, THAT is for the birds.

I need to find a place to put some of this wrath. Figuring out some way to MAKE them fall asleep wouldn't be a bad idea either.

Don't even get me started on how cheerful they are all day long either (not), or how cooperative they have been with schooling (8 hour school days, anyone?).

I need a vacation.

I wish I had a deep and meaningful post to write. I feel a little guilty posting this, but...

i got plenty of nothin

Note: Since this post is taking me so long to write, dates are not accurate. I have also apparently killed any writing ability I once possessed.

I have been known to make the occasional error in judgment. I know it is hard to believe, but alas, it is true! Saturday was a small example of my humanity. The schedule looked something like this:

10 AM: Baseball practice for SpongeBob and the Pink One
12 PM: Get home, throw laundry in, and make lunch for the masses
2:30 PM: Drive the Instigator to his school for pre-performance band practice
3:30 PM: Return home and do more laundry while helping The Working Boy prepare for his first ever school dance.
5:30 PM: Attempt to locate relatively decent clothes for the remaining four to wear to “The Great Performance.”
6 PM: Leave the house for pre-performance dinner
7:45 PM: Arrive at the concert venue
Latertime PM: Pick the Instigator up from his post-performance return to school.
Latertime + 0:30 PM: Return home.

It was a somewhat busy day, perhaps, but do-able – done-able.

Everything was going along fine until the 5 PM mark. I even had time to do a crossword puzzle. This would be judgment error number one. From experience, I should know by now to have clothing choices made and arranged well in advance of actual departure times (and shoes located and padlocked into place pending later use), but seventeen and a half years in the trenches have apparently taught me very little.

Shortly before we would have to leave to make it a viable option, the hubster decided it would be a good plan to go out to eat before the performance (as noted in agenda article 6). After inquiring about my preferences (“I don’t know. I’d just like it to be someplace sit-down. I really do not want fast food.” Error number 2), when he attempted to further glean details as to my culinary yearnings (“I don’t know. I have no idea what’s out there in the world since I have absolutely no exposure to it and haven’t for seventeen years!”), I should have taken my obvious befrazzlement as an indication of my general mood for the day. Error number 3.

When the natives were already restless five minutes after sitting down to eat (even though it was buffet-style and they had some measure of distraction), I should have prepared myself for the trials to come. Yes, yet another error – are we sensing a trend yet?

When we pulled up to the concert venue with only five or ten minutes to spare before the start of the performance, when we noted all of the elderly people dressed to the nines, when my children almost took out two older ladies with walkers on the ramp leading inside…

There was a time when I considered myself quite astute at picking up the nuances which portend the prevailing winds of atmosphere. I can only surmise that years of ignoring the warnings (due to the certain knowledge that some fates cannot be changed when the precious munchkins are pulling the strings of circumstance) have dulled my ability to heed the alarm bells.

Strangely, the bells did finally reach my conscious mind while the hubster was arguing with the ticket master concerning the interpretation of the advertisement flier which promised half-off tickets for the family of students participating in this event. He took it to mean the adults were half-off as well. It stated the kids were but was ambiguous at best on the other terms. I married Mr. Itstheprincipleofthething.

I am not comfortable with public confrontation. I was in my late(-er) twenties before I could even go up to the counter of a fast food restaurant and tell them if they got my order wrong. Clearly, we are opposite extremes. I had hoped that some of our kids would get a bit of each and wind up somewhere in the middle.

At any rate, while this little discussion was taking place, I had the sudden and extreme urge to simply take the kids out to play on the ramp while Da Man went in alone. I ignored it. I’ve lost track of my errors somewhere along the way, but I know of at least one math geek who will likely read this, so maybe she can let me know later.

It was an abnormally warm and beautiful spring evening as we entered the heated auditorium.

The lights dimmed before we even had a chance to look at the programs (or we would have noticed the vital detail that the boy and his school’s marching band were in the very last number of the night).

The sweat trickled down our faces before the performance even began. The children continually opened and closed their chairs, letting them slam shut with a squeak-bang before repeating the process. Spongebob practiced burping in different rhythms. Freckles stuck his head in the seat and his fingers in his ears. The Drama King complained in Broadway whispers that the night was simply not to his liking and he was ready to go home. The hub and the Pink One engaged in a rousing performance of the Seat Versus Lap Ballet, and I sat silently fanning myself with a program – smack in the middle of the brood – wandering if there was any chance people would believe I wasn’t a member of this party (especially the elderly couple in front of us who clearly paid full-price and whose chairs the Spongemeister was repeatedly kicking, bumping, jostling or caressing - despite numerous scoldings).

And then there was the opening note.

And the husband’s barely stifled laughter.

And my inward groan.

The Culps took female form, donned an evening gown, and bastardized Gershwin (while, technically singing not one note off-key). The first five minutes finally passed about a week later. The heat increased. The wiggles and whines intensified. I found myself, at one point, crawling on the floor with a curly-headed boy locked between my knees while I searched for three pairs of discarded shoes. I applaud myself that I managed this without more than a rustle of sound.

By and by, the first half did come to an end. The intermission in the cool night air while thunderous gusts of pre-rain breeze lowered our temperatures, brought much cooler tempers as well.

I have to admit, the second half was better (despite the husband snapping his fingers loudly and just inconsistently enough to purposefully drive me crazy).

We sat in two different rows upon our return – separating the least pacific of the children in the process. The air seemed cooler. The Pink one dancing in the aisles was adorable (at first). The temperature in the room seemed to be slightly lower. But, the biggest aid to our decreased agitation had to be the ability to look at the programs and estimate with relative accuracy just how much time we had left to endure.

And finally, it came – the very last number. As the narration laid forth the final sentence of a song’s history, as she spoke the words, “Strike up the band,” the lights came up; a whistle sounded, and in marched a very small contingent of our son’s high school marching band.

“Let the drums roll out.” And they did, in exhilarating, modern-urban fashion. The band-front coaxed pep from the pep-less. The band reached the foot of the stage.

“Let the trumpets call!”

1 beat (I see the shift of the Instigator’s eyes toward the 1st trumpeter)

2 beats (his lips prepared, his fingers poised)

3 beats (almost imperceptible irritation and embarrassment briefly flashes over his brow)

3 ½ beats (the slightest of movements indicate the possibility that he will simply put his trumpet down)

And then…

A weak and off key melding of notes squeezed slowly from the bell of two of the three horns (alumni who learned the song that very day) spurs him to finally play his note (dead on).

And it was in that moment that I was grateful to the vocalist for her powerful voice as her shout of “Strike up the band!” erased the momentary worry from the Instigator’s face. But, I’m still not quite sure I will forgive her for the rendition of “Bess You Is My Woman Now”.

The moral of the story: When blessed by the overwhelming presence of active youth, don’t go to the Gershwin; make the Gershwin come to you.

the $24,000 question

What will it be? "Adventures in Gershwin: When Marching Bands Attack" or "The Eyes Have It: Travails of a Family with Chronic Corneal Abrasions"?

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have subject matter now; I just don't have much time to actually write anything. I may be able to get to the keyboard in a short while if a certain baseball meeting runs long and the husband is late getting home.

So, in the event anyone checks this before I get back, any preferences?

that day

two months ago, I wrote a small post about a morning trip to the dentist with my father. I left quite a bit out of the telling. I actually wrote that piece while sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. The rest of the day went downhill from there. I’ll present it in bullet points.

The set-up:
- the driveway to the assisted living place is largely dirt, and there are very few places to actually park

-people coming by for just a moment are prone to blocking part of that driveway

-the dental appointment was during a relatively warm spell so the ground was muddy

The drama:
-when you don’t have a lot of confidence in yourself to back up through a maze of three cars on a dirt driveway into a relatively busy and curvy rural road, you are likely to make a three point turn

-making a three point turn on a muddy driveway is not a good idea

-getting stuck in the mud is not fun (especially when you do NOT want to let your father know you are still present on the grounds due to intense emotional rawness)

-waiting two hours for your son to come pick you up because your husband does not want to spend money on a tow truck is even less fun (especially when you missed breakfast, it is slightly past lunchtime, your stomach is growling, you have nothing to eat or drink in the car, and there is NOTHING within walking distance).

-when you have half an hour at home after your son picks you up but before your husband gets home to take you back out to try to free the car, your time would be better spent getting something to quell the growling gut than in posting a blog entry and feeding the children but forgetting about yourself.

-when your husband can’t get the car out after the first few tries, you would be better served aggressively suggesting the tow truck than meekly staying out of his way

-when, after several hours, the tow truck finally gets your car out (after a mere five minutes of effort), you may cry tears of stress and gratitude over your cold steering wheel for a few minutes before regaining the ability to drive

-when you get home at 10 PM, it would be a good idea to go straight to bed

-when the insurance check arrives a week later reimbursing the entire cost of towing, you may need to stifle the urge to hit someone with a cast-iron frying pan

Happily, the subsequent trips to the dentist were largely uneventful…

yes, breath still moves through me

I do so greatly apologize for disappearing into the mist after such a sad post. I struggle lately to find my voice (perhaps a delayed by-product of switching to morning-person status at the beginning of the school year). But, while there is much sadness in me, it is more the gentle lapping tides of the east coast than the tumultuous waves of the west. There is also gratitude and contentment in me, so do not worry overmuch. Hopefully soon I will emerge from my hiding place and re-acquaint myself with finding the proper keys on the keyboard (with a more reasonable number of backspaces)....

-the silent one

reaching

This man sits erect next to me – rigid with the knowledge that the world is out to confuse him. He just spoke to the offices yesterday. He was supposed to be at the other office today and this one in two weeks. How can they remove teeth before taking impressions? How will the impressions be accurate if there are no teeth to model? This office is trying to steal business from the other, and now he is going to get a bill from the other doctor too – for a no-show. He just talked to them yesterday. He wrote it down on the card in his wallet. See? It is written right here. His daughter is just trying to confuse him. This office must have everything backwards.

Pent up from the non-confrontational tendency to pacify by agreement, I must support a position based on second-hand knowledge. No, I didn’t talk to the oral surgeon myself. Yes, my sister did. Yes, I know you did too, but I am taking her words over yours – trusting her more. Yes, I understand that you cannot admit I was right about the office and instead have to make new defenses about dentists charging you double and changing the routine instead of you perhaps, just maybe, writing it down wrong. I reach out from my own hurt and isolation – understanding your fear when faced with direct proof that you cannot trust your certainty. I reach out knowing that in ten minutes, we will repeat the cycle. You will accuse me again. I will explain again. You will use your sugary voice to persuade the nurses that your daughter is horribly confused. I summon power from the God-seed deep within. I’m too young and vulnerable to find that power in my own character.

I am seven years old. Today I will blow out the candles to prove it. Where are you? You said you were coming. You even called me with the sole purpose of blessing me with that information. I don’t live with you, but I adore you. Maybe it is easier to do because I never remember a time when we did co-reside. The party ticks by. The cake is delayed. Your car never pulls into the all too empty space in front of our town home. The phone gives me no apologies or assurances – only empty rings.

After everyone leaves, I venture out to your town home – just a few blocks from our own for the first time. Your car isn’t there. There is no evidence of emergency. I just fell to the bottom of a priority list. The maturity of newly seven is certain that I am less valuable than doing drywall for a friend in return for a few beers and easy conversation. I am not worth the top of the list. I’m not even worth remembering.

My hand reaches out to touch your door, and it is cold just like the stiff shoulder turned to me now. The years of walls built to keep the pain away have been stripped gradually. I have no protection from the chill.

You walk through the doors into the chair. When I see you again, you will have six less teeth, but a full measure of bitterness toward me – bitterness that you will somehow remember even after you have forgotten what it is for.

I love you.

today, from the refrigerator

the narrative:

my friend felt like a girl under worship

trudge together through delirious and hot chocolate


the imperative:

death of a mother by sausage

please stop shaking the fluffy fiddle puppy at her breast

smear sweet lather on your shadow

always incubate repulsive language

yes you may beat up a drunk wet purple honey finger

watch their peaches

the philosophic:

a languid flood would recall my power

sleep after a bitter vision

vague mutterings from underneath the laundry pile

well excu-u-use me

“You need to blog more often,” typed a dear friend. I agree with her, but it seems all I manage to do lately when I blog is make excuses for my lengthy absences. There are some valid excuses: family issues alluded to in previous posts concerning my father and his physical and mental well-being, the holidays, a certain inability to use my fingers for about a week after Christmas, my darling husband taking time off work during the two weeks surrounding the holidays, my preference for typing on the desktop which was largely controlled by the aforementioned husband, not to mention (though I am) my finicky ‘v’ on the laptop. The truth is, though, that when I am faced with a blank page and blinking curser, I am simultaneously overwhelmed with the fact that I both have altogether too much and absolutely nothing to write about.






the times, they are a-changin’

The N boy had a job interview last week – the real kind, the actual career kind. This is a computer-related company run by someone the hubster used to work with, one which helps obtain certifications and reimburses for college courses according to grades received. And just like that, I am rudely awakened with the certainty that my time with this child under my roof is oh so short and precious. The prospect of college didn’t wake me up to this knowledge – the financial dependence married to higher education gave me a cushion of safety. Tell me, how does one prepare for a child to leave the nest when they have never even gone to school away from home? I know I am jumping the gun a bit. He won’t even be 18 until October, but with great velocity it approaches!

a first time for everything

We recently had to move my father into an assisted living facility. Physically, he is in remarkably good shape considering how many underlying health issues there have been, but he suffers from dementia. Sometimes, you can spend more than an hour with him and barely notice that anything is wrong. Other times, you can have the same conversation repeatedly for that hour. If it weren’t for certain circumstances, he would probably be fine living with my sister or me. As things stand, this is the best option. The facility is in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere (and relatively inexpensive in the comparative analysis) which is a good environment for him. Still, he gets a bit stir crazy from time to time.

Last weekend (as in more than a week ago now, since it is taking me so long to write this post) I went up to take him out to the movies. We stopped for lunch first, enjoyed the film, and then stopped to buy him a calendar (his way of trying to keep track of time – though my sister also bought him one last week, so I don’t think it is working very well).

If I tell you that the factors in this equation are a chilly day, a bad memory-loop day, a moment of stupidity on my part, and a son with a very bad sense of direction, will that give too much away? Yes, dear reader, I locked my keys in my car for the very first time. I do believe the resultant hour and a half wait for rescue (and all of the associated grievances) might just be a strong enough deterrent to keep me from ever repeating that mistake. There is always hope.



let it rise



And then there is bread.

Sunday, I made pizza dough in the bread maker. The recipe merely instructs the dough to be divided after it has spent its kneading time in the appliance, then formed into crusts. Sacrilege! Those divided pieces of dough must be lovingly shaped into dough balls and left to merrily rise before forming. It is a moral imperative – even for me, and I don’t like pizza! In fact, an overnight rise in the refrigerator produces the very best results. But time, in this particular instance, was not on my side; therefore, I could be found forming semi-pliable dough into recognizable disks early Sunday evening.

The ingredients of life blend together. They are kneaded and allowed to rise in their melded state. If I try to work the dough as soon as the kneading is complete, frequently I end up with tears or holes – with patches and lumps – with a battle-scarred, tough, and barely recognizable finished product.

And so, as life’s cares weigh on me – most of them minor ingredients – I seek the wisdom to allow the rise time and, simultaneously, the ability to remember that I have the dough rising at all.

Life scurries past – a white rabbit in a rush, and I find it is so much easier to focus on the swiftly fleeting details of each passing day, allowing myself only the briefest of introspective moments. If I’m not careful, I will end up with dough of Lucille Ball proportions.

How thankful I am that control of my life does not rest solely in my hands (even if that is hard to take sometimes) but in the hands which lovingly formed the very fabric of the universe!